Chapter Four
Quinn barreled up the rest of the stairs, swiping the stinging tears from her cheeks. Why couldn’t she ever get angry without tears? And more importantly, why had her body melted into Ronan’s with zero resistance? Wasn’t she supposed to hate him? Supposed to never fall for another Irishman?
Wanting to erase his taste, she scrubbed the back of her hand over her lips. Useless. The taste and feel of him lingered. The phantom touch of his hands tingled around her waist. The slight sting in her hair from his tugging fingers remained.
The space between her thighs pulsated, swollen and damp. If his mouth elicited that kind of response, what could the rest of his body do? It was so, so tempting to find out, if only to pacify the hormones pummeling her insides.
She shook her head and slapped her fists against the side of her thighs. The schizoid Stockholm syndrome she was suffering from had to stop. She’d known him for less than twelve hours, yet here she was, ready to spread ‘em and have him take her against a wall.
Destroying her livelihood and future was his M.O. For Christ’s sake, he was blackmailing her. He wouldn’t get away with it. No matter what it took, she’d fight for what was hers, and she’d stay away from him until she got her hormones on a leash.
She grabbed a set of linens from the laundry room, made her way to the Àine suite, and stood by the threshold, inspecting her home for the next week.
Apart from two unlit sconces on either side of a shabby needlepoint tapestry depicting a bored lady on a white stallion, the exposed stone walls were bare. There was no real color scheme or much furniture. Gray damask curtains hung by two latticed windows, and a heavy, carved chair which wouldn’t look out of place in a church sat in front of a curved vanity table with an age-speckled mirror. Two flowery wing-backed chairs stood at an angle by the weak fire Brendan had lit. In the center of the room was a bed—a four-poster queen canopied by sheer drapes.
She gave her head a quick shake. Nope. Not happening. Not in this lifetime or the next. The size of the bed settled it. Since her body sent her mind on vacation whenever Ronan was around, there would be no bed sharing. Too bad for him if he didn’t want to sleep on the floor. But maybe he… No.
She sighed and closed the door behind her. There was no point stalling in the hallway. This was her new home whether she liked it or not. She threw the linens hanging over her arm onto the unmade mattress. Brendan, being an angel as always, had already brought up her suitcase.
Jack Frost dashed around the room, and Quinn shivered under the vicious nip of his fingers. Needing to chase the chill from the air, she grabbed two pieces of peat from a brass bucket by the grate and threw them onto the wispy flames. Satisfied by the earthy aroma the spiraling smoke gave off, she toed off her boots and kicked them toward the bed. The flagstone floor cooled her burning insteps, and if her feet could talk, she was sure they would offer profuse thanks for their freedom.
She padded across the floor to the window. The storm outside didn't show any signs of letting up. Deceptively innocent snowflakes spiraled downward, disintegrating on contact with the sluggish Lough Veagh. By morning, a shell of ice and a blanket of snow would cover its surface.
Pressure built behind her eyes. What a mess. Twenty-eight years old working for a pittance and praying the one man who knew her secret would keep it. How did she let it come to this?
Daylight dimmed, and drowsiness trickled into her bones. Ignoring her tired reflection, she leaned her forehead against the frosted windowpane, her warm breath fogging the inside of the glass. If she could get through the next few days without falling to the floor and curling into the fetal position, she could get through anything.
A dull ache pulsed between her shoulder blades, and she rolled her shoulders back to work out the kinks. Wedding planning could wait for another hour while she soaked in a bath hot enough to scald her skin. Disappearing from reality for a while was the perfect solution. Closing her eyes and pretending she hadn’t said the most infuriating and sexiest stranger she’d ever met was her fiancé was exactly what she needed.
Subdued light from a frosted window spilled into the slate-tiled bathroom. A broom-closet-sized shower cubicle stood at the far end of the room, and a heavenly white claw-footed tub with a curved top sat in the middle.
Beside the tub sat a wicker basket filled with a dusty mishmash of soaps and soaks. She rummaged around and chose a small purple bottle with a picture of lavender on the label. There was no knowing how old it was or if it was still in date, and there was only one way to find out. She opened the bottle and sniffed. It didn’t smell like it would melt her skin on contact.
She turned the squeaky faucets and poured the liquid into the steaming flow of water. A soft, musky aroma drifted upward, and she prayed it would help unwind some of the tension in her muscles. The thought of lowering herself into the plump bubbles and soaking until her skin wrinkled filled her with happy anticipation.
