Men Like This (8 page)

He’d called her beautiful, but she didn’t have time to obsess over it. She’d come back to it later, wallow in and absorb the compliment at a more appropriate time. Right now, they needed to focus on damage control. “Okay. Okay, well, has Vickie seen this yet? I mean, because the press can say whatever, but as long as she has the truth, it’s okay, right?”

He looked at her like she’d spoken a foreign dialect. “I’m sorry, love, I’ve forgotten to tell you the rest. The paper you’ve got there is but a bit player in the tragedy we’ve seen unfold this fine morning. You recall Vickie is off her rocker, yes?”

“Yes. I get it. She’s crazy.” Quinn moved her hands in a get-on-with-it gesture. Every minute they spent chatting equaled a minute not spent figuring out a solution.

“Crazy hardly covers it. She’s a piece of work, she is. Gone in the head and deserving of a slow, agonizing death.”

Taken aback, Quinn blinked at the strong words. Jack didn’t have a mean bone in his body. She studied his face and discovered not anger but hurt. “What happened?”

He glanced at the floor. “I woke up to a bloody war, that’s what. She’d gone out for coffee and came home with this garbage.” He grabbed the paper only to give it a disgusted toss to the other side of the table. “No questions, no demands for information. Just instant war. She said she’d been counting on it. Can you believe that? She expected it! Who expects that in a relationship? Crazy people, that’s who. Turns out, she’s seeing someone else. Her ex-boyfriend, some little Italian turd, called Vino. I met him once. Don’t see what the big deal is, myself.” He paused and made a visible attempt to gather himself with a deep breath and a shake of his shoulders. “Ah, well. She told me to get out. No chance to explain a thing. I left even though she’s sitting in my house because sometimes you’ve got to pick your battles. Also, Quinn, she sends her regards, and you’re welcome to my ‘cheating ass.’”

So much for damage control. Quinn shook her head in pure awe. “Confesses to an affair and kicks you out of your own house. You don’t just watch daytime television, Jack. You live it.”

“Oprah taught me everything I know.” The joke fell flat. He didn’t seem to notice. “I’m sorry I came here. I shouldn’t have. I suppose I wanted someone to commiserate with me. We’re safe for as long as you remain a mystery to the press.”

“Safe?”

“Yeah, from paparazzi and the like. They’re bloody vultures once they catch a scent, though, don’t doubt it. We’re screwed if they figure it out.” His steady gaze shifted to the saltshaker between them. “I’m sick to my stomach. Not jealous or angry, just ill. I bet it’s only a small taste of what it must’ve been like for you, though. I can’t imagine.” He blinked. “A year. An entire
year
. How’d I miss it? Where was I when this was happening?”

Her heart broke for him. He described the ugly aftermath perfectly. Few emotional combinations were more caustic than anxiety and total heartbreak. She’d lost the contents of her stomach several times after discovering Blake’s affair and asked herself all the same questions.

She covered one of Jack’s hands with hers. “At least you didn’t find out
after
the wedding.”

The sentiment may not help, but it was true. He’d been a couple months shy of making a huge mistake.

Jack laughed and squeezed her hand as his eyes refocused on hers. “There it is. The silver lining I’ve been searching for all morning. Thank you, love.”

Her phone rang before she had a chance to reply. She jogged to the couch where she’d tossed it earlier and checked the screen. Dad? Odd timing for him. She reentered the kitchen and excused herself to take the call. “Hi, Dad.” She added a pinch of inquiry to the greeting.

“Quinnie, my girl. When were you going to tell us you’d met someone?”

The gears turned but failed to catch. Her brows snapped together. “What?”

“The man in the picture. Blake called here at the most ungodly hour last night to tell me he’d come across a photograph of you online with some guy. Whatever happened to the nice fellow with the paper store?”

Quinn blew out her cheeks. Oh, man. “Nicholas. Um, Nicholas is fine. He’s doing great. The picture is nothing, really. They’re playing up the angle. The guy is a friend. He’s pretty well known here, and I’m some strange girl no one’s heard of. They’re making a big pile of manure where there isn’t even a cow.”

