With a Twist (14 page)

Natalie hated cleaning.
She knew it was the result of growing up with a maid, but all that dusting and vacuuming and sink scrubbing and whatnot—it all seemed so futile, especially since things just got dirty again so quickly. Vivi, of course, loved to clean, claiming it gave her a sense of accomplishment. All it gave Natalie was a feeling of having wasted a morning of her life. Still, she didn’t like dirt, and since the apartment was Bernard Rousseau’s, she felt an obligation to maintain it.

She was in the middle of dusting the giant telescope in the living room when the intercom buzzed, startling her so much she nearly shot to the cathedral ceiling. She glanced at her watch: 11 a.m. on a Friday morning. Maybe it was another package from her mother in Paris, who claimed to miss her, while in the same breath saying she was a “selfish and atrocious daughter” for choosing to live in America.

Natalie pressed the intercom button. “
Oui
—uh yes, Mikel?”

“There’s someone here to see you named Quinn. Should I let him up?”

She told Mikel to send him up, regretting it immediately. She was barefoot, in jeans and a plain blue T-shirt, sans makeup—completely unpresentable. Panicked, she ran into the bathroom to put some lipstick on and at least run a comb through her hair. There was no time to change into something a bit more stylish.
Merde.

Her doorbell rang, and she squared her shoulders, opening the door. There he was, the man who had dashed out on her in the middle of one of the most glorious piano concertos of all time, one he claimed to love. She found herself wishing that he wasn’t quite so good-looking. Even with what looked like a small spaghetti sauce stain on his tie, he still emitted charisma. It was maddening.

“Come in.”

Quinn entered the apartment, whistling through his teeth. “Wow. Impressive. I figured Bernard had to have a nice place, but I didn’t think it would be this nice.”

“He’s a diplomat, remember?”

“Maybe I should switch careers.”

“I believe diplomats need to be diplomatic. I don’t think it would be the right job for you.”

Quinn chuckled, still glancing around. He pointed to the dust rag Natalie had carelessly thrown on the coffee table in her haste to answer the intercom.

“Did I interrupt your cleaning, Cinderella?”

Natalie just stared at him.

Quinn leaned toward her. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Even if I say no, you’ll ask anyway, so go right ahead.”

“Who the hell cleans house with lipstick on?”

“Who shows up unannounced at someone’s door?” Natalie snapped.

“You put it on for me, didn’t you?” Quinn continued in a teasing voice.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

He studied her face. “You really don’t need makeup, you know. You look fine without it.” He looked down at her feet. “Nice toes. Very well-groomed.”

I hate you!
Natalie thought.

“Enough with your sarcastic compliments. Why are you here?”

“Because I owe you another apology. Can I sit down on Bernie’s couch? Or do you want to have this entire conversation standing by the door?”

“Sit,” Natalie muttered begrudgingly.

“Are you going to join me?”

“Of course, you oaf.”

She saw Quinn suppress a smile, which irritated her no end. He thought this was a joke, did he? Well, he’d soon find out it wasn’t.

She sat down on the opposite end of the couch, hoping to send a clear message. Now Quinn looked amused.

“Aren’t you even going to offer me a cup of coffee?”

“You’re not going to be here long enough to drink it.”

“God, you’re feisty.”

“And you’re maddening.” She crossed her arms. “Well? I’m waiting.”

“You’re absolutely right. I should have told you there was an emergency. I was wrong to just run out of there without an explanation. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Apology accepted under one condition.”

“I don’t do it again.”

“That’s not the condition. I want you to give me an honest answer to one question.”

“Of course, ask away.”

“You were bored at that concert, weren’t you? Bored to tears.”

Quinn scratched his chin absently. “Yeah, I was. I’m pretty sure that if I go to hell when I die, part of my eternal punishment will be an endless loop of that concerto.”

Natalie shook her head, her exasperation beginning to fade, even though she wished she could hold on to it longer. “Why did you lie to me, then? Why did you say you loved classical music and that concerto?”

“Because I wanted to impress you. Jesus Christ, what was I supposed to do? Take you to the movies and buy you a tub of popcorn after Mr. Down Under took you to the museum, and you acted like you’d spent the afternoon with the art critic for the
New York Times
?”

“So this is really all about you and Mason, then. Trying to outdo each other.”

