Broken At Love (Whitman University) (6 page)

I steered past the guard booth at his estate on the outskirts of town, waving to Ernie on my way through the wrought-iron gates, then parked with two wheels on the grass because Teddy hated it.

Inside, Angelica tried to take my jacket and keys but I refused. The crazy Haitian woman had practically raised me, would do anything for me except defy my father, since he’d made it clear her green card would disappear if she crossed him on my behalf. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek—the only person who could get away with touching me uninvited.

“I won’t be here long, Ang.”

The hallway was dark and silent, lining my path like a gauntlet of lonely memories. Behind ornately carved oak doors, Teddy paced in his office. Wine-colored velvet drapes blotted out the midday sun and his steps made no sound on the thick shag. A massive cherry desk sat between the windows, flanked by bookcases filled to the brim with volumes I’d never seen him read. Paintings valuable enough to feed a Third World country for a year filled the remaining wall space.

“Good morning, sir.” I dropped into one of the two leather chairs facing his desk when he didn’t acknowledge my presence. My head pounded, apparently immune to ibuprofen.

He crossed behind the desk, sank into the massive captain’s chair, and sighed. “I thought it was time for us to have a frank discussion about your future, and how our relationship might be mutually beneficial.”

The words snapped my head up, my attention pulled from trying to figure out where he stashed his Cuban cigars. The last time he wanted my thoughts on something business-related was…never. In spite of all the times I’d been disappointed, a tiny hope flickered so far inside me I only saw the shadows it cast.

“Of course. I have a ton of ideas on how we could expand our coverage to grab the twentysomethings—they have more money than people think, and advertisers…”

I stopped when I saw the look on his face. Exasperation and disgust. “You don’t want to discuss my future with the company.”

“Hardly. You’re not built to run a media conglomerate, Quinn. Shit, you couldn’t even run a tennis career.”

If the man had left me with any kind of a heart it would have sunk into my ass. The worst part was, he wasn’t wrong. “Then what is it? I had better things to do today.”

“My apologies if my summons interrupted yet another round of Russian roulette with the ovaries of Whitman University.” He shot me the famous Teddy Rowland smirk. “We all know you don’t have a great track record of coming out on top where Russian toys are concerned.”

The insult hit below the belt but I tried not to let him see the wound. If my father had taught me anything, it was that a good poker face could hide your emotions so well you’d forget where you stuffed them. So I smiled back. “I’d hate to disappoint any ladies looking to take advantage of my reputation.”

The playboy rep was the one thing that got under Teddy’s skin. He wanted nothing to do with me personally, but I was his only true son and presumably, as far as the public was concerned, his heir. My behavior reflected poorly on the company.

Maybe I’d give a shit, if it were going to be my company.

“There is a ribbon-cutting ceremony next week at the new art museum the company donated to the university. Since you’re a student, the press will expect you to be at my side for the event. I’d appreciate it if you could be there. And be sober.” My father narrowed his gaze at me. “If you ever hope to convince me I’m wrong regarding your ability to take on a role at Rowland Communications, this would be a good start.”

It was a dangling carrot. At best, he’d let me sit like a puppet on the board of directors at some point. For all the things he was, my father was not the kind of man to toss me out on the street without an inheritance. If he were going to do that he would have done it already.

Without a tennis career, though, I had no choice. At least puppets could drink whiskey and live in houses on the beach. “Sure. Whatever. Am I excused?”

He waved a hand, already focused on some reports in front of him. I left the room, closing the heavy oak doors behind me with a soft thud. The house sprawled over several acres—the twenty-room beachfront estate could fit inside it twice—but I’d never felt comfortable here. As a teenager I’d moved into the guest cottage out back to get away from the suffocating quiet that only billions of dollars could buy.

“You are well, Mister Quinn?” Angelica slid my jacket over my shoulders at the front door, turning me to face her so she could adjust my tie.

“I’m doing fine.”

She pulled me into a hug, which I didn’t return. I never did, but it didn’t stop her from trying, which made me the slightest bit warm. Her chubby hands gripped my cheeks, forcing me to look at her. They smelled like onions and pine floor cleaner. “You no let him ruin you, Mister Quinn. You are good boy.”