Jack quirked a brow in her direction. The hint of a smile played on his lips.

“Yeah, I can see you’re confusing people. They’re calling you a Mystery Woman. Unfortunately, that’s not going to be true for long.”

Quinn swallowed in an attempt to get her heart out of her throat. “Why not?”

Douglas coughed politely. “Upset people do irrational things. I intend to give the little prick a piece of my mind after I’m done with you.”

Blake. Like “little prick” could be anyone else. “What, Dad? What did he do?”

He explained and revealed the full depth of the nightmare. “Blake contacted the Web site and identified you. I’m sorry, Quinn. By this time tomorrow, the photograph will have a new heading. But maybe it’s not a bad thing. How’s your readership overseas?”

“My . . . Wait, what? You’re saying he
—
”

“Told them you were Clementine Hazel? Yes. I am. He did.”

Her heart plummeted. It took her stomach, lungs, and other internal organs along for the ride. “I have to go.” She ended the call without hearing a word of his protest.

She took her turn staring at the saltshaker on the table until the view blurred from shock. “Blake. Oh, Blake. I’m going to kill you. I should’ve done it after the affair. No one would’ve blamed me.”

Jack leaned back and folded his arms. “What about the tosser?”

“He told them who I am after coming across the photo of us online.” When Jack didn’t seem appropriately scandalized, she clarified. “I’m nobody, obviously. But Clementine Hazel. . . .”

The light dawned across his features as he soaked in the implications.

She nodded. “I have a feeling we’re going to make the news again.”

A moment passed. “So, killing Blake. How do you want it done?”

Q
uinn was torn.

She wanted Jack to leave as much as she wanted him to stay. She craved alone time to come to terms with the consequences of Blake’s strange, asinine behavior. At the same time, she didn’t want to step away from the only person going through the same ordeal she was. They needed to stick together. They needed a game plan.

She needed a drink.

The smart thing would’ve been to kick him out, but he was
Jack—
her muse, her inspiration. She couldn’t ask him to leave any more than Quentin Tarantino would turn away Uma Thurman.

She excused herself from their sad little huddle to put on real clothes. She traded the lavender velour bottoms for a pair of holey jeans and finger-combed her hair into a messy bun on the top of her head. She’d given up on ever finding her brush.

She returned to the kitchen to find Jack half-hidden behind the pantry door as he rummaged through her shelves.

He peeked around the door. “They’ll find us in a matter of hours. It took little effort to discover your address using your real name.”

She gazed longingly at the coffeepot. She limited herself to two cups for supposed health reasons, but it was shaping up to be a three-cup kind of day. She chewed the inside of her cheek and went over the pros and cons.

He persisted in a muffled voice from the innards of the pantry. “The longer I’m here, the better their chances are of catching me, thus confirming the swirling rumors.”

“Probably.” Did it matter? The rumors were going to fly no matter what.

Damn it. A third cup it was. She fixed the dark brew to her specifications and reclaimed her spot at the table.

Jack finally emerged from the pantry with a canister of flour in one hand and a large skillet in the other. He fired point-blank. “Do you want me to leave?”

Had she ever met a more honest manipulator? If he left now, she’d lose the benefit of whatever was about to come from the stuff in his hands, which in her estimation would be something delicious because what else were skillets good for. “Let’s talk after you’ve told me what you’re doing with my flour.”

“Breakfast, of course. I’m brilliant in the kitchen.” He grinned and her stomach fluttered. Okay, it did more than flutter. It jiggled like dancing gelatin. Jack Decker in dark denim jeans, his signature plain white T-shirt stretching pleasantly over well-formed arms, arms it took little effort to recall the feel of, grinning at her with a skillet in his hand . . .

She turned away abruptly. “Holler when it’s ready. I’ll be in my office.”

“Fine, but you’re doing the dishes.”

She didn’t argue. A fiery debate with Jack was a bad idea, especially since she was one precocious step away from jumping his bones. A little heat would be all it took.

 

Jack stole a glance through the crack in the door.

