His Page 10

  Over soup and sandwiches at a deli near my office, she’s smiling more than I’ve ever seen her smile. She’s even poking fun at me and laughing. I like this side of her.

  “So Hong Kong . . .” She takes a sip of her hot tea and studies me. “Did you have to take someone to translate for you?”

  “No. Most of the people I met with speak English. There’s one guy who prefers Cantonese, and I’m passable with it.”

  She arches her brows, looking impressed. “Cantonese? Really?”

  “Just enough to get by.”

  That’s not actually true. I’m fluent, but I don’t want to sound like I’m trying to impress her. If she is impressed by me, I don’t want it to be about my work or my money.

  “Have you ever been to China?” I ask her.

  She laughs lightly. “No. My family took some vacations to a resort in Mexico when I was little. I’ve never left the country other than that.”

  I watch her expression to see if it turns remorseful. She’s been so vigilant about not sharing her personal life with me. But she seems so at ease right now, without a hint of regret.

  “You’re welcome to join me next time,” I say. The thought having her alone in the back of a Lear for all those hours in the air is very appealing.

  Another laugh from her. “You mean go to China? Me?”

  “Sure. We could go sightseeing if you’d like.”

  Her smile fades. “Thanks for the invite. It’s a really nice thought. I couldn’t, though.”

  “Of course, you could.”

  “Actually . . . I couldn’t. I don’t have a passport.”

  “That’s an easy fix.”

  She shifts her gaze away from mine. “Not in my case.”

  “Should we skip the part where I ask why and you tell me you don’t want to talk about it?” I ask lightly.

  “Yeah, let’s skip that.”

  “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you want to go?” I ask, watching as she raises her mug of tea up to take a slow sip. She likes hot tea so much she ordered it rather than dessert at the end of our lunch. And she always drinks it the same way, with both hands wrapped around the mug.

  “Hmm . . .” She lowers the mug, and her lips curve up in a smile. “Anywhere in the world? Maybe New Zealand. Or Antarctica.”

  “Antarctica?” I give her a confused shake of my head.

  “Yeah. Maybe. Or Iceland.”

  “So you’d like to go far away,” I surmise. “You like to feel hidden.”

  Her expression turns serious. “I guess that’s true.”

  “What are you hiding from, Quinn?”

  She shrugs. “We’re all hiding from something, don’t you think? Some people don’t even know they’re doing it.”

  I think about her words. She’s pretty philosophical for a twenty-one-year-old. The other women I’ve dated now seem flippant and vacant compared to her.

  “I’m not hiding from anything,” I say. “I wake up every morning planning to take life by the balls and squeeze.”

  “That sounds unpleasant,” she says with a laugh.

  “Nah. Long as it’s not my balls.”

  “Well, ball squeezing aside, I think you have fears just like the rest of us.”

  “Yeah? What is it you think I’m afraid of?”

  I wait, eager to see what she’ll come up with. Very few people know me at all. Only a small handful really know how fearless I am when it comes to accomplishing my goals. Quinn isn’t one of them.

  “Intimacy.” She says it with finality, like there’s no debating that it’s true.

  I sit back in my seat. “Intimacy?” I look from side to side and then lower my voice. “You mean sex? Baby, I can assure you it’s not my fear standing in our way. I’m ready to go. Right now.”

  “Not sex. Anyone can do that. I’m talking about emotional intimacy.”

  I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “Yeah, that’s not my thing. Not because I’m afraid of it, though.”

  “Okay.”

  She doesn’t believe me, I can tell by her tone. It annoys the hell out of me.

  “As for the sex,” she says softly, “I’m not afraid. Just so you know.”

  “No?” My annoyance melts away. “What’s, uh . . . holding us back, then?”

  “Now that you’re back . . . nothing. I’ve been thinking about you since that night.”

  “When I kissed you?”

  “Yes.”

  I shift my hips, my dick needing more space all of a sudden.

  “I’ve been thinking about it, too,” I say. “A lot.”

