by Anne Conley
Quinten was frantic, his ever-present control gone in a flash. Eyes scanning the crowd, all he saw were ebullient faces cheering on his K.O. with choruses of “Fuck Yeah!” And “Fucking HAYMAKER!” Yeah, he was popular, and it was over.
He found Jordan first, then Deena Rae, then the rest. He shoved past people on the way to his brother.
“Fucker knows us. Knows Valerie. He’s in on this somehow.” When he saw Evan, Quinten grabbed the sweater vest and pulled him close. “I want to know every god-damned thing about this guy. Yesterday.” Simon was suddenly somber, officious in his suit he’d worn straight from the office. It should have made him stand out in this crowd, but like everything else, Simon looked like he belonged there. Deena Rae, Jordan, Zack, and Evan nodded acquiescence while Simon got on his phone to call someone just as Quinten flung himself from the crowded gym and all the well-wishers.
Valerie. Her smile, her scent, her voice.
This assignment had gotten under his skin. And it was fucked beyond belief. He made his way to the parking lot, where more well-wishers got in his damn way. He was frantic, just trying to get to his car. He should still be in his dressing room, soaking up adoration, collecting his winnings, taking a damn shower, but all he could think of was Valerie and whether or not she was alright.
“Dude. It’s over, you won!” Somebody raised his hand in the air, boxing main event style, and he yanked it away.
He’d made sure the dude was done for the night. The Grynderr wouldn’t be making any more threats in the next twenty-four hours, at least. But he still needed to get near Valerie again.
For his own sanity.
Valerie was at home with Ryan. Ryan was good, but Quinten was better. He needed to make sure she was okay.
Hopping into his BMW 435, Quinten relished the smooth handling of the machine as it powered through the Austin streets to Lake Travis and Valerie. On the way, he engaged the speaker in his car and called her.
“Valerie?” His head spun, aching with the axe kick The Grynderr had delivered to the back of his head. He didn’t feel concussed, but he was shaken nonetheless. It was like his brain was suspended in Jell-O, swimming and sloshing.
“Hmm? Quinten?” He’d woken her up, and her sleepy voice over the phone sounded better than the disembodied one over the speakers. He ignored the tightness of his balls as the blood rushed to his dick.
“Yeah, sorry to wake you. I’ll be there to check on things in a bit. Didn’t want to alarm you.” He forced a calm into his voice he didn’t feel. Chances were things were just fine, but he had to see for himself.
“Sure. I’ll be sure and let Andrew and Ryan know you’re coming home.”
He ignored the way the word “home” made him feel. “I can do that. I wanted to make sure you were aware.”
Clicking off and ignoring the effect her voice was having on his body, Quinten focused on the man at the fight and trying to figure him out. He had known some of Valerie’s circumstances, but clearly not all of them. So what, exactly, did he know? And who the fuck had told him? Was the fight a distraction to get him out of the house?
Squealing up her circular driveway, Quinten got out and stuffed the Sig Sauer .357 into the waist band of his gym shorts, pulling down his t-shirt to cover it. He was relieved when an alert Andrew met him at the door, his own sidearm sticking out the top of his jeans.
“We need to do a sweep.”
“What happened?”
“I fought tonight, and my opponent knew her. He knew all of us. He wanted to make sure and tell me.”
“You didn’t get a chance to talk to him? Did you at least kick his ass?”
Quinten didn’t deign to answer that one. Of course he’d kicked his ass. Instead, using hand signals, they split up and searched the house. Quinten took the east wing while Andrew and Ryan took the rest of the house.
“Ms. Dunaway, I’m sorry, but I need to do a sweep of your quarters.” They’d been friendly the last few days, but he tamped that all down with professionalism. This needed to be done right. The danger was too palpable. The dark side of his personal life was bleeding into his professional life, and he couldn’t let it endanger Valerie any more than it was already.
The click sounded at the door almost immediately, and Quinten forcibly slowed his breathing and counted to ten before he opened the door, gun drawn, pointed down.
