Men Like This (2 page)

Quinn rested one elbow on the bar and said what she always said. “You’re taking it too personally, Ang. You’ve got to quit falling in love with my subjects.”

“What in the hell is a barista doing with a chainsaw in the first place, huh? Does she moonlight as a lumberjack?”

Quinn wanted to roll her eyes at Angie’s protest but couldn’t. She was too pleased with herself. Her life’s work revolved around inspiring heartfelt emotion in others. More’s the better if the emotions were dark ones like grief and loss.

They were sort of her calling card. “Look, if I wrote Richard into a story to give him a grisly death, I’m afraid he’d notice. He
is
my agent. And you’d understand why the barista had a chainsaw if you’d bother to finish the book.”

“I can’t, Quinn, I just can’t.” Her best friend sniffed. “You kill everyone I love.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll write you a happy ending one day. Promise.”

Angie went from sniveling to haughty in the space of a single sentence. “The only happy endings these days are in massage parlors.”

Quinn was still laughing when she ended the call and returned the slim black cell phone to the hidden confines of her ball gown.

Her silk strapless Carolina Herrera ball gown.

Every bit of good humor conjured disappeared. Quinn remembered where she sat and how she got there.

Richard, Richard, Richard. He’d really screwed up tonight. Angie’s solution, while amusing, wasn’t pragmatic and wouldn’t solve anything. Quinn nervously rolled the beer bottle between her hands.

The idea of confronting Richard in his office made her queasy. He’d downplay the entire scene and make her out to be a dramatic prude. The smoothness she counted on for publishing negotiations would come back to bite her when she found herself looking down the barrel of it rather than grinning smugly from behind it, but what were her choices?

She had to make a stand. She needed to put him in his place, be the iron fist of the feminine movement.

Then again, there wasn’t much determined avoidance couldn’t patch up. Key West was fabulous this time of year. Cabanas, boat drinks, palm trees, and pool boys.

When had she last gone on vacation? Disneyland three years ago. With Blake. Quinn didn’t want to think about that. She wanted to daydream about pool boys. For research, of course. She was far too old for a pool boy.

She’d need a pool
man
.

“You don’t match.”

For an instant, the deep voice coming from behind stunned her. Since she sat virtually alone on her side of the L-shaped bar, she had no choice but to accept the man
—
a pool man if her luck had improved any
—
intended the words for her. Some drunken fool trying to succeed where Richard failed. What had she been thinking staying here? She should’ve picked up a bottle of tequila and moved this pity party to the privacy of her hotel room.

He had an accent, although she couldn’t place the dialect. Definitely European. Rather than turn around right away to face her new visitor, she took a long, hard look at the beer bottle in her hand. Too soon to order her third? She wanted fuzzy, not pickled.

She’d put it off long enough. Quinn swung around on the tail end of an eye roll to greet Bachelor Number Two. The smart reply she had ready died on her lips.

A
n overly polite, “I’m sorry?” squeaked out from Quinn’s mouth before she could stop it.

She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. Short, fat, and balding? Someone more low-grade Hollywood with thick gold rings and a bad comb-over leering at her through a pair of oversized shades?

None of those described this man. He stood tall, even by her standards. At least a few inches over six feet. His dark brown hair flirted with the collar of his T-shirt. His five-o’clock shadow had gone rogue. It looked more like a three-day affair. Lean, narrow hips led to broad shoulders and toned arms; muscular but not steroidal.

Best and most intriguing were those eyes. They gleamed green like the Caribbean and directed oodles of amusement and mutual attraction right at her.

Quinn hated men like this.

Men like this were one-night stands and Vegas weddings complete with next-day annulments. She studied him. He studied her right back.

Did he like what he saw?

Did she care?

He was a perfect stranger. Handsome but probably not so smart. That’s usually how it worked out. Richard had proven the theory for her less than an hour ago.

The mysterious man grinned at her. “I said you don’t match.”

Peachy. Here stood the most dangerous kind of man. Hot
and
charming. Blake had been charming once.

Quinn narrowed her eyes and set her beer bottle down deliberately. “Care to elaborate?”

“May I?” The man indicated the seat next to hers but didn’t wait for permission to sit. “Seems to me your drink doesn’t match the dress you’re wearing.” His tone told her he believed this an obvious observation. “You ought to have a glass of bubbly or expensive Bordeaux with a dress like yours.”

He was flirting with her, and she was sadly out of practice. No clever comebacks leapt to mind.

She used words for a living. She did seminars, held Q and A’s, talked to fans, wrote complex dialogue. Yet she was stumped by an attractive stranger in a bar. “I’ve moved past champagne.” The lame response came nowhere near flirtatious. She kept talking in the hopes he wouldn’t notice her social handicap. “Are you Scottish?”

“Irish, actually, but I grew up in London. My accent often throws people off the trail. It’s something of a hybrid.” He rested his elbows easily on the bar.

He was getting too cozy. Time to scare him off. “You’re gay, right?”

His grin exploded, and his eyes twinkled. “Now, why would you go and ask such a question?”

