Broken At Love (Whitman University) (8 page)

“And kissing isn’t even my specialty.”

“Exactly. And I’m not a prude, or a virgin, but I also don’t sleep around. You can see my quandary here. Because you are not interested in dating, no matter how casually.” Quinn didn’t deny it, staring into my eyes with a kind of concentration that unnerved me. “If you want sex, Quinn, there are at least a hundred girls in that house who will oblige.”

“What would you say if I told you they aren’t who I want?”

“I’d say prove it.”

Chapter Seven

Quinn

Sebastian found me on the beach the next morning and handed me a steaming mug of coffee laced with bourbon. “Waking up alone doesn’t agree with you, brother.”

“Yes. Thank you for that.”

“Ah. The little Mexican girl is still giving you trouble. I saw her come back last night and figured you’d sealed the deal.” Sebastian sipped his coffee, peering at me over the rim.

“She’s not Mexican, she’s half Peruvian. Her favorite movie is
The Philadelphia Story
,
The Three Musketeers
is her favorite novel, her father doesn’t approve of her art and she doesn’t sleep around. Any other questions, because I could do this for at least another five minutes.” Anger rose like acid in my throat, but I swallowed it along with some black coffee. He wouldn’t stir me up.

“Ah, you bonded. How touching. I had a hunch about the sleeping-around part, although that usually doesn’t trip you up so much.”

I narrowed my eyes until he squirmed, thankful I hadn’t lost that touch. “Did you
bet
on her?”

He never bet against me before and if he had, winning this round would be fucking personal.

Sebastian shrugged. “You know I never discuss the books with the talent.”

Sand stuck to my legs and clothes when I stood, the gray morning colder than I preferred and rarely dealt with in South Florida. “If you’ll excuse me, it appears I have some wooing to do.”

His laughter followed me all the way up the back deck and into the house. We both knew I’d never had to woo anyone—nor had I ever cared to—and had no idea where to start. Playing girls for a few days came easily; saying what they needed to hear never bothered me, and it was simple enough. Convincing Emilie that I wanted her for more than sex would involve two things I honestly abhorred—emotional intimacy and lying.

There may be no honor among thieves, but I had my own code when it came to Sebastian’s game, and I never lied to girls to get them into bed. Even the line about me not being like everyone thought was the truth.

I was much, much worse.

There were no promises made about days to come, invitations to attend parties on my arm, talk of introductions to families. Never. Girls assumed what they liked and I let them, but I never lied. I didn’t see a way to get closer to Emilie without giving up some of my own secrets; last night had already pushed me to say more than I’d confided to anyone in years. The chances that she’d finally give it up without some kind of promise about the future meant I would break my second rule as well.

On the flip side, the competition thrilled me. Her body responded so fast on the beach last night, willing and pliant under my hands. That creamy skin heated at my touch and the sight of her swollen lips and salty neck had turned me on more than I wanted to admit. Emilie smelled like summer—some kind of citrus perfume, combined with the hour we spent talking beforehand in the ocean air—and it had gone straight to my head. Along with other parts of me.

Anticipation would only make the moment sweeter. Time to dig deep and find a Quinn Rowland capable of convincing Emilie to let me fuck her, because losing wasn’t an option. There was too much at stake, and my pride was the least important item on the list.

***

The fine arts building looked newer than most parts of campus; it had been built less than ten years ago instead of fifty. I appreciated art but had no particular inclination for it, so I had never been inside; majoring in business with a minor in communications seemed the best way to please my father.

To
try
to please my father.

Emilie walked out the front door, talking with Toby. She threw back her head and laughed, her neck stretched as she laid her head on his shoulder for a moment before straightening up. Two shocking things happened to me in that moment: I wanted to kiss that spot in the hollow of her collarbone again, the one that thrummed with her life, so badly it hurt. And I wanted to punch Toby in the face for touching her.

I had no idea what in the hell was the matter with me, but it couldn’t be good.

