Table of Contents
Other Entangled books by Tracy Wolff
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
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Crash Into Me
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D
RIVE
M
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RAZY
A
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HAKEN
D
IRTY
NOVEL
T
RACY
W
OLFF
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons,
living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Tracy Wolff. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or
transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the
Publisher.
Entangled Publishing, LLC
2614 South Timberline Road
Suite 109
Fort Collins, CO 80525
Visit our website at
.
Brazen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC. For more information on our titles, visit
Edited by Stacy Abrams and Liz Pelletier
Cover design by Heather Howland
ISBN 978-1-62266-502-0
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition February 2014
To Emily McKay,
because I can’t imagine writing a book without you
Prologue
There were goldfish in her bathtub. Goldfish. In her bathtub. Goldfish. IN. HER. BATHTUB.
For long seconds, Elise McKinney could do nothing but look around the small hotel bathroom she
was standing in, as if the pale green walls held a clue as to why—and how—someone had turned her
bathtub into a fishpond—two hours before she was supposed to take the stage for the biggest
competition of her life.
Not that she really needed any clues to figure out who had done this. No, she thought, as she
watched almost two dozen goldfish glide around her bathtub, I know exactly who snuck into my hotel
room and pulled this latest prank.
Quinn frickin’ Bradford.
And if she didn’t need desperately to take a shower before she went on stage in front of ten
thousand people, she’d probably be impressed with his ingenuity. After all, it wasn’t like she hadn’t
known a prank was coming. Not after she’d snuck into his hotel room in Brussels and sown shut the
flies of every single pair of his boxer briefs.
With a muttered curse and a promise to herself to get back at Quinn if it was the last thing she did,
Elise bent over and stuck her head under the sink faucet. He was so going down for this.
Ninety minutes later, she was repeating that vow to herself as she walked into the greenroom at the
performance venue and saw Quinn lounging negligently on the couch, his long, lean body sprawled
out like he owned the thing. His hair looked perfect, she noted resentfully, as did his custom-made
tuxedo. While she felt like the punch line of a bad joke.
The sink thing hadn’t worked—it was way too shallow to actually wash her hair in it—and she’d
been forced to scrape her hair back into a tight bun that made her look like a schoolmarm…or a
dominatrix. She was about to go take the most famous stage in Paris to perform the second movement
of Schumann’s “Kreisleriana,” one of the sexiest pieces ever written for the piano, and she looked
like she should be carrying a paddle and a whip. The long, clingy black dress she was wearing only
added to the look.
It so wasn’t fair. He should know better than to mess with a sixteen-year-old girl’s appearance
before she went on stage. Seriously, everyone knew that, didn’t they?
Of course they did.
Narrowing her eyes into the most threatening look she could manage, she stalked toward Quinn with
every intention of going for his eyes. She’d just had her nails done and was sure she could do some
damage before they pulled her off of him. But he turned his head just as she reached him and she
noticed for the first time that someone had beat her to it. Quinn had a dark bruise on his jaw and a cut
on his cheekbone, right under his eye.
“What happened to you?” she asked, concern for him cutting through her fury. They might be
enemies of a sort, but they were also friends of a different sort. Hard not to be when they’d been on
the performance circuit together for nine years, ever since they were seven years old—two piano
prodigies growing up together. This wasn’t the first time she’d seen marks like that on him and though
he always had an excuse, in her mind they were starting to wear thin. Especially since Quinn usually
blamed the bruises on clumsiness, and he was the least clumsy guy she’d ever met.
“Ran into the wrong end of a fist,” he said with a wink and a grin that didn’t quite meet his eyes.
Her stomach clenched. “I can see that. Whose fist was it?”
“Some random guy’s. He wasn’t all that impressed with me trying to pick up his girlfriend.”
Her concern disappeared in a flood of disgust and something else she wasn’t comfortable
analyzing. “You got in a fight over a girl?”
“Can you think of anything better to fight about?”
“You could have hurt your hands!”
“But I didn’t,” he answered with a shrug. “Besides, it’s not like I started the fight.”
She rolled her eyes. “I swear, I don’t know how you have the time to find all the trouble you do.”
“Just lucky, I guess.” He looked her over then, his eyes lingering in places that had her hands
trembling and her breath catching in her chest. “I have to say, I like the new look. It’s very—”
“Don’t even say it!”
“Say what?” His midnight eyes were a little heavy lidded and a lot wicked as they met hers. “That I
have a sudden urge to buy you a pair of bitch boots and a set of handcuffs? If you ask nicely, I might
even let you use them on me.”
“Don’t even.” She was trying to sound annoyed, but her voice was shaking so much that it came out
soft and breathy instead. “This look is all your fault.”
“And I am totally okay with that. You look hot.”
“I look like a dominatrix!”
“Like I said, hot.” Quinn reached onto the floor next to the couch and pulled out a small white bag.
Holding it toward her with a completely straight face, he asked, “Goldfish? They’re the spicy ones
you like.”
“You asshole!” He was taunting her, flaunting his victory in her face.
“What?” he asked, his eyes wide with fake puzzlement. “I thought you liked goldfish…crackers.”
Fury pounded through her. No one could get a reaction out of her the way Quinn could—no one—
and it irritated her to no end. And though she knew the smartest thing she could do was to not give him
a reaction, Elise couldn’t help herself. She ripped the bag of goldfish out of his hands and dumped
them all over his gleaming, perfectly styled hair.
As he gaped at her, mouth opening and closing much like a goldfish’s would, she promised herself
that the next time she was in his hotel room, she was going to cut to shreds every single pair of pants
he owned.
Quinn Bradford was going down and she was just the girl to do it.
Chapter One
Ten years later…
Elise woke alone, in a strange bed in a strange room. A little groggy and a lot disoriented, it took her
a few seconds to figure out where she was.
As it turned out, those were the best moments of her day. Because they were blank, empty, and for a
little while—a very little while—she was just Elise McKinney, concert pianist. She was in just
another hotel room in just another city, getting ready to give just another concert.
But then the occasional beeping from the pulse oximeter next to the bed worked its way into her
consciousness. Followed by the throbbing in her left hand. The aches and pains all over her body.
And the emptiness deep inside herself that screamed something was very, very wrong.
Because it was. Ellington was dead. And so was her career. She didn’t know how she could have
forgotten, even in those first blurry moments.
Using her good hand, she pushed herself into a sitting position, then shoved the hair out of her eyes
and surveyed the hospital room around her. Despite the numerous bouquets of flowers that lined most
of the available surfaces, it felt empty. Impersonal. Lonely.
Kind of like her life.
Panic assailed her at the thought, had her grabbing onto the side rails of the bed as she fought to
calm her racing heart. It worked, but her injured hand protested the movement and she ended up
curled on her side in the fetal position, trying to keep her breathing under control.
What was she going to do?
What was she going to do?
A knock at the door distracted her and as she looked up, her first thought was that she’d obviously
hit her head harder than the doctors thought. A lot harder. Because she could swear that Quinn
Bradford was standing casually in her doorway, smiling like it had been ten minutes and not ten years
since she’d last seen him. Like he hadn’t taken her virginity in Brussels and then disappeared—from
her life and his own— without so much as a hint of what he was planning or where he was hoping to
end up.
Oh, the man watching her with dark, concern-filled eyes wasn’t the same Quinn Bradford she’d
spent so much of her adolescence competing against—no tuxedo, no perfectly trimmed hair, no fake
smile, no bruises—but it was definitely him. He might look more like the rock and roll star he’d
become than the classically trained pianist she used to know, but that didn’t mean anything. She’d
recognize him anywhere. As would her heart, which had already started beating fast and frantic in her
chest.
Embarrassed by her reaction to him—even after all this time—she glanced at the monitor beside
her bed. Hoped he wouldn’t notice the sudden spike in her pulse rate that was detailed there.
“I don’t know if you remember—” he started.
“Of course I remember you, Quinn,” she interrupted. His name was an urgency on her tongue, a
brand on her soul, this man who had always hid more than he showed, always listened more than he
shared. “But what are you doing here?”
He smiled then, a quick turning up of his lips that had a dimple flashing in his right cheek. She
closed her eyes and tried not to think about how many times she’d kissed and licked that dimple when
she was seventeen.
“I live in Austin now. I heard about the accident on the news.” His grin disappeared. “I’m sorry
about Ellington.”
“Yeah, me too.” Tears bloomed in her eyes—the same troublesome tears that had been hitting her
without warning ever since they’d pulled her from the tangled wreck of the limousine—but she
blinked them back. Again. Ellington James had never approved of excess emotion, had never put up
with the passionate displays other prima donna musicians indulged in on a regular basis. To cry now,
here, would just make the death of her manager—and best friend—all the more real. Besides, she’d
spent most of her life keeping her emotions under wraps. Now didn’t seem like the best time to
change that.
Quinn crossed the room slowly, hesitantly, as if he was afraid she would go hysterical at any
moment. That, more than anything else, convinced her she wasn’t having aural and visual
hallucinations. Because the Quinn Bradford she remembered had been just as uncomfortable around
vulnerability as Ellington had been. As her father had been. The one time she’d cried all over him,
he’d looked so freaked out and terrified that she’d forced herself to pull away. To bury the tears, and
her sorrow, deep inside herself.
She did the same thing now, but it wasn’t nearly as hard this time around. After all, she’d been
doing it for years with such success that most days she managed to forget she had emotions at all.
Her father would have been so proud.
“Did they say how badly you were hurt?” Quinn asked after a moment, breaking the awkwardness
that stretched between them like a particularly discordant note. He eyed the scrapes on her face, the
bandages that covered the stitches on her right arm. The cast on her left hand.
Terror welled up inside her as she thought of that cast—and the broken, mangled hand below it.
The broken, mangled future that stretched out in front of her.
“I’m fine. Bumps and bruises. A mild concussion.” As she had with the tears, Elise swallowed
back the fear until she didn’t feel anything but numb. Just the way she’d learned to like it. Then she
said the words that had shattered her world as completely as Ellington’s death had. “A broken hand.”
Broken didn’t exactly cover the mess the accident had made of three bones and several tendons in
her hand. Nor did it encompass the horror of the surgery she’d had that morning and the three others
they’d explained she still had to get through. But she didn’t want to think about those, let alone talk
about them with Quinn. Beautiful, perfect, obscenely talented Quinn.
Besides, if she outlined the damage, he would know exactly how disastrous things were—and what
those injuries would mean to her career.
Like Ellington’s death, her new reality wasn’t something she was yet ready to face. Not with an old
friend, and definitely not with the stranger who stood before her. Because if she wasn’t a classical
pianist, she wasn’t anybody. It was the first of many lessons she’d learned before she was even old
enough to reach the piano keys.
And still, he seemed to know, his eyes—those dark, glorious eyes—filled with a sympathy she
couldn’t bear to see. “I’m so sorry, Lissy.” The old nickname combined with his obvious sincerity
only made everything more real.
Shaking her head breezily, she flashed a smile she was far from feeling. “I’m not complaining. It
could be a lot worse, after all.”
Again Ellington’s blank face and unseeing eyes flashed into her mind, and again, she blinked the
image back. Focused instead on keeping up her end of the conversation. As long as she acted normally
on the outside, it didn’t matter how messed up she was on the inside. Another lesson she’d learned in
childhood.
“Thank you for the flowers.” For the first time, she looked at the bouquet in Quinn’s hands. It was a
glorious riot of different shades of orange and purple—her favorite colors—and the fact that he’d
remembered, after all these years, shook her more than she wanted to admit.
He, too, glanced at the blooms he carried, looking surprised to see them there, in his hands. Almost
as if he’d already forgotten he’d bought them. But as he lay them down on the ledge by the window, he
said, “They reminded me of you.”
She opened her mouth to thank him a second time, but what popped out instead was, “Wow. I didn’t
think anything was capable of doing that.”
Shit! The second the words were out of her mouth, she longed to take them back. Yes, she’d been
sitting on them for ten long years, but she’d had no intention of ever saying them. Not to him. Not
when they made her sound bitter and angry and tied to a past that was long gone. But how was she
supposed to keep her indignation under wraps after all these years? The words had festered in her
soul like a wound and it was better that she got them, and her anger, out. And that was all she was
feeling, Elise assured herself. Anger. Annoyance. Confusion. But not pain. Never again pain. Not after
all the years and miles that had passed between them. And definitely not desire. The rock god in front
of her was so not her type.
Except…he looked good. She hated to admit it, but how could she not? Even when they were
younger—and all her focus had been on beating him in piano competitions instead of dating him—
he’d been the hottest guy she’d ever seen. Back then, he’d dressed in expensively tailored tuxedoes or
khakis with dress shirts. His hair had been perfectly cut, his shoes shined until you could actually see
your reflection in them. And the one small tattoo he’d had on the inside of his wrist—the kanji symbol
for freedom— was the only outward sign of his defiance regarding his father’s military-style rule.
That sweetly polished boy was long gone and in his place was a man who exuded sex—raw,
primitive, raunchy sex—with every move, every word, every breath. Just being in the same room with
him had adrenaline pumping through her, a strange combination of wariness and excitement so intense
she could barely sit still.
Shivers slipped up and down her spine with every breath she took, while every nerve ending she
had seemed to be standing at attention. Like her careless words, she wanted to blame her response on
the drugs, too. On the circumstances, on the pain, on anything but the always present chemistry
between them—chemistry that had flared to life the moment she realized who was standing at the door
of her hospital room.
Desperate to distract herself from the erotic pull he exuded so effortlessly, Elise focused on all the
changes the last decade had wrought in him. And the harder she looked, the more differences she
found.
He was taller, more filled out—had the wide shoulders and broad chest of a man instead of the
long, lean build of the gangly boy she remembered. He’d never been soft—growing up with his father,
he’d never had that chance—but looking at him now, she couldn’t help thinking he was harder than
he’d ever been. Even his face was different. Leaner, more closed-off, with the sharp, high cheekbones
and cut-glass jaw that spoke of his Native American heritage on his mother’s side.
This new Quinn also had a small silver ring pierced through the left corner of his bottom lip and
thick black hoops in both of his pierced ears. He wore threadbare jeans that were ripped in some very
interesting places—not that she was looking—and a tight, black V-neck T-shirt with the sleeves
rolled up to the top of his heavily muscled biceps.
His arms were covered in full tattoo sleeves—one in beautifully blended shades of gray, the other
in stark black and red. The work was gorgeous, stunning, but so intricate and complicated that it
would take her hours, if not days, to distinguish all the different images bleeding so seamlessly into
one another. Part of her wanted to start right then, but there was more to see. More to savor, though
she’d deny she was doing that to anyone who dared accuse her of such a thing.
Deliberately shifting her focus, she took in his wild black hair. Before it had been well trimmed,
conservatively styled. Now it was razor cut, sharp-edged, and sexy as hell. While he still wore it cut
short in the back, the front was so long that his bangs flopped crazily over his forehead, down his
cheeks, and into his eyes.
While she watched, he ran an annoyed hand through the glossy ebony strands, pushing them out of
the way for the tenth time since he’d shown up in her room. As he did, it gave her a brief,
unobstructed view of his eyes. The realization that they were the only things about him that hadn’t
changed was a fist in the gut. Dark—so dark that his pupils blended into the blackness of his irises—
they held the same wariness, the same weariness, she remembered from years before.
When they’d been young, she’d wondered what had caused the guardedness with which he viewed
the world. Now that they were older, she recognized the fury that burned behind the reserve.
And still cared too much about him not to wonder and worry over its cause. Yes, it had been years
since she’d seen him. Yes, they’d always been more competitors than confidantes. But even before
they’d dated, she’d had a soft spot for him—despite the way he’d tormented her—and he must have
felt the same way or he wouldn’t be here now, his presence messing with her already messed up head.
How could it not when he was standing only a few feet away from her, a walking example of
wicked, wild sex personified? At seventeen, he’d been hot. At twenty-seven, he was blistering.
He shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, suddenly unable to look her in the eye as her bitter
words hung in the room between them. “You’re not an easy woman to forget.”
That was the kicker. Once, she’d believed just that, at least in reference to him. She hadn’t blamed
him for leaving, but she did blame him for the way he’d done it. For the days and weeks and months
that had passed while she’d waited for word from him. Nothing major, nothing earth shattering. Just
one phone call, one email, one postcard. A fucking carrier pigeon even. She hadn’t been picky.
But she had been desperate to know that he was safe, that he’d survived the aftermath of that last
beating. Desperate to assure herself that he wasn’t laying dead by the side of some highway
somewhere.
As the weeks and months passed with no contact at all, she’d locked away her feelings for him as
surely as she had her heartbreak. No one looking at her then had been able to tell that her heart had
been ripped out of her chest. She’d kept up the pretense until it became her reality, until thoughts of
him no longer made her ache with loss and regret.
Quinn had once been everything—the only thing—that mattered to her. But those times were long
gone. No way in hell was she going to go back to those long, lonely days. And certainly not when the
rest of her world was crumbling around her ears.
Breezily, she waved her uninjured hand, determined to make them both forget the emptiness of her
previous words. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she assured him. “It was a long time ago.”
“Elise—”
“Seriously, Quinn. I’m just glad to see you.” She tried for an easy, impersonal smile. “What have
you been up to all these years, anyway?” Like she didn’t know. Like she hadn’t seen his face staring
out at her from the covers of various Rolling Stones, Spins, Vibes.
She thought she’d done a good job of covering up the roiling mess of her emotions, but the look
Quinn gave her said he could see right through her bravado. Which grated. She’d spent her entire life
building walls that no one could see through or over or around. Had spent her entire life making sure
she was about as transparent as the Egyptian Sphinx—or Prokofiev’s Eighth Sonata.
And the fact that Quinn could march into her hospital room after more than a decade and still see
more than anyone else ever had, made her crazy. Especially when he was as big a mystery as he’d
always been. Maybe even more so.
Yanking her mind away from those long ago days—and feelings—she gestured to the chair by her
bed. The chair Ellington would have been sitting in had he been alive. Swallowing the sadness the
thought brought on, she asked, “Do you want to sit down?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
He sank into the chair gratefully, like the only thing holding him up this long had been sheer grit.
She recognized the look, understood the feeling. It was how she’d gotten through every concert she’d
ever performed from the time she was five years old. Unbending will and absolute determination.
Silence stretched awkwardly between them before he finally broke it by saying, “I play keyboards
in Shaken Dirty. It’s a rock band based here in Austin.”
She knew that—of course she knew that. It wasn’t like she lived under a rock. For the last couple of
years, they’d been one of the big buzz bands at the Grammys, the VMAs, the American Music
Awards. She hadn’t been able to miss him. Not that there was any way in hell she was going to let
him know that. Internet stalking was so unattractive in an ex.
Figuring it was safe, she asked the question she’d been wondering about for years. “How did that
happen? Rock is a long way from classical piano.”
“So you’ve heard of us? I didn’t think we were exactly your scene.”
“I don’t live in a box.” She looked at him pointedly. “I may not know much about the band, but I
have heard the name. Besides, once upon a time, this wasn’t exactly your scene, either.”
“Don’t I know it?” he answered with a laugh. “At first, I think that was what I loved about it the
most. Now I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
She had a hard time believing that. Quinn had loved the piano with a passion reserved for the
zealots. He’d loved everything about it—from the feel of the keys beneath his hands to the
complicated pieces they’d had to practice until their fingers ached. He’d even loved performing those
same pieces up on stage, just him and a piano and an audience of thousands.
Unlike her, he’d never worried what would happen when he messed up. Maybe because he already
knew.
“You’re really good at it,” she told him after a minute. “I only know a couple of Shaken Dirty’s
songs, but I recognized there was genius in them the first time I heard them. I just didn’t know it was
your genius.” She felt no compunction lying. Not about this.
“Coming from you, I take that as the highest compliment.”
“Truth, not compliment.” She repeated one of Ellington’s favorite phrases without thinking.
Quinn—who had been Ellington’s client before her—must have recognized it, because he grinned,
a real one this time. In that moment, for the first time, she saw the boy she used to know. The
realization only made her heart ache more, until the abused organ throbbed in time to her wounded
hand.
He cleared his throat and she realized she’d drifted a million miles away once more. Damn
medicine. “When do they think you’ll be able to get out of here?”
“A couple of days, probably. Depending on how well my hand—” Her voice broke, so she started
again. “Depending on how well my hand heals.”
He nodded. “Is there anyone you need to contact? I can make some calls for you if you’d like. Or
did the hospital already take care of it?”
The police had notified Ellington’s wife and family, but she still needed to call Patricia. Still
needed to tell her how sorry she was that this had happened.
If she’d been stronger, less needy, more able to conquer her fears, things could have been so
different. Ellington would be at home with Patricia and their children and grandchildren. He would be
hanging out in his study in his ratty sweater and rattier slippers instead of being in the cold, silent
morgue.
Guilt closed in from every side, and she shuddered under the weight of it. Would her life always be
like this? Would she always bring death and destruction to the people she loved most? Her mother
had died giving birth to her, her father had wasted his life trying to turn her into someone she couldn’t
be, and Quinn—Quinn had nearly died protecting her from his father’s wrath all those years ago.
The little bit of water she’d managed to sip earlier roiled in her stomach. She clenched her fists,
forced back down the bile burning in her throat. And tried to pretend that everything was okay. That
she was okay.
That she was normal.
“The hospital and police took care of it,” she told him. She didn’t know why it mattered to her, but
she didn’t want Quinn—glorious, perfect Quinn—to realize how insular her world had become in the
last few years. Ellington had been her only friend, her only family, and now that he was gone and she
was completely alone…
“I brought you some stuff,” Quinn said after a minute. For the first time, it registered that he was
holding a backpack. “I figured lying here, staring at the TV all day, has to suck.”
“You brought me something?”
“You know, books, magazines. A couple volumes of crossword puzzles.”
“Crossword puzzles?” She was beginning to sound like a parrot, but she couldn’t help it. This man,
this badass rocker with a dark past and darker reputation, had brought her breakfast and books and
crossword puzzles. It didn’t compute.
“You used to do them all the time. In the green room. I don’t know if you still like them, but I took a
shot.”
“I do.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”
He shrugged. “No biggie.”
But it kind of was. Especially from this guy who had climbed out of her bed after taking her
virginity and disappeared without so much as a “thank you, ma’am.”
Unsure of what else she should do, Elise accepted the backpack, then opened it and pulled out a
handful of stuff. None of which resembled a book or magazine in the slightest.
“Ryder’s fiancée, Jamison, picked up some stuff for you, too. I asked her what kind of toiletries you
might need and she went shopping this morning. If there’s anything else you want, just let me know
and I’ll get it for you.”
“No. This is great.” Certainly better than anything she could have been expecting. There were two
long nightshirts—one light blue and one mint green—a couple pairs of underwear only one size too
big, a hairbrush, a popular facial cleanser and moisturizer, strawberry scented body spray, and some
beeswax lip gloss. “Really. She thought of everything.”
“Yeah. She’s cool like that.” His voice held unmistakable affection.
A flash of wholly inappropriate jealousy moved through her. She sublimated it, asked instead,
“Who’s Ryder?” She told herself it was perfectly normal to be curious about these people Quinn
obviously had strong feelings for.
“The lead singer of Shaken Dirty. He and Jamison got engaged a couple of weeks ago. She’s the
sister of our lead guitarist, so it was a little strange when they got together. But in a good way, you
know?”
She didn’t know. She didn’t have a clue. How could she when there was no one in her own life that
she could speak about with such naked affection?
But she couldn’t tell him that, not this man she’d once loved. This man she’d never allow herself to
trust again—no matter how kind he was to her now. Not when loving him had nearly destroyed her the
first time.
Determined to think about anything but their past history, she reached into the backpack and pulled
out the last item. Then nearly cracked up when she saw what it was—a bag of spicy goldfish
crackers.
“Seriously?” she demanded. “You’re still on this?”
He looked at her blankly. “I’m sorry. I thought I remembered that you liked those. I’ll bring you
something else to snack on later.”
She studied him, trying to see if he was serious. When he stared back at her guilelessly, she almost
thought that he’d forgotten about what had happened ten years before. But then he blinked and for a
second, just a second, she could see the glee in his eyes.
But before she could call him on it, he asked, “Do you need help? Changing into one of the
nightshirts?”
With her mind still on the past, she was certain she must have heard him wrong. Because seriously,
he had not just offered to help her out of her clothes, had he?
Had he?
Her incredulity must have shown on her face because it didn’t take long for Quinn to hasten to
ensure her of his honorable intentions. “I mean, I can help you to the bathroom if you’re not steady. Or
I can step out while you change. Or you can wait to change. I mean—”
She wished she had a video camera. Or a tape recorder. Something, anything. It had been ten years
since she’d last seen him, but somehow she knew that it was as rare now to see him trip over his own
tongue as it had been all those years ago. Maybe more so.
“I know what you meant,” she finally told him, putting him out of his misery. “I’ll just change in the
restroom.”
She grabbed one of the nightshirts—the pretty blue one—and made her way to the bathroom. She
forced herself to move slowly, but steadily, refusing to let her legs buckle or her hands shake. No way
was she going to show that kind of weakness in front of Quinn.
It worked, too. She made it to the bathroom, even managed to brush her teeth—not that she was
concerned about having fresh breath or anything—and change clothes without stumbling more than a
couple times. She put it down to the breakfast tacos and the medication slowly leeching out of her
bloodstream. Not to mention her out-and-out determination not to look vulnerable.
But she grew cocky with her success, hurried out of the bathroom and back toward her bed.
She didn’t make it. Instead, she lost her balance a few steps from the bed. Careened into the sliding
table that still held the tray of uneaten food. And would have fallen to the ground if Quinn hadn’t
jumped up and caught her.
But he did—his reflexes were rock-solid and lightning fast—and before she could do much more
than yelp, she found herself in his arms. His very strong, very muscular, very tattooed arms. Pressed
up against his chest. His very strong, very muscular, very warm chest (she didn’t know, yet, if it was
also tattooed, but she was curious, very curious).
Either way, it wasn’t a bad place to be, especially when Quinn leaned down to check on her, his
face so close to her own that his hair brushed against her forehead, her cheek. She had a moment to be
grateful she’d brushed her teeth before she was overwhelmed by how cool and silky—how good—his
hair felt sliding against her skin.
“You okay, Lissy?” On his lips, her old nickname sounded familiar. So familiar.
“Yeah.” She wedged her good hand between them, pushed against Quinn’s chest. He didn’t budge
except to realign himself a little, so that her injured hand was resting on his shoulder—taking the
pressure off of it. Then he spread one of his big hands across her lower back, pinning her so that their
bodies were flush against each other from shoulder to hip.
As he cradled her, his heat seeped into her, chased away the chill that had been a part of her for so
long that she barely recognized it anymore. The warmth felt better than it had any right to.
…
Quinn wasn’t sure how they’d ended up in this position, with Elise wrapped up in his arms and her
sweet body pressed against his. All he knew was that he ached, his cock rock hard at the feel of her
soft breasts against his ribcage, her flat stomach against his upper thighs.
But sporting wood was a wholly inappropriate reaction considering where they were and the shape
Elise was in. His brain knew it, but convincing his body of it was something else entirely.
Shifting slightly, he nearly groaned when her hard nipples scraped against him, even through the
double layers of his shirt and her nightie. The feel of her own arousal sent him spiraling out of
control, until all he could feel and smell and hear was her.
In those moments, he wanted nothing more than to grab her. To pull her tight against him and never
let her go. To take her every way that he could and to hell with the consequences.
But real life didn’t work like that. He hadn’t been good enough for her ten years ago and he wasn’t
good enough for her now. Not with the blood he had on his hands, the violence he carried in his soul.
An image of her crumpled on the ground, head bleeding from where she’d slammed it on the corner
of a piano bench, flashed through his head. It cooled the need raging through him like nothing else
could, froze his blood and deflated his cock faster than a dip in icy water ever had.
And still it physically hurt him to lower her to the bed before stepping away from her. He took a
few steps back, shoved his hands in his pockets. Tried not to look like he’d been moments away from
falling to his knees in front of her and burying his face in her gorgeous pussy.
For long seconds, Elise didn’t say anything. And neither did he. Instead they just stared at each
other, the weight of what could have happened sparking in the air between them.
Elise broke first. Lowering her face, she stared at the ugly yellow hospital blanket, started to play
with some loose threads hanging from it.
“Do you want me to go?” he said. He hated having to ask it, hated more that he’d made her
uncomfortable. He’d come here because he hadn’t wanted her to be alone, but surely being alone was
better than being groped by an ex-boyfriend with a raging hard-on.
The thought made him cringe. Shit, he really was beginning to feel like a stalker.
“No!” The word seemed to burst from her. “I mean, you’re welcome to stay, if you’d like to.”
He would. It wasn’t the wisest course of action, but he’d never claimed to be wise. Not when it
came to Elise McKinney. So even though her rich strawberry and honey scent hung ripe in the room,
even though her lush little nipples kept poking against the soft fabric of her nightshirt, even though it
was probably the very worst thing he could do for his sanity, he sat down in the chair closest to her
bed and challenged her to a tic-tac-toe match.
Needless to say, he wasn’t the least bit surprised when she won every game.
Chapter Two
Quinn didn’t know how long he sat by Elise’s bed watching her sleep.
Long enough for a very excited nurse to come in to check on her three times—with a couple other
nurses and orderlies in tow.
Long enough for the hazy morning to burn into bright, hot day.
More than long enough for him to figure out that something was very wrong with this whole
situation. Something that had nothing to do with the accident Elise had just suffered.
Where was Elise’s fiancé? And where was her father?
When Quinn had known her, the man had rarely been more than three steps from his only child’s
side. It had made dating her—and making out with her—extremely difficult. Which, in retrospect, was
probably exactly what the old man had had in mind. He’d given over-protective a whole new
definition, especially when it came to anything having to do with her career. And since, in his mind,
everything had to do with her career…
Elise shifted then, whimpering in her sleep. He didn’t know if it was because she was in pain or
because she was having a nightmare, and he didn’t care. The sound ripped through him and though he
knew he had absolutely no right to touch her, he couldn’t resist stroking a hand over her forehead and
down the long, silken length of her dark hair.
She looked so ethereal lying there, her face cut, her right eye blackened, her forehead stitched up.
She was still gorgeous—it would take a lot more than a car accident to mar the inner and outer beauty
that was such an intrinsic part of Elise McKinney—but the fragility that had always been such a big
part of her, even ten years ago, was even more pronounced now.
Yes, she was bruised and battered, but again, it was more than her injuries, more than the accident.
More even, he feared, then Ellington’s death. Because while the anguish and exhaustion of losing her
manager could definitely be responsible for how breakable she looked, it didn’t account for the fact
that she was at least fifteen pounds too thin. Any more than it accounted for the fact that she looked
defeated—as if her life had been wearing on her for a long time.
Closing his eyes, he couldn’t help remembering the vibrant girl he’d once known. The one who had
battled her way on stage despite crippling stage fright. The one who, when pushed, had given as good
as she’d gotten. Who had taken every prank he’d ever dished out and exacted her revenge double-
fold.
There was nothing of that feisty girl in the woman he saw before him. All of Elise’s soft curves had
been rubbed away, until she was nothing but sharp bones, pale skin, and edgy nerves. The knowledge
gutted him, made him want to grab Ellington by his chubby arms and shake him until he told Quinn
what had happened to her.
But Ellington was dead and so was the kid Quinn used to be. Why was it so hard to accept, then,
that the old Elise had disappeared as well?
Maybe because he couldn’t help thinking he’d changed for the better. His old man probably
wouldn’t agree, but then again, the bastard hadn’t had a vote since the day Quinn walked away from
him with nothing but the clothes on his back and two hundred dollars in cash. For a chance at
freedom, he’d given up tens of thousands of dollars in competition winnings and a promising career.
He’d also given up Elise. And while he didn’t regret much about ditching his old life, leaving her
the way he had was the one thing he did. He’d left her all those years ago because he’d had to—his
sanity and his very survival had depended on getting away from his father. Once out, he’d never
contacted her again, because he could see where their relationship was going. Could see that he was
dragging her down into the dark and shattered abyss that had been his entire existence in those days.
He’d refused to do that to her.
But that hadn’t made it easier. Especially looking at her now and realizing that while he’d spent the
last decade growing into his skin, becoming the person he’d always wanted to be, he couldn’t say the
same for her.
Not when she looked so damaged. So miserable. So damn breakable.
The knowledge that she had suffered haunted him as he settled down beside the bed and took out his
phone. Pulling up the Internet, he Googled her, then spent the next hour poring through the scores of
information that had been written about her through the years. Most of it he knew—he had loosely
followed her career for a while, after all—but the recent stuff was all brand new.
That was his fault. He’d made a point of eschewing all publicity about Elise three years before,
right around the time he’d discovered that she was engaged. Doing so meant he now realized he’d
missed the article about the death of a legend (her father) that had run in the New Yorker nine months
before, just like he’d missed all the gossip column discussions about the subsequent break-up of her
engagement to some rich Manhattan financier.
All of which made him an even bigger asshole than he’d thought he was. Quinn had never been
particularly fond of her father, but Elise had been as close to him as she’d been to Ellington. Which
meant she’d lost her father, her fiancé, and her best friend/manager all in less than a year.
No wonder she looked like hell. The only surprise was that she’d managed to smile at him at all, no
matter how tremulously.
At one time, he might not have been able to empathize with her. But that was back when she’d been
the only thing he had to lose. Now that he was in the band, now that he had Jared and Ryder and
Wyatt, he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose all of them, let alone have it happen so close
together.
Again Elise whimpered in her sleep, and again he reached out to soothe her. He hated to see her
like this. A victim of so much pain, so much devastation. And it was only going to get worse. His gaze
fell on her broken hand. At the time when she needed her music most, it too had been stolen from her.
He thought back on her words, about her hand injury not being too bad. He had a hard time
believing that. The hand was a complex compilation of bones and tendons that worked together in
perfect balance and symmetry. If something happened to any of those bones, everything was thrown
off. If something happened to more than one of them…the result was nearly always some kind of
permanent, limited range of motion. Which, for a normal person, might be nothing more consequential
than the inconvenience of not being able to bend one of their fingers. For a classical pianist, however,
it was the death knoll on his or her career.
Quinn walked to the computer beside her bed. He’d watched her nurse log in when she’d been here
earlier, but then the woman had been so frazzled by the fact that she was in the room with a real-live
rock star that she’d forgotten to log out. Which meant that everything he wanted to know about Elise’s
condition was just a click away.
A quick glance at the clock told him he should have a few minutes before the nurse’s next visit, and
a small shove of the door had it snicking shut.
Feeling guilty for invading her privacy, but determined to know what was wrong with Elise and
what she needed, he scrolled through the chart. As he did, the sick churning in his stomach got worse
with each word that he read.
There was nothing simple about Elise’s break, nothing that made it sound even feasible that she’d
play piano again on a professional level. Not when three of the metacarpal bones had been so badly
broken that they’d had to be pinned back together. And not when he took into account the amount of
tendon and ligament damage detailed by the surgeon—only some of which he’d even attempted to
repair in what was to be the first of numerous surgeries.
Shit.
Quinn read the chart through a second time before logging out of the computer. Then sank into the
closest chair and ran his hands over his face.
Shit, shit, shit. Fuck, goddamn son of a bitch. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuck.
The litany of curse words ran through his head as the reality of Elise’s situation sunk in. She was
injured, alone, and without the career that had always been the compass that guided her life. Plus, she
had months of surgery and physical therapy ahead of her—all with no support structure whatsoever.
No wonder she looked shattered.
Quinn sat by the bed for long minutes wondering why life had to be so fucking unfair. It was a
ridiculous question coming from a guy who’d learned at a young age just how capricious, and
uncaring, the universe could be. But he didn’t want that for Elise, had never wanted it for her. It was
the number one reason he’d ripped his own heart out and walked away from her at seventeen. So that
she could have the kind of life she deserved, one that wouldn’t constantly be tainted and fucked up
just by dint of proximity to his.
Only her life had been fucked up anyway. By this damn car accident, and by a lot of stuff before it,
if he was reading the signs right. Which meant, what? That he’d walked away from her for nothing?
Or just that nobody, no matter how sweet and perfect and lucky they appeared, got out of life
unscathed?
He didn’t know the answer, but the one thing he was certain of was that there was no way he was
going to let Elise go through the next couple of days alone. No way was he going to let her spend
countless hours staring at the walls of this damn hospital room, waiting and wondering what was
going to happen next.
He’d already been there, already done that, and he wouldn’t wish it on anyone—wouldn’t, even,
wish it on his father—let alone the fragile woman in front of him.
No, when tomorrow came and she started to face the truth about her hand, her future, her music, he
would be there. And he would continue to be there until she figured out she’d be better off without
him and kicked him the fuck out of her life. For good this time.
Chapter Three
A few hours later, after making sure Elise ate a few bites of the soup he’d gone out and gotten her for
lunch, Quinn bullied her into taking a pain pill. She fell asleep soon afterwards and he snuck out,
doing his best not to disturb her. Or to alert the nursing staff that he was on the loose.
While he was successful with his first goal, the second was a total loss. As such, it ended up taking
him nearly twenty minutes to get out the front door of the hospital, since it didn’t take long for the
word that he was around to spread to other visitors. And since Austin was nothing if not a music
town, he had a lot of autographs to sign.
Which normally wasn’t something he would ever complain about. How could he when he was
incredibly grateful for the support of Shaken Dirty’s fans—especially after the latest mess they’d
gotten themselves into.
But he’d stayed too long with Elise as it was. He had other responsibilities, ones that he couldn’t
shirk even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.
And yet, even knowing he had somewhere else to be, he hadn’t wanted to leave her. Not because he
didn’t want to leave her alone—although that was true, too—but because something about being near
her, listening to her voice, soothed him.
Considering how tightly wound—and how wary of him—she was, it made no sense. But it was
true, nonetheless. No matter how hard it was to sit in that room with her when all he wanted to do was
pull her onto his lap and hold her, kiss her, make love to her, it still made him feel good just to talk to
her. Just to see her beautiful green eyes light up or her skin flush with pleasure or embarrassment.
But indulging himself had made him really late, so once he finally managed to break free of the fans,
he hightailed it across the parking lot to his motorcycle. Minutes later he was on the highway, headed
north, and thirty minutes after that, he was pulling into the parking lot of his destination.
After securing his helmet, he bounded up the stairs to the private facility and checked in at the front
desk. By the time he’d presented his ID and made it to the rec room where small groups of people had
taken up nearly every available spot, he felt like a total ass. The festivities had started two hours
before—he should have been here then, like he’d originally planned.
