She had no intention of explaining herself, even if she had a non-creepy way of doing so. By the time the book hit the shelves she’d be back in L.A. where she belonged, safe from prying English Irishmen.
Unfortunately, her adamant refusals only poured fuel on the fire of his curiosity. He should’ve been a scientist or a reporter, someone whose job required asking questions and fervently seeking the answers.
“Not going to happen.” Her third deflection.
He held his arms out in an open plea. “I can help. I have the male perspective to offer.”
She shook her head. “Tell me more about your dog.”
Pure disbelief colored his face. “You’d rather hear another lame story about Biscuit than talk about your manuscript?”
“You make him sound incredibly interesting. He’s like a person to me now, like I know him.”
Jack was on the verge of responding when he glanced past her, and in one instant his happy, teasing grin ceased to exist. It fell away like melting butter and left in its stead saucerlike eyes and a gaping mouth.
He muttered a low curse seconds before an impossibly tall woman with a bright cascade of platinum-blond hair falling around her thin shoulders descended upon their table with all the regality of the Queen herself.
Striking, deeply tanned despite the cool weather, and utterly, unapologetically striking. With the bone structure of a Greek goddess and the body of a porn star, Vickie Lana made one hell of an entrance.
Quinn could see why Jack might like her.
He leaped to his feet to embrace his fiancée and planted a quick kiss on each exquisitely defined cheek. “Darling! What a surprise. What’re you doing here?”
Vickie cast an imperious glare at Quinn. “You were away all morning. I missed you, so I went to find you.” Her voice thrummed low like a purr, flavored by an exotic accent. Her eyes, black and flat like a shark’s, stayed on Quinn. A purring shark. Somehow, the description fit.
“Right.” Jack’s nervousness was palpable.
Quinn teetered between concerned and amused. It reminded her of Seth’s childhood discovery of a particularly crude swear word. She’d been appreciative of the humor in it yet wise enough not to laugh.
Vickie crossed her arms. “Are you going to introduce me to your pretty friend?”
Jack rubbed the nape of his neck. “Yes, of course. Sit down, join us. We’re catching up, that’s all.”
Vickie made no attempt to hide her disdain but accepted the offered chair.
“This is Quinn.” He reclaimed his seat. “She’s . . .”
He fumbled. The poor guy. The easiest way out would be to excuse herself and make a swift exit before he had to define their relationship, but Jack beat her to the punch with a choice introduction.
“My cousin.”
By some miraculous force of nature, Quinn kept her jaw from dive-bombing onto the tabletop.
“Distant, of course. And, um, long lost. She found me on one of those Web sites. You’ve seen the adverts. Like I said, we’ve been catching up on family history.”
Quinn instinctually detested the lie. She’d never forget Blake’s introduction of some-nameless-lady-at-the-office Kira. However, a glimpse at Vickie’s venomous stare swayed her. Besides, she wasn’t sneaking into supply closets with Jack behind his fiancée’s back. In this case, a little white lie might do more good than harm.
She forced the muscles in her face to relax. Maybe Vickie hadn’t noticed her momentary shock. She offered his betrothed the most nonthreatening, wide-eyed expression of innocence she had. “That’s right.” She held out her hand and ignored the daggers the other woman shot at her. “I’ve been tracking down my ancestral roots. I came all the way from America to meet Jack. I can’t believe I’m Irish!”
She’d expect some kind of trophy in the mail for this performance.
Vickie accepted her outstretched hand. “Interesting. Nice to meet you, Quinn.” Through the filter of Vicki’s accent, her named sounded like queen. “You’re sure you don’t mind I have joined you?”
“Of course not.”
“Not at all.”
Quinn and Jack eyed each other. They’d spoken simultaneously, pretty much a dead giveaway something was up. They were unexpectedly rescued by Vickie’s request for a cappuccino, which had him scrambling from his chair at breakneck speeds. A silence like death descended over the table in his absence. Vickie’s great white gaze never wavered. Jack returned and shot a single look of pure desperation in Quinn’s direction.
