Men Like This (5 page)

Why wasn’t he capable of a single pinch of sensitivity? She nodded absently. “If that’s how you feel, you’re not going to like what I came here to tell you.”

Blake eyed her warily. “You didn’t come here to tell me you were going to find a house soon?”

Quinn shrank beneath his hard glare. “No.” She sucked in air through her teeth and dove in. “I’m leaving the country. London. I’m going to London.” Not the smooth announcement she’d practiced in her head, but she still managed to stun him into silence.

She enjoyed the fascinating array of emotions passing over his handsome features. First came shock, evidenced by his slack jaw and deadpan eyes. Then his blond brow creased in confusion. She hoped it gave him wrinkles. Finally, his mouth snapped shut, and he zeroed in on her with narrowed eyes.

Mint and honey? Maybe not. Right now they were more like molten amber. “I don’t think so.”

Even coming from Blake it was an unexpected response. How much control did he presume to have over her?

“
Excuse
me? I’m not requesting permission. I’m going, and Seth isn’t. I’ve already given him the option, and he chose to stay. I can’t say I blame him. At his age, I wouldn’t have wanted to spend a year away from my friends, either, going to some strange school in a foreign country.”

Blake’s expression of extreme ire might’ve been carved from granite. She pressed on. “It’s only for a year. He’ll be in school. He’ll have his friends and my family, plus vacations and the summer with me in London. It’ll be over before you realize it. Hell, he might even have a new baby brother to occupy him, huh? He’s a built-in babysitter.”

Blake started to say something but stopped. His brow creased again. With his thumb and forefinger, he stroked his chin in a thinking man’s gesture. “A year, you said? That’s a pretty specific time frame, isn’t it, Q? It’s about the length of time needed to, oh, I don’t know . . . write a book?”

He’d used his old nickname for her. She didn’t point it out—a strategic move on her part. “You were paying attention the last ten years. Yes, I’m going there to write.”

Not a muscle twitched. “Are you being funny?”

The tantrum she’d been expecting closed in. It would be one of the first she didn’t bow to. She rose from her seat and clasped her hands together. Hopefully standing made her appear more authoritative. “I’d never put so much effort into a joke.”

Blake bowed his head and closed his eyes as if warding off a headache. He probably was. He joined her in standing and placed his hands on his hips. The toe of one exquisitely polished loafer tapped an angry staccato on the oak-paneled floor. “Explain to me why you’re going to London to do what you’ve always done right here in California.”

Not a question. A demand for information.

Quinn’s mouth tightened. She could tell him about the romance novel she wanted to write, or how this was all her dad’s big idea, but she wasn’t going to make excuses or offer explanations. He’d simply have to deal with her decision to go to London the same way she’d dealt with his decision to get a divorce.

The mere memory brought a rush of flame to her face. After learning about Blake’s affair, she’d wrongly assumed the power lay in her hands. Didn’t cheating men generally beg their wives not to give them the boot? She’d confronted him and promised forgiveness if he’d stop seeing the other woman.

He’d thrown the offer in her face. He didn’t want a second chance. They were done; he was leaving
—
rather, she was
—
and it was over. Thank God, he’d told her, because keeping his affair secret for five years had been exhausting.

Quinn pinpointed it as the exact moment her heart shattered. “I’m going because I want to and I can. End of story.”

He met her eyes. “So you don’t
need
to. You want to. We don’t always get what we want.”

His hypocrisy stunned her. “Are you going to lecture me on the virtues of selflessness? I don’t believe you’re the man for the job, honey.” Anger had her slipping into old habits. It only peeved her off further. “You certainly don’t make it a habit to ignore your own wants. You corrupted our marriage and destroyed our life together to get what you wanted. Now you’re prepared to throw away your relationship with Seth to get more of the same.”

This
was the man she loved? This hypocritical, selfish jerk?

Her tirade failed to make an impact.

“Don’t throw the divorce in my face, Quinn. You might not realize it, but you weren’t happy either. We were living our lives around each other. I made a move to be happy. You should’ve done the same.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. Bitter anger gave her the strength to keep fighting. “I’m doing it now.”

Her tears used to make Blake weak in the knees. He’d never been able to resist coming to her side. Since he met Kira, though, the man had iron in his legs. He stayed rooted to the spot and watched her show of emotion dispassionately.

He chided her. “You’re being ridiculous. London isn’t the answer.”

Quinn snatched a tissue from the dispenser on his desk since he hadn’t offered one and dabbed her eyes. After several deep breaths, she faced him again. “In two months I’m going to London for a year. Seth doesn’t want to go, and we’re not forcing him.” She hadn’t planned on giving a time limit. Too late now. “My suggestion is you take this time with your son and get to know him. It might be your last chance.”