He let himself in and immediately moved to the side of the doorway, into a shadow. He stilled his breathing, which brought down his heartrate as he absorbed his surroundings.
“Valerie?” he whispered.
Her voice came from the shadow directly across from him. “I’m here.”
“Stay behind me.”
Her dizzying scent was everywhere.
As Quinten moved from room to room, checking behind doors and furniture, inside closets, he heard the soft padding of her footsteps right behind him. When she reached for a tiny handful of his shirt, he mentally cursed himself for scaring her. It couldn’t be avoided, and he was glad he could offer her a tether to reality through his shirt. He needed to make sure she was safe. When he got to her sunroom, he looked out the windows onto the water, where the moon reflected. It was a full moon tonight, and the yard leading down to the water was all lit up.
He strained his eyes but saw nothing.
His shoulders relaxed with a sigh, and he put his gun back in the waistband of his shorts.
“You’re clear. I’ll go check the rest of the house with the others,” he said softly, hoping to sound encouraging.
“I’m scared,” a whisper at his back said. A whisper that melted his insides, almost as much as the hand still clutching his t-shirt did.
Quinten turned, and Valerie released him, standing with stiff shoulders. Tall, five foot ten or so, she had long, blonde hair that was wild around her shoulders. She wore a plain, flesh-colored mask over her face.
“Embrace the fear,” he said softly. “It keeps you more alert. Feel your accelerated heartbeat?” He could see the pulse in her neck pounding and her breasts heaving under the peignoir set she wore. “Your breathing is different?” She nodded at him, eyes wide behind her mask. “That’s your body on high alert, trying to dissect each new sensation. It’s a protective thing. Use it to your advantage.”
She tensed, and Quinten held his breath in his throat while he watched her carefully. She was like one of those birds she kept, dainty and delicate, ready to fly off at the slightest movement from him. Only there was no flying from the cage they were trapped in. Just like Valerie. So slowly he almost couldn’t see her movements, Valerie reached out an elegant hand and rested it on his chest.
“You’re hurt,” she whispered, her breath hitching.
He didn’t move. Allowing her the touch, as if she were drawing strength from him, he breathed deep and let his steady heartbeat calm her.
Her fingers didn’t do anything; she only palmed his pectoral muscle. But her breaths matched his, and soon enough she was calm. But he was electrified. On fire. Her touch seared him.
“It’s from the fight.”
“Did you win?”
“Always.” He tried to let his confidence bolster her.
Her fingers trailed down his chest to his arm, leading him toward the kitchen by the elbow. “Come on, let me help you.”
“Really, it’s okay. I’m fine.”
“Please? You’re bleeding all over the place.” Valerie stopped and turned toward him, her mask not hiding the plea in her eyes. Quinten looked down, seeing some blood on his knuckles, knowing there was more on his face. He wasn’t dripping, but it was probably disgusting to her, nonetheless. He was suddenly aware of the stale sweat drying on his skin.
He acquiesced to her, allowing her to lead him to the kitchen, where she pulled out a first-aid kit from under the sink. “I really should take a shower,” Quinten muttered, suddenly embarrassed. He stank and felt the layer of gym grime coating his skin.
“You can use mine.” Her soft voice was a so
othing balm to his nerves. With the lack of a threat in her quarters, and the domesticity of the situation, he allowed himself to pretend.
“I’ll be right back.” He ambled to her bathroom, feeling the peace of her sanctuary sinking into his bones through the muted colors and soft textures. The fear of finding a man here with her faded as the water sluiced over his body, washing away the blood. His cuts stung but weren’t too bad. It was his head that hurt, where the bastard had kicked him.
Now that he wasn’t panicking, he focused on the pain—a reminder he was alive.
Using Valerie’s expensive body wash in the scent that was exclusively hers, he felt closer to her. It wasn’t embarrassing to smell like a woman; not much embarrassed Quinten. Instead, it made him feel like he’d just joined an exclusive club, one only a select few had membership to. It was the club of Valerie’s trust.
