Playing Dirty Page 10

  Sarah said gravely, “We need to remember that we’re just doing this to make Erin jealous.”

  “I guarantee you Erin doesn’t have any problem about what she does with Owen,” Quentin said. This had better not be true. “It’s okay to have fun,” he went on, rubbing Sarah’s arm. “Come back tomorrow.” He kissed her tenderly, letting his lips linger on hers.

  “I don’t think we should go this far anymore,” she breathed.

  “We’ll see,” he said.

  He watched her walk all the way through the garage in her tight pants. Then he closed the door and banged his head against it.

  Martin’s voice traveled up the stairwell from the studio. “I’m assuming from the thud that you didn’t break Rule Three.”

  Martin was usually more savvy than this. Quentin was shocked that Martin would give away one of their rules to the technicians in the control room. Then, calculating from the fading light outside, he realized that it was later than he’d thought. The technicians had gone home for the night. Time flew when you were having fun. Or pleasuring a woman who was out-of-bounds. Either one.

  Quentin said wearily, “No, I didn’t.”

  Owen’s voice came echoing up next. “It sounded like you were breaking Rule Three.”

  “I had to do something,” Quentin said in his defense. “You should see this woman’s underwear.”

  “Don’t get too close to her, Q,” Erin warned him.

  “Erin, I’m sure your underwear is very nice, too,” Quentin called down to her. “The finest Target has to offer.”

  Last came Mrs. Timberlane’s weak voice. “Did you use a condom?”

  Without comment, Quentin closed the door to the stairs and opened the door to the pantry. He’d feel better if he made some tarka dal. But the lentils had to simmer for a whole hour. Or jehangiri shorba.

  That’s when he saw the note he’d taped inside the pantry door to remind Owen of the code so he could let the pizza guy in the security gate.

  Sarah didn’t have eyes the back of her head. She just had eyes.

  Well, Owen might not be able to remember the gate code, but he was good with gadgets. He probably knew how to change the gate code, so that Sarah couldn’t come over at will.

  But Sarah had liked popping in. And Quentin liked that she had popped in. If she had to wait at the bottom of the driveway for someone to open the gate for her, maybe she wouldn’t come over as often.

  He wouldn’t change a thing.

  5

  I wonder if they have e-mail in jail in Rio

  Love

  Nine Lives

  Good question, Sarah thought as her muscles tensed and her body flushed with adrenaline, ready for fight or flight. Staring at the innocent-looking e-mail message on her laptop in her hotel room, heart racing, she thought back to Rio several weeks ago. Her impression of the jail was fuzzy. When she was there, she hadn’t slept in two days. But she didn’t think inmates would have access to e-mail. As a general rule, there was no e-mail access in a facility smelling that strongly of urine.

  Nine Lives could have gotten his bodyguard or his driver or another member of his entourage to e-mail her. But that would mean they were all at leisure to worry about her rather than jail.

  If he was still in, he wouldn’t be there long.

  Now that the first rush of panic had lifted, she shivered. After she’d left Quentin’s mansion last night, a rainy front had moved through, ushering in a rare cool June day. Natsuko couldn’t show vulnerability by shivering, even in her thin, revealing blouses, so all morning Sarah had moved through the office punching buttons on the computer and the telephone with icy fingers.

  She resisted the urge to soak in a warm bath to regain her circulation. She couldn’t receive this implied threat from Nine Lives lying down and babying herself. She had to take care of herself, and take action.

  The action she was thinking of involved Quentin. But of course she did not want to see him, and she was not going to repeat last night’s dangerous walk on the wild side. She would use him and be through.

  Half an hour later, as she stepped carefully into Quentin’s kitchen so her high heels wouldn’t clop on the marble, the bite of spice hung in the air. He was bent under the cabinets, putting away pans.

  “Working hard on my album?” she asked sarcastically.

  He started up against the counter, brushing against a colorful jar of some foreign ingredient. It fell and broke on the floor with a pop.

