For the first time in forever, I wake up with a smile on my face. I’ve seen Quinn every night for the past week.

Last night was the best night of all. He took me to dinner at a posh restaurant on top of some tower whose name I can’t recall. Our table was the only one on the terrace. And after dinner, we danced under the stars. We ended up at XYNYC after that, of course. He confessed he was part owner and enjoyed going there to relax, which isn’t a bad thing considering I like the music and food there, too. There were fewer paps this time, for which I was grateful.

I replay the previous magical seven days in my head as I bask in my warm bed. Among the many little pockets of awesome, the one I find most precious is the fact that Quinn is willing to give me time, to take things at my own pace.

I’ve never had that. Every significant encounter I’ve ever had to date was on someone else’s terms. What makes it even more special is that I know he wants to fuck the hell out of me. The anticipation alone has my hands moving down my body, wondering how it will feel to have him inside me when the time comes.

My brain rolls through a clutch of superlatives, some of which have me laughing out loud. Until that happens, I intend to enjoy his world class kissing.

Hunger eventually drives me from bed, after which I laze around, watch a movie. The phone stays silent and I breathe an inward sigh of relief as the hours tick by without a summons from Fionnella or Q. I don’t know how to take Q’s ominous silence, but by two, I know I probably won’t hear from either of them, so I’m free to spend the afternoon with Quinn as we planned.

Perversely, that acknowledgement slows time right down. I amble listlessly from bedroom to kitchen to living room. Eventually I turn the TV back on, channel surf aimlessly and stop at an entertainment channel. Some celebrity or other is skydiving naked off a mountain in South America. I roll my eyes and am about to flick to another channel when I freeze.

Quinn.

On TV.

My breath rushes out for two reasons.

One, dear God, the man is beautiful. Almost impossibly so. It hurts just to look at him full on.

Two, the look on his face chills my blood. It’s the same look he wore the first time I saw him. The deathly stillness, the soulless stare. But behind it, I see ravaging anguish. He’s standing at a podium of some sort with a group of people. My gaze moves to the man giving the speech, and I note the uncanny resemblance between father and son. I stare at Maxwell Blackwood for a moment before Quinn once again absorbs my attention.

When his father finishes speaking, he claps, but his expression doesn’t change. Amid the smiles and handshakes, his face remains a rigid mask. He leans sideways as the person next to him, a stunningly beautiful woman with straight black hair and piercing grey eyes, whispers in his ear. He straightens without answering or looking at her, but as they turn to leave the stage, Quinn’s hand slides around her waist.

Then, I watch, stunned, as his hand moves lower to her ass. The squeeze is lightning quick, over before it even begins, but my insides congeal.

I launch off the sofa, my hand fumbling with the control. I hit rewind, hoping, praying that I saw wrong. But yes, there it is. His hand. On her ass. Squeeze.

Oh God!

I stagger backward, force myself to listen to the rest of the newscast. Maxwell Blackwood intends to run for a second term as governor, blah blah blah….support of his second wife, Delilah Blackwood, and his son, Quinn Blackwood.

My heart drops to my feet.

He was copping a feel of his stepmother’s ass on live TV?

The remote drops from my numb fingers as I’m hurled once again into the Twilight Zone.

What the fuck?

Nausea rolls through my stomach. I return to the sofa before my legs give way.

I try to control my breathing. Calm the fuck down. There must be an explanation. But what, though? How do you explain something like that away?

I look back at the TV. The segment has moved on, but it’s still about Quinn. The caption Chameleon Blackwood is now slapped across the screen. Next to his normal clean-cut, suit wearing picture is another one in which he’s sporting a lighter hair color, a chilling frown, and giving the picture taker—most likely a pap—a finger. The background in the second picture looks like the outside of XYNYC. There’s no sound so I can’t hear what the segment’s about. The mute button must have activated when the remote fell. I frown at the two pictures.

My brain is firing warnings at me, but my mind is too fixated on that image of his hand on his stepmother’s ass to accommodate anything else.