Pissed off—at himself and the world in general—he was pretty much lost in his own little world
until Wyatt’s laconic voice broke through the fog. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Quinn turned from looking out the window at what he thought was a putting green to find his band’s
drummer—and his best friend—regarding him with narrowed eyes. Despite the fact that he thought
he’d prepared himself for this moment, his stomach clenched a little as he took in Wyatt’s appearance.
The guy looked like hell.
His normally tanned skin was a sick, pasty white that made his tattoos—not to mention the purple
circles under his green eyes—stand out in stark definition. His hands were shaking so badly that even
shoving them in his pockets couldn’t disguise the involuntary movements. And he’d lost more weight,
weight he had no business losing.
It had only been three weeks since Quinn and Ryder had dropped him off at this place, but it felt—
and Wyatt looked—like it had been three months. Three excruciatingly long and torturous months that
had done nothing for him but make him look more like the heroin addict he was instead of less.
Worry crawled through him, made Quinn’s own hands shake a little. He didn’t know what would
happen—to Wyatt or to the band—if this trip to rehab didn’t take. But he couldn’t let his friend see
his concern or his doubts. He didn’t want to sabotage any progress, however small, that the guy had
made. So instead of asking how Wyatt was doing, Quinn did what he did best, what he’d been doing
for more years than he could count. He shoved that shit down deep inside himself and forced a smile
onto his face that he was far from feeling.
“I guess you didn’t get the memo,” he told Wyatt. “It’s family weekend.”
“I think that’s supposed to be for real families.”
“Yeah, well, I won’t tell if you don’t.” After all, they’d been each other’s family for eight years—
ever since Quinn had been absorbed into the band Wyatt had started with three other guys back when
they were still in high school.
Quinn didn’t point that out either. The look in Wyatt’s eyes said he didn’t have to, that despite his
words he knew exactly why Quinn was there. So that he didn’t have to be alone on the one weekend a
month rehab patients were actually allowed visitors.
“Ryder and Jamison will be here tomorrow. And Jared plans on coming Sunday.”
Something flickered in Wyatt’s blank eyes. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, right.” Wyatt jerked his head toward the sliding glass doors that led outside. “Wanna sit?”
“Sure.”
Quinn silently followed his friend onto the shaded patio, watched as Wyatt grabbed a spot on one
of the loungers next to the metal railing before doing the same. While there were a few people on the
patio with them, most of the guests were lounging by the pool or trying their hands at what was,
indeed, a putting green.
He shook his head. Rehab or five star luxury resort? He didn’t know, and frankly didn’t care as
long as it helped Wyatt. His last two rehab stints had been done at places that would give even the
most stringent boot camp a run for its money, and they hadn’t worked. Who was he to say that this
place, with its tennis courts and acres of hiking trails, wouldn’t do the job?
Silence stretched between them, taut as a guitar string. There were a million things Quinn wanted to
say and none that he was certain he should say, so for long minutes he just sat there, watching and
waiting. Eventually Wyatt would speak. They’d been friends long enough for him to know that the
only thing the drummer was more afraid of than sobriety was quiet.
Sure enough, Wyatt was the first to crack. “How’s Jared?
Quinn’s laugh was anything but humorous. “Completely fucked.”
“Yeah. That’s what I figured.” He swiped a weary hand over his face. “What the hell was Micah
even thinking?”
“When does Micah ever think? He wanted to sleep with Victoria, so he did. He didn’t give a shit
that she was Jared’s fiancée any more than he cared about what would happen when he got caught.”
“God, he’s such a dick.”
“That’s an understatement.”
Wyatt drummed his fingers on his thighs for long seconds, then—before the silence could get any
more oppressive, asked, “So where does that leave Shaken Dirty?”
Completely fucked. Those two words were becoming a refrain, one that was killing him. He’d
spent the last eight years of his life doing everything he could to make this band a success, to prove to
himself that they had what it took. And now that they were finally on the edge of breaking huge, of
entering the elusive world of superstardom, everything that could go wrong was.
But again, he didn’t say that. When their current predicament was at least partially due to Wyatt’s
inability to kick heroin, it seemed like a bad idea to lay out right now just how completely screwed
they were.
After all, they’d just pulled out of a four-month tour that they were co-headlining—a tour that had
been exactly what they needed to move from popular band to superstardom—so that he could get the
rehab he needed. Tens of millions of dollars, countless disappointed fans, tons of bad publicity, and
hundreds of man-hours of work all down the tubes because Wyatt couldn’t stay clean. Add to that the
stress of the lead guitarist and bass player being at each other’s throats and it seemed impossible to
think that Shaken Dirty would ever find their way through the mess.
But it also seemed impossible that they wouldn’t.
Quinn hadn’t been around for the beginning of the band, but when they’d picked him up, it had been
the best thing that had ever happened to him. Wyatt might say that they weren’t family, but that was
bullshit. For Quinn, Wyatt, and Ryder particularly, Shaken Dirty was the only real family they’d ever
had. And while Ryder had his fiancée, Jamison, now, his loyalty to the band—and his band mates—
was as powerful as ever.
Which was only one of the reasons Micah’s betrayal had cut at all of them, not just Jared.
“We’ll get through it,” he said, because he couldn’t let himself believe anything else. “We always
do.”
Wyatt reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Fumbled one out and then lit it up,
taking a long, steady drag. Quinn bit back an instinctive protest. One addiction at a time, he told
himself. Or two, considering Wyatt was currently trying to kick smack and booze. They could deal
with the cigarettes later.
“You know that Micah needs to go,” Wyatt told him.
Quinn nodded. “That’s not even a question. But Ryder and I’ve already talked to the label,
management, and our lawyers. If Micah is willing to leave, it’ll be easy to get him out of the contract.
But if he wants to stay…it could mean a fight. Being an asshole isn’t legal grounds for getting dropped
from the band. Not when he’s one of the founding members.”
And not like, say, a recurring drug problem that was currently costing the label millions of dollars
—and endangering their chance of ever getting tour insurance again—would be. It was one of the
reasons they had to walk lightly around Micah. If the label let him go under code of conduct stuff and
hung on to Wyatt, despite all the trouble his addiction had caused, there could be definite grounds for
a lawsuit.
Quinn didn’t see any reason to get into any of that thought, at least not right then. But again, Wyatt
read between the lines. It didn’t take much for him to figure out exactly what Quinn had tried so hard
not to say.
“I really screwed everything up, didn’t I?”
“What are you talking about? The band’s mystique just grew about five hundred percent. You know
how the fans like their rock stars on the fucked up side.”
“I know how the record label likes its bottom line on the fat side.”
Yeah. After the last three weeks of down and dirty brawling with their label, so did Quinn. But
that’s what their agents and management company were for. He’d spent a lot of time recently trying to
figure out the best way to fix the mess he and his band mates found themselves in.
“It’s fine,” he said, because he refused to think any other way. “Ryder and I are going to talk to
Drew next week. We’ll get this all sorted out. You just concentrate on—”
“If you say I need to concentrate on getting well, like I’m some ninety-year-old grandma trying to
beat a bad case of pneumonia, I will kick your fucking ass.”
Funny. Wyatt and Elise couldn’t be more different, yet she had said pretty much the same thing to
him before he’d left her hospital room. Maybe he was being a little too overprotective, but it was a
flaw of his. He tended to be that way about people he cared about.
Not that he was going to tell Wyatt that. “I was going to say kicking heroin’s ass, but now I’m
scared. You looked a little fierce there.”
“I feel fierce,” Wyatt said with a laugh, exactly as Quinn had intended. But then he got serious
quickly. “I’m so fucking sick of this bullshit. So fucking sick of this addiction. I’m done with it this
time, man. I swear it.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean it. I know how badly I messed things up, for everyone. And I know the three of you are
working your asses off trying to fix my mistakes. But this is the last time you’ll ever have to do that.”
Quinn nodded. “I know. You’ve got this.” And if there was a part of him that doubted this time
would be any different from the ones that had come before, well, he kept that to himself. Locked it
away with everything else he refused to talk—or think—about and kept on sending positive vibes
Wyatt’s way. The last thing his best friend needed from him right now was doubt.
“You’re going to kick this addiction,” he continued. “We’re going to figure out a way to get rid of
Micah. We’ll find a new bass player, one who is just as talented but not such a pain in the ass. And in
six months, Shaken Dirty will be stronger than ever.”
He would make sure of it. Because the alternative—losing the band and his best friends—wasn’t an
option. Quinn wouldn’t let it be.
Four hours later, Quinn threw down his hand of cards and said, “I’m out.”
Wyatt grinned and swept the huge collection of licorice and miniature candy bars they’d been
playing for into his already bulging pile. “Looks like your luck has finally run out, my friend.”
“Looks like.” He pushed back from the table. “I should probably get going, anyway. Visitor hours
are almost up.”
“Fuck ‘em,” Wyatt said, but there was little heat in his tone. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”
Quinn leaned over and snagged a couple of chocolate bars from Wyatt’s pile. “I’m pretty sure I can
find my way.”
“Forgive me for not being as confident. Your sense of direction—or lack of it—is truly awe-
inspiring.”
“That’s when I’m in a strange city. I can find my damn bike in the parking lot.”
Wyatt grinned. “Better safe than sorry. Besides,” he continued when Quinn would have protested,
“it gives me an excuse to walk with you.”
“You need an excuse?”
“Not to walk, but to grill you. And I very definitely intend to do that.”
Figuring forewarned was forearmed, Quinn regarded him warily. “What am I about to get grilled
on?”
“I’m not sure yet. But something is definitely up your ass, something that has nothing to do with the
band.”
“Nothing is up my ass, as you so eloquently put it.”
“Dude, save that shit for Jared or Jamison, someone who actually believes the world is filled with
unicorns and rainbows.”
Quinn burst out laughing at the image of their lead guitarist with stars in his eyes. Jared might be a
decent guy from a decent home, but he was a long way from believing in unicorns. Especially these
days. “I’ll be sure to mention your description to him.”
Wyatt shrugged. “And I’ll be sure to mention your preoccupation to him. I wonder how long it will
take Jamison to get it out of you.”
Quinn didn’t even want to contemplate that—Jamison was sweet, but wily, and the last person he’d
want to bare his soul to. She still thought he was a nice guy—an illusion he’d like to keep up if he
could. “Look, it’s no big deal.”
“Excuse me, but I’ll say if it’s a big deal.” Wyatt sounded so prim and proper and obviously bent
on busting his balls that Quinn cracked up all over again. It was one of the things he loved about being
in this band. How through the years they’d all learned each other well enough to know when to call
bullshit and when to just let stuff go. And while he’d prefer if this were one of the latter times, he
recognized the look on Wyatt’s face well enough to know that he wasn’t going to bow out of the
discussion. Not this time.
“Have you ever heard of Elise McKinney?” he finally asked
Wyatt’s brow furrowed. “Is she a singer?”
“No. She’s a world-class pianist.”
“Oh, right. She did that Phillip Glass album a while back. The one that got all kinds of press.”
He loved that album. There was something about Phillip Glass—and something about Elise playing
his stuff—that always got to him. “She was in a car accident a couple days ago. On I-35. Her left hand
is pretty much ruined.”
Wyatt winced, flexed his own fingers in sympathy. “God, that’s rough.”
“Yeah.”
“You know her? Back from your days…” He extended his arms, did such a terrible impression of
someone playing the piano that he almost looked like he had Tourette’s.
“Nice,” Quinn told him, shaking his head in exasperation. “But, yes, we used to be…friends.”
“You used to be friends?” Wyatt wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully. “Or you used to be friends?”
“Seriously? Are you twelve?”
“Pretty much. The doc here says I’m emotionally stunted. It’s why I engage in pleasure-seeking
behavior that is also destructive to myself and those around me.”
Quinn eyed him. In some ways that description sounded about right to him. In other ways, it
sounded way too simplistic for a guy as complicated and screwed up as Wyatt. “And what do you
think?”
“I think I’m a fucking heroin addict and an alcoholic. That’s what I’m here to kick. The rest of the
psycho-babble pretty much goes in one ear and out the other.”
Yeah, that’s what Quinn was afraid of. “Wy—”
He waved him off. “Enough talk about my shit. It’s boring, man. Besides, we were talking about
your friend.”
“She’s here, in Austin, totally alone. I went to visit her earlier, but they’re going to let her out in a
day or two and I don’t know what she’s going to do.”
“What does she want to do?”
“She says she wants to go home to Chicago, but the doctor won’t let her travel for a week.”
“So where’s she going to stay for that week?”
“That’s the thing. When we were playing tic-tac-toe—”
“Tic-tac-toe?” Wyatt looked at him incredulously. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“Dude, she’s in the hospital. Like a day out of surgery. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“The only reason my mind’s in the gutter is the way you look when you talk about her.”
Quinn narrowed his eyes at him. “Can we get back to the issue at hand? She’s planning on going to
a hotel, but I hate the idea of that. I mean, her left hand is in a cast, plus she’s on pretty heavy-duty
pain medication after the surgery. She needs someone to take care of her.”
“And you want to be that someone.”
“I think I have to be. She has no one else.” The fact that he got a raging hard-on every time Elise so
much as looked at him was something Wyatt didn’t need to know. Not when he had no plans to act on
it, after all.
“What about her manager?”
A pang hit him when he thought of Ellington. “He died in the crash.”
Wyatt whistled. “Tough break.”
“Yeah.”
“Her family?”
“She hasn’t got any.”
Someone else might have been shocked at the state of Elise’s life, but this was Wyatt, who had
pretty much been alone since he came out of the womb. At least until he’d found Shaken Dirty. “You
know, you could always take her home with you.”
“Yeah.” Quinn blew out a long breath. “That’s what I’ve been thinking about.”
“So, what’s the problem? You’ve got that huge house. Hire a nurse and you won’t even have to see
her if you don’t want to.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to see her. It’s that…there’s some pretty shitty history between us.”
“I knew it. So you were ‘friends.’” He used his fingers to make quote marks around the word.
“We were. It ended not so great between us—”
“Meaning what?” Wyatt interrupted.
“Meaning I was a total dick. And while she was polite to me today, I know she doesn’t trust me. I
don’t think she’ll come home with me.”
Wyatt’s eyes narrowed. “You still have feelings for her.”
“No…of course… I just… I want… No.”
His friend burst out laughing. “Yeah. That was convincing.”
“I feel responsible for her. She needs help and—”
“You need to give it. Believe me, I get it. Your savior complex is well-documented.”
Quinn rolled his eyes. “Can you just shut up and tell me what to do?”
“You know that’s physically impossible, right? For me to do both at the same time.”
He made a low, frustrated sound at the back of his throat, and Wyatt held up his hands in surrender.
“Okay, okay. I’ll stop messing with you.”
“Thank you.” He waited impatiently for Wyatt’s advice. The guy’s own life was a total mess and he
couldn’t help himself for shit. But when he was sober, he had an uncanny ability to get to the heart of
other people’s problems and give advice that was almost always spot on.
It took a couple minutes, but then he said, “Well, you could always kidnap her.”
Quinn waited for the punch line, but when Wyatt didn’t say anything else, he turned to stare at his
friend incredulously. “That’s it? That’s your advice? To kidnap a physically injured and emotionally
damaged woman?”
“Pretty much,” Wyatt answered with a shrug.
“I’m sorry, but do you have any advice that doesn’t include me committing a felony?”
“Not so much, no.”
“Awesome. Thanks for nothing.” He turned away, took the steps leading down to the path of
tranquility two at a time.
“You’re welcome.”
Quinn flipped him off and kept walking.
Wyatt laughed, then called after him. “Pick her up from the hospital. Tell her you’re taking her to
the hotel, then take her to your place instead. Believe me, she’ll take one look at all that luxury and
decide hanging out with you isn’t such a bad idea after all. You could put on some of those famous
Bradford moves, get her all hot and bothered. She won’t know what hit her.”
Quinn flipped him off again.
“Or you could be a pussy and just take her to the hotel. Then spend the next week worrying about
her getting gangrene or some such shit.”
Quinn whirled on him. “Seriously? That’s the image I need in my head?”
“Just trying to help.”
“You’re failing.”
“Yeah.” This time Wyatt’s grin was lopsided. “I get that a lot.”
Shit. “I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t worry about it, bro. Just go get your girl.”
“She’s not my girl. If she was, I wouldn’t have to kidnap her for the chance to take care of her.”
“So make her your girl. You know you want to.”
“I never said that’s what I wanted.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes. “Night, Quinn.”
“Night, Wyatt. Hang in there, okay?”
“Don’t I always?”
Quinn thought of Wyatt’s last overdose, of how Ryder, Jamison, and Jared had found him on their
dressing room floor, not breathing and with no heartbeat. He’d walked in, in the middle of them
giving Wyatt CPR. It was a sight that had haunted his nightmares ever since—and would for a long
time to come.
“Wyatt—”
“I got it, Quinn. I won’t do anything stupid.”
“Promise?”
“You know my promises aren’t worth shit.”
“They are to me.”
“Jesus.” Wyatt pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. “Get the fuck out of here before you start singing
‘Kumbaya’ or some shit.”
“That’s Jared’s department.”
Wyatt snorted. “Don’t I know it?” With another wave, he turned and walked back inside.
Quinn watched his friend go, watched as the door closed behind him and his shoulders slumped,
like he couldn’t stand the weight on them for one second more.
Quinn knew the feeling. Between the tour, the album, Wyatt, Jared, Micah, and now Elise, he felt
like the world was collapsing all around him. Too bad he didn’t have a clue what to do about any of
it.
Chapter Four
They were releasing her from the hospital today. Thank God.
She was sick to death of being poked and prodded and pricked by needles. Of being woken up
every two hours for concussion checks and blood pressure checks and temperature checks. Of never
having any privacy.
It wasn’t like there was anything wrong with her anymore—besides the injuries to her hand. And
since she had spent the last three days deliberately not thinking about those injuries, and what they
meant, Elise was more than happy to get out of the place that kept reminding her about them.
And yet…there was a nervousness inside her too, a fear that she couldn’t quite conquer but couldn’t
ignore either.
It wasn’t so much about where she’d go—she’d called yesterday and extended her reservations at
one of the best hotels in Austin. She figured she’d stay there a week, taking advantage of room service
and long, uninterrupted stretches of quiet, until the doctor cleared her for travel.
Then she’d go home to Chicago.
Just the thought made her stomach twist unpleasantly. Not that she had anything against her home
town—it wasn’t like she’d spent enough time in the city where she’d “lived” for the last two decades
to develop an opinion one way or the other. Which, of course, was part of the problem. The other part
was that returning home would make everything that had happened these last few days all too real.
As long as she was here, in Austin, she could bury her head. She could ignore the truth, just like she
could ignore the pain that came from losing Ellington. From missing his funeral. From acknowledging
that she was injured so severely that she would probably never play piano professionally again. She
could even ignore the fact that she was alone—totally alone—for the first time in her life. But once
she walked into that huge house she’d inherited from her father, once she felt the yawning emptiness
of the place, she wouldn’t be able to ignore the changes in her life anymore. Once it was just her and
the silence, she’d be surrounded by the wreck her life had become. And the wreck she’d become right
along with it.
God, she was turning into a cliché. And a maudlin one at that.
The nurse who had handed her the discharge papers to sign was prattling on about home care
instructions—the pain medication they’d had filled at the pharmacy and that she was supposed to take,
the doctor she was supposed to make a follow-up appointment with to take out her stitches, the
surgeon she was supposed to see next week to check on the progress her hand was making. He was
also the one who would finally clear her for travel.
Elise nodded, and murmured politely at appropriate times. She signed everywhere the nurse told
her to. Even repeated her care instructions back to the nurse. And fought not to scream every time the
nurse referenced her hand.
The discharge instructions finally came to an end long, interminable minutes later and Elise
released the death grip she had on the bed railing. She was pretty sure holding onto it was the only
thing that had kept her from snatching the nurse bald-headed during the last few minutes.
She climbed shakily to her feet and the nurse gestured for her to get into the wheelchair that waited
at the foot of her bed. She wanted to protest—for some reason it felt important to her that she embark
on this new stage of her life on her own two feet—but the woman had been insistent. Wheelchairs
were hospital policy and in this one thing, there would be no exceptions. Knowing she had no choice
—a refrain that was depressingly common in this new, post-accident life of hers—she followed
orders and climbed into the chair.
Oblivious to her mood, the nurse chattered away as the elevator descended to the first floor. The
doors opened silently and as she was pushed out of the car and into the long hallway that led to the
front door, Elise’s stomach clenched more and more tightly.
She wasn’t ready for this. Wasn’t ready to step out into a world that didn’t have Ellington in it any
more than she was ready to pick up the mismatched pieces of her own life. Unfortunately, what she
was ready for didn’t seem to matter. This was it. The start of the rest of her life. It was hard to
pretend otherwise when she could see the yellow cab the nurse had called for her sitting right outside
the hospital’s sliding glass front doors.
Her record label had offered to send a limo for her, but she’d turned them down. She’d been riding
in the long black cars for years, a big fan of the privacy and luxury they provided. But after what had
happened to Ellington, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to look at one again, let alone ride in it.
Then again, if her music career really was over, it wasn’t like she’d have much opportunity to do so
anyway…
Staring at the cab that was going to take her away from the hospital and into the beginnings of her
new life—whatever that was—she felt a brief pang. It was stupid, she was stupid, but she’d kind of
expected Quinn to show up today. He hadn’t said anything about it, hadn’t promised her anything, but
he’d stopped by each of the three days she’d spent in the hospital, each time with a gift that made her
smile. That he didn’t come by today, on the day she was leaving, hurt more than it had any right to.
Then again, she should have known better than to get used to him being around. Much as she might
wish otherwise, he wasn’t exactly the trustworthy sort. Quinn did what he wanted, when he wanted to
do it, and to hell with the consequences—or anyone who got trapped in the crossfire.
From the moment he’d shown up in her hospital room, she’d known she couldn’t count on him.
Known that if he came back it would be because he wanted to, not because of anything she might say
or do. And still she’d looked for him today. Still she’d jumped at every shadow that passed her
doorway and every knock she’d heard at her door.
Except it hadn’t been him. Not once. And she was stupid enough to be disappointed. Disappointed
that he wasn’t there, and disappointed that she would probably never see him again. Pretending
otherwise would only make the sting she felt now blossom into something much, much worse.
Which was ridiculous, because she didn’t need his help. Would never allow herself to need him in
any way ever again.
Swallowing back the sudden lump in her throat, she pushed herself shakily to her feet. “Take it
slowly,” the nurse told her, resting a supportive hand on Elise’s arm.
Not sure if she’d be able to force any sound out of her tight throat, Elise simply nodded. Then took
a few unsteady steps toward the waiting cab. Maybe the hospital knew what it was talking about with
the whole wheelchair thing, after all.
The cab driver came around, opened the door for her. But before she could get in, a familiar voice
called her name. She looked up to see Quinn sprinting across the parking lot.
“Hey! They told me you weren’t being released for at least another hour.” The look he shot the
nurse was definitely accusatory.
She was an older woman and not nearly as prone to falling at his feet as Elise’s other nurses had
been the last couple of days, but still she blushed as she answered, “The doctor did his rounds earlier
than usual today. There was no reason to keep her after he’d discharged her.”
“Except for the fact that no one was here to get her.” Quinn glanced at Elise in exasperation. “You
didn’t really think I was going to let you do this alone, did you?”
Obviously, she’d thought exactly that. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d left her to fend for
herself. Not that she needed him—and not that he owed her anything.
Yet, here he was now, looking more than a little indignant that the hospital hadn’t thought to call
him. That she hadn’t thought to call him.
“It’s fine,” she told him. “I’m just going a few miles away. The cab’s already here.”
“So am I. And I promise, my ride is more comfortable than the backseat of a cab.” He pulled a
couple of bills out of his wallet and pressed them into the cab driver’s hand. “Thanks, buddy. But I’ve
got it from here.”
The driver took the money, then looked at her inquisitively. “Are you sure, ma’am?”
“She’s sure,” Quinn answered brusquely.
No, she wasn’t. Not really. Part of her wanted nothing more than to cling to him. To let him pick her
up and take her back to the hotel and tell her everything was going to be okay. Just like he used to. But
she was smart enough to know that everything wasn’t going to be okay, that he couldn’t make it that
way even if he wanted to.
Besides, clinging to him now would only make an untenable situation worse. Oh, Quinn was fun
and funny and he had good intentions, obviously, but that didn’t mean she could afford to let him back
into her life—even as a friend. She couldn’t grow attached to him. Not when she still wanted him
more than she should. And not when he was the master of bailing.
She’d been there, done that, once in her life. No way in hell was she going to do it again.
But that didn’t mean she had to turn down all help from him, did it? It wasn’t like she had anyone
else right now. No friends, no family. She was completely alone. And Quinn was here, ready to help.
Willing, even. Why shouldn’t she take him up on his offer of a ride to the hotel?
“I’m sure,” she finally said, echoing his words.
The cab driver nodded, then got back in his car without any further protest. Probably the easiest
money he’d make all day.
“Thanks,” she told Quinn as the cab pulled away. “I appreciate it.”
“Don’t thank me. Not for something like this.” He glanced up at the nurse. “I’m parked just over
there. Will you wait with her while I go get my car?”
“Of course.”
As one, they watched him jog back into the parking lot, his long, shredded denim-clad legs eating
up the distance in a few long strides. Seriously? What grown man still wore jeans that left half his
thighs hanging out? And why was drool pooling in her mouth as she looked at him?
Elise sighed despite herself. How could Quinn get better looking every day? It just wasn’t fair—not
when whatever peace of mind she had left was disintegrating a little more with each second she spent
with him.
The nurse interrupted her reverie by tapping the back of the wheelchair. “Have a seat, honey. You
don’t want to fall down before your guy gets back here.”
“He’s not my guy,” Elise protested even as she sank gratefully back into the wheelchair. “He’s just
someone I used to know.”
The nurse snorted. “Yeah, well, tall, dark and broody has been burning up our phone lines every
couple of hours checking on you. For the past seventy-two hours, most of the nurses have been racing
for the phone just in case it’s him on the other end. And that doesn’t even count the fight that’s been
going on to get you on their rotation during visiting hours.”
Elise flushed as the woman’s words sunk in. It wasn’t like she blamed the nurses for wanting a
glimpse of Quinn—she too had spent entirely too many minutes over the last couple of days just
staring at the door of her hospital room, waiting for him to get there.
Quinn chose that moment to pull up to the curb in a shiny black Land Rover. She went to push to her
feet, but before she could so much as shift in the wheelchair, he was there in front of her. One of his
arms slid around her waist, while he used the other to grasp her uninjured hand and ease her gently
out of the chair. Then he was helping her to the car—like she’d injured her foot instead of her hand—
and lifting her carefully into the passenger seat.
She studiously ignored the heat that worked its way through her from wherever their bodies
touched. Just like she ignored the shivers working their way down her spine.
“You doing okay?” he asked, as he pulled out her seat belt and leaned across her to buckle it.
“Fine,” she answered, then immediately regretted drawing in the air to speak. Because along with
the necessary oxygen, she had also drawn in a huge whiff of Quinn’s scent. To be more specific,
Quinn’s delicious scent.
Most of the men she knew smelled crisp and sharp and professional, and while that was a pleasant
enough scent, it was nothing compared to the dark wickedness that suddenly surrounded her. Warm
musk. Pungent sandalwood. Sweet, ripe summer blackberries. All mixed with a seductive
underpinning of rock and roll. It was all she could do not to bury her face in his neck and just breathe
him in. Or worse, take a bite.
“Good.” The seatbelt clicked into place and he pulled back slowly, as if he was worried about
jostling her. Or maybe he just wanted to torture her with his closeness. Either way, it was working.
Her nipples were hard and her sex ached for the feel of him against her. Inside her.
He turned away then, and with a wave to the nurse, walked around the car and slid into the driver’s
seat. She shifted uncomfortably, crossed her uninjured arm over her breasts. And prayed Quinn didn’t
notice just how obviously he affected her.
“How’s the temperature?” he asked, playing with the air vents in front of her. “Too cold? Too hot?”
“It’s fine.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“Quinn.” This time she was the one to reach out to him, gently covering his hand with her injured
one. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
That wasn’t precisely the truth, but it wasn’t quite a lie either. Besides, what was wrong with her
couldn’t be fixed by anything as easy as a temperature control. The nurse had all but forced a Vicodin
—less powerful than Percocet but still pretty potent—down her throat a few hours before, so she
wasn’t feeling any pain in her wrist. But at the same time, she wasn’t groggy enough to forget the last
time she’d been in a vehicle. Just like she couldn’t forget that today was Ellington’s funeral and she
wouldn’t be there to honor him. To say good-bye.
“Good.” He pulled away from the curb and headed for the exit. “I want you to tell me if that
changes or if you need anything.”
“I doubt anything’s going to happen between here and my hotel. I was told the W was only about ten
miles away.”
Quinn nodded, but didn’t say anything else—which probably should have been her first clue. He
was a terrible liar, or at least he always had been in the past. He was good at keeping quiet, at not
saying anything one way or the other, but if you pushed him for an answer it was almost impossible
for him to do anything but tell the truth.
But she was exhausted, despite the fact that the only strenuous thing she’d done all day was to climb
into his car, so she missed it completely. Instead, she rested her head against the back of her seat and
closed her eyes.
The well-mannered part of her was urging her to make small talk, but the truth was she just didn’t
have it in her. Not when the relationship she and Quinn used to share had never involved social
niceties. Veiled barbs, dirty tricks, hot kisses, and hotter arguments—absolutely. But small talk?
They’d always been too busy trying to get the best of one another to engage in something so incredibly
useless.
And while she understood that their relationship had changed—that they had changed—Elise
couldn’t bring herself to break that taboo that had once existed between them. Couldn’t bring herself
to heap fakeness on top of the reality they’d once shared.
She opened her eyes occasionally, glanced at the clock on the dash. Ten minutes passed, then
fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five. They were on the highway, driving fast, and she kept expecting him to
exit. Kept expecting to see her hotel looming at any second. But the longer he drove, the further away
from the city they seemed to get, until thirty minutes had passed and she couldn’t keep her mouth shut
any longer.
“You do know where my hotel is, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Absolutely.”
She might have been satisfied at that, but when he finally pulled off the highway it was in a
residential area. One with huge houses and not a lot of traffic. Not at all where she remembered her
hotel being.
“This isn’t the way to the W,” she finally said as he stopped at a red light. When he didn’t answer,
she demanded, “Where are you taking me?”
“To my house. It’s on the lake and a much better place to recover than a hotel. Besides, here I can
keep an eye on you.”
“You can…?” Surely she’d heard him wrong. The Quinn she knew didn’t keep an eye on anyone.
Besides, going to his house didn’t make sense. Not when: “All my stuff is at the W. I have to go
there.”
“Actually, your stuff is in the trunk. I had the hotel pack it up for me.”
She whirled around, stared into the backseat like she expected it to cough up her Louis Vuitton
suitcase. But the backseat was empty except for a black leather jacket, a pair of scuffed Doc Martens,
and some loose sheet music.
“That’s not possible,” she finally said. “I had reservations—I spoke to them to confirm yesterday
afternoon. They wouldn’t just pack my stuff and give it to a virtual stranger.”
“Ah, but I’m not a stranger. I’m a local celebrity, and a pretty popular one at that. When I explained
to the hotel manager that I was an old friend and that I’d be taking care of you during this difficult
time, she was more than happy to have someone pack up your suitcase for me.”
“But that’s illegal!”
He waggled his head back and forth. “Maybe, maybe not. She—”
“No. There’s no maybe about it. It’s definitely illegal! She can’t just go giving people’s stuff away
like that. What if you’d been a thief?”
“Do I look like a thief?”
“You look like a thug. Or worse, a gang member.”
He had the nerve to laugh. “Gangs aren’t exactly a big problem here in Austin.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. And I’m sure she figured someone with my money didn’t need to scour hotels in an effort to
steal from hapless concert pianists.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what she was thinking,” Elise told him with a snort. More likely, the hotel
manager hadn’t been able to get past his hotness long enough to remember how to do her job. It was a
sickness, one she was intimately acquainted with.
How, then, could she blame some hapless hotel employee who’d been completely unprepared for
the force of nature that was Quinn Bradford on a mission?
“I can’t go home with you,” she said with narrowed eyes.
“Why not?”
Because accepting a ride from the man who had once broken her heart was one thing. Staying with
him for a week while she recuperated was another thing all together, especially when she was on pain
medication that made her more than a little loopy. She’d already had more than one fleeting thought
about tracing every inch of his tattoos with her tongue. And while she’d convinced herself the thoughts
didn’t count—she’d been heavily medicated when she had them—she wasn’t taking any chances being
alone with him.
“Because— Because—” she spluttered, searching for an answer that didn’t involve her fear of
jumping his bones. “I just…I can’t…I—”
“Well, that makes perfect sense. Thanks for clearing up the confusion.”
She made a frustrated sound at the back of her throat. “Could you cut the heavily medicated woman
a break?”
“That’s what I’m trying to do.” He made a sharp left turn, then paused in front of a large iron gate
and punched in a code before continuing down a winding, tree-lined path. “You don’t really want to
be on your own for the next week, do you? Who’s going to make you blueberry pancakes to cheer you
up? Or get you ice cream at two in the morning?”
“Room service?”
He rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. The hospital said you needed to rest, to give your
whole body a chance to heal, not just your hand. You’re not going to get that chance if you’re by
yourself, constantly having to do everything on your own.”
“And you think I’m going to get lots of rest here?” she asked as he finally pulled the car to a stop in
front of a huge, Mediterranean style house. Mansion. Palace. She wasn’t sure what word applied best.
Geez. There was rock star and then there was Rock. Star. When she very deliberately hadn’t been
looking, Quinn had obviously become the latter.
“I know you are. I’m going to see to it myself.” He opened his door, started to climb out, but she
stopped him by resting her injured hand on his arm.
“I’m not going to stay here with you, Quinn.”
“Sure, you are.” His dark eyes gleamed brightly. “It’s the perfect solution.”
“No, it isn’t. The perfect solution is me hanging at the hotel for a week before flying home to
Chicago, not crashing at your place and interrupting your whole life.”
“My life’s already been interrupted. I should be on tour right now, but we had a couple of issues,
and the tour was canceled. Which means I’ve got nothing to do for the next few weeks but hang out
here, work on our next album, and take care of you.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me!”
“Well, you sure as hell need somebody to. Because, no offense, but anyone looking at you can tell
you’ve been doing a pretty shitty job of it yourself.”
“I was just in an accident that killed my best friend. I just had surgery—”
“I know all that. But I also know that you’re exhausted and emaciated. Why do you think the nurses
kept shoving pain medication and pudding down your throat? They wanted you to rest. To eat. You’re
one of the sexiest, most beautiful women I know, Elise, but you’re in bad shape. You’re completely
worn down and you look like hell. Everyone seems to know that but you!”
Chapter Five
The second the words left his mouth, Quinn knew they were the wrong things to say. Not because they
weren’t true, but because he could see Elise completely shut down in front of him. He couldn’t even
blame her. No woman liked to be told she was looking less than her best, no matter how true it was.
Not that he didn’t think she was beautiful. She was. But she was also so fragile looking that it hurt.
“I’m sorry,” he said, laying his hand on her thigh. “That didn’t come out the way I wanted it to.”
She jerked her knee from his grasp, then turned her whole body away from him as she moved to
look out the window. “Oh, I think you said exactly what you wanted to say.”
Shoving a frustrated hand through his hair, he swallowed back the growl that was forming at the
back of his throat. Damn Wyatt and his ridiculous advice. Kidnapping her was going about as well as
he had expected it to—which meant it wasn’t going at all.
Taking a deep breath, he counted to ten before blowing it out and saying, “Look, why don’t you
come inside? I’ll make dinner and you can be comfortable while we talk about this.”
“I’m not going into your house, Quinn. I’m not going anywhere with you, except back to my hotel.”
“Well, you’ve got a problem then, because that’s the one place I’m not going to take you.”
“Excuse me?” She turned her head to stare at him incredulously.
“You heard me.” He crossed his arms over his chest, put his most badass snarl on his face.
“You can’t hold me here against my will!”
“Watch me.”
“But that’s kidnapping!”
“I prefer to think of it as an intervention. But hey, potato, potahtoh, tomato, tohmatoh.”
“Quinn!”
“Elise.”
Her eyes narrowed dangerously and he must have been a sick fuck, because he loved seeing it. This
was the Elise he remembered. Cool, in control, but with an underlying base of fire that had turned him
on from the moment he’d understood that girls were different from boys—and that that was a good
thing.
He waited for her next argument, but she didn’t say anything else. Instead, she pulled out her
Smartphone and started to Google something—probably a cab company. Sure enough, she dialed a
number a couple of minutes later and said, “I’d like to request a pick-up as soon as possible.”
More amused than annoyed, he crossed his legs as he leaned back against his SUV and just waited.
It didn’t take long.
“The address?” she asked, her head shooting up as she looked around for something to tell her
where she was. But unfortunately for her, they were a quarter mile onto his land—there was no street
sign or number in sight.
When she realized that fact, her face was priceless. As was the pleading look she shot at him when
she asked, “Quinn, where are we?”
“By the lake.”
“No, I mean, your address.”
He just shrugged and smiled.
“I’m by the lake,” she told the person on the other end of the phone. But this time her voice was
high and questioning, like even she knew how stupid that description sounded. “Which lake? I, umm, I
don’t know.”
He couldn’t hear what the dispatcher had to say to that, but it couldn’t have been good judging from
the look on her face. But then she said, “Oh, wait a minute. I’ll find it.”
Then she was leaning forward, rummaging in his glove compartment. It only took him a second to
figure out that she was looking for his registration— she was nothing if not smart—but he kept it in a
pocket in the driver side visor, so he figured she’d be looking for a while.
“Goddammit!” Elise slammed the glove compartment shut and turned to him with a glare. He
couldn’t help grinning—at the look on her face and the very uncharacteristic loss of control when
she’d always prided herself on keeping her emotions locked behind an unbreachable wall. He loved
watching her give in to her temper, loved even more that he was the one who caused it.
“Who the hell doesn’t have a piece of paper with his address on it in his car?” she snarled.
He lifted a brow, made sure to plaster his most obnoxious smirk on his face as he said, “A paranoid
rock star?”
Her phone squawked, an impatient voice coming over the speaker. He was too far away to hear
what the guy said, but he could tell it wasn’t good.
“Just give me one more minute,” she pleaded, then started pushing buttons on her phone.
