Читать книгу Men Like This - Roxanne Smith - Страница 9

“Let me see if I’ve got this right.” Emily Buzzly’s disapproval came clear as packing tape through the telephone receiver. “You slept with a strange Irish man claiming to be a famous actor because Richard took you to a nightclub and offered you champagne?”

Quinn stared at the ceiling over the standard-issue queen-size bed and counted to three. It didn’t take. She still had a vague urge to strangle her sister. She counted to ten with marginally more success.

She no longer recalled what insane notion had entered her mind and induced her to call Emily. She sighed.

That was a lie. She’d awoken with a mind-numbing hangover that had her desperately grasping for the memories of the night before. They were coming back to her like a half-remembered dream. She needed to talk about Jack for him to seem real. Emily was the only person guaranteed to be awake at this hour.

She was also the one person guaranteed to take a perfectly wonderful evening and make it sound like a plot for the next big made-for-TV movie.

“We’re both adults here. Shouldn’t I be able to tell you stuff like this and get spared the lecture? Do you realize how long it’s been for me? Do you? I’ll tell you, Em. A year. A flippin’ year. Sex wasn’t happening for me long before Blake got found out. Chew on that for a minute.”

Emily didn’t empathize. She wasn’t the empathetic type. “From where I’m standing, this appears to be the self-destructive behavior of a lonely and recently divorced woman who misses her son.”

The comment set Quinn’s teeth on edge. “I can’t believe you went there. This has nothing to do with Seth. Forget it. I’m too old to explain myself to anyone, let alone you. I called the wrong person for the conversation I wanted to have.”

“Don’t overreact.” Somehow, Emily managed to end up the offended party whenever they got into these spats. Quinn had long since given up trying to figure out how she did it. “I’m only trying to help. I don’t understand you sometimes, though. Richard is great. He’s handsome; he makes good money—”

“You don’t say.”

“He obviously likes you. Oh, and there’s the thing where he knows you. What’s so bad about Richard you’d prefer a total stranger?”

Wrong with Richard? Quinn tapped her chin thoughtfully. Where to start….

Instead of answering her sister’s question directly, she opted for painting a larger picture. “For the sake of your peace of mind allow me to explain last night through my eyes.”

Emily huffed, but relented. “Fine. I’m listening.”

Quinn stood from the bed and smoothed a hand over her bare knee where her cotton nightshirt had ridden up her thigh. She took a deep breath in preparation. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? You may have missed the part of this story where I spent the last fifteen years of my life married to a lying bastard who didn’t love me. The last five years of said marriage I spent sharing him with another woman whom he did love—you’ve met Kira?”

“I was there.” She practically heard her sister’s eyes roll.

Quinn paced as she got into her story. “Oh, good. We’re on the same page. Last night, four months after my divorce, I meet this guy. This sexy, charming, hilarious, totally engaging guy. We talked and talked and talked. I mean hours. He said things I have desperately needed someone to say. I’ve gone years—five years to be exact—without the things a woman simply needs to hear sometimes. I understand how men fake it to get laid. It’s kind of their thing. I learned that lesson back in high school like every other girl. The part you aren’t grasping, sister of mine, is I don’t care.”

Quinn waited for a burst of indignation or righteousness to come through the phone line, but silence reigned. She continued. “You probably envision me laying out my sad little story and lavishing in my Irishmen’s accented pity, but it was mature. It was…”

What was it?

She wanted to call it magical and important. He’d even called her Quinnie. Only their dad ever called her that. She wanted to say Jack was special, but Emily’s cynicism would ruin everything and make Quinn see the truth.

The only difference between Jack and Richard came down to success and failure.

“Let’s say the sex was symbiotic. He wanted to get laid. I needed to get laid. We used each other, and it was lovely. Bottom line? I don’t regret last night, and you can’t make me.”

Emily had no comment regarding her little rant. “What happened this morning? I can only imagine how awkward it must’ve been.”

“Not awkward at all. He’d left by the time I woke up.”

“Ha! How can you not feel used waking up alone after what you claim was some wonderful night?”

Quinn took a steadying breath. “I asked him to be gone in the morning.”

She was silent for a beat. “Why?”