Quinn sat with her face inches from the computer monitor. A deep frown wrinkled her features. Precisely what he’d hoped for. He tiptoed down the hall, to the farthest corner of the living room and pulled his mobile phone from his pocket.

Disaster situations called for Code Mum.

She answered on the first ring. His mother didn’t suffer the same English influence his upbringing had afforded him. Her lilting Irish accent came over the line clear and crisp. “Hello, Jack. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You say that like I only ring you when I need something.”

“Well, don’t you?”

He grinned. He thanked his stars every day to have been born to a mum with a sense of humor. “It won’t do for you to be smart with me. That’s my job, and you can’t have it.”

“Sorry, dear. I’m hoping you’ll retire soon and pass the torch. Now, lad, what is it? I’ve got things to do, you know.”

He peeked down the hall. Nothing. He lowered his voice. “Do you recall when I told you I spent the night with Clementine Hazel, and you didn’t believe me? Remember the napkin I brought you with her autograph?”

“Of course. I never forget a good forgery. Nor does any mum worth her salt forget when her son’s convinced he’s fallen in love with a total stranger.”

“How can you say that about Clementine Hazel? Technically, she’s been a part of our lives for years. And yes, I fell in something. Maybe love. Maybe something less intense, but definitely something. Then she told me to go away. It’s bothered me ever since. How can two people go through the same experience and come out the other side on opposite ends? I saw a future. She saw, nothing, obviously, since she never wanted to see me again.”

“What’s this about?”

“All right, it’s crazy, but I’ve never been more serious. Vickie and I . . . Okay, let me start over. Vickie cheated on me. She
thinks
I cheated on her. With Clementine, I mean Quinn. Quinn’s here, you see, and we had coffee. Someone took a photo, so it’s sort of a thing.”

“Oh. A
thing
. You made the paper again, is that it?”

He scratched his head. He could talk to a tree stump and walk away smiling. Why was it so difficult to explain himself to his own mum? “Yes, but that’s not my dilemma. Right now, I’m in Quinn’s flat. I
-
I don’t know what to do. I need advice. I’m having those things. What’re they called?”

“Oh, Jack.” The sympathy in her voice relaxed him. She’d help him sort through this mess. “They’re called emotions, love.”

“Yes. Those. I’m having those, all sorts of them. I’m done with Vickie. It’s over. And that’s fine, but with Quinn here, I can’t help it. I’m questioning my motives. I didn’t ask for this, Mum. I swear. I did nothing to make this happen. We drank coffee. I even sang Vickie’s praises, what few there are to sing, and invited Quinn to the bloody wedding.”

“Then why do you feel guilty?”

He slid to the floor while taking care to keep the hallway and Quinn’s office door in view. “I don’t. That’s what’s bothering me. Running into Quinn made things happen. It exposed Vickie’s affair and left this wide-open door into Quinn’s life. Maybe I’m crazy for thinking we had some sort of special connection, but I can’t walk away without some answers. I need to know why she didn’t want to see me again. For a long time, I convinced myself it was a fluke, but you should’ve seen us together at the café. We’re like best friends who don’t know each other. It’s the strangest thing, too strange to ignore.” He steadied himself and said the words he’d never wanted to say. “You were right about Vickie. There, I said it. I’m not heartbroken. It’s like I don’t care. I mean, I feel stupid, obviously, but it doesn’t hurt like it should.”

“Say I’m right one more time, would you? Does my soul good to hear the words.”

“I’m serious, Mum. I need help. Quinn popping back into my life has to mean something, doesn’t it? Or am I supposed to have a period of mourning for my failed engagement?”

“I’ll tell you something, lad. Fate is like a wise farmer who spreads out his crops so one blighted field don’t ruin the entire harvest. If Quinn hadn’t split the whole thing wide open, accidentally, as it were, then something else would’ve done it. Vickie might’ve called you by her lover’s name, or you’d have spotted them in a crowd holding hands. You and Vickie weren’t meant to be. If you don’t feel heartbroken, I suppose it’s because she’d need to have your heart to break it, wouldn’t she? What’s the point in pretending to be sad over something you’re okay with?”

