Rules of Attraction (10 page)

He laid her on the bed and stretched out beside her. She didn't want to wait another second for a kiss. Her need for him—

His mouth came down on hers, warm, wet, wonderful. Intent, insistent, irresistible. Consuming, involving. Life affirming. She'd lived all these years just to feel this…this once-in-a-lifetime connection with her soul mate, for indeed she felt he was. She answered with her own searching tongue, questioned with her hands along his chest, down his ribs.

He lifted his head. His eyes were dark and serious as she slid her palms over him, drifting lower a little at a time, so nervous and excited, she shook.

“Scared?” he asked, wrapping a hand around hers, stilling her exploration as she touched the button above his zipper.

“Far from it.”

“You are so beautiful.”

It was an effective way to stop her from shaking. “You don't have to flatter me. I'm here. I'm willing.”

“Ahh, Claire.” He propped himself on an elbow and dragged a finger across her lips, down her neck, then her chest, sliding beneath her dress. He molded her breast
with his hand, kneading it gently, rubbing her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. “I don't flatter. I thought you were sexy from the moment I saw you.”

She shook her head.

“Yes,” he said, dragging the fabric below her breast, shifting his gaze to look at what he'd revealed. “That slow walk of yours. The way your hips moved in that skirt. Beautiful and sexy.” He touched her breasts. “Perfect.” He slid a hand down her legs. “Lloyd's of London insurable.” He looked at her face then and smiled. “And what I saw of you in the mirror looked pretty damn good, too.” He put his lips to her breast, swirled his tongue around her nipple before pulling it into his hot mouth.

She arched her back. A needy sound resonated in her throat.

“You believe me?” he asked.

She did. She arched higher as he dragged the dress off her shoulders, to her waist, and lavished his attention on her other breast.

“Believe me?” he repeated more harshly, his teeth scraping her nipple.

“Yes.
Yes.
” She lifted her hips as he pulled the dress off her, then felt a whisper of air over her bare skin as he tossed it aside.

“Perfect,” he said, the word filled with appreciation or awe or something else she couldn't name for sure, but something flattering.

She didn't want to wait any longer. She needed to feel him on top of her, inside her. Short of begging, however, she wasn't going to get him to speed up. This was apparently on his terms—and she really didn't want it any other way.

He slipped a hand between her legs. She jerked at the touch.

“Easy,” he breathed, making trails across her stomach with his tongue.

She dug her nails into his shoulders as he nudged her legs apart to rest a hand there, his fingers nestling intimately. He gently scraped the tender skin, moving only one fingertip.

A long, low moan spilled from her. A fiery fist clenched inside her abdomen, its heat intensifying. She dug in her heels and raised her hips, unintelligible sounds filtering from her open mouth as her neck bowed. Then his mouth joined his fingers, and she almost levitated with the infinite pleasure of it all.

Exquisite. Generous. Unparalleled. She rocketed high, soared for a long, dazzling, radiant lifetime. Just when the pleasure finally peaked, but before she came all the way down from it, she felt his suddenly naked body cover hers. His mouth devoured hers in a kiss that stopped only to change angle and intensity, escalating with speed and power by the second, then slowly backing off to just two open mouths dragging along each other as he joined with her in a moment so beautiful, her heart swelled. He went still, his body taut, his breath ragged. She savored the heavy feel of him inside her, and the sense of coming home. He pulled back slightly. She opened her eyes in time to see him close his, his jaw hard. She wanted to watch him find the same satisfaction she had, but her body teased her with other ideas.

A new pressure built. He pushed a little deeper, a little harder, a little stronger. He slipped his hands under her and lifted her hips higher, their bodies slick, gliding along each other as if designed for such perfect alignment. Then she forgot to do anything but feel. Her earlier climax was just preparation for this one, this one that hit her hard and fast but held at the peak long
enough that she came aware of him making the same magical journey. She tightened her hold, buried her face against his shoulder, pressed her teeth into his flesh, muffling the sounds rising from inside her. He drew his head back, his face showing a kind of ecstasy.

He moved against her, inside her, with a final powerful surge.

After several long seconds he lowered his head and kissed her. She laid her hands along his cheeks, kissing him back fervently, afraid to show him how much he meant to her.

