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Sarah said sadly, “I don’t think I’m getting any.”
“What do you mean, you don’t think you’re getting any?”
Sarah shrugged. “Like I said yesterday, he acted weird after I made him come. I think he’s still in love with Erin.”
“Are you listening to this?” Wendy asked Asher. She looked back at Sarah. “Surely you don’t believe that, after he came to New York with you.”
“I just wouldn’t count on it, Wendy.”
“But I am counting on it!” Wendy cried. “The thought of you having fun sustains me, and if I didn’t have that, I’m not sure I could get through this.”
“Oh, Wendy,” Sarah said, putting an arm around her friend. “It’s a huge adjustment. The biggest. You’ll get the hang of it. I’ll come babysit. More country music stars will drop by to give you child care tips. And have you seen the way Daniel looks at you?”
Wendy shook her head, but she gazed at Sarah with new hope.
Sarah patted Wendy’s hand. “Heal up quick.”
As if in answer, Daniel’s hushed voice filtered in from the kitchen, then Quentin’s soft chuckle. Daniel appeared in the doorway. He gazed at Wendy nursing Asher for a moment. Wendy gazed placidly back. Then he rounded the end of the sofa and bent toward her. She turned her head, offering her cheek for a kiss. A peck on the cheek wasn’t what Daniel had in mind. He cupped her chin in one hand, turned her face to him, and kissed her deeply on the lips.
PDAs weren’t typical behavior for the two of them. Wendy had an outrageous mouth but otherwise was the picture of propriety at work. Daniel was reserved, even haughty, except when Wendy made him laugh. At office parties the two of them looked more like the handsome, fashionably dressed famous couples they represented than PR reps, and they held hands and grinned at each other in a way that made women less lucky in love, like Sarah, wistful with envy. Even Sarah hadn’t seen them kissing like this, though. She should have turned away. She didn’t.
Finally Daniel kissed Wendy once more, chastely, on the lips, and gave Sarah a knowing glance. Then he sighed, set his forehead against Wendy’s, and told her, “I’m going to take a nap.”
“Did Quentin kick you out of the kitchen?” she asked.
“He suggested I leave the cooking to him. I tried to cut something with a spoon.” He kissed her again and stroked Asher’s hair.
Then he moved down the sofa to face Sarah. “How long are you in Alabama?”
“Just a few more days,” she said brightly in case Quentin could hear her, “assuming the Cheatin’ Hearts’ Fourth of July concert goes smoothly.” She held up one hand and crossed her fingers, knowing as she did so that she was wishing away more time with Quentin—the thing she wanted most.
Watching the doorway, Daniel whispered, “He’s not really crazy. Or stupid.”
“I know,” Sarah said.
“And he’s very into you.” He eyed Sarah, waiting for her acknowledgment, until she nodded. He asked, “Is that okay with you?”
She didn’t want to admit it. Not to him, with Wendy watching. Because that made it so. But she swallowed and heard herself saying, “Yeah.”
Sarah and Daniel got along great—ever since the night two years ago when he saved Wendy’s life. But he wasn’t warm to anyone but Wendy, and that’s why what he did next seemed so strange. He put his hand on Sarah’s and said softly, “Call me if you need me.”
“Okay,” she said, watching him disappear down the hall. But she wouldn’t call him. Not to help her with Quentin, not to get her out of the mess with Nine Lives. PR reps couldn’t be associated with unsavory activity, because the press might latch onto a negative rumor and link it to the rep’s client. She wouldn’t jeopardize his career with the senator that way, and risk the stability of his little family, any more than she would tell Wendy the whole story of Nine Lives and ask her to cover for what Sarah had done.
She wished, once again, that her fellow Stargazer rep Tom was not in Moscow.
But Wendy had no idea how lost Sarah felt. She seemed awed only at Daniel’s intensity as she said, “I’m telling you, you’d better take advantage of this Quentin thing.” She handed Asher to Sarah and buttoned her shirt. She stretched out on the sofa, put her head on Sarah’s thigh, and was snoring softly in thirty seconds.