Making sure she locked the bathroom door, because Ronan catching her naked and covered in bubbles would be a disaster, she undressed.
She tested the water temperature with her toes and then inched her adrenaline-ravaged body into the welcoming warmth. Her muscles turned to goo on contact. A glass of wine would relax her more, or even better, a bottle. Lily had the right idea, but getting wasted wasn’t the answer, even if it sounded like a perfectly reasonable solution.
Her mind drifted back to Ronan’s kiss, and for a moment she allowed herself to imagine he was her fiancé. The day’s events blurred, and she pictured him sitting behind her in the tub, his firm thighs encasing hers. Perhaps locking the door wasn’t one of her better ideas. What would happen if he walked in on her?
To shut the world out, she closed her eyes and pictured him holding her, kissing her, stroking her. Beneath the water her nipples stiffened, and an all too familiar ache settled deep in her pelvis.
Stop.
What the actual fuck was she doing? Her eyes snapped open, and she hauled in a breath. Ronan Donovan was not her fiancé and imagining he was anything more than an asshole was a huge mistake. This—everything—was his fault. If he hadn’t storm-trooped into her life and kissed her, then her body wouldn’t crave the touch from a man it would never have.
Groaning at her foolish fantasy, she sank into the water and cushioned her chin on the bubbles. If it wasn’t all so ludicrous, she would’ve laughed at the way her body reacted to him. And even though she knew it was ludicrous, an insane ache urged her to brush her fingers over her nipples and then go lower.
Cooling water hauled Quinn from sleep, and when she opened her eyes, dark shadows from the night sky had claimed the bathroom. She leaped out of the tub and grabbed a rough towel from the rail behind the door. Stepping into Antarctica would’ve been warmer than stepping onto the floor. Her body shook, and goose bumps pebbled her skin, and she half expected her toes to turn black from frostbite.
A puffy reflection stared back from the gilded mirror hanging over the sink. The so-called waterproof mascara, which cost a week’s rent, had leaked into every fine line around her eyes. No one would believe she hadn’t been partying hard. If she had knocked back a few glasses of wine, she might’ve had an excuse for looking as if she’d drank into the small hours.
She grabbed a wipe from her toiletry bag and scrubbed around her raccoon eyes, and when she no longer looked like she’d been on a two-day bender, she threw on a papery white robe that stank of industrial detergent and opened the bathroom door.
The flames now crackled merrily in the hearth and bathed the room in a cozy glow. A night by the fire catching up on emails while binge watching Netflix seemed heavenly.
A gentle snore from behind the canopy alerted her to Ronan’s presence. Shit. He must have sneaked in while she slept in the tub. She inched the gauzy curtain back. Ronan’s sprawled body took up most of the freshly made bed, his chest rising and falling with each gentle breath he took. He’d changed from his suit into a ratty Mets tee and a pair of gray sweatpants. Max curled up by his side, and the sight of them napping together hugged her heart.
Firelight danced across the contours of Ronan’s face, highlighting his long eyelashes and high cheekbones. There was no denying he was sexy as hell. Shame his personality would give the devil a run for his money.
He shifted on the mattress and the hem of his t-shirt rode up. A thin rope of dark hair twisted down his flat stomach and beneath the elastic of his sweats. She looked closer. The suit he’d worn today hid a whole lotta nice. Ripped abs told her Ronan made good use of the gym. Tingles of pleasure bounced around her nerves. What was wrong with her? The sex-starved hormones assaulting her synapses needed to give it a rest.
He wasn’t a long lost lover back to sweep her off her feet. A romantic hero who’d make everything better. Although, she wouldn’t mind walking her fingers down the line of his happy trail and wrapping her fingers around his c—
“Like what you see?” he asked sleepily. Max yawned, turned around, and snuggled into the crook of Ronan’s arm. Traitor.
Quinn folded her arms. The outline of her hard nipples beneath the robe wasn’t something he needed to see. “I wanted to make sure you were still breathing, because if you were, I was going to put a pillow over your face.”
He rolled over and dove for her hand. “More lies.”
Afraid his touch would turn her to mush, she jumped out of his reach and sat on the edge of the fireside chair. Taking care to avoid glancing in his direction, because she might surrender to her hormones and leap on top of him, she yanked her robe tighter and rested her chin on balled fists.
“We can’t sleep in the same bed,” she said. “You know that, right?”
One of his hands held the sheer curtain back while the other hand absently stroked Max’s back. This would go down in her personal history as the first time she’d ever been jealous of a dog.
