Broken (43 page)

All the woman did was smile. “I’m Devon. Quinn’s sister-in-law. The man behind you is Luke—Quinn’s twin, although I guess you sort of noticed that part.”

Luke. He came around to stand by Devon’s side, putting his arm around her shoulders. Devon leaned into him, a gesture that looked so automatic, so natural. Envy welled within Sam’s heart, and she had to swallow around the knot that had once more taken up residence in her throat.

“What did you want to talk to Quinn about?” Devon asked.

“It’s personal,” Sam replied.

Luke was playing with his wife’s hair, Sam noticed. He had one long curl that he kept twining around his finger. Devon didn’t seem to even notice, too busy staring at Sam with blatant curiosity.

“Is he down in his apartment?” she asked. She was hoping Devon would say
No
.

All of a sudden, she wasn’t quite ready to face him.

Well, she hadn’t been ready, period. But now she felt even less ready.

She was terrified.

“He had to work today,” Luke said before Devon could answer. He glanced at his watch and then smiled at Sam. “We were actually heading out—going to meet him for dinner at some pizza place a few blocks away—Imo’s, I think.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I should have called.” Her heart sank. No, she wasn’t ready. But she was quite desperate to see him. Needed to see him, like she needed to breathe. She hoped none of her disappointment showed on her face. Forcing a smile, she nodded at them and said, “I’ll just talk with him later.”

“Why not now?” Devon cocked her head. Her hair, dark reddish brown, fell over one shoulder. A breeze kicked up, blowing one wild curl across her face. She brushed it back absently and gave Sam an understanding smile. “He called not long ago, said he’d meet us at the pizza place at five.”

“I don’t want to interrupt.”

Devon glanced up at Luke. Luke’s mouth curled into a smile, one that was so like Quinn’s it made her heart ache. “You won’t be. I’m not much in the mood for pizza, now that I think about it.”

Sam’s heart did that crazy little dance in her chest and then settled down to something resembling normal. “Are you sure?”

“Trust me.” Luke grinned. “My brother hasn’t exactly been in the best of moods lately. If I have to choose between dinner alone with my wife or having him growl at me, I’m choosing the dinner with my wife.”

THE place was packed. Especially for a Wednesday. Quinn had to fight to get a table and if he hadn’t already told his brother he’d be there, he wouldn’t have messed with it. Sitting at a small table that would seat two easily, three not so easily, he shot his watch another look.

Five twenty.

If Luke and Devon didn’t show in the next ten minutes, Quinn was leaving.

He wasn’t that hungry. Hell, he wasn’t really hungry at all, but Devon had mentioned it would be nice to have a meal together before they left in the morning, and he had a hard time telling her no.

Sighing, he slumped down in the chair. He was tired, tired down to his bones. Ever since he’d gotten back from Chicago, he’d been sleeping even less than normal, working twice as much as normal, and getting by on caffeine, peanut butter sandwiches, and not much else.

“We still waiting?”

Quinn glanced up at the waitress stopped by his table. She had a harried look in her eyes, and judging by the crowd gathered at the door, he figured she wasn’t too happy to have him taking up a table and just
sitting
.

His instinctive response was
tough shit
. But he kept the thought to himself and glanced at the menu on the wall over the cash register. “I’ll go ahead and take some wings and a coke.”

She nodded and headed off. Alone in the chaos again, Quinn rested his chin against his chest and let his tired thoughts drift. Voices rose and fell around him, laughter, the strident cry of an unhappy baby. He tuned it all out.

Distantly, he heard the staccato sound of heels striking the tile floor.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled as those heels came to a halt, stopping by his chair. From under his lashes, he stared at the booted feet just a foot away from his chair. The boots were black, judging by the tips that peeked out from under the long skirt. The skirt was black and close-fitting, clinging to long legs, round hips.

Blood started to roar in his ears as he forced his gaze higher.

Dark, velvety brown eyes met his. The floor seemed to drop out from under him and a hundred different sentences formed in his mind, then every last one of them got stuck in his throat as he tried to make himself speak.

Tried to make himself say something, instead of staring at Samantha McElyea like a fucking moron.

“Hello, Quinn.”

He couldn’t say a damn thing.

Her lashes flickered but nothing showed on her face as she gestured to one of the empty seats at the postage stamp-sized table. “Is it okay if I sit down?”

He could nod, he discovered. At least he could move. That was a good sign, right?

Sam settled in the seat across from his. She licked her lips, and Quinn found himself staring at her mouth, entranced. He wanted to do the exact same thing, trace his tongue over the path hers had taken, gather up her taste, feed on it. Then he wanted to pull her close and do it again. And again. But not just on her mouth. All over.

“I hope you don’t mind me showing up like this.”

He shook his head.

A brow winged up. She was wearing makeup, gold and green on her eyes that shimmered and glittered. Lipstick—dark, wine red lipstick—he wanted to see if it kissed off easy.

The blood in his veins heated, and inside the confines of his jeans, his cock started to ache.
Down, boy.

“Cat got your tongue tonight?” she asked, leaning back in the seat. She pushed a lock of hair back from her face, tucking it behind one ear. The hair was different, too, inky black and cut to chin length. She had six silver hoops in one ear. The other ear had just one earring, a silver cross. He wanted to nibble on that earlobe, he decided.

Sam sighed and Quinn swallowed as he once more looked into her eyes. “You going to even say two words to me?” she asked quietly.

He wanted to say those two words. Wanted to say a lot more. But he couldn’t quite manage it. He didn’t know what he wanted to say, or how to say it, or anything.

“Fine.” Sam’s shoulders went stiff and she sat up poker-straight in the chair. “I’ll just get this done and leave you to your lonesome.

