Tempt Me at Midnight (14 page)

Of course he’d always been aware that Lexi was no virgin. Over the years they’d swapped stories about their relationships and had sought each other’s advice on dealing with the opposite sex. So, yeah, he knew she was getting laid—and how often. But whenever he’d envisioned her sleeping with other guys, he’d slammed the brakes on his thoughts, reminding himself that she was his best friend, therefore he had no business speculating about her sex life. Oddly enough, this had been harder to remember when she was married. Every time he’d imagined Adam McNamara running his hands all over her, kissing her and making love to her, some dark, unnamed emotion had stirred within him.

Once, when McNamara was supposed to be out of town on business, Quentin had gone over to the house to watch a basketball game with Lexi. She’d answered the door with mussed hair, flushed cheeks and kiss-swollen lips, sheepishly explaining to him that her husband had come home early from his trip.

Quentin had stayed away for a month.

But he no longer had to keep his distance from her. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t. He’d tasted paradise, and he had to have more. There wasn’t an inch of Lexi’s beautiful body that he hadn’t kissed or caressed in his determination to stake a claim on her.

Because make no mistake about it. She belonged to him now. And there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

His silent cell phone mocked him, wrenching a savage curse from his mouth.

Instead of being on top of the world tonight, basking in the glow of his courtroom victory, he felt like tearing something apart with his bare hands.

As soon as he got home, he changed into sweats, tugged on a pair of his father’s old boxing gloves and headed to his weight room to take out his frustration on the punching bag. As classic Motown songs of redemption and heartbreak played in the background—

courtesy of his dad’s old record collection—Quentin jabbed and punched the bag as if he were fighting a despised opponent in the boxing ring.

By the time Smokey began crooning “The Tracks of My Tears,” Quentin had worked up a good lather. He pulled off the gloves and stalked to the kitchen to get some water.

A surprise awaited him inside the refrigerator.

An expensive bottle of Jameson Rarest Vintage Reserve—his favorite Irish whiskey.

With a slow, delighted smile spreading across his face, Quentin removed the bottle and read the attached note dictated in Lexi’s neat, looping script:
Congratulations, Q. I’m
so proud of you. Here’s a toast to my favorite crusader.

His gaze skipped further down the card.
P.S. But I’m still not speaking to you.

He scowled, then stared up at the ceiling and shook his head in resignation.

She giveth, and she taketh away.

W
olf’s Soul was crowded by the time Lexi and Byron arrived on Thursday evening.

Nearly every table and booth was occupied. Smooth, pulsing jazz performed by the Howlin’ Good band added to the lively din of laughter, conversation and clinking glasses that permeated the restaurant.

Surveying the crowd from the doorway, Byron grinned. “I usually miss working here. Not tonight, though.”

Lexi chuckled. “I don’t blame you.”

“Michael said he’d save us a table close to the stage.” Byron held out his arm to her.

“Shall we?”

Smiling, Lexi tucked her arm through his, and together they advanced into the deep, plush cave of the restaurant. As she scanned the faces in the crowd, she instinctively braced herself for the moment she’d see Quentin.

It didn’t take long.

He was seated at a table near the stage with a group of men. The “Morehouse Nine,”

as the friends were dubbed back in college, had remained thick as thieves over the years.

They held season tickets to Atlanta Falcons games and got together every month for a boys’

night out.

Quentin was leaning back in his chair with an air of lazy self-indulgence, a toothpick dangling from a corner of his mouth as he nursed a glass of—what else?—

whiskey. He was arrestingly masculine in a charcoal dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and the top three buttons undone. As Lexi watched, he made a joke that drew a round of raucous laughter from his friends. The sight of his irreverent white grin disarmed her, causing a deep ache of longing to wash over her. Despite the fact that she’d spent the past three days ignoring his phone calls, she missed Quentin. She missed being with him, talking to him, laughing with him. She wished they could go back to the way things used to be. But it was too late, and that saddened her. Deeply.

As if sensing the weight of her stare, Quentin glanced up suddenly, those piercing hazel eyes locking on to hers. Her breath caught in her throat. Something soft flickered in his eyes, disappearing a moment later when his gaze shot to Byron at her side. His expression hardened before he glanced away, coldly dismissing them.