“Where do you want me to sleep? On the stone floor?”
“I’ll call Brendan and have him bring up a cot.”
“I’m six-two and 200 lbs, and you want me to sleep on a cot?” The bed creaked, adding all kinds of sordid images to her already X-rated thoughts. “When the fire dies, I’ll freeze to death. You’re not that cruel.”
She smiled and imagined him curled up and shivering on a narrow bed with the sheets sliding off. “I think you’ll find I am.”
“If you’re worried about your virtue, Quinn, it’s safe with me.”
If only it were her virtue that worried her. She gave her head a mental shake. For crying out loud, she was a grown woman capable of keeping herself in check. It wasn’t like she’d rip his clothes off in the middle of the night and beg him to screw her. Heaven forbid.
“Fine. Whatever.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “You can sleep in the bed, but keep to your side. I’ll make sure there are enough pillows down the middle in case you feel like cuddling something during the night.”
“I wouldn’t dream of venturing into no man’s land. I value my life too much.”
“I’m a light sleeper. One move from you, and I’ll bite you where it hurts.”
“Promises. Promises.” His lidded gaze slid down her body, stopping on her bare legs.
Shit. When was the last time she’d de-furred? A week ago? Longer. To check, she ran a foot up her calf. Less than two weeks, longer than one. Why did she even care?
“So does that mean you’re okay sharing a bed?”
“It’s not like I have much of a choice.” Who was she kidding? She had lots of choices, but sharing a bed with Ronan, even if he were a stranger, wouldn’t be all that bad. Would it? It wasn’t like she hadn’t shared a bed with a stranger before. But at least this time, it wouldn’t end with drunk, disappointing sex followed by a walk of shame in last night’s wrinkled clothes and smeared makeup. Her college years hadn’t been her finest.
Quinn stood, opened her suitcase, and selected a pair of fleecy pajamas covered with cartoon Christmas kittens.
“Very sexy.” Ronan raised a judgmental eyebrow. “You can be certain no moves will be made with you wearing those.”
She tied another knot in her belt. “They’re not for your benefit. And anyway, look who’s talking. You’re wearing a washed-out tee and sweatpants. Lucky lady who gets to go to bed with you.”
He stretched, causing the hem of his t-shirt to ride higher and reveal more of the delicious line of hair running down the center of his abdomen. “Got that right.” He showed he wasn’t serious by giving her a broad smile and a sexy wink.
She bit back a smile, grabbed a lacy, black thong, and threw it on the bed beside him. “Those more your taste?”
Using his pointer finger, he scooped up the flimsy thong so it dangled from his fingertip. “Not really. Underwear tends to get in the way. I’d rip these off in less than a second.”
Quinn’s breath hitched, and her heartbeat accelerated. Would he use his teeth or his hands to rip them off? “Are you always this frustrating?”
“Depends on the situation.”
"Jerk." She hugged her PJs to her chest and marched into the bathroom. Leaning against the vanity, she took several deep breaths before facing herself in the mirror. Her eyes sparkled, and a rosy glow flushed her skin, which pissed her off even more. “Asshole. Shithead.”
Shaking with anger and cold and something else she didn’t want to acknowledge, she shoved her pajamas on in record time. When her temper subsided enough to go into the bedroom without picking up the closest blunt object and hauling it at him, she put a wide smile on her face and opened the door.
“I’m going to get some hot chocolate. Then I’m going to sleep.”
“Live it up, why don’t you?” Ronan was already beneath the covers and had erected a barricade of pillows down the middle of the bed.
“Judge me all you want, but you don’t have a clue.” She slid her feet into furry bunny slippers and left the room.
****
Ronan caught sight of Quinn’s skimpy underwear and grabbed them. The scent of vanilla drifted upward—did everything of hers smell like cookies and summer? Images of inhaling her through the sheer panties while he feasted on her attacked his senses. If he didn’t stop thinking about her, he’d need to take a shower—an extra-long one.
Balling the fabric in his hand, he threw the thong across the bed and reminded his twitching dick there was a job to do. Women like Quinn sucked men dry and left them for dust. Since Abbey had ripped his heart out and offered it as a sacrifice to Lucifer, no other woman had remained in his life for more than a month. Once women began forgetting toothbrushes or earrings at his apartment, he gave them the clichéd, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ talk. But it was him. It was always him. If Abbey hadn’t screwed him over for her boss, then…
Then you’d be in a loveless marriage with a woman who lies and cheats.