He leaned over to get a look at what she was doing, but she shoved his head away from her. Then
crowed in delight when she said, “Yes. I’ve found it. I’m at—”
Before she could say another word, Quinn ripped the phone out of her grasp and threw it as hard as
he could. He’d expected it to land on the lawn or in some bushes, somewhere where it would take her
a couple minutes to retrieve it. Instead, it soared well over the hedges and landed, with a plop, in the
huge stone fountain that filled the center of his courtyard.
For long seconds, neither of them moved. They just stared at the fountain in wide-eyed, open-
mouthed astonishment.
Elise recovered first. “You didn’t!” she screeched at him.
But he had. He really had. Amusement bubbled up inside him and though he knew it was akin to
suicide, he couldn’t stop himself from bending over and laughing his ass off—all under her vengeance
filled eyes.
“You bastard! You dirty bastard!” She fumbled for the door handle and all but fell out of the car.
“That’s my phone.”
“I know, I know.” He did the best to swallow his amusement, but every time he looked into her
astonished eyes, he just ended up laughing harder. He couldn’t help it. She looked like a puffer fish,
all gaping mouth and head about to explode. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I can tell.”
Fueled by fury and a good dose of righteous indignation, she marched up his driveway, across his
lawn, and straight up to the cell-phone swallowing fountain. He was right behind her, making sure that
she didn’t stumble or fall—she might be more alive than he’d seen her all week, but she was still only
three days out of surgery, not to mention heavily medicated.
Once at the fountain, Elise bent over and tried to fish out her phone. But to do that, she had to brace
herself on her injured hand and, even with the cast, it wasn’t ready yet to support her. His amusement
fled instantly—even before she gave a yelp of pain—and then he was picking her up and carrying her
away from the fountain.
“What are you doing?” she screeched, this time loudly enough to break the sound barrier. “Let me
down! You can’t just manhandle me whenever you want, Quinn!”
“While that’s a nice thought, Lissy, I was just trying to keep you from injuring yourself worse.”
Still, he carefully put her back on her feet.
“You should have thought of that before you dragged me out here to the middle of nowhere!” She
stomped her ballet flat clad foot hard and he tried to swallow another round of laughter.
Unfortunately, he failed. But he couldn’t help it. It was just so incongruous seeing her like this—
flipping out over a phone. And the minor matter of being kidnapped, but he was choosing not to dwell
on that fact.
“I need my phone, Quinn!” This time when her foot came down, it was right on the top of his toes.
Since he was wearing flip-flops instead of his normal boots, she actually managed to do a little bit of
damage. Not that he intended to let her see that.
“I’ll get it. Just chill.” He headed back toward the fountain. “Not that I think it’ll do much good at
this point. That thing is toast,” he told her.
“Maybe if we pack it in rice.”
“Maybe.” Who was he to shatter her illusions, after all? But his band mates had done any manner of
things involving their iPhones and water through the years and not once had he ever seen the phones
actually recover from the abuse.
Elise’s phone had landed near the center of the huge fountain, and he had to bend over and stretch
all the way out to reach it. Poor Elise hadn’t stood a chance.
His fingers had just closed over the dark red case when Elise walked up behind him. “I’ve got it,”
he told her, not bothering to look behind him.
“Good,” she answered, right before he felt both her hands in the middle of his back. Then she was
shoving as hard as she could and he was falling, face first, into the three-foot-deep fountain.
…
Quinn came up spluttering and dripping, his once perfectly coiffed hair falling in clumpy strands over
his forehead and down his cheeks. A stray leaf was stuck to his chin, while a couple purple flower
petals decorated the tips of his crazy-long eyelashes.
She was the one laughing then, hysterical snorts she had no control over. At least until Quinn began
stalking toward her with hot eyes and an even hotter look on his face. Her phone was clutched in his
hand and Elise knew if she wanted it, she was going to have to stand her ground. But it was hard,
when every instinct she had was telling her to flee…or to throw herself at him.
She wasn’t sure what it said about her that the second option was the one she found most appealing.
Especially considering the way his white T-shirt was plastered to his muscular chest while rivulets of
water ran down the hollow of his throat before disappearing beneath the shirt’s V-neck.
As he stalked toward her, he reached for the hem of his shirt and ripped it over his head before
tossing it onto the ground at his feet. Again, the adrenaline coursing through her body urged her to run.
And again she just stood there. How could she not when a half-naked Quinn was headed straight for
her?
She tried to rip her eyes away from his naked abs—taking off his shirt had definitely given him an
unfair advantage—but she couldn’t do it. Not when she was getting her first glimpse of his chest,
which, to answer her question from a couple days before, was definitely tattooed, and not when she
was faced with abs that looked like they had been chiseled from stone. Forget six-pack. Quinn had an
eight-pack and it looked amazing on him, as did the happy trail that started below his navel and
disappeared into the waistband of his low-slung jeans.
“You’re drooling,” he told her once he’d finally stopped in front of her.
“Do you blame me?” She reached out the fingers of her good hand and stroked them down the
center of his body, from breastbone to belly button. His whole stomach contracted, his muscles
growing impossibly harder and tighter beneath her hand. “This is ridiculous.”
“My abs?”
“Yes. No! This whole situation. It’s ridiculous.” She dragged her eyes away from his chest and
stomach, tilting her head up so she could look him in the eyes. Then almost wished she hadn’t as his
gaze was darker and hotter than she had ever seen it before. Not to mention focused on her with an
intensity that bordered on the predatory.
“I want—” Her voice broke, so she tried again, forcing the words past her suddenly tight throat. “I
want to go back to the city.”
“You should have thought of that before you shoved me into a fountain. Not only am I half naked,
but I’m pretty sure I’ve got a goldfish in my boxers, so the only place I’m going is into my house.”
“A goldfish?” Her eyes were drawn, against her will, to the area in question.
“Yeah. My gardener’s brilliant idea of the month was to introduce goldfish to the fountain. Next
time I see him I’m going to let him know it was an epic fail.”
Again with the goldfish? They were around so much that if she was a superhero, she’d think the
damn things were her nemesis. “Should you, uh, try to get it out?”
“Is that your way of asking me to get naked?”
“What?” She felt her cheeks catch fire. “No! Of course not. I was just thinking of the poor fish. If
we could get him back into the water quickly, he might be okay.”
He quirked a brow at her. “The fish is really your primary concern here?”
“Of course.” Ignoring the blush sweeping everywhere from her face to her ears to down her neck,
she forced herself to meet Quinn’s knowing eyes. “I’d hate for the poor thing to die.”
Holding her gaze with his own, Quinn slowly unbuttoned the top of his jeans. Then slid a hand into
the waistband and down, down, until it came to rest right behind the zipper.
She followed that hand with her eyes—she couldn’t help it—and nearly whimpered when he fisted
himself under the faded denim.
“I must have been mistaken,” he said after a moment, his voice low and gravelly and so sexy that
she felt her nipples peak in response. “There’s nothing here.”
Considering the already impressive size of his erection, the words were so patently untrue that
Elise didn’t bother calling him on them. Then again, she wasn’t sure she could have formed a coherent
sentence even if she wanted to. Not when he was stroking himself under her hot gaze, his fist moving
back and forth along the length of his cock.
“Of course, if you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to check.”
She forced herself to swallow, despite the fact that her mouth had gone bone dry. “Check?” She
tried to sound scandalized instead of intrigued.
Quinn grinned, slowly stroked himself once more before he pulled out. “For the fish. In case I
missed something.” He left his jeans unbuttoned in an open invitation.
If another guy had done something like this to her, she would have told him off—and made him feel
like the biggest loser in the world while she was doing it. It was just one of the many perks that came
with being a “frigid bitch,” as more than one of her dates had called her.
But after watching Quinn do that, she was as aroused as he was. Maybe more. But she refused to let
him see it, refused to let him have all the power in this equation. She’d done that last time and it
hadn’t worked out very well for her.
Injecting a carelessness into her voice that she was far from feeling, she told him, “I’ll take your
word for it. Besides, you’re right. It doesn’t look like there’s anything there, after all.”
She expected a witty comeback, narrowed eyes, maybe a little bit of insulted manhood. Instead,
what she got was so much better. And so much worse.
He reached forward, scooped her up in his arms. Then turned on his heel and took off up the
winding, concrete path that led to his front door.
Chapter Six
Elise wasn’t sure what it said about her that even though Quinn was the worst possible thing for her—
he’d broken her heart once already and left her devastated—the knowledge did nothing to dissuade
the heat burning low in her belly, or the ache in her sex that she couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard
she tried.
She could blame it on the Vicodin, but it had been five hours since she’d taken the pill, so that
pretty much seemed like a cop-out. She could blame it on the fact that she was lost, confused, unsure
of where her future was going to end up. But that wasn’t quite right either.
No, the need that was slowly building inside of her had a lot more to do with Quinn than it did any
painkillers she might have taken or any uncertainty she was feeling.
Damn it.
What was it about this man, this one, particular man, that turned her into a seething mass of need?
And what was she supposed to do about it?
Along with the admission of the feelings he evoked in her came the creeping awareness that she
actually didn’t want to do anything about the situation she currently found herself in. She liked the
way it felt to be carried by Quinn. Liked even more the arousal he brought out in her when it had been
so long—too long—since she’d felt anything close to it. If she closed her eyes, she could still see
what he looked like with his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself while he watched her
with heavy-lidded eyes. That was the moment her body came alive, really alive, for the first time in
way too many years.
But just because her body was falling under his spell didn’t mean that she had to, Elise reminded
herself. She did have free will, after all. She could do what she wanted. And what she wanted was to
act like a sane, reasonable woman. One who understood that falling for Quinn Bradford again was the
worst thing she could do.
At least, that’s what she told herself.
She might even have believed it if she hadn’t just shoved Quinn into a fountain. She didn’t know
what had possessed her to do it—other than a need to get some of her own back after he’d killed her
phone.
Still, she hadn’t done anything that stupidly childish since…since the last time she’d been around
Quinn, she admitted to herself ruefully. Something about being near him brought out the worst in her.
Or the best, a little voice whispered deep inside of her.
As he took the steps two at a time, she was extremely conscious of the fact that the tip of his very
hard cock was only an inch or two below her ass. Because the thought was arousing—much more
arousing than she wanted it to be—she stiffened in his arms. Forced a coolness into her voice she was
far from feeling as she said, “I’m not setting foot in that house.”
He glanced down at her, one dark eyebrow raised wickedly. “That’s why I’m carrying you. No feet
required.”
Damn it. He really was too charming for his own good. “You know what I mean.” She pushed
against him, struggled against him in an effort to get him to let go, but it didn’t get her very far. At six
foot three, he was ten inches taller than she was, and well over a hundred pounds heavier. She wasn’t
getting away from him until he decided to put her down.
The thought should have infuriated her, but she was strangely calm as he unlocked the front door
and carried her inside. Not that she wanted to stay here or anything, but she had to admit, Quinn took
her mind off her problems. From the second he’d all but admitted to kidnapping her until this moment,
she hadn’t thought about her hand or her career or the bleak future stretching out in front of her. That
had to be worth something.
She just didn’t know what…or how much.
He carried her through the entryway and down a winding hallway to a huge, sunny room dominated
by two overstuffed sofas and a giant TV. After laying her gently on one of the sofas, he said, “I’m
going to go change. I’ll be back in a minute. Try not to get into trouble.”
“I never get into trouble.”
He glanced down at his bare chest, than back at her. “Obviously.” He didn’t even try to hide his
smirk as he turned away. “By the way, don’t even think about wandering off. There are coyotes and
bobcats all over this area.”
“No, there aren’t.” She refused to fall for his childish games.
“I wouldn’t recommend trying to find out.”
With that cryptic comment, he headed up the stairs, leaving her to stare after him. Which she did.
Long after he disappeared from sight.
It didn’t speak well of her, but the truth was, the thought of escaping while he was upstairs hadn’t
even entered her mind. And now—thanks to Quinn’s smartass comments—she sure as hell wasn’t
going to attempt anything. She wasn’t certain she believed him about the killer wildlife, but she
wasn’t brave enough to try her luck either. God knew, it had been in short supply as of late.
Oh, she knew she was being crazy, knew she shouldn’t want to be here with the only man who’d
ever broken her heart. Knew she sure as hell shouldn’t be enjoying being here with him. And yet she
was.
Just like when he’d come to visit her in the hospital. Being around Quinn like this, letting him mess
with her and messing with him in return… She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this normal.
This relaxed.
Maybe she should be concerned that she was already suffering from some bizarre version of
Stockholm Syndrome, but to be honest, she didn’t care. There was something freeing in Quinn taking
control, in him not giving her a choice about staying here. Oh, she would have been fine at the hotel on
her own—of that she had no doubt. But being here, with him, was better.
Much better. Especially since she knew the truth—that if she told him flat out that she wanted to go
back to the W, he would take her. No questions asked. Oh, he might have tricked her into coming here,
but Quinn wasn’t the type of man to ever force a woman to do something she didn’t want to do.
Which meant that as long as she remembered that this was just temporary, as long as she
remembered that in a week she’d be on an airplane bound for Chicago and Quinn would once again
be nothing but a memory, she would be fine. Better than fine. Because this time when he disappeared
from her life, he wouldn’t be taking her heart with him. She’d make sure of it.
…
Quinn changed quickly, not sure his exaggerated warning about the local wildlife would actually be
enough to keep Elise from trying to escape. And he really didn’t want her to leave.
But she was headstrong when she wanted something, completely unwilling to be dissuaded from
whatever course it was she’d chosen. It was why he’d taken Wyatt’s advice and just driven right past
her hotel like it didn’t exist. Why he’d brought her here. He knew her well enough to know that even if
she needed help, she’d never ask for it. Her father had worked that kind of crazy self-sufficiency into
her at an early age and she’d never been able to get away from it.
He knew, because he’d tried to do things for her when they were younger. Had tried to take on
some of the burden that was hers, but she had never allowed it. Hence the reason he’d gone out of his
way to drive her crazy. If she was pissed at him or freaking out about some prank he’d done, she
wasn’t worrying about failing. Wasn’t stressing over going on stage. Wasn’t losing her mind over the
fact that no matter what she did or how well she did it, it would never be enough for her father.
The old bastard. Richard McKinney hadn’t been as bad as Quinn’s old man—at least not when it
came to using his fists when he was displeased—but in his own way, he’d done just as much damage.
Just the thought of Elise’s father, and his own, had rage building up in his chest. Two old coots who
hadn’t been able to do anything in their own lives, so they’d poured all their ambition into their kids.
And then pushed and pushed and pushed until Elise was near cracking and he—
Quinn cut the thought off before it could go any farther. He hadn’t thought about the bad old days in
years, and yet Elise hadn’t been in his life more than a couple days and here he was, right back there
in the mindset. It wasn’t okay.
With one ear tuned to downstairs, he grabbed a shirt from his closet then made a fast trip by the
bathroom to wash the pond water off his face and out of his hair. A quick glance in the mirror told him
he was grinning, hugely. Not just because it sounded like Elise was staying put—which made him
happy in its own right—but because she’d played with him. The prim-and-proper Elise McKinney
had dropped her barriers enough to yell at him. And to toss him head first into a fountain.
He was probably crazy for being so excited about that, but he couldn’t help it. After three days of
polite reserve between them, it felt good to have her back. Which was why he’d pushed things down
in the courtyard. He hadn’t meant to, but the way she’d been looking at him—her eyes all hazy and full
of need—had done something to him. She’d twisted him all up inside until all he’d been able to think
about was what it used to feel like to touch her, to hold her, to tease her, to kiss her. He’d wanted that
feeling again. Wanted her again.
It was a dangerous thought, one he knew was going to end up getting him into trouble. Because
Elise had never been his, not really, and she never would be. Not when he could still remember what
she looked like pulling herself up from behind that piano, blood on her head and her hands. Fear on
her face.
Fear that he had put there. Oh, he hadn’t hit her—would never hit her—but she’d gotten caught in
the disaster that was his life. Become collateral damage in the war he’d spent too many years waging
with his father.
For the second time in as many minutes, Quinn shut that thought down. He couldn’t think about that
day, wouldn’t think about that day. Not now, when Elise was downstairs waiting for him. And not
when he finally had a chance to—if not make it up to her, then at least make it better.
Determined to convince Elise to stay, he lined up his arguments in his head as he started down the
stairs. But when he got to the family room, it was to find the couch empty and Elise nowhere in sight.
Shit. Had she left, after all? He hadn’t heard the alarm system beep that a door had opened, but
maybe the running water had muffled it. Panic struck harder than he ever would have anticipated, and
he glanced frantically around the room, looking for clues.
And nearly collapsed in relief when he realized her purse and shoes were resting on the floor, right
next to the couch. She hadn’t left. She was still there.
Still, he was determined to set eyes on her before he relaxed completely. He checked the nearest
two bathrooms, the patio, the music room, and was about to give up and start calling for her when he
heard a noise from the kitchen. He hightailed it in there, and then stopped in surprise when he saw
Elise standing next to the center aisle, calmly slicing a cucumber.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she told him. “I was hungry.”
“No. Not at all.” He crossed the kitchen, reached for the knife. “But why don’t you go sit down and
rest while I make dinner?”
She hung on to the knife. “All I’ve been doing for the last three days is resting. I’m ready to do
something else.”
He thought about how unsteady she’d been at the hospital, how even after she’d pushed him into the
fountain, he’d seen her sway a little on her feet. There was no way he was going to let her stand here
with the sharpest knife he owned when she could fall over at any moment.
Not that he was stupid enough to say that to her. Instead, he nodded toward the kitchen table. “It
makes me nervous to have people around me while I cook. Can I move all the salad stuff over to the
table and you can finish making it there?”
She glared at him. “I’m not three. You don’t have to make up stories to get me to do what you
want.”
“I’m serious.” He put on his most innocent face. “I have a phobia of other people in my kitchen.”
“Yeah, just like you have a phobia of big, red rubber balls.”
At first he didn’t know what she was talking about, but then he remembered. They couldn’t have
been more than thirteen or fourteen and he’d been trying to talk her out of her shell. They were at one
of their first competitions, a two-day thing, and the rest of their competitors had been trying to blow
off steam with a rousing game of dodge ball.
They’d needed one more player and had asked him to join them, but he hadn’t wanted to leave Elise
alone, even back then. So he’d faked a phobia of dodge balls and told them to ask her instead. Then
he’d teased and messed with her until she’d finally given up and played. She’d been surprisingly
good, too, and had made it all the way to the final round.
He hadn’t known she’d caught on. Then again, she always had been good at keeping secrets.
“Hey, those things are scary,” he said, picking up the rest of the salad fixings and carrying them to
the table. “They’re that weird pinkish red color, plus they smell funky and—”
“Okay, okay.” She grabbed the salad bowl with her good hand and followed him. “I get it.”
“Good.” As she sat, he absently ran a hand down her spine. He’d meant it as a thank you, a small
gesture of affection, but the air crackled between them at even that light touch.
She froze, her face turned up to his, and for long seconds all he could think about was dropping to
his knees in front of her and kissing her. Her lips were red and plump and a little wet, like she’d just
licked them, and suddenly he was dying for a taste of her. Just a taste. Just to find out if she still tasted
like wild strawberries.
He knew it was a bad idea, knew he had no business even thinking about touching her. But his brain
was no longer in control, and when she leaned forward—as if she was just as anxious to feel his
mouth as he was to feel hers—any chance he had of walking away disappeared.
Moving slowly so that she had plenty of time to stop him, he wrapped a hand around the back of her
neck and pulled her gently toward him. Her eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat, but she
didn’t protest. Didn’t pull away. So he kept tugging her closer, kept leaning forward himself until his
face was only an inch or so from hers.
Then he paused, waited. Watched. Her broken breath was a warm caress on his face, her pulse a
wild thing under the deliberately soft clasp of his fingers. He knew she was waiting for him to make
the next move, for him to kiss her, but on this he wanted no misunderstanding. Not when her eyes were
wide and her chest was rising and falling rapidly. Not when she looked terrified and confused and
exhilarated all at once.
No, this kiss, their first kiss in a decade, would have to come from her.
So even though his body was on fire, even though he ached to pull her against him and take
everything he wanted—everything she had to give—he waited. And waited. And waited. Until his
every nerve was screaming, his every cell straining toward her with an intensity he couldn’t control.
He was about to say to hell with it and pull her to him, when Elise finally made the move he was
waiting for. Leaning forward, she brushed her lips—her sweet, hot, gorgeous lips—softly against his.
Once, twice, a third time. Then she started to pull away.
But he was having no part of that. He wanted more, needed more. From the moment he’d first set
eyes on her again in that hospital bed, he’d craved her. Dreamed her. Now that she was here, in his
kitchen and his arms, there was no way he was letting her go without a proper taste.
This time, he was the one who closed the distance between them. He was the one who brought his
mouth to hers. And he was the one who kissed her, really kissed her, for the first time in a decade.
It was even better than he remembered.
Her lips parted on a moan, and he swept inside—to explore and taste and feel. She was hot and
sweet and so responsive that he couldn’t help the answering groan that welled up in his own throat as
he deepened the kiss.
He’d been right. She still tasted like strawberries, but with a rich overlay of sweet and salty
caramel that was new. It was a flavor he was rapidly becoming addicted to. One he wanted to taste
again and again and again.
He stroked his tongue along the roof of her mouth, brushed it over the side of one cheek and then the
other. Swept it between her teeth and her upper lip, pausing to play with her sensitive frenulum for
just a moment.
She gasped, the fingers of her uninjured hand coming up to clutch at his shirt even as her tongue
came forward to meet his own.
His hand tightened on her neck at the first whisper of her tongue against his. He pulled her closer,
pulled her into him until her breasts were against his chest and her mouth was completely open,
completely vulnerable, to him.
And then he took her, took everything she was offering, everything she had to give. Gave her
everything he could in return.
He was ravenous as he plundered her, tangling his tongue with hers. Licking at her lips, the corners
of her mouth, the insides of her teeth. He wanted to explore every part of her, to re-learn her, to figure
out everything he’d missed since he’d walked out. To memorize her so that he would remember this
even after she left again.
He pulled her closer, wrapped his free arm around her back and plastered her body to his. She
gasped, moaned, and he wanted more. Always more. Just like when they’d been kids.
But they weren’t kids anymore, hadn’t been for a long time. It was that thought, more than any other,
that brought him back. That had him pulling away from Elise when all he really wanted to do was sink
into her.
She had real problems, problems that wouldn’t be fixed by a kiss or a quick tumble onto the closest
flat surface. And that was all he could offer her. All he’d ever been able to offer her. It hadn’t been
enough when they were seventeen and it sure as shit wasn’t enough now.
He untangled her fingers from his shirt, then gently dropped her hand back into her lap before
standing up. He didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want to see the accusation in her eyes for so
blatantly taking advantage of her when she was injured and medicated and vulnerable.
But in the end, he couldn’t not look, his eyes seeking and finding hers like they were meant to be.
And what he saw there nearly brought him to his knees all over again. Passion, not accusation. Need,
not mistrust.
Her eyes were heavy-lidded, dreamy. Her cheeks flushed, her nipples hard little points pressing
against the sheer fabric of the blouse Jamison had bought for her to wear home. And her lips. Those
damn lips that had haunted his dreams for years after he’d walked away from her, were red and
swollen and so tempting it took every ounce of willpower he had not to bend down and take another
bite. One that would only end when they were in bed and he was inside her.
That last was the thought he needed to get him moving away from her as fast as his hard, aching
body would carry him. He’d made love to her and left her once, when he’d been young and stubborn
and too stupid to understand how doing so would shatter them both.
No way in hell was he going to do it again.
Chapter Seven
Confused, Elise watched Quinn back away like her hair had suddenly caught fire. Or like he was
repulsed by her and what they’d done. But she’d felt his arousal in every too fast breath and too heavy
beat of his heart. Felt it in the way his hands clutched at her and the way his lips plundered hers,
taking and taking and taking.
Her head was still spinning from the kiss, while he was halfway across the kitchen calmly talking
about what they should have for dinner—like the last ten minutes had never happened.
Then again, wasn’t that what he was good at? Getting close to her, making her crazy, and then
backing off so fast she felt like she was in a flat spin, with nothing and no one to grab onto? He’d
done it to her a million times before, and after the last time she’d sworn it would never happen again.
And yet here she was, three days after he’d popped back into her life and she was all but throwing
herself at him. Giving him everything he asked for and more, and then freaking out when he turned
away.
Damn it. Wasn’t it just fifteen minutes ago that she’d promised herself she wouldn’t be drawn into
this vortex? That she would stay here, with him, as long as it worked for her but that as soon as things
got too heavy or too weird, she would walk away.
Things were already heavy, already weird, and yet here she sat, watching him. She could tell
herself that after that kiss her knees were still too weak for her to walk anywhere, but she knew the
truth. She didn’t want to leave. Not now. Not yet, when things were just getting interesting.
She lifted a hand to her mouth, probed her aching lips with gentle fingers. She’d been kissed since
Quinn—of course she had—but no one else had ever made her feel so much after so little. No one
else had ever had her hot and wet and aching with just the stroke of his tongue against her own.
No, she wasn’t ready to call uncle yet. To demand that he take her back to the hotel.
The “kidnapping.”
The fountain.
The kiss.
They were locked in a wicked game, one unlike any other they had ever played before, and she—
for one—wanted to see where it would end up. Because no matter what happened, she was
determined that this time, she would be the winner. She’d already lost too much to be satisfied with
any other outcome.
Feeling steadier now that the decision had been made, she pushed to her feet. Joined Quinn near the
refrigerator. And grinned just a little when he jumped at the slide of her hand across his shoulders.
“So, what did you decide on for dinner?” she asked, innocently leaning forward so that her breasts
brushed against his arm.
He responded by pushing the door further back and moving with it, so that he opened up more space
between them. “I’ve got chicken breasts or steaks. What would you prefer?”
She pushed closer, crowding him. Nearly laughed at the look on his face. Then said, “Steak sounds
good,” mainly because it was furthest away from her and reaching for it required her to crowd him
even more. Not to mention bend over.
She swore she could feel his eyes on her hips while she retrieved the meat, and added an extra little
wiggle just to torment him. And because it was fun. Ten years ago, he’d held all the cards and called
all the shots. And she’d let him. But those days were long gone. Now it was her turn.
Straightening up, she risked a glance at Quinn through her lashes—and nearly dropped the steaks at
the look on his face. Oh, there was desire, just like she’d been hoping for. Even need. But overlying it
all was a look of utter calculation, like he’d figured out exactly what she was up to. And was now
trying to figure out exactly what he wanted to do about it.
She took a couple steps backward before she could think better of it, then cursed herself as he
smiled at her obvious retreat. She needed to do better than this if she had any hope of holding her
own, let alone winning.
Except it was easier to tell herself that than it was to actually do it, especially when Quinn closed
the fridge and started toward her with a predatory look on his face.
She took another step back, then another and another as he stalked her across the kitchen. With each
step, she told herself that it was the last. That she would stand her ground. But then he’d move closer,
all lean sinew and burning eyes and she would retreat just a little more. Standing her ground was one
thing, being an idiot was another.
Except, eventually, she ran out of room to retreat. And that’s when he made his move, when she
was backed up against the pantry door with nowhere else to go. Bracing his arms on either side of her
head, he stepped forward until his body was just brushing hers.
“Going somewhere?” he asked silkily, his dark gaze holding hers.
She knew this was it. This was the moment when she either gave it all up to him or showed him,
once and for all, that she was a worthy adversary. And since she had no intention of giving up an
inch…
Injecting her voice with every ounce of confidence and brashness she could, Elise tossed her hair
and said, “I was going to check the pantry for some potatoes. I thought you might be able to do them
on the grill with the steaks. But—” She pushed lightly against his chest with her injured hand, since
she was still carrying the package of meat in her other hand. “It’s kind of hard to get into the pantry
when you’re holding the door closed.”
Before he could assimilate her words let alone formulate an answer, she ducked under his right
arm. Then sauntered across the kitchen to the center aisle and laid the steaks on the black granite
countertop. “Oh, and if you have some garlic in there, that’d be awesome. I know a great marinade.”
Quinn muttered something beneath his breath, but before she could ask him to repeat himself, he’d
pulled open the pantry and walked inside. A couple minutes later, he emerged with two huge baking
potatoes, a head of garlic, and a peppermill.
“Go for it,” he said as he laid them on the counter. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.” As
she watched him walk toward the patio to start the grill, she couldn’t help thinking that they probably
weren’t talking about the marinade anymore.
…
After a dinner that was surprisingly comfortable and easy considering the undercurrents that had
swirled around them all during the meal’s preparation, he banished Elise from the kitchen while he
cleared up the dishes. She offered to help, but he insisted. And she hadn’t argued. Not when her hand
was throbbing and she was exhausted—both mentally and physically—from everything that had
happened that day.
Settling down on the couch, she reached for the remote control and turned on some mindless
program, more for the noise than because she actually wanted to watch it. Within five minutes she was
groggy and five minutes after that, she was asleep.
That’s how Quinn found her fifteen minutes later, after he’d dealt with the dishes and carried her
suitcase and backpack in from the car. He wanted to wake her, to get her to take a pain pill and then
move her to the guest bedroom that was closest to his, but she looked so exhausted that he didn’t have
the heart. Not when she’d been out of the hospital less than six hours.
So, instead, he covered her with a light blanket, then settled on the couch opposite hers, just in case
she woke up and needed anything. He didn’t know if she was down for the night or if this was just a
quick nap. Either way, he wasn’t comfortable leaving her alone.
But after spending much of the previous night composing music for the new album, he was pretty
damn exhausted himself. It didn’t take long before he, too, started to drift, so that he was half watching
the TV and half sleeping. The television show, which was a top-ranked crime drama, had lots of
screaming and sirens and gunshots, and as he drifted, the sounds worked their way into his
subconscious, into the dreams that weren’t quite dreams but that weren’t not either.
That was why, when he first heard whimpering, he chalked it up to the show, or some twisted
hybrid that lived only in his imagination. But as the sounds grew louder, he stumbled into
consciousness only to realize that the cries he was hearing weren’t coming from the TV at all. They
were coming from Elise.
Bounding off the couch, he all but leaped the distance between them. He ended up in a crouch next
to her head, one hand on her hip while the other brushed at her hair. She was half crying now, her
injured hand cradled by the other and clutched against her chest. He cursed himself even as he
soothed her, murmuring low sounds that were more nonsense than words. He should have made her
take the pain pill, should have carried her upstairs where she’d be more comfortable. Should have
done a lot of things to make this day, and night, easier for her.
“Lissy, baby, wake up,” he murmured, when she continued to cry out. He was stroking his hand
over her forehead, burying his fingers in her hair. He didn’t want to startle her, didn’t want to shake
her awake, but if she didn’t wake up soon he was going to lose his mind. The sounds she was making
were painful, heart-wrenching. Disturbing in the extreme.
“Lissy, come on.” He made his voice a little firmer, more commanding. Did the same with the hand
on her hip. He didn’t want to jar her, but she needed to snap out of whatever nightmarish world she
was currently in. “Look at me, baby. Look at me.”
Her eyes snapped open, stared directly into his. And then she screamed, loud and piercing and so
terrifying that it nearly stopped his heart.
“Lissy, it’s me.” He pulled his hands off her, held them up in the universal gesture of surrender.
“I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated as the tortured look slowly faded
from her eyes.
“Quinn?”
“Yeah, baby, it’s me.”
She nodded, closed her eyes again, and he sank gratefully onto his ass. She might not be shaken
from what had just happened, but it had scared the hell out of him. He needed a minute to recover.
He didn’t get a minute, though, because Elise gingerly pushed herself into a sitting position, making
sure to keep her injured hand cradled against her chest. “Hey, take it easy,” he told her, getting back to
his feet.
“I’m okay,” she said, but her voice was hoarse. Whether from the nightmare or her scream, he
wasn’t sure. Either way, she certainly didn’t sound fine. Not that he was going to tell her that.
“Of course you are.” He sat down next to her on the couch, rubbed her back in soothing circles.
“Can I get you some water? Or one of your pain pills?”
“No. I’m—”
“Elise.” He cut her off, then put a finger under her chin and tilted her face up to his. She looked
exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes and deep pain grooves carved around her mouth. “You
don’t have to front for me. It’s okay if you’re hurting.”
She pressed her lips together, nodded. But then she looked away. “Some water would be good.”
“And a pain pill?”
She sighed. “And a pain pill. They’re in my backpack.”
“Okay.” He retrieved the bag from the guest bedroom where he’d put it, then went into the kitchen
to get her some water. He ended up cutting some fruit for her as well, since a lot of pain medication
needed to be taken with food and she hadn’t eaten that much at dinner—no matter how much he’d
badgered her.
Then figuring, what the hell, he started the kettle going on the stove. When they’d been younger,
she’d always had a cup of tea around somewhere. Maybe she could use one now, too.
But when he brought the tray of fruit and water out to her, she was pretty out of it, her body slack
and her eyelids getting a little heavier with each second that passed. Her painkillers were nowhere in
sight, though, so he decided to take matters into his own hands and dug through the backpack for them.
When he felt a little creepy for invading her privacy, he reminded himself it was his backpack and
he’d put just about everything in it there himself.
He found the pills all the way at the bottom—of course. His little control freak really hadn’t
intended to take them. But he’d be damned if he let her suffer when she didn’t have to. Popping the lid
open, he pulled out one of the white pills. Then he grabbed the glass of water and did his best to get
her attention.
“Elise.” No answer.
“Elise.” Still no response.
“Come on, Lissy. Take the pill and then I’ll let you go back to sleep.”
She groaned at him, but eventually she came around enough to do as he asked. Then she fell back
into the couch cushions and just sat there, looking dazed.
Deciding to hell with it, he went into the kitchen and turned off the teakettle. Then returned to the
couch, where he reached for Elise’s hand. “All right, then. Let’s get you up to bed.”
…
She nearly moaned in defeat. Why couldn’t Quinn just let her stay here? She didn’t want to go up to
bed, didn’t want to lie in some empty guest room with nothing better to do than to count the stars
outside her window. Again and again and again. It was the story of her life, and she was sick of it.
Didn’t want to do it anymore. Sure as hell didn’t want to do it tonight when that damn dream was still
dragging at her.
It had been years since she’d had a nightmare as bad as this one, even longer since she’d had this
specific one, which was why it had caught her completely unaware tonight. It had been no less
terrifying for its unexpectedness. Especially since it wasn’t about the car crash or her injury, as the
doctors had warned her to expect. No, this had been about tumbling into an abyss and falling, falling,
falling. Not until she fell, but until she became nothing. Until everything, and everyone, she cared for
disappeared.
She supposed there was no real surprise that she’d had it tonight, when everything in her life was in
such disarray. After all, she’d first had the dream after Quinn had left. She’d been terrified,
devastated, frantic—and a whole bunch of other emotions she didn’t care to name. But when she
thought back on those awful months, all she remembered was being unable to sleep, unable to breathe,
without thinking about Quinn. Without worrying about him.
Though he’d left behind a pack of Twinkies—his favorite junk food and one he used to annoy her
with all the time—in her concert bag in what she’d assumed was some screwed up attempt at letting
her know he was okay, she hadn’t been able to trust it. Hadn’t been able to believe that he was really
all right, that something hadn’t happened to him. That he was just going along living his life. Without
her.
Finding out he was alive a few years ago, and the keyboardist in a successful rock band, had been
an epic relief. So much so that the dreams had stopped—until tonight.
But as Quinn leaned over her, concern in his eyes, she couldn’t tell him what her nightmare was
about. Couldn’t tell him that, too often, when she closed her eyes she was the lost and frightened girl
who was afraid that without him to see her—really see her—she would just disappear. And she sure
as hell couldn’t tell him that for months after he left, all she saw when she closed her eyes was his
bruised and battered body. Or worse, him lying dead somewhere that she couldn’t reach him.
Unpleasant shivers worked their way down her spine and she responded by shoving the old
nightmare down deep, back into her subconscious where it belonged. Then she pushed to her feet.
Took a few steps toward the stairs. But before she could get very far, Quinn swept her up into his
arms for the second time that day.
“I can walk, you know.” More, she wanted to walk. Because being close to him when she was lucid
and at her fighting best was one thing. Having him hold her now, when she was shaky and vulnerable
and just a little off, was something else entirely.
“Shut it, Lissy,” he told her firmly. “I know you’ve got some control issues, but sometimes it’s
better to just let go of the reins. Let someone else take care of you for a while.”
“I don’t know how to do that.” The words slipped out before she could stop them—a perfect
example of why she’d wanted to walk. When he was touching her, her guard went down and she said
stuff she had no business saying.
The words hung in the air between them and somehow made her feel a million times more
vulnerable than being carried by him did.
Quinn didn’t say anything for long seconds. Didn’t move. Hell, she wasn’t sure he even breathed.
But eventually he let out a long sigh, rubbed his stubbly cheek against her smooth one. “You don’t
have to know how,” her murmured as he headed toward the stairs. “Because I do. Just this once, let
me take care of you, Elise. I promise, you can trust me.”
The words were absurd, the idea even more so. Trust him when he’d already proven himself to be
completely untrustworthy?
Trust him when he’d already shredded her heart into so many pieces she’d never been able to get
them to fit together properly again?
Trust him when she’d never before felt this vulnerable?
Not likely.
And yet, she didn’t protest as he carried her up the stairs.
Or as he laid her on the bed.
Or as he rifled through her suitcase for a pair of pajamas.
And she still didn’t protest when he slipped off the blouse and jeans Jamison had given her to
replace her torn and bloodied clothing. She stopped breathing, but she didn’t protest.
Then she was dressed in her oldest, comfiest pair of pajamas and tucked beneath a soft red
comforter.
“Sleep, baby,” he murmured, stroking a hand over her hair.
Except she couldn’t sleep, not with echoes of the nightmare still zipping along her nerves. Not when
she was terrified of being thrust back into that world the moment she closed her eyes again.
Though she knew it was a bad idea—knew that she’d regret it in the morning—she turned her head
into Quinn’s hand, nuzzled his palm with her cheek. “Stay.”
He stiffened beside her. “What did you say?”
At first, she didn’t answer him. How could she when to do so would show him just how vulnerable
she was? She’d spent the last ten years of her life trying to shore up every weakness she had, so that
the wall around her thoughts—and her heart—was impenetrable.
No matter how much of a fuss she’d originally put up about going back to her hotel, no matter what
untruths she told herself during the light of day—that she would play Quinn’s game and beat him at it
—in the dead of night, it was a lot harder to lie to herself. A lot harder to deny the truth, which was
that she didn’t want to be alone. Not when she could be lying next to the only man she’d ever really
wanted.
