by J. Kenner
“Okay,” she said as he heard the first wail of sirens approaching the building. “I’m dressed. Not that it makes much difference in this outfit…”
He focused on the carpet, drawing deep breaths before he turned around. It wouldn’t do for her to see just how much her presence—and his memories—had affected him. But as soon as he saw her standing there in the sheer black shift, her nipples hard against the thin material and her tiny, flesh-colored thong barely covering her sweet pussy, his cock sprang to attention all over again.
She met his eyes, then crossed her arms over her chest.
Damn. “Sorry, love. The dress suits you.”
She rolled her eyes, but at the same time, some of the tension dropped away. “Are we ready?” She took a step toward the door.
“Not that way.”
She turned, her brow furrowed. “Teleportation?”
“Funny. The fire escape.”
He expected her to protest, and he had all the reasons why they couldn’t go out the front lined up and ready to go. Most important, avoiding the authorities.
As for reason number two, that stemmed from the fact that he’d just hacked Lassiter’s computer system and now held in his pocket a flash drive with stolen information that he was quite certain Lassiter would kill for. Probably Lassiter had yet to discover the breach. But that wasn’t a gamble Quince was willing to make, especially not with Eliza in his care. So any exit that reduced the chance of stumbling over Lassiter, the better.
Eliza didn’t argue. She just nodded and stepped toward the window, then hitched the dress up to mid-thigh, giving him an enticing view as she hooked her leg over the sash.
He frowned at her bare feet. “Shoes?”
She glanced down at the impractical heels she’d left on the floor. “I can’t climb in them.”
True enough; the fire escape was constructed with a metal grating, and the heels would sink right through. Still, they needed to look like a couple out for the evening once they hit street level. He took one more look at her, the dress even more sheer now that it was backlit by the city’s ambient light.
“Here,” he said, shrugging out of his suit jacket and handing it to her. Then he bent and picked up the shoes. “I’ll carry them. We’ll need to blend.”
She drew in a breath, squared her shoulders, and didn’t protest.
Considering the nightmare he’d dragged her into, she was being quite compliant. He had no idea how she’d ended up at this party, but he could assume. Her acting career had stalled. She needed cash. One of her friends moonlighted as an escort and told her about these parties where a girl could earn enough in a night to last her six months. It had been too tempting to pass up, and Eliza had turned into the real-life version of Denny’s alias—a struggling actress resorting to selling herself to make ends meet.
And didn’t that just break his heart?
As far as Quincy was concerned, a woman could make a living however she wanted. In theory, he had no problems with sex as a commercial transaction. So long as the person getting paid was entering into the arrangement fully of his or her own free will, then the details of what went on in the bedroom—including activities or payments—were nobody else’s business.
But Eliza wasn’t just anybody. She was his, dammit.
The thought hit him like a sledgehammer, and he shook himself as he mentally backtracked. Because she wasn’t his. Not anymore. She hadn’t been for a long, long time.
But just because he no longer had a claim on her, didn’t mean he no longer understood her or cared about her. He knew her, dammit. Her heart and soul; her fears and doubts.
She’d told him how she’d grown up. The abusive father. The protective big sister. The months living the streets. She’d witnessed the kind of perversions that no little girl should ever have to deal with, and yes, her past had scarred her.
But it hadn’t destroyed her.
He knew that; he’d seen it. Hell, he’d helped her discover what she needed to feel whole. For Eliza, sex had always been about the connection. The surrender.
The trust.
The Eliza he knew would have to be truly desperate to sell herself to a stranger.
And yes, he’d taken her places she’d never gone. Pushed her limits. Claimed her submission. And together they’d lost themselves in shared ecstasy. But the road they’d traveled had been paved with trust. With passion. And, yes, with love.
A love that he’d betrayed, goddammit, but that was hardly the point now.
No, the real bottom line was that she had no business being at a party like this, and the thought of her naked and bound in another man’s bed made him want to punch something.
It didn’t matter if he’d walked away—didn’t matter if he could never claim her again—didn’t matter that he had no right to judge her or to help her. All he knew was that she didn’t belong in a place like this. Didn’t deserve to be touched by a man who only wanted to get off. Who saw her only as a tool for the satisfaction of his cock. Who only wanted—
“—now?”
He snapped to attention. “What?”
“I said, are we going now?”
“Sorry.” He tapped his ear, feeling only slightly guilty about the suggestion of a lie. “I was listening.”
“Did she say if it’s clear?”
He made a non-committal noise, then pointed up. “We’re going over. Up to the roof, down to the back alley. Everyone will be in front with Red, so we’re going the other way.”
She didn’t argue or complain. Instead, she just slipped out the window in her bare feet, her small body lost inside his jacket.
He followed her up the ladder to the roof, staying a few steps below in case she stumbled, a position that gave him an enticing view of her ass peeking out from under the hem of his jacket. He swallowed, told himself he’d be better off looking at the small of her back, and soldiered on.