That she thought me a good boy throbbed a dull ache in my gut that might have been guilt. Or it might have been withdrawal from the booze.

“Okay, Ang.” I gave her my standard response, then stepped away.

Out in the car, I stared at the house my father had built with his sheer force of will. Probably more than a few legal breaches, too, though I’d never seen proof of anything. I put the giant brick, black-shuttered monstrosity behind me, still mulling over Angelica’s mantra.

My father hadn’t ruined me. It was impossible to ruin a person who had never been formed correctly to begin with, but I had ruined a few people of my own over the past several months.

Emilie’s smooth, peachy cheeks and coal black eyes rose in my mind. The fact that she’d not only refused me, but left the damn party all together and hadn’t returned, intrigued me more than a little. For the first time in a while I felt the rise of competition in my blood, the desire to spar with an opponent. I almost hoped she’d be harder to bed than I expected.

My mind’s eye wandered back over the way Alexandria’s t-shirt stretched over Emilie’s much fuller chest. Not to mention her trim waist, and the way those legs looked in shorts. I imagined her skin, the indefinable color of cream swirling into a cup of coffee, and what it would look like under my hands when I won.

Because I would win. My father couldn’t ruin me further, but I planned to deliciously defile Emilie Swanson as soon as she’d let me. I might even enjoy it.

Chapter Six

Emilie

“So what happened with you and Quinn the other night? Obviously something, so don’t give me that
nothing
bullshit again.”

I sighed, setting my paintbrush down and peering around my canvas at Ruby. She sprawled on the old comfortable couch I kept in the studio for nights that got away from me. Ruby raised her threaded eyebrows expectantly.

She hadn’t given up over the past two days; I may as well have confessed everything immediately. There wasn’t even really a reason to play mysterious, because nothing
had
happened, but I knew Ruby would blow it out of proportion.

“Nothing, Rubes. I spilled an Irish Car Bomb on your dress, he took me upstairs to change clothes,
wekissedandIleft.
”

Mumbling the last part didn’t work. Ruby shrieked loud enough to mate with the mastiff that lived in the space above me, then shoved herself between my canvas and me.

“You kissed? Emilie Ofelia Swanson, I can’t believe you held out on me! Spill.” Her blue eyes sparkled, mischievous but also a little hurt.

I should have told her right away. I don’t know why I didn’t.

The painting behind her whispered my name, calling me back to the canvas. It wanted to be created, and if I could finish it by next week it might be my centerpiece in the show. Quinn was to thank for that inspiration, in a way, but the work would have to wait. My eyes slid back to Ruby.

“Seriously. Everything. Who kissed who?”

I searched my memory, the exact actions leading up to the moment clouded by hormones and whiskey. “It was mutual, I think. I mean, he kissed me but I let him? Maybe?”

“How was it?”

“You saw him, Ruby. How could it be anything but sexy as hell?” It had been more than that, too. Some kind of force. The idea that I wanted to taste him had been first in my mind, a thought I never remembered having before in my life.

And he was delicious.

“Sexy as hell. That about sums it up. Sexy but dangerous. Like hell.”

“Dangerous? He wouldn’t have hurt me. He was surprised I didn’t want to sleep with him, but he didn’t attack me,” I explained, feeling the need to defend Quinn for some reason.

“No, I don’t mean that. Dangerous as in, you’ve got a thing for him.”

“I do not.”

“Emilie. Come on. Every girl on this campus has a thing for him, not to mention every girl in the world between puberty and menopause. But he’s not the type of guy you fall for. He’s maybe the kind of guy you have amazing sex with for a couple of nights, but we both know that’s not your style.” Ruby pursed her lips. Her arms crossed in front of the small chest she hated, and she eyed me like a prison guard waiting for an inmate to make a run for it.

When she and I first met that might have been my response—to run. Ruby had seemed so glamorous then; she was the girl the boys wanted to talk to at the parties or clamored to accompany to a sorority function. It wasn’t like I came to college a virgin but she definitely outranked me in experience.

