Hot Ticket (23 page)

“Get your sweet ass away from there.” He offered his hand, but Quinn’s eyes narrowed to sparks of fiery emerald, so he grabbed her by the waist, lifted her off her feet, and set her down in a safe spot between the car doors.

He brought her bags over as well. “Got any tassels in there?” he asked, catching a flying scrap of silk like a line drive to second. Then he pressed a button to shut the doors and cut the whirlwind trying to suck her wardrobe into oblivion.

Quinn snatched the silky scrap from his texture-testing fingers.

“Leave it to you to call your employees losers,” he said.

She shoved the scrap in her pocket. “They’re
not
my employees. They’re my friends.”

“You have friends?”

She placed a fast boot heel on her belching bag to nail a diaphanous strip of pink champagne and keep it from floating away.

Tiago grinned. “With all that leather you’re wearing, I keep looking for your whip.”

“You wouldn’t know haute couture if it bit you in the butt.”

“Stop it, you’re turning me on.”

“Bite me.”

“There you go again.”

Quinn tried to toss her hair over her shoulders, an assertive, attention-getter she’d used as a teen, except that her long nutmeg “wings” had been clipped, likely for the boardroom, and there was no length left. Short, stylish, and businesslike, her hair fell longest around her face, where it curled beneath her chin and met like the inside point of an inverted heart, framing her features into a sassy, sexy whole while showcasing the sweet, sublime line of her neck.

She firmed her spine and raised her chin.

Twice as hot as the designer-chic curves revealed by the calfskin outfit she’d been shoehorned into that morning, Quinn Murdock had never looked better, except for maybe the first time he saw her . . . in the sandbox.

They were five.

She gave him a black eye.

It was love at first smite.

Dodging a corporate takeover suddenly seemed like a walk in the park to Quinn. Because this, this was like being struck by lightning, twice, in the same day. A loser double-header: her thirtieth birthday and a certain long-haired Latino ballplayer from her past appearing at the same time.

Her heart beat so fast, she feared she wouldn’t survive the encounter, but maybe The Losers were right. Maybe this was a good idea, if only to rid her of an adolescent crush she refused to let go.

But damn, he looked good.

Handsome and charismatic, Tiago’s beard and shoulder-length hair, however outdated, only served to augment his allure, as did his piercing amber eyes, so compelling and penetrating that when he looked at her, she was always sure he could see clear through to her—Well, not her soul.

No wonder he collected women’s underwear. He could probably see the lace and silk beneath their clothes, not to mention what lay beneath that.

Tiago was, simply put, drop-dead gorgeous. No wonder he had been her first—as she had been his—a powerful bond, after all, and probably the reason he had lingered in her mind, and heart, so long.

He cleared his throat. “Let’s get you inside,” he said, catching Quinn’s distraction, she feared, as he indicated that she should precede him into the train.

The forties railroad car into which they stepped smelled of chocolate, radiated old-world charm, and held an invitation to leave stress behind. Art deco end tables topped by carnival glass bowls of Baby Ruth candy bars sat between chunky red easy chairs. Outside the wide picture windows, the sun was setting over an old Massachusetts mill town. A lot like Lowell, where they grew up, its granite and brick mill buildings had been transformed into trendy condos, shopping malls, and museums—improving, but not changing the face and character of New England.

While Tiago carried her broken bag under his arm, a funky runaway top tickled his chin. “Fascinating wardrobe,” he said, blowing on a froth of teal and turquoise feathers.

“It’s not mine,” Quinn said. “I never saw those clothes before.”

“Sure. Right. Okay.” The twinkle in his luminous eyes skewered her to the spot.

“I resent your cocky grin,” she said.

“You always did,” Tiago said, following her into another car. “I resent the bruises on my shins.”

“You always did.” Quinn’s laughter surprised them both.

“Wait!” Tiago said. “What was that sound? I barely remember it.”

“Up yours, Bra Boy.”

“Damn, that’s another point for the visiting team.” He smiled as if he were enjoying himself at her expense. “So you’re going commando this trip?” he said, proving her right. “What happened to your underwear?”

“I seem doomed to having friends who steal it.” Quinn found
it hard to believe this was the same guy she watched play baseball with tears in her eyes because she was so proud of him.

“Surely you’re not saying we were friends?” he said. “Or was that a Quinn dig at its finest?”

