Playing Dirty (13 page)

“Okay.”

Now he ran his tongue lightly inside her ear, and it seemed from her reaction that he really did have everything under control. He told her, “If you were my girlfriend, I’d make love to you right now.”

“I’m not your girlfriend,” she whispered.

“You feel like my girlfriend,” he said. “Let’s see if you sound like my girlfriend.” Despite her protests and her feeble attempts to tickle his ribs, he lifted her onto his shoulder. Registering with a quick glance into the next room that Erin and Martin were leaning over the sofa in discussion with Owen, he climbed up the stairs to his bedroom.

He shut and locked the door behind him, tossed her onto the leather armchair by the window, and pushed the chair over to the door with her in it.

“I thought we agreed that we’re not going to do this,” she said, sitting up.

“We’re not.” He noted with supreme interest that she looked disappointed. “But we want Erin to think we are. Right?”

“Right,” she said uncertainly.

“So make it sound like we are.” He folded his arms. “Show me what you’ve got.”

She looked at him dubiously, then laughed, nervous. Her cheeks had turned bright pink, the same
shade as a wayward lock of hair that half hid one of her big, dark eyes.

“Come on, now,” he scolded her. “This is for your
job security
.”

She got serious, squaring her shoulders. “Don’t watch me.”

He looked away while she uttered a pitiful imitation.

Turning back to her, he shook his head. “Every fake orgasm from now until the end of time is going to sound like
When Harry Met Sally
.” He picked her up, sat down in the leather chair himself, and settled her in his lap with her back to him. After cranking up the footrest so they reclined comfortably together, he deftly unbuttoned and unzipped her pants and slipped his hand inside, past the delicate lace of her panties.

“This isn’t a good idea,” she said in warning, clutching his hand. “I have to go to the office tonight to get some more work done, and I don’t want my clothes to be all wrinkled.”

He laughed shortly. “I’ve never heard that one before. And that’s the worst excuse I’ve heard in probably a decade.” He removed his hand from her panties and pulled down on the waistband of her pants.

“Quentin,” she scolded him, slapping his hands. “My trousers are headed in the wrong direction.”

“Relax.” He slipped out from under her and stood up so he could get more leverage on the pants leg. “Are your clothes always this hard to get off?”

“When my shoes are on.”

“I don’t want you to take your shoes off. I really like you in those shoes. Oh!” he exclaimed in relief, finally coming away with the pants. He made a great show of smoothing them and folding them carefully before dropping them in a heap on the carpet. Now that she was cooperating, he handled her shirt with one good tug. He crumpled it on the floor beside the pants. Then he sat on the footrest to look at her.

Red lace bra. Red lace panties, some stylish kind that sat low on her hips and cut straight across her ass in back. Underneath, creamy skin stretched taut over the hard muscles of an athlete.

He said sincerely, “You are
so beautiful
.”

“Thank you!” She smiled, brown eyes big.

“I
really
like being in cahoots with you.”

“Me, too.”

He moved to the chair and pulled her back against him again, positioning her so she could feel his erection. This time when he pushed his hand into her panties and she began to protest, he was ready. He clamped his other hand over her mouth. She’d been talking like she wanted to stay in control. But instinct told him if she thought she wanted control in the bedroom, nobody had ever shown her what she really wanted.

“We need to get down to business,” he whispered. “We’re wasting time. Don’t say anything else until you’ve got a good moan ready. You understand me?”

In answer, she bit his hand gently. He put his fingers in her mouth.

He worked on her, his middle finger circling and
stroking her clit. She pressed against him. His cock complied, swelling further. At the same time, she raised her hips, giving him better access to her mound. He wanted to push his fingers into her, and he figured that’s what she wanted, too. But he didn’t dare, because once he knew what she felt like inside, he wasn’t sure he could keep himself from snatching down her panties and taking her from the back.

So he tried to content himself with feeling the pressure of her ass against his cock, and circling his finger on her clit. The rest of her body relaxed, but her sex grew tense. And he thought,
What am I doing?
Sex with his ex-manager Karen had been one thing. Karen had been casual. There was nothing casual about this. Sarah’s pink hair and red bra and red panties turned his mood dead serious.

Several exquisite minutes passed this way. The room grew hot. Finally she pulled her mouth away from his hand and rested her cheek on his shoulder, pleading to him, eyes half-closed. “Don’t make me.”

“A beautiful woman like you,” he murmured. “I don’t understand why you need this so bad. I have to make you, for your own good.”

Still gazing at him, she seemed to stop seeing, and shuddered under his hand. He kept circling, pressing more firmly. She dug her high heels into the footrest and arched her back, raising herself off the leather and nearer to his hand. He circled and she shuddered. Then came the long, loud moan he’d been waiting for. And then she cried, “Que’n!”

He pressed her mouth with his mouth. His fingers still circled as she sparked and finally vibrated to a halt. He forced his tongue past her teeth, sweeping inside her mouth, showing her the way he wanted to make love to her.

But now he was thinking,
What have I done?
Making her come had seemed like a good idea while he was chasing her around the pool table. But they’d just transformed their business relationship into something a lot more complicated.

She broke the kiss and said, “I’d better go.”

“You’d better,” he agreed grimly.

She couldn’t get her clothes on fast enough. She cursed as she tried to pull the pants on over her shoes and got the legs caught on her high heels. He handed the small red shirt to her.

They went downstairs. The TV room was empty. As they walked through the kitchen, Quentin pointed to the open door that led downstairs to the studio and put his finger to his lips: the band was still listening.

By the time they stopped at the door out to the garage, Quentin had finally recovered himself enough for salvage operations. He put his hand on her elbow. “This isn’t the end of the world,” he whispered.

