PDAs weren’t typical behavior for the two of them. Wendy had an outrageous mouth but otherwise was the picture of propriety at work. Daniel was reserved, even haughty, except when Wendy made him laugh. At office parties the two of them looked more like the handsome, fashionably dressed famous couples they represented than PR reps, and they held hands and grinned at each other in a way that made women less lucky in love, like Sarah, wistful with envy. Even Sarah hadn’t seen them kissing like this, though. She should have turned away. She didn’t.
Finally Daniel kissed Wendy once more, chastely, on the lips, and gave Sarah a knowing glance. Then he sighed, set his forehead against Wendy’s, and told her, “I’m going to take a nap.”
“Did Quentin kick you out of the kitchen?” she asked.
“He suggested I leave the cooking to him. I tried to cut something with a spoon.” He kissed her again and stroked Asher’s hair.
Then he moved down the sofa to face Sarah. “How long are you in Alabama?”
“Just a few more days,” she said brightly in case Quentin could hear her, “assuming the Cheatin’ Hearts’ Fourth of July concert goes smoothly.” She held up one hand and crossed her fingers, knowing as she did so that she was wishing away more time with Quentin—the thing she wanted most.
Watching the doorway, Daniel whispered, “He’s not really crazy. Or stupid.”
“I know,” Sarah said.
“And he’s very into you.” He eyed Sarah, waiting for her acknowledgment, until she nodded. He asked, “Is that okay with you?”
She didn’t want to admit it. Not to him, with Wendy watching. Because that made it so. But she swallowed and heard herself saying, “Yeah.”
Sarah and Daniel got along great—ever since the night two years ago when he saved Wendy’s life. But he wasn’t warm to anyone but Wendy, and that’s why what he did next seemed so strange. He put his hand on Sarah’s and said softly, “Call me if you need me.”
“Okay,” she said, watching him disappear down the hall. But she wouldn’t call him. Not to help her with Quentin, not to get her out of the mess with Nine Lives. PR reps couldn’t be associated with unsavory activity, because the press might latch onto a negative rumor and link it to the rep’s client. She wouldn’t jeopardize his career with the senator that way, and risk the stability of his little family, any more than she would tell Wendy the whole story of Nine Lives and ask her to cover for what Sarah had done.
She wished, once again, that her fellow Stargazer rep Tom was not in Moscow.
But Wendy had no idea how lost Sarah felt. She seemed awed only at Daniel’s intensity as she said, “I’m telling you, you’d better take advantage of this Quentin thing.” She handed Asher to Sarah and buttoned her shirt. She stretched out on the sofa, put her head on Sarah’s thigh, and was snoring softly in thirty seconds.
Sarah rubbed Asher’s back until she heard a belch, like she had seen people do on TV, then cradled him in one arm. He really was a beautiful baby. Not the least bit red or misshapen, like lots of the babies who had been brought to the office for show-and-tell. And he had the tiniest fingernails. She examined him for several minutes, coveting, contemplating how cool it would be to have one of these someday. Then she used the remote to turn on the TV to her mother playing poker.
After a while, Quentin brought in a bowl of salsa with tortilla chips and set it on the coffee table where Sarah could reach it and not disturb Wendy. He took Asher from Sarah expertly without waking him and sat in the chair beside her.
Suddenly starving, she crunched into a chip, then clapped one hand over her mouth in surprise. “The chip’s hot,” she whispered.
“Sorry,” he said, concerned. “I should have warned you.”
“No, not too hot. I’m not burned, just surprised. Did you cook these?”
“Yes! I told you I was making snacks.”
“You made the salsa, too,” she said, tasting it. “I expected something like homemade salsa, but not fried-before-your-eyes tortilla chips.” She tried another. “God, you’re good.”
“They had a brand of tortillas in the fridge that I trust not to kill me,” he explained. “When I start making my own tortillas, you can call an intervention.” He reached over without moving Asher and tried a chip himself. “Yeah, I did good this time. But don’t spoil your big dinner, now.”
Sarah wondered if he meant sex. Big dinner equaled a big steaming pot of sex. No, of course that was ridiculous. She’d been around Wendy too long. Quentin wasn’t subtle. If he wanted sex, he would say sex, not dinner.
She felt herself slipping into one of her vicious Quentin circles again. He said dinner, not sex. But he’d had his hand on her hand in the car. But he hadn’t made a move on her on the airplane. But he’d flown up here with her. But she didn’t want to have sex with him anyway. But she did.
It didn’t matter. After all, even if there was sex with Quentin in her future, it was just sex, not love. Other tough broads probably took a dip with a heartthrob every ten days or so. It was casual.
Flanked by Quentin and Wendy, her two dearest friends, Sarah was able to relax a little, enjoy the baby and the lazy afternoon, and watch her mother on TV win three hundred thousand dollars.
Quentin stared at the pack of condoms on the shelf. He was not going to have sex with Sarah. He hadn’t come to New York to break Rule Three. He’d come to protect her from Nine Lives and to visit the foundation. Now he would collect ingredients from this market, walk the block to her apartment, and cook her the best Indian she’d ever had. And get some shut-eye.
But what if an asteroid hit the earth? Surely that would override Rule Three. If he and Sarah were the last two people on the planet, he would have sex with her. And it would be better that she didn’t get pregnant until they were settled.
It was only a question of how many condoms he needed. Here was a pack of thirty-six. How many times a day would they do it? Maybe three times on average, between the hunting and gathering? So, this pack would last twelve days, and by then they would have found a reliable food source.
He laughed. Then he realized that the other customers were staring at him. If they’d known he was from Alabama, they would have assumed he was an idiot. If they’d known he was a recording artist, they would have assumed he was on coke. They knew neither, so he tossed the box in his basket and moved on.