Quinn was too dejected to pace any longer and returned to the bed. She wasn’t accustomed to feeling stupid. It took the fight right out of her. “To preserve the illusion. Jack was spectacular in bed and out. He was literally perfect, Em. I couldn’t have designed a more ideal man if God gave me holy molding clay and told me to have at it. Right now I can’t handle being confronted by another hurtful truth on top of everything else. I’d really appreciate it if you’d quit trying to shove this one down my throat. There’s nothing you can say I haven’t already figured out for myself and chosen to ignore. Call it selective awareness.”

Finally, Emily backed down. “I’m sorry. I really am. I forget how rough you’ve had it lately.”

Rough hardly touched the surface, but Quinn accepted the rare apology. “I have to keep believing Jack was perfect. If he’d woken up and bolted, or even farted at the wrong moment, the whole thing would’ve depressed me.”

Emily turned soothing. “Okay, I understand. How did he react when you asked him to go?”

Quinn studied her toes. Recalling Jack’s hurt expression made her uncomfortable. First, because she wasn’t certain she hadn’t imagined it. It could’ve been his I’m-off-the-hook face.

He’d mumbled something about a flight to catch, which effectively stopped her from recanting the request. It had been the only awkward moment in an otherwise-perfect night.

She lied. It was easier than listening to Emily convince her of the worst possible scenario. “He was obviously relieved. He told me he had a plane leaving the next day. See? It worked out for everyone.”

Quinn ended the call a short time later.

Talking to Emily had a way of bringing her down. She was lightning quick to point out Quinn’s mistakes. Everything from how she’d reacted to Blake’s affair—divorce was so extreme—to what guy she should’ve slept with last night became fodder for Big Sister’s Petri Dish of Scrutiny.

Quinn refused to have regrets. Sure, the odds Jack was the wonderful, perfect man he’d been last night in her foggy, beer-laden memories were astronomically low. She liked to believe he’d have been there with fresh coffee and his phone number on a sticky note this morning, but logic told her she’d have woken up alone all the same. Thanks to men like Richard and Blake, she knew better than to walk into a trap like Jack Decker.

Besides, he’d had a flight to catch.

A melancholy mood came over her, a little emotional soup to wade through courtesy of Jack and a mad hangover.

Who was the Irishman when he wasn’t trying to get something? He’d still be sexy, but would he still be charming and intelligent, funny and direct, empathetic and earnest? Which attributes were full-time qualities and which were employed at will?

She didn’t really want to know. The truth would likely destroy her fantasies of him. Best to preserve the illusion like she’d told Emily.

Preserve.

Memories faded. In another month she’d hardly be able to recall what Jack looked like, let alone the musical quality of his accent or the searing teal color of his eyes.

But words persevered. They brought life to stories and characters centuries old. If she really wanted to hang on to her version of Jack, the smartest thing to do was write him.

Hadn’t she told him what an interesting character he’d make mere moments after meeting him? Wasn’t this the very definition of fate?

She sprang from the bed and nearly collided with the desk chair as she raced for the courtesy notepad with the hotel’s logo printed at the top. She snatched up the pen and jotted down every last physical detail she recalled—his hair, his eyes, and the way his grin went lopsided when he said something clever. This character would be her best yet. He’d be smart and savvy; the perfect hero for any story. She’d need a plot able to stand up to him. Something complex, emotive, and built to showcase his range of funny and feeling.

Her creative frenzy came to a sudden stop. She chewed on the end of the pen and slid despondently into the chair.

She didn’t work with the concept of heroines and heroes. Jack’s character would never be fully realized in a horror novel. The genre revolved around victims and survivors. His sexual appeal would be wasted with his energy put into solving a crime. Writing him as the villain was unthinkable. The only place a character like Jack would be done justice was—

“Oh, no. No, no, no. Not happening.” Quinn stood up and stalked over to the window. She looked out over L.A. from ten stories up through sheer curtains and tried to come to terms with where her instincts were guiding her.

“A romance? I can’t write a romance. Richard will laugh me out of his office. He’ll say I’ve gone soft, lost my edge.”

She slowly meandered back toward the desk and the pad of paper. It called to her and willed her to indulge like a triple-threat brownie sundae.

Why not a romance? It wasn’t so different. Plot was plot. A story was a story.

Jack needed to be written. She wouldn’t dare risk falling in love with him, but her readers could. His Irish background provided ample material for a beautiful and tragic historical romance. The moment her brain accepted its fate, ideas for plot and setting began bouncing around in her head itching to be put on paper.