Once they reached the flat, gravel-topped roof, he took her hand and they hunched down as they crossed, staying mostly in the shadows thrown by the smattering of utility boxes and access sheds that dotted the roof.
When they reached the far side, he peered down, making sure no one was on the ground looking back up at them. Then he helped her over the edge and onto the ladder that led down to the highest platform of the fire escape. Thank goodness Lassiter had kept the building’s original features. So many remodels did away with the external fire escapes.
Within five minutes, they’d reached the alley, and he held her steady as she slipped on her shoes. Another five minutes and they’d reached Hawthorne, the street that ran parallel to Hollywood Boulevard.
“Do you have a cell phone?”
She shook her head. “A friend dropped me at the hotel. I thought it was better not to bring anything personal.” She met his eyes. “I wanted to be anonymous.”
He nodded, assuming that friend was code for Madam. He considered asking her if it was money or something else that had brought her tonight, then told himself it was no longer his business. Instead, he pulled out his own phone, intending to summon an Uber once they’d reached the intersection of Hawthorne and La Brea. “I’ll get you home. I’m sorry to have dragged you into this mess. I don’t know how Red got wind of what Denny and I were doing, but—”
“Quincy—”
“No, wait. There’s more I need to say. I know tonight was a freak occurrence. But even so, this kind of thing isn’t safe. Some of the men who come to parties like this … Eliza, they aren’t—”
“Like you?” Her brows rose as she stopped at an intersection. “Are you telling me that the kind of men who come to parties stocked with call girls might actually hurt me?” Her voice rose as if in indignation.
He allowed himself a mental sigh of relief, pleased that she understood. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes practically burning through him. “But you’d never hurt me, would you, Quincy? You’d never dream of ripping
my heart out or tearing my soul to shreds.”
His gut twisted, both from the truth of her words and the fact that he’d walked right into that. “Eliza, that’s not what I—”
“Fuck. You.” She started walking, her heels clicking on the pavement.
He caught up with her, then took her elbow and tugged her to a stop. “If you need money, I’ll help you. But this kind of party—come on, love, you know it’s a bloody awful mistake.”
She nodded slowly, and he hoped she was considering her words. He assumed she’d either tell him to go to hell or she’d agree to his offer. But he definitely wasn’t expecting her question. “Tell me about the girl.”
“The girl? Denny?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. I think I’ve got that. You work with her. You might be sleeping with her—that part I’m not sure of.”
“No, I—”
“I’m talking about the thirteen-year-old. The girl you said needed my help, remember? The reason I had to hold that receiver thingie.”
“Do you think I made that up?”
“I think she’s missing.”
He stopped, shocked by her words.
A moment later, she stopped, too, then turned back to look at him. “So I guess I’m right.”
“Walk me through it, Eliza. Every little thing you think you know.”
She bit her lower lip, clearly considering her words. “Red wasn’t in that room because of whatever you and Denny were doing.”
“What are you—”
“He was there because of me.”
He took a step back, her words hitting him with the force of a slap. “You? Why on earth do you think that?”
She flashed a wry smile as she held up her wrist, still decorated with a simple red ribbon. “Freaky coincidence, huh? But he’s the one who picked the ribbon as the way to identify me. Or, Emma, really. I kind of showed up in her place.”
“Emma was supposed to be at the party?”
“Not like that. She was coming in undercover. For a meeting.”
He nodded, remembering that Emma had worked as a PI. “She was on a case? And you’re telling me that ribbon was a signal?”
“Exactly.”
“Then why were you there instead of Emma? And what does any of this have to do with Ariana’s disappearance?”
“That’s the teenager? I don’t know how any of it ties together. All I know is that I snuck in because Emma’s gone missing, and the message about the meet and the ribbon was the only clue I had.”
She blinked, and for the first time since she’d climbed through the fire escape, he saw her control start to slip. “I don’t understand what’s going on—really I don’t. But that red-haired bastard thought I was Emma. And he asked me where the girl was. That’s all he wanted to know.”
She met his eyes, hers scared but defiant. “Which means I need your help. Because your missing girl must somehow be connected to my missing sister, and—”
“—that means I’m not sending you home after all. Instead, you’re coming with me.”
8
“You’re coming with me.”
Those delicious, familiar words rumble through me as I climb into the backseat of the Uber that’s pulled up beside us, then slide over to make room for Quincy. I hug myself as I watch him get in next to me, but I’m not seeing the man as he is now, in his fine tailored suit. Instead, I see his hard, lean body in jeans that hug his perfect ass and tight thighs. I see a pale gray Henley under a black leather jacket instead of a starched white shirt. I see a man whose hard eyes appraise me and whose appreciative smile warms me.
I see the Quincy of that first morning when I’d made up my mind to meet him, and as this Los Angeles ride share pulls away from the curb and the man from tonight sits silently beside me, I let myself drift back to London and into those memories of the man from before…
I’d spent most of the night after he’d put me in the London cab telling myself that I wasn’t going to meet him that next morning. Our time exploring the city together had been incredible, sure, but the man was too arrogant. Too unpredictable. I’d expected to spend the night with him, and he’d turned that expectation on its ear. Teasing me instead of satisfying me, and making arrogant assumptions about what I wanted. And how could he possibly know what I craved when I hadn’t even figured it out for myself?