“He’s gorgeous, but trust me, I know what I’m dealing with in Quinn Rowland. Maybe I just wanted to see what it felt like to kiss him.”

“Mmhmm. And maybe you just want to see what it’s like to see him naked, too?”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean he’s interested. I’m not exactly his type. And even if I were, I’m not sure I could stand to be a notch on some guy’s belt.”

The memory of my body, pulled toward his like he had magnets under his skin, made me tingle all over again. The last time I was attracted to a guy that strongly was…never. My serious high school relationship had been all butterflies and the bumbling sweetness of first times. That, plus one fun and flirty summer fling, made up the total of my sexual experience and neither came close to what I felt sitting on that bed.

Maybe being a notch
was
worth snapping up that experience.

“Okay first of all, you’re everyone’s type. Besides the gorgeous face and fantastic tits—so jealous of your rack and you know it—the rest of you is perfection. Quinn would have to be dumb and blind to not want to bone you, and everyone knows he’s not that discerning anyway. The question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t…I don’t think I can just sleep with him.”

“I don’t think he’s the dinner and a movie type.”

Even the thought of that made me laugh, but the smile dropped off my face soon enough. She was right. I wasn’t the jump-into-bed-with-the-campus-heartthrob type and Quinn didn’t seem keen on even a short-term fling, outside of his strange party relationship with Annette.

Something about her story bugged me—even though I’d been attracted to Quinn in the room, it had never crossed my mind that he might be interested in more than the night, or a couple of romps at the most, and I didn’t know how she thought he would, either.

It all felt like an orchestrated series of moments, somehow.

Except that last one, when my teasing had gotten under his skin and his temper escaped. What he said about his ex and his father, his career, that felt real. And maybe the discussion on the stairs. He couldn’t have faked the familiarity with the art world or knowledge of painters. It drew me to him even more, to know we shared a passion.

I slid a practiced gaze toward my best friend. “Maybe he’s different than people think, Rubes. There must be more to him than parties and girls, and I sensed something.” Ruby rolled her eyes and my hands curled into fists. “I
did
.”

The contempt on Ruby’s face turned to compassion, because for all her brash and borderline insensitive commentary, she cared about me. Her fingers loosened my fists, then squeezed. “If you want to get mixed up with Quinn, you have my blessing. If you live to be a hundred goddamn years old you will never, ever get into bed with a guy as beautiful as him again. But don’t imagine there’s more to him. There isn’t. Promise me.”

I knew she was right. The problem was, I couldn’t be sure what exactly I wanted from him. But either way, I still needed to return his clothes.

***

The party thrummed, as loud and crowded as when we’d left two nights ago, alive with drunk, loud college kids. The nip in the air chilled me, probably because there was no alcohol to counteract it this time. I pulled the cardigan around my shoulders, wondering again about my decision to wear a dress.

I left the borrowed clothes in the car because it would be too embarrassing to drag them through the house, pretty much advertising the fact that I’d been in Quinn’s bedroom. Then again, if the rumors were to be believed, so had half the girls in the house. Not to mention that “shacking and shopping” was a sorority girl’s favorite pastime. And my roommate was proficient.

Still. What did or didn’t happen between Quinn and I was no one’s business.

The valets stared me down since I parked my own car, but I wanted to be able to get away fast. Or maybe I didn’t, but having the option seemed like a good idea, so I ignored them.

No Sebastian accosted me at the door. Two nights ago he’d clung like an algae-eating fish to the side of a tank, and though I never thought to care if I saw him again, walking alone through all of these people surrounded by laughing friends clenched my stomach.

It was stupid. Most of them wouldn’t remember if they saw Zac Efron tonight, never mind me wandering around alone. Except Quinn wasn’t in the house. He wasn’t at the deck bar, either, and I had no intention of going upstairs again, especially since there was a good chance I’d find him with another girl.

“Jameson neat, please,” I asked the bartender on the back deck.

There was no reason not to just leave the clothes upstairs, or in the bathroom, or something, but here I was ordering a drink. Which meant I wanted to see Quinn.