by Zara Cox
“Dinner.” The command is tight.
“Yes,” I answer simply.
He exhales. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
I open my mouth to suggest that we have dinner here. I can’t go out. I shouldn’t go out. But Q’s voice is in my head. You belong to me. I’ve put in place a more robust protection detail.
For some reason I trust the offer of protection. He and I are not done. And I believe him when he says he won’t let anything happen to me while I’m his. I may be being epically stupid, but I clutch the phone closer to my ear. And I say, “Yes.”
“Give me your address.”
I experience another twinge of uncertainty, then I tell him.
“Good,” is all Quinn says, before he hangs up.
I drop the phone on the bed and cover my face with my hands. The sensation of having fallen into the Twilight Zone builds. I calm myself and think things through rationally.
Before I quit working at Blackwood Tower, I was using public transport and exposing myself daily to street cameras that Clay could track. My disguise was good, but he has the might of a whole law enforcement precinct behind him.
Quinn’s picking me up and we’re going to dinner in a restaurant. Surely, that’s safer?
My mind bares its teeth in a cynical sneer.
I drag my hands down my face, then I pick up the phone and dial.
Fionnella answers on the first ring.
“I…uh, I’ve decided to go out after all. Dinner tonight. With my friend.”
“Good for you. As long as you’re back by eleven to get yourself ready, we’re good. I’ll have the stylist come early to help you out. Saves preparation time later.”
“Okay.” I hesitate for a second. “Umm, Q said something about protection?”
She doesn’t miss a beat, or ask questions. She’s already moved on from our exchange this morning. I love her for that. “Text me the details of where you’re going before you leave the loft. I’ll take care of it.”
“Fionnella?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks.
She exhales softly. “You’re welcome.”
I spend the rest of the afternoon lazing about. I watch TV, play a little music. And try not to be craptastically nervous about what is essentially my first ever date.
When the stylist arrives at six, I’m already showered. She checks out the smoky grey halter neck dress and black Blahniks I’ve laid out and applies matching make up. My green eyes look huge and mysterious when she’s finished, and my hair is blow-dried and styled in layered waves down my back.
The confidence boost of looking good helps with the nerves as I wait, cute clutch in hand, for Quinn to arrive.
The security buzzer goes five minutes early.
My lack of dating etiquette bites hard. Should I go down? Should he come up? I press the intercom to release the door and watch him enter.
I pick up my fur-lined black leather jacket and open the front door.
Quinn enters the hallway, sees me and freezes to a halt. I have very little idea how much I’ve missed seeing him until that moment. He’s dressed head to toe in custom-made black with his shirt open at the throat. His dark hair gleams under the hallway light, and broad shoulders fill my vision. When those almost inhuman silver blue eyes meet mine, everything inside me clenches tight.
“Elly.” His voice, like sandpaper on velvet, sets me alight.
“Hi.”
He stares at me for an age, drinks me in, returns for seconds, thirds. Then, still standing in the hallway, a good dozen feet from me, he holds out one hand.
For some reason I’m terrified to step over my threshold.
“You don’t want to come in?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you look like that.” His gaze devours me from head to toe. Then he beckons me with his hand. “We need to leave, Elly. Now.”
I nod, retain enough brain matter to enter the alarm code before I shut the door behind me. He’s still holding out his hand. When I reach him, I take it.
His sharp puff of breath echoes my silent gasp. Touching him is like touching an electric current. There’s no other description. He feels it too, and he stares down at me for another minute.
“How exactly do I look?” I ask to fill the tight silence.
“You look…” he stops. Then turns and leads me down the hall.
I laugh nervously. “Are you going to finish that sentence?”
He glances back at me as we exit the building. “Whatever you’ve been doing since I last saw you agrees with you. I thought you were beautiful before. Now you’re…perfect.”
My blush stains my cheeks. He sees it and the corner of his mouth twitches. “If you blush at that, then I’m glad I didn’t tell you what I really thought.”