Finally he rolled onto his side and tucked her close. His heart still thundered. His labored breath slowed, steadied. His arms tightened.

She pressed a cheek to his chest and closed her eyes.

So this is what it means to be content.

He reached down and grabbed the sheet, tugging it over them.

“Quinn—”

“Shh.”

He stroked her hair. She couldn't see his face but she felt his smile. Because it suited her, she kept quiet and simply enjoyed being held. Soon his arms relaxed, then his body went heavy. He sleeps, she thought, satisfied.

Trying not to disturb him, she rolled over carefully, inching back against him until their bodies spooned. His arm anchored her in place, both comfortable and uncomfortable, but she wouldn't change anything. Just when she decided she couldn't possibly fall asleep, her eyes drifted shut.

“Sleep,” he said, the word was slurred a little, but the order clear.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

His chest shook with silent laughter.

“I thought you were asleep,” she said.

“Nah. I was just enjoying you rubbing against me while you got situated. Felt nice.”

“I didn't do that on purpose.”

“Right.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “I was getting comfortable.”

“If you say so.”

She smiled and closed her eyes again. It occurred to her that she had Jenn to thank for this night. Claire owed her for that.

A
s dawn sneaked into the room the next morning, Quinn wrote a quick note to Claire and set it on the pillow beside hers. He almost stroked her hair, almost kissed her. But if she woke he would have to explain that he was going back to the prison, and why. He was going to be in enough hot water when he told her he had no intention of dropping the investigation, as she wanted. It was too late.

So he left her sleeping and made his way to his own room for a quick shower, grateful he'd stuck his room key card in his pocket before he'd jumped balconies. Making the leap in daylight would probably have brought security running.

After he headed onto the highway a little while later, he tried to put Claire out of his mind, not wanting her tainted even by his thoughts. He'd been shocked yesterday when the warden's assistant had taken him aside and
told him what they knew about him. He'd felt dirty. Claire needed to stay untouched by his past.

He was tempted to visit Beecham again. Claire hadn't let Quinn ask the questions he'd been on the verge of putting to him when she decided she'd had enough. Reading between the lines of Beecham's comments and answers, it was easy to determine that he thought Jenn knew where his money was—or diamonds, or whatever form of currency he'd converted the money into. And Beecham was worried.

Had Claire seen that? They hadn't discussed it. He'd gone out of his way not to discuss it, wanting to have one memorable night with her, without the real world intruding.

But reality always reared its ugly head, and today was no different. He pulled into the main gate at the prison, answered the guard in the tower about why he was there and what was in his car, as he'd done yesterday. Allowed in, he took his time getting out of the car, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead.

Your past is about to catch up with you.

He heard Marie's voice, distinct and cautionary, as he walked toward the prison entrance. She'd also told Claire that he needed to face it. Now or never.

The psychic hotline was open, after all. And accurate.

Because he was entering the medium-security prison instead of the minimum-security camp of yesterday, he stood at the waiting-room counter as his background was again checked, as well as the special approval granted yesterday for him to enter before official visiting hours, even though he hadn't decided until this morning to come back.

He filled out new forms, had his hand stamped with invisible ink, then emptied his pockets into a locker, as
he had yesterday. He stepped into a space between metal gates surrounded by rolled razor wire. A metal door slid shut behind him, a clanging death knell. No joy would be found here, and little hope. To survive, one must live in the here and now, but also think about what put you behind bars.

Quinn was led into a visiting room similar to the one yesterday, except that the environment seemed even more gray, more hopeless, more disturbing. The room was empty. He almost wished it teemed with people. Noise might have helped.

He was assigned a table, but he wanted to prowl the room. He'd made the decision, so there was no turning back, but the waiting made his gut clench, his stomach churn and his jaw ache.

He didn't know what to expect. Perhaps that was the hardest of all for someone whose name might as well be
Control.
For seventeen years he'd lived and worked toward his primary goal of earning respect, of being known as trustworthy, so that no one could question him—ever—about his motives. He could control what happened to his reputation. He couldn't control this moment.

C'mon, c'mon, c'mon.
Bile rose in his throat from the agony of waiting. He pushed his palms against his legs, stopping them from bouncing.

The door opened. A man entered, followed by a guard. The man stopped when he spotted Quinn, then was prodded forward.