“You’re overreacting again. I just believe he should live with you. Weekends and holidays are fine. It’s the typical arrangement, isn’t it?”

“Of course. You wouldn’t want your precious reputation to suffer if anyone ever found out you don’t want your own child.”

Blake’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not true.”

She’d won the war but didn’t have the strength for another battle. She wiped her eyes again. “Whatever you say. I wouldn’t take him, anyway. You’re his dad. He needs you.” A glimmer of something that might’ve been love, pity, or regret crossed his face.

She didn’t stick around to find out which.

 

Quinn hadn’t been very generous to herself.

Two months hardly covered the time she needed to prepare for living abroad. She managed, though, determined to stick to the deadline she’d given Blake. May he never underestimate her again.

First, she’d needed an agent. With only a flimsy outline of her novel in hand and her established career in another genre to lean on, she went about the process of finding the right representative for her new endeavor.

It didn’t take long for Carla Darby to pounce on her proposal. During their initial phone conference she’d surprised and encouraged Quinn with her eagerness and immediate assumption of success.

She’d literally laughed at Quinn’s expressed doubt. “Romance is pie! Anytime you get stuck, throw in a knifing or two to get yourself back on familiar ground. Those weren’t pretty times. People were savage. No one will blink twice at a little violence. Or a lot.”

Quinn signed with Carla that day.

The day before her flight departed for Heathrow, an announcement from Blake arrived in her e-mail inbox. Kira was pregnant.

Quinn couldn’t be happier to be leaving the country.

 

N
icholas Braum knocked on the door of Quinn’s Kensington flat at precisely seven o’clock. She answered and smiled brightly at his appraisal of her outfit, which he indicated with the slight widening of his eyes.

The red cocktail dress with its tight bodice and flouncy skirt was the only clean outfit she had left since neglecting laundry last week. The black ballet flats didn’t do it justice, but she’d learned her lesson about high heels many moons ago. They weren’t for her.

“You’re early.” She reached for her clutch and the thick black peacoat hanging from a peg near the door. Fall loomed. Days were crisp, and nights were downright chilly.

Nicholas held up a finger and contradicted her. “Not so, my dear. Seven on the dot.” He tapped his watch for emphasis and offered Quinn his other arm. He guided her down three concrete steps and onto the busy sidewalks of her chosen London borough.

Her flat, which she opted to buy outright, had what they called “European charm.” Known to the wise as a pseudonym for
very tiny.
It was a simple two-bedroom apartment on the first floor of an ancient building
—
ancient on American terms, anyway. The sheer depth of London’s history fascinated her. The U.S. was a wee babe in comparison.

Nicholas hooked his thumb out to catch a passing cab, and Quinn brushed a bit of lint from her shoulder. “I usually get a five-minute grace period. It’s a fluke I’m ready on time.”

He smiled beneath a neatly trimmed mustache in a muted shade of red. “You’re right, of course. Forgive me. I’m excited about tonight, that’s all.”

Maybe the dress had more of an impact than she realized. She noted the smart blue bow tie he wore. What was
his
excuse for getting dolled up?

“It’s only dinner.” She cast a nervous glance at the bow tie. “Unless we’re going parasailing afterward, and you’ve neglected to tell me?”

He chuckled and patted her hand. “Nothing so dramatic, my dear.” A cab pulled up to the curb, and they slipped inside.

They were shortly deposited at the front entrance of the Milestone much to Quinn’s surprise and dismay. This wasn’t cheap fare. She eyed Nicholas and tried to keep her concern from showing.

She didn’t want to embarrass him, but he couldn’t earn much running the quaint paper supply store within walking distance of Quinn’s flat. The Milestone was definitely a few notches above his pay grade. Proud gentleman he was, going Dutch wasn’t an option. She readied herself for an awkward meal and took solace where she could.

At least she had an explanation for the bow tie.

 

Neither Nicholas nor Quinn hailed a cab this time. They had plenty to discuss. A long, chilly walk home would provide ample time to clear the air.

Quinn wanted to jump straight into an explanation, but Nicholas wasn’t the only victim. To put a woman on the spot in public was a risk few men braved a mere seven months into a relationship.

They made it an entire block in stone-cold silence before he spoke. Perhaps he realized she wasn’t going to break the skin on the impending discussion. “Are you afraid to marry again?” He continued his steady pace. The tight line of his mouth remained unchanged.

Honesty would serve her best even though a lie would be easier. Oh, the trials of the decent. “No. I look forward to trying it again someday.”

