MOTION Read online

“Hmm…” He fought a smile. “Do you have cards, or do we need to get some?”

  I stepped around him unsteadily and crawled across the bed to my luggage. “I have cards. I like to play solitaire when I travel.”

  “Why don’t you use your laptop or the iPad?” He turned to watch me dig through my bag.

  “I like the feel of the cards.” I fished them out then crossed to the couch. There was a desk against the wall but no table near the couch. There was, however, an ottoman. I placed a magazine on the ottoman and decided it would make a flat enough surface, and I shuffled the cards.

  Shuffling helped. It kept my hands from shaking when the faint voice of my sober self asked What am I doing? Am I really doing this?

  He was… blindingly beautiful, and wealthy, and my boss. All were really good reasons why we were not suitable.

  But I really, really liked him. He was damn sexy and interesting and crazy smart and annoyingly insightful. I had to trust that there was something about me that he saw and liked enough to abandon his slamps and his Wendell lifestyle. I didn’t like trusting, and I didn’t like setting greater than mild expectations, but I wanted to have faith in him. Call it wine, call it Quinn-sniff-induced obscurity, but I felt too warm and fuzzy to dwell on the scary side of strip poker.

  Impaired judgment… still check.

  “So…” I heard Quinn’s voice from behind me; it sounded like he was still standing in the same spot. “I did actually come here to talk to you about something.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “What’s that?”

  He pulled one hand roughly through his hair and put the cufflink in his pants pocket with the other. “I need to talk to you about last Sunday; about that—uh—guy, in the park.”

  I was kneeling on the floor next to the ottoman, but something about the tone of his voice made me sit back on my heels and turn my entire torso toward him. “Ok.” I placed the cards on the magazine. He had as much of my full attention as was possible, given my current lack of sobriety.

  Quinn hesitated, sauntered as he spoke, not looking at me. “So, when I left Boston years ago, I wasn’t very popular with… anyone.” He fiddled with the contents of the room: a lampshade, the mini-bar, the instructions for Internet connectivity. “I made some data copies in order to make sure that I wouldn’t be…bothered in Chicago.”

  He paused over the mini-bar, touching a doll-sized bottle of Johnnie Walker.

  “Data copies?”

  “The people I worked for—I made copies of their data when I installed the wipe script and degausser.”

  “You mean, the bad men?”

  He gave me a small smile and nodded. “Yes, the bad men.” Quinn walked to the couch, hesitated for a moment, and sat down. He placed his large hands on his knees as if he might stand up at any moment. “Janie…” He leveled me with a vacillating, undecided gaze.

  “Yes…?” He was quiet for so long I felt the need to prompt him. I was beginning to feel a renewed sense of anxiety. This was a long buildup for him; he was usually a straight-to-the-point kind of guy.

  He sighed then asked, “Have you had contact with your sister Jem recently?”

  I’m sure I looked comical, gaping at him in response to his question. He could have asked me, “Do you want tampons or pads for your Bat Mitzvah?” and received a less dumbfounded reaction.

  I breathed out heavily and responded with the first words that occurred to me. “How do you know Jem?”

  He shook his head, his eyes focused and attentive to the expressions that must have been kaleidoscoping over my face. “I don’t really know her. But in an effort to be more than technically honest, I can tell you that I know who she is.”

  “What do you mean, you know who she is?”

  “I mean, just before I left Boston six years ago, I met her when I was at a…a business associate’s house. She was—she was involved with him, and was… introduced to me briefly.”

  “Six years ago?” I frowned at this. Jem would have been seventeen or eighteen at the time. “Are you sure? And you remember her?”

  “It’s hard to forget someone who tries to set your car on fire.”

  My mouth gaped open, and I slowly released a breath in that sloppy, overly exaggerated way you only achieve when you’re nearly drunk. “That sounds like Jem.”