But Byron had already spotted him. “Oh, hey, there’s Quentin,” he said, pointing excitedly. “Let’s go say hello.”

Lexi inwardly groaned. Greeting Quentin was the
last
thing she wanted to do, at least not until she’d knocked back a few drinks to calm her nerves. But there was no way for her to refuse without arousing Byron’s curiosity.

So she plastered on a bright smile and allowed herself to be led over to Quentin’s table. But as they drew closer, Byron spied one of his former law school classmates and made a detour to greet him, telling Lexi he’d catch up to her shortly.

As she approached Quentin’s table, she was met by a chorus of rowdy male voices and wolf whistles. “Hey, Sexy Lexi!” the men greeted her with the nickname they’d bestowed upon her years ago.

She grinned, tossing her bangs out of her eyes. “Evening, fellas.” Her gaze swept around the table, briefly meeting Quentin’s before passing on. “You boys staying out of trouble?”

“Depends on your definition of trouble,” one of the friends slyly intimated, which set off the usual round of deep laughter. Only Quentin remained silent, watching Lexi with a coolly veiled expression as he drank his whiskey.

“Damn, Lexi,” said Percy Sheldon, looking her over with frank male appreciation.

“You are
smokin’
hot tonight.”

There were nods and hearty echoes of agreement around the table.

“Why, thank you, fellas,” Lexi drawled, smiling demurely. “I do believe the handsomest men in this restaurant are sitting right here at this table.”

It was true, she realized. The eight black men gathered around the table could have been easily featured in
Essence
magazine’s annual bachelor issue. They were smart, successful, physically fit, with looks ranging from attractive to downright gorgeous. It was no wonder nearly every female eye in the restaurant was trained on their table. Surprisingly, only one of the friends was married. Michael—who was currently mixing and mingling with his customers—was the first member of the group to be taken off the market. They had a bet going about which one would get hitched next.

Against her will, Lexi found herself stealing a glance at Quentin. He was still watching her, his gaze sliding over her body as if he could see through her low-cut black dress, through her silk pantyhose and satin lingerie, right down to her naked flesh. It was a bold, deliberately possessive perusal. One intended to brand her, to remind her in no uncertain terms that she belonged to him—whether she’d arrived there with another man or not. It couldn’t have been more potent than if he’d run his hands all over her body.

Lexi shivered, heat pulsing through her veins.

“Hey, Lexi,” Percy said good-naturedly. “How come you never gave any of us the time of day, but you’re here on a date with that schoolboy? Now, you
know
he can’t handle a woman like you.”

She arched a brow, amused challenge in her eyes. “And you think you can, Percy?”

As the others whistled and hooted, Percy grinned broadly. “I sure would love a chance to find out. Matter of fact, why don’t you ditch the schoolboy and—ouch!” He whipped his head around to glare at Quentin. “Damn, Q, what the hell’d you kick me for?”

“Did I? My bad,” Quentin drawled lazily. “I was just stretching out my legs.

Sometimes I forget how far they reach.”

Everyone laughed as Percy scowled, leaning down to rub his injured shin.

Lips twitching, Lexi met Quentin’s gaze. The possessive gleam was back, letting her know that he’d kicked his friend on purpose, and would probably do worse if she continued flirting with him. Apparently,
he
was the only one allowed to flirt with others, Lexi thought sourly.

“Hey, guys,” Byron said, joining them.

A chorus of greetings went around the table.

Byron grinned at Quentin. “Hey, boss. Always great to see you outside of the office.”

Quentin inclined his head briefly.

Percy said to Byron, “The fellas and I were just wondering how you convinced Lexi to go out with you.”

A huge, goofy smile swept across Byron’s face as he gazed at Lexi. “Believe me, I know how lucky I am.”

Lexi smiled at him. “We should go claim our table before someone else does.”

Slipping her arm through his, she said to her friends, “Enjoy your evening, fellas.”

“You kids don’t stay out too late,” Quentin warned softly. “Byron’s got a busy day at work tomorrow.”