“If the panties fit . . .”

“They don’t,” he said. “Not enough room for Big Dick and the Jewels.”

“Dumbass.”

“Tightass.”

“Nice mouth,” she said.

“I remember a day you thought so.”

Quinn was spared a response when a woman in a tight red designer dress sashayed—yes, that’s exactly what she did, she sashayed—up to Tiago and frenched him . . . forever. “We’re not having any fun without you, Sugar Pie,” she drawled with a squeaky voice that lowered her IQ by twenty points.

Quinn wanted to puke, but that was nothing compared with her ghastly urge to bite the magnolia-white finger sliding down Tiago’s chest.

But before she could bare her teeth, the discourteous digit drifted up and into the air, and the hussy sashayed away.

“Later, Juguete,” Tiago said . . . playing the Latino boy toy to the hilt.

Quinn’s shock morphed to disgust. “You’re a regular piece of meat, you know that?”

“Want a bite?”

Quinn walked on. “You didn’t try to steal a thing from The Peach Pit. I’ll bet that lingerie collection of yours is as fake as you are.”

Tiago shook his head with regret. “Damn, but you’re right. She totally lowered my take for the day. Save my panty-stealing record, will you, and make a contribution?”

“I’d rather be strangled by a G-string. Besides, I’m wearing the only panties I have.”

“Take ’em off. I can wait. I’m flexible.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“That’s what all the girls say, and that’s how they like me. Want to see what I’m packing today?”

Quinn stopped and told herself she shouldn’t encourage him, but unfortunately, she was curious, so she looked, and the twinkle in Tiago’s eyes hit her like fireworks on the fourth, sparkling to life beneath the surface of her skin.
Déjà vu, all over again.

Before she could recover, he’d pulled a plum-satin postage stamp from one pocket and a lemon-lace cobweb from the other.

“Spare me,” Quinn said, denying jealousy, and rolling her eyes—at herself as well as at him.

“Bit late for that,” Tiago said. “Years late.”

“Ah, yes, I suppose this is as good a time as any to thank you for never telling the media the name of your first panty-theft victim,” Quinn said, “though as it turned out, that was just the beginning.”

She gave him points for the wince. “Okay,” he said following her into Damon’s Den. “So I stole your panties from your gym locker.”

“And started down the road to glory. But
that
was almost nice,” Quinn said, “or have you blocked the real embarrassment, because I wish
I
could. It was your announcement over the PA—the one telling the whole school that ‘The Mighty Quinn’ wore her Sunday panties on Thursday—that made me want to move to Alaska.”

“I was a prepubescent male, so sue me.”

“
You
were prepubescent in third grade,” she said.

“It was a kiss. I stole a kiss.”

“Daddy said you were showing signs of delinquency before you were twelve. He was sorry he failed you.”

“I’m not a delinquent. Daddy was wrong. Think about it. Which reminds me . . . I heard you made his team.”

Quinn twisted her grandmother’s ring around her finger. Given
the afternoon’s series of humiliations, as witnessed by the nemesis of her youth, she should at least
sound
successful, so she forced a smile. “As a matter of fact, you could say I’m the president . . . elect . . . of Murdock, Inc.”

Tiago hesitated just long enough to make Quinn wonder if he believed her.

She turned to hide the warmth climbing her neck.

“Well, hey,” he said as she started moving again, “Congratulations. We can still make the headlines:
Tiago Steals Pants Off Murdock Pres.
Whaddya think? You make sports equipment, and I’m a jock. It could work.”

Quinn tried to put some distance between them. “Grow up.”

“Let it go, then,” Tiago said. “We’re not in junior high anymore.”

She stopped and turned to face him. “And yet, you pilfer panties for publicity.”

In a parlor car with navy-striped swivel chairs, vintage pottery wall pockets of lilies, and a ceiling of gold fleur-de-lis over navy, Tiago accepted a Hot Ticket baseball cap from a waiting porter and placed it on Quinn’s head.

“Take Ms. Murdock’s bags to The Batter’s Box, Ray,” Tiago said. “I’ll take her to the suite myself after the party.”

“My friends said they got me the presidential suite,” Quinn said.

“The Batter’s Box is second only to my own suite, Home Base. I was going to upgrade you, because I was told earlier that the reservation was a no-show, but let’s see your ticket. The suite’s probably yours anyway.”

Quinn groaned, fell into a chair, and rubbed her temple. “Damn it, Derek’s still got my ticket. No wonder he put off giving it to me. The description would have given away the game.”

Tiago grinned as he slouched low in the chair opposite hers, raised his size twelves to the seat of her chair, and crossed his ankles beside her.

Quinn shifted to put space between them and raised her brows. “Getting a bit familiar are we?”

“Hey,” Tiago said. “We have history.”

Suddenly the rampant potential of being “with” him again brought a flutter, like the flapping of wings, to her belly, a condition Quinn dearly hoped was indigestion. “You’ve got balls,” she said. “I’ll give you that.”

“Yeah, but it was always a toss-up as to which of us has the biggest set. I hear yours are made of brass.”

Quinn barked a laugh. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

“You’re a challenge, Cupcake, that’s a fact, but you never fail to make me rise to the occasion.”

“A cupcake with brass balls, huh? I’m pretty sure we’re tied now, but it’s the top of the second, and I’m up next.”

Tiago sat forward. “Okay then, here comes the pitch.
You
don’t have a ticket, and
I
could throw you off the train.”

“Wow, a curve ball. Well, strike me out and send me to the bench, but no deal.”

“I think I lost the ball in the tall grass. Come again?”

“You’re trying to score some kind of deal, right? In exchange for the suite?”

Tiago grinned like jocks do the world over. “Guess you don’t read the papers. I don’t need deals. If I want
any
thing, I get it.” He crossed his ankles in the opposite direction, taking up a little more of her space, as if staking a claim. “No, Murdock, I’m indulging in the simple joy of baiting you. It’s always been my favorite sport. Well, my third favorite, with baseball coming in a firm second.”

“Thanks for sharing. But as charmed as I am, and as much as I admire your fine Italian loafers . . .” She gave her chair a swivel, and his feet hit the floor with a thud. “My space is
not
your space,” she said, coming full circle.

Tiago grinned. “I wondered how long that would take.”

“About as long as it’ll take you to throw me off the train. Do it,” she said. “Please. I’d be stupid not to get the flock out of here.”

“And spoil your trip? Nah, stick around, and we can relive the good old days. You know, ‘terror from the wrong side of the tracks taunts bossy debutante from the right side.’ ”

“I am not bossy, and keep your clown feet to yourself! The location of our respective childhood homes, in reference to the town’s railroad tracks, always bothered you, not me.”

“I believe you, but get your father’s take on that sometime.”

“Whatever that means.”

“Just remember this, Murdock:
On
the tracks, we’re in equal territory.”

“Not in your Hot Ticket Express, we’re not.”

Tiago stood. “I don’t care what anybody says. You’re smarter than you look.” He offered her a hand up.

Quinn ignored it. “High praise from a jock whose blood flows primarily south.”

“Part of my enormous . . . charm. Ready to meet the gang?”

“Ignoring the reference to your best friend, where is everyone? I hate to see these gorgeous cars going to waste.”

Like a child complimented by an absentee father, Tiago stopped, stunned silent, and Quinn refused to acknowledge her empathetic heart-clench. He hooked his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans, and she half expected him to say, “Shucks.” “I’ll give you a tour,” he said. “If you want, and if you promise to gag me when you hit detail overload. Tomorrow morning, I’ll pick you up at the door to your suite like a respectable date.”

“ ‘Tiago,’ ‘respectable,’ and ‘date,’ all in the same sentence,” Quinn said. “Why does that make me feel as if it’s the bottom of the ninth, two outs, two strikes, bases loaded?”

“Don’t worry. I won’t bite . . . unless you invite me to. C’mon, the welcome party starts in the game car and continues in the club cars. We’ve got to pass through the blitz to get to the suites. Fair warning, it’ll be loud, unruly, and you’ll get hit on, but people will know you’re with me, so you’ll be safe.”

“I’m with
you
? Well, lucky freaking me.”

At Tiago’s amused chuckle, Quinn changed strategy. “How’s your sister, Lizzie? I heard she was pretty sick for a while, and I always wondered how she made out.”

“She’s good,” he said. “Excellent. Thank you for asking. She’s a nurse, a damned fine one. She beat the odds, Lizzie did, and she’s paying it forward.”