Without comment, Quentin closed the door to the stairs and opened the door to the pantry. He’d feel better if he made some tarka dal. But the lentils had to simmer for a whole hour. Or jehangiri shorba.
That’s when he saw the note he’d taped inside the pantry door to remind Owen of the code so he could let the pizza guy in the security gate.
Sarah didn’t have eyes the back of her head. She just had eyes.
Well, Owen might not be able to remember the gate code, but he was good with gadgets. He probably knew how to change the gate code, so that Sarah couldn’t come over at will.
But Sarah had liked popping in. And Quentin liked that she had popped in. If she had to wait at the bottom of the driveway for someone to open the gate for her, maybe she wouldn’t come over as often.
He wouldn’t change a thing.
5
I wonder if they have e-mail in jail in Rio
Love
Nine Lives
Good question, Sarah thought as her muscles tensed and her body flushed with adrenaline, ready for fight or flight. Staring at the innocent-looking e-mail message on her laptop in her hotel room, heart racing, she thought back to Rio several weeks ago. Her impression of the jail was fuzzy. When she was there, she hadn’t slept in two days. But she didn’t think inmates would have access to e-mail. As a general rule, there was no e-mail access in a facility smelling that strongly of urine.
Nine Lives could have gotten his bodyguard or his driver or another member of his entourage to e-mail her. But that would mean they were all at leisure to worry about her rather than jail.
If he was still in, he wouldn’t be there long.
Now that the first rush of panic had lifted, she shivered. After she’d left Quentin’s mansion last night, a rainy front had moved through, ushering in a rare cool June day. Natsuko couldn’t show vulnerability by shivering, even in her thin, revealing blouses, so all morning Sarah had moved through the office punching buttons on the computer and the telephone with icy fingers.
She resisted the urge to soak in a warm bath to regain her circulation. She couldn’t receive this implied threat from Nine Lives lying down and babying herself. She had to take care of herself, and take action.
The action she was thinking of involved Quentin. But of course she did not want to see him, and she was not going to repeat last night’s dangerous walk on the wild side. She would use him and be through.
Half an hour later, as she stepped carefully into Quentin’s kitchen so her high heels wouldn’t clop on the marble, the bite of spice hung in the air. He was bent under the cabinets, putting away pans.
“Working hard on my album?” she asked sarcastically.
He started up against the counter, brushing against a colorful jar of some foreign ingredient. It fell and broke on the floor with a pop.
He turned. She could tell from his expression that he was prepared to make a sarcastic remark in reply. But when he saw her, his face changed to concern. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said casually. “What excuse were you about to make for not working on my album?”
“I am working on your album.” He grinned, scooping up the broken jar with a wad of paper towels and dumping it into the garbage.
“You say that every time I come over here. And every time I come over here, you’re getting drunk, or watching Masterpiece Theatre, or cleaning your kitchen. All of which makes you a fairly well-rounded person, but not a person especially inclined to finish an album in five days.”
He took a step toward her.
She took a step backward.
He looked disappointed. “Does it feel cold in here to you?” he asked. When she nodded, he moved to one side of the kitchen and adjusted the thermostat on the wall. “Somebody’s working on the album. When it comes to recording, I’ve got the easy part. Bass guitar and lead vocals are straightforward. It’s the other instruments and the background vocals that change how the song sounds, and that’s what has to get planned out.” He turned back to her. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
Not able to meet his green eyes, she looked past him into the kitchen. “What have you been cooking?”
“You mean food? Indian.”
“Indian! What kind?”
“Baingan bartha. Want some?”
Despite yesterday’s delicious breakfast and the current mouthwatering smell, Sarah was dubious of the hunky hick’s skills with Indian. Besides, she’d already eaten a granola bar for lunch. She asked, “Isn’t that a professional wrestler?”
“Big Baingan Bartha? Yeah, I think he had a meet with Mad ‘Red’ Mud in Tallahassee one time. Come with me.”
He pulled her by the hand to the sofa and vaulted over the back of it, onto the cushions. She’d noticed that there wasn’t much room to move at the open end of the sectional, nearest the TV. Quentin seemed content to vault over the back of the furniture. Bachelors. He’d be sorry when he wore out the springs underneath the leather. Or not. He was rich. And he was rarely here.
Too late it occurred to her that Quentin was playing an encore of last night’s performance. He pulled her tumbling across the back of the sofa and pinned her to the cushions. His hands were heavy on her wrists, his green eyes were hungry, and the red T-shirt he wore made him look handsomely evil. When his lips brushed hers, it took everything she had to turn her head and put the freeze on him.
It had been a good plan. It was still a good plan. It was working. Erin had been decidedly uneasy at breakfast yesterday, and had whispered angrily with the others when Quentin took Sarah upstairs last night.
Sarah might just pull this off. She might get Erin back with Quentin, keep the group together, get out of this mess with Nine Lives, keep her job, and live happily ever after.
Or as happily as possible with a broken heart, if she fell for Quentin in the meantime. She could put the freeze on him all she wanted, but Quentin melted her.
Since she wouldn’t give him her lips, he chose her neck instead, nipping deliciously. He growled in her ear, “If you were my girlfriend, I’d take you upstairs again.”
A wave of desire swept over her, so strong that it actually forced her up to meet him. That had been one excellent orgasm, and she needed another.
He was offering to give her another, as if it were nothing. Because it was nothing to him. She was nothing to him. She might let him kiss her and fondle her, but she would always remember what it meant: nothing.
Now a shiver coursed through her and she pushed him off. “I’m not your girlfriend.”