She saw me a moment later, pitch black eyes shining as a smile stretched her lips. It hurt a little that she looked happy to see me, when I only came to break her.

“Hey.”

“Stalker is kind of a good look on you, Quinn.”

Toby stood rigid at her side, giving me a stony stare. He should have buggered off now, given that he knew my claim on Emilie. Shit, he’d even helped set it up, inviting her to the party for Sebastian. “Toby.”

“Q.” He turned to Emilie, touching her elbow lightly. I wanted to snap his fingers. “Em, I’ll talk to you later, okay? Be safe.”

The last statement irked me, and the surprise in Emilie’s eyes said it wasn’t a normal parting statement for them. She smiled at Toby and nudged him with her shoulder. “I’m fine, Toby.”

He left, shooting me another reproachful look before disappearing around the side of the building. Emilie’s hand brushed my tensed forearm and brought my attention back to her. “What are you doing here, Quinn?”

People stared at us as they exited the building. This fucking debacle was going to be the talk of Whitman before I got it done. “I thought we could hang out.”

“Oh.” The soft, breathy response tugged my eyes to her chest for a moment. “I’ve got this art show next week and I really need to finish my centerpiece. Maybe later? Or after you’re done with the Aussie Open party?”

I couldn’t wait that long.

“I don’t need to go back to the party; Seb can handle it. I’d love to see your work. I mean, if you don’t mind showing me.”

Her brow furrowed and I counted to ten in my head before she shrugged. “Okay.”

“I’ll drive.”

On the way to her studio I told myself to reach over and take her hand, but my body refused to obey the command. One step at a time, I guessed.

The studio loft was near campus in an older building, not the kind of space I expected for a girl with the kind of money her family had. It made me wonder how bad her problems at home were, but instead of commenting I complimented her on a few of her pieces.

Art had been a part of my life forever; my father loved it and acquired it the way the girls on tour snapped up new designer outfits. It was a passion he and I shared, though I’d stopped trying to discuss it with him by middle school since he purposefully trashed anything in which I expressed an interest.

“These are excellent, Emilie. Really.”

It wasn’t a lie, which struck me as a pleasant turn of fortune. Her bold brushstrokes, color palate, and layered technique were flawless, but it was the way each painting came alive and leapt from the canvas that made them extraordinary. The emotional state that accompanied each piece, laid bare and exposed for everyone to see. The one that intrigued me the most was the one she hadn’t finished—had hardly begun, really—propped on her easel. It felt raw and somehow sexual, but also edged with fear.

She moved it when she caught me looking, flipping it upside down. “That one isn’t finished.”

“You’re talented.” A pretty blush crept across her cheeks and pride made her dark eyes sparkle like stars in the night sky. I stepped in close, breathing her in, thankful she still smelled like summer.

“Thank you.”

“Your parents must be proud, even if they don’t think it’s a proper career. You’re going to exhibit at the show next week, right? At the new museum?”

“Not so much to the first statement, yes to the second.”

“I’ll see you there, then.” She’d probably be less than thrilled by that time, since it would take place after the Open ended.

“You’re going to a museum opening?”

The incredulous tone stopped me for a moment, but hopefully she didn’t notice the hitch in my step. It rarely bothered me when people assumed me a Philistine due to the professional-athlete thing. It did now. “I grew up in a house with a man who loves art. And in a life filled with more money than even you can dream. But I’m more interested in why you think your parents aren’t proud of your accomplishments.”

They
were
accomplishments, I thought again as I wandered from her side, running the tips of my fingers across her finished work. The intensity of a battle between light and dark throbbed in her work like a heartbeat and it spoke to me in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely. It made me more curious than ever about her, this girl who seemed so light and essentially good creating pieces equally infused with darkness and desire.

When Emilie didn’t answer I turned, and the look on her face, like she was piecing together a puzzle, made me want to toss her on the couch and solve it for her.

“My father’s a surgeon. A really important one.” She shook her head, refusing to meet my eyes. “Mine is a time-honored story, Quinn. Nothing too interesting. I was off the hook before Ana got sick, because she loved all of the blood and guts and science and math, but now I’m all he has left. Much to his disappointment.”