“Stay,” she rasped again. Her voice was rusty, the word almost inaudible this second time around.
But it was the best she could do—she’d spent so much of her life begging for some small scrap of
attention outside of her piano playing, all to no avail. So it went against everything inside of her to ask
for Quinn’s now.
But the alternative was letting him walk out of this room, and she wasn’t prepared to do that. Not
now, while her hand, and the rest of her, ached badly enough to bring tears to her eyes.
She looked down, not wanting Quinn to see just how badly she needed him to say yes. Asking him
to stay was one thing. Guilting him into it was another thing altogether.
He wouldn’t let her get away with the evasion though.
“Elise.” He tilted her face up so that he could see her eyes even though she made it obvious she
didn’t want to look at him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course.” She swallowed back the tears, forced herself to ignore the lump in her throat
that was growing exponentially bigger with each second that passed.
“Are you hurting that badly?”
More than she could ever tell him. “Of course not. The pain pill’s already kicked in.”
“Then, why—”
“Never mind. It was stupid.” She closed her eyes, turned her face away from him. “I’ll see you in
the morning, Quinn.”
For long seconds, he didn’t say anything, though she could feel his eyes on her. Knew he was trying
to figure her out. But she was a puzzle with mismatched pieces. There was no way he could ever fit
all of them back together again, even if she was inclined to let him try. Which she wasn’t.
She heard him shift behind her, knew he was crouching down by the side of the bed. And still she
refused to look at him. She couldn’t, not when the tears weren’t going away. Goddamn pain
medication. It lowered every defense she had, made her hope for things she knew she couldn’t have.
“Talk to me, baby.” His voice was soft, his breath warm against the back of her neck.
She shook her head. There was nothing else for her to say. She’d opened herself up and he’d
slapped her down. Not that that was a shock. How could it be when it was the story of her life?
When, oh when, was she going to learn? She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was already
one a.m. Only five more hours before dawn broke across the sky. She could handle five hours. Three
hundred minutes. She’d be just fine by herself tonight. It wasn’t like she hadn’t handled worse before.
Quinn cursed then, long and low “What can I do for you?” he asked when the litany of swear words
had run out.
She shook her head again. She’d already told him the answer to that question. She wouldn’t open
herself up again.
But he wasn’t going to let her get away that easily. Then again, when had he ever? “Damn it, Elise.
Earlier you were demanding that I take you home. Now, when you’re obviously high on Vicodin, you
ask me to stay with you. I don’t want to overstep here, not when I don’t know what it is you really
want.”
Something in his voice broke through her reticence. Or at least cracked it. She didn’t turn back to
him, but she did ask, very softly, “Will you hold me, Quinn? Just for tonight. I don’t want to be alone
anymore.”
He didn’t answer, didn’t move, didn’t so much as breathe. She knew because she was listening for
a response, any response. He gave her nothing.
Except then he did. She heard him stand, heard the rustle that came with shoes being kicked off.
And then he was there, beside her. His arm draped over her waist. The front of his long, lean body
burning against the back of her own.
“Quinn?” she asked, hating the way her voice trembled. But it had been so long since someone had
held her, so long since someone had touched her in more than the most impersonal way. She’d told
herself that it didn’t bother her, that she liked her solitude, the impenetrable wall that kept people
from seeing the real her. But this was Quinn. Ten years might have passed, but that hadn’t changed.
And neither had her soul-deep response to him.
“Relax,” he murmured. His mouth was right next to her ear, the vibrations from his whispers
sending a whole different kind of shiver down her spine than the ones she’d felt just a little while
before. “Go to sleep.”
It was easier said than done. Yes, she’d pushed for him to lie down next to her, to keep her from
being alone, but now that his body—hot and hard and masculine—was pressed against her own, all
she could do was think about what had happened in the kitchen. What it had been like to be held by
him, kissed by him. To be made love to by him. There was a part of her—a big part—that wanted to
melt against him, to feel that pleasure again. But because she couldn’t—of course she couldn’t—she
kept herself rigid against him.
“Relax,” Quinn whispered, his huge pianist’s hand coming to rest on her hip. He patted her lightly,
rubbed in circles that she knew he meant to be soothing, but which were more arousing than anything
else.
Instinctively, she pressed against him…and nearly felt herself melt when she realized he was as
aroused as she was. She could feel his erection against her ass, could feel his heart racing against her
back.
“Quinn—” she murmured, without a clue what else she was going to say.
He turned her over then, his mouth swooping down and capturing hers in a kiss that was dark and
bruising and good, so good, for all its brevity. And then he was turning her around, spooning himself
up against her so that his cock rested hot and heavy against her ass.
His lips skimmed down her neck, over her shoulder, his piercing cool against her skin. She pressed
back against him and could practically feel her own heart beating out of her chest as he groaned, just a
little. She pressed back against him and he groaned, just a little. She started to rock against him—she
couldn’t help herself. He felt so good and it had been so long and this was Quinn, Quinn, who was
holding her. Who was kissing her. And even if she regretted it in the morning, she didn’t care.
But then his mouth was gone. And while he didn’t move away, while he kept his body curved
protectively against hers, she knew the moment was over. His hand, now resting on her stomach, was
back to making soothing circles and his breath was no longer quite so fast, quite so hot, against her
cheek.
“Go to sleep, Elise,” he told her again. His voice was strained, but there was an underlying resolve
to it that both embarrassed her and made her feel safe. She didn’t understand how that could be, but
there it was.
“Are you—” Her voice broke. “Are you going to leave?” She closed her eyes, held herself rigid as
she waited for his answer.
“Do you want me to leave?”
Though it left her more vulnerable than she wanted to be, though it told him more than she wanted
him to know, she shook her head rapidly. “No.”
“Then I’m not going anywhere.” He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, his hair cool and silky against
her jaw. “Sleep, sweetheart. I’ll be here.”
And because she believed him, because she was no longer alone in the darkness, she did.
Chapter Eight
Elise drifted slowly into consciousness. At first, she thought she was back in the hospital, but there
was no beeping. No annoying IV. No air conditioning keeping the room at sub-arctic temperatures.
Instead, she felt comfortable for the first time in days. Warm. Cozy. Safe.
“Aha. So Sleeping Beauty awakens.”
At the sound of Quinn’s voice, everything from the night before rushed back to her. Sitting up
quickly, she narrowly avoided knocking heads with him as he leaned down and put a tray on the
nightstand beside her.
“I brought you some chai tea—and another Vicodin. Take it and then you can come downstairs for
breakfast.”
Ignoring the warm feeling that came with the realization that Quinn had remembered her favorite
drink after all these years, Elise did her best to look him in the eyes. But it was hard when she
remembered how she’d pressed against him, how she’d practically begged him to make love to her.
How she’d opened herself up and shown him how vulnerable she’d felt.
Just the thought made her nauseous. This was Quinn, and while he had been wonderful to her for the
last couple of days, that didn’t mean anything. She could see the demons of the past, and she knew, no
matter how much she wanted him to hold her, to make love to her, that she couldn’t let herself believe
in him.
She’d built her whole world around him once, when he was the only person she could feel anything
for. The only person she could trust. When he had left, it had shattered her.
That had been his fault. But if she let it happen again, if she let him in and then had to watch him
walk away, it would be nobody’s fault but her own. No, this time, she was stowing the damn
vulnerability he seemed to bring out in her. Whatever happened between them this week. And when
the week was over, she was going to be the one to walk away from him.
Her resolve lasted until she got her first real glimpse of Quinn. No one—no one—should look as
hot in the morning as he did then. Dark, broody eyes. Morning stubble. Bare chest decorated by
tattoos. Unsnapped jeans. Truthfully, it was a miracle she didn’t swallow her own tongue. Or use it to
lick a path straight down his happy trail…
Desperate for a couple seconds to pull herself together, she made a production of clearing her
throat. Stretching. Shoving her miles of hair out of her face.
“What if I don’t want to come downstairs?” she finally answered him. Her voice even sounded
pretty reasonable, something she couldn’t help being proud of.
“Then I guess you can sit up here and starve,” he told her with a shrug. “Your choice.”
As he spoke, Quinn brushed his hands over his thighs in a gesture she remembered from when they
were young. And though it was familiar, she still couldn’t prevent her eyes from following their
movements.
He was wearing another pair of ripped jeans, and these were practically indecent. There were
numerous slices going down his right thigh, including one that was intriguingly close to his zipper.
She did her best not to look at that one, but it was like a magnet drawing her gaze.
Wresting her eyes back up to his face, she realized he was smirking at her. He’d been watching her
study him all along. Suddenly worried, she ran a hand over her mouth to check for random drool.
Being caught staring was one thing. He probably had it happen so often he barely noticed anymore.
But not being able to control your own salivary glands was a little too far into obsessive territory for
her peace of mind.
“Do you know what time it is?” she asked. “I can’t see the clock.”
He turned to glance behind him at the clock on the dresser, giving her a perfect view of his rear
end. And the three-inch tear right below his left buttock. “It’s ten-thirty.”
“Are you kidding me?” she burst out, unable to keep silent any longer.
“Nope.” He turned back to her, a quizzical look on his face. “It’s really ten-thirty.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” She gestured to his pants. “You’re a rock star, for God’s
sake. You make millions of dollars every year. Surely you can afford to buy a decent pair of jeans
every once in a while.”
“You don’t like my jeans? My stylist picked them out.” He looked bewildered and a little hurt, and
she might actually have believed him—not to mention felt bad—if she hadn’t seen the wicked gleam
in his eyes. Bewildered, her ass. He was enjoying every second of torturing her.
Which, she had to admit, was better than the reception she’d been expecting to get this morning.
She’d thought he’d have questions about her erratic behavior last night. Figured he’d want to know
why she’d asked him to sleep with her. Or at least, that he’d ask her about her nightmares. None of
them were questions she particularly wanted to answer.
So it was a good thing he seemed perfectly content to tease her a little. Besides which, it gave her a
chance to get a little of her own back. Now that the sun was out, the stars—and her nightmare—
banished by the bright light of a Texas summer day, she was feeling more like herself again. Which
meant she was more than ready to once again embark on Operation Put Quinn Bradford in His Place.
No, she wasn’t going to hand her heart over to him again. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a
little fun at his expense. God knew, he’d had a lot of it at her expense through the years.
Sitting up, she stretched again, but more slowly this time. As she did, she arched her back so that
her breasts pressed against the threadbare material of her pajama shirt, something she knew Quinn
was very aware of from the direction his eyes had taken. She was still wearing a bra—he hadn’t taken
that much off last night—but the fact didn’t seem to impede his interest.
Under his watchful gaze, she shoved the covers back. Climbed out of bed. Made sure to brush
against him on her way to the bathroom. She might not have ripped jeans, but she refused to let that
stop her.
But as she rubbed against him, a tingle shot down her arm from the contact. A quick glance at his
face told Elise he was feeling it, too. And that he knew exactly what she was doing.
She dropped her head, let her hair fall forward to cover the smirk she couldn’t quite hide. It was a
dangerous game she was playing. She knew it, but she didn’t give a damn. The rest of her life was in
shambles, and she’d have to deal with the mess soon enough. For the next few days she was going to
ignore what waited for her in Chicago, what waited for her outside the protective gates of Quinn’s
estate, and just pretend her life was normal. That she would, somehow, be okay.
Fake it ‘til you make it. At Quinn’s behest, she’d adopted that phrase thirteen years before. Of
course, he’d been speaking in reference to her stage fright problem, but hey. It had worked then. No
reason it wouldn’t work now, too.
She was almost to the bathroom when Quinn said, “I put your suitcase on the bench in the closet.”
His voice was much huskier than it had been even minutes before.
“Thanks. Let me take a quick shower and I’ll be down.”
“Sounds good.” He headed for the door. “Don’t forget your medicine.”
She made a face at his retreating back. Bossy man. Give him an inch and he’d take five miles.
After turning the shower on, she stripped out of her pajamas as she tried to figure out how to keep
her cast from getting wet. She’d managed it at the hospital, but the nurse had been there to help her
wash her hair. Today she was on her own and she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to get
everything done one-handed.
But a glance down at her cast—the first time she’d seen it since he had put her long sleeve pajama
top on her the night before—had her mouth falling open. All thoughts of washing her hair fled as she
stared in wide-eyed horror at what Quinn had done to her cast.
He’d drawn penises on it. Lots and lots of penises. Some small, some big, some erect, some not,
some anatomically correct, some more abstract in nature…he’d covered the gambit in male genitalia.
So much so that her entire cast was drowning in the things. Red, purple, green, black, blue, orange,
even rainbow. Holy shit! She was now a walking advertisement for those funky colored but otherwise
anatomically correct vibrators people could buy in sex shops.
She was going to kill him.
This was payback for shoving him into the fountain. She knew it with every fiber of her being. And
it was a good move, a bold one. One she never in a million years would have seen coming. The only
question now was, what on earth was she going to do to top this?
Part of her wanted nothing more than to throw on a robe, stalk down the hall, and murder him where
he stood. But he’d be expecting that. Hell, he was probably waiting for it with glee in his black little
heart. No, she had to be smarter about her revenge. More subtle. Make him sweat it a little.
Eyes narrowed and brain in full plotting mode, Elise decided to hell with washing her hair. Instead,
she pinned it up and took a quick shower while she tried to figure out what she was going to do about
this latest development in the very personal game they were playing.
A part of her thought that maybe she should just let it go—they were mature adults, after all. Well,
one of them was, anyway. And this wasn’t the old days, when one-upmanship had been a matter of
pride between them. They were all grown up now, with no time for childish games. Surely, she could
be the bigger person and just walk away from this. It was the smart thing to do.
She’d almost convinced herself to do just that—playing with him like this felt way too intimate—
but then she made the mistake of looking at the cast again in all its multi-colored glory.
To hell with being an adult. Quinn was going down.
After the shower, she took her time getting ready. She spent way too long styling her hair. Applying
a perfect coat of mascara. Making sure every inch of her body was coated in the strawberry scented
lotion he’d brought her in the hospital. Then she took an inordinate amount of time picking out a tank
top and yoga pants to wear. It was difficult, as she had to color coordinate with the monstrosity on her
hand.
After she’d finally wasted a good forty-five minutes, Elise sauntered out of her room and down to
breakfast. Quinn was in the kitchen when she got there, putting the finishing touches on a fruit salad.
He glanced up warily when she came in, even went so far as to slide the knife he’d been using into
the sink behind him. Silly boy. Like she’d ever be that obvious.
“Anything I can do to help?” she asked sweetly. “Breakfast smells delicious.”
“I’m good, thanks. Why don’t you just sit down and rest a little?”
He might as well have said, Go sit over there, all the way on the other side of the kitchen,
because it was certainly written all over his face. Too bad she wasn’t feeling particularly obliging
this morning. “Because I just spent the last nine hours sleeping? I’m feeling pretty good, actually.” She
reached for the bowl of fruit. “Can I carry this to the table for you?”
“Uh, sure. If you want.”
“I do. I may not be able to do all that much yet, but I definitely want to be helpful.”
She turned her back on Quinn as she crossed the kitchen, but not before she saw his eyes narrow
speculatively. Good. If she had to walk around for the next week with giant cocks all over her cast,
she was going to make his punishment as painful as she possibly could.
He followed her over to the table, and though he kept a healthy distance between them, it was
obvious he had relaxed a little. Which was fine with her. It could only work in her favor if he let
himself be lulled into a false sense of security.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said, placing a basket of what looked like banana bread on the table next
to the fruit.
“You made bread?” she asked, incredulously. “What time did you get up?”
“Actually, the woman who cleans my house and stocks my fridge made bread. All I did was slice
it.”
Right. Because he was an über-rich rock star who made it sound like the most normal thing in the
world that he had people who not only cleaned for him, but also shopped and cooked. Both of them
had grown up in upper middle class homes, and while her career had kept her solidly in the high end
of that tax bracket, every minute she spent around Quinn reminded her of just how much circumstances
had changed for him since he’d walked away from everything he knew.
They’d changed for the better, which she was pleased about. But they had definitely changed.
Which made her wonder, just for a second, if he had changed, too. Inside, where she couldn’t see the
difference. And if he had, how?
She nipped that thought in the bud, though, along with the excitement it caused. No way was she
going to set herself up by wishing for something that couldn’t happen. Changing who a person was on
the outside was one thing. Changing who he was on the inside was something else entirely. She
needed to remember that.
But when she turned around to face him and realized just how close he was, Elise could barely
remember her own name, let alone anything else. Her annoyance about the cast buzzed just under the
surface, but for a moment anyway, it was totally overwhelmed by her reaction to all the smooth skin
and hard muscle he had on display.
He’d obviously showered—his hair was damp—and while he’d put a shirt on since she’d last seen
him, he hadn’t bothered to button it. Which left his chest and abs gloriously bare.
All of which would be fine—he wasn’t the first hot man she’d seen with his shirt off—if he also
didn’t smell so damn good. Or have those gorgeous tattoos that literally made her fingers itch to touch
them.
“Can I do anything else to help?”
He returned to the stove, where he dished up two plates of scrambled eggs and the home fries that
had been her favorite post-concert meal as a teenager.
Another thing he’d remembered about her. She was beginning to think the man never forgot
anything.
“I’d love some coffee.” He nodded toward the coffee maker in the far corner of the kitchen. “The
cups are in the cabinet directly above it.”
She followed his bidding, adding a dash of cream to his cup before carrying it to the table. It turned
out he wasn’t the only one who remembered things.
But they’d barely gotten settled at the long rectangular table that filled his breakfast nook when a
knock came on the kitchen door. Before Quinn could get up to answer it, the door flew open and in
walked two of the hottest men Elise had ever seen, present company included.
Both were dressed in worn jeans and tight, V-neck T-shirts with the sleeves rolled up to reveal
tatted up arms and bulging biceps. Both had shaggy hair and intense eyes. And both looked very
surprised to see a woman sitting at Quinn’s breakfast table, a fact that pleased her much more than it
should have.
“Who are you?” the blond one asked, his blue eyes narrowed as they swept over every part of her
he could see.
“Who are you?” she answered, a little shocked at her own rudeness. This was Quinn’s house, after
all, and she was the interloper. These two looked like they fit right in.
He didn’t take offense, though. Instead, he shot Quinn an amused look as the other guy threw back
his head and laughed. And could she just say, holy crap. She’d thought he was hot before. But
laughing, with his eyes all crinkled up, he was breathtaking. And that didn’t even count the fact that
sex seemed to roll off him in never-ending waves.
For a moment, she couldn’t help wondering if modern science had looked into bottling the
pheromones that rolled off this guy. If they hadn’t, then they definitely should. Every man on the planet
would line up to get himself a bottle.
She glanced at Quinn, who was watching her reaction to his two friends with his arms crossed and
a small smile of his own. Okay, he wouldn’t need to line up for a bottle. With his dark eyes and
darker emotions, he was definitely the sexiest guy in the room. The sexiest guy she’d ever seen. But
normal men, certainly the ones who inhabited her regular world, would definitely get laid a lot more
if they could get a hold of whatever these three guys had going on.
“These are my band mates,” Quinn told her. “That one’s Jared,” he said, pointing to the one who
had demanded to know who she was. “He’s our lead guitarist. And that’s Ryder, the lead singer.”
Of course. The one all but radiating sex was the lead singer of the band. As she moved to shake
their hands, Elise couldn’t help wondering if that kind of sex appeal was something they taught in a
class on how to headline a concert or if it was something that the best lead singers just had in spades.
Like confidence. And the ability to wear copious amounts of eyeliner without looking ridiculous. And
really good hair.
“This is Elise McKinney,” Quinn continued, resting his hand on her lower back and guiding her
toward the other men. “She’s a friend of mine from way back.”
This time, Ryder was the one who cocked his head to the side as he studied her. “The concert
pianist?”
Her eyes darted to Quinn’s. Had he told these guys about her? When he’d introduced her, it hadn’t
sounded like he had. But maybe she’d just read the situation wrong and there was something she was
supposed to say. Some way she was supposed to handle this and she just didn’t know what that was.
Just the thought made her nervous, had her fingers curling into fists. She’d never been one to do well
without a script.
But they kept watching her with gorgeous faces and interested eyes until she finally agreed, “That’s
me.” It seemed a safe enough answer.
“Awesome. I really like your stuff. It’s amazing. I’ve got all seven of your albums, though the
Rachmaninoff is my favorite.”
Now she really was surprised. Which made her feel like a total jerk. She’d judged this guy on his
looks, figured he wouldn’t know anything about what she did or who she played. But why shouldn’t
he? Music was music. Just because she listened to the classical stuff didn’t mean she had no
appreciation for rock or jazz or even pop. It was beyond snobbish to think any differently of Ryder
just because of the tattoos and piercings and hair.
“It’s my favorite, too,” she agreed. “There’s just something about—”
“Rachmaninoff,” he finished for her with a grin.
“Exactly.” They smiled at each other in perfect accord, at least until he glanced over at Quinn and
asked, “All those times I played her stuff on the bus, why didn’t you tell me you knew her?”
Quinn didn’t answer. But then she hadn’t really expected him to. Talking never had been his strong
suit.
Ryder didn’t seem to expect an answer either. Instead, he walked over to the stove and grabbed one
of the plates Jared had loaded food onto while she and Ryder talked. Then they were settling down at
the table, joking and laughing as they began shoveling food into their mouths at an alarming rate.
She stood there watching them for a moment, unsure of what to do. Should she join them at the table
or would they prefer if she left them alone? Though they were messing with each other, the underlying
tone of the conversation sounded serious. Like there was something they needed to get worked out.
She didn’t want to interrupt that.
Besides, she couldn’t help being uncomfortable. Out of place. She didn’t belong here, in Quinn’s
world. If she was honest, she didn’t belong anywhere. But certainly not here. With him and these other
too-beautiful-to-actually-be-human rock gods.
Her indecision must have translated itself to Quinn, because he frowned at her—then nodded his
head at the spot she’d claimed earlier. When that didn’t immediately get her moving, he jumped up
from the table and came around to her. Conversation stopped as the other two turned to watch him
with unabashed curiosity.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, his hand curving around her waist to rest on her lower back.
“Are you hurting again?”
She was, but not in the way he meant. And it wasn’t like she planned on explaining to him how out
of place she felt here, with him. This man with his beautiful house and his beautiful friends and his
beautiful life was not the Quinn she knew, the Quinn she could relate to.
“I’m good,” she finally said. “I just figured you guys might want to be alone.”
Ryder shot her an amused look. “We don’t have that kind of relationship.”
God, could she be more of an idiot? Cheeks flaming at her unwitting double entendre, Elise
searched for something to say.
Interestingly, it was Jared who came to her rescue. “Speak for yourself,” he said with a wink in her
direction. “I’ve been trying to get Quinn all to myself for years.”
“Sit down,” Quinn told her. “They’re going to be here most of the day. We have plenty of time to
talk business.”
“That we do,” Ryder confirmed. “Besides, I’ve been dying to have a chat with you since I came
in.”
Quinn shot him a mild look. “I’m sure Jamison will be happy to hear that.” There was an underlying
note of warning in his voice, one that sounded an awful lot like jealousy to Elise. Though the whole
idea was ridiculous, it still sparked something inside of her. Something that had her nipples peaking
and heat flooding low into her belly.
Crossing an arm over her chest so the nipple situation wouldn’t be quite so obvious, she sank back
down into her chair and asked Ryder, “What should we chat about?”
“The possibilities are endless,” he answered with a grin, “but what I really want to ask about is
your interesting choice in cast decorations.”
Quinn choked on the sip of coffee he’d just taken and went into a huge coughing fit.
After checking to make sure he wasn’t actually turning blue, Elise turned back to Ryder with a grin
of her own. “It is interesting, isn’t it? I particularly like the rainbow ones.”
Jared leaned closer to investigate. “Now see, I like this one.” He tapped one of the drawings.
“Gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘blue balls.’”
Elise burst out laughing. “It really does.”
“You know, I think we could start a trend with this,” Ryder said after he stopped laughing. “The
next time I break something, I’m totally going to request one of those. The fans will love it.”
“You don’t even have to request it. Quinn took the time to do this for me. I’m sure he’d do the same
for you.” She gave Quinn her blandest smile.
For a second, he looked like he was at a loss for words. But he’d never been one to ignore the
gauntlet once it had been thrown—obviously—so he eventually nodded. “You bet. Break a leg or
something and I’ll definitely do the cast design.”
“Can you do tits, too? Because there’s something about a pair of rainbow colored tits that appeals
to me,” Ryder said.
“Of course he can do tits,” Elise told him. “And the best part, once the doctor takes this off I’m
going to auction it on eBay. An original Quinn Bradford design. I figure it’ll end up paying for my
medical bills.”
This time Jared was the one to choke on his coffee, only he ended up spewing it halfway across the
table—and right into Quinn’s face.
As Quinn spluttered and the other two men guffawed, Elise got started on her breakfast. Suddenly,
her close to non-existent appetite was back with a vengeance.
Chapter Nine
After breakfast, the guys each grabbed another cup of coffee then headed down the hall to Quinn’s
music room. He asked if she wanted to join them, but Elise figured the last thing they needed was a
classical pianist hanging around while they tried to write their new album.
Besides, she had revenge to plot. Watching Quinn get a face full of coffee had been amusing, to say
the least, but in the grand scheme of things it just didn’t stack up against a cast covered in obscene
pictures. She was the one who was going to have to explain it to the doctor, after all.
Quinn was already suspicious, though, so she was going to have to get creative. Which was more
than fine with her. It wasn’t like she had anything better to do with her time at the moment.
She wasn’t certain what it said about her that she was this excited to torture a man who had gone
out of his way to help her. And to be honest, she didn’t care. All that mattered at this point was getting
the best of Quinn.
So while the band spent the morning working on what sounded like a damn fine ballad—one about
mistakes and forgiveness—she spent the morning wandering the house and trying to figure out a truly
dirty trick to play on Quinn.
The irony of the situation was not lost on her.
Though it took well over an hour, the answer finally came to her when she was poking around the
kitchen. After sneaking down the hall to make sure the guys were still absorbed in their songwriting—
which they were—she set the necessary supplies out on the kitchen table and got to work.
Two and a half hours later, she had just finished putting everything away when a woman carrying
three large pizza boxes let herself in through the same door Ryder and Jared had come in earlier. Tall
and curvy, with long red hair and a smile as bright as the sun, she dropped the pizzas on the table then
pulled Elise in for a peach scented hug.
Elise went along with it—mostly because she didn’t know how to get out of it gracefully—then
breathed a sigh of relief when she was finally free. She didn’t know who the woman was, but logic
said she was probably a “friend” of Quinn’s. And while Elise had no claim on him herself, she
wasn’t exactly thrilled to have her competition hanging all over her.
Not that the gorgeous redhead was actually her competition. Elise wasn’t competing for Quinn. Not
at all. Not even a little bit. The fact that she didn’t stand a chance next to this woman was completely
superfluous.
“You must be Elise! I’ve heard so much about you! How are you feeling? How’s your hand? Quinn
said you were doing really well, but I wanted to come over and check on you. See if there was
anything you needed. Quinn’s a great guy, but even great guys don’t always understand that sometimes
women need more than a can of beer and a television set to be comfortable.”
Elise found herself nodding along with the words tumbling out of the other women’s mouth. Not
because she agreed or disagreed, but because they were coming so quickly she could barely keep up.
And she hadn’t even taken the pain medication Quinn had given her that morning because she’d
wanted to keep her wits about her.
But before she could respond—or ask who the woman was—Ryder came strolling into the kitchen,
Jared and Quinn at his heels. “I knew I smelled pizza.” He leaned down and gave the redhead a
lingering kiss before finally drawing back. As he pulled her against him—her back to his chest—
Elise finally clued in to who the woman was.
“You’re Jamison?” she asked tentatively. “Ryder’s fiancée?”
“And my sister,” Jared said, reaching over to ruffle Jamison’s hair.
“Of course I am. I—” Jamison broke off mid-sentence, her eyes going comically wide. “Did I
forget to say that?”
Elise nodded.
“No wonder you looked at me like I was a crazy person. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. But
yes, I’m Jamison. Jared’s sister. Ryder’s fiancée. Quinn’s friend.”
She stressed the last word a little and Elise looked down at the ground as her cheeks flushed.
Maybe Quinn wasn’t the only one whose jealousy was obvious.
“Thanks so much for going shopping for me when I was in the hospital. You got everything I could
possibly need and I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t be silly!” Jamison waved off her thanks. “I’m surrounded by men all the time. Going
shopping for girl stuff is fun for me. Although,” Jamison eyed her up and down, “Now that I see you,
I’m guessing the stuff I bought was too big. I was going off Quinn’s descriptions, but I couldn’t be
sure.”
“Everything was great. And only a little too big, which made it really comfortable, actually. So,
again, thanks.”
“Anytime. Really.” Jamison’s smile was so real that Elise couldn’t help relaxing. No matter how
out there they looked, Quinn’s friends were really nice people.
Jared settled himself at the table and reached for the pizza boxes. “What kind did you get?”
“Don’t worry. One of them is prosciutto and pineapple, just for you,” Jamison told him with an
indulgent smile.
Soon the group of them was all gathered around the table, scarfing down pizza and beer and talking
over each other as ideas for the new album flew fast and furious between them. Elise’s earlier
opinion about them being a close-knit group was reinforced by the way they finished each other’s
sentences and the way their energies fed off of one another.
She expected to feel like an interloper, or at least an unwanted intrusion. After all, she’d pretty
much lived her whole life as one. She was the unplanned pregnancy that had stolen her mother’s
touring career. The unwanted baby who had killed her mother, and the love of her father’s life. The
unwanted girl who could never measure up to the genius she had stolen from the world. And that had
come from her father, from the man who was pretty much required to love and take care of her.
She didn’t even mind feeling like that, not with Quinn. After everything that he had gone through,
she was just happy that he’d found some place that he fit in, with people who loved and respected him
for who he was. She was more than happy just being an observer, and getting a chance to see him in
his element.
So she settled at the end of the table with a piece of pizza and a soda and planned to just enjoy the
show.
The way Quinn would shout out an idea and somehow get everyone at the table excited about it.
The way Ryder’s face would light up whenever Jamison brushed against him or smiled at him or
even looked his way.
The way Jared, who she was coming to realize rarely looked anything but sad, tapped experimental
rhythms out on the table to match up with Quinn’s lyrics or descriptions.
But it didn’t take long for Quinn to realize that she’d isolated herself. Then he was reaching over
with one powerful arm, dragging her chair closer to the rest of them. Putting her solidly in the middle
of the fray. Soon, she was throwing her own ideas out about baselines and melodies and even
contributing to the lyrics of a chorus while Quinn feverishly scribbled everything that was said into a
battered black leather notebook.
It was fun. Way more fun than she ever could have imagined. Not just the fact that they listened to
her and made her feel like she had something to offer—which was amazing in and of itself—but the
actual act of composing. Of putting words and notes together from nothing and making something
wonderful.
That had never been her thing. Oh, she understood how melodies worked together. Understood how
scores and operas and symphonies were built from both the simplest and most complex combinations
of notes and chords. But she’d always been too busy trying to master the most difficult compositions
she could to ever think about creating something on her own.
If nothing else came of this week here with Quinn, she would always have this moment. This new
bit of knowledge about herself that she never would have imagined. It was more than enough.
Eventually all the pizza was gone—although how they’d managed to consume three extra large
pizzas she didn’t know—and Quinn got up and headed over to the pantry. He came back with a box of
Twinkies and a pack of Oreo cookies and set them in the middle of the table.
“Are you serious?” Jamison demanded. “Do you know how bad those things are for you?”
“From the woman who just brought us pizza, that sounds a little hypocritical.”
“Excuse me, but that was gourmet pizza with fresh, organic ingredients and whole wheat crust. The
stuff you’re eating was created in a factory.”
“I don’t care,” Quinn told her as he stuffed a cookie in his mouth. “They taste good.”
“No,” she told him adamantly. “They don’t. They taste like chemicals. Because that’s what they
are.”
“Sorry, Ms.-Soon-To-Be-A-Famous-Dessert-Maker. Some of us don’t have the time or talent to
make everything from scratch.”
“Well, then, go to a bakery. Or call me—I’ll be happy to bring something over. But don’t eat that
crap. Please. I implore you.”
“Separate corners, you guys.” Ryder broke up the fight with an air of amusement that said he’d done
it many times before. Grabbing Jamison around the waist, he pulled her onto his lap. Nuzzled her
neck. “You know you aren’t going to change him, babe.”
“Change him?” Quinn demanded, eyebrow raised. “I’m pretty sure it was you and Jared who had
me hide your damn Oreos and cupcakes under my bed on the tour bus so Jamison wouldn’t find them.”
“Dude! What are you doing?” Ryder demanded with a scowl. But when he turned back to Jamison,
his eyes were wide and pleading. “Darlin’, Quinn didn’t mean it. He’s just—”
“Are you kidding me?” Jamison shoved off his lap. “You’ve been eating this junk, too?”
“No. Of course not. I—”
She just stared at him with narrowed eyes until finally he sighed heavily. “Okay. Fine. I have been.
But not very often and only because Jared made me.”
“What?” Jared gaped at him. “I’m not the one who used to sneak off the bus during three a.m. gas
stops for my junk food fix. I’m pretty sure that was you and Quinn.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ryder wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled
her in for a kiss. She turned her face away, but then he just pressed kisses up the side of her neck until
she giggled and shoved him away. After she’d given him the kiss he wanted.
“Well, then, if you’re so serious, you won’t mind if I take these with me when I head back to the
house.” She reached into the center of the table and snagged the Twinkies and Oreos. “I’m sure I can
find somewhere to throw them away between here and home.”
“What?” Quinn squawked indignantly. “I’m not related to you or going to marry you. I don’t have to
follow your rules. Leave them here. I promise I won’t let either of them have any.”
“Yeah, ’cause I believe that. You’d be sneaking them Oreos before I got to the bottom of the
driveway. Besides, you may not be related to me, but you’re family. And I want you to stick around
for a while.” She leaned in to give him a quick hug, making sure to keep a firm grip on the Twinkies,
which she was holding behind her back, the entire time.
Then she turned to Jared. “What time are you going out to visit Wyatt today?”
“I thought I’d leave here about two-thirty.”
“Give me a call before you go. Maybe I’ll ride back out with you—it was good to see him
yesterday.”
Jared nodded, but he didn’t say anything. Neither did anyone else. Elise didn’t know who Wyatt
was, but something about him had obviously upset the group of them. The lightheartedness that had
been so much a part of lunch was gone, replaced by a concern that was nearly palpable.
Jamison left right after that. Quinn watched from the window as she drove away, then went into the
pantry and pulled out another box of Twinkies. “I don’t have any more Oreos, so these will have to
do.”
“Thank God. What the hell were you trying to do, outing me like that to my girl?” Ryder demanded
as he tore the box open.
“Hey, you’re the one who threw me under the bus. I was just reciprocating.”
“Actually, I think Jared’s the one who threw us both under the bus.”
“And he didn’t even get yelled at.” Quinn snagged a couple Twinkies from the open box. He
offered one to Elise, but she just shook her head. “How is that fair?”
“One of the perks of being a big brother,” Jared said smugly, reaching for a Twinkie of his own.
Ryder just looked at him. “You don’t actually think you’re getting one of these, do you?”
“Damn right, I am. You’ve had to live with her for less than a month. I’ve had to live with her
almost my whole life. I deserve two Twinkies for that.”
Ryder raised a brow at Quinn, who nodded. “He does have a point.”
“I guess.” Ryder pouted as he handed the guitarist two of the small snack cakes. “Are you sure you
don’t want one, Elise?”
“Positive. They’re not really my thing.”
“I don’t even know how that’s possible.” Quinn ripped off the clear wrapper. “They’re awesome.”
“They are. I mean, sure, Jamison’s desserts are way better, but sometimes a guy just needs a
Twinkie.”
“Absolutely.” Ryder shoved the whole cake in his mouth, started to chew and the other guys
followed suit.
Elise watched them, figuring it wouldn’t take very—
“What the hell!” Quinn yelped around a mouthful of cake. He ran to the sink, spit it out. “Shit, these
are rancid or something.”
“Ugh. Gross.” Ryder ran to the trash and spit out his mouthful as well.
Jared didn’t say anything, but the fact that he was turning green was a pretty good clue that he’d
actually managed to swallow his. And was regretting it. A lot.
Quinn rinsed his mouth out, gagging the whole time. “I can’t get the taste out of my mouth!”
“Don’t hog the water, man!” Ryder shoved him out of the way and shoved his head under the tap.
Then came up sputtering when he nearly drowned himself.
Jared, in the meantime, went straight for another beer. He downed the thing in two long gulps,
making disgusted faces the entire time.
Never had she wished for a video camera more. She could get serious play on YouTube with this.
Especially considering the whining. She bet their fans would pay a lot for a video of Shaken Dirty
crying like little babies.
After much bitching and moaning, Quinn and Ryder eventually made their way back to the table.
“What’s the expiration date on those things?” Ryder demanded, reaching for the box. “How long have
you had then? Since before tour started or some such shit?”
“That shouldn’t matter. Twinkies are supposed to withstand nuclear war, aren’t they?” Jared
popped the top on another beer.
“Obviously not.” Quinn shook his head. “But this makes no sense. They aren’t supposed to expire
for two weeks.”
“Then you need to write a complaint letter, man. Because whatever that was, was not okay.”
Quinn reached into the box and pulled out a second Twinkie.
“Dude, you aren’t seriously going to try another one, are you?” Ryder demanded in horror.
“Really? Does that sound like something I’d do?” But he opened the package and pulled out the
small snack cake. Sniffed at it. “It smells fine.”
“I’m pretty sure whatever was wrong with it had to do with the cream.” Jared grabbed it from him,
broke it in half. Took a whiff. “Oh, yeah. Definitely the cream.”
“That’s weird,” Quinn said, reaching for it. Then he sniffed at the center of the Twinkie too. “The
color’s not right. And it almost smells like—”
“Like what?” Ryder demanded, a half-frightened, half-disgusted look on his face.
“Like mayonnaise.”
“Mayonnaise? Why would there be mayonnaise in a Twinkie?”
“I don’t know. But—” Quinn froze mid-sentence, his gaze shooting to Elise’s.
So far she hadn’t said anything, just sat back and silently watched as the whole Twinkie drama
unfolded. But now she couldn’t resist asking, “Do they deal with products that have mayonnaise in the
same plant? Maybe there was some confusion or—”
“You did it.”