“Try me,” I return with a daring I find from somewhere. I don’t want him to try me. Not really. Time played tricks and lessened the magnitude of Quinn’s dominating presence in my mind. Seeing him again, I’m reminded that I’m dealing with a man whose power and glory seeps from his pores, explodes through the air with every breath.
His hand tightens almost painfully around mine as we round the corner to where a low slung sports car is parked on the street. He reaches for the passenger door handle, but he stops at the last minute and turns to me, still holding my hand.
Again he stares down at me for a long time, before his free hand lifts to my face. He brushes a finger down my cheek. “I’m tempted, Elly. So very tempted to try you. But maybe later.”
He opens the door, and I slide into the buttery soft seat. Heart jumping, I watch his long, sexy stride as he comes round to take the wheel.
He doesn’t look at me as he guns the engine and hits the road. Our conversation from last night replays in my head and I swallow. I don’t want to be mind-fucked again by asking him how he’s feeling. But the silence is eating away at me. I watch his finger tap on the steering wheel and something twinges through my brain. Before it forms properly, I remember I need to text Fionnella.
“Where are you taking me?”
Piercing eyes slice into me. “Why, do you regret this date already?”
“Is that what this is? A date? Only I thought that involved talking.”
“Aren’t we talking? Aren’t we already saying the things that need to be said?”
“I don’t know, Quinn. I’m not as fluent as you in cryptic-speak.”
“You understand me, Elly. More than you want to admit.”
I grimace. “Can we at least pretend I don’t, and speak like normal human beings? And about where you’re taking me, I need an answer.”
He speeds through an amber light, then rattles out an address. I catch some of it and quickly text Fionnella. She responds seconds later with a ‘got it’.
“Refresh my memory. Normal speak is where we ask each other about our backgrounds, try desperately to find what we have in common. Do you really want to waste time doing that?”
“Yes. I need…a little normal.” When the words fall from my lips I realize how true they are. My life the past several weeks has been a mixture of fear induced flight, followed by almost mind-bending surrealism. Even Miguel and Sully seem like hallucinations I dreamt up.
“Fine. You first. Tell me your last name.”
Shit. I walked into that one. I toy with withholding it for a few seconds, then blurt out, “Gilbert.”
He looks over at me, and the gleam in his eyes spikes the hairs on my nape. “Elly Gilbert.”
“Elyse. My first name is Elyse.”
Eyes on the road, he slowly reaches out with his right hand and captures mine. He brings it to his mouth, and kisses the back of it. “Elyse Gilbert.” He tests my name on his tongue, his voice sexily coarse. “A pleasure to meet you.”
I shiver at the darkness in his tone as he says that. All around us, civilization pulses through the heart of the most vibrant city in the world. Inside the powerful car, I’m caught i
n something savagely primitive. And I don’t know if I want to escape.
“Your turn. I know the top layer stuff, so don’t give me those.”
“Are you sure you’re ready for me to go deep?” he asks, eyes still on the road, my hand inches from his mouth.
I clear my throat. “Maybe it’s better if I ask the questions?”
A tic appears in his temple, but he nods. “Shoot.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“All over. Summers in the south, winters abroad. But mainly New York.”
“Were you born here?”
“No. I was born in my mother’s ancestral home on Kiawah Island.”
I make a face. “Don’t know where that is. I’m not great with geography. But it sounds exotic.”
He lowers my hand to his thigh, but keeps his hand on it. “It sounds more exotic than it is.”
“Are your—?” I stop and laugh. “You know I don’t even know how old you are?”
He glances sharply at me. “Does it matter?”
I shrug. “Not really. I can roughly guess your age, but I was just about to ask you about your parents and it occurred to me I didn’t know how old you are. Not that I naturally assume your parents are—” My words dry up when a viciously arctic look crosses his face. Beneath my hand, his thigh bunches in rigid reaction. I’ve stepped on a huge, throbbing nerve. “I’m sorry, we can skip the family history if you prefer.”