He wanted her to get them out of this?
She angled herself toward Vickie. They were girls, right? There had to be something they could bond over. “You’re obviously the fiancée I’ve heard so much about. Congratulations! You’re going to be such a beautiful bride.” A big smile stretched her cheeks into painful territory. “Gosh, Jack did you justice when he told me how pretty you are. A model, right?”
“Yes.” Those scary deadpan eyes didn’t move. Had she blinked yet?
Quinn tried a different tack. “You came at the perfect time. We were discussing the, uh, great farming debacle that led to our clan’s separation, weren’t we, Jack?” She narrowed her eyes in warning. Your turn.
He understood her perfectly. He leaned forward with his hands folded together in a studious position. A pair of wire-framed glasses and a bow tie would make him an English professor. “Quite right. Some, uh, hundred years ago, was it? They fought over potato farmland. The losing side immigrated to America. Probably Idaho, Quinn tells me.”
She fought gallantly to suppress her laughter and managed to cover it with a small cough. “I imagine so, yes.” She opened her mouth to say more but drew a perfect blank. Liar’s block, the fibber’s equivalent of writer’s block, set in.
Jack came up short, too. They sat silently, blinking at one another like owls.
Quinn’s luck had never been anything to brag about. It actually seemed to decrease as her age increased, like opposing sliding scales. As the uncomfortable silence between the three of them stretched to a level of awkward she hadn’t known existed, life officially proved her theory.
Nicholas walked through the front entrance of The Black Kettle.
Two minutes older, that much unluckier.
It took everything she had to resist diving under the table to hide. She arrowed a fierce frown in Jack’s direction. This was his fault.
It didn’t take Nicholas long to spot her, thanks, no doubt, to the bright yellow sweater on her back. She pasted on a welcoming smile and gave a helpless finger wave as he weaved through tables to reach them. Vickie and Jack followed her gaze.
“Quinn, there you are.” Nicholas failed to notice her companions right away. “I’ve been to every café in London looking for you. I almost gave up.” Awareness seeped in. He glanced from Vickie to Jack, to Vickie again—who could blame him?—and back to Quinn. “Apologies. I didn’t realize you had company.”
“No problem. Vickie, Jack, this is Nicholas Braum. Nicholas, Jack, and his betrothed, Vickie. Join us.”
She used her imagination for a living. With a little creativity, exceptional acting from Jack and the deep-breathing techniques she’d learned in weekly yoga classes, they might come out of this alive. Or they’d fail, and Vickie would reveal her natural-born talent for bloodletting that all sharks inherently possess.
“You don’t mind?” Nicholas directed the question at the darling couple.
Vickie shrugged. Jack smiled, the first real one to light his face since his other half crashed their party, and offered his hand. “By all means, mate, have a seat.”
He shot her look as if to say This is Nicholas? What had he expected? Another movie star?
Well, for his information she liked sweater vests and khakis. Not initially, no, but they’d grown on her. She ignored Jack and made further introductions.
Of course, the long-lost cousin story didn’t sit well with Nicholas. “Why, you never told me you were searching for your roots, Q
uinn. Didn’t you say your mother was French?”
“Well, I—”
“Is it research for your novel?”
Vicki sat up straight, and her cold, steady gaze darted to Nicholas. “Novel? What novel is this?”
Nicholas opened his mouth to reply, but a loud burst of indignant Irish gibberish interrupted him before he spilled the beans. “I can’t believe you haven’t recognized me, mate! I thought I’d be signing an autograph by now.” Jack gripped Nicholas’s shoulder and jostled him good-naturedly.
Quinn winced. The fame card? Well, desperate times . . .
Nicholas studied Jack in bewilderment. “Do I know you? I’m quite good with faces. I’d remember if we’d met before.”
Jack’s expression of faux disbelief morphed into one of genuine perplexity. “You’re serious? Color me baffled, mate. I’m on the cover of no less than three tabloids right now. Everyone knows me. I’m Jack Decker.”
