With a Twist (13 page)

“Let’s hear you
sing the praises of that oaf Quinn O’Brien now.”

Natalie was standing in the kitchen at Vivi’s, watching her sister and her two cooks prepare for the inevitable lunch rush. Natalie had barely slept, her anger over Quinn’s abrupt departure from the concert keeping her awake.

For a few brief seconds after he left, the surrounding concertgoers glared at her as if she were somehow responsible for his behavior. Natalie glared back, then spent the rest of the concert seething.

His flimsy exit line “I have to go,” was downright insulting in its vagueness. They were on a date, for God’s sake. Didn’t she deserve a real explanation? Something along the lines of “There’s a family emergency,” if indeed that’s what it was? “I have to go” told her nothing. Go where? To the newspaper office? Out on a story? To see another woman, who just found out she’s pregnant? By the time she got home, her imagination was out of control, and she was dangerously close to irrationality, intending to quit waitressing at the Wild Hart so she’d never have to see him again. But then she realized she
wanted
to see him again; she wanted to berate him for the way he’d treated her. It was the least he deserved.

Vivi pressed the crust of a quiche into a pie plate. “I’m sure he had a very good reason for running out on you, Natalie.”

“Well, if he did, he could have told me.”

“I’m sure he will, as soon as he can.” She motioned for Natalie to pass her the plate of crisped bacon in front of her, which Vivi began crumbling. “How’s the job hunt going?”

Natalie groaned. “Only one interview so far. A waste of time. The owner was a buffoon from Normandy who hates Parisians. He as much as told me he was only talking to me as a favor to Anthony. He also told me I wasn’t ready to manage a restaurant of medium size. That I should start small and work my way up.”

“That sounds like good advice.”

“What does he know? He’s from Normandy.” Vivi caught her eye, and they both laughed.

“I miss you,” Natalie blurted. “I miss working here.”

“I thought you said there’s nothing to do here for someone single.”

“There isn’t,” Natalie said glumly.

“Don’t be so impatient, Natalie. Things will work out.”

“That’s easy for you to say. You have your own business, a good man who loves you . . .” Natalie looked down, trailing her index finger back and forth across the stainless steel table. “I’m envious of you,” she admitted quietly.

Vivi stopped crumbling bacon and came to Natalie’s side, forcing her to look up at her. “You’re being ridiculous. Where’s that imperious Parisian I know and love?”

Natalie cracked a small smile.

“If I may put my four dollars in—”

“The expression is ‘two cents,’ Vivi.”

“If I may put my two cents in, I think he’s a good man who’s been fond of you for a very long time, and if you give him a chance, you’ll find love, too.”

Natalie hesitated. “I’m not sure he’s as refined as I’d like.”

“He took you to the symphony!”

“Yes, but I could tell he didn’t like it, even though he claims it’s one of his favorite things to do! He was fidgety and distracted.”

“You’re just looking to find things that are wrong with him because you’re scared. Didn’t you tell me on the phone the other day that he took you to L’Orangerie and the two of you had a lovely time? That he made you laugh and was very interesting? That he impressed you?”

Natalie cast down her eyes. “Yes.” She paused. “But there’s another man who impresses me, too. One who presents a more sophisticated face to the world.”

“Who, that Mason Clement you told me about?” Vivi sounded dubious.

Natalie looked back up at her. “Yes.”

“You said there was no spark between you.”

Natalie squirmed. “Yes, but maybe a spark could ignite. He wants to see me again.”

“Do you want to see him?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. It’s not like Quinn and I are a couple.” Natalie paused thoughtfully. “Yes, I think I will see Mason again. Why not?”

Vivi scowled. “Are you just trying to get back at Quinn for leaving you at the symphony?”

“No!”
Well, maybe,
Natalie thought. Maybe it would teach him that she was not the type of woman you could just dash out on without explaining why.

“I think you’re overreacting. I’m sure Quinn has a perfectly good explanation for leaving in the middle of the concert.”

“He better have. In the meantime, I see no harm in seeing Mason again.”

13

This was a mistake,
Natalie thought to herself, sitting with Mason in a cozy little candlelit bistro in the Village. As charming and witty as Mason was, all she could think about was that baboon, Quinn O’Brien. It wasn’t fair to Mason. Natalie had to tell him that as much as she enjoyed his company, she just wanted to be friends.

Mason must have been reading her mind, because he unexpectedly introduced the topic of Quinn into the conversation.

“I was at the Hart last week, and Quinn O’Brien came in raving about what a wonderful date he’d been on. I kept thinking there was only one person he could be talking about: you.”