Sarah rubbed Asher’s back until she heard a belch, like she had seen people do on TV, then cradled him in one arm. He really was a beautiful baby. Not the least bit red or misshapen, like lots of the babies who had been brought to the office for show-and-tell. And he had the tiniest fingernails. She examined him for several minutes, coveting, contemplating how cool it would be to have one of these someday. Then she used the remote to turn on the TV to her mother playing poker.
After a while, Quentin brought in a bowl of salsa with tortilla chips and set it on the coffee table where Sarah could reach it and not disturb Wendy. He took Asher from Sarah expertly without waking him and sat in the chair beside her.
Suddenly starving, she crunched into a chip, then clapped one hand over her mouth in surprise. “The chip’s hot,” she whispered.
“Sorry,” he said, concerned. “I should have warned you.”
“No, not too hot. I’m not burned, just surprised. Did you cook these?”
“Yes! I told you I was making snacks.”
“You made the salsa, too,” she said, tasting it. “I expected something like homemade salsa, but not fried-before-your-eyes tortilla chips.” She tried another. “God, you’re good.”
“They had a brand of tortillas in the fridge that I trust not to kill me,” he explained. “When I start making my own tortillas, you can call an intervention.” He reached over without moving Asher and tried a chip himself. “Yeah, I did good this time. But don’t spoil your big dinner, now.”
Sarah wondered if he meant sex. Big dinner equaled a big steaming pot of sex. No, of course that was ridiculous. She’d been around Wendy too long. Quentin wasn’t subtle. If he wanted sex, he would say sex, not dinner.
She felt herself slipping into one of her vicious Quentin circles again. He said dinner, not sex. But he’d had his hand on her hand in the car. But he hadn’t made a move on her on the airplane. But he’d flown up here with her. But she didn’t want to have sex with him anyway. But she did.
It didn’t matter. After all, even if there was sex with Quentin in her future, it was just sex, not love. Other tough broads probably took a dip with a heartthrob every ten days or so. It was casual.
Flanked by Quentin and Wendy, her two dearest friends, Sarah was able to relax a little, enjoy the baby and the lazy afternoon, and watch her mother on TV win three hundred thousand dollars.
Quentin stared at the pack of condoms on the shelf. He was not going to have sex with Sarah. He hadn’t come to New York to break Rule Three. He’d come to protect her from Nine Lives and to visit the foundation. Now he would collect ingredients from this market, walk the block to her apartment, and cook her the best Indian she’d ever had. And get some shut-eye.
But what if an asteroid hit the earth? Surely that would override Rule Three. If he and Sarah were the last two people on the planet, he would have sex with her. And it would be better that she didn’t get pregnant until they were settled.
It was only a question of how many condoms he needed. Here was a pack of thirty-six. How many times a day would they do it? Maybe three times on average, between the hunting and gathering? So, this pack would last twelve days, and by then they would have found a reliable food source.
He laughed. Then he realized that the other customers were staring at him. If they’d known he was from Alabama, they would have assumed he was an idiot. If they’d known he was a recording artist, they would have assumed he was on coke. They knew neither, so he tossed the box in his basket and moved on.
As he picked through the potatoes, he reflected on how Sarah had looked when she was with Wendy. Open, unguarded, happy, with no trace of the poker face. He wanted to make her look like that with him. He’d already seen her like that a few times.
He moved into the spice aisle and thought about that beautiful, laughing look she had. The first time he’d seen it, he remembered foggily, was when he’d drunkenly kissed her against the refrigerator in his kitchen. He’d seen it again when he sang to her in the sound booth.
And she’d looked like that pretty much the whole day on her birthday. Not when she’d slapped him, but after that. And again the next morning, when he made her come in the shower. That’s what he wanted to see again, the way she looked at him when he made her come—
A bell rang as a customer pushed open the door of the market. Quentin realized with a start that he was having a professional-wrestling-style staredown with a jar of garam masala.
No. All thirty-six condoms were in case of an apocalypse, he vowed as he walked down the street with the groceries. He was not going to break Rule Three.