“No, you mule-headed woman,” Quinn spat out in frustration. “It’s all about wanting to make sure you had a good time.”

Natalie narrowed her eyes. “But Mason did figure into it, too, didn’t he?”

Quinn threw his hands up in the air. “Fine! Yes! Crocodile Dundee figured into it! It drives me crazy that you like that putz!” Quinn was scowling. “Durham told me you went out with him again.”

“I saw no reason not to,” Natalie replied, sounding blasé.

“You going to see him again?”

Natalie shrugged, a frisson of excitement going through her as she waited to see what he would do.

“Need a reason not to?” Quinn growled. He looked dangerous, thrilling Natalie even more. “Here, I’ll give you one.”

One minute Quinn was practically snarling at her from the other end of the couch; the next he had snatched her up into his arms, pressing his lips against hers so hard that an uncontrolled current of electricity shot through her, making her gasp. Quinn pulled back to look at her, an evil little smile on his face.

“Liked that, huh, Miss Bocuse?”

Natalie’s head was swimming.

“Here’s a little more.”

He crushed his mouth to hers again, the force of the kiss one of unmistakable dominance. His mouth was claiming hers so fiercely, so roughly, that she began to quiver. She liked a man who took control, and clearly Quinn O’Brien was one of those men. When he pulled back a little to nip at her lower lip, a small groan escaped Natalie’s lips.

“Clement kiss you like that? Huh?”

“He—he never kissed me,” Natalie managed.

His expression was triumphant. “Good.”

Had any other man acted as if she were a prize he’d won, she would have pushed him off her and given him a piece of her mind. But that wasn’t what she wanted. What she wanted was to pull his face down to hers, taste his mouth, run her hands through that thick tangle of his hair.

She reached for him, confused when he pulled away.

“Quinn—?”

His expression was all innocence. “Yes?”

Natalie swallowed, trying to hide how vulnerable she suddenly felt. “If you want to, you can keep kissing me.”

“You still haven’t said you’ve forgiven me.”

“Obviously I’ve forgiven you, you fool! I’m kissing you, aren’t I?”

“And Clement—?”

“Dear God, have you suddenly turned into an idiot who needs everything spelled out for you? I told him we would only ever just be friends.”

“Oh, he must have loved that.”

“Can we stop speaking about him?”

“Sure.” Quinn stood up.

“What are you doing?!” Natalie’s heart was still thumping away in her chest for want of him.

“I think it’s good to keep your lady eager for more, you know?”

Natalie’s mouth fell open. “You bastard!”

“That’s me,” Quinn grinned mischievously. “Should I give you a call and we’ll figure out our next rendezvous, mademoiselle?”

“Oh, you’re maddening!
Maddening!
”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” He leaned over and planted a chaste, gentle kiss on her cheek.
“Talk to you soon.”

14

“Well, if it
isn’t himself.”

Quinn ignored his mother’s affectionate barb and bent down to kiss her cheek. She was at the breakfast table with his father and Liam. This was the way the three of them started most every day: Liam would come over to talk inventory and the previous night’s take, etc., with his folks, and then his parents would go downstairs into the kitchen at the Hart and start preparing for lunch while Liam dealt with deliveries and the bills. It was Liam with whom Quinn wanted to speak, but he thought that by stopping by he’d kill two birds with one stone.

“And just where have you been keeping yourself, boyo?” his father asked while Quinn grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured himself a cup of coffee.

“Working.”

“You’re going to drive yourself into the ground with that job,” his father chided.

“I could say the same to you,” Quinn replied, sliding into the empty seat next to his brother.

“No doubt you’ve heard about what happened to PJ Leary,” said his father, shaking his head sadly.

Quinn’s eyes flicked to Liam’s. “Yeah, Liam told me.”

“I don’t like what’s going on in this neighborhood,” his father continued. “All those perfectly good buildings being torn down or renovated by the Shields Brothers.”

“You know them at all?” Quinn asked suddenly. Jesus, why hadn’t he thought of asking this earlier? Well, at least he had the presence of mind to ask now.

“Not really. They’ve come in a few times over the years but never really became regulars.”

“The wife of the younger one—what’s his name, Larry?—she’s nice,” said his mother. “I see her at Mass every Sunday with their two little ones.”

