Neanderthal Marries Human

Quinn nodded once. “Thanks. Goodnight.”

Dan lifted his chin in acknowledgement then walked past us to the elevator. I didn’t see him depart because Quinn was pushing me into the hotel room. He promptly kicked the door shut then reached for the tie at my waist.

With one tug, the dress came unraveled and fell open. Quinn’s appreciative groan made me smile, and my grin only broadened when he said, “I knew it. I love this dress.”

I laughed as his hands reached inside, parted the fabric, and gripped my waist. He brought me forward and against him, claimed my mouth, and began walking us into the bedroom.

Where he led, I followed, my feet shuffling backward with trusting steps, my hands on his shoulders as his roamed over my body. He didn’t touch me in order to ignite desire. His caresses were possessive rather than purposeful, like he’d been denied my skin for an unreasonable period of time, and he was merely taking his due.

When we reached the bedroom, he kicked another door shut—the bedroom door—and guided me to the bed, knelt over me and shifted my body until I lay beneath him. The dress still covered my shoulders and arms, but the open front framed my torso, hips, and legs.

We kissed. And then, abruptly, we were no longer kissing.

I opened my eyes to find Quinn staring at me and a frown drawing his features, made more severe by the dim light illuminating our bedroom.

I blinked up at him, searched his face for a clue to his thoughts. “What is it?”

“I told you I would show you an example of a private client file. I haven’t done that.”

I watched him for a beat, waited for him to continue. When he didn’t I threaded my fingers through his hair and lightly scratched the back of his neck.

“We can do that when we get back.”

His eyes narrowed on me, studying me, contemplative. He shifted his weight to his side and brought me to his chest, encouraged my leg to fit between his, my head on his shoulder.

Then he said, “You smell different.”

I lifted my head and peered at him, a little surprised he’d already noticed as I’d just purchased it earlier in the day. “Oh, yeah. I bought some perfume.”

“Why?”

“I read a study yesterday about perceived attractiveness. It stated that men find a woman approximately twenty percent more attractive when the woman smells good.”

“How…how would a study like that even work?”

“I believe they used the same woman in all test cases, but different men. The men rated the woman on her attractiveness after…”

“Never mind that. What I want to know is why you are wearing perfume.”

I lifted an eyebrow at his repeated question because I thought I’d already answered it. “Because, although you seem to be smitten at present, I recognize that you will eventually become inoculated to my looks, perhaps even bored of them. I thought smelling good and changing it every so often would give me a twenty percent advantage—approximately.”

Quinn watched me for a moment then closed his eyes and sighed. “You drive me crazy, and I don’t have enough energy right now to argue with you about how nuts you are.”

I smiled against his chest then moved to unbutton the front of his shirt. “Good. You should take your clothes off.”

His hands came up and closed over mine, stilling my movements. “Before we do that, before we go to sleep, I need to talk to you about one of the private clients.”

“It can wait until morning.”

“No.” He shook his head on his pillow, his eyes still closed. When he spoke next, his words were slurred with fatigue. “It’s about that night at Club Outrageous when you were drugged. That guy, the one that drugged you, we provided security for that family.”

Now he had my full attention.

“Oh…?” I thought about this information then asked the next question that popped in my head. “Is that how you had him arrested? You used one of his secrets against him?”

“Kind of…yes.” Quinn yawned, and I wondered if he would remember this conversation in the morning. He already seemed half-asleep.

“Quinn, why do you want me to know about this client?”

“Because…Parducci…they’re a good…example of…what I do….”

A few seconds passed as I waited for him to continue. Instead, he lay completely silent, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths.

“Quinn?” I whispered—and waited.

It was no good. He was asleep. I let him sleep.

But I did undress him. This was like trying to put a diaper on an elephant. He was all long, heavy limbs; and he was passed out, dead weight.

After I finished, I went through my evening routine then joined him in bed, reminding myself to ask him about this good example of a private client in the morning.