Natalie grew guarded. “We had dinner, yes.”

“Are you seeing him?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

Mason looked irritated. “Are you going to go out with him again?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

“Well, I want it to be.”

Natalie blinked. “Pardon?”

Mason’s hand came across the table to rest firmly atop hers. “I really enjoy your company, Natalie. I would like—I would love—if we started dating each other exclusively.”

“Exclusively,” Natalie repeated dumbly. As delicately as she could without being hurtful, she slid her hand from beneath his and took a deep breath. “Mason, I think you are a wonderful, very interesting man. But—”

He cut her off, frowning. “Is this about O’Brien?”

“No,” she lied.

“Then why not go out with me?”

His arrogance reminded her of Quinn, but with one difference: had Quinn said that, her heart would secretly beat a little faster. Irksome and egotistical as Quinn was, at least she felt alive in his presence—not that she still wasn’t angry with him. With Mason, there was nothing beyond casual fondness.

“I enjoy talking to you, Mason. But I can’t see us being anything more than friends. I’m sorry.”

Mason’s eyes fixed on a spot over her shoulder. “I see,” he said coldly.

This is horrible. Totally horrible and painful, to hurt a nice person this way.
Not wanting to prolong the agony for either of them, she rose. “What do I owe for my half of dinner?”

“Don’t be silly,” Mason scoffed.

“I just feel—”

“Like you owe me something for letting me down? That’s silly, Natalie. Sit down and finish your coffee.” He motioned for the check. “I’m glad we’ll still be friends.”

“Me, too.”

“I’ll see you home when we’re done.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Mason looked deflated. “Then I guess I’ll see you at the Wild Hart.”

“Gimme five minutes.”

Quinn could
feel
Kenny Durham’s eyes burning a hole in his back as he frantically hammered out some notes from a recent conversation on his computer.

“Five minutes,” Quinn repeated when Durham didn’t move. He had to get all the info down while it was still fresh in his head, especially since he couldn’t read half the shit he’d jotted down on his notepad. It didn’t help that he typed using only two fingers, his brain racing faster than his fingers could keep pace with.

Durham sighed, walking away, but Quinn couldn’t worry about him right now. The notes he was typing—he was pretty sure he had a possible lead on something pretty big going down right in his own neighborhood. God bless connections, discontent, and unnamed sources.

He finished his typing with a final flourish and went to find Durham. His friend was sitting with his feet up on his desk, his fingers laced behind his head, deep in thought.

“What’s up?” Quinn asked.

Durham turned to look at him. “What’s up with
you
?”

Quinn tapped the side of his head. “Had to get down what’s in here. You know I can’t read my own handwriting half the time.”

“Use your damn digital voice recorder.”

“I do. But in general I hate that thing. Looking at notes is easier for me.”

“God, you’re such a Luddite.” Durham rubbed his eyes wearily. “I have no goddamn idea what the theme for Thursday’s crossword puzzle should be, and it’s due in half an hour.”

“Monkeys? Nuns? Lindsay Lohan?”

“I’m being serious here,” Durham whined. “Help me out, you pain in the ass.”

Quinn thought. “Mayors of New York.”

“Good one.” He jerked his head in the direction of Quinn’s desk. “You ever follow up on the stuff about the Porcos losing the bid?”

Quinn grinned. “Oh yeah.”

Durham’s eyebrows lifted. “Care to elaborate?”

“Not yet.”

“Quinn O’Brien, International Man of Mystery.”

“You know it.”

“There
are
some things you
should
tell your friends, though.”

“Like—?”

“I heard through the grapevine that you were out on a date the other night.”

“So?”

“Was it with
Natalie
?” Durham prodded.

Quinn readjusted his watch. “Maybe.”

Christ, he’d been so busy he hadn’t been to the Hart in a few days. Crime tended to come in waves. Things would be relatively quiet for a while, and then bam! He’d be running his ass off all over the five boroughs. Of course, Mademoiselle Natalie probably assumed he was just avoiding her. She had been royally pissed at him when he called to apologize. She understood the emergency but reamed him out for not explaining what was going on before bolting from the concert. He knew she was right.

“You’ve got some serious competition, you know.”

Quinn yawned with boredom. “You already told me she went out with Clement. Old news.”

“No,
new
news: she went out with him again. Met him here last night, and they left together.”

What the hell?
After he’d shelled out four hundred smackers to take her to the symphony? Yeah, she had a right to be upset with him, but this was spite. And it pissed him off.

“You look kinda pale, Quinnie boy.”

“I just need coffee,” Quinn growled.

She wasn’t the only one who deserved an explanation.