Nicholas shook his head and apologized. “I’ve no use for tabloids, I’m afraid. Jack, you said? Does sound familiar.”
Quinn’s stomach did a cartwheel.
Of course his name sounded familiar. She’d talked at length about Jack. Nicholas had the whole story, from their one-night stand to the most recent character development of Ezra. She had to intervene and prevent him from connecting the dots, which would only make an awkward situation completely intolerable.
She made a show of ogling her watch and jumped to her feet. “The time! I hate to break up our powwow when we’re all getting acquainted, but I really need to be off.” She grabbed her bag and pulled the strap over her shoulder. “Novels about eighteenth-century Ireland don’t write themselves. Nicholas, would you mind walking me home?”
“Certainly.” He nodded and rose. “Allow me to order a tea to go.” He headed in the direction of the counter.
The relief on Jack’s face might’ve been drawn in black magic marker. They’d pulled it off. “It was interesting to meet you, cousin.”
Vickie interjected before she had a chance to reply. “Might we get your phone number, Quinn?”
“Phone number?” she repeated dumbly.
Vickie unleashed her smile in a blinding show of perfect teeth shining through plump, silken lips. Remarkable beauty replaced the haughty veneer. “We don’t want to lose touch with family again. Maybe you will even find something good for our wedding in your researching, yes?”
Wedding. The word was like sand in Quinn’s eye. “Yeah. Sure.” She reluctantly recited her digits while Vickie programmed them into a gemstone-studded cell phone.
Nicholas returned. Quinn once more walked away from Jack Decker without saying good-bye. She didn’t want to catch a smile, a wink, or any other image that might wriggle into her head and sear itself onto her hippocampus and leave her useless for days while she sat around throwing hellacious pity parties and daydreaming about the what-ifs.
What if Jack was as perfect as he seemed?
What if their chemistry was the real thing?
What if Vickie fell into a volcano?
What-ifs had a flipside, too. A side no discerning, intelligent woman dared ignore.
What if, underneath his Irish charm, Jack was a real jerk?
What if their attraction stopped at the physical?
It didn’t matter, did it? He’d promised himself to the vivacious Vickie. The real deal or a real jerk, Jack dwelled beyond her realm of reality, unobtainable and so far out of her league they might as well be playing different sports.
Besides, they were hell and gone from the closest volcano.
“He’s not really your cousin.” Nicholas made the statement without a hint of question.
They walked slowly, side by side, down the path leading home. “Nope.”
“Is he famous like he says?”
“Yes. I’m surprised the supermodel sitting next to him didn’t give it away.”
“Jack Decker. Jack Decker.” Understanding crept into his voice. “Oh, I see. That Jack, am I right? Your Ezra.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Yep. That’s why I had to get us out of there. He has no idea, and I plan to be far away when he finds out. He might demand royalties.”
Nicholas managed a small smile for her joke. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Coincidence you ran into him this morning?”
She read the question behind the question. Did she have a lover on the side that might explain her reticence to get married? Last night’s events came back to her, along with a sense of discomfort she’d pushed to the back burner. “Purely coincidental. I haven’t seen him since Hollywood,” she finished quickly. “One-night stand” had such a trashy ring to it.
“I see.”
“I had no clue he was in town. I mean, I guess I knew he lived here, but in my mind he’s off being a movie star somewhere.”
Nicholas tucked his hands into his trouser pockets. “Why the long-lost cousin charade? I’ll admit I’m somewhat confounded. What an unusual encounter.”
She stopped walking and let the suppressed mirth bubble over. She laughed until tears gathered. Part of it was directed at Nicholas for using the word confounded. She suspected only a Brit could pull it off in casual conversation.
“Oh . . . Oh, my.” She swiped at a tear. “I wish I knew. Ridiculous, wasn’t it? We’re chatting like old college roommates one minute, the next I’m introduced to his bombshell fiancée as Cousin Quinn, the dingbat American searching for her family ties. Hilarious, but nerve-racking. Not an experience I’d willingly repeat.”