  He turned. She could tell from his expression that he was prepared to make a sarcastic remark in reply. But when he saw her, his face changed to concern. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she said casually. “What excuse were you about to make for not working on my album?”

  “I am working on your album.” He grinned, scooping up the broken jar with a wad of paper towels and dumping it into the garbage.

  “You say that every time I come over here. And every time I come over here, you’re getting drunk, or watching Masterpiece Theatre, or cleaning your kitchen. All of which makes you a fairly well-rounded person, but not a person especially inclined to finish an album in five days.”

  He took a step toward her.

  She took a step backward.

  He looked disappointed. “Does it feel cold in here to you?” he asked. When she nodded, he moved to one side of the kitchen and adjusted the thermostat on the wall. “Somebody’s working on the album. When it comes to recording, I’ve got the easy part. Bass guitar and lead vocals are straightforward. It’s the other instruments and the background vocals that change how the song sounds, and that’s what has to get planned out.” He turned back to her. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Not able to meet his green eyes, she looked past him into the kitchen. “What have you been cooking?”

  “You mean food? Indian.”

  “Indian! What kind?”

  “Baingan bartha. Want some?”

  Despite yesterday’s delicious breakfast and the current mouthwatering smell, Sarah was dubious of the hunky hick’s skills with Indian. Besides, she’d already eaten a granola bar for lunch. She asked, “Isn’t that a professional wrestler?”

  “Big Baingan Bartha? Yeah, I think he had a meet with Mad ‘Red’ Mud in Tallahassee one time. Come with me.”

  He pulled her by the hand to the sofa and vaulted over the back of it, onto the cushions. She’d noticed that there wasn’t much room to move at the open end of the sectional, nearest the TV. Quentin seemed content to vault over the back of the furniture. Bachelors. He’d be sorry when he wore out the springs underneath the leather. Or not. He was rich. And he was rarely here.

  Too late it occurred to her that Quentin was playing an encore of last night’s performance. He pulled her tumbling across the back of the sofa and pinned her to the cushions. His hands were heavy on her wrists, his green eyes were hungry, and the red T-shirt he wore made him look handsomely evil. When his lips brushed hers, it took everything she had to turn her head and put the freeze on him.

  It had been a good plan. It was still a good plan. It was working. Erin had been decidedly uneasy at breakfast yesterday, and had whispered angrily with the others when Quentin took Sarah upstairs last night.

  Sarah might just pull this off. She might get Erin back with Quentin, keep the group together, get out of this mess with Nine Lives, keep her job, and live happily ever after.

  Or as happily as possible with a broken heart, if she fell for Quentin in the meantime. She could put the freeze on him all she wanted, but Quentin melted her.

  Since she wouldn’t give him her lips, he chose her neck instead, nipping deliciously. He growled in her ear, “If you were my girlfriend, I’d take you upstairs again.”

  A wave of desire swept over her, so strong that it actually forced her up to meet him. That had been one excellent orgasm, and she needed another.

  He was offering to give her another, as if it were nothing. Because it was nothing to him. She was nothing t
o him. She might let him kiss her and fondle her, but she would always remember what it meant: nothing.

  Now a shiver coursed through her and she pushed him off. “I’m not your girlfriend.”

  “You look like my girlfriend,” he said stubbornly. Then he seemed puzzled. “Or do you? You look different.” He ran his hands through her hair, flopping her locks this way and that. “No, that’s not it,” he concluded. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  She folded her arms and tried to rub away the chill bumps with her hands. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  He edged closer to her. “Tell me what’s wrong or I’ll hold you down and make you come right here.” He stood and reached to the coffee table for the TV remote control. “I’ll make you come while we watch NASCAR.”

  She asked him quickly, “Do you know anything about guns?”

  He sat down beside her again. “I live in Alabama, don’t I?”

  She took a deep breath and asked, “Would you go with me to buy a gun? I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  He eyed her. “Sounds like a good reason not to buy a gun.”

  “This had crossed my mind,” she admitted. “You can teach me how to shoot it. Do you know how to shoot one?”