“Take a seat,” the guard said.

Fascinated and repelled, Quinn said nothing.

Chair legs scraped the floor as the man lowered himself into a seat across from Quinn, his gaze never leaving Quinn's face.

“Son,” Robert Gerard said finally.

Quinn couldn't call him Dad, as he had for the first eighteen years of his life. Or Father. Or any title of respect. He wouldn't even have recognized him. What was left of his hair was steel-gray. His eyes were light brown, like Quinn's, except that they lacked sheen. The whites were tinged with yellow, as was his skin. Sharp cheekbones emphasized deep hollows in his cheeks. His brittle body stooped so much he looked in danger of tipping forward. His fingers curled into his hands like an old man's might, although he was only sixty-one.

“I didn't know you'd been moved here,” Quinn said.

“Last week. For good behavior,” he said, irony coating the words. “I stopped trying to contact you years ago, Bobby. Once a month I tried, for how many years? Seven? Eight? Every time, the letters came back, unopened.”

Quinn ignored the hurt embedded in his father's tone. “I don't go by ‘Bobby' anymore.” He'd given up the name when his father had been convicted of treason and given a life-without-parole sentence when Quinn was eighteen years old.

Robert's brows lifted. “What do I call you?”

“Quinn.”

“Your middle name. Your mother's maiden name.”

“Better than the alternative.” Although not by much. His mother had damaged Quinn's life in her own way, too.

“Your mother also lost track of you,” Robert said.

“I was supposed to stay in touch?” Quinn asked, stunned.

“Yes.”

“She's the one who abandoned me.” After his father's betrayal.

“She asked you to go with her.”

“To Europe? Into exile? To live off your ill-gotten gains?”

“Your mother made many sacrifices by taking that route, the biggest one—leaving you.”

“Right. She took the money you got for selling state secrets and has been living the good life ever since.”

“What did you want her to do?”

“Give the money back. Rebuild her life. She wasn't the criminal. You were.”

“Still an idealist, I see.” He leaned toward Quinn. “You think she could have lived anywhere in the United States and been treated as anything other than the wife of a spy? You think anyone would've believed she didn't know what I'd been doing? Her only hope for a decent life was to live beyond the reach of those who knew of me. And if you think she had a whole lot of money to start new with, you're dead wrong. Contrary to popular opinion, spying isn't all that lucrative.”

Quinn recoiled from the joking tone of Robert's last sentence. “According to the prosecutors, you made a lot of money.”

“What I made I used to improve our lives. Then the government sold everything, and the profits were confiscated.”

Quinn stared at him in shock. “We needed to improve our position in life so much that you would resort to selling secrets to the enemy?”

“When your mother agreed to marry me,” Robert said as if reading a bedtime story, “I promised to care for her. I hadn't been doing a good job.”

“You committed crimes against your own country so that—” he couldn't say
Mom
“—your wife could have a bigger house and a new car?”

“Peggy was fragile.”

“Weak.”

“Maybe.”

“You let her be. Then you blamed her for your own weakness.”

“I turned myself in to protect you and your mother. I wouldn't call that weak.”

“I would call that looking out for number one,” Quinn said. “You turned yourself in before you got caught. Too little. Too late.”

“I live with the hope that it's never too late.”

Quinn tried to read between the lines. “Do you expect sympathy?”

“I'm trying to get you to understand. You wouldn't let me explain before. I figure this is my only opportunity. When I heard you were here, so much ran through my head. I thought maybe you were going to forgive me.”

“Dream on.”

“Forgiveness is good for the soul.” His momentary bravado deserted him. Even his shaky voice gave away his emotion.

Quinn hated being confined to a chair. He needed to walk. He needed to drag his father up by his shirt and shout in his face. Instead he said in a low voice, “You went to prison. My mother went halfway around the world. And you
both
left me to live with your betrayals. Because of you I lost my life and my friends. I've lived in the shadows for most of my adult life, afraid someone would make the connection.”
I've just now come into the sun. I won't go back. I can't.
“You can go to your grave hoping for forgiveness,” Quinn added, crossing his arms. “It isn't going to happen.”

Robert sank into himself. He finally stopped looking at Quinn, focusing instead on the tabletop. “Why did you come?” he asked, defeat in his voice.