“What?” She tried her best to look innocent. “Did what?”
“You sabotaged my Twinkies.” He stormed over to the pantry, pulled out the remaining two boxes.
“Did you get them all?”
“Quinn, man, I think the bad Twinkie cream went to your head,” Jared looked baffled. “Why the
hell would Elise sabotage your Twinkies?”
Quinn was too busy ripping into the other boxes to notice. After checking one from each box, he
said, “You did. You poisoned them all.”
“Really?” It took every ounce of willpower Elise had to keep a straight face, but somehow she
managed it. “You think I poisoned you?”
“I think you did something.”
“Again,” Jared asked, “Why would she do that?”
“Why don’t you tell him, Elise? Why would you fuck with my Twinkies?”
She raised her brows at him. “Believe me, Quinn, I have no desire to fuck with your Twinkie.”
Ryder cracked up, followed seconds later by Jared. Even Quinn was grinning at her when he said,
“But you did.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a deliberately careless shrug. “Maybe it was you who did it. You
are the one with the obsession with phallic shaped objects, after all.” She waved at him as she said it,
making sure to use the arm with the cast on it. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go take a nap. I
find I’m a little tired after all the exertion of the day.”
“Yeah, emptying out and then refilling forty-eight Twinkies must have been exhausting.”
“I wouldn’t know.” She smiled at Jared and Ryder as she headed out of the kitchen. “Bye, guys. It
was nice to meet you.”
“You don’t really think you’re going to get away with this, do you?” Quinn called.
She turned back, gave him the sweetest smile in her repertoire. “But Quinn, honey, I already did.”
The last thing she heard as she disappeared down the hallway was the sound of Ryder and Jared
cracking up all over again.
“Dude,” Ryder said in between peals of laughter. “You are in so much trouble with that one.”
She nearly laughed herself. She’d never been called trouble before. She had to admit, she kind of
liked it.
Chapter Ten
Elise hadn’t actually planned on taking a nap, but when she got to her room, she realized she really
was exhausted. Plus her hand was hurting—using that kitchen syringe to suck the cream out of all
those Twinkies before filling them back up again had required a lot of repetitive motion. While most
of it had been with her good hand, her injured hand had done a lot of holding and squeezing. Enough
so that it ached quite a bit more now than it had that morning.
It had been worth it though. Quinn’s face had been priceless. She felt a little bad that Jared and
Ryder had gotten caught in the middle of the game, but all in all, she figured they were acceptable
collateral damage. Besides, if they’d listened to Jamison like they’d promised, none of that would
have happened.
Deciding to take half a pain pill—she wanted to doze, not sleep the day away—Elise did just that,
then crawled beneath the covers. As she drifted to sleep, an image of Quinn’s face, sharp-eyed, a
little annoyed, and a lot impressed, was the last thought she had for quite a while.
She woke up hours later, with a dry mouth and a nap hangover. Even before she looked at the clock,
Elise knew she had slept too long. Her body was heavy and her head pounding the way it only did
when she’d allowed herself to sleep too hard over too many hours.
Tossing the covers aside, she pushed to her feet. Then went into the bathroom and rinsed out her
mouth. Splashed cold water on her face. Rinsed off the make-up she’d put on that morning that had
pooled under her eyes during her nap. A quick glance in the mirror told her she looked better than she
had in the hospital a couple days before. Still not great, but at least she had some color in her cheeks.
That had to count for something.
She turned away, started to head downstairs to search for Quinn, but a little squiggle of vanity
reared its head. So she reached for her small toiletries case on the side of the sink. Pulled out a light
pink lip gloss and ran it over her mouth. Added a quick swipe of nude eye shadow and a little
mascara. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to make her feel better. And to give her a little armor
when she went down to face Quinn.
She was the wary one now. He’d had hours to hatch a plan to get back at her. And while she knew
he wouldn’t hurt her, she knew something was coming. There was no way Quinn would let the Great
Twinkie Debacle go unanswered.
The house was gray and shadowy as she made her way down the stairs. She wasn’t sure where
Quinn was, but figured she’d look around a little. See if she could find him. And hope he wasn’t lying
in wait for her somewhere.
She had just started down the hallway that led to the kitchen when she heard the music. Not the
beginnings of a new song. Not an old familiar one. No, the music pouring down the hallway was the
soaring, bombastic sound of Rachmaninoff’s Third Concerto. Considered by most to be one of the
most difficult—if not the most difficult—pieces ever composed for any instrument, ever, the first
movement was filled with massive chords and multiple climaxes. And Quinn was playing it like it
was nothing.
Nothing.
She crept up the hallway that led to the music room, then stood, frozen, in the doorway looking in
because she was determined not to disturb him.
He was seated at the piano, head down and fingers moving over the keys so quickly they were
almost a blur. His shoulders were lifting and falling with each chord change, the muscles of his arms
standing out in stark definition, each shift and movement made more obvious by the tattoos that
covered his arms. His back was straight, his ass and thighs tensing and relaxing with the movement of
the music. He played with his whole body, with his whole mind and his whole heart. It was the
sexiest thing she’d ever seen—he was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen—and she wanted him more in
that moment than she ever had before.
Maybe it was because she hadn’t heard him play—not like this—in so long. She didn’t know. All
she knew was she was hungry for him. Desperate for the strength and the power and the beauty of the
music he created. Because the truth was, when it came to the technical aspect of playing the piano, she
had always been better than Quinn—only because she’d practiced all the time, until her fingers
cramped and ached and bled. But in sheer talent, in the ability to play the hell out of a piece of music
—to own it—he had her beat hands down.
And this concerto right here, tonight, was no exception. She’d struggled with it for years, her hands
not big enough to make the chords and her talent not strong enough to make up for that fact. With his
huge hands and towering talent, Quinn didn’t have that problem. He was making the concerto his
bitch, slapping it—and the piano—around until all she could see or hear or feel was him.
He ended the first movement with a huge display of power, his fingers pounding away at the piano
keys like they’d somehow personally offended him, then slid right into the rich and whimsical second
movement. This one was all technical form, lightning quick keystrokes followed by deep, lush chords.
She’d played this movement herself many times—had been told her recording of it was brilliant—but
she knew that in her entire career she had never played it or heard it played better than she was at this
very moment. By a man who hadn’t played the grand piano professionally or in competition in over
ten years.
It was an earth-shattering thought, and a humbling one. Part of her wanted to close her eyes so she
could listen without being distracted by the sight of him. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, not
when he looked so strong and beautiful and drop-dead sexy. His eyes were closed, his lips parted. He
was absorbed, wholly absorbed, in the music that both seduced and entrapped.
The second movement ended, shifted into the third and final movement, with its towering,
thunderous crescendos. As the music stormed through the room, wound itself around her and took her
over completely, she finally did close her eyes. This was her favorite part—to listen to and to play—
and it was finally sinking in. Really sinking in.
Never again would she play this concerto—or any other. Never again would she coax impossible
sounds, impossible chords, from the keys of a grand piano. Never again would she play. Truly play.
The thought nearly brought her to her knees. For while she hated performing, hated the judgment and
the prying eyes that came with sitting on a stage in front of hundreds or thousands, of people, she
loved making music. Pitting herself against a composition, with nothing but herself and her instrument
to bring it to heel.
All that was gone now, in the careless turn of a wheel. In the crash of steel against steel.
Tears leaked from underneath her eyes, silent but no less real for the lack of sound that came with
them. Impatiently, she wiped them away. She had no use for self-pity, no use for moaning and wailing
about what could have, should have, would have been. Not when Ellington was dead. Not when
things, for her, could have turned out so much worse.
There they were, the last chords of the concerto—ringing through the room, through the house. She
opened her eyes, watched as he devoured the ending then spit it out, one powerful note at a time. Up,
up, up he built it until she could feel it in her every breath, her every cell. And then he took it even
higher, his fingers slamming down on the piano keys in a show of strength that she would remember
for the rest of her life.
And then it was done.
For long seconds after the music died out, Quinn didn’t move. And neither did she. She was
spellbound, heartbroken, caught between what was and what should have been. And in those
moments, she wouldn’t have traded it for the world. How could she, when emotions soared through
her, filling up the empty shell she’d allowed herself to become for so long.
Quinn moved then, lowering his hands from the piano to his lap. She turned away, thought to slip
out of the room before he realized she was there. She wasn’t hiding, but what she’d seen—what he’d
done—had been intensely personal, for both of them. She didn’t want to intrude if he needed time to
rein his emotions back in.
But she had barely stepped outside the doorway when he called her name in a voice that was as
hoarse and open and aching as she herself felt.
…
Elise froze, her body going so completely still in the gathering dusk that he had trouble distinguishing
her from the shadows all around her. But he knew she was there, that she’d been there for a while.
He’d sensed her presence at the beginning of the second movement, but he hadn’t stopped playing.
He couldn’t. Not when he was playing her favorite concerto by her favorite composer.
When he’d sat down at the piano after walking Ryder out to his car, he’d thought to just fool around
for a little while. To play some familiar songs to maybe jog his creativity, get it flowing again.
They’d had a good day, had written quite a bit. But there was a lot more to do, especially if they
expected this album to do what it needed to do. To cement the world tour that their management even
now was planning. It would start after Christmas, a week after the album hit, and continue for six
months. In the meantime, they were trying to extend the American tour they’d already had planned for
the fall. To hit some of the places they’d missed when they’d been forced to pull out of the Rock On
tour. To do that and do it well, they needed to release a hit single, if not two. And that meant he and
Ryder and Jared had a whole shitload of work to do.
But then he’d found himself playing Rachmaninoff and he’d known that he was doing it for Elise.
Because she couldn’t play it—not now and maybe not ever again. He’d wanted to give her something
to hold onto, something she loved that she could hold close and know that the dark wouldn’t last
forever.
But now, as she stood there in the doorway, trembling, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d fucked
up again. If instead of giving her hope, he’d taken it away in the cruelest manner possible.
Just the thought had him pushing back from the piano and crossing the room to her. He was terrified
of what he’d find when he reached her, devastated at the idea that he had once again hurt her with his
own twisted view of the world. But he couldn’t not go to her, not when everything inside him was
screaming that she was hurting. And that she needed him.
“Lissy? Baby?” He spoke to her softly, not wanting to spook her when her tense body language
screamed that she was one second away from making a run for it. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” Her voice was low, a little scratchy. But he didn’t know if that was because she’d
gone too long without speaking or if it was because she’d been crying. “I slept too long.”
“You needed it.” He took a risk, reached out and clasped her uninjured hand gently between his
own. “Come, sit with me.”
Somehow she knew that he was talking about the piano and not the couch, because her whole body
tensed up and she instinctively protested. Tried to pull away. “I don’t want to interrupt.”
“I’d finished the concerto—I know you know that. Besides, you’re never an interruption.”
“You say that now,” she told him, trying her hand at a joke that might lesson the awkwardness of
their situation.
“I’ve always said it, will always say it. Now come on, I want you to sit next to me.”
If possible, she stiffened even more. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
“Why? Don’t you like this room?”
“You know that’s not the problem.” She glanced around at the other instruments he had in here. Not
the keyboards he was famous for—those were in the recording studio out back. No, here he had the
instruments he played for pure pleasure—a violin, a harp, a few guitars, a saxophone. And the piano,
of course, which sat dead center in the middle of the room in a place of honor.
“So, what is?” He knew, of course he knew, but years of dealing with Wyatt told him that letting her
avoid the issue now would only cause problems later.
“I can’t be here. I can’t be so close and not play.”
“Who says you can’t play?”
“Are you trying to be funny?” she demanded, pulling away from him.
“No, sweetheart, never. But there are all kinds of ways to play the piano. It doesn’t all have to be
perfection, you know.”
“It does for me.” The resolve in her voice broke his heart. She was working so hard to convince
herself that she was okay with the way she thought things had to be, with never playing again. But he
could hear the hurt buried deep in her voice and it gutted him.
Wanting to comfort her but not knowing if she’d let him, he lifted a hand to her cheek, cupped her
face. There were traces of wetness beneath his fingers—not much, just enough to let him know she
had been crying.
The thought tore him up. He wanted to hold her, to protect her, to make this nightmare go away for
her. But he couldn’t do that. Couldn’t fix this now, just like he couldn’t fix everything that had hurt
her, broken her, when they’d been kids. Hell, he’d been part of the problem then and he’d do well to
remember it. To ensure that he didn’t become part of the problem again.
He started to pull away, but she’d lifted her hand to cover his so that she was holding his hand
against her face. In those moments, he knew that he wasn’t walking away. Wasn’t taking himself out of
the equation. It had been so long and he wanted her too badly to just leave her now, when she was
vulnerable and frightened. When she needed him as badly as he’d ever needed her.
“Come on, baby.” He slid his arm around her waist, gently urged her across the room and to the
piano. She went without resistance, but he knew it would be a different story once he actually had her
seated on the bench. And sure enough, when he settled next to her and waited for her to touch the
piano, she flat-out refused. She even went so far as to cross her arms across her chest—the universal
fuck-off gesture if he’d ever seen it.
But he could be a patient guy when he needed to be, so he just sat there. Waiting. And waiting. And
waiting.
“I don’t want to be here, Quinn,” she told him after long minutes. “My hand hurts.”
He felt like a douche, like a total dick. But he knew he had to push her. If she hid from this now,
she’d hide from it forever. Besides, she deserved to make music. Deserved to know that all this
wasn’t gone forever.
Reaching over, he lifted her right hand and placed it gently on the piano keys. Then he placed his
left one where hers should have gone. “Play with me,” he whispered against her ear. “It’s been so
long since I’ve heard you play anything. Play with me now.”
He waited for her to refuse—not that he planned on letting her, for long—but she didn’t. At least
not right away. Instead her fingers, her strong, resilient, powerful fingers pressed down on a couple of
the keys. She even went so far as to make a couple of chords. Then she stopped, the fading music
hanging in the air all around them.
“I can’t,” she told him.
“I’ll help you,” he told her.
And then he played the opening notes to Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” One of the most popular
pieces around, it was also one of the easiest classical pieces ever written. Elise could play it in her
sleep, as could he.
She smiled a little at the first notes, but then she just watched him and listened. It wasn’t much of a
performance considering he was only using one hand, but he refused to take over. Refused to give her
an out. If she wasn’t going to play, she was going to have to get up and walk away.
She didn’t do that, but she did start to move her hand off the piano keys. He stopped her by placing
his own hand over hers. Then gently pressed down on her fingers with his own, until they were
playing the notes together.
Elise stiffened, started to jerk her hand away, but he turned to her, caught her beautiful, broken gaze
with his own. And refused to let her slip away.
He continued to play, his fingers twined with hers. His gaze locked with hers. Long seconds—long
minutes—passed, and then finally, finally, she too began to play. Small movements of her fingers
under his as she pressed down on the keys. Then slightly bigger ones, building, building, constantly
building, until she was playing right along with him, her fingers dancing over the keys like she owned
them. In those moments she did—just like she owned him.
They finished the first movement, but when he would have stopped, she kept playing. So he did, too
—through the second movement and into the third. It was strange to only be playing half the piece, but
exciting as well. It had been years since he’d heard her play this piece and her style had changed in
that time. Which meant he had to try to anticipate what she would do with the piece—and then
scramble to adjust if she did something different.
Which she did, time and time again. Partly, he thought because she did play differently now than she
had at seventeen. And partly because she was playing with him, pushing at him just to see what he
would do.
Quinn knew she expected him to take over at some point, to start forcing his own style—which was
more in your face, less stylized, than hers—onto the music. But this was her moment, her piece, and
he was more than content to follow wherever she led him.
Unlike the Rachmaninoff piece he’d just been playing, “Moonlight Sonata” didn’t end with soaring
power and a clash of keys. Instead, it ended on a whisper, a twinkle, a kiss and as their fingers
caressed the last few notes from his piano, he felt the sweetness of the music, and the moment, deep
inside himself.
In the silence that followed, he continued to wait. Continued to see where Elise would lead. Into
Debussy’s “Claire de Lune” or maybe “Fur Elise,” another simple piece by Beethoven. But Elise
surprised him again as she slid into Greig’s “Piano Concerto in A Minor.” In his mind, it was some of
the sexiest music ever written. Oh, his band mates would disagree—had, in fact, disagreed many
times—because in their minds nothing could be sexier than good, old-fashioned rock and roll.
But they were wrong. Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue,” Lakme’s “Flower Duet,” Rachmaninoff’s
“Second Piano Concerto” were among some of the sexiest music he’d ever played. And this concerto,
Grieg’s? It beat the others, hands down. And Elise was playing it. With him. For him.
As it had never been one of his concert pieces—in his experience, the truly great performances of
Grieg tended to be done by women—he didn’t know the music as well as Elise did. Which meant he
once again had to follow her lead. Well, that and improvise a little on his own. She laughed at first,
enjoying the little changes he injected into the music.
But as the song continued and he remembered the flow and strength of it, her smile faded. It was
replaced by an intensity, an awareness, that set fire to every nerve ending in his body. That had his
blood burning, his balls tightening, and his cock hardening to the point of pain.
He knew he wasn’t the only one affected, either. Elise’s breathing was coming faster and faster and
a quick glance down showed him that her nipples were hard little points pressing against the thin
cotton of her tank top. Her hips were moving restlessly against the piano bench and there was a fine
tremor in her fingers that hadn’t been there before.
She was gorgeous and sexy and so needy that he felt himself growing impossibly harder. And when
her knee brushed against his, it was all he could do to tear his eyes away from her. He was close, so
close, to losing it that he knew if he didn’t focus on something else—the piano keys, the music, saying
the fucking alphabet backwards—they’d never get through the concerto. At least not until he’d pushed
her up against the wall, ripped her pants off, and made her come three or a dozen times.
For the first time, his fingers were the ones that faltered on the keys. Elise glanced at him from
beneath her lashes, shot him a little smile. And kept playing. As did he.
But each note they played hung between them, until the very air they breathed was saturated by the
need they couldn’t hide. He could feel it inside of himself. In his lungs, in his brain, in his very soul,
until every chord he played was her name. Until every note was a desperate plea to hold her, to love
her, to take her.
The music built and built and built. There was no calm ending for this piece, no happy slide into
oblivion. No, the third movement was effusive and effervescent, wicked and wild. And playing it,
with her, made him feel all of those things—and more.
And then they were there, at the end, their fingers slamming down on piano keys as their bodies
vibrated with need. And though he knew it was a bad move, though he knew he’d end up regretting it
in the morning when he woke up to find that Elise had worked her way back into his soul, Quinn
couldn’t stop himself from reaching for her. From picking her up and pulling her onto his lap. From
relishing the low, sexy scream that was ripped from her throat as he settled her knees down on the
piano bench, on either side of his hips.
Chapter Eleven
Elise was on fire, and had been from the moment she’d heard Quinn playing the piano. The sounds he
drew from the instrument, the way his long fingers caressed the keys, the way his body tensed and
flowed with beats of the music turned her on like few things ever had.
And now that he was holding her, now that he’d positioned her body around his and she could feel
him—hot, hard, throbbing—between her thighs, it was all she could do not to beg. To plead. It had
been so long since she’d felt like this. So long since she’d trusted a man to get this close to her.
“I want you, Elise.” Quinn’s voice was low and gravelly and sexy, so sexy. “I know I shouldn’t. I
know that you’re injured and vulnerable and the last thing I should be doing right now is pressuring
you—”
She leaned forward and cut him off with her lips. He was making sense, being kind and considerate
and all of the things a man should be and frankly, she didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want to hear any of
it. All she wanted was to relish the feel of him against her, to savor what it meant to be wanted,
desired, needed.
For long seconds, Quinn didn’t move. And then, as if in a trance, he skimmed his hands over her
arms, across her shoulders, down to her collarbones and then up her neck to her chin. He cupped her
jaw in his long musician’s fingers, stroked his thumbs gently over her cheeks.
Elise gasped a little, whimpered deep in her throat at the feel of his hands on her. They felt so good.
He felt so good.
Quinn tensed at the sound, his fingers going rigid against her face. And then, suddenly, it was like a
rope snapped and Quinn’s restraint with it.
His hips thrust up against her at the same time his mouth slammed against hers with bruising force,
his lips and teeth and tongue devouring her in a cacophony of wild need. His tongue stroked over her
lips, probed at the corners of her mouth before licking along the curve of her bottom lip again and
again. She moaned at the soft warmth of it, the sweet, sexy feel of him sliding along the tender flesh of
her mouth.
“I want you,” he murmured again, wrenching his mouth from hers. He skimmed his lips across her
jaw to the sensitive spot behind her ear where he pressed one soft kiss after another. “I need you.”
Her head was spinning, her body on fire from the feel of him everywhere—his calloused hands
holding her face, his hot, sculpted chest pressed against her breasts, his lean, hot thighs pushing
against her own. She didn’t know why he was talking, didn’t know how he was talking when she
could barely think let alone formulate words.
She wanted him to take her, right here, right now, to spread her open and fuck her while the music
still thrummed through her veins. Tomorrow could take care of itself.
But this was Quinn. Sexy, beautiful, teasing Quinn, who looked like danger and sounded like sex,
but who was secretly a gentleman underneath it all. And when he refused to do more then press soft
kisses against the curve of her neck, she knew that she was going to have to gather enough brain cells
to reassure him. Because Quinn would never take anything she didn’t want to give willingly.
Sliding her hands up his back to tangle in his gorgeous, glorious hair, she tilted her head back to
give him better access. And murmured, “I need you, too, Quinn.”
She thought it would be all the reassurance he needed, but instead of ripping her clothes off like she
wanted him to, he pulled back a little, his midnight eyes searching hers in the soft light of the music
room.
“Are you sure?” he demanded.
“Yes.” She tugged on his hair, tried to pull his mouth back down to hers. It had been a long time
since she’d been held like this, longer still since her body had reacted like this.
Since Quinn, she realized with a jolt. She hadn’t felt this hot, this turned on, since the last time—the
only time—Quinn had made love to her. It was a shocking revelation, one that shook her to her core.
The shock must have been reflected on her face, because Quinn suddenly looked a lot more
concerned. “What’s wrong, Elise? Do you want to stop?”
His hands went to her waist, and he pulled up on her, as if he was going to put her away from him.
But that was the last thing she wanted, to lose this chance to be with Quinn when it might be the only
one she’d ever have. Or at least the only one for another ten years, if their past history was anything to
go by.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him closer and pressed frenzied kisses over his hot
cheeks and down his stubbled jaw. “No, don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.”
She was frantic at the thought of losing this small part of him that he was willing to give her and she
started pushing at his shirt, tugging at it, in an effort to get closer to him. In an effort to convince him
that she wanted this more than she’d ever wanted anything.
Quinn’s hands slid around to her back, rubbed soothing circles on her shoulders as he tried to
gentle her. “Shh, baby, it’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
But she was beyond gentling, beyond comforting. Her need for him was a wild thing within her and
all she could think was more. Now. Please, God, now.
“Quinn,” she gasped, her hips rocking against his in a frenzied rhythm even as she scraped her nails
down his back. “Please, Quinn. Please. I need—”
…
Elise’s voice broke and with it, so did his restraint. He’d been trying to be gentle, to be considerate,
to make sure she knew what she was getting into. But the moment he heard her voice crack, the
moment her nails dug into the muscles of his back, Quinn was a goner.
Twisting his hands in her own hair, he pulled her face back to his. Then he kissed her until he was
drowning in her.
Until she was all he could feel or smell or taste.
Until he couldn’t tell where she left off and he began.
Until he was sure she felt the same way.
He wanted her on fire, wanted her burning with the same desire that threatened to burn him alive.
He wanted to forget the past and the future, wanted to forget all the mistakes he’d made and all the
reasons this could never work between them. He wanted to come inside her with an ache that
bordered on obsession, wanted to feel her orgasm against his mouth, his fingers, his cock, until she
had nothing left to give him. And then he wanted to take her all over again.
He’d been hungry for her for ten long years and tonight he was going to make up for every second
that he’d missed.
He wanted to pull back, to take it slower, to show her how much he wanted her, how beautiful and
precious and important he thought she was, but Elise was having none of it. Her hands fisted in his
hair, her fingers dug into his scalp and a sharp, shaken cry ripped from her throat.
That cry tore through his control like a freight train, had him fighting back urges so primitive he
could barely think, could barely breathe. With a groan, he nipped at her upper lip, before sucking her
lower lip between his teeth and biting down on her honeyed softness.
Elise moaned, a wicked, wild sound that shot straight to his dick. Taking advantage of her open
lips, he delved deep—taking her mouth the way he was dying to take her body. Licking, sucking,
savoring the gorgeous taste of her. The sexy honey and strawberry scent of her. The sweet, musical
sound of her gasps as she clutched at him in a desperate attempt to pull him closer.
When he couldn’t take any more, when the need to thrust his tongue inside of her and hear her
scream was nearly overwhelming, Quinn pulled away. She moaned and whimpered, fought to keep
him where he was. But it wasn’t enough. Not for her and definitely not for him. He wanted to give her
more. Wanted to give her everything.
“Lissy, sweetheart, I want more of you.” He shifted just enough so that he could pull her tank top
over her head, making sure not to catch her injured arm in the tangle of fabric.
Her bra was pale pink silk, and for a second he just looked at her. She was so beautiful kneeling
there, chest heaving and nipples peaked and hard beneath the soft fabric. He leaned forward and
pressed a hot kiss to first one nipple and then the other, his tongue laving at the hard buds through the
thin fabric.
She whimpered again, her back arching in a desperate plea for more. He lifted his head, looked at
his handiwork. And nearly lost it right there in his jeans. She looked obscene like this, half-undressed,
hair wild around her face, wet marks on her bra that had the silk clinging to her nipples.
Quinn groaned, clenched his fists against the need ripping through him. Part of him wanted nothing
more than to just stay like this forever, Elise in his lap and her gorgeous body on partial display in
front of him.
But his dick had other plans, and, in the end, so did he. He wanted to see her, to find out if her
nipples were still the same dark raspberry color he remembered. So he moved a hand to the back
clasp of her bra and unfastened it before pulling it off and tossing it over his shoulder.
She was beautiful. Absolutely exquisite, and for long seconds he could do nothing but stare at her
soft, ivory skin, her small, round breasts, her hard, raspberry colored nipples.
Elise let him look, but he could hear her ragged breathing, could feel the way she rocked her hips
against his own. She wanted more, needed more, and he wanted to give it to her.
Lowering his head, he ran his tongue over first one nipple and then the other. He teased them,
pinched them, licked them, nipped at them, sucked them, until she was all but sobbing his name. And
still it wasn’t enough. For either of them.
…
Elise’s heart was beating so fast and hard that she was afraid it would jump right out of her chest.
“Quinn, please,” she whispered as she ran her hands over the burning hot skin of his chest. He was
making her crazy, bringing her right to the brink of madness—again and again and again—with
nothing more than his mouth on her breasts.
“Please what, sweetheart?” He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses over the curve of her breast.
“Tell me what you need.”
“I need—” Her voice broke. “I need you.”
He grinned, a wicked twist of his lips that somehow made him look even hotter. “You’ve got me,
baby. I’m right here.”
He went back to her breasts, kissing and licking and nibbling at them until she thought she would go
insane. She was hot, needy, aching inside with a desperation she had never felt before. A desperation
she never would have imagined existed before this moment.
“I want—”
“What?” Quinn asked, lifting her off of him. “What do you want?”
She whimpered at the loss of sensation—at the loss of him—and he stroked her back reassuringly
even as he stood her on her feet.
She was so turned on that her legs felt weak, her knees like jelly, and she would have fallen if
Quinn hadn’t been there to hold her up. But he was there, one arm wrapped around her waist while
the other pulled her yoga pants and underwear slowly down her legs.
He was watching her, his eyes dark and focused on her own as he stripped her. Almost as if he was
waiting for her to protest. But stopping him was the last thing on her mind, not now when she was so
close to having him inside of her.
When she was naked, he settled her onto the piano bench, legs spread wide and back resting against
the grand piano. Then he sank to his knees in front of her, his broad shoulders pushing her legs open
just a fraction more.
Elise froze at the feel of him between her legs, at the knowledge that she was completely exposed
to him, completely vulnerable. This wasn’t the first time she’d had sex since Quinn had walked away
from her, but it was the first time she’d let herself be this open. The first time she’d given this much of
herself to a man. And even though there was a voice in the back of her head telling her to stop,
warning her that Quinn would hurt her again, she was helpless to do anything but let him have his
way.
She didn’t say a word, but somehow Quinn knew, because he watched her patiently, waiting until
she worked up the nerve to look him in the eye. “Is this okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse with
restraint and need.
That was all it took to bring her back, to have desire tearing through her all over again. The
knowledge that he was as affected by what they were doing as she was. He might be a rock star, with
a different woman in his bed every night, but tonight he was hers. Tonight he wanted her, not some
nameless groupie.
It was more than enough.
“Yes,” she told him, forcing the word out of her dry throat as she stroked a hand down his cheek.
Quinn smiled at her, a quick, brilliant grin that lit up his whole face and had her reeling. Then he
was leaning forward, his tongue lapping gently at her stomach. Stroking her side. Circling her belly
button. Slipping lower and lower until he was licking at the top of her mons and she thought surely,
surely, he would take her in his mouth.
But just when she thought he would thrust his tongue inside her, just when she thought she was
moments from coming, he paused and looked at her with those eyes—those dark, mysterious, magic
eyes—and whispered, “Tell me, Elise. Tell me how you like it. Soft and sweet?”
His tongue made one long, lingering foray along the edges of her sex.
“Or hot and hard?” He spiked his tongue, ran it in circles around her clit.
“Slow and deep?” He slipped his hands beneath her hips, tilted her up to his mouth then licked
straight down the center of her sex before stabbing his tongue deep inside her.
Elise screamed at the feel of his tongue inside her, moved restlessly against him as she arched,
trying to press her hips even closer to his mouth.
“Is that what you like, sweetheart?” Quinn asked, his breath hot and fast against her. “You want my
tongue inside you?”
“Yes. Please. Oh, please.” The words slipped out before she had a clue she was going to say them.
But she was too far gone to be embarrassed by her eagerness, too desperate for the feel of him to think
about anything but the orgasm she could feel gathering deep inside of herself.
Quinn laughed a little, a warm, dark chuckle that sent shivers up her spine. Then he was back,
thrusting his tongue inside her, stroking the walls of her vagina with strong, powerful motions that had
her eyes all but rolling back in her head. Again and again he licked and stroked and sucked as the
need spiraled within her.
But just when she was on the brink of coming—when orgasm called to her like salvation—he
pulled away. Left her hanging on the edge without a safety net, every nerve in her body screaming for
a relief he refused to give her.
“Quinn! Oh, God, Quinn. I need—” The words were a jumbled mess, hoarse and trembly, but he
must have understood because once again he began to lick at her. But this time, it was all slow swirls
of his tongue, soft brushes of his lips.
It felt good, so good, and Elise nearly came off the bench in her effort to get closer to him. But he
wouldn’t let her take control, wouldn’t let her do anything but sit there and take what he gave her as
his big, warm hand pressed against her stomach. Pressed her back into the bench.
As he fluttered his tongue over the lips of her sex, over her clit, a whole new range of sensations
began spinning through her. Elise gasped, her fingers clutching at Quinn, the only solid thing in the
maelstrom of sensation and emotion ripping through her.
Once again, he took her right to the edge. Once again, he stopped moments before she went crashing
over. Grabbing his hair in her hands, so far gone that she barely noticed the twinge in her broken
wrist, she tugged sharply then reveled in the groan he couldn’t suppress. “Damn you, do it,” she
demanded as her hips rose and fell against his mouth.
She felt, more than saw, his smile. “Do what?” he asked before pushing his tongue back inside her.
“You know what!” It was a plea.
“I’m not sure I do,” he answered with a teasing flick of his tongue. “Why don’t you tell me?”
“Quinn, come on!”
“Elise, come on.” He mimicked her in between soft, sweet swipes of his tongue.
The pleasure was building, taking her higher, but still he didn’t let her come. Finally, when she
couldn’t take any more, when the pleasure was so intense it was almost pain, she pleaded, “Make me
come. Please, Quinn. I have to come.”
He groaned low in his throat, his hands clenching on her hips. Then, with one wicked swirl of his
tongue on her clit, he sent her careening into orgasm. A few more flicks and the quick slide of his
fingers inside her had her spiraling up and over again.
And still he wasn’t done.
Sitting up for just a moment, he draped her legs over his shoulders, using his hands to spread her
thighs even wider. And then he looked at her, just looked at her, for long seconds.
“Quinn, what are you—”
“Shh.” He leaned forward and pressed a long, lingering kiss against her sex. “Let me take care of
you, sweetheart.”
She laughed, but it came out as more of a sob. “I thought you already did.”
She felt more than saw him smile. “I’ve been dreaming about this for years. Believe me when I say,
I’m just getting started.”
Then he lowered his head and whispered something dark and obscene against the very heart of her.
Before she could even assimilate what he’d said, he pulled her clit into his mouth and began to suck.
She came like a shattering crescendo, her body spiraling up and over the edge so quickly that she
hadn’t even seen it coming. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but feel as she
waited for whatever he was going to do next.
Wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her, taking her over. Frightening her with its intensity.
She’d spent so much of her life not feeling anything that feeling all this, at once, was completely
overwhelming, as overwhelming as Quinn himself. The pleasure was so real, so raw, so all
encompassing that she couldn’t help being a little scared of it, certain it was going to take over every
part of her.
For long moments, she struggled to regain control. But Quinn would have no part of it, no part of
anything that gave her even a chance to breathe. Instead, he swirled his tongue around her clit, again
and again until she bucked against his mouth in an effort to get closer, to get away. But he wouldn’t let
her. He held her in place with his strong musician’s hands, and took her over completely.
Need built in her again, sharp and all consuming, and she didn’t know what to do. She was going to
lose her mind, her control, maybe even her heart right here and now and there was nothing she could
do to stop it. He was taking her and in doing so was knocking down every wall she’d spent so long
building between herself and the world.
The thought terrified her and for the first time she pushed at him, tried to squirm away. “Quinn,
stop. I can’t—”
“You can.” His voice, that magic, melodic voice, was lower, harsher than she had ever heard it.
And when she glanced into his eyes, she was trapped by the flames flickering there, building to a
towering inferno that threatened to consume every part of her.
His tongue—his wicked, wonderful, wild tongue—went from quick swirls to long, luxurious licks
that had her hurtling, inconceivably, toward another orgasm. Ecstasy trembled along nerve endings
that hadn’t recovered from the last climb as he used his teeth, his tongue, his lips on her.
“Look at me,” he demanded and her eyes flew open. Met his obsidian ones, and what she saw there
ripped through the defenses she’d spent so many years building. This wasn’t just sex for Quinn,
wasn’t just a quick romp with an old girlfriend. He was taking her, claiming her, demanding more
from her than she’d ever wanted to give and as he did, ensuring that she’d never be able to forget him.
A high, keening sound came from within her at the thought, filling the room and making Quinn’s
entire body tense. Slipping a hand between her thighs, he thrust first one finger and then another inside
of her. He found her sweet spot and stroked—once, twice—before pulling out to spread her wetness
over and around her anus. Again and again he pressed against her and she whimpered, nearly out of
her mind with the need for more. Always more.
Just when she was certain he wasn’t going to do it, when she was certain she would lose her mind,
Quinn slipped one long, calloused finger inside her and started to stroke. Another orgasm whipped
through her and he thrust his tongue inside her, groaning at the feel of her inner muscles fluttering
around him.
She couldn’t talk, couldn’t think, couldn’t function, and still he fucked her with his mouth, with his
fingers, with his tongue. Sucking, licking, thrusting his tongue deep inside her until one orgasm
blended into another. And another. The more pleasure she took, the more pleasure he was determined
to give her until she couldn’t do anything but take it. Take him.
“Quinn, no,” she finally gasped. He had to stop. He had to. She couldn’t survive another—
He laughed, a dark, rich sound that burned through her blood. Then he thrust his tongue inside her
and hurtled her, just that easily, into yet another climax.
“I’ll never get enough of tasting you,” he growled in between long swipes of his tongue. “I’ll never
get enough of watching you unravel in my arms. I could go down on you all night.”
“Please, I can’t—”
“You can.” Once again, he slid his tongue between her slick folds and licked her to madness. Once
again, he thrust his fingers inside of her sex, her anus, and stroked her to insanity. And once again he
sent her flying into climax, stars exploding in front of her unseeing eyes as she whimpered and sobbed
and pleaded with him to take her.
Finally, finally, when she was on the brink of losing herself, he lifted her legs from his shoulders
and placed them gently on the piano bench. Then he pushed to his feet and looked down at her lying
there, so worn out that she was resting bonelessly against the piano.
“I can’t take any more,” she told him hoarsely, licking her lips in a desperate attempt to quench her
thirst. “You have to do it.”
“Do what?” he asked, cupping her chin in one large hand so that she had no chance of looking
anywhere but at him.
“Fuck me, please. You have to fuck me.”
…
Elise’s shattered plea broke over him like a summer storm and Quinn nearly trembled in relief. Part
of him had wanted nothing more than to stay kneeling between her legs all night, bringing her off again
and again and again, until she couldn’t remember the sorrow of losing Ellington, the pain of losing her
career, the fear he knew she had deep down of losing herself.
But then she’d asked him to take her, to fuck her, and he’d never been able to say no to Elise. Even
in the old days when he’d spent so much of his time messing with her for the sheer pleasure of
watching her lose her temper, he’d never been able to deny her anything. Tonight was no different.
Especially as he stood here looking down at her body, all flushed and gorgeous and needy.
Sometime in the last hour she’d gone from leaning against the piano to lying over it and he could
honestly say he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life than Elise spread out over his
Bosendorfer.
Her back was arched over the keys and action frame of the piano so that her breasts were thrust
upward like they were just waiting for his mouth while her head was resting on the lid of the piano,
her long, dark hair fanned out across its surface.
Reaching out, he rubbed a finger across her lower lip, just for the sheer pleasure of touching her. Of
seeing her lips part and her eyes flutter closed. Then, because he couldn’t bring himself to stop
touching her, he slid his finger over her chin, down the slender column of her neck, over her
breastbone and down the center line of her body until the tip was pressed right up against her clit
again.
Elise moaned even as she pressed her hips up to meet his touch. He loved that, loved how
responsive she was. Loved how she let him touch her anywhere and everywhere.
The thought overwhelmed him and the tight rein he’d been keeping on himself broke. With a
desperate groan, he ripped at his jeans, shoving them down his thighs and onto the floor. He paused
only long enough to yank a condom out of his wallet and put it on before he was on her, slamming
himself up and into her, burying himself balls deep with his very first thrust.