  Quinn pulled his gaze from mine, leaned forward, and picked up the cards. He started to deal them for our game of poker. “Right before I left Boston, before Des died, I was securing systems for a group that, well, the particulars aren’t important. It wasn’t a typical operation, though. The main guy—his name was Seamus—was basically a skinhead, a thug, but he happened to be a very smart thug.” Quinn replaced the deck, picked up his cards, and began rearranging them, frowning as he did so. “The trusted members all had these neck tattoos.” Quinn offhandedly gestured to his throat, drawing curving lines from his collar to his ear and around the back of his neck.

  I drew in a deep breath. “The guy in the park, last Sunday—he had a tattoo on his neck.”

  “Also, Dan, the security group leader at the Fairbanks building, used to be one of them.”

  “What did Jem do that has this guy’s panties so twisted?” I wrinkled my nose in what I surmised was an exaggerated way, because Quinn’s gaze softened as he looked at me, and he smiled.

  “Does it matter?”

  “No…yes.” I rolled my upper lip between my teeth and chewed on it. “No, I guess it doesn’t, but I’d like to know.”

  “She helped one of his rivals raid a cash house of his.”

  “Why would she do that?” I continued to bite my lip.

  “Because she wanted to make him angry. Because she is crazy.” His tone was flat, as though the explanation was rudimentary, obvious.

  “I can’t believe you used to work with these people.” I switched lips and started nibbling on the bottom one.

  Quinn’s eyes met mine. “When I saw the guy in the park last week, I thought that he was there because of me. But when I went to Boston and met with Seamus—”

  I flinched. “You met with him? The skinhead leader in Boston?”

  He nodded, his jaw flexed. “When I met with Seamus—”

  “Isn’t he dangerous? Why would you do that?” I interrupted him again.

  He ignored my interruptions and continued. “Seamus said he was looking for Jem. That guy in the park thought you were her.”

  A new kaleidoscope of expressions, mirroring my thoughts, must’ve mounted my features because Quinn quickly added, “I’ve had guards on you since last week, and I told Seamus that you are not Jem. He also knows that you work for me and are not a viable option for…” He paused as though choosing his words carefully. “I think he believes me that you’re not a viable option for initiating contact with Jem. But, to be on the safe side, I want to put guards on you when we get back to Chicago.”

  I nodded until it felt like I was bobbing up and down on a boat, and I cleared my throat. My hands were rigid in my lap, and I noted that they were balled into tight fists. With effort, I relaxed my fingers, picked up my cards, and forced myself to look at them: ace of hearts, two of clubs, three of diamonds, ten of clubs, nine of clubs. It was a shitty hand.

  “Why—how—” I fanned out my cards and laid them on my lap. “Why did Jem try to set your car on fire?”

  Quinn shrugged, not meeting my gaze. “I don’t remember; I don’t think there was a reason. I just remember that she was crazy.”

  I felt sorry for myself; for being dealt a shitty hand, and for having a sister whose most recognizable trait was criminality. Some people have annoying relatives who drink too much during the holidays and corner everyone with one-sided conspiracy theories about the government being both heinously incompetent and capable of staging elaborate hoaxes like the moon landing, or Pearl Harbor, or the theory of relativity.

  I had a sister who didn’t limit her antics to holidays, and she liked to sleep with my boyfriend and/or attempt murder when fac
ed with boredom.

  I didn’t allow myself to dwell in the land of defeatism for very long. I couldn’t do anything about the hand I’d been dealt. I could only make the most of it, hope for the best, and accept my fate.

  Or I could cheat.

  “Did you—do you—” I picked my cards up again but didn’t look at them; I kept my attention fixed on Quinn, blinked twice so he would come into focus. “Do you think I look like her? Like Jem? Did you think I was her?”

  Quinn frowned at his cards then met my gaze. “Yes.”

  I waited. When he didn’t elaborate, I craned my neck forward and widened my eyes in disbelief. “Yes? Just yes?”

  He nodded.

  “Which part? Yes to which part?”

  “You look like her. I thought you were Jem when I first saw you.” He looked like he would have preferred to discuss anything else, including, perhaps, the menstrual cycle of koalas or the regulations surrounding peanut butter manufacturing.