Sarah said gravely, “We need to remember that we’re just doing this to make Erin jealous.”

“I guarantee you Erin doesn’t have any problem about what she does with Owen,” Quentin said. This had better not be true. “It’s okay to have fun,” he went
on, rubbing Sarah’s arm. “Come back tomorrow.” He kissed her tenderly, letting his lips linger on hers.

“I don’t think we should go this far anymore,” she breathed.

“We’ll see,” he said.

He watched her walk all the way through the garage in her tight pants. Then he closed the door and banged his head against it.

Martin’s voice traveled up the stairwell from the studio. “I’m assuming from the
thud
that you didn’t break Rule Three.”

Martin was usually more savvy than this. Quentin was shocked that Martin would give away one of their rules to the technicians in the control room. Then, calculating from the fading light outside, he realized that it was later than he’d thought. The technicians had gone home for the night. Time flew when you were having fun. Or pleasuring a woman who was out-of-bounds. Either one.

Quentin said wearily, “No, I didn’t.”

Owen’s voice came echoing up next. “It sounded like you were breaking Rule Three.”

“I had to do
something
,” Quentin said in his defense. “You should see this woman’s
underwear
.”

“Don’t get too close to her, Q,” Erin warned him.

“Erin, I’m sure your underwear is very nice, too,” Quentin called down to her. “The finest Target has to offer.”

Last came Mrs. Timberlane’s weak voice. “Did you use a condom?”

Without comment, Quentin closed the door to the stairs and opened the door to the pantry. He’d feel better if he made some tarka dal. But the lentils had to simmer for a whole hour. Or jehangiri shorba.

That’s when he saw the note he’d taped inside the pantry door to remind Owen of the code so he could let the pizza guy in the security gate.

Sarah didn’t have eyes the back of her head. She just had eyes.

Well, Owen might not be able to remember the gate code, but he was good with gadgets. He probably knew how to
change
the gate code, so that Sarah couldn’t come over at will.

But Sarah had liked popping in. And Quentin liked that she had popped in. If she had to wait at the bottom of the driveway for someone to open the gate for her, maybe she wouldn’t come over as often.

He wouldn’t change a thing.

I wonder if they have e-mail in jail in Rio

Love

Nine Lives

Good question
, Sarah thought as her muscles tensed and her body flushed with adrenaline, ready for fight or flight. Staring at the innocent-looking e-mail message on her laptop in her hotel room, heart racing, she thought back to Rio several weeks ago. Her impression of the jail was fuzzy. When she was there, she hadn’t slept in two days. But she didn’t think inmates would have access to e-mail. As a general rule, there was no e-mail access in a facility smelling that strongly of urine.

Nine Lives could have gotten his bodyguard or his driver or another member of his entourage to e-mail
her. But that would mean they were all at leisure to worry about
her
rather than
jail
.

If he was still in, he wouldn’t be there long.

Now that the first rush of panic had lifted, she shivered. After she’d left Quentin’s mansion last night, a rainy front had moved through, ushering in a rare cool June day. Natsuko couldn’t show vulnerability by shivering, even in her thin, revealing blouses, so all morning Sarah had moved through the office punching buttons on the computer and the telephone with icy fingers.

She resisted the urge to soak in a warm bath to regain her circulation. She couldn’t receive this implied threat from Nine Lives lying down and babying herself. She had to take care of herself, and take action.

The action she was thinking of involved Quentin. But of course she did
not
want to see him, and she was
not
going to repeat last night’s dangerous walk on the wild side. She would use him and be through.

Half an hour later, as she stepped carefully into Quentin’s kitchen so her high heels wouldn’t clop on the marble, the bite of spice hung in the air. He was bent under the cabinets, putting away pans.

“Working hard on my album?” she asked sarcastically.

He started up against the counter, brushing against a colorful jar of some foreign ingredient. It fell and broke on the floor with a
pop
.

He turned. She could tell from his expression that he was prepared to make a sarcastic remark in reply.
But when he saw her, his face changed to concern. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she said casually. “What excuse were you about to make for not working on my album?”

“I
am
working on
your
album.” He grinned, scooping up the broken jar with a wad of paper towels and dumping it into the garbage.

“You say that every time I come over here. And every time I come over here, you’re getting drunk, or watching
Masterpiece Theatre
, or cleaning your kitchen. All of which makes you a fairly well-rounded person, but not a person especially inclined to finish an album in five days.”

He took a step toward her.

She took a step backward.

He looked disappointed. “Does it feel cold in here to you?” he asked. When she nodded, he moved to one side of the kitchen and adjusted the thermostat on the wall. “
Somebody’s
working on the album. When it comes to recording, I’ve got the easy part. Bass guitar and lead vocals are straightforward. It’s the other instruments and the background vocals that change how the song sounds, and that’s what has to get planned out.” He turned back to her. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Not able to meet his green eyes, she looked past him into the kitchen. “What have you been cooking?”

“You mean food? Indian.”

“Indian! What kind?”

“Baingan bartha. Want some?”

Despite yesterday’s delicious breakfast and the current
mouthwatering smell, Sarah was dubious of the hunky hick’s skills with Indian. Besides, she’d already eaten a granola bar for lunch. She asked, “Isn’t that a professional wrestler?”

“Big Baingan Bartha? Yeah, I think he had a meet with Mad ‘Red’ Mud in Tallahassee one time. Come with me.”

He pulled her by the hand to the sofa and vaulted over the back of it, onto the cushions. She’d noticed that there wasn’t much room to move at the open end of the sectional, nearest the TV. Quentin seemed content to vault over the back of the furniture. Bachelors. He’d be sorry when he wore out the springs underneath the leather. Or not. He was rich. And he was rarely here.