Before I surrendered to unconsciousness, I thought about what his father had said, about blame. I made a silent promise to myself that I wouldn’t allow blame to steal time from me, from us. The little thieving bastard would have no place in our marriage.

But my last thought, just before I drifted off to dreamland, was an echo of what Katherine had said earlier that evening; specifically, loving unconditionally brings only joy.

CHAPTER 19

Leaving Boston was bittersweet.

We’d said our goodbyes to Quinn’s parents the night before, but boarding the plane and watching the city fall away felt wrong. It felt like I was leaving home or a piece of myself behind. I decided to tuck that thought away for examination at some point later.

However, I missed my friends. I missed my knitting group and, strangely enough, I missed Steven. I was used to seeing him every day, hearing about his dating tribulations and quest for perfect furniture.

I reflected on how much different my life was now than it had been before, when I was with Jon.

I recognized now that Jon had been an enabler of my behavior. He’d encouraged my reclusive tendencies. He’d never pushed me outside of my comfort zone. In the end, when our relationship dissolved, I realized he’d never pushed me because he’d been afraid of losing me.

I was learning that fear has no place in a healthy relationship.

Sometimes it felt like all Quinn did was push—push me to feel, to think, to act, to want, to need. He also made me wish and dream for more than Cub’s tickets, comic books, and shoes.

I wasn’t running—in my head or by foot—from uncomfortable thoughts as much as I used to. I was still hiding in the bathroom, but that didn’t feel as bad for some reason. Maybe because I was confronting fears and concerns. This felt good, healthy, like a positive change.

Dan was on the flight with us and seemed to be walking with a new spring in his step. Seeing him with his older brother Seamus reminded me of my relationship with my sisters. As a result, I felt a little closer to him and a good deal more comfortable around him.

That’s why I allowed myself to tease him about his man-crush on Nico Moretti, especially after we landed in Chicago and Dan requested to come to the meeting.

“I’m sure he’ll be your best friend if you just ask,” I said, trying to give him a guileless smile. The three of us waited together at the appointed restaurant at the appointed time. Nico was two minutes late.

Dan gave me a frown that was not at all convincing. “I don’t want to be his best friend. Guys don’t have best friends.” His gaze flickered to Quinn’s and they shared a weird look, then their eyes darted away.

I took note of it and filed it for later analysis.

Dan added, “Well we do, have best friends…I guess. But we don’t talk about that kind of shit.”

“What kind of shit?” I pressed.

He shrugged, his eyes searching the restaurant. “Friendship ranking, not like girls do. They’re always either talking about it or thinking about it.”

“About friendship ranking?”

“Yeah, but not just with friends; with any kind relationship—drives me crazy. Girls always want to know how they rank. The thing is, if you can’t tell how a person feels about you, then you probably don’t want to know.”

I considered this statement, found it had a great deal of merit. But before I could spend too much time scrutinizing my current relationships—friendships and otherwise—based on this new theory, Nico Moretti came strolling into the restaurant.

Actually, a more accurate description of his gait would be swagger-saunter. But it wasn’t one of those purposeful swaggery saunters. It was like he couldn’t help it. He was the swagger; the swagger was him. And, together, they must saunter.

Dan stiffened and sat a little straighter in his seat; he must’ve seen Nico walk in as well. Quinn’s back was to the door and, though I was sure he was aware that Nico had just entered—because Dan’s rapt attention was a dead giveaway—Quinn didn’t turn in his seat.

Rather, Quinn continued to look over the menu with pointed intensity.

“He’s here,” Dan said unnecessarily.

“I know” Quinn muttered. “I can tell because you’re drooling.”

Dan gave Quinn a perturbed glare. “Shut up, Assface. Don’t be a douche.”

I listened to Dan and Quinn’s exchange, though my attention was completely transfixed by what was occurring at the hostess stand. Part of me worried that the two women who’d flocked to Nico Moretti (as though their internal organs were magnetized to his gravitational pull) were going to faint.