Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (Knitting in the City) (6 page)

“
Was it the Greek mythology reference or the sperm reference?” I pressed even as my attention moved between his hidden hand and his face as it loomed over me.

“
It was you, Janie.” His voice was soft, maybe the closest he’d ever come to sweet-talking. “You and your Medusa hair and your honey colored eyes. It was your questions, your intelligence, and your insatiable curiosity. It was your goodness and sweetness, your honesty and trust.”

Peripherally I noted that he
’d withdrawn his hand from his pocket and he held something within it, but his words held me mesmerized and—despite my curiosity—I couldn’t look away from his gaze. My back was now seizing, my hands were numb, but I didn’t care. I wanted to remember this moment.

“
And, if I’m going to be completely honest…” Quinn gathered a deep breath, lightly caressed my inner thigh, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin above my stockings. “…it was the thought of using you, your body, as my own personal magical sperm repository for the rest of our lives.”

My eyes widened and I choked on air as his face cracked with a slow, sexy grin of epic proportions.

The villain.

“
Quinn!” My face flamed and I moved my legs restlessly as much as I was able given my current state. All at once I was beyond ready to be released from my bondage.

“
Janie Morris…” His voice was steady, measured—but I wasn’t listening.

“
I didn’t say that…I mean….” I tried to move my hands and winced when pain shot down my arm. I was completely ridiculous, and I should have known better than to willingly allow Quinn to tie me to a rack. Even worse, I’d suggested it! Of course he was going to tease me or torture me at the first opportunity.

“
…will you make me the happiest man in the world…”

Still struggling, and pointedly ignoring him, I glanced at my wrists as my continued chastisement burst forth.
“I did say it, but I said it as a hypothetical. Now please untie me!”

“
…and do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

“
You are…! I…wait…what?” My indignation morphed into stunned confusion. I glanced at the object in his hand—an open black velvet box with the red ruby ring I’d admired earlier winking back at me—and blackness colored my vision.

“
Oh, my God.” My eyes widened on the ring then moved to his face.

I didn
’t faint, but I seriously considered faking it.

I didn
’t know what to freak out about first, so I ordered the issues in terms of most pressing and/or potentially illegal.

“
Quinn, that’s the ring from downstairs!” I hissed in a loud whisper because I was afraid of the answer. “Did you steal that ring?”

His expression morphed
from serious to seriously incredulous. “What? No! No, I did not steal this ring!”

My forehead wrinkled and I frowned at him
then whispering louder. “Well, what am I supposed to think? One minute I see an antique ring in the Jewel House, and the next minute you’re holding it while I’m tied to a rack.”

“
Getting tied to the rack was your idea.”

My eyes flickered to his then back to the box. I wondered if I looked as panicked as I felt.
“I know that, but I didn’t think that you’d use the opportunity to try to give me a stolen ring!”

“
It’s not stolen! It’s your engagement ring.”

My breat
h left me with a sudden whoosh.

Engagement ring.

He’d knocked the wind from my lungs.

I wasn
’t expecting this. In fact, this may have been the very last thing I’d been expecting—just after Quinn telling me he was a woman and that he had aspirations of reprising Barbra Streisand’s role in
Hello Dolly
on Broadway.

“
Janie.”

I heard my name
and refocused my panicked eyes on his.

This was too soon
—way too soon. This was a mistake. Even if the ring wasn’t stolen, he was making a mistake and, when he realized the mistake, we would be over. There is only one way to become unengaged just like there is only one way to become unmarried.

“
Untie me.”

“
Not until you answer my question.”

“
Quinn….”

“
Janie, I know what you’re going to do as soon as I untie you. You’ll run out of here. I’d planned to get you drunk first so you wouldn’t be mobile, but tied up is better.”

“
Why better?”

“
Because we can talk about this, sober, and you can’t avoid me by feigning gastrointestinal distress.”

“
My hands hurt.”

Concern
cast a shadow across his features. His eyes flickered to where my wrists were tied then back to mine. Reluctantly, he offered, “I’ll untie you if you promise to talk this through.” His eyes zeroed in on mine to show me he meant business, and his face was as serious as I’d ever seen it. “You have to promise, no avoiding.”

I nodded, my voice strained as I agreed.
“I promise—no avoiding. We’ll talk it through.”

Quinn glared at me for a moment as though assessing my honesty then removed his hand from my thigh. I felt the loss of
it like a physical blow and wished I’d been paying more attention to how his hand felt on my body so I’d be able to recall it effortlessly, at will.

He plucked the ring from the velvet then stuffed the box back in his pocket. I had to crane my neck to follow his movements and didn
’t miss the fact that he placed the ruby on my left-hand ring finger before he moved to untie me.

It was a very Quinn thing to do.
The ring was now in my possession, and as they say—whoever they are; I would have to look that up—possession is nine-tenths of the law.

Releasing the knots took less time than securing them
, and I rubbed my wrists when he moved to the ropes at my ankles, my hands coming to life. The hemp left marks, not cutting or real injury. The lines encircled my wrists like a brand. I glanced at my hands and caught a glimpse of the brilliant red gemstone that made my finger feel heavy and foreign. I stared at it and felt a surge of possessiveness.

