by Penny Reid
Others were less selfish, like using a large campaign contributor to put pressure on a senator. In this case, the pressure was meant to hold a particular CEO accountable for the pilfering of employee pension funds.
Although, that too had been selfish in a way, because my secretary Betty’s husband had worked for the company and lost everything, all of his retirement. I supposed it was also revenge.
This didn’t cover the few people whose information I’d immediately passed through to the FBI or CIA, because their crimes were beyond reprehensible.
I finally said, “It’s complicated. I had a big part in dismantling the organization responsible for my brother’s death, but it was all about putting pressure on the right people.”
She was frowning now, but she didn’t try to move away. “What concerns me is that you got involved in the first place, especially after what happened with your brother.”
“Of course I’m involved.” The words escaped before I could stop them or the flare of temper. “The only way to make a real change is by getting involved, not by burying your head in the sand.”
She flinched, her eyes darted away, and her eyelashes fluttered. I silently reprimanded myself and inhaled a deep breath, my hands moving to her arms.
When I spoke next, my words were measured and carefully calm. “Yes, Janie, my hands are dirty—because I’ve been cleaning up messes.”
“What kind of messes?”
“All kinds,” I said through gritted teeth. I didn’t want to tell her what kinds of messes, because sometimes you had to prioritize one mess over another. When this happened, someone always lost, and it was usually someone who was innocent.
She pressed her lips together and swallowed, the lovely, pale column of her neck working with the effort. Still avoiding my eyes, she said, “You’re not Batman, Quinn.”
“Like hell I’m not.”
“Really?” Her gaze lifted to mine again. “Are you telling me you’ve never personally profited from these business ventures?”
“Yes, I’ve profited. And if Batman had been doing it right, he would have profited too.”
Her mouth fell open and her forehead wrinkled with disbelief. “You can’t justify using people for gain.”
“I’m not. It’s not about the gain, Janie.” I shook her arms a little and I inwardly cringed at the edge in my voice. “Do you believe—knowing what you do about me, the part I had in Des getting shot—that I was just going to let these people walk away?”
“Is this revenge?”
“In a word? Yes. Or at least it started that way.”
I watched her for a long moment, studied her expression and body language. To my surprise, she didn’t look repulsed. She looked sad and confused.
As much as I wanted to bind her to me, tie her up and restrain her, I knew I was going to have to let her go eventually.
She needed to make a decision: either I was worth the investment, or I wasn’t. Either I was redeemable, or I wasn’t.
I inhaled through my nose and stepped away, her hands fell from my chest. Losing the warmth of her, it felt like I’d abandoned a part of me. I left it with Janie to do with as she saw fit. For safekeeping, or to throw away.
Reaching around her, I grabbed the half-empty glass of scotch and swallowed the remainder, then moved to her side to refill it.
“What is it now? It started as revenge, which—by the way—is just as well documented as being a central theme in Greek tragedy as avoidable misunderstandings. But what is it now?” She asked; she’d wrapped her arms around her middle, like she was holding herself.
“Now….” I glanced at the ceiling. “Now I’m done.”
She turned her head to look at me, paused as though processing my words. “You’re done? Done with what?”
“I’m done with private clients and playing Batman. I’m getting out of it. That’s what the first part of this trip was about. I’m passing over my UK clients to new firms.”
“Is that why I’ve had three guards with me the entire time we’ve been here?”
“No. That’s about me needing to know you’re safe.”
“Am I in some kind of danger?”
“I don’t believe so.” She wasn’t, no more than any random person. What I didn’t say was, even that small unknown felt like too much.
“Is this going to continue in Chicago? The guards?”
“No. It shouldn’t. Some of these people can be….” I searched for the most truthful description of the private clients as a group. “They can be unpredictable, but they’re rarely violent. Most of the US group has already been handed off. I’m only keeping a few. Just a small number of clients that are trustworthy, that have nothing to hide.”
I met her stare and took another swig of scotch.
“Can you do that? Can you just hand them off?”
“I don’t know. But for you, I’m going to try.”
Her eyes darted between mine. “For me?”
“I told you, you make me want to be a good guy.” Because I couldn’t help myself, I placed my hand on her cheek, let my thumb brush against her full bottom lip. Touching her was torture because I didn’t know if she still wanted me.
“Quinn….” She held perfectly still, staring at me with her large amber eyes.
The thickness in my voice betrayed how badly I wanted her, but I wasn’t going to tie her up. “I’m trying to be a good guy.”
CHAPTER 9
*Janie*
“Oh thank God!” Steven threw himself into the plush leather chair of the private jet and stroked the armrests lovingly. “I’ve missed you. Did you get my flowers? Please let us never be separated again.”
I watched through narrowed eyes, though I couldn’t help my smile, as Steven spoke to the interior of the plane as though it were a lover and not a 46,000-pound piece of aviation machinery.
“You took one commercial flight, Steven. One.”
“Shhh!” he pressed his finger to his lips and loud whispered, “He’ll hear you.”
I glanced to my right and left. “Who will hear me?”