The program moves on to another celebrity. I lie back and spike my fingers into my hair. I want to grab my phone, call him and demand an explanation.

But when it comes down to it, what rights do I have? We fell into this…thing…without rhyme or reason. And Quinn has been aware from the beginning that I have something else going on. Something he has accommodated. So really, I don’t have a leg to stand on.

That bracing reality drags spikes of pain through me. I’m still sitting on the sofa, staring into space, when he buzzes the door.

He’s wearing the dark grey suit from TV, minus the tie.

I try to smile when he walks in. I fail. I try to throw myself into the long, beautiful make out session he stages with my mouth. I succeed. But only just.

Silver blue eyes pierce me when he lifts his head. “Something’s wrong.”

No shit.

“I saw you on TV.”

That deathly stillness engulfs his whole body. “And?”

What could I say? You had your hand on your stepmother’s ass and besides the actively eww factor of it, I don’t know what to do with this insane jealousy riding me?

“Quinn, are you seeing someone else?”

The only reaction I get is a slight flare of his nostrils. “What sort of question is that?”

“A normal one that I should’ve asked before this…whatever this is, started.”

“I’m seeing you. Am I fucking someone else? Not right now. But I love to fuck, Elyse. I won’t deny it. I fuck when the urge takes me. I’m hoping to fuck the shit out of you when you’re done with your thing. When that happens, I intend for you to be the only one I fuck. Does that answer your question?”

Not even close. But I nod, because I can’t bring myself to ask the other question.

“Good, then let’s go.”

I glance down at my jeans and cream cashmere sweater. “Do I need to change?”

His eyes, still containing jagged shadows, fly over me. “No, come as you are. Maybe bring a scarf.”

“Where are we going?”

“For a drive. I need to clear my head. Do you mind?”

“No.” I could do with some head-clearing myself.

I hurry upstairs, slip my feet into new tan knee-high boots. I loop a long blue and silver scarf around my neck, glide on some lip gloss and leave my hair loose. I shove some money and my phone into one of my new cross-body purses and check myself out in the mirror one last time.

His jacket is off and he’s pacing the living room when I return. The moment he catches sight of me, he holds out his hand. A tight knot inside me eases. When I reach him, he takes my hand, pulls me close and kisses me long and hard before he walks us out the door.

He’s not driving the DB9 today. Sitting on the curb is another low slung sports car. A silver Mercedes-AMG. It looks scarily powerful.

He helps me into it, tosses his jacket into the back, and walks around to his side with stilted movements. The throaty engine roars to life and he burns rubber as he leaves the curb. He doesn’t talk as we endure the late afternoon traffic out of Manhattan, but he catches my hand, kisses my knuckles a few times before resting it on his thigh. Jazz and rock anthems blast from the speakers.

It’s not until we hit the outskirts of New Jersey that he lowers the volume.

“Whatever you saw on TV…it’s complicated.” His voice is low, coarse as gravel.

The nausea threatens again. “There’s complicated and then there’s complicated. Which kind are we talking about?”

He doesn’t even blink. “The second kind.”

My heart drops. “I don’t know what to do with that, Quinn.”

He stays silent for a mile or two. Then he glances at me. “That relief you offered. I’m asking for it now.”

God.

“Tell me I didn’t see what I think I saw on TV?” I press.

His eyes leave the road for a second. The black shadows have multiplied. “I’m not into anyone else, Elyse. Right now, you’re the only thing I want.”

Right now. What about last week? What about next week?

The words stick in my throat. I remind myself I don’t have any rights here.

“You can’t live like this, Quinn.” Whatever’s going on, it’s taking a dangerous toll on him.

I’m surprised when he nods. “It’ll be over soon.” They’re more than just words. They’re a dark, solemn pledge that vibrates through the car.

My breath shudders out and I nod in return. “Okay. Then, whatever you need, I’m here.”