He remains silent for a few blocks. I can tell he’s reeling himself back from wherever he’s at. “My mother died when I was fifteen.” The answer is completely devoid of emotion. “My father…” he glances at me. “You don’t know who my father is?”
I shake my head.
He pulls the car to a stop in front of a building in Gramercy Park. Black and gold double doors front the restaurant and the sign etched in gold on the wide black awning reads Juniere’s.
A valet jogs over to the car, but Quinn’s focus stays on me. “My father is Maxwell Blackwood.”
I stare back blankly. “Sorry, no clue who he is, although I think I may have seen his picture on a magazine that first day I served you.”
Another gleam weaves through his eyes, but it doesn’t stay for very long. “Maxwell Blackwood is the incumbent governor of New York.”
My eyes widen and my mouth drops open. I try to adjust both quickly before I make a complete idiot of myself. “I. Wow. You must be proud.” The second the words leave my lips, I want to take them back. My clanging instincts scream no, he’s not proud. Far, far from it. “Or not?”
He squeezes my hand then lets go. The valet opens my door, and I join Quinn in front of the restaurant. He passes the keys to the valet and slides his hand around my waist.
We enter the split-level restaurant and are led upstairs by a smartly dressed maître d’ who addresses Quinn by name, tells him how honored he is to have him revisit after so long. Quinn’s nod is curt, enough to dissuade further conversation.
The smoky mirrored ceilings and grey marble decor bleeds class and exclusivity. There are about a dozen tables on the second floor. We’re led to the table in the middle, which involves passing several tables with diners who obviously know Quinn Blackwood. Ergo, he gets respectful nods and smiles and I get the, who the fuck is she looks. One particularly potent one makes me miss my step. Quinn’s hand tightens on my waist.
When we reach the table, he helps me with my jacket, which he hands to a waiter, then pulls out my chair and leans close behind me. “Stop looking so wide-eyed and beautifully lost. It pushes my manic button.”
My whole body is caught in a tremor as I settle into my seat. When he sits down, I glance at him and grimace.
“Sorry, I—”
“Please don’t say you can’t help it.” He arranges his wine and water glasses a short distance away from his plate. “That’s worse.”
I purse my lips, aware that the words flowing from him are almost an afterthought to whatever is going on behind his eyes. And something’s going on. Something so dark and deep, I’m too scared to even look directly at him for too long.
I toy with my water glass and on a wild whim, nod when the sommelier arrives with a chilled bottle of wine. I have a feeling I’ll need the rare alcohol boost to survive the evening.
“You never told me how old you are.”
He takes a large sip of wine and his eyes hook into me. The outer ring of jagged black around his iris seems to be eating up the blue. “Old enough. Maybe even too old.”
“What does that mean?”
He just shrugs.
I set my glass down. “I’m sorry if I broached a touchy subject. You should have stopped me if you didn’t want me to ask.”
“You wanted to see beneath the layer. Don’t blame me if you don’t like what you see.”
“Is this how your dates normally go?”
“This isn’t a normal date.”
For some reason alien to me, I try harder. “Tell me how your other dates go, just for the hell of it.”
“A fuck for a starter, a fuck for the main and a fuck for dessert,” he murmurs, loud enough for me to hear, low enough not to be overheard.
Heat surges through me. “So I’m the exception to the rule?”
“None of them were in my head. Ever,” he says in that damn, even, sinister voice.
I’m more than a little alarmed. “Quinn—”
“I want to remain civil. For you. Don’t ask me why. So tell me something that doesn’t make me think of all the terrible and fantastic things I want to do your body, Elyse. Tell me now.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Will you be coming back to work for me at Blackwood?”
My breath hitches. “Do you want me to?”
“No.”
“You don’t think I was good at my job?”
“You were great at it. But I have bigger plans for you than the need for you to serve me food.”
“You have plans for me?”
His gaze drops from my eyes to my mouth. “I want you, Elyse. My time is limited, but I want to keep seeing you.”
“I…don’t know if that will be possible.”