  “Everybody in Alabama learns to shoot a gun when they’re ten years old.”

  “Well, maybe boys do.”

  Now he looked at her hard. She was sure she’d given herself away. He was going to call her bluff and tell her she’d grown up in Alabama.

  But what he said next caught her totally off guard. “Tell me what happened to you in Rio.”

  She suppressed another shiver. “No,” she said with finality.

  He continued to give her that hard look, trying to read her. “If I take you to a firing range,” he asked eventually, “will you wear a bikini?”

  He had to be joking. He didn’t look like he was joking. And Sarah didn’t own a bikini. But if Quentin would teach her to shoot, she might buy a bikini. She might shoot in the nude if he would just teach her.

  “Never mind,” he said before she could respond. “I can’t ask you to do that. The firing range is out in the woods, and there are chiggers.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got something I need to do in a minute, and then I’m laying down some tracks with Martin. But when we’re done, I’ll take you to the firing range. We’ll bring Martin. He’s a much better shot than I am.”

  “Can’t you see that I’m serious about this?” she cried.

  Quentin put a heavy, warm, calming hand on her thigh, saying, “He should be sober by then.”

  A cell phone rang. He pulled his from his back pocket, glanced at it, then used the remote to turn the TV to the channel that showed the feed from the camera at the security gate. “Oh, it’s Rachel.” Lowering his voice, he told Sarah, “I’m going to run down there and have a word with her about Martin before she drives up.” He handed Sarah his phone. “Don’t press seven to open the gate until I wave to you.” He jogged through the kitchen. She heard the door to the garage close behind him.

  She shivered once more, hugged herself, and pessimistically surveyed the utilitarian room for a blanket. Then a movement on the TV screen caught her eye. She recognized the flash of cargo shorts and strong leg as the camera caught a glimpse of Quentin climbing over the high fence.

  This didn’t say much for security at the mansion.

  As he jumped down from the fence, Rachel smiled up at him. He let himself into the passenger side of her car. Their faces grew serious as they talked with their heads close together. Rachel appeared to be pleading with him, brows knitted. He shook his head no. Rachel reached forward, put her hands around his neck, and pretended to choke him. Sarah knew the feeling.

  Behind her, “Stars Fell on Alabama” beeped on another cell phone. Martin called from the control room stairs, “Someone’s at the gate, wanting in. Has anybody looked at the TV feed? Oh, greetings, Sarah.” She turned around to face him. With his phone still beeping in his hand, he stared past Sarah at Quentin and Rachel on the TV.

  And he was gone again, running out of the room and slamming the door to the garage behind him.

  Sarah wasn’t sure what was going on, so she stayed put, waiting for Quentin’s signal to open the gate. As she watched, a flash of jeans leg signaled that Martin was climbing the fence. Quentin glanced up at him. Rachel called to him.

  Even though Quentin probably had two inches and forty pounds on him, Martin put his hands on Quentin and hauled him backward through the open window, over the closed door, out of the car, and onto the pavement.

  White lights flashed in the bushes beside the gate. The paparazzi. With cameras.

  Sarah pulled off her heels, dashed to the bag she’d left on the counter, dug out her billfold, and sprinted out the door and down the driveway on bare feet.

  She knew she had thirty hundred-dollar bills, washed and dried and looking somewhat the worse for wear after their dip in the pool, but spendable nevertheless. That wouldn’t have been nearly enough for the professional paparazzi in Rio, but it might suffice for the ragtag crew working Birmingham. If not, she had her checkbook. She couldn’t use a Stargazer check because the company didn’t want to be linked to a traceable payoff, but maybe the paparazzi would take a personal check. And maybe Sarah could expense it. She should check with Wendy about expensing bribes.

  At the end of the steep driveway mottled with shade, the tall gate was open. Rachel was out of her convertible, screaming at Martin—which seemed very strange to Sarah. She’d hardly been able to make out Rachel’s demure voice at the office. Martin sat on the hood of the car, breathing hard, taking it.