She reclaimed her seat at the desk and began to write.

* * * *

“You’ll need time.” Douglas, Quinn’s dad, picked through the last of his dinner salad. He pushed the red onion off to the side where it would remain uneaten. “More than usual. The basics are probably the same, but I doubt the details will be.”

Quinn swirled her glass of water. The lemon slice and ice cubes spun in circles. They were at an upscale diner in Beverly Hills seated at a square little table for two in a quiet corner of the dining room. From her vantage point, she could people-watch and silently judge others for their menu choices. Who ordered banana pudding with chocolate cheesecake and tiramisu on the menu?

“My standard year and then some. I’ll have a better grasp on timeline once I’ve completed my outline.” She shook her head. “Talk about a different animal. None of the same rules apply.”

When it came to good advice, Quinn would be hard-pressed to call on anyone better than her father. He was the anti-Emily, always supportive and caring. However, like her sister, he wouldn’t quell at sharing his opinion. He hadn’t batted an eye when she’d slipped her idea of writing a romance novel into their conversation. It was all the encouragement she needed.

“Research.” He pointed his fork at her, his eyebrows raised knowingly. “That’ll be a challenge.”

She chased a crouton across her plate. “You’re right. I’ve been slashing for so long there’s not much I have to study up on to write an accurate bloodbath scene. I could probably analyze blood spatter for the LAPD crime scene unit if I ever needed a real job. But romance is a whole new search log. Thank God for the Internet, right?”

Douglas gave her a disappointed look through his silver square-framed glasses. He was still handsome at his sixty-some odd years. His thick hair had the good grace to turn stark white rather than fall out as he’d aged, and he was the source of Emily’s chocolate-brown eyes. The uncommon hue of Quinn’s green eyes had come from their mother.

Her father’s body language put her on the defensive. She squared her shoulders. “What?”

He glared at her intently the way he did anytime he was adamant about a point, which made it impossible to look away. It proved a more effective tactic when he didn’t have a mouthful of lettuce.

With his usual intensity dulled by food, he let his words do the talking. “The Internet won’t churn butter this time, Quinnie. You want this romance idea of yours to fly it’s got to be genuine. You can’t have stale nuggets of information taken from the pages of Wikipedia. You’ve got to infuse your history with emotion, and the emotion has to reflect the history of the place and the era.”

Jeez. She hadn’t expected the passionate argument. She also hadn’t planned on her dad finding fault in her research techniques. She quirked a brow. “How do I go about doing emotionally enriching research on eighteenth-century Great Britain?” She posed the question with equal parts sarcasm and sincerity. She wanted a real answer but didn’t expect he’d have one.

Their entrees arrived. She waited patiently for an answer while he paused to slice a thin piece of filet mignon before giving his matter-of-fact reply. “You go.” His eyes never left his steak.

Quinn choked on the huge bite of penne rigate she had shoveled into her mouth. She gasped and grabbed for a napkin with one hand and water with the other. After she recovered, she sought clarification. Surely, her ears deceived her. “I’m sorry, did you say I go? Like…go to Europe? To write a book? That’s nuts, Dad. I don’t have time for a vacation right now, not even a working one.”

“Not vacation. Move there. Spend the whole year in Europe. London is the ideal base. Lots of museums, tons of history.” He didn’t seem to grasp the absurdity of the idea. He tucked into his mashed potatoes without a care for how her head spun.

Her meal sat untouched since she’d nearly checked out on a piece of pasta. Driving when you were upset was a bad idea. Apparently eating while experiencing high emotion was equally dangerous. “I can’t go to London. Seth would hate me. Blake would… Well, Blake probably wouldn’t care. Still, it’s fanciful and nuts. Mostly nuts.”

He shrugged. Your funeral, the motion seemed to say. “If you’re going to do something, do it right. Otherwise—”

“Don’t bother.” Quinn finished the familiar axiom with a moan. Only a fair amount of willpower allowed her to resist the dramatic eye roll that had been the standard response of her youth. “London, Dad? London? What about Seth?”

This time his shrug came touched with impatience. “I’m not saying jump on a plane tomorrow. Find a house, get joint custody, and take him with you. Lots of kids spend a year abroad. It’s a great educational opportunity for a boy his age.”