His mother was the only family member who still attended Mass regularly. His once-devout father had stopped going, disgusted by the priest sex scandals. But his mother’s faith ran deep. Sunday remained a ritual for the family in another way, however; it was when they all gathered for a big afternoon dinner.

“Why are you asking about the Shields Brothers?” asked his mother.

“The boy’s a reporter,” his father answered with pride in his voice. “He asks about everything.”

Quinn sipped his coffee. “How’s Natalie working out?”

His mother’s expression darkened. “God knows she’s a good waitress, but Jesus, Mary, and Saint Joseph, the gall of her to suggest we change the menu . . .”

“She’s just trying to help, Mom.”

“Yes, well, I do find it a wee bit insulting.”

“Call her on it,” Quinn suggested, knowing Natalie would kill him if she knew what he was about to suggest. “Next time she suggests a menu change, say, ‘Fine, but you cook it.’ I bet that’ll shut her up fast.”

His mother laughed. “Perhaps I will.”

“I hear you two are sweet on each other,” said his father.

Quinn’s gaze shot to Liam.

“Don’t look at me!” Liam protested.

“It was your crossword puzzle friend who told us,” his mother confessed. “Is it true?”

“We’re dating,” Quinn replied evasively.

Quinn’s father coughed nervously. “You sure she’s the type of girl for you, Quinn? She seems a bit—”

“Posh,” his mother finished.

“Because of her accent?”

His mother sighed. “Because of all of it, I guess. Her accent, the way she carries herself . . . I noticed her nails are always manicured and painted.”

This was just the sort of thing his no-nonsense mother would notice. As far as Quinn knew, his mother had never had her nails done, claiming it didn’t make sense, since she cooked so much. Still, there were times he’d caught his mother looking enviously at the well-dressed women who came into the pub.

“You should have your nails done sometime,” Quinn suggested.

His mother snorted as if that was the most ridiculous suggestion she’d ever heard. “I’m not that type of woman.”

“No, it’s that you don’t think you deserve it,” said Liam. “You’ve got that Irish denial thing going on.”

Quinn’s mother turned to his father. “You hearing this? My own sons ganging up on me?”

Quinn’s dad just chuckled, eyeing Quinn. “We were on the subject of your sweetheart before all this talk of nails sidetracked them.”

“Yeah, you were characterizing her as posh.” Quinn chose his words carefully. “Natalie was raised wealthy, but that doesn’t mean she’s had it easy.” He filled his parents and Liam in on what he knew: her diplomat father’s loveless marriage to her mother, being a lonely, only child until she found out about Vivi. He omitted the part about a romantic relationship driving her to make a new life for herself here in the States. He also saw no point in telling them she was a recovering shopaholic. That wouldn’t go down well with his frugal mother.

“Does she plan to stay here in America?” his mother asked. Quinn knew what she was angling at: always protective, she wanted to make sure her eldest son wasn’t left high and dry with a broken heart. As if he’d ever had his heart broken; usually it was the other way around.

“She loves it here.”

“And what, exactly, is it you like about her?” his father asked.

Quinn would never admit it, but the question pleased him; he loved the fact that his family was interested in her. “She’s funny, smart—”

“Beautiful,” Liam interjected, pissing Quinn off.

“She gives as good as she gets with me,” Quinn continued. “She’s very sharp. Feisty.”

“Well, she’d have to be to hold her own with you,” said his father.

“She’s not the warmest soul on earth,” his mother observed coolly.

“She’s reserved, Ma. There’s a difference. French people don’t let down their guard right away and tell their life story within five minutes of meeting someone the way the Irish do. She’s warm once you get to know her.”

“She is,” Liam agreed. “The regulars love her.”

Quinn glanced at Liam, surprised. He had no idea.

“Let us get to know her, then,” said his father. “Bring her for Sunday dinner sometime.”

Quinn wasn’t sure how to react. His parents usually held off asking one of their kids’ significant others to their sacred family dinner unless they assumed the relationship was serious. Was it serious?

“Let me think about it.”

“Quinn O’Brien, the man who couldn’t commit,” said Liam.

Quinn shot Liam a quick sideways glance. He could see from his expression that Liam was razzing him, not zinging him, which was unusual.

“Look who’s talking,” Quinn shot back.