“I’m sorry,” she bit off. “Yeah, you didn’t trust me, but I didn’t really trust you, either. So maybe we’re even.”

Even?
Frowning, he finally managed to get a couple of words out. “Were we keeping score?”

“He speaks . . .” Her smile was hard and cold.

Shoving back from the table, she said, “No, we weren’t keeping score. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”

She stood. Quinn tried to get his muscles to unlock. He needed to reach out and grab her. She was getting ready to walk away—

Her lashes fell over her eyes and her shoulders rose and fell, an uneven breath escaping her. Then she looked back at him.

There was a look in her eyes—fleeting, then hidden behind that cool mask. Her wine-slicked mouth curled up in a bitter smile and she said, “You have a nice life, Quinn.”

She was halfway to the door before he could make his body move.

She was on the deck, heading toward the ramp before he cleared the door.

But as she started to go down the steps, he caught up with her. “Wait.”

She stopped and glared up at him, her eyes flashing.

Quinn didn’t care. Using his body, he herded her back up against the railing and then put his arms on either side of her, caging her in.

“Wait for what?” she demanded. “Wait so you can sit there and just glare at me all night? I thought . . . I mean . . . hell. This
isn’t
easy, you know. I don’t know how to deal with this. I’m scared. I’m nervous. When I’m scared or nervous, I get . . .”

“Mean?” he offered, cocking a brow.

Her mouth twitched in a smile. “I was going to go with ‘bitchy.’ ” Then she sighed and looked away. “Neither one of us trusted the other, we both screwed up. You said your apologies and now I’ve said mine. I had to at least do that.”

“So that’s all you came for?”

Her shoulders moved in a restless shrug. “I don’t know. I really don’t know . . . maybe I thought . . . I dunno.” She rubbed at the back of her neck. “I just don’t know. Look, I’m done. We’ve said what we needed to say, so I’m going to go.”

“What if I haven’t said what I needed to say?”

She just stared at him. Her mouth, that soft, sexy mouth, firmed into a flat, unyielding line, and unable to resist, he dipped his head and rubbed his lips against hers. She held herself still, rigid, for the longest moment and then she sighed, her body softening against his, her mouth yielding to his.

But he didn’t deepen the kiss. Instead he lifted his head and stared down at her. “Seriously, Sam . . . why are you here? If you just wanted to say sorry, you could have sent a Hallmark card.”

She reached up and pressed her hands against his chest. Although it felt like he was cutting off an arm, he moved back and watched as she started to pace the deck. The heels of her boots made dull little clicking sounds with every step.

“Would you believe I’m not really sure?”

A group of people came out the doors and both of them remained silent until they had the deck to themselves. “You drive three hundred miles but you don’t know why?”

“I wanted to see you. Does that make more sense?” She jerked a shoulder in a restless shrug.

“Why?” When he’d walked away in Chicago, she hadn’t seemed to care all that much. She didn’t once tell him not to go, didn’t once call his name. In the month since they’d last seen each other, she hadn’t once tried to call. The first week, he hadn’t slept much more than an hour or so a night, hoping the phone would ring. But it never did.

She slid him a glance from under her lashes. “You heard about Morgan.”

“Yeah. That doesn’t answer my question, though.”

Sam made a face at him. “Give me a few minutes. Morgan’s gone. Since he never filed for divorce, Sarah gets everything.” Then she snorted. “Of course, there are some lawsuits in the works—Sarah will be okay, but she’s probably going to have to sell his business—stocks or whatever, maybe the house. But she came home . . . and she’s safe.”

“Good. But that’s still not an answer.”

“She’s safe . . . whether I’m there or not. Whether I’m a phone call away or not, she’s safe. She can get back to her life.” Sam shifted from one foot to the other and caught her lower lip between her teeth. “She can get back to her life . . . and so can I.”

She didn’t stay anything else, just stared at Quinn.

Brows dropping low over his eyes, Quinn studied her face. She was trying to tell him something—he thought. He was pretty sure. But what if he was wrong? His heart jumped and banged around inside his chest, and he found himself remembering the day they’d gone to the mall.
Pitter-pat
—that was what she’d said he was doing to her heart.

His heart was about to leap right out of him. But still, he was afraid to hope.

He reached up and was pleasantly surprised to see that his hand wasn’t shaking. At least not yet. Cupping her cheek in his palm, he rubbed his thumb over her lower lip. “So if you can get back to your life, why are you here?” he asked, his voice gruff, but steady enough. “You left your life behind in Chicago.”

“Part of it,” she said. She caught the tip of his thumb in her mouth and bit down gently. His cock jerked painfully inside the confines of his jeans. Then she turned her face into his hand and sighed, leaning into his touch. The ache in his dick was suddenly nothing compared to the sweet, painful clenching of his heart.

“Sam?”

Her voice husky, she said, “Yeah, I left my life in Chicago, but I think I left something more important here . . .” The words trailed off and a ragged sigh escaped her. She nudged him aside and started to pace. The narrow deck kept her from going too far. Five steps this way and then five steps back. “Quinn, I’ve been living a lie for so long, half of me has forgotten who I really am, and I never showed you
me
.”

She pushed a hand through her short dark hair, tugging on it. The inky, silken strands fell through her fingers to settle back into place.

Quinn frowned. “I didn’t fall in love with your hair.”

“It’s not the
hair
,” she said, scowling at him. She flicked the silver rings that marched in a neat little row in her left ear. Her right ear had only one, a silver cross that was close to two inches long. “It’s not about my
hair
. It’s about me. You fell in love with an illusion, a fake. Hell, what are you going to do if I go and put thirty pounds back on?”