They were moving again. Nicholas chuckled in his quiet manner. “I daresay he handled it poorly.”
“I tend to agree. Then again, I wouldn’t want a woman like Vickie to get the wrong impression, either. That lady has one mean glare. Oh, but she’s stunning.”
“You aren’t any man’s definition of dowdy, Quinn. I don’t like to seem rude, but I didn’t find her very impressive from the neck up. When you’ve got the personality of a scorpion, it tends to shine through.”
She laughed at the comment. “She didn’t like me. I bet she’s real nice when some strange woman isn’t sharing breakfast with her man. Besides, she must have some redeeming qualities, or Jack wouldn’t want to marry her. He didn’t even propose. It must’ve been one of those whirlwinds of passion that sweep people up and make things like marriage and babies—poof—happen.” She snapped her fingers.
Nicholas was slow to respond. “Perhaps. Perhaps.”
Way to go, Quinn. Remind the poor guy why he too didn’t dwell among the happily engaged this fine day.
He spoke again, thus freeing her from the responsibility of repairing the careless statement. “While I’m happy to have rescued you from such an awkward situation, I was actually hoping to speak with you about last night.”
She sighed inwardly. Here was irrefutable cosmic proof you shouldn’t hide from your problems, and there were unpredictable and uncomfortable consequences for trying.
She pasted on a smile. “Shoot.”
Nicholas drew in a measured breath and plunged his hands even deeper into the pockets of his standard-issue khakis. “I regret leaving things as we did. I’m not certain if being friends is necessarily in our future, but let there be no hard feelings over the matter.”
The smile she had for him this time was the genuine article. “I really appreciate that.”
“Yes, well, I merely needed time to think on it.” He glanced up from his perusal of the sidewalk. “I wish you well, Quinn. I truly do. If you don’t mind, I’m headed the other way. I’ll see you in the shop, won’t I?”
“Absolutely. There’s no one else I’d trust with my paper needs.”
With a smile and a nod, Nicholas walked away. They’d rewritten the end of their chapter together, and she liked this version better.
Chapter 7
For two long, uninterrupted hours, Quinn sat glued to her laptop, lost in another woman’s struggle. She no longer occupied a space behind a desk
. She wasn’t even in England anymore.
She traversed the damp, uneven ground, the soft mud squishing up between the toes of her barren feet. There’d been no time for her sheepskin boots. Hard ferns caressed her ankles and calves with their wet, reaching arms. In the dense, cold fog, they were nothing but vague shapes cloaked in white at her feet. She shivered beneath the wool shawl covering her hunched shoulders, her only armor against the elements. She cradled her belly protectively with one thin hand as she crept, silent as the hunting fox, through the wilds of Ireland. The air puffed from her lungs in small clouds of—
Quinn jumped when a cell-phone chirp abruptly broke the spell.
Irritation came swiftly and with great force.
She hated being ripped away from a scene, especially one requiring her to engage the senses. Dialogue came easily, but motion had to be crafted with care. Her words had to inspire feeling. Every adjective, every sparsely used adverb must be able to describe in a concise manner what a character experienced, both physically and emotionally. If the sun beat down on a scorching day in the Sahara, the reader should feel the heat on their backs. If the heroine’s heart shattered, the reader should experience her sorrow.
She snatched up the phone and issued a brisk greeting without checking the identity of the caller.
“Quinn?”
Only one person in her acquaintance, however recent, had an accent like that. And it wasn’t her hero. “Hi, Vickie. What can I do for you?”
“You can stop lying.”
Quinn paused to consider her options. Tell the truth, continue with Jack’s lie, or meander over to the love seat on the far side of her office and lay down. Hooray for Option C. “I’m sorry for whatever impression you got today, Vickie, but I promise you—”
“Liars don’t make good on promises. You’re lying to Jack, but I’m not gullible like him. You want money?”
Quinn came up on one elbow. “You think I’m after Jack’s money?”
Men Like This Page 7