The piano keys groaned discordantly, but he barely heard them as Elise clamped around him like a
greedy fist. She was slick and wet and burning hot, and for a moment he was truly convinced he
would lose it before he could make her come one last time.
Gritting his teeth against the sensations gathering at the base of his spine, Quinn worked to hold
onto the razed edges of his control. Then Elise whimpered—her hands yanking at his hair, her legs
wrapping themselves around his waist, her pussy pulling at his cock—and he knew he’d reached the
end of his patience.
He rode her hard, his hands braced on the piano as he kept his gaze on hers. He’d spent ten years
thinking about the one and only time he’d made love to her, and though he didn’t regret leaving—how
could he when he’d done it to keep her safe—he was going to savor every second of having her back
in his arms again. Of having her beneath him, her hips moving restlessly against his as he thrust inside
of her.
Over and over he pressed into her satin heat until the fire between them threatened to consume him.
Flames of pleasure flashed through him, burning him up with the intensity of the emotions and the
sensations that had taken over his body. He needed the release, needed the sanity that would come
with emptying himself inside of Elise. But there was a part of him that wanted to keep making love to
her, that wanted to stay like this forever, connected to her by his body and by the overwhelming
pleasure that burned between them.
Sweat beaded on his chest, rolled down his back, but still he refused to stop. He thrust into her over
and over again, trying to get as close to and as deep in her as he could. Trying to get inside more than
her body. Trying to wipe out the specter of the past and all the shit that had gone down between them
a decade before.
His arms trembled under the onslaught, his cock screamed for relief and still he continued to move
inside her.
Elise was sobbing, pleading, her muscles contracting more and more tightly around him with every
slam of his hips. Her nails dug into his back, her teeth into his shoulder, and still he kept at her. Her
legs circled his hips, her hands clutched at his back and he knew that he couldn’t hold on any longer.
She felt too good, too real, too perfect.
He was buried deep, as close to her as he could get, when he felt the orgasm rip through her, a
deep, dark wave of sensation so powerful that it swamped him, buried him, dragged him under before
he could find the will to resist. His own orgasm welled up within him, the sweet clutch of her body
sending him right over the edge and beyond, to a place where nothing existed but the pleasure and the
pain of being with Elise again.
It started at the base of his spine and spread out from there, through his dick, his stomach, up his
back, around to his chest. Ecstasy, agony, aching desire roaring through him, flowing from him to her
and back again as he emptied himself inside her in a series of powerful, all-encompassing waves.
Elise wrapped herself around him—her arms, her legs, herself—and for the first time in ten long
years, Quinn let himself go. And for now, for this one perfect moment in time, it was enough.
Chapter Twelve
Elise came back to herself slowly, aftershocks of sexual gratification still tearing through her body.
She hadn’t known sex could be like that, hadn’t known anything could be like that. So decadent and
overwhelming and pleasurable. Good God, the pleasure had nearly killed her.
Quinn was still above her, still inside her, and though she was suddenly aware of the unyielding
wood of the piano digging into the center of her back, she was in no hurry to move. Not when it felt
this good to just hold him. To be held by him.
It was strange. When she’d been seventeen, and he’d kissed her for the first time, it had felt an
awful lot like this. Oh, not like this, obviously, with her aching back and sensitive skin and her legs—
her sex—still wrapped around Quinn’s hard body. But the feelings—the euphoria, the anticipation,
the fear—those were the same.
For a second, just a second, she thought of pushing Quinn off. Of pulling into herself, wrapping
herself up in her clothes—her mind—so that this aching vulnerability wouldn’t shine through. But then
Quinn lowered his head and kissed her, his lips soft and warm and still tasting of her, and she felt
herself melt into him all over again.
It was a problem, but one she would deal with later, when she couldn’t still feel him inside of her.
“I’m crushing you,” he said, starting to push away.
“No!” Even knowing it probably made her look pathetic, she clutched at his shoulders, wrapped her
arms and legs around him and held him close. Aching back or not, she wasn’t ready to let him go. Not
when these were probably the only moments she would ever have with him. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
Quinn lifted his head, looked at her with those dark eyes that seemed to see so much more than she
wanted to show. And then he was sliding his hands under her hips, lifting her into him as he stood up.
He shifted inside her and she whimpered a little at the movement, at the knowledge that what they’d
shared was truly over. Which was fine, she told herself. She didn’t need anything from Quinn, sure as
hell didn’t need this. Yes, it would have been nice to be held after sex, but it’s not like he hadn’t
walked away from her before. Why should this time be any different?
“Hey,” he said as he slipped out of her. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”
She sighed at the loss. He’d been so hot, so solid, inside of her that she’d forgotten to be cold. But
no one liked a clingy lover, especially not a guy like Quinn, so she forced a smile as she unwound her
legs from his waist and slid slowly down his lean, rocker body.
“I was just thinking you got better with age,” she told him with a flip of her hair.
He laughed as he disposed of the condom. “Yeah, well, seventeen-year-old boys aren’t known for
their staying power.”
She couldn’t help it; the smile slid right off her face as she stared at him with wide eyes. He
seemed to register what he said then, and he cursed, long and low. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” But it was true, nonetheless. They’d barely finished making love—having sex, she
reminded herself viciously—before he’d been out of bed and getting dressed. A few minutes and a
fistfight later and he’d been out the door without a backward glance. She needed to remember that.
With that thought in mind, she bent down, started to pick up her clothes. It felt awkward standing
here naked having this conversation. The clothes didn’t provide much protection, much armor, but
they gave her some and she could use that right about now.
But Quinn was having none of it. As she reached up for her pants—which had somehow managed to
land on the harp halfway across the room—he scooped her into his arms and pressed hot kisses into
her neck as he carried her through the doorway and down the hall.
She was so surprised she could do nothing but hang on for the ride.
“Are you hungry?” he asked as they made their way to the kitchen. He snagged a blanket off the
couch as they walked by, somehow managed to wrap her up in it even while he continued to support
her weight.
Elise started to say “no,” her default answer, but realized with some surprise that she was hungry.
“Starving, actually.”
Her stomach chose that moment to grumble and back her up.
Quinn laughed as he settled her down in one of the kitchen chairs before walking to the sink—stark
naked—and washing his hands. Though she told herself to look away, Elise couldn’t help staring at
his naked ass.
“What do you want to eat?” he asked, tossing a look over his shoulder at her. He grinned when he
realized what her gaze was locked on. “Are you checking me out?”
She shook her head, forced her eyes up to his. She had been, totally, but it wasn’t like she was
going to admit that to him. “I was trying to figure out why you had a tattoo on your ass.”
“What?” He pretended to be scandalized. “There’s a tattoo on my ass? How did that happen?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s a good thing you can play the keyboards passably, because you’d never
make it as an actor.”
He just grinned at her, wiggled his eyebrows.
“So are you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?”
“Why you have a tattoo of stars on your ass?”
“Not just any stars, love. That’s the big dipper.”
“Ugh. Seriously?”
“No, not seriously. What kind of a loser do you take me for?” He shook his head, laughed, as he
crossed to the fridge and pulled out eggs, cheese, peppers and onions. “It’s Lyra. The harp. For
obvious reasons, I suppose. But you can blame Wyatt for the tattoo. We were all really drunk one
night—this was back before we hit it big—and he convinced us that we should all get a different
constellation tattoo. For luck.”
“Why constellations?” she asked curiously, her post-coital awkwardness forgotten with this small
glimpse into his life.
He shrugged. “It’s where we wanted to end up. All the way to the stars, you know. It’s stupid, but
like I said, we were really drunk and he always has been really persuasive.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid. It’s paid off, hasn’t it?”
“Yeah, I suppose it has.” He laughed again, but there was something else there. Something sad. She
didn’t like it.
“So,” she said, crossing the kitchen and wrapping her arms around his waist, “if I promise not to go
running to Rolling Stone, will you tell me?”
“Tell you what?” he asked, his body sinking into hers.
“Which one of you actually got the Big Dipper tattoo?”
This time his laugh was anything but amused. “Micah, of course. He’s just that kind of douchebag.”
“I haven’t met him yet. Or Wyatt.”
“No.” His answer was abrupt and he didn’t say anything else as he pulled out a bowl and started
cracking eggs into it.
She wanted to ask about them—of course she did—but Quinn had shut down completely. It was
weird when she thought about how relaxed, how happy, he seemed around Ryder and Jared, but she
wasn’t going to press it. Not when he currently looked like he wanted to punch something. Or cry.
Besides, Google existed for a reason. Shaken Dirty were famous enough that she figured the Internet
would tell her anything she wanted to know.
Determined to change the subject to something that would make him smile again, she pressed soft
kisses across his upper back and shoulders. “So, are you going to tell me what all the other ones
mean?”
He didn’t pause in chopping the red peppers as he glanced over his shoulder at her. “What’s this
sudden interest you have in my ink?”
“I don’t know. I like your tattoos.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” She wet her lips, glanced away because it was easier to say things like this when she
wasn’t looking into his eyes. “I think they’re sexy.”
Quinn turned then, pulled her into his arms, and kissed her, so slowly and thoroughly that she was
afraid her brain had actually melted. And that was before she realized he’d grown hard again, just
from kissing her.
“You know what I think is sexy?” he asked, his eyes gleaming wickedly at her.
Elise nearly swallowed her tongue. No wonder women all over the world were crazy for Shaken
Dirty. When Quinn looked at her like that, she wanted to beg him to fuck her, to take her over and over
again and to hell with the consequences.
“That little dimple you have right here.” He brought his hand up to her cheek, toyed with the dimple
in question. “I’ve had fantasies about it since I was fourteen years old.”
“Fantasies?” she choked out, barely able to breathe now that all his sensual attention was once
again focused on her. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah.” He leaned down then, pressed a warm, open-mouthed kiss against the very spot in
question.
She gasped, her hands clutching at him in a desperate attempt to stay upright as her knees once again
turned to jelly. It was crazy, the reaction he caused in her. She’d never been the swooning type,
always considered herself too practical to fall for lines like these. But when Quinn looked at her,
touched her, kissed her, it didn’t feel like a line. It felt like truth.
Which was crazy. She knew that. But as his tongue darted out to lap hotly at her dimple, she
couldn’t seem to remember why this was a bad idea. Why she couldn’t trust him.
But just as his hands came up to cup her face so that he could kiss her—really kiss her—her
stomach growled, loudly.
Quinn burst out laughing, then pulled away after dropping a sweet, chaste kiss on her forehead.
“Food now. Sex later.”
“We could reverse that order,” she told him, so turned on that she was willing to let her stomach
growl forever if it meant having him inside her again. “Sex now, food later.”
“Don’t tempt me.” He turned back to the vegetables he’d been chopping. “You need to eat or you’ll
never get your strength back.”
She raised a brow. “You didn’t seem to have any complaints about my strength when we were on
that piano bench a little while ago.”
“You’re right. I didn’t.” He grinned at her. “Which is why I need to feed you. I’d hate for you to be
too weak for an encore performance.”
So would she, now that she thought about it. Which was why she reached for the bread to make
toast instead of pushing things between them. This wasn’t like last time, she told herself. Quinn wasn’t
going to walk away the second she turned her back. And even if it did, she wouldn’t let it matter as
much. Not this time. No, better to just have fun with him and walk away at the end of the week. No
harm, no foul. For either of them.
…
After dinner—which consisted of a surprisingly delicious vegetarian omelet and sourdough toast—
Quinn insisted on carrying Elise up the stairs to her bedroom. Once there, he ran a bath for her and
then proceeded to climb in behind her and wash every inch of her thoroughly. He even washed her
hair, his strong fingers massaging her scalp and neck until her muscles were putty and her body was
on fire. She didn’t know how he did it—how he could so thoroughly turn her on and relax her at the
same time, but somehow Quinn managed it. Which was why when his hand slid down her stomach to
play with her clit, it only took a minute or two for her to come yet again.
She was limp afterward, completely spent, so Quinn lifted her out of the bathtub, dried her body
and her hair, then—for the second night in a row—tried to slip her pajamas on her.
But Elise was having none of it. Never in her life had she felt anything as good as Quinn’s hot,
smooth skin pressed against her own. No way was she going to let a pair of pajamas get in the way of
that.
He didn’t argue, obviously, and soon they were tucked into bed, his hands playing gently with her
hair while she rested her head on his chest. She’d had that long nap earlier, so though her body was
tired, her mind was wide-awake. Of course, that could also have to do with the fact that Quinn
Bradford was beside her and she had about a million questions to ask him. Maybe two million.
“What’s your favorite Shaken Dirty song?” she asked, in between tracing her tongue along the lines
of the gorgeous Aztec sun tattoo that covered much of his left pec.
He looked surprised. “A few days ago, I probably would have said ‘Long Time,’ because I love the
melody of it. It just kind of gets in your head and sticks there. But we finished up a song yesterday that
I think is going to end up being my favorite once we’ve recorded it.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s it called?”
“‘Tunnel Vision.’ It’s about…”
Before she could prompt him, he slid one big hand down to her ass and squeezed. “My turn for a
question.”
“I didn’t realize we were taking turns.”
“You always were a little slow on the uptake. But you’ve always been cute enough that I didn’t—
Hey!” He yelped as she twisted his nipple.
“I am not slow on the uptake.”
“No, you’re not. But you are cute—okay, okay!” He threw his hands out to ward her off when she
threatened to pinch his other nipple. “I’ll stick to the questions.”
“Thank you.”
He brushed a soft kiss against the top of her head and she tried not to let her heart melt. But it was
hard. In her experience, guys who were only after sex didn’t usually touch women like that. They
didn’t do a lot of the things Quinn was currently doing, and while it gave her hope, it also scared the
hell out of her. She had enough shit in her life right now. The last thing she wanted to deal with was a
broken heart, too.
“You’ve played all over the world,” he finally asked. “What’s your favorite city?”
“I like London and Tokyo. And maybe Sydney.”
“Sydney’s great,” he agreed. “I really like playing Australia. The people there are amazing.”
“They really are. Of course, I’m sure you probably get to see more of them than I do.”
“Maybe just a few.”
“More like a few hundred thousand, but who’s counting?”
“Not me.” He dropped soft kisses on her eyes, her nose, her mouth.
Elise sighed, she couldn’t help herself, then pulled the scattered pieces of her brain back together.
“What’s your favorite city?”
“I like Amsterdam.”
She laughed. “Of course you do.”
“Hey, now. No need to buy into all those rock and roll stereotypes.”
“They’re not stereotypes if they’re true.” She gestured to his hair and tattoos. “Do you wear
eyeliner on stage?”
“Excuse me, we rock and roll stars like to call it guyliner.”
“Oh my God, you do!” She laughed so hard she almost snorted.
“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it. A lot of the fans seem to think it’s really sexy.”
She rolled her eyes. “No, they think you’re sexy. If you were wearing a pink tutu and lace tights,
they’d probably say the same thing.”
He pretended to contemplate the idea. “I do have great legs, or so they say.”
She pinched his side, hard. “You seem to have a pretty good handle on what your fans say about
you.”
“I have eighteen million twitter followers. Sometimes it’s hard to get away from what the fans
think.”
“You’re on twitter?”
“Hey, Ryder made me.”
“Ryder’s on twitter?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I don’t know. He just seems so…”
Quinn shifted abruptly, rolling them over so that he was now above her, his very obvious erection
pressing against the very heart of her. “He seems so what?” he asked, eyes narrowed.
“I don’t know. Hard-core, maybe. You know, all tough and—”
“I will have you know, he wears more guyliner than the rest of us put together. And I think he might
actually own a pink tutu. And lace tights. And some hair bows. With beads on them. I’m just saying.”
She burst out laughing at his obviously disgruntled expression. “It’s okay, baby. I still like your
penis better than his.”
“Damn straight.” He thrust against her, like he was worried she might need a reminder.
And then he was kissing her, his lips soft and heated against her own. Elise wanted to hold back,
wanted to keep part of herself away from him so that she wouldn’t be shattered if this thing between
them ended—when it ended, she reminded herself. But he’d broken down all her barriers earlier, had
ripped away her shields and left her open and aching and more vulnerable than she had been in ten
long years.
It was a terrifying and exhilarating feeling, one she couldn’t help yielding to as he skimmed his
mouth down her neck and began sucking gently on the sensitive skin above her collarbone.
“So,” he whispered against her ear, as she started to arch and tremble beneath him. “I have one
more question.”
“Oh, yeah? What is it?” Her voice came out shaky, but there was nothing she could do about that.
Not when his thumb was stroking back and forth across her already sensitized nipple.
“How’d you do it?”
“How’d I do what?” How was she supposed to think when he was touching her, his hot breath
against her ear sending shivers up and down her spine while the fingers on her breast were making
her absolutely crazy?
“The Twinkie thing.”
“Are you—” Her breath broke as he licked the very sensitive spot behind her ear. “Are you still
thinking about that stupid prank?”
“The guys and I tried for twenty minutes after you went upstairs, but we couldn’t get the mayonnaise
out without breaking the Twinkie open. Yours were perfect.”
“Not per—” He pinched her nipple lightly, had her clutching at him and crying out his name.
He slid down her body then, took her nipple in his mouth and sucked, hard. Electricity lit her up
from the inside, shot from her breast to her sex in one smooth current.
“Please,” she whimpered, tangling her legs with his. “I need—”
He slid his hand between their bodies, rubbed the heel of his hand against her clit as he thrust two
long fingers inside of her. She turned her head, muffled a scream against the pillow as he hit her G-
spot with pinpoint accuracy and began to stroke.
“Yes. Oh God, yes. Please.”
He bit down gently on her nipple at the same time he pressed against her clit and she came, seeing
stars.
When she’d recovered and could breathe again, he grinned at her wickedly and said, “Now about
those Twinkies…”
She grabbed a pillow and hit him in the head, but she finally gave in. “Mine weren’t perfect. You
actually had five boxes of Twinkies in there—which, incidentally, is entirely too many snack cakes
for any one man to have. I messed up eight, so I just got rid of a box.”
“Eight.” His eyes lit up. “That means there are still four perfectly good Twinkies somewhere in this
house. Where are they?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. Don’t make me beg.”
“Why not?” she asked him archly. “I definitely remember you making me beg earlier.”
He grinned, a dark, seductive thing that tugged at her sex and her heart. “Yes, well, tell me where
those Twinkies are and maybe I can be persuaded to make you beg again.”
Elise rolled over until she was back on top of him. “And here I thought it was my turn to make you
beg. I just didn’t know it was going to be over snack cakes.”
She pressed a lingering kiss to the center of his chest, relished the way his back arched and his
fingers clutched at her shoulders. “Lissy, baby.”
She was too busy sliding her mouth down his happy trail to answer.
Chapter Thirteen
God, this woman was going to kill him. There was a part of him that had known it at seventeen and
there was a part of him that was sure of it now. The only problem was, he just didn’t give a fuck. Not
now, when she was skimming her mouth closer and closer to his cock. Not earlier, when he was
inside her, making her come. And not any of the other times either, even when his dick wasn’t
involved.
He’d brought her here because he wanted to take care of her, but there was something about having
Elise in his house, in his space, in his bed, that made him happy. Happier than he had been in a very
long time. And yeah, he knew they had some shit between them—the whole mess she’d witnessed the
day he walked away, the fact that he’d never contacted her, the fact that he hadn’t been good enough
for her then and wasn’t good enough for her now.
But he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Elise was in his arms where he’d wanted her
practically forever. Not when she was in his bed, her pretty, pretty mouth inches from his painfully
full cock.
“Lissy, baby.” Even he could hear the pleading note in his voice as she pressed kisses everywhere
but where he wanted her most. He didn’t give a damn. He needed—
He moaned, arching off the bed as she licked a sizzling trail over his cock, pausing to swirl her
tongue around the head a couple times, before she pulled away.
His hands tangled in her long hair—there were miles of the silky stuff—and tugged her closer. “Do
it again,” he growled in a command he would have been more careful about issuing if he’d had even
one functioning brain cell left. Elise had always been a little prickly about being ordered to do
anything.
She didn’t seem to mind this time, though, as she did exactly what he said, again and again and
again.
Quick little licks of her soft, sweet tongue over his dick. Longer, deeper swipes that were meant to
inflame instead of satisfy, torment instead of soothe. He took it for as long as he could, until he was as
close to begging as he had been since his seventh birthday.
“Elise, sweetheart, please.” He tugged gently on her hair, arched his hips, did everything and
anything he could think of to get her attention.
She merely laughed, then circled her tongue around him so slowly that he thought he might actually
spontaneously combust. “Damn it, Elise!” His voice was harsh, desperate, but she ignored him as she
continued to tease. Continued to stoke his desire with light, deliberate touches that had him trembling
with the need to bury himself inside her.
He fought the burn, struggled to hold on to some semblance of sanity. Tried desperately to stay in
control so that he could take care of Elise, so that he could give her what she needed instead of what
he wanted.
But she seemed to sense his reserve, his desire to be careful with her, and she was having no part
of it. As if to tell him so, she dug her nails into his hips, hard.
He nearly came off the bed at the sharp bite of pain combined with the hot pleasure of her mouth.
“Fuck, Elise!”
His hands tightened in her hair and he glanced down to see that he was leaking pre-come all over
his stomach. He tried to rein himself in, but it was impossible when Elise swiped the clear drops off
his abs with her tongue and made a low, approving sound.
And then she was there, pulling him into her mouth one slow, hot, excruciating inch at a time. This
wasn’t how it was supposed to go, wasn’t what he’d planned when he carried her up here. She’d been
through so much, had so much more to face. He wanted tonight to be about her fantasies, about making
her feel good. Instead, she was ripping him apart, making him feel good instead of letting him bring
her pleasure. Giving to him instead of taking.
He wanted to stop her, had planned to stop her right up until she took him in her mouth. It felt so
good, so incredibly fucking amazing to have her mouth wrapped around him that he couldn’t protest.
Couldn’t pull away. Couldn’t do anything but lay there and let her pleasure him.
Which she did. Oh, God, did she ever—hotter and sweeter than anyone else ever had. Sweat
poured off of him as she taunted him, her tongue stroking over his balls, his dick, the sensitive spot
behind his sac again and again, before she finally took his testicles into her mouth and began to suck.
At the first sweet suction of her mouth, he nearly came off the fucking bed—and would have if it
hadn’t meant that she would stop doing whatever wicked thing she was doing. “Jesus, Elise.” His
voice was hoarse, more animal than human. Lust was a driving force within him and he was clinging
to control with his fingertips. He wanted to grab her, to pound himself into her, to make her take every
inch of him as he came down her throat.
But this was Elise, fragile, injured Elise and he needed to be careful, needed to—
“Fuck!” He watched, wild eyed, as Elise slid her uninjured hand between her thighs and dipped a
finger inside of herself. He wanted to protest when she pulled it back out—watching her touch herself
was one of the hottest things he’d seen in his life—but he was too busy freaking out about the fact that
she was sliding that same finger against his perineum and then up, until she was pressing against him.
“Elise—”
“Shh,” she murmured as she once again sucked his cock into her mouth. At the same time, she
pushed gently inside of him, her slender, delicate finger curving at just the right angle to stroke against
his prostate.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”
Pleasure swamped him, took him over until all he could think or feel or see was her. Until all he
wanted was her.
He clenched his teeth against the ecstasy of it all. He was so close, so fucking close, and it would
be so easy to let go. But at the same time he wanted this to last forever, this moment when Elise was
taking him every way she could and he felt so incredibly close to her. Like every part of them was in
tune, completely in tune.
Desperate to see her, to look into her eyes, he lifted his head off the pillow and watched as Elise
sucked him off. It was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen, her raspberry lips closing around him as
he thrust between them. Her eyes open and glazed with a need that shot straight through him, a need
that brought him closer and closer to coming. What was it about this woman with the wary eyes and
delicate build and indomitable spirit that took him places he’d never dreamed of going?
He didn’t know and in that moment, he didn’t give a fuck. All that he was, was held in thrall by
Elise and what she was doing to him.
His teeth clenched and his jaw locked as the moist, sexy heat of her mouth drew him in deep. Her
tongue ran in circles around his throbbing cock—up and down and around until all he could think
about was coming in her mouth while she milked him with her lips and tongue and throat. At the same
time, she continued to stroke inside of him, the pad of her finger pressing against his prostate with
each gentle movement she made.
Suddenly, it was too much, way too much. “Elise, sweetheart, you need to stop.” The words were
so low and guttural that he barely understood them himself, but she seemed to know what he was
saying. She refused to stop, though, her lips and mouth and tongue and finger working him over so
completely that he could barely think, barely breathe.
Still, he tried. He cupped her cheeks in his hands, tried to pull her up, but she only sucked harder,
drawing him deeper and deeper into her mouth.
“Lissy, I’m going to—”
She hummed deep in her throat, a sound of need and approval and care. That was all it took to slam
him over the edge of oblivion. And then he was coming, spurting inside her, his cum jetting furiously
into her mouth as the most intense orgasm of his life ripped through him.
She took all of it, all of him, and still it wasn’t enough. Still he wanted more. More pleasure, more
of Elise, more of everything that was between them. He wanted to take her apart as she’d done to him,
wanted to put her back together—put them both back together—in a way that took everything she had
to give but that gave her everything of him as well. It was a terrifying idea, but as she crawled up his
body and pressed her sweet, fragile length against his own, he knew it was one he wouldn’t—
couldn’t—shrink away from.
…
“Quinn, wake up.”
He jerked awake at the voice, and the rough shoulder shake that accompanied it. Sitting up in bed,
he looked around wildly as he tried to figure out where it had come from.
“Sorry, man. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Ryder was crouched down next to the bed, his hands raised in silent apology as Quinn looked at
him in disbelief.
“What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep and I figured we needed to talk, so…”
“You didn’t think to call?”
“I did. You didn’t answer.”
Which should have been a clue that he was either asleep or busy. He almost said as much, but Elise
moaned and he turned to find that she had rolled over onto her injured arm when he’d jolted up in the
bed.
With a muttered curse, he gently scooped her up and settled her on her back again. She grumbled a
little, but thanks to the painkiller he’d insisted she take before bed, she settled back into sleep again
as he stroked her hair.
When he was sure she was out, he swung his legs off the bed. “What time is it?”
“Five thirty.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Sorry, man.”
“No, it’s fine.” He started to stand up, but then realized he was completely naked. Admittedly,
Ryder had seen him that way before—on a tour bus, there was no such thing as privacy—but still.
“Hey, can you give me a minute? Go put on some coffee, or something.”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
As Ryder left, Quinn rubbed a weary hand over his eyes and tried to prepare himself for what was
to come. Whatever Ryder wanted to talk about couldn’t be good, otherwise he’d be at home, tucked
up in bed with Jamison.
Wyatt? he wondered as he stumbled toward the bathroom. Or Micah? It had to be one or the other
or Ryder would have waited until ten, when they’d been set to meet on the new album anyway.
Fuck. He dragged clothes on, then went to the bathroom to splash water on his face and brush his
teeth. He really hoped it was Micah. The guy was a total dick, but he’d rather deal with his shit than
have anything else happen to Wyatt. The guy had been through more in his life than anyone should
ever have to handle.
Finally, bleary-eyed but awake, he made his way down to the kitchen. Ryder was just pouring
cream into a cup of coffee, and he took it gratefully when his band mate offered it.
“Jared coming?” he asked.
“Nah. I wanted to talk to you without him around.”
Micah it was, then. “What’d that shithead do now?”
“He’s pitching a fit about us trying to force him out. Just like we expected.”
“How big a fit?”
“Big, man. The label wants us to get together, see if there’s some way we can work this shit out—”
“No way, man. No fucking way. Jared’ll never be able to get on stage with that rat bastard again.”
Ryder smiled grimly, toasted him with his coffee cup. “That’s what I told them.”
“I assume they didn’t take it well?”
“You could say that.”
“What do they want?”
“They say the only way they’ll invoke the morals clause and kick his ass out is if we get rid of
Wyatt, too.”
Motherfucker. Goddamn motherfucking piece of shit bastard son of a bitch.
Quinn shoved back from the table and walked into the pantry, grabbed the bottle of Macallan 55 he
had squirreled away there. He dumped a healthy shot into his coffee cup and then did the same to
Ryder’s.
“Hey, where’d that come from? You don’t have anything that good in your bar.”
“It’s a twelve thousand dollar bottle of Scotch. You’re damn right, I don’t.”
“Shit, in that case, make it a double.” Ryder pushed his cup back toward Quinn.
He took a long sip of the coffee, which went down pretty damn smoothly considering the amount of
alcohol he’d just spiked it with.
“There’s no fucking way we’re kicking Wyatt out of the band. No fucking way.”
“I know that,” Ryder said, taking a healthy sip of his own drink.
“And there’s no way Micah’s staying, not after he fucked Jared over like that.”
“Agreed.”
“The label’s not backing us.”
“Nope.”
“And neither is management.”
“Nope. They think Wyatt’s a risk and you can understand why. Tour insurance just fucking
skyrocketed.”
Quinn nodded, took another drink. “So what are we going to do?”
“I vote for going over there and beating the fuck-all out of Micah. Make him see the light, so-to-
speak.”
“Yeah, well, a good beat down is your answer to everything.”
“That’s because a good beat down cures most of the world’s ills. And if not, it makes me feel
better, so…”
“Yeah, until you end up in jail and broke ’cause Micah the douche sued you for everything you’ve
got.”
“Which is why I’m here, with you, not over there ripping his spine out of his asshole.”
Quinn poured them both another shot. “It’s a good image, though, isn’t it?”
“Damn fucking straight it is.”
“So, what are we going to do?”
Ryder shook his head. “I’ve got no fucking idea.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.” Quinn pushed back from the table, walked into the family room and
picked up his tablet. Then he headed back into the kitchen, pulling up his email as he went.
“I’ve been talking to the lawyers, trying to figure out what to do about this situation.”
“Oh, yeah?” Ryder looked cautious. “What do they suggest?”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“I already don’t like it. What the fuck else is new?”
“According to them, we’ve got three options. We finish the tour and album as contracted, with all
five of us—”
“That’s not a fucking option!”
“I am aware of that. I’m just telling you what they say. Or, we break the band up completely and
reform under a different name with the four of us and a new bassist.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!” Ryder exploded away from the table and started
pacing, hands in his hair. “We’re there, man. We’re right there, knocking on the fucking door. There’s
no way we’re going to start over. No fucking way, not when we’ve worked as hard as we have to get
here.”
“Which leaves us with the third option.”
“Yeah, well, if it doesn’t involve throwing Micah off a fucking cliff, I’m not fucking interested.”
Quinn took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes for what felt like the millionth time. It wasn’t easy being
the voice of reason in this damn band, especially since it wasn’t his normal role. Not to mention the
fact that he wanted to throw an even bigger fit than Ryder right now. This was bullshit, total and
complete bullshit.
But somebody had to be the grown up here and while that role was usually filled by Jared, their
guitarist was currently too fucked up to do much. Especially about this situation. Goddamn Micah and
goddamn Victoria, the cheating bitch.
Clamping down his own anger, he turned the tablet toward Ryder. “We buy him out.”
Ryder froze, his eyes wide with incredulity. “Excuse me?”
Quinn shrugged like it didn’t make him burn, didn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth. “We pay Micah
off, get him to sign a non-disclosure agreement and leave the band quietly.”
“We pay him off.”
“Yeah.”
“We pay him off.”
“Pretty much.”
“Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking fucking fucking kidding me?”
Knowing Ryder was too far gone to listen to him, Quinn didn’t say anything. Instead, he sat back
and waited for Ryder to wind himself down. It took a while.
“He’s the asshole who got a big head and started acting like a total dick. He’s the asshole who
fucked around with his band mate’s fiancée. And he’s the asshole who fucked with Wyatt’s head
when he got out of rehab last time. And we’re supposed to pay him. Like we’re the ones who did
something wrong. No way. No fucking way.”
Ryder paced around some more, muttering more curses and threats than Quinn had ever heard him
use—which was saying something. He couldn’t help being glad that Elise was still asleep upstairs—
she wasn’t the delicate flower that her father and so many others liked to think she was, but that didn’t
mean she was ready to deal with Ryder at his angriest, either. Especially considering the guy
currently looked like a berserker in a rage.
But eventually he wound down, as Quinn knew he would, and he sank into the chair next to Quinn’s.
“Let me see the email from the lawyers.”
Quinn slid the tablet over to him.
It wasn’t that long of an email, but Ryder must have read it over a few times because it was close to
ten minutes before he opened his mouth again. “You’ve been talking to them since you got this.”
“Yeah.” He tried not to think about the agonizing hours he’d spent on the phone trying to wrap his
own head around the fucking unfairness of it all before he brought it to Ryder and the others.
“How much do they think we need to give him?”
“They suggest we start with a flat amount, three million dollars, and then negotiate up to one-fifth of
our net profit from the next album—”
“One-fifth? We have to get a new bassist, so that’ll be more than any of us make—”
“And ten percent of what we make from tour.”
The list of obscenities that fell from Ryder’s lips was long and vile and more creative than anything
Quinn had heard in quite a while.
He waited a few minutes for Ryder to wind down, but when it didn’t look like he was going to,
Quinn interrupted. “It’s the best thing to do. I know it sucks. I know it’s not fair. I know you’d rather
throw the guy under a fucking bus than do this, but the lawyers and I have wracked our brains for the
least messy way to do this and I swear to you, Ryder, this is it.
“We need this to be over. The band needs this to be over. Jared can’t take a long, drawn-out battle
with that fucker right now and Wyatt…Wyatt’s already beating the hell out of himself for the mess
we’re in. Add this to it, and I don’t think we’ve got a chance in hell of keeping him sober when he
gets out of rehab.”
Jaw clenched, Ryder poured himself another shot of whiskey and tossed it back. Then he nodded.
“Yeah, all right. Let’s just get it done. Then we can start looking for a new bass player and put all this
shit behind us.”
“Okay. I’ll call the lawyers as soon as they’re open.”
“Yeah. Do that.” He paused. “When are we going to tell the others? We won’t be able to do this
without their okay.”
“It’ll be better for everyone if we get things started. If the balls are all in place, then it’ll look more
like a fait accompli. They’ll bitch and moan like you did, but they’ll fall into line.”
Ryder watched him with narrowed eyes. “You planned this whole fucking thing.”
Quinn looked at him like he was crazy. “You’re the one who broke into my house at five in the
fucking morning and woke me up. How could I have planned anything?”
“I don’t know, but you did.”
He shrugged. “Dude, I just presented you with the options.”
Ryder snorted. “Yeah, and the Titanic was just a boat.”
“It was. And not a very good one, as history has proven.”
Ryder laughed. “That’s what I like about you, Quinn. You’re always thinking. Always fucking
thinking.”
“One of us needs to be.” He pushed back from the table, put the scotch away, then poured himself
another cup of coffee. “So, are you going home or are we going to get to work on this album?”
“Work on the album, of course. It better be fucking brilliant if we’re going to make up for the
amount of money we have to pay that asshole.”
Chapter Fourteen
Her underwear was missing. It was a strange problem to have, Elise admitted, and one she’d
originally put down to the fact that she still felt a little groggy from the pill Quinn had made her take.
But she’d spent the last fifteen minutes searching every drawer in her room—and her suitcase, just in
case she’d left them in there—and hadn’t found one bra or one pair of panties. Even the ones she’d
worn the day before were missing. The rest of the clothes she’d picked up from the music room were
draped neatly across the chair near the window. But her bra was gone and so were her panties.
That, more than anything else, convinced her that she wasn’t to blame. That this wasn’t a simple
matter of her being too drugged to remember what she’d done with them. No, if every single one of
her undergarments was missing, it could only be because Quinn had stolen them.
The jerk.
The scum-sucking bastard.
The no-good, lying thief.
He’d fucked her brains out last night, made love to her over and over again like she was the most
precious thing in the world, and all the time he’d been plotting this.
This meant war.
Pulling on the nearest article of clothing she could find—which just happened to be Quinn’s T-shirt
—she marched out into the hall and down the stairs. She wasn’t even at the bottom when she heard the
sound of the piano drifting up from the music room. Good. He’d be a captive audience when she
found him.
Being subtle and just exacting her revenge over his pranks was one thing. But this wasn’t a few
obscene pictures on her cast. This was every piece of underwear she owned and she was not the type
to go anywhere without a bra.
She hit the music room at nearly a run, found Quinn sitting at the piano exactly as she expected to.
“You just can’t go around stealing people’s underwear,” she snarled at him. “I want my panties and I
want them now.”
Before he could say anything, a warm chuckle came from behind her and she turned to see Jared
and Ryder walking into the room, cups of coffee in their hands.
“You heard the girl,” Ryder said. “You should probably take her panties off and give them back to
her.”
Quinn casually flipped him off before turning back to her. “Why would I have your panties?” he
asked, and he looked so bewildered that she might actually have bought the confusion if she didn’t
know him as well as she did. But she did know him and there was no way she was falling for his act.
“Because you are an evil, evil man and I swear, I will bring you down if you do not give my
underwear back to me right now.”
He spread his arms wide, palms up. “Do I look like I have your underwear? Where would I even
be hiding them?”
He made a good point, considering his jeans had enough rips in them that she could practically see
everything there was to see. But she wasn’t about to concede now, not when she was standing in front
of him and his friends wearing nothing but an oversized T-shirt. “Yes. That’s exactly what you look
like. Now give them to me.” The last sentence came out as little more than a whine and it infuriated
her so much that she clamped her mouth shut, gritted her teeth.
“Don’t worry, darlin’,” Ryder said as he sauntered into the room. “I’m sure we can drive you to
Barton Springs to pick up more.”
“That’s not the point!” she yelped. “He took everything. Every last bra, every last pair of panties. I
don’t even have anything to wear to go shopping in.”
“Every pair, huh?” Jared asked, suddenly a lot more interested in the hem of the shirt she was
wearing. “That’s a real shame. Why don’t you come sit by me and tell me all about it?”
“Are you fucking with me right now?” she demanded. “Are you seriously fucking with me?” She
glared at him in annoyance, even as she tugged at the hem of the shirt she was wearing, trying to get it
to cover another inch or two of bare skin. Stupid, oversexed rock stars.
“Jared, stop looking at my girlfriend like that,” Quinn told him, reaching for the throw he kept on
the back of the couch and tossing it to her. “Or I’m going to knock your teeth down your throat.”
“You’re the one who stole her underwear, man. I was just enjoying the view.”
“Yeah, well, don’t.”