  The air is thick between us, laced with wanting that, for me, borders on need. It’s been more than a month since I’ve had sex, and I’ve spent almost four weeks wanting Quinn every time I look at her.

  “So . . .” Her voice is nearly a whisper. “Maybe we should . . .”

  “Go shopping in Tribeca?” I say, against my every instinct. “There’s an art gallery there I’d like to take you to. And a furniture store.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “What else would you like to do?” I ask, leaning to the side so I can take my wallet from my pants pocket. “Carriage ride?”

  She shakes her head. “I hate the way those poor horses are treated.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, you pick something then. Anything. Broadway show?”

  Her eyes light with happiness. “Can we go to the movies? I used to love going to the movies.”

  “We can definitely go to the movies.”

  At the furniture store, Quinn runs her fingertips over the smooth lines of the industrial-style steel and wood furniture. She helps me try out chairs until we settle on a perfect one for the library. It’s a chaise the furniture maker will upholster in the dark chocolate shade of leather Quinn chose.

  “That’s your favorite?” I ask her with a skeptical glance.

  She shrugs. “It looks like the other furniture at the warehouse. You want it to fit in, don’t you?”

  “Fitting in is overrated. What’s your favorite color?”

  “Purple,” she says, arching her brows in challenge.

  “Purple,” I say to the store owner.

  “Certainly.” He flips through several leather swatches and lands on one. “I have this nice eggplant shade.”

  “You like?” I ask Quinn.

  “I do.”

  “We’ll take it,” I say, handing the man a business card. “You can arrange for payment and delivery with my assistant, Dawson.”

  I take Quinn’s hand, and we walk the half mile to the art gallery I’ve been to a few shows at. Tiny snowflakes are flying outside, and a few of them sparkle in her blond hair as we walk through the big double doors of the gallery.

  “Mr. Wentworth,” the curator says, giving me a polished smile. “So nice to see you again.”

  Her bright red hair is secured in a knot at the nape of her neck, and she wears a dark green suit. I can see dollar signs written all over her face, though she’s trying to look casual.

  “Hi,” I say, following Quinn to a display of gritty black-and-white portraits.

  “Anything I can help with?” the curator asks. “I’m Meg, by the way.”

  “Just browsing.”

  She nods and returns her attention to the clipboard she’s holding.

  “Wow,” Quinn says softly.

  I follow her gaze to a portrait of an old woman with deep lines in her weather-worn skin. Her dark eyes stare not just straight at the camera, but through it. They tell a story of resilience. An open field with freshly sown rows is the photo’s backdrop. Her age-spotted hand is wrapped around a primitive-looking farm tool.

  A glance at an engraved silver sign enlightens me about this series of portraits.

  “All taken at a small village in Guatemala,” I murmur. “They’re fantastic.”

  Quinn is still looking at the woman, seemingly entranced by her. And I’m entranced by the emotion swimming in Quinn’s hazel eyes.

 
“I’ll buy it for you,” I offer.

  She gives me a sideways smile and then shakes her head. “No, but thanks.”

  “You sure? I can tell you love it.”

  She sighs softly. “I just feel like I know her.”

  Meg is hanging at just the right distance to casually eavesdrop.

  “Beautiful, aren’t they?” she says with a practiced smile.

  I nod and lay a hand on Quinn’s slight shoulder. “Do you just like this one, or all of them?”

  She looks up at me with a serious expression. “I don’t want you to buy it, okay? It should be here for everyone to see.”

  “This entire exhibit will sell,” Meg says a little sharply. “It’s only a matter of who will be the winning buyer.”

  Quinn narrows her eyes slightly.

  “Well, it won’t be us,” I say, sliding my hand back into hers.

  She squeezes my hand, and I lead the way out of the gallery.

  “I hate her,” Quinn mutters as we step onto the sidewalk. “I think she and Dahlia should hang out.”

  I laugh and take out my cell phone to text Roy. “There’s an idea.”