“Is it bad timing?”

She sensed a thread of hope in his question and didn’t dare glance his way. It would only break her heart. “Timing is something.” She laughed with little humor. “I’m going home soon, back to California. Back to my real life.”

He said nothing.

Quinn pressed on. She needed him to understand but didn’t want to crush him in the process. “You’re great, a really wonderful man, but I’m not sure if what we have is enough to build a union on. Marriage is no small thing.”

Nicholas stopped walking and turned so they stood eye to eye. He searched her face. “Then what is enough? It’s been an easy, natural evolution from friends to lovers. I love you. Do you love me?”

“I do, of course I do.” It was true. She loved him in her way. She struggled for a kind way to express her reserve. “I mean, it’s . . . I do, but it’s a quiet sort of love. It’s too easy if that makes sense.”

He scoffed. “I’m afraid it doesn’t. What’s wrong with quiet love? It’s sound and stable, the kind of love able to weather the worst of storms.”

“But what of passion?” She suddenly sounded a lot like her fictional eighteenth-century heroine, Eileen.
Yes, what of passion, Sir Nicholas? Pray tell.

He let out an exasperated sigh and stalked off. “I’m not a man of passion. I do, however, admire it in others. I assumed yours was locked away in your stories.”

She shared in his frustration and struggled to keep pace. He walked like he intended to outdistance their conversation, but she wouldn’t leave it unfinished. “There’s no cap on passion, Nicholas. I’m passionate about an abundance of stuff.”

“Not me.” Not a question. A statement.

There was nothing else to say. She wouldn’t deny it. How to make him understand? For all its stability, quiet love was boring love. She wanted fire and soul.

They made the rest of their walk in stony silence. When they arrived at her flat, she made one final attempt at reparations. What a stupid thing to lose Nicholas over. “We shouldn’t leave it this way. Come inside. I’ll make some tea, and we can talk.”

He looked at his shoes. “I’d rather not if it’s all the same. I’ll be on my way.”

“Fine. Is breakfast still on?”

“No.” The single syllable left no room for argument. “You didn’t mean to hurt me, Quinn, but you have to understand it’s quite a blow. I need a few days to put myself to rights. Even then I’m not sure if I can spend time with the woman I love and endure a daily reminder she doesn’t return the feeling. I do hope you understand.” He refused to fix his gaze on hers.

She tried and failed to bite back her exasperation. “What did you expect to happen when it came time for me to leave?”

Finally, he looked at her, but his faded blue eyes were hooded. “Why do you think I proposed? So you’d stay here. Seth would come to live with us, naturally. He and I got along well. My business is growing. I’m a capable provider.”

She hung her head in regret for the happy little family he’d obviously fantasized over. “I’m sorry. I feel like I’ve somehow misled you, but I didn’t know. I really didn’t.”

He offered her a small smile. “I believe you, and I forgive you.” He started to walk away but turned back after his first step. “One last thing, my dear.”

“Yes?”

“You might want passion now. But your divorce, and the pain you suffered from it, also came from passion, albeit someone else’s. One day it might be quiet love you wish for.” With that final piece of unsettling advice and uncharacteristic insight, Nicholas left.

She watched him go and pondered his words on passion. As a writer, she often used it for the tumultuous tool it was, a vehicle driving characters to do insane things in the name of love or science or religion. He may be right in the end, but she’d marry with fervor and blinding joy or not at all.

She gazed after him and tested her resolve. Nothing changed. Just as her heart had guided her to London, it was leading her away from Nicholas.

She wasn’t about to stop following it now.

 

The next morning brought with it waves of doubt. They alternated between gentle and crushing. Quinn buried her face into the down pillows. Had she made the right choice? Had she considered every possibility, every angle? Did she know what she was doing?

Hell no. She’d met a questionable man who inspired her and a wonderful man who bored her. The cherry on top? She was in London writing a blooming romance, which ironically would’ve sounded like a horror story a year ago.

She reluctantly left the sanctuary of her bed and forced herself to brush her teeth and dress. She threw on yesterday’s jeans and a canary-yellow sweater. Maybe the sunny color would infuse her with some of its cheeriness. She slipped into tennis shoes
—trainers
, she’d learned to call them
—
and grabbed her purse.

By force of habit, she started in the direction of Casey’s, a small café a block away from her flat where she met Nicholas for breakfast most mornings. She paused midstride and promptly turned heel. He was the last person she wanted to bump into.

She’d have to get her caffeine fix elsewhere today. Another café a few blocks over called The Black Kettle had always intrigued her. Something about kettles and brew seemed promising, but she could never convince Nicholas to break from routine. He also claimed they made horrendous coffee.