  I slid my teeth to the side. “Is that why you wanted to kiss me? Because you thought I was her?” I quoted Quinn’s admission from the night of our first kiss. Something hard settled in my stomach and made my mouth taste sour, like stale wine and postage stamps.

  He shook his head. “No—God no. I think I noticed you at first because of the resemblance. I can honestly say I’ve never wanted to kiss your sister.”

  “When did you figure out that we weren’t the same person?”

  He folded his hand of cards and held them on his lap, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “The day after I first saw you, weeks before we spoke. I did a very thorough background check on you to make sure you weren’t Jem.” I was impressed by the starkness of his tone even though the admission looked like it cost him something. His eyes were weary.

  I was also impressed by his continuing more than technical honesty, even if it felt like I was prying the answers out of him.

  I considered this information as I considered him. “Is that why you escorted me out when I lost my job? You thought I might blow something up?”

  “No. Like I said, I knew you weren’t her.”

  “Then why did you pose as a security guard?”

  “I didn’t pose. I like to spend time on the floor with my team, especially when we take on a new project. We’d just taken over security for the building and moved into the top floor. I wanted to…” He looked away, sighed, and met my eyes again. “I wanted to get a sense of the other people who worked in the building.”

  “And you escorted me out because you wanted to get a sense of who no longer worked in the building?”

  “No,” he said.

  “No?” I prompted.

  “No,” he said, this time a little more firmly, pronounced.

  “Hmm…” I surveyed him for a long moment, and we entered into an old-fashioned staring contest. He had an unfair advantage because I was, basically, intoxicated.

  Finally I spoke. “Why did you escort me out?”

  He flexed his jaw even though his eyes were lit with mischief. A Mona Lisa smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “How many cards do you need?”

  “Don’t avoid the question.”

  “I’m not avoiding—I escorted you out because—” he swallowed then huffed, “When the request came through I recognized your name and I wanted to… see… what you were like.” Quinn glared as his cards.

  I smiled, a big goofy smile, “You wanted to see what I was like?”

  He didn’t respond. He placed three of his cards in the discard pile and took three from the top of the deck.

  “Were you watching me?” The bigness and the goofiness of my smile increased.

  He glanced at me, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. “For the record, I know you were watching me too.”

  I blinked at him. “Watching you?”

  He nodded, his eyes narrowed wickedly. “In the lobby, hiding behind the plants. You would come down with your lunch and watch me while I worked.”

  Button pushed, I blushed to my ears and quietly turned my attention to my cards. After a long moment, I gave him all four but the ace. I felt like I’d been caught with my hand down my pants, feeling embarrassed, but pleased that he’d noticed (and seemed to like it.)

  “I wasn’t watching you,” I mumbled.

  “Yes, you were.”

  I glanced at him for a brief moment and found him watching me with a look that bordered on menacing; I smashed my lips together to keep from smiling.

  “You better have an ace.” He handed me four new cards.

  “I have an ace.” I plucked them from his outstretched hand, careful not to touch him. “Do you want to see it?”

  “Oh, I’ll see it soon enough.”

  I glanced up from my new cards and met Quinn’s steady gaze with an unsteady one of my own.

  Smolder, schmolder. His eyes held such an intensity of promise that I wondered if it would be best just to forfeit and strip naked now. I knew the only way I was going to win this game was to cheat.

  My main problem was that I wasn’t sure I wanted to win.

  Chapter Twenty

  I glared at him.

  Through my bottle-of-wine-induced haze, I’d been counting cards; so I knew he’d been cheating for the last few hands. But I couldn’t admit to counting cards; otherwise, I would have to admit that I had been cheating the whole time. Also, I was down to my underwear, tank top, bra, and one sock. Meanwhile, he was down to his tie, boxer briefs, and one sock.

  This last hand meant that we were tied.

  He laughed, shuffling the cards, his blue eyes actually dancing with merriment. “So, sock or shirt?”

  I was sitting on the floor with my back to the bed, he was sitting on the couch, and the ottoman was between us serving as a table.