  Quentin stood to one side, breathing hard, too, hands on his hips, a streak of dirt across his red shirt, dried leaves in his hair, as if there had been a scuffle in the landscaping. When Rachel took a breath, Quentin broke in to holler at Martin, “Why in God’s name would you think Rachel and I were cheating on you?”

  Martin might have been shamed into silence by Rachel, but he obviously didn’t feel the same way about Quentin. “Because that isn’t against band rules!” he shouted back bitterly.

  Sarah had no time for this. Quentin said, “Hey,” as she dashed behind him, but she didn’t slow down. She ran past him to where the cameras in the bushes still flashed. She opened her billfold before she even stopped.

  Quentin swept her up from behind and threw her over his shoulder. When she struggled, he simply adjusted his hold so that she was completely immobile. He hiked up the driveway with her as if she were a roll of carpet.

  “The deal is off!” she told his very nice butt. “I’ll consult you about doing late-night talk shows. But if you won’t let me bribe your way out of trouble, I can’t do my job!”

  “Let me explain something to you,” Quentin huffed, still catching his breath. “I work hard to plant stories. We’ve got to give the newspaper material for the Cheatin’ Hearts Death Watch. When the newswire picks it up, it can make every newspaper in the country, all for free. But if we don’t give them anything to gab about, they bump us and fill that bottom corner of page C1 with a recap of last night’s reality shows. You think I want you to erase a story I didn’t even have to work on?”

  “But you’re trying to get Erin back!” Sarah reminded him, her voice sounding hollow now that they’d entered the garage. “She’ll see your fight with Martin in the newspaper and think you were coming on to Rachel!”

  “No she won’t. She knows I wouldn’t do that to Martin and Rachel.” He opened the door and carried Sarah into the kitchen.

  Sarah wasn’t following his logic. Erin would know his intentions were honorable, after all Erin and Quentin’s nasty breakups in the past? Sarah was losing her battle of wits with him because she couldn’t even see the battlefield. “Put me down,” she said suddenly. “I don’t like it when you pick me up and toss me around.”

  Effortlessly he flipped her off his shoulder and set her lightly on the marble floor. “You don’t?”

  “No. It
makes me feel like I’m out of control.” Which she was.

  “I could have sworn you liked it. Is it cold in here to you?” He bent to peer at the thermostat on the wall again. “I turned this up already, didn’t I?” He faced her. “You think I have the hots for Rachel ?” he asked incredulously.

  “No . . . ” Sarah slipped her feet back into her high heels. “But Martin seemed pretty convinced of it when he ran down there and hauled you out of the car.”

  “Martin’s on heroin,” Quentin said dismissively. “He hasn’t seen Rachel all week, because she won’t come over here while he’s using. I had a devil of a time getting her to show up today. That’s what I was talking to her about. I tried to convince her to come all the way up to the house, make Martin win her back, make him realize what matters.”

  “Properly executed, that’s called an intervention,” Sarah informed him acidly.

  “I told you.” Quentin’s voice rose for the first time. “Erin and Owen will kick him out of the band. And the band and Rachel are all that’s keeping Martin on this earth right now.”

  Sarah didn’t ask again why Quentin hadn’t gotten kicked out of the band for using coke, because she knew the answer. Quentin was different. Quentin could get away with anything. That was part of his problem.

  The door from the garage into the kitchen slammed. Quentin went on in the same loud tone, “Anyway, I’m glad Martin and I put on a good show for the cameras. But he’s not really mad. Are you, Martin?”

  Martin, glasses even further askew than usual, indicated that he was, in fact, angry with Quentin and Rachel for sneaking around and plotting behind his back. He directed a stream of obscenities toward Quentin that would have made Nine Lives’ driver blush. Then he stomped down the stairs to the control room.

  “I’d better go record your album,” Quentin told Sarah. “Please tell me you’re not really mad.”

  Sarah folded her arms against the cold. “Are we still on?”

  “Of course we’re still on! I never meant—”

  She threw her billfold at her bag on the counter. “Where’s Erin?”