His reaction threw her off guard. She hadn’t expected the question to amuse him. She shrugged and blithely sipped her beer. “Your fashion insight. Not only into my ensemble. Your jeans scream designer, and even your plain white T-shirt didn’t come from any two-for-a-dollar bargain bin. Statistically speaking, the odds are high.”

The Irishman’s half-cocked grin of amusement gave way to full-blown laughter. He had a deep, genuine laugh. A killer smile, too. Great lips. Nice teeth. Quinn’s reserve melted a tad.

His gaze swept her face as if seeing her for the first time. “Your powers of deduction are impressive, I’ll give you that. I’ll even go so far as to applaud your delivery because who doesn’t love a one-two punch of logic? However, your conclusion is flawed. You see, I’m quite obviously attracted to you. Your being a woman makes me
not
gay by its very definition.”

An unusual rush of pleasure heated her cheeks and gave her new appreciation for the dim lighting. She was used to the standardly good-looking man. Richard emulated a real-life Ken doll. Blake was a chisel-chinned blond.

This Irish stranger had something altogether different; an edge, a raw sexiness she’d never encountered before. How was he possibly attracted to
her—
bookish, mundanely good-looking Quinn Buzzly? Men like this wanted miniskirts and ankle tattoos, not classic features and high fashion. She frowned. Maybe he was gay and hadn’t come to terms with it yet.

Hot, charming, and smart. Damn. This wasn’t going as planned. “Touché.” She fought back a grin.

“Really?” He laughed again, this time with lifted brows in an expression of mild surprise. “You wave the white flag so easily? I expected more of a fight from a woman like you.”

“A woman like me?” She quirked a brow. Her new friend assumed much. “You don’t know me.”

He eyed her with open admiration. “You branded me gay by giving my denims a once-over. You’re clearly not a lady to be trifled with. D’you mind if I have a go?”

Quinn pretended to consider before nodding her acquiescence. What might he garner from her appearance alone?

He sat forward and rubbed his hands together. His eyes gleamed with anticipation and amusement. It made her dizzy to have a man look at her like that. “I gather you’re loaded by the ridiculous cluster of diamonds you’ve got pinned to your dress. Honestly, I’m questioning your personal judgment sitting in a place like this.”

She coughed politely. “It’s a brooch and it’s borrowed.”

“Ah, my faith in you is restored! Only the crazies actually buy those gaudy trinkets. The dress, however, is a worthy investment.” As if to drive his point home, the Irishman swept his gaze from her bare shoulders down to where the hem of her gown brushed the dark tiled floor.

A thrill shot through her alongside a wave of anxiety. This man oozed trouble. “How do you know the dress wasn’t borrowed too?”

“Because it conforms perfectly to every curve of your body.” His grin was too friendly to seem salacious despite his words. It was merely a wonderful compliment coming from him. “It’s obviously been tailored to fit.”

Quinn was torn. This stranger affected her big time. Was he real? He seemed so genuine and endearing. She’d believed the same of Blake at one time. Warning bells clanged in her head, but she was already falling for the Irishman’s easy conversation and playful demeanor. He flirted without applying pressure, and every smile reached his eyes.

She had to quit overanalyzing. She wanted to exist in the moment. She wanted to stop thinking so hard and engage with a handsome stranger. Why not? “You’re sure the diamonds are real?”

Nothing like an innocuous, inane question to be engaging. She vowed to take social lessons after tonight.

He drummed his knuckles over his knees. “My jeans are designer, remember? I recognize the good stuff when it’s right in front of me.” His extraordinary eyes glittered in the orangey cast of the overhead lights. “Now, are you determined to be rude to any man who shows interest, or am I particularly bothersome?”

His question prodded her into replying without thinking. “It’s a defensive maneuver. I’m not sure about you yet.”

The answer seemed to please him because his smile returned. He appeared content with the silence hanging between them. Quinn tried to take another drink from her beer and realized she’d polished it off during the course of their conversation.

The Irishman finally tore his bluish-green gaze from hers and motioned for the bartender. When Busty reached them, he ordered a whiskey for himself and a third beer for her.

She didn’t protest.

 

“All right, let’s have it.” Their next round of drinks was delivered, and Jack readied himself to learn a little more about the blonde conundrum sitting next to him.

She sipped delicately from the beer bottle, having refused a glass, and blinked. “Have what?”

Jack tipped his drink back. He was being forward, but she hadn’t told him to get lost. Even if she did, he intended to do no such thing. After being abandoned by his friend over an hour ago in favor of a petite brunette with an impressive pout, Jack resolved to get something good out of tonight. An interesting conversation with the peculiar woman sitting beside him seemed a promising step in the right direction.

“I watched you have it out with your boyfriend along with everyone else here. I’m as curious as the next guy. Tell me about it.”

She took her time considering her answer. Jack appreciated her poise. She wasn’t flirty—he’d guessed as much before approaching her—but emanated more sensuality than she probably realized. She was all long, graceful lines and steady gazes.

Her chin came up right when it looked like she might give in. “Why would I tell you something personal like that? I don’t know you from Busty the Barkeep over there.”