And it was a heady feeling.
He made his shower quick, getting out and putting his shorts back on, not willing to hang out in her kitchen wearing only a towel. His mama had raised him better than that, but he was definitely not putting the stinky shirt back on. Hopefully, Valerie wouldn’t think it was too rude. If she was bothered, he’d go to the other part of the house where his bag was and get a shirt.
When he returned, she’d made a pot of tea and had supplies set out on the kitchen table.
Her eyes made a slow perusal of his body, halting at his chest, where red marks were rising to the surface from The Grynderr’s punches.
“Sit.” Valerie’s voice was low and husky and made his spine tingle. He obliged, hoping to hide the inappropriate action taking place in his shorts.
“It’s really not that bad,” he said, but she ignored him, her elegant hand grabbing his chin as she stepped between his knees, tilting his head this way and that, trying to get a good look at his face.
“Do you fight for money?”
He shook his head, unable to not look at her. The elegant curve of her neck, her smooth skin, and holy God, her smell was about to bring him to his knees. The light, feminine scent was now in his pores, and he was about to lose his mind.
“I donate my winnings. Always have. Don’t need the money.” Actually, he hadn’t gotten his winnings tonight, having been too focused on rushing out the door to get to her. Hopefully, Simon would pick them up, or Larry would get them to him somehow.
Valerie nodded once and grabbed some cream from the arsenal next to her.
“Somebody said something tonight? About me?” Her voice was quiet as she worked.
He thought about how much to tell her briefly before going with full disclosure. She was scared already. The truth wouldn’t scare her any more than what had already happened to her.
“The guy I fought was someone my brother put away when he was on the force. He got out recently, and it looks like this was some sort of vendetta match, like somehow, fighting me was getting back at Simon for some reason.” He tried to shrug it off. “But apparently, whoever is after you has been in contact with him, which is strange, and suggests some investigative skills, since I don’t have my fighting life connected with my personal life in any way I’m aware of.”
Valerie stilled, her hand resting on his cheek, where she’d been doctoring a small cut under his eye. Quinten smashed the urge to turn his face into her hand a lay a kiss on her palm.
“So the man who was here was probably there tonight? Watching to see if you got beat?”
Quinten closed his eyes and muttered a curse. That thought hadn’t even occurred to him. Of course he was there. This was only proof he was letting his feelings get in the way of his job to protect Valerie. He’d been so concerned about her, he hadn’t even thought of the fact the guy he was looking for was in the massive crowd shoved in the tiny gym.
“I’ll call Larry and see if there’s any footage we can look over. See if anyone is familiar to you, or if there’s someone there you know.”
Her hand moved to his shoulder, her delicate fingers fluttering across his skin looking for wounds and leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake. Quinten shuddered.
“Let me see your hands. They look like hamburger.”
They did. Knuckles swollen, the tough skin peeled away, they looked pretty bad. But he’d been hitting bags for a long time, and they didn’t hurt much as he made an experimental fist.
Valerie sat in a chair next to him and started applying her cream to them, then got a roll of gauze and started wrapping them. She worked in silence while he watched her.
The light scar he’d seen yesterday—the one running down her neck—called to him. He wanted to trace it with his tongue, as if his saliva could heal the wound. Quinten knew her wounds ran deep. Down to her soul. They might even be like a root system—under the skin, they spread, digging deep into her psyche.
Thinking of roots made Quinten think of plants, roses, and Brandon. He knew Quinten, knew he still fought, had access to black roses, and had a fascination with Valerie.
If they got a video of the fight and Brandon was on it, dude was a dead man.
His brain swam with the implications, both of Brandon being Valerie’s terrorist and his inability to see it sooner. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts, he missed enjoying Valerie’s fingers as she held his hands.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Valerie asked.
Quinten shook his head, focusing back on the reality in front of him. “Why do you wear a mask? Are the scars that bad?”