Her apartment building was within long walking distance of the hospital where the foundation was based. As Quentin unlocked the street door with the key she’d given him, he looked around and pictured what it would be like if he quit the Cheatin’ Hearts and went to work full-time for the foundation, even applied to medical school again, and moved in here with her.
That was his long walk, and this was his street. This was his classy lobby with enormous plants. This was his mirrored elevator, an interesting place to seduce her on their way back from a symphony concert some night.
This was a dangerous game he was playing, and he knew he was getting carried away, but he couldn’t help himself. This was his hallway. This was his door, with his key in the lock. This was his apartment—
Sarah leaned with her elbows on the kitchen bar and her chin in her hands, perfect ass thrust out casually, examining a sheaf of papers. Across from her stood what could only be her jackass ex-husband.
When Sarah heard Quentin come in, she straightened and beamed at him, but then her face fell.
Quentin dropped both sacks of groceries on the wood floor. “Get out,” he told the jackass.
“Quentin,” Sarah said, recovering a nervous smile, “this is my ex-husband, Harold—”
“I know who he is.”
“And we just need to work out some—”
“No,” Quentin said. “Get out.”
“Quentin—”
“I said no,” Quentin shouted. “Would you like him to go out the door or the window?”
Quentin had never seen Sarah point both toes in and fidget, pressing the side of her high-heeled shoe down to the floor and back up. She looked small and vulnerable without her poker face. And this hurt more, because seeing her unguarded was a big part of what he wanted.
“Just a second,” she murmured to the jackass. She clopped across the wood floor and touched Quentin’s elbow. “Can I talk with you privately for—”
“No, you can’t talk to me privately for a second and make it okay,” Quentin said. “It’s not okay. He has to go.” Quentin was about to add, I can’t believe you’d give this guy the time of day after he sent you flowers and divorce papers on your birthday, but that was just an excuse. It went way beyond that.
Sarah raised one eyebrow at Quentin. She whispered, “If you’re doing this to make him jealous, that’s nice, but you can stop now. I really need to talk to him about some retirement funds.” She watched Quentin carefully, and her eyebrow went back down. “You’re not bluffing.” She turned to the jackass and said, “You’d better go.”
The jackass took his papers, crossed the room, and paused at the door. Quentin was waiting for the jackass to touch Sarah, to lay one careless finger on her. But the jackass knew better. Avoiding Quentin’s eyes, he said to Sarah, “I’ll call you.”
“No you won’t,” said Quentin.
Sarah told the jackass, “Just call my lawyer, okay?”
She closed the door behind him and turned to Quentin, laughing. “Were you bluffing? Because that was really great.” Her smile faded when Quentin didn’t smile.
“I don’t want him back here,” Quentin said. “Do you understand me?”
She said, “Not really.”
He snatched the box of condoms out of the grocery sack and tossed Sarah over his shoulder.
14
Sarah had been a fool to tell Quentin she didn’t like to be picked up and carried around. Because she did. She felt her ni**les hardening, straining against her bra, as she watched the hardwood floors pass under her, through the living room, down the hall, into the bedroom. He threw her roughly onto the bed and pulled off her sandal.
Only, he wasn’t full of fun as he’d been the other times he’d carried her. “Quentin,” she said, but he was gone, just a body sliding his hands over her body. He wasn’t looking at her face. Her other sandal was off. He tugged her shirt over her head, then pulled off his shirt with one motion of his thick muscled arm.
“Quentin, what’s the hurry?” She tried to keep her voice even. “Let me catch up with you.”
His black-green eyes finally flicked up to meet her eyes. Holding her gaze, he said in a voice so low that she could hardly hear him, “I can’t pretend this is casual anymore.” He brushed a strand of pink hair out of her eyes. His hand was shaking.
He kissed her, a deep, dark kiss that possessed her. Her body rushed to meet him.
He continued to kiss her as his hands moved over her. He pulled at her bra, her pants, her panties. He pressed two big, callused fingers inside her.