“You are all ridiculous,” Elise told them as she wrapped the blanket around her and marched for
the door, but not before she heard Ryder say, “Hey, what did I do?”
She was too annoyed to answer¸ but still, she couldn’t help being a little bit happy about how
natural Quinn had sounded when he’d called her his girlfriend.
Which was ridiculous, of course. This wasn’t high school where she needed the guy she was with
to brand her. And it wasn’t like she was angling for a permanent relationship or anything. She knew
this thing with Quinn was temporary, knew that the only reason he’d let himself be with her last night
was because she was leaving in a few days. But while her brain was very good at reminding her of
that fact, her heart was just as good at ignoring it. She’d pay the price later, but she wasn’t going to be
concerned with later. Not right now, when she was still buzzing over what it felt like to have Quinn
inside of her. Or she would be, if she wasn’t concerned about going commando for the next five days.
Just the thought made her crazy.
Since Ryder and Jared were there the whole day, she spent the whole time in a pair of yoga pants
and a baggy T-shirt—a very baggy T-shirt. Definitely no need to have a repeat of the music room that
morning.
But in the end it wasn’t even necessary—she barely saw them. They spent the whole day holed up
in the music room, only coming out for lunch and snacks. Which was fine with her, since it gave her
more than enough time to plot her revenge…and enact it. Admittedly, it was no stolen underwear
prank, but considering what she’d had to work with, she thought it was pretty good. Especially when
Quinn got a phone call from one of the assistants at their PR firm around six o’clock.
He and the guys were in the family room, relaxing for a few minutes while they waited for Jamison
—and dinner—to arrive. Elise was curled up on the couch, warm and drowsy from the pain pill
Quinn had practically force-fed her at lunch. Yet another thing she needed to get revenge for, she
thought a little resentfully. She knew he was just trying to take care of her, but she was getting sick of
him deciding when she needed to take a Vicodin—especially since that seemed to be pretty much
about every six hours or so. Which meant she’d spent a lot of the day in this state of blurry lassitude.
Not exactly conducive to trying to figure out her life and the completely unplanned future that suddenly
stretched in front of her.
“No, I’m not babysitting anyone,” Quinn said into the phone, sounding completely confused. “I
mean, except Jared and Ryder.”
Jared flipped him off lazily, while Ryder—who looked like he knew something was up—just
raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“No, there are no kids around at all. Why would you even ask me that?”
Elise forced herself not to move, not to give anything away, but the drowsiness faded some as the
conversation continued. Nothing like the sweet sound of victory to make everything a little clearer and
brighter.
“What are you talking about?” Quinn finally asked, exasperated. “I’m not even listening to music,
let alone the theme song from Barney.”
Before he could say anything else, Ryder whipped out his phone. She didn’t know what he was
checking, but whatever it was had him cracking up and handing the phone over to Jared, who started
laughing hysterically too.
“It’s all over Twitter, man,” Ryder said when he could stop laughing long enough to get a word out.
“People are wondering if the website’s been hacked. Or if you’ve been hacked. Or if you’ve had a
baby and just haven’t told anyone. Aww, look, they’re calling you Daddy Q.”
“What the bloody hell is going on?” Quinn roared and he sounded so frustrated it was all Elise
could do not to cackle.
She was a genius, pure and simple. An evil genius, maybe, but a genius nonetheless. Maybe she
should apply for the job of a cartoon villain now that being a pianist was off the table.
The fact that it was taking Quinn so long to catch on only made the victory sweeter. It was his own
fault, after all. He’d started this whole thing when he kidnapped her. She was only finishing it.
Pretending to be asleep, Elise rolled over on the couch and watched with slitted eyes as Quinn
pulled open his laptop. For long seconds, he didn’t say anything, and then suddenly he yelped like a
scalded cat, his eyes darting up to meet hers.
Of course, she slammed her lids shut and used every ounce of willpower she had to keep her
features relaxed, but it was too late. She knew it, even before she heard him put the laptop down.
Even before she heard the soft rustle of him crossing the room. Even before she opened her eyes and
found herself staring into Quinn’s slightly horrified, totally amused ones.
“Really? Justin Bieber? I think I would have preferred you sticking with Barney.”
Exactly why she’d done it.
Over Quinn’s shoulder, she could see Ryder and Jared scrolling through the playlist she’d
downloaded to Quinn’s iPod and then set on a continuous loop, one that updated to Shaken Dirty’s
website thanks to a “what’s playing on the iPod” program he’d already had in place. Any fans that had
stopped by to check out the website today—and there must have been a lot, judging by the twitter
interactions she’d observed through the day, had been treated to the knowledge that bad-ass Quinn
listened to Barney, Little Mix, and copious, copious amounts of Justin Bieber.
“Aww, come on, I think you’d make a great Belieber.”
“You know you could have just killed me while I slept, right? It would have been less painful.”
“Yes, but you haven’t slept since you stole my underwear. So.”
“So.” He reached out, ran a soft hand down her cheek before curling his fingers in her hair.
She wasn’t sure how she’d expected him to react to this latest prank. With anger, maybe. With
annoyance, certainly. But however she’d imagined it, nothing could have prepared her for the
bemused tenderness of his touch, the sweet amusement of his look.
“Dude!” Jared cackled from his spot on the couch. “This playlist is sick. You got owned, man.
Totally owned.”
For long seconds, Quinn didn’t say anything. Just continued to stroke her hair. And then, just when
she thought he wasn’t going to answer, he whispered softly, “I know I did.”
And that’s when it happened. When, despite her very best efforts, she slid headlong into love with
Quinn fucking Bradford all over again.
Chapter Fifteen
Two hours later, Elise was still berating herself for her stupidity when Quinn stuck his head in her
bedroom door. “Wanna go out?”
“With the guys?”
He shook his head. “Ryder and Jared just left. I thought maybe I could take you out for a late dinner
and a ride around the lake.”
“A ride?” she asked, intrigued.
“Yeah, on my bike. It’s the perfect time of year for it.”
Her heart jumped a little at the idea of being on the back of Quinn’s motorcycle, her arms wrapped
around his waist. She really liked the idea of being able to hold him, even when sex wasn’t involved.
But still, a girl who had just humiliated a guy in front of several million people had to watch her
back. It was pure logic. “Are we calling a truce for the night?”
Those gorgeous obsidian eyes of his narrowed to slits. “I don’t know. Are we?”
In other words, take your chances. Normally, just the thought would have chills slamming up her
spine—she definitely wasn’t the impulsive sort in her day-to-day life. But something about the way
Quinn said it, about the challenge he was very obviously issuing, got to her.
Made her hot.
Not to mention determined not to back down.
“How do I know you aren’t just going to take me out to some deserted spot near the lake and leave
me for the coyotes and bobcats?” She threw his words from that first night back at him.
His lips twitched. “Guess you’re just going to have to trust me.”
Yeah, like that came so easily. Still, she wanted to go out with Quinn, wanted to see where he’d
take her here, in his hometown.
“Sure,” she said after a few moments. “But I need fifteen minutes to get dressed. And access to at
least one set of underwear.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Seriously? Are you still playing it that way?”
He shrugged. “Who says I’m playing? You know there are people who do that kind of thing. Who
break into the houses of famous people and steal their underwear. Maybe that’s what happened here.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that’s what happened,” she told him with an annoyed roll of her eyes. “Do you still
have your underwear?”
“I do.”
She snorted. “Then I’d say your theory is seriously flawed. Seeing as how this is your house. Not to
mention you’re about a million times more famous than I am.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got better underwear.”
“Quinn! Please.”
“Sorry, Lissy. Can’t help you.”
“Then I can’t go!”
“Really? You’re going to let a little thing like missing underwear stop you from having a good
time?”
“Yeah, well, we can’t all have rock star sensibilities, you know.”
“Sweetheart, you already have them. You just don’t know it yet.” He started to leave, but then
poked his head back in the door. “How’s your hand feeling?”
“Better.” It still twinged, but the constant, steady pain was gone. At least for now.
“Good. Don’t take a painkiller then. I don’t want to have to worry about you falling off the back of
the bike.”
Then, with another one of his wicked grins and an absolutely lascivious wink, he disappeared
down the hallway.
Elise stared after him for long seconds, wondering what it was he thought she was going to do. And
then, even though the idea of going completely commando out into public horrified her, she got up and
started looking for clothes anyway. Because, stolen underwear or not, her time with Quinn was getting
dangerously short and she didn’t want to miss one second of it.
…
“I think we should play that game again,” Elise said after tossing back her second shot of tequila.
“What game is that?” Quinn asked with a grin. He was both amused and turned on by the way she
was looking at him, her big green eyes wide and just a little unfocused, her skin flushed a gorgeous,
rosy pink. And her lips…her plump, raspberry colored lips were raised in a smile that was part
childlike joy and part sexy invitation. She was all enigma, his Elise, cool and distant one moment,
open and warm the next, and always, always thinking. Always a step or two ahead of him, like with
the iPod thing. Totally diabolical and completely ingenious. He loved it, and he was more than a little
concerned that he was beginning to love her too. Or maybe it wasn’t that he was beginning to. Maybe
it was still.
He didn’t know which it was. He’d loved her when he was seventeen and had walked away from
her. He loved her now, at twenty-seven. But there was a part of him, a pretty big part, that was telling
him he’d loved her all along. Even through the years they weren’t together.
The thought scared the hell out of him.
Because this wasn’t the right time for this. Elise was at a crossroads in her life. Her career was
over, her life was a shambles, and to think that they could build anything from that—now—was crazy.
And completely unfair to her. She needed time, to heal, to figure things out, to decide who she was
now that she wasn’t Elise McKinney, concert pianist. What she didn’t need was a lovesick rock star
mooning over her, making her feel uncomfortable and nervous and trapped.
He knew that, he did, and still he wanted her with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Still he
needed her, in his arms and his bed and his heart.
Fuck. He raised a hand and gestured to the waitress that he’d like another beer. A little cyanide
might be nice too, just to clear his head.
“The question game,” Elise told him, jerking his attention back to her right before she lifted a sliver
of lime to her lips and bit into it.
“The question game.”
“Absolutely. We’re sleeping together and aside from the fact that you’re a crazy, rich rock star, I
know almost nothing about what’s happened to you in the last ten years.”
“Isn’t that enough? I mean, it has taken up most of my time.”
She laughed, a full, rich sound that was completely at odds with her delicate appearance. He
grinned; he couldn’t help himself. Elise’s laugh—when she let it escape—was one of the things he’d
always liked best about her.
“Come on,” she told him. “I’m curious.”
He sighed with pretended reluctance. “I get to ask questions, too?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fine. But I get to go first.”
“Okay.” She watched him with narrowed eyes. “But only if you promise not to distract me before I
get to ask my question.”
He deliberately widened his eyes, and put a hand to his chest. “You malign me.”
“I know you.”
“Then remind me why we’re playing the question game again?”
She crumpled up her drink napkin and threw it at him.
“Okay, okay. First question. I’ll start with an easy one. Where do you live?”
“Nowhere.” The word seemed to pop out before she could think better of it. But as it hung there,
between them, her eyes dimmed a little and she looked nervous. “I mean, I still have a house in
Chicago, but I haven’t been back there since my father died and…”
“And?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to go back there. I mean, I know I should since ostensibly
that’s where my doctors are, but…” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never really liked it
there. It didn’t matter before, because I travel ten months of the year, but now, now I think it probably
will matter.”
Quinn wasn’t sure what to say to that. He knew what he wanted to say—to hell with what she
should do, it was past time for her to start doing what she wanted to do—but he wasn’t sure that was
the best way to go with this conversation right now.
He was spared from having to formulate an answer when the waitress showed up with their food—
a steak for him and a pasta dish for Elise.
Quinn watched as she leaned over and breathed in the spicy sauce, a small smile curving her lips as
she sighed happily. And he couldn’t help responding, couldn’t help growing hard at the pure, sensual
enjoyment on her face. She was just so damn beautiful.
“My turn,” she told him as she twirled pasta onto her fork. “Who’s Wyatt?”
“Wyatt?” He glanced at her in surprise.
“You’ve mentioned him several times and I get the impression he’s in the band, but I’ve never seen
him at the house with the others.”
“He’s our drummer. He’s in rehab right now trying to kick a heroin addiction.” He tried to sound
matter-of-fact as he answered, but he could tell from the sympathy that moved in Elise’s eyes that he
didn’t succeed.
“How’s he doing?”
“Okay.”
“Yeah?”
He blew out a breath, rubbed a hand across his eyes. “I don’t know. He’s getting clean, but…this
isn’t the first time. Who knows how long he’ll be able to keep it up once they let him out.”
“That must be rough.”
“It is. He’s been struggling for a long time—”
“Not for him. For you.”
Quinn froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Why for me? I’m not the one with the addiction.”
“No, but you’ve never been one to sit by while your friends suffer.”
“I—”
“You think I didn’t know? Why you drew that stupid mustache on me or hid my sheet music or put
goldfish in my bathtub or any of the other stupid things you did to me through the years? They made me
crazy, but I always knew you were doing it to take my mind off the stage fright. To make things easier
for me.”
“You’re giving me too much credit.”
“Am I?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s your fifth question. When do I get a turn again?”
“Sorry.” She gestured for him to go ahead.
There were a million things he wanted to ask her, but the conversation was already way too heavy.
He needed to find a way to lighten it up. So instead of asking what he really wanted to know—how
she’d let herself get so damn rundown and fragile—he asked instead, “What’s your favorite dessert?”
She laughed. “Blueberry pie. What’s your favorite color?”
“Green.” The same shade as her eyes. And yes, he was aware that he was turning into an incredible
sap. He just didn’t give a damn. “What’s your favorite movie?”
“Good Will Hunting. Who’s your favorite band?”
“Oooh, that’s a tough one.”
“No, it isn’t,” she told him indignantly. “You’re supposed to say Shaken Dirty.”
“Well, that sounds a little egotistical.”
She rolled her eyes. “I think you’ve earned the right.”
“I don’t know about that. So I’m going to go with the Eagles instead. Or Led Zeppelin.” He reached
across the table, wiped a drop of sauce off her bottom lip. Elise’s eyes darkened and her tongue
darted out, licked across the tip of his finger.
He growled low in his throat. “We could forget dinner and the damn question game and go home.”
She clucked her tongue at him. “Always so impatient.”
“When it comes to getting you into bed? Damn right.”
“See,” Elise said with a laugh. “There you go distracting me and I’m not going to get my last
question.”
“All right, fine.” He gestured for her to continue. “What’s your last question?”
For long seconds, she didn’t answer, just stared at him with those eyes of hers that seemed to see
right through him. Those eyes that got him hotter, made him harder, than anything or anyone ever had.
Just when he was about to say to hell with the question game, and to hell with dinner, she licked her
lips and asked, “Why didn’t you ever call me?”
Chapter Sixteen
As soon as the words were out, Elise wanted to take them back. Needed to take them back. But she
couldn’t. They were out there, raging between them like a hurricane, and there was nothing to do now
but wait. Wait for his answer. Wait to get flattened.
Quinn didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked up his beer, drained it in one long sip before
rolling the bottle around between the elegant cage of his long, musician fingers. And then he just
looked at her, his eyes burning into her own until every hair on her body felt like it was standing
straight up, every nerve ending she had shocking with heat, with hurt, with need.
The silence stretched between them, taut as a harp string but with none of the beauty, and Elise had
just decided that Quinn wasn’t going to answer, when he did.
“I had to leave. I was suffocating.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I couldn’t be what he wanted me to be—”
“That isn’t what I asked,” she said again, more forcefully. “I know why you had to leave. I’ve never
once blamed you for going, even the way you did it.”
Something flashed in his eyes then, some emotion she couldn’t quite distinguish before it was gone.
“But I did blame you for not calling me. For not emailing. For just dropping off the face of the earth
and not letting me know that you were all right. That you were alive. I did blame you for that.”
“I thought it would be easier.”
“For you, yeah. Absolutely. You got to start a new life and didn’t have to worry about the people
you left behind. You got to start over. But the rest of us were still there. Ellington, me. We worried
about you. I worried about you.”
“I figured you’d be mad at me for leaving like I did. It’s not like you didn’t have a reason to be. I
guess I figured it would be better to just let you get on with your life than to keep being interrupted by
me.”
“I loved you. And though you wouldn’t talk to me about it, I knew what he was doing to you. I knew
what kind of monster your father was—”
“You couldn’t—
“Bullshit. I saw the bruises. I saw the bruised and twisted fingers you had to play with. And I saw
the emptiness in your eyes when no one was looking and the happy façade you wore when people
were. I knew, Quinn. I knew. And when you disappeared, there was a part of me that was thrilled
you’d gotten away. But there was another part that was terrified that you hadn’t gone anywhere. I was
terrified that he had killed you and no one would ever know.”
She choked on a sob, forced it back down. Because she didn’t want to cry, didn’t want to make him
feel guilty for what had happened. But she needed him to understand how important he’d been to her.
How important he still was. Because she loved him, yes, but because he was an incredible human
being. One who would always be loved, always be missed.
Oh, she knew he didn’t understand that—couldn’t, with his father—but she still wanted him to hear
it.
“Elise, sweetheart.” He was out of his chair and crouching down beside her own, his hand tightly
clasping hers. “It never occurred to me that you would think that. I was drowning in my guilt over
what had happened to you. I couldn’t stand that he might hurt you, couldn’t stand the idea of you being
sucked into my disaster of a life. You didn’t deserve that, couldn’t want that—”
“You never asked me what I wanted. Because if you did, you would have known that the answer
was you. Always you. I loved you. I don’t think you have a clue how much I loved you back then.
How much Ellington did. So much of your time was spent dodging your father’s fists and hiding the
marks when you couldn’t, that you never understood how amazing you were.”
He shook his head, looked a little sick at her words. It was the last thing she wanted. “Come on,”
she told him, pulling his hand to her mouth and pressing a kiss right in the middle of his palm. “Let’s
get out of here.”
“What? Right now?”
“Right now. I want to be alone with you.”
For a second, she thought he was going to say no. That he was going to make excuses—they weren’t
done with their dinner, the check hadn’t come, they needed to talk more. But she was done talking,
done living in the past. She loved Quinn Bradford and she was going to grab onto every second she
had with him.
He shook his head, but he stood up, pulled out his wallet. Dropped some bills on the table. Then
grabbed her hand and said, “Let’s go,” in a voice gone husky with the same desire, the same warmth,
the same love, that was filling her up from the inside out.
…
They took the long way home, Quinn driving them around the lake on his tricked out Harley while she
clung to him, her arms wrapped around his waist and her head pressed against his shoulder.
There was a part of her that wanted to stay like this forever, with the wind in her face, the powerful
roar of the motorcycle between her thighs, Quinn’s warmth pressed against her from shoulder to thigh.
The road he took her on was beautiful. Dark and winding, but gorgeous in the delicate light cast by the
full moon shining above them.
She looked up once, saw the stars that hovered in the midnight sky. They were beautiful, bright and
glowing and inviting, so inviting. She wanted to reach up and scoop one out of the sky, wanted to hold
it in the palm of her hand and bask in its glow. But that was impossible—of course it was—and for
the first time she thought of Quinn’s constellation tattoo. Of what it meant. And even as she held him
tight, she couldn’t help wondering if he was just another brilliant star she’d never be able to hold.
The thought made her shiver, though the night air was warm around her, Quinn slowed down enough
to ask, “Cold?”
She wasn’t, not really, but agreeing was easier than admitting to what had actually made her shake.
At least until a few minutes later when Quinn pulled onto the long driveway that led to his house.
“Already?” she asked, feeling like a little girl whose lollipop had been taken from her.
“You were cold,” he said, pulling his Harley into the garage. “Plus, I was afraid your hand would
be hurting. You’ve already missed one pain pill.”
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not.” He pulled her close, then took her good hand and rested it on his very full,
very hard erection. “Having you pressed that closely to me was driving me crazy.”
“Oh, really?” she asked, rubbing him gently through the fabric of his jeans. She relished the way his
cock twitched under her hand, his hips thrusting against her in an effort to increase the stimulation.
“And what am I supposed to do about this?”
Quinn smiled, and it was his bad-boy rocker smile, the one that had women all over the world
throwing their panties on stage and clawing their way through crowds in a desperate attempt to just
touch him. “Do you want me to tell you, or do you think you can figure it out?”
“Oh, I definitely think you should tell me. In very specific detail.” She backed her words up with a
twist of her palm that had his breath breaking and his eyes going hazy.
She reveled in his response; at least until he leaned down and whispered in her ear exactly what he
wanted her to do. By the time he was done, he wasn’t the only one having trouble breathing.
…
Elise’s whole body was sore and tingly when she woke up the next morning. Not that that was exactly
a surprise after everything she and Quinn had done the night before. Still, it made getting out of bed
seem particularly uninviting, especially when she had nothing she actually had to do that day. Nothing
but figure out what Quinn’s newest prank was—he always pulled them while she was asleep, the
coward—and then decide how she was going to get back at him. And she could totally plot revenge
while she was lying in bed.
Except the longer she lay there, the colder she became. And when she reached for the covers, she
came away with only air. Which was strange enough to have her sitting up, looking around the room.
They weren’t on the bed, weren’t on the floor, weren’t anywhere to be seen at all. Which had her eyes
narrowing as she climbed out of bed and tried to figure out what was up. Why would Quinn steal her
covers? It didn’t make sense. Once she was up for the day, it wasn’t like she needed sheets and a
bedspread, right? Unless…
The thought that occurred to her was so horrible that for a second, she wouldn’t even entertain it.
But this was Quinn she was dealing with, of the goldfish in the bathtub and the stolen underwear. She
didn’t think anything was beneath him—especially after she’d humiliated him in front of at least half
of his very large fan base yesterday.
Diving for the dresser, she pulled out the drawer where she usually kept her pajamas and yoga
pants. There was nothing there. She went for her T-shirt drawer. Still nothing. Her jeans. Nothing.
There was nothing in any of the drawers—or the closet—except a red sequined G-string. A very tiny,
very sparkly red sequined G-string.
As if.
More amused than annoyed at that point, she headed into the bathroom only to find he had stripped
it of everything bigger than a washcloth. Seriously, how had she managed to sleep through this? The
towel closet had been well stocked enough that it should have taken him a few trips to empty the thing.
Well played, Quinn Bradford. Well played.
After checking the room for anything he might have forgotten, which was nothing except the bottom
sheet she’d been sleeping on (and which she really didn’t want to spend the day wearing considering
all the activities that had taken place on it the night before), she headed down the hall to his bedroom.
She had no problem wearing his clothes until she could get a hold of Jamison. Sure, his sweats
would fall off of her, but surely she could pin them or roll them or something.
Except, when she got to his bedroom, every single article of clothing had been cleared out of there
as well. There were no T-shirts, no ridiculously shredded jeans, not even a robe or pair of pajamas.
And his bed had been stripped completely, his towel closet emptied as well.
The bastard. The unbelievable bastard. She was actually stuck upstairs with nothing to wear but
that ridiculous G-string. The same G-string she was even now making plans to shove down his throat.
She thought about saying to hell with it and going downstairs exactly as she was. There was a part
of her that wanted nothing more than to march through the house completely naked for no other reason
than she was sure Quinn didn’t think she would do it. After all, she had no problem making coffee
while nude. Besides, she knew there was an apron down there—she’d seen Quinn wear it that first
time after they’d made love.
And yet…and yet, his band mates had been there two days in a row working on the album. What
were the odds that they would be there again today? Pretty high, she figured, and while she didn’t
mind parading around naked in front of Quinn, there was no way she was going to do it in front of
Jared and Ryder. No freaking way.
But she also wasn’t going to be a prisoner in her room all day, either. Wasn’t going to let Quinn
win this round, though she had to admit, he’d done a pretty good job of it. Which meant she had to find
something to cover herself.
After searching all the available options, she came to one conclusion. She was going to have to pull
a Sound of Music and wear one of the window curtains as a toga. Not exactly her first choice of
attire, but at this point, she just wanted to cover enough of her body to get downstairs and kill Quinn.
Slowly and painfully.
She decided on the valance in the bathroom, because it was long, but not so wide that it would drag
on the floor and trip her. Plus, it was black, the same color as Quinn’s evil soul and she could
appreciate the symbolism.
It took her a few minutes, but she managed to get it off the wall without too many mishaps. But
fastening it into a toga proved a little more challenging. Still, she was determined to get out of her
room sometime in the next decade, so she refused to give up until she’d fashioned a one-shouldered
garment that covered her from chest to knee.
Then, after a quick face wash and teeth brushing, she slipped her feet into her flip-flops—Quinn
had been kind enough to leave her all of her shoes (wasn’t that sweet)—and headed downstairs.
Sure enough, she’d barely gotten down the stairs before she heard familiar male voices drifting in
from the kitchen. Jared and Ryder were definitely here. Terrific. Quinn was so going to pay for this
and he was going to pay big.
Squaring her shoulders, Elise made sure everything vital was covered and then headed for the
kitchen. She really needed a cup of coffee—and to slam Quinn’s head in the refrigerator. Not that she
was bitter or anything.
When she got to the kitchen, it was to find the three musicians crowded around the table, eating
pancakes and talking over each other while Quinn recorded something on a piece of paper.
“Hey, guys,” she said with feigned nonchalance. She even managed to cross to the coffeepot
without tugging on her makeshift garment. It was hard, though, especially since she could tell they
were all staring at her.
“Hey, Elise!” Jared bounded to his feet and came over to her. “You want some pancakes? We’ve
got more batter.”
She smiled at him—after all, it wasn’t his fault his best friend was a diabolical monster—and
answered, “I think I’ll just stick with coffee for now. I’m not very hungry.”
He shrugged. “Well, it’s there if you want it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
She glanced over at the table to find Quinn glaring at his former curtain with obvious annoyance
while Ryder kept looking between them in bemusement.
“Where did you get that?” Quinn asked, after a minute.
“Not even going to pretend it wasn’t you, huh?” she answered in the snottiest voice she could
muster.
“You had half the world thinking I listen to Justin Bieber in my free time. You’re damn right I’m not
going to pretend. But I was careful. I made sure there was nothing up there. So where did you get
that?”
“This old thing? I believe I found it hanging in your bathroom.”
“That’s impossible. I took all the towels out of there.”
“Oh, it’s not a towel.”
“What are you guys even talking about?” Ryder asked, sliding back from the table. “What did you
do this time, Bradford?”
“Wait a minute,” Quinn asked, after reaching a hand out to touch the fabric. She slapped it away,
but he must have felt enough because his eyes widened. “Is that one of my curtains?”
“Perhaps.”
“You’re wearing my curtains?”
“Well, I’m sure as hell not wearing that monstrosity of a G-string you left for me.”
“I kind of liked it. Red’s always looked good on you.”
She flipped him off, then went to move around him, but Ryder was there, once again laughing his
ass off. Seriously, she was beginning to think the man had a problem.
“Are you fucking kidding me with this, Quinn?” he finally asked when he had his guffaws under
some semblance of control. “This is how you treat your female guests? You steal their underwear and
their clothes and force them to wear your window coverings?”
“No wonder you had to kidnap her to get her here,” Jared added.
“I never told you I had to kidnap her.”
“No, but Wyatt did. He wanted to know how it went.”
“Wait until he hears about this.” Ryder took out his camera, snapped a picture. “He’s never going to
believe it.”
“In my defense, I did leave her a G-string.”
“Which would have done me so much good with your friends in the house, right? Can you imagine
me walking down here in that and nothing else?”
His eyes darkened from onyx to obsidian at the thought and Elise mentally patted herself on her
back for getting a rise out of him.
“I wouldn’t have complained,” Jared told her, smiling charmingly.
“Yeah, well, Quinn might have,” Ryder told him.
“Then he should have left her clothes.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?” Quinn asked him with a glare.
“Your girlfriend’s, obviously.” He shrugged out of his shirt and handed it to her. “Here, this might
be more comfortable than a curtain.”
“Thanks,” she told him, taking the shirt gratefully. He was even bigger than Quinn, so the thing
might very well come all the way to her knees. “I appreciate it.”
As she left the kitchen to go change, she heard Quinn hiss, “Was that really necessary? I was trying
to make a point.”
“Dude, I saw what she did to you yesterday. There’s no way I want to be on the receiving end of
one of her revenge plots.”
“He has a point,” Ryder agreed. “Maybe I’ll just go offer her my pants.”
Elise laughed. She couldn’t help herself. Yes, this was a shit week and yes, her career and her life
was in shambles. But she’d found Quinn again and might even have found a few friends, to boot, so at
least things weren’t all bad.
Besides, she’d figured out exactly what she wanted to do to get back at Quinn. Now all she needed
to do was call Jamison and ask her to bring over some hot pink paint and some rhinestones.
Chapter Seventeen
Elise was up to something. Quinn knew it with every fiber of his being, but he couldn’t prove it. She
was too sneaky for that. You’d think she’d go easy on him since he gave her her clothes back right
after she’d come down to the kitchen in his bathroom curtain. He’d planned on keeping it going for a
while, at least until she convinced Jamison to bring her some clothes, but it turned out he really hadn’t
liked seeing her covered in Jared’s shirt.
She’d accepted the clothes graciously and hadn’t said anything else about them, but he knew that
wasn’t the end of it. Elise might not have done anything to exact revenge in the last forty-eight hours,
but he knew it was coming. She’d never been the kind to let bygones be bygones—at least not when it
came to pulling pranks.
And while he was a little leery—okay, a lot leery—he couldn’t help being happy, too. Because
since she’d gotten here, she’d been eating more, and sleeping more. She’d been hanging with his
friends and him, had even taken to joking around with Jared and Ryder almost as much as she joked
around with him. She was happy. Not completely, obviously. He knew her inability to play the piano
right now was hard for her, as was the knowledge that she probably would never play again. But in
just five days, she looked a million times better than she had when he’d picked her up from the
hospital.
Plus, she was writing music. Not a lot, not on her own, but she’d contributed to three different
songs that he and the others were writing—enough so that they were going to make sure she got
writing credit on each of them. At first, he’d asked her just because he wanted to give her something
to do. But he’d kept asking for her opinion and her help because it turned out she was a fucking genius
when it came to composing. She understood melody better than nearly anyone he’d ever worked with.
Which was why she was sitting in on this latest composing session with him, Jared, and Ryder.
They were down in the recording studio now, working on electric guitars and keyboards instead of
the instruments he kept in his music room because they wanted to get a feel for how these chord
combinations were going to sound on the actual album.
“The bridge still isn’t right,” Elise said from her spot on the sofa. “Your note combination is off.
It’s too jarring.”
“It’s rock and roll,” Jared told her. “It’s supposed to be jarring sometimes.”
“I know that,” she answered with a roll of her eyes. “But there’s jarring on purpose and jarring
because you just haven’t gotten it right yet. This is definitely the latter.”
“You’re wrong,” Jared told her, playing the chord again. “This is perfect.”
“No, it’s not,” Ryder protested, picking up a guitar and shredding out the same chord in a different
key. “See? It’s totally disjointed here. You just can’t tell when you play it in a lower key. But that
doesn’t mean it’s not off.”
Jared grumbled good-naturedly under his breath, before shrugging and asking, “So what do we do?”
Elise walked over to the keyboards where Quinn was standing. “What if you try something like
this?” she said, playing a series of notes with her right hand only. It was a bold combination, one that
took the basics from the chord they had just been working with and then turned it on its head.
“That’s sick,” Jared told her, already copying the notes on his guitar.
“Yeah,” Ryder agreed. “Play it together—keyboards and guitar.”
They did, Quinn taking over from Elise so he could use both hands to get the full spectrum of the
notes.
“That sounds good,” Ryder said after a minute. “You are a genius, Elise McKinney.”
She blushed, shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then you don’t get a vote,” Jared told her with a grin. “Because I think you’re brilliant and since I
know what I’m talking about when it comes to making music, you should just take the compliment.”
“I should, huh?”
“Absolutely,” Ryder told her. “We may never be able to write a song without you again.”
Elise kind of froze at that, then glanced back at Quinn uneasily. He pulled her against him, dropped
a reassuring kiss on her bare shoulder. Though he’d told her more than once that he wanted her to stay
with him, he didn’t think she believed him. Which was a problem, since he wanted her with him all
the time.
Oh, he still worried about hurting her, still worried that he wouldn’t be good for her in the long run.
But it was hard to focus on that right now, when she’d improved so much with just a little care. He
wanted to give her more, to lavish her with affection and care and love for a while, to see where that
got them. She deserved it, she deserved everything, and he wanted to be the one to give it to her.
And if his father’s legacy still haunted him, if he still had nightmares of Elise lying on the ground
next to that piano bench, blood on her head from where she’d struck the corner of the bench when he’d
tried to shove her out of the way of his father’s temper, then that was his cross to bear. Because he
was determined to never hurt Elise again, and to never let anyone else hurt her either. She’d spent too
long at the mercy of her asshole father for Quinn to ever take caring for her lightly.
“He’s right,” he told her with another soft kiss, this one on her temple. “I’ve gotten used to having
you in the studio. You should probably stick around for a while.”
She laughed. “Maybe I will.”
“No maybe about it,” Jared told her, reaching a hand out to tousle her hair as he walked over to the
mini-fridge in the corner and pulled out a bottle of water. “You’re staying.”
“Then I’d better earn my keep,” Elise said, playing a couple more chords with her right hand. “So
what do we want to do after this? I feel like it should escalate, right? We’re coming to the end of the
bridge, getting ready to launch into the final verse. It needs to be powerful and—”
She broke off when someone started pounding on the door of the recording studio, over and over
again. It was a separate building from the house and as such had its own entrance.
Quinn glanced at the other guys, but they looked as surprised as he was. Sure, technically, this place
was a separate building from the house with its own entrance, but no one knew it was here and no one
ever came to the door except the five of them.
“Fans?” Ryder asked, walking toward the window to try to get a look outside.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want me to get it?” Elise asked. “I promise, no sex-crazed fans are going to be interested
in me.”
Quinn shot her a look. “I think I can handle it.”
But he’d spoken too soon, because it wasn’t a few intrepid fans waiting for him at the door. It was
so much worse.
“Are you going to let me in?” Micah demanded, staring at him with bloodshot eyes.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, making no move to step out of the doorway.
“You thought I wouldn’t show up again? You thought you could just send that insulting as fuck offer
to my lawyer and I wouldn’t have anything to say about it?”
“Frankly, I don’t give a shit what you say about it,” Quinn told him with a negligent shrug. “But I do
care that you’re here. Get the fuck off my property.”
“Is that really how you want to play this?” Micah demanded, puffing himself up and getting right in
Quinn’s face.
“Damn right. You don’t belong here.”
Micah tried to shove past him then, but Quinn stood his ground. No way this fucker was getting past
him. No way he was getting in the studio to fuck with Jared’s brain any more than he already had.
Except, Jared wasn’t the type to stand back and let his friends protect him, even from douchebags
like Micah. “What’s he talking about?” he demanded. “What offer?”
Fuck. Quinn glanced at their lead singer. “Ryder…”
“I got this. You take care of fucktard over there.”
“You don’t have anything,” Jared responded, voice flat and eyes dead. “Let him in. I want to hear
what he’s got to say.”
“No, you don’t.” Quinn went to close the door in their ex-bassist’s face, but Jared was right here,
wrenching the thing away from him and stepping back so the other man could come inside.
“Say what you came here to say, Micah.”
“Well, thanks so much for your permission, Jared. Nice to see you’re still as big a pussy as ever.”
“Hey!” Ryder got in his face, shoved him back a few steps. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Who’s going to make me?”
“What are you, three?” Quinn demanded, stepping between them before Ryder could plant a fist in
Micah’s face. Not that the other guy didn’t deserve it, but he didn’t want that kind of violence around
Elise. “If you came to pick a fight, you need to leave. Now.”
“Jared doesn’t want me to leave,” Micah taunted him. “He seems pretty interested in what I have to
say.”
“Yeah, well, Jared’s head hasn’t been exactly clear since he found you screwing his fiancée while
Wyatt fucking OD’d in the next room. This is my property and I want you to get the fuck off of it.”
Micah didn’t budge and Quinn gritted his teeth against the urge to shove him through the nearest
window. He was trying to be rational about this, but it was hard when Micah was being such a
douche. He didn’t want Elise, or Jared, around this guy and the poison he spewed and it was getting
harder and harder not to physically remove him.
But the lawyers had warned about physical altercations, had told him and Ryder that it would only
end up costing them more in the long run. Judging from the way Ryder was clenching and unclenching
his fists, that warning seemed to have gone out the window for him. Which meant Quinn needed to be
the voice of reason, even if all he really wanted to do was rip this fucker limb from fucking limb.
“This is the last warning I’m going to give you, Micah. Then I’m calling the police. And then I’m
going to escort you to your car, one way or another.”
“I still want to know what offer he’s talking about.” Jared spoke for the first time since he let Micah
in.
“They didn’t even bother to tell you?” Micah sneered. “Typical. You’d think when they tried to
kick somebody out of the band they’d actually talk to all the band members, but not Quinn and Ryder.
Oh no. They like to do things all on their own.”
“We’re not on our own. Nobody wants you in Shaken Dirty anymore.”
“Well, fuck you, I don’t want to be in this piece of shit band anymore, either. You’re all a bunch of
fucking losers. But I helped make this band and if you want to get rid of me, you’d better come up
with a hell of a better offer than two million dollars.”
“Two million dollars?” Jared demanded. “You were going to give this fucker two million
dollars?”
“Oh, they’re going to give me a lot more than that before this is over,” Micah boasted. “And some
of it’s going to come right out of your pockets. How’s that make you feel, Jared boy? To know I’ve
got your woman and your money?”
“Okay.” Elise spoke for the first time. “Let’s just everybody calm down for a second. Jared, don’t
let him—”
But Jared was already leaping across the room, fist raised. Quinn beat him to it. As Ryder grabbed
hold of Shaken Dirty’s guitarist, Quinn buried his fist in Micah’s jaw despite the lawyers’ warnings.
Sometimes “physical altercations” were the only thing that would get it done. “Get the fuck out.”
He grabbed Micah by the shirt, started yanking him toward the door, but the bassist squirmed and
wiggled until he’d broken Quinn’s grip. Then, face livid with rage, Micah went after him.
Quinn let him hit him, once, just to make the police report look good. Then he set about taking
Micah apart. The one thing he hadn’t counted on, though, was the bastard’s desire to hurt Jared any
way he could. He took another few punches from Quinn, then ducked around him in an effort to get to
Jared, who was waiting for him, legs spread and face set in dead lines.
