enjoying the physical contact between them. “You need to ask me specific questions.”
As they spoke over their entrée—a mouthwatering fillet of salmon simmered in dill and braised with vanilla essence—Natalie found herself wishing she hadn’t left the questioning to a reporter. He had a very subtle way of making her trust him, a gentle way of drawing facts out of her. By the time dessert came around, he knew all about her sour mother, the relationship that had ruined her career, all of it—even her problem with money, which she’d decided to tell him of her own volition. She waited for him to look disgusted, even shocked. But no, he understood addiction: one of his best friends at the Sent , long fired, had a gambling addiction that had cost him everything. Quinn told her she should be proud of taking hold of herself. His admiration for her made her like him even more.
“Your turn now,” she insisted over dessert, a delicious citron sorbet. She couldn’t wait to discuss this meal with Vivi! She was touched by how deeply he loved his family and how close-knit they were. She’d seen it at the Hart, but hearing him verbalize it so fiercely and tenderly was different. She was envious. The only relative in her family she could stand was Vivi.
Quinn skimmed the surface of his romantic past, just as she had. But it was talking about his job where he came most alive. Natalie could not shake the feeling that he was one of those people who thrived on adrenaline. “Anything to get the story,” he told her. There wasn’t an ounce of humility in his voice when he told her he’d been nominated for two Pulitzer Prizes in journalism, which further impressed her. She loved the way he couldn’t talk without using his hands and the way passion flashed in his blue eyes, eyes she could drown in if she lost control of herself. Quinn O’Brien was an impressive man, one with drive, soul, and passion. Charming and handsome. Vivi was right; they’d been doing this dance around each other for too long, and much as she hated to admit it, she was intensely attracted to him. Worried that he could tell, she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
Quinn’s first thought when Natalie excused herself was, Moron! Why did you lie to impress her? Telling her you loved the symphony? What a load of horseshit! Classical music bored the hell out of him.
Their waiter hustled over to the table. “How’d I do?” he asked Quinn, dropping the French accent to speak to Quinn in his normal New Yawkese.
“Great. Thanks for doing this for me.”
“Hey, anything for Anthony Dante.”
“Where’d you learn such a good French accent?”
“I do a little theater on the side,” the waiter said modestly.
“Well, you’re terrific. I really appreciate it. And I think she’s impressed.”
“She seems like a classy broad.”
“Probably too classy for me, but we’ll see.” Quinn held out his hand. “All right, I’ve steeled myself. Hand over the check.”
Quinn suppressed a choke when he saw the damage; the meal cost $350. He looked up at the waiter. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Quinn pulled his AmEx card out of his pocket.
“Thanks again, man. You saved my ass in a major way.”
Standing outside her apartment building, Natalie debated whether she should ask Quinn upstairs. She knew that in many instances, it was a euphemism for something else, and she certainly didn’t want him to think she was cheap or fast, because she wasn’t. Still, she could stand here and flirt with him a little, couldn’t she?
“So, now that you know everything about me—”
“Not everything.”
“What’s left?” she murmured.
“This.”
Quinn took her in his arms, crushing his mouth to hers. The rush of it made her feel so exhilaratingly alive it almost hurt. When he slipped his tongue into her mouth, deepening their connection, she felt weak-kneed, almost giddy. God help her, she’d let him make love to her right here in
As they spoke over their entrée—a mouthwatering fillet of salmon simmered in dill and braised with vanilla essence—Natalie found herself wishing she hadn’t left the questioning to a reporter. He had a very subtle way of making her trust him, a gentle way of drawing facts out of her. By the time dessert came around, he knew all about her sour mother, the relationship that had ruined her career, all of it—even her problem with money, which she’d decided to tell him of her own volition. She waited for him to look disgusted, even shocked. But no, he understood addiction: one of his best friends at the Sent , long fired, had a gambling addiction that had cost him everything. Quinn told her she should be proud of taking hold of herself. His admiration for her made her like him even more.
“Your turn now,” she insisted over dessert, a delicious citron sorbet. She couldn’t wait to discuss this meal with Vivi! She was touched by how deeply he loved his family and how close-knit they were. She’d seen it at the Hart, but hearing him verbalize it so fiercely and tenderly was different. She was envious. The only relative in her family she could stand was Vivi.
Quinn skimmed the surface of his romantic past, just as she had. But it was talking about his job where he came most alive. Natalie could not shake the feeling that he was one of those people who thrived on adrenaline. “Anything to get the story,” he told her. There wasn’t an ounce of humility in his voice when he told her he’d been nominated for two Pulitzer Prizes in journalism, which further impressed her. She loved the way he couldn’t talk without using his hands and the way passion flashed in his blue eyes, eyes she could drown in if she lost control of herself. Quinn O’Brien was an impressive man, one with drive, soul, and passion. Charming and handsome. Vivi was right; they’d been doing this dance around each other for too long, and much as she hated to admit it, she was intensely attracted to him. Worried that he could tell, she excused herself to go to the ladies’ room.
Quinn’s first thought when Natalie excused herself was, Moron! Why did you lie to impress her? Telling her you loved the symphony? What a load of horseshit! Classical music bored the hell out of him.
Their waiter hustled over to the table. “How’d I do?” he asked Quinn, dropping the French accent to speak to Quinn in his normal New Yawkese.
“Great. