Men Like This (10 page)

“Not everything you said adds up to Vickie’s claims.”

Quinn jackhammered into a sitting position. “What’re you talking about? What interview?” There were no interviews in any of the magazines Jack had brought home. Vickie had only a single photograph in the whole spread.

“I found it online. We’ve been on constant Google alert since you went viral. I don’t even remember the site now.”

Of course not. “Well, what did she say?”

“You’re a demon. What else? You stole her fiancée. They were engaged. There was a photo of the ring, which is totally stunning, by the way, and you’re the home wrecker of the year. Well done, little sister.”

“What? No. I’m a sweetheart.” She came to her feet. “The engagement isn’t news to me, but I had nothing to do with their breakup. Not in a hands-on way, at least. Vickie’s the one having an affair.” She shook her head sadly. “What a cheap trick.”

Emily gasped. “
Vickie
was cheating? Why didn’t you say? That changes everything.”

“It didn’t seem relevant.” Nor did it seem her business to discuss Jack’s personal issues. She’d been on the sharp end of bad rumors with Blake’s affair. When private matters became public, no matter how wide the circle, people spoke matter-of-factly, speculating and judging without a thought for the pain they might be causing.

“Vickie’s been seeing her ex-boyfriend ever since she and Jack started dating. Some Italian guy named Vino. She confessed after she saw the photograph of Jack with me and jumped to the conclusion we’re having an affair.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t do that after what Blake put me through. I’ll never be the other woman, Emily.” Did her sister even
know
her?

“Okay, so, he’s living there.” A slight pause. “But you’re not sleeping together.”

“I’ll admit it sounds a little doubtful when you say it like that, but no. We aren’t.” As a woman, she felt duty bound to explain. “Not for lack of wanting. The fire is there, but I’m terrified of the flame. It was one thing to give in to temptation when I could walk away the next day. But Jack will be here tomorrow. And then what? I fall in love and have my heart broken twice in as many years when he eventually goes back to the supermodel he wanted to marry? No, thanks.”

“Seems to me fate has tossed him right in your lap. I say go for it.”

Quinn blinked into the darkness. “Really? That’s your advice? Jack is dangerous. In fact, he’s the single most dangerous man on the planet. It would take next to nothing to fall for him. He reminds me of what Blake was like in the beginning, all laughter and charm. Those things go away. Or worse, they become weapons. A man can hide a lot behind a wall of dimples and honeyed words.”

“The beginning?” Emily scoffed. “You’re talking high school. Blake was a kid. He’s since grown into the man he was meant to become. Jack’s
grown
. He’s already the person he’s always going to be. What’re the chances he’ll suddenly morph into someone you don’t like?”

“I don’t care about the odds. I’m not the gambling type. Besides, you don’t even like him.”

“Hmph. I never said that. I didn’t approve of you living and sleeping with a stranger, but he’s not a stranger. He’s Jack, and you aren’t having sex with him.”

“Nor do I have any plans to despite my big sister’s bad advice.”

“But you like him.”

Quinn dropped back onto the bed in an exasperated huff. “Yes, I do, which is exactly the problem. Like becomes love, love becomes need, and it’s when you need somebody that they’ll step on your face.”

Emily tsked. “How do you win awards with analogies like that?”

“I’m not at my creative best at the moment. Now, are you satisfied? I’m not a home-wrecking demon harlot.”

Her sister issued a wistful sigh. “Actually, I’m a little disappointed.”

She threw her head back and laughed. For the first time in a long time, Emily sounded like a real big sister. Quinn promised to do a better job of keeping in touch and ended the call.

She stood from the bed and stopped short at Jack leaning against the doorframe. His form cast in shadow made his silhouette the only sign of his presence. He offered a meek explanation. “You left it open. Do you always phone people in the dark?”

She didn’t answer. She replayed the conversation with Emily in her head and wondered how much of her personal sentiments he now had knowledge of. She thanked God for the darkness hiding her blazing cheeks.

A long moment passed. “All right, well, I have a present for you. Tomorrow is spoken for. I’ve been quite the distraction, but I promise, after tomorrow, I’ll do better. I realize you’ve got deadlines and such.”

She honed in on the most important thing. “A present? What kind of present?”

“The kind you’ll like. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be much of a gift, would it?”

“You’re not going to tell me?”

He shifted to cross his arms. His tone went from playful to affronted. “I most certainly am not.”

“You’re no fun.”

“No fun?” he repeated, incredulous. He reached over and flicked on the light. “I’m loads of fun. You’ll see.”

She hoped her face had returned to its normal color. “I suppose we will.”

“So we shall.”

A gurgle of laughter escaped her as he disappeared from the doorway. She relaxed. Maybe he hadn’t heard anything.

He popped back in. “And, Quinnie?”

“Hmm?”

“That’s not always the case.”

She sucked in a great gulp of air, prepared for the worst, and made the expected inquiry. “What isn’t?”

“I didn’t catch the whole of it, but I picked up the gist, and you’re wrong. Those we allow ourselves to need won’t always step on our faces.” His concerned mask transformed into one of know-it-all disdain. “We’re simply too tall. Our toes, perhaps, but not our faces.”

“W
akey, wakey.”

Quinn peeled open one eye. Nope, not worth it. She pulled the quilt over her head and rolled away from Jack’s taunting song. “Hmph.”

“English fails you this morning, but you don’t need it just yet. C’mon, up and at ’em, Quinnie.”

“Go away.” She managed coherency only for him to ignore her anyway.

“Not a chance.” He sat, undeterred, next to her on the bed. “I’ve made breakfast. With your American sensibilities in mind, I avoided the traditional English staples like fried tomatoes and beans. I even scrambled the eggs instead of frying them. There’s coffee.” He added this after a slight pause, probably since the mention of breakfast hadn’t brought around the desired results.

Good call. She poked her head out from beneath the cover. “Coffee?”

“Coffee.” He closed his eyes and said the word like a solemn promise.

“Fine.” Her gruff response hid her pleasure. She could get used to a man who understood the gravity of coffee. That was exactly the problem. “Out. I need to get dressed.”

He didn’t budge. “How can I trust you not to go back to sleep?” He crossed his arms as if to solidify the challenge.

Quinn narrowed her eyes. Challenge accepted. She tossed the quilt aside in one quick, deliberate motion and scooted past him to throw her feet onto the cold wooden planks of the floor. She stood up and allowed Jack to take her in; thin white wrinkly top, tiny shorts riding high on her thighs, and the spectacular mess of tangles falling around her shoulders.

His ever-present grin grew wider still. His gaze finally found its way to hers. “It’s going to be a good day.”

She extended her index finger toward the door. “Out.” Please God, before she did something stupid like accidentally fall out of her pajamas.

With him gone, she traded her skimpy outfit for fuzzy pajama bottoms and a large T-shirt. Usually she slept in less, but she didn’t trust herself to remain naked for any length of time with Jack in the house. Best to stay moderately decent at all times.

She shuffled into the kitchen. “Mmm.” She moaned at the unmistakable scent of her most beloved breakfast essential. “Bacon. You could’ve gotten me out of bed with bacon.”

“Does it work both ways?”

She stared at him. “Did you just ask if bacon would get me into bed?”

He grinned and shrugged. “It’s American bacon, after all. Not really bacon, but I’m not going to argue breakfast with an American. You’ll never win, and I’d hate to dampen your spirits so early in the day.”

She shrugged back. “Anything’s possible.”

Jack laughed and pulled out a chair for her. “Bacon trumps coffee. Duly noted. Oh, speaking of, I’d have fixed your cup, but I’ve yet to master the exact science of it. What’s it, eight creams and seventeen sugars? Fifteen creams and nine sugars?”

“Close enough.” She made a beeline for the platter of bacon resting near the coffeepot. She plucked the crispiest piece from the plate and glanced down to catch Biscuit’s imploring gaze traveling from her to the bacon and back. He licked his chops.

How could something so ugly be so utterly adorable? She slipped the pathetic creature a slice and snagged another for herself. Jack caught her, of course, being the anti-archetypal male who paid attention, and they spent breakfast arguing over the wisdom of giving people food to pets.

“Surely Biscuit’s ancestors ate pork.” She rinsed the last dish, dried her hands on a checkered dishcloth, and gave the room a sweeping glance. “So, where’s my present?”

Jack stopped his lengthy narrative on nitrates and preservatives and laughed through his nose in a kind of amused snort. He pulled her into a quick embrace. “You’re impossible. It’s not one you unwrap. Get dressed; we’re going out.”

Quinn disappeared into her room, buzzing from the feel of his arms around her. It had reminded her of something, that little hug. She deflated once it came to mind, and her buzzing high faded into a sense of defeat with a pinch of sadness. She did the same thing to Seth when he said something funny or clever. She should be grateful he hadn’t ruffled her hair.

