“What?” she managed to gasp.
“I’ll do what you want. Whatever you want.” His lips brushed her ear. Tingles erupted and danced across her skin, but what he’d said, what he was doing, penetrated. The offer wasn’t just for wild sex. Though he could take advantage of the lust raging through her, he respected her decision. Which brought home all the reasons he didn’t deserve the wrong choice.
She leaned back, unable to look at him, her arms trembling with the effort of denying them both. The guilt almost overwhelmed the need. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
He eased away, his hands sliding from her back to her upper arms, making sure she was steady, and then dropping when he’d put a foot of space between their bodies. “You’re sure.” Not a question.
Quinn nodded and finally met his eyes, regretting the sorrow she’d put there. “I have to do this. Please, please understand.”
He sighed and twisted to replace his chair on the tabletop. He stood with his back to her for a long moment, one hand still on the leg of the chair, before facing her again. “I won’t push anymore. Just…promise me you won’t…” He waved a hand. “You know. Get yourself into trouble.”
Her voice squeezed past the burning thickness in her throat. “I promise.”
They worked in silence to finish closing, their usual easy tandem punctuating the finality of her decision.
When they were done, Sam nodded and looked around, hands on his hips, clearly at a loss. “Okay. I guess I’m going home, then. You’re all right?”
Nick had told her to stick close to Sam, but there was no way she could ask him to stay now. She wished she knew how much longer Nick would be.
“I’m fine,” she lied. “Thanks.” She nudged him toward the door, turning him away from her so he couldn’t see the tears filling her eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Lock up after I leave.”
She closed the door hard behind him and twisted the lock so he’d hear it, then pulled down the blind. Sobs pushed upward from deep within her and she sank to the floor, covering her mouth to keep the sound from reaching Sam, whose presence she still felt on the other side of the wood. Finally, his boots crunched on the gravel, growing fainter with each step. When the familiar hum of his Camaro faded, she allowed herself to break down.
Quinn slept late the next morning. Her night had been full of erotic dreams, interrupted by abrupt waking to check the clock and try to call Nick, to no avail. Hoping some combination of rest, nutrition, and physical exertion would purge her system of the moon lust, she followed a workout with oatmeal and a shower. She was relieved, when she was done, to find herself less hungry. It wasn’t gone, but she could distract herself with work and by this time next week, maybe she’d be back to normal.
She took a deep breath before heading down the rickety staircase hugging the side of the building. Sam’s schedule had him there by ten or eleven most mornings, but she wasn’t sure what to expect after last night. Maybe he’d call in sick, or have cleaned out his things and left a letter of resignation on her desk. Maybe, in trying to preserve the most valuable thing in her life, she’d destroyed it.
Bracing one hand on the rough wood planks of the outer wall, Quinn yanked on the warped back door, taking a moment to prop it wide and let in the sunlight and crisp October breeze. Not stalling. Just…setting up.
She paused on the threshold to let her eyes adjust to the dim office. Her desk was how she’d left it the night before, with piles of invoices and orders to approve, checks to sign, and client files to review. Dust floated in the beam of sunlight that hit the floor in front of her feet. Quinn forced herself to look deeper into the room to Sam’s desk, usually as full as hers, if more neatly organized. She held her breath as her vision sharpened, and movement turned into Sam’s hand making sharp notations on a printed spreadsheet. He flipped open a file and tapped a few keys on his keyboard without looking up at her.
“How long did you sleep?” he asked.
Breathing was suddenly easier than anything she’d done so far today. Sam asked her that every damned morning. “Eight hours, thirty-three minutes.” Her perfect internal clock had amused and delighted him at first, then became nagging when he used it to manage her, whether over how long she’d slept, gone without eating, or focused on a client. But that was what he was paid for, after all, and she welcomed the symbol of normalcy. He nodded his approval and kept working. Quinn went to her desk and booted up her computer.
Sam said, “You hear from Nick?”
“No.” The ongoing lack of contact after the urgency of his call scared her. “Sam, I—”
He shoved to his feet and headed out front. “We’re low on vodka. I’ll pull some up.”
Quinn sighed and slumped. So much for normalcy.
It didn’t get better. Sam worked out front while she stayed in the office. When she went into the bar, he retreated to the back. She stopped trying to talk to him, hoping the space would be a buffer both for their personal and professional relationships, and for her fading moon lust.
There was still no word from Nick.
Finally, Quinn settled herself in a corner of the bar with her laptop to handle stuff that had piled up over the week, hoping her full e-mail in-box and the routine work, the easy decisions, would keep her eyes off the clock. Requests for appointments and vendor info she forwarded to Sam. Most of the rest was related to the Society. Quinn served as the board’s secretary, and many of her personal e-mails were about the annual Society meeting next week. Those she moved into a folder to address later. The official Society list e-mail was full of political posts, with elections coming up in November, but she skimmed and deleted most of them.
She’d gotten into such a rhythm that when Nick’s name appeared, it was a moment before her reaction caught up. The words were innocuous at first, so she didn’t understand the fear filling her until it merged with her ongoing low-level anxiety over last night’s phone call.
I plan to ask Quinn to put this on the agenda for the meeting, but I thought you should all know ahead of time, so you can be careful.
Nick Jarrett’s gone rogue.
Quinn pulled her cell phone out of her pocket to try to reach Nick yet again. This had to be why he was coming here—but what the hell did it mean and what did it have to do with her?
A crash on the other side of the room redirected her alarm. She was on her feet before she’d even spotted the source of the disruption.
“I’ll goddamn keep drinking if I wanna keep drinking!” An old man, greasy gray hair hanging below a dingy trucker cap, wobbled in front of his overturned chair, arms flailing. Despite his obvious intoxication, his aim was good enough to hit Katie’s tray and send glasses flying. Quinn stormed across the room, glaring at anyone who looked like they might want to join the fight. None of her regulars moved. Most had seen her in action, and they didn’t want to get involved. A few strangers half rose but subsided when they saw her striding to the rescue.
Not that Katie needed rescuing. Nearly as tall as Quinn’s five feet ten, the young woman had honed her manner and strength in New York City. By the time Quinn reached them, Katie was quietly telling the drunk how he was expected to behave in Under the Moon.
Quinn’s heart rate and footsteps slowed, ready to back up her waitress but also willing to let her handle it. Then the drunk fumbled a switchblade out of his pocket and flicked it open.
Shit. She lurched forward, but she was still too far away to do anything, and Katie hadn’t noticed the knife. Reacting on instinct rather than thought, Quinn snapped her fingers and opened her hand as the knife soared to it. Relief flooded her. Concentrate. This isn’t over yet. She squeezed the handle of the knife so no one could see her shaking.