Byron grinned, gave a mock salute. “Yes, sir.”

As they moved off, Lexi could feel the searing heat of Quentin’s gaze boring into her, compelling her to glance back. But she resisted the urge. She knew the only way she’d be able to enjoy the evening was to put him out of her mind, starting now.

But this proved to be easier said than done, she soon discovered. Because even if she’d been able to pretend that Quentin wasn’t seated a few tables away, it wouldn’t have mattered. Byron couldn’t stop talking—correction,
gushing
—about him.

“…honestly don’t know how I could have gotten through law school without Quentin. He really took me under his wing, making sure I understood the course material and kept my grades up. And since he’d also gone to Emory, he was able to give me advice on how to deal with certain professors. He’s been great. I couldn’t have asked for a better mentor.”

“I’m sure,” Lexi murmured, taking a languid sip of wine. “Maybe you’d like to go sit with him. He’s probably a better date than me too.”

As her teasing words registered, an embarrassed flush crawled up Byron’s neck, and he groaned. “God, I am
so
sorry, Lexi. I can’t believe I’ve been sitting here going on and on about my boss. You must think I’m such a loser.”

“Not a loser,” she said with an indulgent smile. “You just have a slight case of hero worship.”

“Slight?”
Byron grimaced ruefully.

“It’s understandable.” Lexi paused, then added quietly, “Quentin and I have been friends for a very long time. Believe me, I know what a wonderful, generous guy he is.”

Which is why you’re trying to shut him out of your life, right?

She shook the troubling thought from her mind and smiled gently at Byron. “You don’t have to worry about filling every lull in our conversation. Just relax and be yourself.”

“Okay.” He smiled shyly at her.
Such a cutie pie.
“I’m really glad you’re here with me, Lexi.”

“Me too.” She ignored a pang of guilt at the reminder that she’d only gone on the date to take her mind off Quentin.

Joke’s on you,
her conscience mocked.

As the band struck up another set, Byron grinned teasingly and scooted his chair closer to hers. “I’d better start putting those pointers to good use.”

Lexi arched a brow at him. “Pointers?”

He looked sheepish. “I was so nervous about tonight that I went to an expert for dating advice. Without divulging your name, of course.”

“What expert?” But she needn’t have asked.

“Quentin.”

Lexi sighed. It was going to be a
long
night.

Q
uentin was still seething with fury the next morning when he stalked past his secretary’s desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Reddick,” she greeted him cheerfully.

“Morning,” he growled, because there was nothing “good” about it. “Has Byron come in yet?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“When he gets here, tell him to come see me.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like some coffee?”

“Not right now, thanks.”

He strode into his plush corner office suite—an upgrade Marcus had insisted upon when Quentin became joint owner last year.

Ignoring the broad expanse of windows that overlooked downtown Atlanta, Quentin dropped heavily into the chair behind his desk, scrubbed his hands over his face and tried to remember how many glasses of whiskey he’d imbibed last night to block out torturous mental images of Lexi and Byron writhing all over her bed. The new bed, which had replaced the one tainted by her ex-husband and his mistresses.

“Rough night?”

Quentin glanced up to find Marcus leaning in the open doorway with one shoulder propped on the doorjamb, hands tucked into his pockets. In no mood to be interrogated by another Wolf brother, Quentin grunted unintelligibly and reached for his phone to check his voice mail.

“I had to push our meeting up to ten-thirty,” Marcus informed him. “I’m going to be out for a few hours this afternoon.”

“Fine.”

Instead of leaving, Marcus entered the office and wandered over to the wall of windows. As he gazed out at the downtown skyline, the expression on his face reminded Quentin of a kid who was bursting to share a secret.

Reluctantly intrigued, Quentin set down the phone receiver. “What’s on your mind, Lit—Marcus?” He automatically checked himself before he called him “Little Man,” the nickname he and Michael had given Marcus when they were younger because he’d always tagged along after them, trying to hang with the big boys. Quentin made a point of not using the nickname when he and Marcus were at the office, but every so often it slipped out.

Marcus turned from the window, beaming from ear to ear. “Samara’s pregnant.”