But somehow Elise—who was reaching out to Quinn in an effort to calm him down—got caught in
the crossfire. Micah shoved her out of the way as he scrambled toward Jared.
Quinn watched in horror as she lost her balance, instinctively reaching out to grab something with
her right hand to stop her fall. But she was not quite a week out of surgery and her hand—even with
the cast on it—wasn’t strong enough to support her.
Quinn went running for her, but he was too late and she went down, hard, striking her head on the
corner of the coffee table.
For a second, just a second, he was paralyzed as that long ago night came back to him. They’d been
in Paris as part of a young pianist’s tour and Elise and he had just made love for the first time. They’d
slept for a while, and when he woke up, he’d wanted to take her out. To show her the town.
But his father had shown up, livid that he’d missed a practice he hadn’t needed or wanted to go to.
They’d argued, the old man knocking him around because, back then, he hadn’t wanted to raise his
fists to his father. Elise had gotten caught in the middle then, too, only he’d been the one who had
made her fall when he’d tried to get her as far away from his father’s wrath as he could manage. He
was the one who had shoved her out of the way as his father came at him, who had hurt her, made her
bleed.
“Elise,” he roared as the past and present blurred together. “Lissy, sweetheart! Are you okay?”
He leaped past Jared and Micah, who were both just kind of standing there, mouths open, as they
watched Elise’s blood leak onto the floor.
Ryder got there first. “She’s out like a light, Quinn.”
“No. God, no.” Quinn knelt on the ground beside her, gently probed the cut on her temple. Wasn’t
that the worst place to be hit, he wondered frantically. He remembered hearing that years ago, when
some celebrity’s wife had died after a blow to the temple.
“Call an ambulance,” he demanded hoarsely. “Call—”
“I’m on it,” Jared said, his phone already in his hand. Seconds later he began barking orders for an
ambulance, and a police car.
“Fuck that shit!” Micah spoke for the first time since he’d knocked Elise down. “I’m not going to
jail. Not over some bitch who wasn’t smart enough to get out of the way.”
He made a run for the door, but Ryder was right there to grab him and throw him back against the
wall.
“Don’t fucking move,” Quinn told him, voice hoarse. “Don’t you fucking move or I’ll kill you
myself.”
He’d never meant anything more in his life and that fact must have registered on Micah, because he
didn’t try to leave again. Just cowered against the wall and muttered how none of this was his fault. It
made Quinn insane and if Elise’s head wasn’t pillowed on his lap, if he wasn’t sitting there willing
her to keep breathing, he would have shut the asshole up by knocking every one of his teeth down his
throat.
But there’d be time to deal with Micah later, he promised himself. Right now, Elise was the only
one who mattered.
Chapter Eighteen
For the second time in a week, Elise woke up in the hospital, a little groggy, a little sore, a lot
confused. The room was dimly lit but she could see enough shapes to figure out where she was. Well,
that and she could hear the monitors beeping, could feel the damn pulse ox monitor back on her finger.
Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she willed the room to stop spinning as nausea crashed through
her. Someone—Quinn—was slumped in a chair next to the bed, head down and elbows resting on his
knees. She couldn’t see his face, but his body language screamed that he was in a bad place and she
couldn’t help herself. She reached out a hand to touch him.
He nearly jumped through the ceiling. Eyes huge, hands shaking, he leaned over her. “You’re
awake. Oh, thank God.”
She nodded, licked her lips in a vain attempt to get some moisture. “What happened?”
His face darkened. “You don’t remember?”
She wracked her brain, tried to put the day’s events in order as best she could. She’d spent the
morning out in the garage with the pink paint Jamison had brought her, but after lunch she’d gone into
the studio to work on a song with the guys. And then…Micah. Of course. The band’s ex-bass player
had shown up.
“Are you okay?” she asked, hands clutching at him as everything came flooding back. “Did he hurt
you?”
“You’re asking me that?” Quinn’s voice sounded rusty, harsh, nothing like the deep, soothing timbre
she was used to. “You’re in the hospital because of that bastard and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”
“He hit you.” She ran her uninjured hand over his stubbled cheek, trying to calm him. Trying to find
him in the eyes of the man staring back at her.
“He knocked you out. He shoved you and I didn’t stop him. I didn’t—”
“How could you have?” She sat up, then abruptly wished she hadn’t when the room spun around
her.
“Hey, none of that,” he scolded her, helping her lie back down. “No abrupt movements. You’ve got
a concussion.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
He looked at her like she was crazy. “Why?”
“Always nice to have an explanation for why the room is spinning.” She pressed a hand to her eyes,
tried to swallow back the nausea.
“I’m getting a nurse,” Quinn told her, reaching over to press the call button.
“I’m fine,” she told him, but the words sounded weak to her own ears. She hated it, hated being
weak in front of Quinn when he’d never been anything but strong. But right now she couldn’t do
anything about that, not when her head felt like it was going to roll right off of her shoulders. Not
when she would probably welcome it if it meant the pain went away.
“Stop saying that!” Quinn all but yelled at her. “You always say you’re fine but you’re not. You’re
not.”
As the nausea passed, she stared up at him, stunned by his outburst. By his clenched fists and harsh
breathing and wild eyes.
“Quinn?” she asked tentatively. “Are you—”
“I swear to God, if you ask me if I’m okay one more time, I’m going to lose my shit.” He turned his
back to her, shoved a hand through his hair. “I’m going to go get the nurse. I’ll be back.”
“You called her—”
“Yeah, well, she hasn’t come, has she? You need to be looked at.”
…
Those were the last words he’d said to her. Oh, he’d come back to the room minutes later, nurse in
tow. Had stood there as he checked out Elise and assured them both that her vitals were fine and that
she just needed to sleep. Then, after the nurse had left, Quinn had held her hand as she drifted to
sleep.
She hadn’t seen him since. He hadn’t called, hadn’t stopped by, hadn’t so much as acknowledged
her existence. She’d be devastated if she wasn’t so damn mad. Because she knew what he was doing,
knew that he was running away just like he had in Paris.
The fucking coward.
Part of her thought that she should walk away. That she should just grab a cab to the airport and
catch the first flight out of there. It wasn’t like she even had a doctor’s appointment to wait around for
—since she was in the hospital anyway, they’d run X-rays on her hand that morning, just to see how it
was doing.
The good news was, it was healing exactly as expected. Of course, that was the bad news, too. And
she was stupid, so stupid, because even though she’d known it was coming, the blow still devastated
her. Still made her head spin and her stomach sink.
And Quinn wasn’t there. She’d wanted him to hold her, wanted him to press kisses to her hair like
he did late at night when he thought she was asleep. Wanted him to tell her that everything was going
to be okay, even if it felt like the whole damn world was caving in on her.
But he couldn’t do that, could he? No, not Quinn Bradford. He was great in a crisis, great when
things went to shit. But the second things started looking up, he was blaming himself. And then he was
out the door.
The fucking, fucking, fucking coward.
By the time the doctor discharged her, Elise had worked herself into a temper the likes of which she
hadn’t had in years. Maybe ever. And when Jamison came to pick her up—Quinn thought of
everything, that rat bastard—she demanded to be taken to Quinn’s house so that the two of them could
have this out.
She knew he was upset with himself, knew he blamed himself for her getting hurt, but they’d been
down this road before. She’d lived the last ten years of her life without him and she had no intention
of living the next ten the same way. Not when she loved him. Not when she knew, under all the guilt,
that he loved her, too.
“Elise, I’m sorry,” Jamison told her, looking just as pissed off as she felt. “Quinn’s not at home.”
“What do you mean he’s not at home?”
“He and Ryder left for L.A. this morning. Went to deal with the label face-to-face.”
“He went today? Even knowing I was getting out of the hospital?”
Jamison looked sick. “We told him it could wait, but he insisted. Said it had to be done now,
while…”
“While Micah was still in jail. It gave him leverage.”
“Yeah.” Jamison reached over and squeezed her good hand. “But I’m supposed to take you back to
his place and pamper you. Since Ryder’s gone, too, I’ll spend the next couple of days with you.
There’s this great spa that does home treatments and I figured we’d call them up, get the works, and
make Quinn pay for it all. It’s the least he can do—”
But Elise had stopped listening. How could she pay attention to talk of spa appointments when her
heart was breaking wide open? Because Quinn hadn’t just freaked out. He hadn’t just lost his shit for
a little while. No, he’d run away from her again. Had, in fact, run halfway across the country to get
away from her.
And she was done. She was so done.
“I’m not going to Quinn’s house,” she told Jamison, as the other woman merged the car onto the
freeway. “Take me to the W.”
Jamison sighed, her face falling like she’d been expecting her to say something along those lines.
Which, of course, she probably had, Elise figured. Jamison had way too much self-respect to let
Ryder treat her like this. So why should Elise put up with it from Quinn?
She shouldn’t. And she wasn’t going to. Not for one more second. If he wanted to man up and talk
to her, fine. Otherwise, she was done putting up with him and his shit.
“Don’t go to a hotel,” Jamison said, resting a soft hand on her knee. “I get not wanting to go back to
Quinn’s house when he’s got his head so far up his ass he’ll have to have it surgically removed. But
don’t go to a hotel. Ryder and I have plenty of room. Come back with me—”
“No.” The word sounded harsh, even to her own ears, so she let out a sigh of her own and then
said, “Look, I know you just want to help. But Quinn and I…we go back. This isn’t the first time he’s
done this to me, and if I stick around, it’s probably not going to be the last.
“I know he’s got issues, I know how messed up they make him. But he can’t keep doing this to me,
can’t keep pushing me away like this every time he freaks out. So I need you to take me to the W.
Please. Because I can’t do this with him. I can’t play this game, not now when everything else in my
life is such a mess.”
Jamison looked like she wanted to say something, like she wanted to contradict something Elise had
said. But she didn’t. Because she couldn’t.
In the end, she did exactly what Elise asked.
And that was that.
…
“What do you mean she’s gone?” Quinn yelled when Jamison called to break the news. “I told you to
take her to my house, to watch her—”
“Hey.” Ryder gave him a look. “Stop yelling at my girl. This isn’t her fault. You fucked this up all
on your own.”
He knew that. God, did he know that. “I’m not yelling at her. I’m just…yelling.”
“Yeah, well, don’t. You’re getting her upset and that’s not cool, man.”
Quinn nearly took his head off, probably would have except for the fact that he knew Ryder was
right. Jamison had done nothing but help him out with Elise from the very beginning. He had no right
to take his frustrations out on her.
Closing his eyes, he took a few deep breaths, tried to calm himself down. It might even have
worked if the image of Elise pale and bleeding and unconscious wasn’t seared onto the back of his
eyelids so that it was all he could see, all he could think about.
“You went to the W to drop her stuff off, and she was just gone? She’d never even checked in?”
“That’s what they told me, Quinn. I even drove out to the airport, hoping to catch her before she
cleared security but I couldn’t find her. I’m sorry.”
“So you think she left Austin?”
“I don’t know what else to think. She was pretty upset when I told her you were in L.A. She didn’t
want to go back to your house, didn’t want to come to Ryder’s and mine. They looked at her hand
while she was in the hospital, gave her clearance to travel. And with things going to shit with you…I
can’t see why she’d choose to stay in Austin.”
Yeah, neither could he. Which was fine. After all, that’s what he’d been angling for when he’d left
her in the hospital alone. He’d wanted her to walk away, wanted her to leave him before he could do
any more damage to her. But now that she had…now that she had, it felt like his whole fucking chest
was cracking wide open.
“Thanks, Jamison,” he said, “I appreciate everything.”
“It’s fine. I—” She was still talking when he decided he was done listening, so he handed the phone
to Ryder and went to stand on their hotel suite balcony. It was a great view, overlooking the
manicured grounds of the Beverly Hills Hotel, but he couldn’t see anything but Elise.
It was better this way, he told himself. Not for him, maybe, but for her. And she was the only thing
that mattered. She had enough shit in her life to deal with right now. She didn’t need his, too.
And yet, he itched to call her. Probably would have, except—courtesy of his idiocy—she didn’t
have a phone. It was just one more thing he’d taken from her.
He didn’t know how long he stayed out there, staring blankly into the sunset. But eventually, Ryder
joined him, clapping a hand on his shoulder and handing him a drink before settling into one of the
chairs, legs sprawled out in front of him.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Quinn told him without turning around.
“Talk about what?” Ryder said.
“Don’t patronize me.” Quinn took a hefty sip of his drink, grimaced as really good tequila burned
its way down his throat. He should have known Ryder wouldn’t have handed him a civilized drink
like whiskey.
“Why would I do that? Especially considering you’re doing a damn fine job of it yourself.”
Quinn rolled his eyes. “I don’t think it’s possible to patronize oneself.”
“Oooh, sorry, college boy. I guess we can’t all be as smart as you.”
“What the fuck is your problem?”
He could practically hear the shrug in his voice when Ryder said, “You’re the one spoiling for a
fight. I just figured I’d give it to you. Maybe speed along the whole process of you pulling your head
out of your ass and going after Elise.”
“My head is not up my ass.” He lifted the glass of tequila to his lips, drained the thing. And barely
resisted the urge to hurl it at Ryder’s head.
“You sure about that? ’Cause I’m the one looking at you and I’ve got to tell you, I think it is.”
“She’s better off without me.”
“Don’t play the fucking martyr. It’s tiresome.”
He did turn on him then, kicking Ryder’s chair hard enough to have it scraping across the balcony.
“What the fuck do you know?”
It only took seconds for Ryder to be up and in his face. “If there’s anybody who knows what you’re
going through right now, it’s me. I’ve been there. I’ve lived through a lot of the same shit you have.
Yeah, maybe you had it worse with your old man than I did, but believe me, I know what’s going on
in your head. I know you don’t want to hurt her. But you’re forgetting something.”
He didn’t want to ask, he really didn’t. But in the end, he couldn’t help himself. “What?”
“That you’re hurting her right now. That woman loves you.”
Quinn shook his head, started to tell Ryder that he was full of shit, but the lead singer wasn’t done
yet.
He put a hand on Quinn’s shoulder, then waited patiently until Quinn turned his head to look into his
eyes. “I saw her with you. I saw the way she looked at you, the way she smiled at you when you
weren’t looking. She. Loves. You. Fuck, if she didn’t, she wouldn’t take nearly as much joy in
tormenting you. Mayonnaise in your Twinkies, man. That’s serious commitment right there.”
Quinn chuckled at the memory, just like he knew Ryder had intended him to. But he grew serious,
fast, when he thought about everything that had happened after. “Micah could have killed her, man.
The doctor told me if she’d hit her head any harder we would have been dealing with a whole
different ball game. You think I can forget that? You think I can just put that out of my head? She
nearly died because of me. Because of decisions I made. That’s not okay with me.”
“She nearly died in that car accident a week ago, too, and that had nothing to do with you. Shit
happens, Quinn. Shit. Happens. That’s life. Yeah, we were stupid not to think that Micah would lash
out, but we won’t make that mistake again. You can’t live your life worrying about what might happen
or you’ll never do anything. You know that. I know you know that.”
Ryder was making sense, he was. But that didn’t seem to matter, not when all he could see was
Elise’s expression as she started to fall. Her head when it cracked against the table. Her face, pale
and tired, when she lay unconscious in that hospital bed.
“She’s better off without me,” he told Ryder, the words coming out a lot huskier than he’d planned.
“You don’t believe that.”
“I do. I end up hurting her every time I’m with her. That’s not okay.” He shook his head, tried to
beat down all the voices in his head that told him he was just like his father, that he would always hurt
the ones he was supposed to protect. “I need her to be safe. I need to let her go.”
He believed the words as he said them.
Believed them as he and Ryder finished their business in L.A.—which included getting the record
label to drop their contract with Micah in light of current circumstances. Going to rehab like Wyatt
did was one thing. But getting arrested for assaulting a woman…that was something else entirely, and
not something the record label wanted themselves, or Shaken Dirty, associated with. Nice, wasn’t it,
that all that had to happen for him to get what he wanted was for the woman he loved to be assaulted
by his fucking band mate.
He believed the words when he got on the plane, when he landed in Austin and drove by the W,
when he pulled up to his big empty house that had never felt empty when Elise was there. And he kept
right on believing them, right up until the moment he walked into his garage and saw his Harley.
His Harley.
She’d painted it hot pink, sprinkled it with silver glitter and bedazzled the entire thing with
rhinestones. Fucking rhinestones. It was the most horrific thing he’d ever seen. And yet …
He should have been mad. Should have been furious. That was his bike, his pride and fucking joy.
It was the first thing he’d bought when Shaken Dirty started making money and it would be the last
thing he got rid of if he ever went broke. And yet, as he stood there staring at his bike—which now
looked like it belonged to Princess Barbie instead of a rock star—all he could think about was the
fact that Elise would never again pull a prank on him. That she would never again look at him with
those wide eyes and pursed lips as she scolded him for pulling a prank on her.
It was like losing her all over again.
He reached out for the bike, ran a trembling hand over one of the hearts she’d shaped out of
rhinestones. Then fell to his knees beside it, head in his hands, tears leaking down his face.
For the first time, he thought that maybe Ryder had been right. Yes, he’d hurt Elise. Yes, Micah had
fucking hurt Elise. But so had her father, so had that car accident. So had life. And somehow,
somehow, she’d managed to get back up. To move past the shit and try to build a life for herself.
He tried to imagine how he’d feel if he could never play piano again, never play keyboards in
Shaken Dirty. He’d be a total basket case, a mess of epic proportions that no one could fix.
Elise had lost everything, and yet she’d somehow managed to forgive him for what he’d done to her
in the past. And she hadn’t blamed him for Micah , no matter how much he blamed himself. She’d
loved him and he’d walked away, too lost in his own fear—in his own self-pity—to understand what
he was doing to her.
To understand that he was hurting her more than her father or Micah ever had, or ever could.
The thought cut like a knife, and it made him reexamine everything he’d done since that night in the
recording studio. And everything he hadn’t done.
As he did, as he realized just how badly he’d let Elise down, guilt tore through him.
Shit. He’d made a hell of a mess. Too bad he didn’t have a clue how to fix it.
…
Elise ignored her brand new iPhone when it dinged with a text message. It was ten o’clock and she
was still in her pajamas, still in bed if the truth was known. Not because she was tired, but because
she was wallowing.
It had been ten days since she’d gotten out of the hospital. Ten days since she’d gotten on a plane
bound for Vermont because she couldn’t stand the idea of going back to the empty mausoleum of a
house she’d grown up in. in Chicago. Ten days since she’d walked away from Quinn for good. Or,
more accurately, since he’d sent her away. But this was her wallow. She figured she could remember
events whatever way she wanted to.
She reached for her notebook, the one she’d been writing music in since she got here. If anything
good had come from the last couple of weeks, it was that she’d discovered a new talent. She might
have lost the ability to play piano on a professional level, but she’d gained so much more—like the
knowledge that she could write a song.
She’d written six songs since she’d been here, all on her own. And they were good. Really good.
She could tell. Which meant that while her concert pianist days were over, her life in the music
industry could really just be beginning. There was so much she could still do, more than she’d ever
imagined when she was on the road. And writing songs, composing music, put her behind the scenes.
No more performing in front of crowds that made her nervous, no more stage fright at all. The thought
brought her more peace—if not joy—than she’d ever thought she’d find again.
It wasn’t a life with Quinn, with the man she loved. But as a consolation prize, it wasn’t half bad.
The phone dinged again, this time three times in a row, and finally she reached for it with a roll of
her eyes. She knew who it was—of course she did—because who else texted her besides Jamison?
She wasn’t in the mood to chat via text right now, and planned on telling Jamison just that. The last
thing she wanted to interrupt her wallow with was news of Quinn and how well he was doing.
But when she swiped her phone open, Jamison’s messages weren’t trying to cheer her up. Instead,
they said only, read this, xoxo, followed by a link.
She’d sent the same message four times in a row. It wasn’t the first time Jamison had sent her a link
—the woman had been bombarding Elise with messages and links and phone calls and funny stories
pretty much from the moment she’d gotten off the plane in Vermont. Funny, all it had taken for her to
gain a friend was for her to lose the only man she’d ever loved.
Clicking on the link—because she knew from experience that Jamison would just keep spamming
her until she did what she was told—Elise nearly gasped when a full color picture of Quinn posing
for Rolling Stone came up.
She started to close it—maybe one day she’d be able to see a picture of him without feeling like her
insides were being ripped out, but today was not that day. In the end though, she couldn’t help staring
at his face—all scruffy and scowly and hot, so hot. It should be illegal for any man to look that good,
especially when she was a total and complete mess.
Again, she started to close it, but that’s when she noticed the headline on the side of the picture of
the first time. “Shaken Dirty’s Quinn Bradford on love, music, and the proper way to grovel…(you
won’t believe your eyes).”
She couldn’t not look. Even as she told herself to put the phone down, to close her eyes, to do
something—anything—she had to scroll through. There was no article attached, as the pictures were
from a photo shoot that was only a couple of days old, but according to the cover pic, these were
supposed to run in the November issue.
The second picture had Quinn standing on the back porch at his house—she recognized the
architecture and the view—looking out over his land. The third picture was him in his music room,
sitting at the piano in nothing but a pair of those ripped jeans that looked so hot.
She might have whimpered a little—how could she not—when he was right there in front of her.
Right there. His eyes looked a little sadder than usual, his hipbones a little more defined. But he still
looked incredible. Sexy. Gorgeous. And it was killing her because she missed him and she loved him
and she wanted nothing more than to snuggle up next to him and lick her way down those gorgeous abs
of his. To take him on that piano bench the way he had taken her just two weeks before.
There were three pictures left, and though it was torture, she scrolled on to the next one. As it
popped up on the screen, she nearly dropped the phone. Because it was Quinn, looking dark and
brooding and hot as hell, kicked back on a motorcycle, with one foot up resting on the clutch lever. It
wasn’t just any motorcycle, though. It was his Harley. His hot pink, silver glittered, rhinestone
bedazzled Harley.
After staring at it in shock for a moment, she moved on to the next two pictures, which were also of
him and the motorcycle. One of him getting ready to ride it and one of him standing next to it.
These were going in Rolling Stone? These pictures of Quinn Bradford, rock and roll sex god, were
going in the premiere music magazine in the world? Him on a Barbie pink Harley?
Her mind boggled. It actually boggled.
She scrolled back to the cover, read the headline again. And suddenly it made so much more sense.
Love, music, and the proper way to grovel… Were these pictures for her? Was he willing to totally
tank his reputation, for her? And if so, what did it mean?
She sat there for a long time, scrolling through the pictures another time—or another dozen times,
but who was counting—as she tried to figure out what he was telling her. What this meant.
And the only thing she could get out of it was that this was his way of apologizing. Of groveling,
though she didn’t think it could actually be called groveling when he looked hotter than any man had a
right to, ever.
And still, she wasn’t sure. Still, she didn’t know if she was reading too much into the photos simply
because she wanted to. Simply because she loved him.
But she’d never know if she didn’t ask, right? If she ignored these, if she didn’t respond, she could
mess up everything.
Or she could end up looking like a fool, with her barely pieced together heart shattered all over
again. It was a daunting thought, a painful one, but as she stared at Quinn on the back of that bike, she
knew she was going to take the risk. Because she loved him. And because she had to try, one more
time.
Without giving herself time to think, she sprang out of bed. Yanked on the first clothes she could
find—a pair of jeans and a black tank top—then grabbed her phone and purse and ran for the door of
the small cottage she was renting. It might make more sense to call, but she needed to see him. Needed
to look in his eyes so that she could be sure. So that she could know.
She threw open the door, planning on making a mad dash to her car, but she never got past the
threshold. Because he was there, sitting on his bike and staring at the door—at her—like he’d willed
her to come to him.
“What—” Her voice broke and she had to start again. “What are you doing here?”
His grin was lopsided and a little sad, but his eyes were intense and determined and filled with…
love? “Trying to work up the nerve to knock on your door.”
“How’d you know where to find me?”
“Jamison.”
“Of course. Jamison, the double crosser.”
“She didn’t want to tell me. I begged her until she finally took pity on me.”
Her heart beat a little faster at his words. “Why did you care?”
He climbed off the motorcycle then, climbed the porch steps three at a time until he was just there,
in front of her. He looked tired and worn down and a little thinner than she remembered, but as he
stood there in front of her, face open and hands clenched at his side, he was the most beautiful thing
she’d ever seen.
“Because I love you. Because I fucked up. Because I need you to be safe and I was terrified that
being with me would only hurt you. Because—”
She reached out then, put two fingers on his mouth to stop the flow of words.
His eyes fluttered closed at the touch and for long seconds, they just stood there, so close that their
bodies were brushing together and yet still so far away.
Elise waited impatiently for him to open his eyes and when he did…when he did they were filled
with so much love and pain and hope and fear that it nearly ripped her heart in two. Because she knew
those feelings. She understood them. They were the same ones that were currently tearing through her
as well.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so so—”
She stopped him with a kiss. And not just any kiss. It was a kiss filled with ten days—and ten years
—of hurt and love and angst and pent up emotion. A kiss that had her knees knocking together and her
breath coming in short, uneven gasps as his lips devoured hers, his tongue thrusting inside of her
mouth to claim her as she so desperately wanted to claim him.
“It’s okay,” she said when she finally found the strength to pull back.
“It’s not,” he told her even as he continued to press kisses to her cheeks, her jaw, the spot behind
her neck that drove her crazy. “I fucked up bad and I hurt you, again. That’s the last thing I wanted to
do.”
She turned her head so that her lips met his again, and this time she lingered for long minutes, letting
her tongue trace along the full curve of his lower lip and the cold metal of his piercing before sucking
it between her teeth and biting softly.
He groaned, his hands going to her hips, as he kissed her back.
When she pulled away, he asked, “Are you going to let me apologize properly? And tell you how
much I love you?”
“It looks to me like you already did.” She looked down at the hot pink Harley he must have ridden
all the way from Texas and decided apologies were highly overrated. As was hanging on to hurts
from the past when the man she loved was standing here, humbling himself before her. How could she
dwell on a dismal past when he was offering her a hot pink Harley future? “Besides, you have the rest
of your life to apologize. Right now, I just want to ride off into the sunset with the man I love.”
He laughed then, a full-bodied sound that rolled through her, filling all the sad and scared and
empty spots that had been left behind when he’d walked away from her. She basked in the warmth,
basked in his love, and knew it was enough. More than enough.
“You know, sweetheart, I’ve performed a lot of crazy ass stunts since I’ve met you. But even I can’t
make the sun set ten hours early. Though I am happy to keep riding until I find you that sunset.”
And then he was picking her up, carrying her down the steps and depositing her on the back of his
Harley. As he climbed on in front of her, she couldn’t help admiring how the glitter sparkled in the
sunshine. Then again, everything seemed to be sparkling right now.
Love could do that.
Epilogue
Eleven months later
Her man was so hot. So fucking hot. Sometimes Elise had to shake herself in an effort to remember
that he was hers. That this was her life now.
After years of loneliness, of sorrow, she had him—and all of this—and it was better than she could
ever have imagined.
On stage, Ryder was belting out the lyrics to a new Shaken Dirty song, one that had debuted last
week at number two on the charts. One that Quinn and she had written on their honeymoon six months
before.
Beside her, Jamison and Poppy were rocking out to the music, hands clapping, feet stomping,
bodies shaking as the song brought down the house. She knew Cat and Vi were doing the same thing
backstage and usually, she’d be right there with them, lost in the music as it poured through the sold-
out stadium all around them.
But tonight she was too caught up in watching her man—her man—as he tore up the keyboards. He
was in the back near Wyatt, behind Ryder, Jared, and Drew, but that didn’t matter. As the concert
raged around her, as the fans screamed and the music wailed, Quinn was all she could see.
His eyes were dark with concentration (and looked incredibly sexy lined with guyliner—not that
she ever planned on telling him that), while his silky hair flopped sexily over his cheek and forehead.
His mouth was curved into a hot, seductive smile and his hands, dear God, his hands. She’d thought
there was nothing sexier, nothing more seductive, than listening to Quinn play a gorgeous piano
concerto. But that was before she’d seen him play with Shaken Dirty. Before she’d seen him own the
stage with his powerful talent and just as powerful music.
Because there was hot and then there was HOT.
Quinn Bradford had been born for rock and roll, born to play with Ryder and Wyatt and Jared and
the new bassist, Drew. His long musician’s fingers flashed over the keyboard as he threw his whole
body into the song that they had written while stretched out naked in their hotel room, a platter of
tropical fruit and even more tropical cocktails resting on the bed between them. It was the first song
they’d written together—just the two of them—but it wasn’t the last. They’d written half a dozen more
together and then she’d written a bunch more on her own for other musicians—it turned out all those
years of piano playing had given her a real knack for melody.
And the best part was she could write songs anywhere, even on the road with Quinn. Especially on
the road with him, since all the sex and laughter and pranks—yes, he was still pranking her and she
was still giving as good as she got—inspired her like nothing else could have.
It had been a crazy year, filled with ups and downs (more ups than downs, thank God) for the band
as they dealt with hiring a new bassist and blending their sounds together. They’d also had Wyatt’s
issues and Jared’s fall from grace to deal with, not to mention Drew’s demons and Micah’s continued
hatred. She had dropped the charges against him, refused to testify, in exchange for him leaving the
band without a lawsuit or a fuss. It had nearly killed Quinn to let her do it, but she’d known it was
what was right for him and for the band. Besides, she was fine—more than fine—and so were the
people she loved.
That was all that mattered.
The new album was triple platinum and they were already half done with writing the next one—
thanks to the songs she and Quinn couldn’t seem to stop writing. The critics were thrilled and so was
she. She finally had the life she’d always wanted. The fact that it was in the rock world instead of the
world of classical piano, only made it sweeter.
Or maybe it was Quinn who did that.
As the song drew to a close, he looked up. Despite the lights, despite the crowd, his eyes unerringly
found hers—just like they did every night at this time. As their gazes locked, as he looked at her like
she was the only thing that mattered even in the middle of all this, Elise knew that she’d found
everything she’d been looking for.
She’d found a home, a place where she belonged. A place where she could be loved. And it all
began, and ended, with Quinn fucking Bradford.
She’d never felt so blessed.
Acknowledgments
This was a rough book to write—for the longest time, Quinn and Elise simply wouldn’t cooperate.
But with the help of a few people, I managed to wrangle them into line. First of all, Emily McKay,
who gave me so many ideas for this story and who never got tired of early morning phone calls where
I whined and begged for help.
Katie Graykowski, world-class prankster and dear friend—thanks so much for the ideas.
Shellee Roberts, because you always know how to fix my stories. Stacy Cantor Abrams, who put
up with me messing around with the first half of the book long after I should have let it go.
Liz Pelletier for all the support.
Heather Howland for the kick-ass covers. I love them so much.
Emily Sylvan Kim for being the best agent a girl could ever have.
And finally, to my fans, who make writing my books so worthwhile. Your response to the Shaken
Dirty series has truly overwhelmed me and I am so, so, so grateful for your support. Thank you, thank
you, thank you!
About the Author
National bestselling author Tracy Wolff lives with four men, teaches writing to local college students,
and spends as much time as she can manage immersed in worlds of her own creation. Married to the
alpha hero of her dreams for twelve years, she is the mother of three young sons who spend most of
their time trying to make her as crazy as possible. Tracy is the author of numerous romances that run
the gamut from contemporary to paranormal to erotic suspense. Visit her online at
Discover the Shaken Dirty series with Ryder and Jamison’s story…
She’s totally off limits, but this rocker wants a taste…
a Shaken Dirty novel by bestselling author Tracy Wolff
After his fame destroyed his last girlfriend, rock star Ryder Montgomery swore he’d never fall in
love again. So when Jamison, his best friend’s little sister and the girl he’s been in danger of loving
for years, joins his band on the road, he’ll do anything to deny the sparks between them. But Jamison
is determined to show Ryder that he’s worthy of love— her love—and that she’s all grown up…and
ready to play.
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Check out Brazen’s newest releases…
When one touch isn’t enough, why resist?
a Falling for You novel by Nicolette Day
The long drive to her friend’s wedding is the perfect opportunity for Lilly Grayson to make sexy
Marine Nate Jennings desperate for a taste of what he gave up. And Nate wants a taste—so badly he
can barely keep his hands on the wheel. But the ghosts of his last tour still haunt him, and Lilly
deserves a man who can love her the way she deserves to be loved. And that can’t be Nate. Not when
he’s leaving again in two weeks, and this time, he’s not sure he’ll return…
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Four lessons, no strings…
a Dare Me novel by USA TODAY bestselling author Christine Bell
Detective Rafe Davenport makes Courtney DeLollis uneasy. She knows all too well what happens
when a man has too much control, but a deeper, darker part of her is fascinated by his need to
dominate in the bedroom. So when Rafe dares her to try four scenes, each designed to tease and
torment, Courtney reluctantly agrees. But once he has her on her knees, Rafe realizes that she might be
the one woman capable of bringing him to his…
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Competitors by day, lovers by night…
a Feel the Heat novel by Nicola Marsh
With her reputation on the line, reformed bad-girl Zoe Keaton heads to Italy to score a vital business
deal. Unfortunately, the guy she needs to convince is the wickedly hot—and totally closed-off—
Prince Dominic Ricci. When the queen’s matchmaking strands Zoe and the prince on the royal
family’s secluded island, Zoe vows not to mix business with pleasure. But the prince turns up the
heat, and the chemistry between them ignites. Is it just sizzling sex, or could an Italian prince with a
tragic past fall for a take-no-prisoners American?
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Letting go might be the key that unlocks her pleasure…
by Tori St. Claire
All Brad Steele wants is a scotch before he has to play nice in the first face-to-face meeting with his
co-counsel in an ugly divorce case, but instead, he finds her—a lush, inviting stranger whose dark
eyes invite him to sin. Under Brad’s guiding touch, attorney Cassie Blaire indulges a need she’s long
denied, receiving an education in desire that breaks all of her old rules…and explores tantalizing new
ones. But when she learns that Brad is her arrogant co-counsel, all of her objections will be
sustained…
He wants her. All of her.
a Line of Duty novel by Tessa Bailey
NYPD sniper Matt Donovan is in hell. Instead of driving his best friend’s little sister home from
college, he’s stuck with her roommate—a fresh-faced vixen with a body that makes grown men weep.
Matt’s attraction suits Lucy Mason just fine. He’s so hot that she lie d about her identity knowing he’d
never have his wicked way with his buddy’s sister. But Matt’s desires run deep—and dark—and
when her cover’s blown, he decides to teach Lucy what wicked really means.
Watch these Entangled rockers fall in love!
A rock star. The nanny. A love that could rock their world.
an Entangled Bliss novel by Farrah Taylor
The only thing rock star Marcus Troy loves more than making music is his kids. So finding just the
right nanny to take on tour with them is important—as is proving to his ex he deserves joint custody.
Falling for his employee wouldn’t just be fodder for the paparazzi: it could ruin everything.
Too bad the perfect nanny turns out to be beautiful, vibrant Ryan Evans. Ryan’s never left her
small Montana town before, so she jumps at the chance to see the country. And as much as accidental
fame doesn’t gel with shy Ryan, what does is her relationship with her capricious, smoking-hot,
shockingly good dad of a boss. Marcus is nothing like what she expected. But when the whole
world’s watching them, will life in the spotlight be too hot to handle?
Amazon | B&N | iTunes
A chef and a rock star. They couldn’t be from more different worlds…
an Entangled Indulgence book by Robyn Thomas
Rock star royalty’s favorite son, Jake Olsen, couldn’t help but interfere after listening to his future
brother-in-law talk non-stop about his ex-wife, Beth Carlisle. Jake decides that the only way to get
the groom’s mind off his ex-wife is to give her a fake fiancé.
Before Jake can convince Beth of his plan, he’s forced to move in with her to avoid the
paparazzi. Their instant attraction makes for a sizzling “first date”, but soon Jake’s fame gets in the
way and Beth wants out. Too bad Jake’s figured out just why her ex is so obsessed with her, and he’s
afraid he’s not going to be able to give her up either.
Now it’s up to Jake to convince this chef together they make the perfect recipe.
Love a man who takes care of his woman in more ways than one? Explore these Brazen titles,
where romance begins in the bedroom…
She thought she’d sworn off military men for good…
a Front and Center novel by Tawna Fenske
Sam Kercher is every inch a wickedly hot Marine. But when his best friends call in a favor, Sam is
forced to face an entirely new line of duty—playing nanny for their newly divorced sister and her
seven-month-old twins. Problem is, Sheridan has sworn off overbearing military men, so Sam must
hide his identity. And that he’s been ordered not to touch her. Ever. But even the most disciplined
Marine has weaknesses…and Sheridan is one Sam might not be able to resist.
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She’s running from the law, and the law wants her bad.
a Line of Duty novel by Tessa Bailey
Sassy bartender Ginger Peet just committed the perfect crime. Life-sized Dolly Parton statue in tow,
Ginger and her sister flee Nashville. But their new neighbor, straight-laced Chicago homicide cop
Derek Tyler, knows something’s up—something big—and he won’t rest until Ginger’s safe…and in
his bed for good.
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He’ll fight for her life. She’ll fight for his love.
a Fighting for Love novel by NYT bestselling author Gina L. Maxwell
When he learns a friend’s sister has forty-eight hours to make good on an ex’s debt to a crime boss,
former MMA fighter Aiden “Irish” O’Brien heads to Louisiana to offer himself up as collateral. But
to satisfy the debt, he has to do the one thing he swore he’d never do again: fight. With more than just
money on the line, can Irish reclaim the man he once was for the woman he can’t live without?
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Opposites don’t attract. They ignite.
a Maverick Montana novel by USA TODAY bestselling author Rebecca Zanetti
Juliet Montgomery fled to Montana to escape her not-so-law-abiding family, but when someone back
home finds her in the small town near the Kooskia reserve, sexy sheriff Quinn Lodge must push aside
his own demons—and try to contain his explosive attraction to Juliet—to keep her safe.
This soldier’s the perfect hoax…if she doesn’t fall for him first.
a Shillings Agency novel by NYT bestselling author Jen McLaughlin, writing as Diane Alberts
Stats whiz Kayla Moriarity is en route to her sister’s wedding—without the fictional boyfriend she
invented for her family. Fortunately, her plane comes complete with complimentary cocktails and
ridiculously hot ex-marine Cooper Shillings in the seat beside her. Soon, Kayla’s inhibitions are
sailing out the airlock. When he hears her predicament, Cooper offers to be her stand-in boyfriend.
All Kayla has to do is ensure her family falls for the ultimate bluff, without falling for it—and Cooper
—in the process…