  I thought about which article of clothing to remove even as I let my eyes move over his chest approvingly. I’d been dreaming about that torso for weeks, ever since he made his shirtless, just-showered entrance the morning of my hangover. I’d thought about what I wanted to do when or if I actually had it within my possession.

  I blinked hard and tried to focus on the footstool we were using as a table. I pressed my thighs together for no reason whatsoever, and ignored the building warmth in my lower belly.

  Quinn’s soft voice pulled me from my mounting aimless frenzy. “Janie: sock or shirt?”

  I met his gaze abruptly and wondered if he knew what I’d been thinking; but looking at his face was almost worse. We were two minutes away from midnight. He wore a very serious expression, and his eyes were freaking smoldering again, moving between mine with what felt like violent concentration.

  I huffed impatiently. “Fine. Neither.”

  He raised a single eyebrow. “Neither?”

  I tilted my head to the side, removed my gaze from his, allowed my hair to curtain my face, and leaned forward, pulling my bra straps from my shoulders and through my arms in one swift movement. Then I unclasped the bra and, like magic, pulled the white lacy brassiere from my body without removing my shirt.

  Never mind that my shirt was a thin, white, tank top that was practically see-through. I didn’t want him thinking he’d won just yet, or that he could guess my moves. I was quickly learning that a bottle of wine convinced me of all sorts of fantastical things, not the least of which was that I had moves.

  I tossed the bra over my shoulder and leaned back against the side of the bed.

  “Ok, deal the cards,” I said without looking at him. He was too distractingly beautiful. Instead, I pulled my fingers through my hair as I stretched and arched my back.

  I heard his breath catch.

  I looked up.

  His eyes were no longer smoldering; they were now suddenly and forcefully ablaze, and he was gritting his teeth, watching me as I stretched. His look told me I was steak and he was a tiger, and that made me dinner and dessert.

  “You shouldn’t do that.” The dark heat in his gaze, the set of his jaw, and t
he white knuckles of his fists betrayed the force of his concentration. He was concentrating… really, really hard.

  I stilled my movements and froze mid-stretch. “Do what?”

  “That.” His words were ragged. “Don’t do that unless you’re finished playing with me.”

  I licked my lips, finding them suddenly dry, and my eyes moved hungrily over his form.

  In truth, in that moment, I didn’t remember what we were playing for, which may have explained why I suddenly no longer had any desire to continue to the game.

  Then again, it could have been the impaired judgment.

  I let my hands fall gradually to the carpet on either side of my thighs; my hair crashed over my shoulders and down my back. I licked my lips again as I watched him and his tightly reined reaction with wide eyes. Slowly, slowly, I righted myself to my knees and, without plan or forethought, pushed the ottoman to one side. Despite what I thought were measured movements, the cards spilled off the makeshift table and onto the floor.

  His eyes followed me with intensely guarded attentiveness as he sat perfectly still on the couch. I crawled over to him and knelt between his legs. I lifted then rested my hands lightly on his bare thighs for balance. He flinched when my skin made contact with his.

  “Quinn.” I whispered his name. I don’t know why I was whispering, but I suspected that my vocal chords were incapable of cooperating. “Quinn.”

  Abruptly, he wrapped the long fingers of one hand around the back of my neck, cupping it, and before I could think or react, he dragged his mouth over mine and ransacked me. He was fervent and wet and hot, and the warmth in my stomach fluttered and twisted until the pressure between my thighs was unbearable. I pressed my knees together again and clenched.

  His mouth pulled away from mine, and began alternately biting and sucking and kissing my neck. The scruff of his unshaved face was pleasurably painful, and each skillful stroke of his tongue soothed the scratches left by the stubble.

  I closed my eyes against the sensations of his hands and his mouth everywhere at once, and I think I lost consciousness.

  Let me clarify that last statement. I think my alcohol-saturated forebrain lost the ability of conscious thought. My lower brain—the Id, the part that is associated with automatic responses and instinct and pleasure-seeking behaviors and wanting ice cream for dinner every night—that part may have slipped my forebrain some benzodiazepines so that it could assume control and have its way with my body. For purposes of simplicity, I will call that part of my brain Ida.