She couldn’t imagine Jack’s embraces with Vickie as the bubbly, smiley kind. No doubt they were probably very steamy and sensual. Quinn didn’t really do steamy. The word itself mostly brought to mind pot stickers and saunas.

She agonized over what to wear. She needed something to repair the damaged self-esteem that came with realizing she’d never be steamy. Twenty minutes later, she emerged wearing jeans, high black boots, and a fitted, long-sleeved, cotton scoop-necked top. Nothing particularly sexy, but faking seductiveness had to be worse than simply lacking the quality in the first place. She and Jack said good-bye to Biscuit as they stepped outside and directly into the beginning of a downpour.

Jack dashed back inside for the umbrellas she kept in a large vase near the door. They’d been novelty purchases when she’d first moved in, more of a design element than anything. She’d been shocked at how often she had to use them. Reading about the annual rainfall a place receives doesn’t necessarily prepare one for living with it.

She peered out miserably from beneath the little yellow umbrella he’d opened and passed to her. “Okay, let’s get this over with. Where are we going?”

He admonished her and waved for a cab. “Pretend this is one of your stories, yeah? Slow down and feel the scene.”

“It’s raining. I don’t write in the rain.” The umbrella did an awful job of protecting her. She shivered and wished for a thicker top.

She cast a wistful glance at Jack’s leather jacket and found herself struck by his incredible profile, not for the first time. If she stared long enough, she’d be warmed straight through and never mind an umbrella, she’d need the rain to cool her off.

He laughed, oblivious to her uncomfortable awareness of him. “You’re in London, of course it’s bloody raining. You won’t melt, will you?”

She wanted to elbow him but leaving her shelter didn’t seem worth it. “I’m from California, remember? The most southern, desert-y end of it.”

“I vow to conveniently forget that unfortunate fact for today. Ask nothing so gracious of me tomorrow.”

A cab finally approached through the drizzle and Jack held the door for her. She happily folded herself into the warm, dry cabin.

He climbed in next to her and shut the door against the rain. “How many of the boroughs have you visited?”

Quinn held her chin high. “All thirty-two. Except Chinatown. Nicholas said I wasn’t missing anything, and I don’t do much exploring without him.”

Jack grunted. “You do now. Does most of your research involve London?”

“A great deal of it, yes. A small portion of the plot plays out in Ireland, and I spent a few weeks there with Nicholas. Everything else happens here.”

“Okay, then. First stop, Chinatown.” He addressed their driver who nodded and merged into traffic. Jack sat back and threw an arm over the seat behind Quinn.

She braced for contact in case it found its way around her shoulders. They were supposed to be a couple, weren’t they? It would be a perfectly natural thing for him to do in his role.

“Why doesn’t Old Nick like Chinatown?” Jack mused. “Everyone loves Chinatown. I find myself intrigued by the mysterious Nicholas.”

Her mouth opened in surprise, and she snorted. “Mysterious Nicholas? Are you joking? He’s the least mysterious man I’ve ever known.”

“The man is an enigma.”

This time she outright snickered despite being thoroughly puzzled. “How do you figure?”

Not one aspect of Nicholas had ever crossed her as mysterious. He hardly registered as interesting in her book. Lovely and one of the kindest people she’d ever met, but not particularly enthralling.

“For one, he landed you. Beyond his boring, dad-like exterior, there lurks a man intriguing enough to lure you in and keep you. How does one like him develop a relationship with one like you?”

She cut her eyes to him. She was annoyed but slightly fascinated by his deductions, utter nonsense though they were. “You’re making a lake out of a puddle. First, I find Nicholas attractive. He’s a gentleman, and he’s kind. I’m not even going to address your ‘dad-like’ comment because I’m pretty sure you’re referring to his sweater vests, which I happen to find charming and well suited to his personality.” She demurely studied her fingernails. “As for luring me, he did no such thing. I asked him out. You realize he sells writing materials, right? Our professions alone offer a common thread. I hope that helps absolve you somewhat of your Nicholas obsession.”

“Fair enough, fair enough. I only meant he wasn’t the type I’d imagined to have won your affections.”

“Well, that’ll teach you to have predetermined ideas about people, won’t it?”

He scratched his chin. “No, probably not. Want my theory?” He swiveled to look her dead on. “I bet Blake is one sexy bloke. And a bastard. Nicholas, he’s no Orlando Bloom, yeah? Maybe it follows he isn’t a bastard. On a subconscious level, you’ve come to believe pretty boys like Blake and Richard speak for us all.”