She shook her head even as she gave the idea true consideration for the first time. She sipped water to soothe her suddenly parched throat. “I don’t know, Dad. There’s no guarantee Seth will want to go. He could end up hating me no matter the outcome of the custody hearing.”

“Quinnie. Listen to me. You’ve never done anything for you, never done a thing because you felt like it and wanted to. This is your chance. There will always be a million reasons to hold back from doing what you want, a million people telling you not to.”

Already, he had a point.

“Seth is thirteen. He’s the kid, you’re the adult. If you’re going to London for a year and he doesn’t like it, he can stay with his dad. Blake doesn’t have to like it, either. He’s Seth’s father, and that’s his damn job. In my mind, the bastard owes you. Who put college aside to take care of Seth when he was a baby? Not Blake, that’s for sure.”

Douglas went back to his steak with a little more punch. Discussing Blake agitated him. She loved having someone on her side, especially since Emily tended to accuse her of “overreacting” to Blake’s five-year affair, but Quinn didn’t like upsetting her dad.

Most of the insult seemed to come from the way Blake treated her career with complete disregard. Her hard-won accolades were of no more consequence than if she’d been named ringleader of the neighborhood canasta club. It was a lucrative hobby, an easy occupation for a housewife who didn’t want to work too hard doing a real job.

Blake wore the stiffly starched pants in their relationship, and it was crucial to his reputation he maintain the image no matter how many of his clients were avid Clementine Hazel readers. And many of them were. It served as an interesting conversational piece at business dinners, but that was about it.

Her dad broke into her wandering thoughts with a reminder of what lie ahead rather than lay behind. “This is a great time to settle a few other things, besides family matters.”

She nodded and poked at the cold pasta on her plate. “Buy a house, like you said.”

“Why buy when you can rent? No use making such a permanent decision when you’re on the cusp of change. I meant Richard.”

“Oh. That.” In times like these, she questioned whether she perhaps shared too much with her dad.

“Yes, that. A woman is more likely to support your change in genres.”

Quinn refused to make eye contact. “Very sexist of you.”

“Sure, but it’s also true.” He shrugged as if in apology but didn’t seem a bit sorry. “Fire Richard while you have cause.”

In a strange way, she was grateful for Richard’s stunt. Through his ill-fated attempt to seduce her, she’d discovered her newest muse. Poor guy. He’d done all the leg work for someone else to take home the prize. It’d be like if she wrote the thriller of the year, and another author’s name showed up on the book cover.

“Maybe.” She wouldn’t commit until she had time to mull it over. Firing an agent wasn’t a decision to make lightly, especially an agent as successful as Richard.

Douglas didn’t let it settle there. He was like a dog with a pig ear. “Richard is a rat. There’s always been something off about him, don’t you think? A shadiness I can’t quite put my finger on, but it’s definitely there. I’ll bet you a twenty right now he’s not going to support this romance idea of yours. Switching genres for an author like you is starting over again, your entire career, from scratch. You’ll have to prove yourself, but it’s up to your agent to sell the product. It helps if he believes in what he’s selling. Richard is a very good agent. Doesn’t make him the right agent, does it?”

Quinn finally braved another bite of cold penne rigate and waited until it went down smoothly before giving her dad an unsatisfactory answer. He wouldn’t like it, but she wouldn’t rush into a decision no matter how many fine points he made.

“I’ll visit Richard tomorrow, okay? If you’re right, maybe I’ll do something about it. My bigger dilemma is figuring out if I’m seriously attempting to go to London. I still say it’s madness.”

Douglas raised his white caterpillar eyebrows. “Oh? And premier horror novelist Clementine Hazel writing a romance isn’t?”

He had her there.

“You’ve got a fan base of blood-lusting, thrill-seeking readers. To satisfy them with a love story it’s gotta be nothing short of epic. I mean, a real sweeping masterpiece that can’t be denied no matter what section of the library they house it in.” He held his hands out wide as though cradling the earth itself. “Epic.”

Quinn shook her head in awe of herself. “You’re right. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you’re right. Oh, God.” Her hand flew to her chest. “I’m going to have a panic attack.”

Douglas signaled for the waiter without any show of concern. “Can it wait until after dessert? How does banana pudding sound? It’s both delicious and virtually impossible to choke on.”

Quinn threw her napkin down. “I’ll be in the car.”