“I brought a girl here once: Terry O’Neill. Remember?”

“Yeah, then you dumped her two days later.”

“Better than your track record. You’ve never brought anyone to Sunday dinner that I can recall.”

Quinn flashed Liam a dirty look. It was true. He’d never felt strongly enough about any of his former girl-friends to bring them to Sunday dinner. He tried to picture Natalie with his loud, boisterous family. Would she be overwhelmed? Or reserved? Clearly his mother mistook shyness for snobbishness. Not that Nat wasn’t a snob sometimes. But she was getting better, and he knew part of that came from working at the Hart. Plus, it wasn’t like she’d be meeting them for the first time. He really had to think about this.

His parents rose from the table, rinsing their coffee cups in the sink. “You got a minute after they go downstairs?” Quinn murmured to Liam.

Liam looked wary. “Sure.”

“You coming down?” their father asked Liam.

“In a minute. Quinn’s going to impart the meaning of life to me.” No razzing this time; sarcastic Liam was back.

Quinn waited for his parents to go downstairs, and then started talking.

“Thanks for defending Natalie to Mom and Dad,” he said.

Liam shrugged. “No problem.”

“I was surprised to hear the regulars like her.”

“Oh yeah. She horns in on their conversations and puts her two cents in, especially if it’s politics.”

Quinn grinned. “Sounds like Natalie. The French are like that. They love a good argument.”

“You two really serious?”

Quinn raked his hand through his hair. “I’m not sure what that word means.”

“Exclusive?”

“Why?” Quinn asked tersely. “You interested?”

“If I was interested, I would have made a move by now. Besides, it was obvious from the minute you introduced her that you were crazy about her.”

“Bullshit.”

“Not bullshit.”

Quinn frowned. The thought that he might have been so transparent bugged the hell out of him. “Anyway, as far as exclusivity goes, then yeah, I guess we are. I sure as hell shoved Mason Clement out of the picture.”

“No offense, but he seems like a nice guy.”

“He’s a prick, Liam. Take it from me.”

“If you say so.” Liam looked antsy. “Is Natalie what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“No. I wanted to thank you for calling me about PJ.”

“No prob. How come you didn’t write it up for the paper?”

“PJ asked me not to. He was afraid he’d get his ass beaten again, or get killed.”

Liam seemed to ponder this.

“Li, if you know anything else about this, you gotta tell me, okay?”

“I heard some shit from Tommy,” Liam said guardedly.

“I knew it. What did that piece of shit have to say?”

“Hey!” Liam looked pissed. “He’s my best friend.”

“Christ knows why, but anyway.”

“He kinda boasted that something was gonna go down with PJ.”

“Before it happened?”

“Yeah.”

Quinn was incredulous. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me this as soon as you found out?!”

“Because sometimes Tommy is an asshole. He makes shit up when he’s drunk. I usually take what he says with a grain of salt.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t make this up, did he?” Quinn sighed. “Okay, here’s what I want to know.”

Liam frowned. “What?”

“You say Tommy is your best friend. Then you turn around and tell your reporter brother that he was talking about how something was going to go down. Why? Why tell me something that could wind up with Tommy’s ass rotting in jail when he’s your best friend?”

“It’s complicated,” Liam said evasively.

“So help me, God, Liam, if you’re mixed up in this in any way—”

“I’m not! Jesus Christ, how many times do I have to tell you?”

“Then why tell me?”

“Because I’m trying to do the right thing, okay?” Liam’s voice was fierce. “PJ’s an eejit, but he’s our eejit. He’s family.”

Quinn nodded. He understood what Liam felt. People always accused the Irish of being tribal. Well, tribal was just another word for loyal.

“If Tommy tells you anything else, you’ll tell me, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Liam said distractedly. He drained his coffee cup and stood. “That it?”

Conversation closed. When Mr. Moody didn’t want to talk anymore, that was it; you were done.

Quinn rose, too. “Yeah, that’s it. Thanks again for the call, Heathcliff.”

“Up yours, Jimmy Olson.”

Liam headed downstairs to the pub, leaving Quinn staring after him. Liam was always a tight-lipped, broody bastard. But something else was up with him, which worried Quinn. Liam would come to him in his own good time.
All Quinn had to do was wait.

15