Better to chalk it up as one of those incredible tourist experiences. Something a brochure would headline An Encounter With a Native. But definitely not something that needed to go any further.
Those were the things I’d told myself, anyway. I even used my stern and reasonable voice. And yet when morning rolled around, I found myself showering and dressing, and then taking the tube back to Marble Arch and winding my way down the London streets to the little cafe that he’d pointed out.
With every step I told myself that I would leave if.
If he wasn’t there, I’d turn around and go shopping.
If he said that he knew I would come, I’d tell him I only came to let him know that I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction.
If he even hinted that I’d come only because his raw sensual promises had enticed and aroused me, then I would turn on my heel and go. I was intrigued, true. But no way was I going to trust my body to a man who would so cavalierly toss my curiosity and desire back in my face.
The first if was negated when I walked through the door. Even though I arrived a full ten minutes early, he was already sitting in the third booth, positioned so that he faced the door. And the moment I stepped over the threshold, I saw the smile light his eyes. He stood, then lifted a hand to signal me over, making no attempt to hide his pleasure.
“I was hoping you’d come. I was afraid I’d scared you off.”
Poof. There went the second if, evaporating into a cloud of smoke.
“You might have made me a little nervous,” I admitted, sliding into the booth. “But not scared.”
“I’m sorry about the nerves, but I’m very glad you came. I had a good time yesterday. I hope you did, too.”
“Very much,” I said, realizing that he’d thoroughly annihilated all of my excuses. I was stuck there by my own rules, and perfectly happy about that.
The cafe served American-style pancakes, and I ordered a stack of chocolate chip, black coffee, and a side of bacon. I was starving and ate the entire thing, which is not something I’d normally do on a date, as I don’t want to come off as a human vacuum. But the taste of home was too good to pass up, and honestly I was so lost in the conversation I didn’t even realize how much I’d eaten until the waitress took away my empty plate.
“How much have you played tourist during your time in the city?”
“Not much,” I told him. I’d already explained yesterday about the show closing and my unexpected freedom.
“That’s what I thought.” He tilted his head. “I hope you’re free all day. There are so many things I want to show you.”
If I wasn’t already prepared to spend a full day with him, the heat in his voice would have prompted me to clear my day completely. He took me all around London on the back of his Ducati, which was, frankly, the perfect way to see the town.
“Do you mind?” he’d asked, passing me a spare helmet. “I can hire a car if you’d rather.”
“Are you kidding? This is fine.” I meant it, too. I’ve known how to drive a motorcycle since I was twelve, though Emma almost always took the controls. It was our primary mode of transportation until she was old enough to get a license. Nobody bothered us on the bike, even when she was too young. It was as if we were invisible. Which was probably why she continued to ride it for so long, only really using the car when she had something to carry or a passenger. Or when she was on a stakeout. It’s hard to hunker down for the long haul on a bike.
All of which meant that I was more than happy to slide onto the bike behind him. And, frankly, the feel of my inner thighs against his hips wasn’t a bad way to spend the day at all. In fact, as th
e day went on and my body rubbed against his and the motorcycle revved beneath me, my thoughts drifted more and more to the naughty promises he’d made last night. His promise to claim me. Pleasure me. To make me surrender.
I wanted that. And the more I thought about it the more my body thrummed with anticipation.
And yet the hours kept ticking by, without even a passionate kiss to suggest that there was anything more on the agenda.
We rode all over town, with Quincy showing me his favorite open air markets, then taking me to some stables near Hyde Park where we saddled two horses and went exploring. Or, rather, I explored. He knew exactly where he was going, as it turned out that he owned the horses.
“I love riding out here, but I rarely take the time,” he told me as we took a break to sit by a pond and have some wine and cheese that he’d asked one of the stablehands to prepare. He took my hand, his thumb lightly stroking my skin in a way that shot fire through my entire body. “I’m very glad we came today.”
When he spoke, he looked straight at me, as if I was the only thing that mattered in the entire world. It was a nice feeling, and a rare one. And the truth was that Quincy had a way of always making me feel like that.
He somehow arranged a private tour of the Tower of London, including the Crown Jewels—“connections,” he told me, making me suitably impressed—and it wasn’t until the evening approached that he took me to his place. That same house that we’d seen on the bus tour. Only Quincy, it turned out, had converted the backyard servant’s cottage into his private residence.
“I thought we’d order a light supper for delivery,” he said, as he helped me off the bike.
“Um, sure,” I said, as I followed him inside the charming residence. In truth, I’d thoroughly enjoyed spending the day with him, but it hadn’t panned out the way I’d been expecting. From what he’d said the previous night, I’d anticipated some sort of fantasy encounter like a scene from a sexy late-night cable show.