“Because I was here yesterday interviewing another prisoner. Like everyone else, I'd had to go through a
background check to get in here, which revealed my connection with you. I was asked if I had come to see you, too.”

“You hadn't sought me out.”

“Hell, no.”

Robert moved a shoulder as if to ward off a blow. “Then why did you come back today? You could've gone back to wherever it is you live and forgotten all about me.”

“Curiosity.”

“And has your curiosity been satisfied?”

“For a lifetime.”

Robert raised his head slowly. His gaze drilled Quinn.

“Maybe someday you'll find it in your heart to forgive me, after all, for ruining your life. I sold some technology. No one died because of what I did. The world didn't come to an end, either.”

“My world did.” Quinn pushed his shoulders back, but a seed of guilt sprouted. His life wasn't ruined. He'd made a success of himself despite his parents' selfishness and abandonment. He'd learned to live without support from his family. But he felt like Claire had yesterday—he couldn't endure another revelation.

Still, he had an important question to ask. “Are you sorry for what you did?”

“Every day.”

Quinn nodded, then he made eye contact with the guard, who stood across the room. “I'm ready to leave.”

“Wait.” His father stopped the guard with a gesture. “Humor an old man for a minute with a couple of questions.” He paused. When Quinn offered no encouragement, but no rejection, either, he said, “You said you were here interviewing another inmate. Did you become a lawyer, as you'd always planned?”

“A private investigator.”

“Why'd you change?”

“I could stay invisible.”

“Ah.” Robert nodded. “Are you married? Do you have children?”

“No.” He needed to get out of there, but he couldn't leave until his father was taken away. “I have nothing more to say.”

Robert stood but didn't move away from the table. “You're my son, and I love you,” he said, his voice quavering. “Thank you for seeing me.”

I love you.
The words twisted Quinn's heart into a pounding mass. But no words came in return.

“I have your mother's address and phone number if you want it.”

“Did she remarry?”

“We never divorced.” The guard urged him along. Over his shoulder he said, “Hate me forever, if you want. Your mother's only crime was to fall in love with someone who couldn't give her the life she deserved.”

Quinn said nothing.

“She's your mother, Bobby.”

The door shut. Quinn didn't move until another guard roused him. Even then, he made the walk back to his car in a daze. He drove until he found a bluff overlooking the ocean. In the distance he saw the hotel where he'd spent a wonderful night with Claire, the kind of night that made memories. They'd made love twice, the second time with less control, less tenderness, but even more emotion, a freeing kind of lovemaking that said everything necessary without using any words.

She would ask where he had been. He wouldn't tell her the truth because he didn't want to talk to her about it. She would ask questions, offer sympathy, perhaps
even advise him to contact his mother, to end the questions he had about her, too. But that part of his life was over. He'd moved on, as he'd told her before. A Pollyanna wouldn't understand that.

He sat on a rock and closed his eyes. The sun bathed his face. He recognized the emptiness yawning inside him, because he'd lived with it for so many years. Claire had just begun to fill that emptiness. Would she continue, especially after he told her he wouldn't stop looking for Jenn—to finish that business?

Time passed. Minutes, an hour, he didn't know. Finally he dragged his hands down his face. His palms picked up moisture. He stared at them, bewildered. How—?

Angry, he stood, wiping his face again. No. He refused to let his father's words get to him. Not now, not when life was opening up for him.

You're my son, and I love you.

The words wouldn't go away anytime soon. But if he drove fast enough, kept busy enough, worked hard enough, they would recede, fade. Disappear. Again.

For now, he would pick up the eternal optimist Claire Winston and somehow make the six-hour drive home without telling her about his father or letting her help soothe his mixed emotions about the man—and the woman, his mother.

He knew exactly what Claire would say. “I would give anything to have my parents back. Find a way to forgive them. You know in your heart of hearts it's what you need.”

Which would only show that she didn't know him at all.

 

Claire crouched in the sand as a wave receded, her legs cold from the hour she'd spent walking along the
shore. She watched a tiny crab dig himself into the sand, an air bubble rising from where he'd disappeared, then she stood and jogged back as another wave washed up. It was low tide. The waves rolled in and retreated with little fuss or noise. She'd picked up a shell here and there, examined it, then returned it to the sea, except for one which she stuck in her pocket as a memento.