His chest rises and falls in a deep exhale. He turns the music back up and shoves his foot on the gas. We fly up interstate highways and eventually emerge into the countryside. In the late afternoon sun, spring colors bloom. The roads are relatively traffic-free, and Quinn’s smooth driving lulls us both into calmer states.

An age later, I see signs for the Catskills. We stop for an early dinner at a local pub. Conversation is light and limited, but Quinn remains attentive, his gaze running over me several times as we eat.

After we’re done, we head back to the car. He kisses me before I get back in, and my hand returns to his thigh as we drive deeper into the Catskills.

Alpine countryside and historic B&Bs whizz by as the Mercedes eats up the miles.

Eventually, he pulls to a stop in Catskills Park. When he leaves the car, I follow. We hike a short distance to a still lake. Quinn shoves his hands into his pockets, walks off by himself, his shoulders hunched as he stares into the water.

I want to hug him, but the vibes he’s throwing off make me keep my distance. After about ten minutes, he retraces his steps to me.

“My mother loved it here,” he says without looking up from the lake. “When she wanted to get out of the city, we would drive up here, spend the night at a B&B and return home in the morning. Just me and her.”

My heart squeezes at the raw anguish in his voice. “That must have been special for you.”

“Yes. I thought so.”

I frown at the odd note. “You don’t think it was for her?”

He shrugs. “I wish she would’ve trusted me.”

“With what?”

He looks at me and his eyes are terrifying again. “Enough to tell me why she needed to escape. Enough to let me save her.”

“How…from what?”

“From him. From Maxwell.”

Shock stabs me. “Your father?”

He doesn’t respond. His face turns desolately bleak and he stares back at the water. After five harrowing minutes pass, I give in to the urge and hug him.

He stiffens and pushes away from me so violently, I stumble.

He immediately curses and lunges toward me. “Elyse, I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…”

I hold out my hands and dive out of his reach, my heart hammering. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

His hands ball into fists, and his chest rises and falls in ragged breaths. We stare at each other for a fistful of heartbeats, then I slowly hold out my hand.

He takes it, clenches his fingers tight around mine, and we walk back to the car. We drive around a little more and end up outside a quaint, centuries-old white and blue clapboard house with a B&B sign on the outside.

Quinn parks on the curb and looks broodily at the property.

“This is where you used to stay?” I venture.

He nods and points to the tiny turret jutting out from the roof. “Right at the top. It was my own personal castle for a night.”

 On impulse, I step out of the car, go round to his side and hold out my hand. “I’d like to see it,” I say with a smile.

He hesitates for a moment, but then steps out. We climb the small hill and enter the parlor reception area. A woman in her fifties emerges from a back office and smiles at us. Her chest tag reads MANAGER.

“How can I help you folks?”

I exchange glances with Quinn. He raises an eyebrow, his eyes gleaming with the barest hint of amusement. “Uh…this is a probably an odd request, but my uh…friend here, used to stay here with his mom,” I look at Quinn, but he doesn’t seem inclined to help. “We…he wants to see the room upstairs…where they used to stay?”

The woman looks from me to Quinn and back again. “You mean you want to book it for the night?”

“Um, well, not exactly—”

“Yes. Is it available?” Quinn asks.

My eyes widen in a what-are-you-doing query, but he ignores me.

The woman nods with a slight frown. “It is, but the beds in there are two singles, not a double. Are you sure you don’t want another—?”

“We’ll take it.” Quinn pulls out his wallet and slides his black card and ID across the desk.

She picks up the ID, sees his name and her eyes widen. “Quinn? You’re Adele Blackwood’s son?”

He nods tersely.

Her face softens. “I was sad to read about her passing. She was a lovely woman.”

Stillness engulfs him. “Thanks.”

She senses the subject isn’t one to linger on, so she enters his details, and hands back his cards. “If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll grab the keys and take you up.”

The moment she disappears, I turn to Quinn. “This isn’t a good idea.”

His eyes hook into me. “Why not? Do you have some place else to be?”

“No. But—”

“It’s just for one night, Elyse.”