Her eyes dropped to his lap. “I don’t know, really. I used to play a lot in the masks. My parents brought them to me from all over the world as souvenirs. They used to bring me comfort in a world where I didn’t really feel like I belonged. My parents and everyone always told me how pretty I was, like that was the only thing they loved about me, so I wore the masks as a way of making myself look different, I guess.” She stopped talking, and Quinten nodded to keep her talking. “I sort of rediscovered them after Argyle did what he did, and they took me back to a time in my childhood where I found comfort in things like this. I don’t really know how to explain it.”
“I understand. The masks make you more comfortable with yourself.” Quinten rubbed her hand with his thumb, since she’d wrapped his knuckles so he couldn’t really move his fingers well. Didn’t they all wear masks of some sort? His fighting had been a sort of mask, once upon a time. It was a mask of recklessness in a strictly structured life—an act of rebellion in a world his parents had planned out for him.
“As far as the scars, I don’t know. I haven’t looked in a mirror in years, honestly.” She shrugged her slim shoulders, and Quinten’s eyes were drawn to her collar bone, a sudden desire to kiss it nearly undoing him.
He started to stand, trying to dispel the mood. “Thank you. And I’m sorry I woke you up for all this.”
“I need to thank you.”
Her eyes were earnest and intent on him, and Quinten found himself lost, once again, in the green pools. Jesus. What was this woman doing to him?
He was suddenly hyper-aware of his state of undress, as well as her nightwear. The nightgown and robe set was modest enough—classy and elegant—yet sent his imagination reeling with thoughts of the silky fabric between his fingers as he pushed it down her shoulders to reveal what was underneath.
“For what?” He sounded horny, even to his own ears, and an altogether sexy flush crept up her cheeks.
“For making me feel safe. For talking me through my fears. For letting me take care of you for once. For… everything.” Valerie swallowed hard, her delicate throat making audible noises as it worked. Her soft, pink tongue slipped out and wet her top lip, snapping his gaze there.
Maybe he could take just one taste? It would be a tangible display of affection, of his intentions to take care of her after this was over. Just a tiny kiss, to let her know she meant something to him.
While he stood there, talking himself into kissing Valerie, she took a deep breath and a step forward. Quinten helplessly wrapped his arms
around her waist as she wrapped hers around his neck and rested her head on his chest.
A hug. Yeah. That was better than a kiss. Better for her, anyway. He willed the disappointment away, reminding himself of why he was here and all the time they had left for tasting and kissing. When this was over.
“I’ll be here anytime you need me.” I’ll always take care of you. I want to be your everything.
She broke the hug but still clutched at his biceps. “Stay. In the guest room. I can’t stand the thought of you across the house.”
Was it because it made her feel safe, or something else? He didn’t ask, only nodded. “I have a couple of calls to make, but sure. If that’s what you want.” He needed to call Hollerman and tell him about Brandon, and call Larry for videos of the crowd at the fight, and call Evan to see if he’d found anything on The Grynderr.
Valerie nodded, released him, and ducked her head to turn away. Quinten felt like he’d done something wrong but didn’t know what, and he had no clue how to fix it.
“Valerie?” She stopped and turned, and he saw a tenderness in her eyes that made his heart soar. “Are you going to be okay?”
She smiled at him, and something cracked inside Quinten, letting a beam of light shine in. “Yes. I am.” She sounded a bit surprised at herself, and Quinten smiled back, relieved.
Quinten got up in the guest room of Valerie’s private quarters the next morning, feeling like he’d been hit by a semi. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and grunted his way through making up the bed before letting himself out to go check on the rest of the guys. Nobody had texted him in the night, so he supposed all was well, but he needed some face-to-face reassurance. He scouted the area and found Valerie was gone, so he assumed she was in her workshop, where she spent a lot of time during the day. It had been locked every time he’d gone to check it, and he didn’t know exactly what she did in there. She’d told him once she crafted, but he hadn’t seen it, yet. He vowed to remedy that today. Locked or not, he needed to check out that space.