“I don’t think he could be too disappointed, seeing as he pays for this space for you.”

“He doesn’t know. I’m taking the money out of my medical school trust.”

Surprise clenched my fists. “He’s not going to be happy when he finds out.”

“True. If I don’t sell any work at the show, it’ll be the end of it. That will be the proof he needs that I’m not good enough.” A single tear slipped down her cheek. “He won’t keep paying for school unless I change my major.”

Admission to Whitman meant family money and all of the trappings that came with it, and no matter her brave face, Emilie had grown up as privileged as all of us. She wouldn’t be able to stay if he pulled her trust fund.

Why on earth that bothered me, I’m sure I didn’t know, but the tears in her eyes wrenched something loose that had been tied down long ago. It flapped around like torn rigging in the wind, slapping painfully against my insides. I hated it, and her, in that moment. Because it hurt. “You’ll sell some work at the show. People would be blind not to see your talent.”

“I hope so.” Her cheeks glowed, a shy and tentative belief cloaking her.

My blood warmed, flowing lower and pushing need past my curiosity. What about this girl made me want her so badly, in a way that had nothing to do with any game? I wanted to win so that I could have her body, and not only to simply keep Sebastian in line or keep the memory of Alexandria’s rejection at bay. If I had met her, and there was no game, I would have wanted her anyway.

“It will work out. You’ll see.”

My eyes slid to the overstuffed couch again, thoughts running through my mind that made it hard to think straight. Emilie followed my gaze and when her eyes returned to mine, the desire fluttering in them almost made me groan. But when I stepped to her side, intent on at least touching her, she put her hands on my chest and held me at arms’ length.

“Quinn. I’ve been thinking about last night, and the other night, and what I said. I don’t want you to prove anything to me, so if that’s why you came here today, I’m sorry. We can try being friends, if that’s something you want, but we are who we are. You’ll get my clothes off and then tire of me quickly, and I’ll spend the semester feeling used and avoiding running into you on campus. It’s not my place to expect you to change.”

“So you believe what everyone says about me. And that’s all I am.”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think it’s all you are, Quinn. But playing that game last night, you struggled to answer a single real question. So I think right now that guy is who you want to be. And as much as I’d seriously like to make out with you on that couch right now, I think it’s going to be best for me if you left.”

Convincing her I cared meant pretending to take her wishes into consideration. Not to mention the fact that she confounded me with how she seemed to see through me. It snapped my head around as easily as someone who’d given me a strong slap, and the right answer escaped me in the moment. So I left.

Chapter Eight

My anger had risen to a boil by the time I returned to our beachfront estate. The afternoon wore on, bringing more and more overnight guests to life in the rooms and on the grounds, and the lack of privacy made me snarl at everyone who crossed my path.

What pissed me off the most was Emilie’s accuracy. I was content to be the monster.

I found Sebastian in the library, a blissfully silent room off-limits to guests. Fewer than a hundred people received overnight invitations, the majority of them frat brothers, and most of the people milling around were quiet. Nursing hangovers. Cleaning up.

The smell of glue and old pages combined with furniture polish in the darkened room. Sebastian smoked a cigar behind the glossy mahogany desk, his dress shoes propped near the keyboard attached to a dusty desktop computer.

I flopped onto a terribly uncomfortable designer couch in a godawful shade of red, rubbing my eyes.

“I take it the wooing is not going according to plan?”

“Not exactly, no. What is it exactly that some girls have against sleeping around, anyway? I find it invigorating.”

“They cling to the ridiculous ideal of marriage and commitment, and the assumption that one day the man who sweeps them off their feet will be disgusted by multiple sexual partners in their past,” Sebastian guessed.

“I think you’re wrong. I just think they like the control.” I sat up when the library door creaked, surprised to see Toby’s face peek around it, and even more surprised that my irritation with him had grown since this morning.