“Manuel, the plane.”
“You’ve named the plane Manuel?”
“Don’t ruin this for me, Janie. I’ve been thinking about this moment for over a week. Just let me have it.” His fingers flexed into the leather, his eyes beseeching.
Smiling at his silliness, I decided to give him a moment of privacy with the plane and walked to the back of the cabin to use the facilities before takeoff. Total airtime for our Heathrow to Chicago Midway flight would be just over nine hours, and I liked using the bathroom when I didn’t have to fight against turbulence to stay upright.
I was preoccupied with making a mental note to discover the brand of soap stocked in the lavatory when I exited and collided with Quinn.
The man who’d just admitted to me last night that he blackmailed people in order to bend them to his will.
My fiancé.
The man I was going to marry in less than three months.
“Oh—sorry.” I reached for and held on to the lapels of his jacket even though I was in no danger of losing my balance. I did this for four reasons.
First, we’d gone to sleep last night with silence between us and nothing resolved. He’d shut down, and I’d turtled into the cozy corner of trivial facts. Rather than actually think about the ramifications of his admission, I’d let my mind wander.
Second, he’d barely touched me. In fact, he’d avoided me in bed, turning away from me while we slept.
Then he’d left me this morning and hadn’t returned. He also hadn’t returned my phone calls, even when I used my cell phone. Therefore, having him there, in front of me now, within my reach, made me want to superglue myself to his body.
Lastly, he smelled good—like, really good—much better than the soap in the lavatory.
His hands automatically lifted to my upper arms as though to steady me, and his tenebrous blue eyes settled on mine then darted away.
&nb
sp; “No problem,” he said.
My heart pinged with hurt because he was so aloof. His hands fell away. I pressed my lips together and waited for him to return his eyes to mine.
After a long moment of me gripping his jacket front and him standing there like a statue, he lifted his hands to mine and tried to pry them from his lapels, but I held on tight.
“Janie, I need to get in there.”
“Okay,” I said, but I didn’t move out of the doorway. “Where did you go this morning?”
“For a run then…on a ride.”
“On a motorcycle?” My heart ping-morphed into a heart seize. I knew he liked riding, but—irrationally—it made me anxious each time he did it. “Where did you find the bike?”
Finally, his eyes met mine. Though his features were stone, his gaze was piercing and heated. “I borrowed one.”
He stopped trying to remove my fingers from his jacket and, instead, he held out his hands between us, palms up, showing me that they were covered in a layer of dirt and grease.
“I need to wash my hands. They’re dirty.”
“Oh.” I took in his appearance and realized that he was uncharacteristically disheveled. His cheeks and nose were pink, his hair was windblown—which meant he’d been riding without a helmet—and his suit lacked its typical sleek meticulousness. Also, he was wearing no tie.
“I got some on your sleeve…” He was frowning at me and I followed his gaze to the upper arm of my white shirt. His hand had left a greasy imprint when we’d collided.
“Oh,” I said again then returned my attention to his face. He was staring at the stain, and he looked frustrated and angry.
On a sudden impulse, I leaned forward and pressed three kisses onto his white dress shirt—one on the collar and two near the placket of buttons. I leaned back to study my lip-work, pleased that I’d chosen to wear a shocking shade of pink that morning.
“There,” I said, touching the new stain near his neck. “Now we’re even.”
He glanced down at himself, his eyebrows pulling low, then he lifted just his eyes to mine. I was pleased to see that the earlier frustration had ebbed. However, in its place his gaze had grown sharp with a familiar intensity. My heart and stomach tried to out-flutter each other.
Quinn nodded once, slowly. Other than his eyes, his expression betrayed nothing. But then his hands came to my hips, and he walked me backward into the lavatory.
And I let him.
Once we were inside, he closed the door behind him and turned me so that my bottom was against the sink.
“What are we doing?” I asked, all at once breathless, even as I reached for the front of his pants and unbuckled his belt.
Quinn brushed his lips against mine as his hands slipped under the hem of my skirt and hiked it to my waist.
“We’re having make-up sex,” he growled.
Then he kissed me. I moaned because it felt so good and right, and we hadn’t kissed in over twenty-four hours—not since before the ball for the phantom charity, not since we’d gone lingerie shopping.
His mouth separated from mine. He licked and bit a path over my jaw to my ear. I tried tilting to the side to give him better access, but my head connected with the paper towel dispenser.
“Were we fighting?” I asked, though I had no idea how he was going to answer because I was violently pressing his face into my neck—because I just could not get enough of his mouth on my skin. My other hand reached into his boxers and gripped his length, my hips rocking forward in answer to his arousal.
He gripped my waist and lifted me onto the counter. This caused the button for the faucet to be pressed which caused the water to turn on. I felt the spray against my backside and I squeaked.
He lifted his head from my neck, his eyes dazed and questioning, his breathing labored. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing. Kiss me. And take off your pants.” I reached for the band of my white cotton underwear and wiggled my bottom until I could pull them down my legs.