She rolled her eyes to break the intense contact. “What a ridiculous hypothesis. I’ve already told you Nicholas is attractive to me, thus debunking your little theory.”

“Maybe, but c’mon. People tend to couple with a mate on their same level of hotness, if you will. You’re a ten. He’s a five on a good day. The sweater vest has the potential to bring him down to a four.”

“I’d give him a seven.”

Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure, and he’d give you a twelve.”

She looked back at him. “What are you?”

He grinned, and she would’ve given him a fifty on the spot had he asked. “Better question, what’s Blake? Go on, prove my theory wrong. Tell me he’s a two.”

She turned to stare out the window at the dreary, dripping city and summoned an image of her ex-husband’s face. Sandy-blond hair perfectly styled, those gorgeous hazel eyes and square, manly jaw. She sighed wearily. “Blake is a twenty.”

She didn’t like the idea of Jack’s silly theory one bit. It made her relationship with Nicholas seem weirdly calculated. She’d asked a friendly shopkeeper to show her around the neighborhood sometime, and it had turned into more. She hadn’t deliberately pursued him because he wasn’t as handsome as her ex-husband. The more she mulled it over, the more it rankled.

A smile began to spread across Jack’s lips. Suddenly, it stopped and a concerned frown took over. “Wait, a twenty? I’m a twenty, too, right? Lie if you must, Quinnie, but don’t tell me he’s prettier than me.”

She refused to put his mind at ease or feed his ego. In fact, a total change of subject promised the best results. “If you’re surprised I haven’t been to Chinatown, what will you say when I tell you I haven’t made it to the Natural History Museum, either?”

Jack closed his eyes and slowly shook his head, a man in obvious suffering from the ignorance of another. “Woe is you, my friend, woe is you. You’ve been keeping the wrong company, love.” He swung his gaze to her abruptly, the poetic image gone. “I should’ve rescued you sooner.”

“Or the British Library.” She was unable to keep a note of longing from her voice.

A doubtful frown curled his lips. “Library?”

She patted his shoulder. “You have a lot to learn about hanging out with a writer.” She cast her eyes to the passing scenery and back to him. “This is my surprise?”

An uncertain expression danced across his face and disappeared before he answered. “Yep. There’s a plan and everything. I have an intimate relationship with this city, like the streets themselves are etched onto my heart.” He held up a finger. “Excuse me.”

He bent forward and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder to issue new directions. “The museum first. Apologies. When I said I had a ‘plan,’ what I really meant was ‘rough idea.’”

She laughed and shoved him playfully. “You’re something else, Jack Decker.” She swore he blushed on the other side of his three-day stubble.

He leaned in and swept a light kiss on the corner of her mouth.

Her breath caught. She’d grown accustomed to his friendly pecks on the cheek. They were nothing more than the trendy custom of hello and good-bye the chic and fabulous adopted to set themselves apart as chic and fabulous. But this was a
kiss
. Soft, sweet, and deliberate. A true kiss.

She did her best to ignore her spiraling emotions and turned to the window as if some riveting scene had captured her attention. She hated the word bouncing around in her head, hated what it meant, and the sense of loss it inspired.

Jack was on the rebound. Kissing another woman mere days after his broken engagement didn’t speak of heartfelt attachment; it spoke of trying to blunt the hurt by any means necessary. He hid his pain well, but Quinn knew better. She’d been there.

Denial served a purpose in coming to terms with heartbreak, but Jack’s wouldn’t come at her expense.

Her enthusiasm dropped several degrees. She and Jack weren’t well suited in the greater scheme of things. She’d accepted it the first time they met. Besides the obvious roadblocks
—
he got dumped by his cheating fiancée less than a week ago
—
there were the practical aspects. He was a globe-trotting, model-dating, charm-ridden actor accustomed to a flamboyant and glamorous lifestyle.

Money, nice as it was to have around, didn’t equate to glamour in her world. He’d be bored to tears after a month in her life. He’d never be the hang-out-at-home-with-the-kids kind of father figure Seth needed.

Also, despite her current poor prospects, she fancied the idea of having another child someday. Jack might enjoy the novelty, but she wouldn’t want to test his follow-through.

 

The Natural History Museum, London’s crown jewel. A fairly lofty statement considering it completely discounted Big Ben, the Tower of London, London Bridge, and the actual crown jewels, but Quinn decided being a foreigner gave her the power of ignorance to use as she pleased.