  “They could form a Bitches Anonymous group.”

  I type out the address of a nearby corner for Roy to pick us up at and then turn to Quinn.

  “You dislike . . . what was her name again?”

  “Meg.”

  “Right, Meg . . . that much just from that one encounter?”

  “Not everything should be for sale. It’s disgusting, really. That woman struggles just to exist, and some rich person will pay more money for that picture than she can ever imagine having, and they’ll hang it up in their house as a decoration.”

  I think about her words for a few seconds, realizing she’s right, but I never would have seen it that way without her pointing it out.

  “Is that what you think of me?” I ask, feeling a sick churning in my gut. “Do you think I’m profiting from your misery?”

  She turns to me with wide eyes. “Not at all. No, it’s not remotely the same. You’re respecting me and taking care of me and . . . paying me. That woman will get nothing for that photo.”

  “Maybe it’ll help create awareness of the need for assistance in Guatemala.”

  Quinn arches her brows skeptically. “I doubt that. Most people ignore the needy.”

  “Did you feel ignored when you were homeless?”

  “I didn’t just feel ignored, I was ignored.” A couple beats of silence pass and she says, “What do you do when you pass a homeless person on the street?”

  I meet her eyes for just a second and then look away, feeling sheepish. She’s right. Truth be told, I ignore just about everyone when I’m walking down the street, but it’s not right to brush past every person I see who could use a hand. I can’t help all of them, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help some of them.

  Roy pulls up, and we slide into the car and out of the cold.

  “Head to the nearest movie theater,” I tell Roy.

  He takes us to one with neon signs and windows that stretch up to the second story to show the escalators taking people upstairs. When we get inside, I tell Quinn to choose a movie, and she picks a big-budget action film. We pick up some popcorn and soda and step onto the escalator.

  “I always wondered what it was like in here,” she says, looking around at the ornate ceiling and moldings in the renovated old building.

  “Beautiful reno work,” I say.

  She smiles at me. “I like that you love old buildings. Other people would tear them down, but you see their beauty.”

  “They don’t build ’em like they used to. I just bought a spectacular building in Manhattan that was a dance hall during the Prohibition era.”

  “What will you do with it?”

  I shrug. “Haven’t decided. I just couldn’t stand to see it made into a fast-food joint.”

  I like the look on Quinn’s face right now. If I’m not mistaken, it’s admiration. My money seems to mean very little to her. She’s all about what I do with it.

  The theater’s not that crowded, so our seats in the top row are secluded. The movie’s not bad, but what I enjoy the most is Quinn. Her small gasps during the exciting parts are cute as hell.

  Roy’s waiting when the movie lets out, and he meets my gaze in the rearview mirror after we get into the car.

  “Home?” I ask Quinn.

  She nods.

  “Home,” I say to Roy.

  Quinn takes my hand and squeezes it.

  “This was fun,” she says.

  “I thought so, too.”

  I slide my hand out from under hers and onto her thigh. The corners of her lips tilt up in a smile, but she doesn’t look at me. I move my hand higher, my fingertips grazing her inner thigh.

  Too bad she has jeans on. I’m dying to know what her skin feels like. Having her right next to me for all these hours has me wanting more. More than this, and more than I’ve had with her before.

  Roy pulls into the warehouse garage, and I lead Quinn to the elevator, pressing my thumb to the pad by the door. The door slides open, and as soon as we step on, I can tell by the look in her eyes that she wants more, too.

  I want to back her against the wall of the elevator and kiss her, but I don’t. Instead, I just let my gaze wander up and down her body, enjoying every inch of her. She slides out of her coat, her eyes on mine.

  She’s watching me watch her, and it’s so damn sexy. I’m rock hard. It’s taking all my self-control not to rip off her clothes and fuck her hard and fast.

  “Make me a drink?” she asks as we step off the elevator.

  She looks over her shoulder at me, and I tear my gaze away from her ass. “Of course. What would you like?”