Quinn took a step back and pushed his pants to the floor. I reached for him as I tried to rid myself of sensibly breathable fabric and caught him smirking when he spied granny panties around one of my ankles.
“Nice underwear, darling,” he hissed, likely because I held his erection in my hand and I was stroking it, stroking him, coaxing him toward my center.
“Thank you. It’s also a socially responsible choice, if you recall.”
Quinn lifted his eyes to mine and his face split with a smile, which quickly ebbed and became something else entirely—something beautiful and visceral and reckless—as he entered me. He sucked in a breath, his forehead resting against mine, his hands gripping my bottom, his eyes closing as though he were overwhelmed by his senses.
“We’re getting married,” he said. It sounded like an order.
I nodded. “Yes,” I said, my legs wrapping around his, my breath hitching.
He opened his eyes and moved his hips, setting a slow, tortuous rhythm. “And when we get home, you’re going to put on that corset from last night, and I’m going to take you over the sofa.”
I moaned at the image his words conjured, tried to encourage him to increase his pace, but only succeeded in getting myself hot and bothered and breathless.
“Say you love me.” One of his hands slipped into my shirt, under my bra, and cupped me, squeezed, kneaded in time with his thrusts. I didn’t care that his hands were making me dirty.
“I love you.”
This earned me an increased tempo and a pass of his thumb over the center of my breast. “Tell me you trust me.”
I felt my brain clear as our eyes met and I stroked my hand down the side of his face; he turned his lips into the palm of my hand and kissed it.
“Quinn, I trust you.”
“Tell me I make you fearless.” He whispered, still holding my gaze.
“You make me fearless.” I didn’t hesitate.
My fingers reached around his neck and pressed against the back of his head until his mouth fit over mine. My legs trembled with the beginning of my orgasm and I arched my back while my hips simultaneously tilted forward. He must’ve sensed I was close, because he shifted his position, giving me more of himself.
My heels pressed ruthlessly into his thighs, my nails dug into his jacket over his shoulders, and he captured my scream—because I was a screamer—with his mouth.
Then, as I tumbled back to earth and he came with a tense groan, I returned the favor and worshiped his mouth with mine.
I tried to impart with my kiss and with the eagerness of my body all that I felt for him. I hoped he knew that I believed in him, that I believed in us.
Quinn and I stayed like that—wrapped in each other, kissing—for as long as possible. But then, the inevitable knock sounded at the door accompanied by a polite clearing of the throat.
“Mr. Sullivan…uh, sir, we’re almost ready to take off whenever you, uh, and…whenever everyone is in their seats.”
I recognized the voice of Donna, the flight attendant, and heard her retreating steps. Both sounds pulled me back to reality and brought my surroundings into focus. A substantial blush instantly claimed my chest, neck, cheeks, and ears. I was sure the top of my head was bright red. Good thing I wasn’t bald.
Before Quinn could speak, Dan’s voice whispered from the other side of the door. “Just so you know, we’ve all formed a high-five line outside the bathroom.”
I buried my face in Quinn’s neck and moaned my mortification.
I felt Quinn’s rumbly chuckle and his kiss on my hair before he responded to Dan. “If you try to high-five me, I’ll punch you in the throat.”
“The high-five line is for Janie, not for you, Dummy.”
Quinn pressed his lips together to keep from laughing, and I was sure that if no one had died yet from awkwardness, then my autopsy report would be the first of its kind.
“I’m kidding. I can feel her embarrassment from out here.” Dan continued to whisper. �
��Listen, I have new clothes for you both hanging just outside the door along with two towels, and I’ve drawn the curtain so you can’t be seen when you open the door. I just spoke to the pilot. They’ve moved us back in the take-off queue. You’ve got fifteen more minutes, and you’re welcome.”
I closed my eyes, sent up a silent prayer that Dan would find someone worthy of his awesomeness, and snuggled closer to Quinn’s body.
This always happened when we made love. I always seemed to forget where I was. I didn’t think of myself as an exhibitionist, nor did I take any pleasure in the possibility of being caught. Rather, when I was tangled up in Quinn, I existed in a blissful alternate universe, and everything else just…ceased.
Quinn grabbed several paper towels in quick succession. He shifted away, but continued to support my forehead on his shoulder. He pressed the paper towels between my legs and waited until I took over, then he threaded his fingers through my hair.
As usual, they got stuck in the curling snakes, and he used the leverage to lift my face from his neck. His eyes skated over my features before pinning me in place, and I saw that his expression was dreamy and content, one of wonder and worship.
“How do you do that?” His question was quiet, reverent.
“Do what?”
“How do you make everything better?”
My forehead wrinkled as we studied each other. “What did I make better?”
“After last night, I thought you….” He exhaled, frowned, shook his head. Then his mouth pulled to the side in a barely there smile. “You make me better.”
I returned his smile and leaned forward an inch to kiss his nose. “Quinn, we’re going to settle this. Tomorrow, at home, we’re going to discuss everything until we both feel good about it. And then, you’re going to help me decide what shade of ferns we’re going to use for our centerpieces.”
He blinked. “Ferns?”