He laced his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, and replayed the day he’d caught Abbey shagging her boss in their new apartment. Finding them together had almost destroyed him, and he swore no other woman would crawl under his skin again. He got it. Not all women were liars and cheats, but he had yet to meet a woman who didn’t bat her lashes or give a sweet smile to get what she wanted.
The bitter memories of Abbey’s betrayal strengthened his resolve. Not even Quinn’s long eyelashes and greener than the ocean eyes were enough to make him give her the benefit of the doubt and back off. Until he knew better, she was the enemy.
Quinn’s thong caught his eyes again. For fuck’s sake, there was nothing else for it, he’d have to take a shower after all.
By the time he’d showered and dried off, Quinn was in bed with her eyes closed pretending to sleep, and Max had curled up by the fire.
Ten minutes under the steaming jets, among other things, allowed him to think and gave him some perspective. Quinn wasn’t Abbey. He wouldn’t come clean about Brady, and he wouldn’t trust her, not yet, but he wanted to get her side of the story. Something he should have done before jumping on a plane like the ‘bloody eejit’ Caden had called him, and tomorrow he hoped his cousin would call with whatever information he’d found.
“I know you’re awake,” he said. “We should talk.”
“We’ve talked enough,” came her mumbled reply.
He blew out a breath. “I know how much financial trouble you’re in. Half a mill’s a bit of a killer.”
If she was shocked he knew so much about her business, she didn’t react.
Silence hung between them for a few beats. “My ex-boyfriend was the finances and I was the face of Making Memories. We didn’t date long, but I loved him enough to give him a share in my business. Dumb, right?”
“Where’s he now?” Ronan lifted the covers on his side of the bed and slid between the cold sheets.
“In the gutter for all I care. He has a fondness for liquid lunches and powdering his nose.” Her voice showed little emotion. As if she’d resigned herself to the fact she could do nothing.
“Didn’t you know?” The bastard Brady Gibson had a lot to answer for, but what Ronan couldn’t understand was why Brady came to him. What was he after? Ronan had nothing to give him.
“What do you think, Sherlock?” She turned to him, her face resting a few inches from his on the white pillowcase. “You think I said, ‘please take everything I’ve worked six years to build?’ I was foolish. I thought he loved me, y’know. He had so many good ideas about the business, and for a while, he helped me build it. He knew people. Had lots of contacts, but then… then he wanted to do something so vile to newly married couples. Something that would’ve sent me to prison. I had no choice but get him out of my life.”
“Tell me. What did he want you to do?” Ronan didn’t have to ask, he already knew the answer. The cameras in the bedrooms were all Brady’s idea. Quinn wasn’t the con artist, she was the mark, and now it looked as if Ronan was a mark too. He had nothing Brady would want, so why involve him? He plowed his fingers through his hair. Jesus. How could he have been so irrational? So pigheaded? Was his desperation for this job so bad he believed a man who’d screwed his sister over?
“It doesn’t matter what.” She sighed. “When I said no, he cleared out the bank accounts and left me and the business in a hole. I couldn’t pay creditors, couldn’t refund deposits.” A tear slid down the side of her face and dropped onto the pillow. “I ruined people’s dreams.” Rolling onto her back, she sniffed and wiped the heel of her hands over her eyes and held them there for a few seconds before clearing her throat. “I’m dragging myself up and getting on with it. The money from Ella’s wedding will help me pay some people back. It won’t cover everything, but it’s a start, I guess.”
“I didn’t know.” Guilt tipped arrows pierced the center of his heart.
“How could you know? And you being here is making a bad situation worse. Much, much worse.” For the first time since he’d gotten into bed, she looked him in the eye. “How did you find out about me? About my pitch? I need to know if someone’s leaking information about the wedding so I can stop it.”
Under her intense and hopeful gaze, he shifted beneath the covers, and the arrows turned to bullets. He should do the right thing and tell her the truth. Give them a new start with no lies hanging between them.
No and no.
If she knew what he’d done, she’d make him leave and that meant he’d have no more time with her. And time with her was something he both wanted and needed. A couple of hours with her wasn’t going to cut it. Instead of telling the truth and admitting his stupidity, he’d do what he could to make it up to her. Prove he wasn’t the monster she thought he was.
“I know someone who knows someone.”
“Well, that someone you know just about ruined the one chance I had.” She signaled the end of the conversation by turning away and curling into a ball.
Reaching out and pulling her into his arms would be a colossal mistake but one he wanted to make with every fiber of his being.