Had he stopped smiling since she opened her mouth? He laughed quietly. The blonde had time in her musings to nickname the bartender.

What might his nickname be? Creep? Bothersome Foreigner?

Better he didn’t ask. “By personal you mean the public row you had?” He knew he had her there. He stuck out his free hand. “Jack Decker. You can call me Jack.” He displayed his best high-wattage, toothpaste-ad smile. “Now you know me from Busty.”

Finally! A smile broke through her painted lips to reveal the slightest dimple on her left cheek. With the faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose, she was cute as a damn button, yet possessed with the presence to fill a designer ball gown like she never wore anything else. She went from peculiar to downright intriguing.

Doubtful green eyes like polished jade looked over his face. “Jack doesn’t sound very Irish.”

He couldn’t believe it. She was teasing him. She had a sense of humor so dry he’d almost missed it. “Don’t tell me mum. She’ll be crushed.”

Her hand gripped his. “Quinn Buzzly.”

“Quinn, eh? You sound more Irish than I do.”

“My mother was French.”

“Lovely to meet you, Ms. Buzzly. Now, will you tell me about your boyfriend?”

Quinn
—
he couldn’t have imagined a better name for her
—
rolled her eyes with a dramatic flair. “Fine, but only so you’ll stop calling him my boyfriend.” She narrowed her eyes and pointed a long finger in his direction. “You’d make an interesting character. A charming, charismatic, persistent English Irishman.”

He wasn’t given time to ask what she meant.

“Richard is my agent. He brought me here with visions of champagne flutes and cozy corner booths dancing in his head.” Her expression fell into one of somber recollection. She stared at her thumbnail. “I reacted poorly.”

Jack brought her attention back to him with a flick of his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You reacted rather well, I say. I can name a woman or two who’d have his tumblers in a jar.”

He didn’t get the laughter he’d expected.

She didn’t appear convinced. “Maybe.”

A fabulous display. Better than anything he’d seen on the telly in months. Such elegance and fire. Richard had gotten off easy. He deserved a black eye or bruised shin, if not both. “Richard’s gone. You’re still hanging around. I expected you to storm out of here like a . . . Well, like a storm. No booze at home?”

“I’m living at a hotel, and you’re right
—
no minibar.”

He wanted to know what ailed her but, even more, he wanted her to smile again. “That, my friend, is a new low. Only a man with no honor seduces a homeless woman.”

Her laughter burst through the gathering tension. Quinn scanned his face again. Her bright green eyes searched for something he wasn’t sure he had, but hoped like hell he could produce.

He drummed his fingers on the bar. “I have two questions for you now. Obviously, I can’t fathom where a homeless person finds such a fine tailor. I’d also like to ask your occupation since it necessitates an agent. I should point out he’s not a very good agent if you’re truly homeless. Then again, maybe you had loads of money and spent it on a dress, in which case you may want to consider hiring an accountant. Are you an actress?”

Quinn’s smile stayed put. “Not an actress. Richard is a literary agent. One of the best, I might add, despite his flagrant behavior.”

Jack cocked his head in surprise. “You’re a writer?” He’d imagined several occupations for Quinn—model, actress, corporate lawyer—but writer hadn’t made the list. He recalled her comment about the sort of character he’d make. A fiction writer, no less. “Anything I may have read?”

Her face lit up like Christmas. “Only if you’re a Clementine Hazel fan.” She managed the announcement with an impressive mix of shyness and pride.

It didn’t stop Jack from choking on the healthy slug of whiskey he’d just tossed back. He set his glass down with a
thud
and gaped at Quinn.

No. Bloody. Way. “
You’re
Clementine Hazel?” He shook his head decisively. “Nah. For starters, you’re too young. She’s been around for ages.”

She lifted one imperious brow in challenge to his doubt.

Jack laughed. “Bloody hell! You’re serious? I’m sorry, it’s . . . Well, we’re in Hollywood, love. You . . . I assumed you were a writer in the same sense my grocery bagger yesterday was an artist.”

She traded her raised brow for a genuine smile. “I’m definitely old enough. Ten years is not
ages
.”

He shook his head again and used this perfectly legitimate excuse to ogle her without seeming a cad. “Unbelievable. Clementine Hazel. Well, this is nuts, isn’t it? No, not for you, I suppose, but for me. I didn’t expect to visit L.A. and actually meet someone famous. I was willing to settle for staking out LAX for a blurry photograph of a Kardashian on my mobile.”

She smiled wide. “You’re a fan?”

Simply being responsible for the ridiculously pleased grin on Quinn’s face was enough to make his night. Knowing he’d put it on Clementine Hazel’s face was a story to go home with. Would he lose points for being starstruck? “My mum mostly, but I’ve read almost everything she’s—I mean you’ve—ever written. You’re notoriously gruesome. I’ll admit I’ve had to skip pages, but Mum has an iron stomach. There’s full-blooded Irish for you.”

He babbled, unable to stop himself. He’d imagined she’d be older and creepier in person. He’d also imagined he’d keep his cool when he met someone he admired.