I wanted
it. I wanted that ring. It was the most exquisite piece of jewelry I’d ever seen, including the crown jewels I’d just ogled.

I
ndependent of becoming engaged, the ring was stunning and beautiful and exactly what I would have chosen for myself if the entirety of the world’s designer jewelry were mine to peruse.

And it was mine.

Very clever of him to give me something my heart didn’t know it wanted in exchange for a promise. I would have a hard time taking it off. Then again, very clever was typical Quinn.

When he finished, keeping one hand
on me the entire time, he reached for my arm and pulled me upright. Blood rushed from my head and he allowed a few short seconds before tugging me to my feet. Unsurprisingly, my legs were unsteady.

I was still looking at the ring on my finger, my breaths deep and
ragged as I struggled with a war of emotions and desires.

“
What are you thinking?” he asked.

One of his hands was gripping my waist and he slipped the other between mine, his fingers curling around my palm so tha
t he was cradling my left hand.

I pressed my lips together then lifted my eyes to his. His face was
carefully blank, but watchful.

I felt so many things, looking at him, standing so close. I felt fearful in a way that I thought I
’d left behind.

But, though I was a cornucopia of feelings
, I wasn’t able to actually manage a complete thought.

“
Quinn….” I swallowed. My chest ached. “I wasn’t expecting…I wasn’t expecting this.”

“
I know.”

“
We haven’t even talked about it, discussed it as a possibility.”

“
No time like the present.” His hand slipped from my waist to my lower back, pressed me against him, my left hand beneath his jacket, over his heart.

“
We’ve only been together five months.”

“
I know.” He sighed like it was irrelevant.

“
Do you honestly think that’s enough time to make an accurate and valid judgment about the viability of a person as your
wife
?”

“
With you, yes, it’s more than enough. Too much.”

“
That’s completely illogical. In five months, we’ve barely scratched the surface. We can’t possibly know enough about each other in order to make a decision like this. This is the tattoo of life decisions.”

“
Tattoo of life decisions?”

“
Yes. Tattoo. Marriage is the forever and permanent branding of one person to another. Sure, you can get it removed—but it’s expensive, it’s a process, and you’re never the same after. You’re scarred. It’s always a part of you, visible or not. You get a tattoo with the intention of a life-long commitment. You have to defend its existence and take ownership of it in front of others for the rest of your life regardless of how it sags or droops or changes shape and color—because it will! It will change and fade, and not in an aesthetically pleasing way.”

The side of his mouth lifted as I spoke and his eyes danced between mine.
“Let’s get matching tattoos.”

I yanked my hand from his and pushed against his chest. He didn
’t budge.

“
No.” I shook my head. “This isn’t the kind of decision you make after knowing someone for five months—five amazing, lovely, wonderful, perfect, beyond sexually gratifying months. This is the kind of decision you make after two point four years—at the least. When the spark has faded, when you’ve been through at least two flu seasons, several holidays—with relatives—and holiday travel, seven to ten misunderstandings, and maybe one surgery.”

“
What does the flu have to do with this?”

“
Are you a grumpy sick person? Do you prefer me to hover or give you space? I don’t know! We haven’t done that.”

“
Janie….”

“
There have been no hard times, Quinn! We’ve proven very little other than we’re compatible in times of feast, but we know nothing about times of famine.”

“
Janie….”

“
I won’t be able to repeat the words
in sickness and in health
because I honestly have no idea.”

Quinn opened his mouth to respond but we were interrupted by
the practiced sound of throat clearing.

“
Mr. Sullivan, if you and Janie are ready….” Our tour guide’s voice sounded from over my shoulder. I closed my eyes for a long moment, my hands fisting in the lapels of his jacket.

Three seconds ticked by before he responded.
“Of course.”

He covered my fists, encouraging me to release him, but kept hold of one of my han
ds, turning me toward the door and pulling me after him. I glanced at the floor then up to his profile, hoping to find some indication of his thoughts, but was disappointed.

As ever, he was cucumber cool
and appeared entirely unruffled.

Not like someone who has j
ust been refused or accepted a proposal of marriage; more like someone who glides through life in charge of everyone and taking his superiority for granted.

As soon as we were through the door, his hand moved to the base of my spine, a possessive touch, and steered me down the stone hall after our guide. She glanced over her shoulder, her smile small and sincere, and pointed out
items of interest.

This time
I wasn’t listening. I was too preoccupied with all that was unsettled, how I would convince Quinn that this was lunacy, yet still not jeopardize our chances to be together for as long as possible.

If I really gave the matter some thought, I supposed—if we could get past his proposal without too much damage inflicted—we likely had anothe
r four years before he irrevocably tired of me and my eccentricities.

I was
okay with that. I felt like four years was about my expiration date. Four flu seasons, holiday cycles, and yearly vacations. Really, there were only four destinations worth a vacation: beach, glacier, desert, and mountains. Bonus if we could pair them with a visit to the wine country or a world heritage site.

The first two
years would likely be stellar. The last two would become increasingly strained until, finally, he grew cold and aloof all the time. He would make excuses to work late, avoid discussing future plans until—finally—I would suggest we split.