A moot point once she added enough cream and sugar.

The Black Kettle possessed no distinguishing features. It looked like any other nondescript coffeehouse in a borough full of nondescript coffeehouses. A small gated area separated a handful of round, grated tables and their matching chair sets from the bustle of the sidewalk. A forest-green awning stretched overhead offered meager protection against London’s elements this time of year.

The warm aroma of cinnamon and fresh-baked bread invaded her senses the moment she stepped inside. She ordered the largest latte they had from a polite girl behind a glass case of pastries. Something covered in chocolate tempted her but, alas, oatmeal with cranberries, her concession to a healthy breakfast, waited for her at home.

Right next to a pile of work.

She picked out an unoccupied table near the rear of the café. A newspaper lay abandoned. She considered it a gift from the healthy breakfast gods impressed with her iron will. She sat down and flipped through the pages for something interesting or distracting.

She hit pay dirt and fumbled inside her purse for the always elusive pencil she kept there. Nothing like a foreign word puzzle to help forget the tangled web of plot waiting patiently on her desk at home.

“What’s the world coming to? Can’t visit the loo without having your newspaper stolen anymore.”

Quinn jumped like someone had set off sparklers under her chair. Only the lid on her latte kept the scalding contents from sloshing over into her lap. She leaped to her feet and spun around in a rush to apologize to the man whose property she’d unwittingly adopted.

She opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Her lips moved; still, no words emerged. She stood within inches of eyes that had haunted her for the past year. She’d seen them more times in her imaginings than in real life. They weren’t the kind a woman forgot, any more than the man who owned them.

Speechless, she was compelled to hug Jack as though he were her dearest friend on the planet. He seemed affected by the same force and stepped into the embrace without pause. Quinn closed her eyes and took in the shape of him. She experienced the strangest sensation of familiarity. Like coming home after a long trip.

He seemed stunned, too, but didn’t share her tongue-tied affliction. “Bloody hell, if it isn’t my favorite little novelist! Where’d you come from, lass?” He stepped back, holding her at arm’s length to give her a once-over. He shook his head in awe, and a huge grin broke out over his mouth, lighting up his entire face. “Can’t believe it. You look great.”

Quinn managed to escape her verbal paralysis and return his broad smile. “Me? Look at you! Where’s your hair?”

Gone were the curly ends playing peek-a-boo with his shirt collar. He’d literally cut it within an inch of its life. It did strange and wonderful things for his face, such as drawing out the height of his cheekbones and showing off the intense color of his eyes. He appeared rougher than he had a year ago. Darker, less polished. He’d be perfectly at home straddling a Harley, covered in half-naked-lady tattoos.

He ran a hand over his head. “My usual ’do. I’d grown it out for a role when we met.”

“I like it.”

His teal eyes danced. “Feels like yesterday.” He stared and shook his head as if to clear it. “London, huh? What’s brought you over to the dark side, Quinnie?” He made to sit down and indicated she should reclaim her chair.

She sat slowly. She must look ridiculous with a massive grin taking over her face, but it was a force all its own. She came to swift terms with the knowledge that her reaction to Jack during their first encounter wasn’t to be wholly blamed on the booze. She was sober as a monk, and those delighted Caribbean eyes still sent a sprawling warmth right down to her toes.

She blinked. “Wow. I’m . . . You’re . . . What’re the odds?”

Fair, she supposed, considering he did live in London. Still, a chance encounter had never occurred to her. Simply being near him was downright eerie after spending eight intimate months with a character she’d designed after him.

She liked his deep, conspiratorial laugh as he leaned forward with round eyes.

“You haven’t the foggiest, love. This is my spot. I’m here every day. One morning, I walk out of the loo and find none other than Quinn Buzzly filching my paper.”

She joined in the laughter to hide her embarrassment. “I assumed someone had left it. I’m
—
”

His hand shot up. “Don’t dare say you’re sorry.” He excused himself to fetch his coffee and rejoined her. He bought her a second, as well. “Nasty stuff, but you acquire a taste if you’re not careful. I noticed your cup scribbles, no worries. Latte, cream, and sugar. So, how ’bout it? What brings you ’round, Quinnie?”

Memories of Hollywood flashed in her mind. “You’re so damn curious.”

“You’re so damn interesting.”

She ignored him for sheer lack of reply. Interesting? Her? She’d understood the allure when she’d been done up in a ball gown, throwing fits, and drinking beer straight from the bottle. Hell, she’d even
felt
a little mysterious and intriguing.