  “Whatever you think I might like,” she says with a shrug. “I’ve never had alcohol before.”

  A pang of realization hits. Quinn isn’t an average twenty-one-year-old woman. Her life experience is far greater than most, but she missed out on the coming-of-age stuff.

  Part of me feels a stab of guilt for initiating her. But I’ll take good care of her. Better me than some horny teenage boy who wants to get her drunk and take advantage of her.

  I take out a small glass tumbler and mix up a screwdriver for her. I pass it to her, and she takes a sip as I take out a bottle of bourbon and a glass for myself.

  “Mmm, it’s good,” she says.

  When I look over, she’s got the glass tipped back. As she lowers it, I see it’s halfway gone already.

  “Whoa,” I say with a smile. “Slow down, champ.”

  “It tastes like juice.”

  “But it’s not just juice.”

  Her cheeks pink a little. I take off my coat, toss it over a chair at the breakfast bar, and take a sip of my bourbon.

  Quinn is standing in front of me, looking expectant and hesitant at the same time. I set my tumbler down and cover the few steps separating us.

  When I put my hands on her hips, her lips part slightly. I lean down and give her a soft kiss, sliding my hands around to her ass and cupping it like I’ve been wanting to all damn night.

  She moans and slides her palms up my chest to my neck, over my cheeks, and into my hair.

  My body is throbbing all over with the deepest desire I’ve ever felt. She’s been hurt and left to fend for herself in a cruel world. And not only did she do that, she took care of her sister. She’s been strong for so long, and now I want to be the strong one for her. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to be here with her right now, but I’m overwhelmed with gratitude.

  I pull away and look down at her. “Can we go into my bedroom?”

  She licks her lips and nods. I take her hand and lead her, practically breaking into a run. I can hear her laughing behind me as she jogs to keep up. When I turn around, wrap my hands around her waist, and toss her over my shoulder, she laughs even louder.

  “Andrew! What are you doing?”

  I run the last twenty feet down the
hallway to my bedroom and lightly toss her onto my king-size bed. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are sparkling. I kick off my shoes, and she does the same.

  I’m about to climb onto the bed when I notice her ear-to-ear smile shrinking. A crease forms between her brows.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  She’s staring at my crotch, where my erection is prominently outlined against my khakis.

  “Yeah,” I say with a grin. “You really bring him to life.”

  “Jesus. You’re going to kill me with that thing.”

  She looks genuinely horrified.

  “I promise I won’t. No sex tonight, anyway.”

  “No sex?” The crease gets deeper. “But I thought . . . ?”

  I lie down on the bed and grab her hips, pulling her light body onto mine. The feel of her against my cock makes me groan.

  “Stop thinking,” I say, pulling down on her hips as she straddles me. Her lips part again, and her eyelids close.

  “That feels good,” she murmurs.

  “Just feel. Tonight, just feel.”

  She lets her head fall back and grinds her hips against me. It’s hot as fuck seeing her on top of me like this. I slide my hand under her shirt, my fingertips grazing across her lean, smooth stomach. She sighs softly.

  Much as I want to let her do all the driving, I can’t help my controlling nature. I sit up and push her shirt all the way up and then off over her head. When I resume my grip on her hips, she moans loudly and grinds against me again.

  I kiss her breasts through the satin fabric of her bra, my tongue tracing the seams of the fabric and circling her nipples.

  The sounds of heavy breathing and moaning fill the room. I unclasp Quinn’s bra, slide it off, and toss it to the floor, taking one of her tight, pink nipples between my lips and sucking on it.

  “Oh, God,” she says with a moan. “Andrew . . .”

  She grabs my cheeks and kisses me with a fervor I’ve never seen in her. Her tongue seeks mine, and her hips continue the sweet, torturous grinding that keeps my cock and balls aching for more.

  I slide a hand down the back of her jeans and grip her ass. She moans into my mouth and then presses her palms to my shoulders and pushes me down to the bed.