Either my question or my tone brought his attention to me.

Quinn studied me for a moment before responding. “I’m sorry about earlier…about….” He sighed, and again I noticed that it was laced with irritation. “I’m sorry about that woman.”

Curiosity about the very blonde woman warred with my disquiet about the private client accounts. I decided that a proper discussion about the clients was necessary and, therefore, the ballroom of an event to benefit a phantom charity was likely not the best place to initiate the issue.

I decided to press him about the woman. “How do you know her?”

His expression didn’t change, but he did glance over my shoulder as he spoke. “We met a few years ago on the west coast.”

“She seemed angry. What did you do to her?”

Quinn narrowed his eyes at me then leaned forward and whispered against my ear causing my back to stiffen. “Don’t be nice to her.”

“What?” I flinched away to read his face. “What does that even mean? Don’t be nice to her. I don’t make a habit of walking around being mean to people.”

“I’m serious, Janie; don’t go out of your way to talk to her. She’s crazy.” The hand that was on my hip was now rubbing slow circles on my upper back, beneath my hair, drawing me to him. It felt nice.

I frowned, a tad concerned. “Was she institutionalized?”

“No….” He hesitated, as though he were going to add something. Finally, he just said, “Nothing like that.”

“Then why do you…?” My frown eased, though I was certain it was replaced with an eye squint of confusion. He glanced beyond me as I studied his features. To anyone else, he was outwardly calm—aloof even—but something about the set of his jaw and the way he looked away from me was perplexing.

“Who is she?” I asked.

“No one.”

Since he was so close, I whispered, “How do you know her, Quinn?”

He reached around me, picked up his glass, gulped the whiskey then asked, “Do you want more champagne?”

I shook my head; he studiously avoided my gaze. “Quinn, who is she?”

He glared at me, and I realized he didn’t want to answer.

And just like that, I knew who she was.

My mouth fell open, and I announced my discovery. “Oh! Oh, I get it! She was one of your slamps!”

CHAPTER 7

“Shhh.” Quinn glared at me, though it looked like he was fighting laughter.

I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. But I’m right, right?”

He didn’t respond, not with words. However, the answering hardness in his stare told me I was right.

“I’ve never seen one before.” I craned my neck to look around the ballroom, hoping to catch a glimpse of her again. To my delight, she was at the bar, and I had a mostly unobstructed view. I studied her, really looked at her this time, and tried to see her from Quinn’s perspective. “She’s really pretty. And she seems so classy.”

I heard Quinn cough, and I turned to face him. He must have been mid-swallow when I said my last sentence as it appeared that he’d choked on his whiskey. He brought his hand to his mouth to cover his cough.

“Are you okay?”

“Classy?” He rasped.

I held my hands up. “Oh, no offense meant, and no judgment either. I’m sure they’re all very classy and you had very excellent taste in slamps. It’s just that I was not expecting…I don’t know what I was expecting.”

He suppressed another cough and shook his head. On the Quinn scale of appearing ill at ease, he looked to be about a seven—not as uncomfortable as me discussing my menstrual cycle, but more uncomfortable than my recent tirade on perceived gender and how male sea horses gave birth to their young.

Before he could respond, I continued. “Actually I do know what I was expecting. I was expecting…the chorus of prostitutes in the stage production of Les Misérables. Maybe some missing teeth. I don’t know why. I mean, I know that it’s perfectly acceptable as part of our culture for two people to have multiple sexual partners at the same time—even at the same moment. I just wasn’t expecting her to look so normal. I mean, gorgeous, but normal. So I guess your slamps were normal people, huh?”

“Yes. They were normal people.”

“And she has a job? I mean, other than being your slamp.”

“Janie, I never paid her.”

“I know—gah, sorry that sounded bad. I meant she had other interests outside of being your slamp?”

“I guess so.”

“She’s not British. She sounds like she’s from the States.”

“She’s from Los Angeles.”

My eyes skated over him, and I hesitated only a fraction of a second before asking, “What does she do?”

He shrugged, looking bored. But I knew better. Boredom in this case was a cover for his ill-at-ease level seven. “Something in fashion.”

I nodded, my eyes losing focus over his shoulder. “I can see that. She’s remarkably well maintained and groomed.”

“Maintained and groomed?”

My attention moved back to him. “Yes. She has that shiny, just unwrapped quality about her. Or, more accurately, that fresh coat of paint aura.”

The corner of his mouth pulled upward, a nearly imperceptible tilt. “That’s a good description.”

“What did you two talk about? I didn’t know you had any interest in fashion.”

“I don’t. We didn’t talk.”

“You didn’t talk? Like, ever?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

His expression was as flat as his tone.

I surveyed him. Something in my face must have increased his ill-at-ease level, because his eyes darted to mine, away, then back again. He smoothed a hand down his tie, cleared his throat. He was almost fidgety—approaching ill-at-ease level eight.

Finally, he blurted, “You’re the only one.”

“The only what?”

“The only one I’ve wanted to talk to—that I’ve…conversed with.”

“I’m the only female you’ve conversed with?” I struggled repeating the words because they sounded preposterous.

He sighed. “Of course I talk to women all the time. I talk to Shelly on a weekly basis, but she’s my sister.” He tugged at his tie, looking a tad frustrated, yet his voice betrayed no irritation. “You’re the only woman that I’ve been involved with and also wanted to have a conversation with. What I meant was she was boring, even irritating, whereas, I like talking to you. You’re interesting, easy to be around. You’re knowledgeable about things that matter; your interests are varied and unusual. You’re good to talk to.”

I nodded, my movements subtle, and I absorbed this information. I translated it in my head and spoke it at the same time. “So, what you’re saying is that you like me.”

The frustration marring his forehead ebbed, leaving his features warm and his gaze entirely focused on me. “Yes. I like you. I like you a lot.”

We shared a smile. Like most of his expressions in public, it was subtle. But, unlike most of his expressions in public, it was a vulnerable display of sincerity.

My smile was considerably wider, and I couldn’t help but blurt, “I like you too, Quinn.”

He shrugged an arrogant shrug and said, “I know.”

This made me laugh, which likely would have made him at least chuckle if he hadn’t decided to hide it with another swallow of his whiskey.

My eyes caught the very blonde woman, his former slamp, in the background. She was smiling widely at two men and seemed to be enjoying herself. I indicated my head in her direction. “Well, she looks nice.”

“She’s not.”

My frown returned. “She’s not?”

“No. She’s crazy.” He finished his whiskey.

“So you keep saying. Why is she crazy?”

“When I called things off with her, let’s just say she didn’t take it very well.”

I mulled this over. If and/or when Quinn broke things off with me, I imagined I wouldn’t take it very well either. “And that makes her crazy?”

“I don’t want you talking to her.”

“You don’t want me talking to her?”

For Quinn, his tone was soft, coaxing. “You know what I mean.”

“Hmm….” I regarded him for a moment then added, “I’ll take your wishes under advisement.”

“Janie….”

“I will. They’re in the advisement folder. I will consider them before I make my decision.”

His eyes narrowed as they moved between mine. Then, quite unexpectedly, he smiled at me, and his voice held false warmth. “Janie. You’re not talking to her.”

“Oh, really?” I laughed lightly, mirroring his expression, and issued him my slow, assessing head bob. “Just so you know, I just mentally shredded the advisement folder and your wishes are no longer being considered.”

His smile grew and he looked both frustrated and amused. “That’s not nice.”