“Politics? The press is going to hate me.”

“Screw the press. And screw politics.”

Poetic as ever. “What if I’m just a crazy person, and Quinn doesn’t feel anything special toward me?”

“Find out. It’s your own fault for letting her go in the first place, you know.”

“She asked me—”

“You’re supposed to follow your own heart, Jack. Not someone else’s. Not even hers.”

He let a spell of silence go by while he considered his options. “I clearly need to do something, then. Something to keep Quinn around.”

“Are you going to ask her out on a real date this time?”

“Too tame, I’m afraid. The situation calls for something more drastic. Do me a favor and don’t read the papers for a while.”

Quinn sat to write in spurts, but her companion proved to be more than one kind of distracting. She hadn’t minded when he’d dragged her into the kitchen to taste a chutney he’d whipped up after once more raiding her pantry, but when he’d talked her into a game of Monopoly and proceeded to celebrate his ensuing win with gusto, she kind of wanted to strangle him.

She forgave him after he offered to cook dinner, which they sat on the couch enjoying side by side. She had to hand it to him; the guy was a force in the kitchen. Not to mention incredibly appealing bustling around in her flowered apron. She toyed with the idea of asking him to wear it without a shirt on.

Jack paused dramatically and then spoke. “I’ve been thinking.”

She let go of the mental image of him shirtless in her apron and looked at him in mock surprise. “Are you capable of sitting still long enough to conjure a complete thought?”

“Bah.” He waved her off. “We had fun today, even if I was a bit underfoot.”

She agreed. “But a few hundred words falls a mite short of my two thousand daily goal.”

“Two
thousand
?” He shook his head. “You don’t fool around, do you? Fine, tomorrow I’ll let you work. No Monopoly. You have my word.”

Her fork stopped halfway to her mouth. She peered at him. “Tomorrow?” The word prompted a sudden and unwelcome reminder of their current predicament. It was easy enough to avoid sitting indoors, but they’d eventually have to step outside and into the fray.

“Yeah.” A beat passed. He, too, seemed affected. “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.” His smile widened comically. “I have an idea.”

“That’s a pretty creepy smile you’ve got there. It’s not a good idea, is it?”

“Well, at least it’s an idea, yeah? Perhaps we ought to give it a fair go since it’s the only one on the table at the moment. Now, I figure there’s no way out of this.” He raised his hand as if to cut off her protest before it began. “Contrary to popular belief, I conjure complete thoughts all the time, and one of them happens to be that just
maybe
we might consider, you know. . . .” He shrugged to convey the harmlessness of whatever he had built himself up to suggest. “Go with it.”

For the first time since meeting him, Quinn had to ask herself if the man was playing with a full deck. She set her fork and plate down on the coffee table, folded her hands together in her lap, and said a small prayer for patience. “Are you mental?”

“Your concern is touching, but I’m quite sane, thank you. Now, listen, and I’ll tell you how I arrived at my conclusion. Your name’s out there, Quinnie. You’re somebody and I’m somebody. Other bodies are bound to make a fuss. That’s the business of it. We can’t escape it, and we can’t pretend it’s not happening. The second I walk out your front door it’s all over. I’ll have been caught red-handed in your home. I say we beat them at their own game. I’m leaving to film in Portugal a month from now. After that, you’re headed back to the States. We pretend to break up, everyone wins.”

“Pretend to break up?” She studied him dubiously. “What if Vickie wants to reconcile? It might put a crimp in repairing your relationship if she really believes you’re having an affair.”

“You mean like the very real one she had? Continues to have? Forget it. Some things are beyond repair. Vickie and I are done.” The flat line of his mouth seconded his words.

“How would I explain something so crazy and senseless to my family?”

“Tell them the truth.”

The truth? Her dad’s amusement would be Emily’s mortification, and in both cases her sanity would be called into question. “They’ll think I’m nuts.”

Jack grinned. “You are nuts. A lucky thing, too. If you were even a tad bit sane, you’d have kicked me out hours ago.”