His jaw hardens for a second. Then he frowns and shakes his head. “What will it take? State your terms.”
For the second time in a very short half hour, my jaw threatens to drop. People like Quinn Blackwood don’t ask people like me those questions. I think of all the things I did in my life prior to five weeks ago, what I’ve done since. No way in hell are we compatible on any polling system.
“You don’t want me,” I say. The words hurt.
“Those are useless words.”
I open my mouth, to say what, I don’t know. The waiter approaches with menus. The food is French fusion. The menu is in French. I have no idea what I’m looking at. My gaze rises, collides with Quinn’s.
“She’ll have the herb and truffle risotto to start, and the braised lamb with potatoes. I’ll have the same.”
I hand my menu to the waiter with a smile. When he departs, I glance at Quinn. “Thanks.”
He nods. “You were saying?”
“I’m not from New York. Maybe you’ve already guessed that. I ended up here because…my choices were limited. Those choices mean I can’t start anything with you.”
“You already have.”
The naked truth shames me a little. “Maybe. But it can’t last.”
“Give me a time frame to work with.”
“What?”
“We’re both constrained by time. I want to know how long you can give me.”
I frown. “Are you going somewhere?”
His gaze sweeps down. “Something like that.”
“Oh. Umm…maybe a couple of weeks?” The regret that pounds me with those words staggers me.
He leans forward in his chair, bringing the towering force of nature with him. “So what we initially agreed on? No more?” His spectacular eyes devour my face.
“That’s all I have,
” I say.
He slowly sits back. “I’ll take it.”
I tremble in my seat, wondering what I’ve let myself in for. Then I remember Q. “I may not be available all the time.”
“Neither will I.”
I stare at him, teeming with questions. Question I can’t ask because I don’t want to answer any of his. Our food arrives. We eat mostly in silence, both focusing our turbulent emotions on food. Once the plates are cleared away, I glance at him. His eyes are still churning with demonic hell. “Why do you want me, Quinn?” I blurt, repeating the question boring a hole inside me.
None of this makes sense. Not really. Not when you take the time to think it through rationally.
The fingers resting on the table straighten out till his palm is flat. Then his finger starts to bounce. “Maybe I want a little…relief.”
Something cracks inside me. Because I get that. I reach out, lay my hand on top of his. His finger stills. “Okay. I’ll be your relief. It’s okay, Quinn.”
“You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.”
I sigh. “Make up your mind. You want me to stay or you don’t.”
He exhales sharply. For a moment he looks…lost. “I do.” He glances down at our hands. Then back up. “Are you done eating? Do you want dessert?”
“Yes. No.”
He pulls his hand from beneath mine, takes out his wallet and throws a few hundred-dollar bills on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”
Outside, I turn to him. “Where are we going?”
“I’m taking you back.”
Disappointment swells high. I want to spend more time with him. I want to start being his relief. Like right now.
But Q is waiting. And little slut that I am, I need what he gives me too. So I nod, and get in Quinn’s car.
It’s a quarter to ten when we get back to the loft. Quinn walks me to the door, his hand linked tightly with mine. I key in the outer code and he walks inside with me. We walk down the hallway in silence, and he waits till I open my front door. I turn to him.
Suddenly, his fingers are spearing into my hair. He’s thrusting me against the wall. I have a nanosecond to gasp before his firm, delicious mouth is on mine. He roughly parts my lips with his tongue, then he’s invading me. Oh God. Quinn Blackwood tastes amazing. I moan deep as my fantasy becomes a reality. He kisses my mouth the way his eyes devour me: with single-minded, near demonic intent. He brazenly licks the inside of my mouth, then bites my lower lip hard before soothing it with his tongue. My clutch falls to the floor along with my jacket. Urgent hands scramble for purchase on his hard, hot body. It lands somewhere on his chest, and I cling on for dear life. When my gasps turn to desperate pleas for air, he pulls back, stares down at me and slowly pushes his thumb into my mouth. I don’t know whether to bite or suck. So I do both.
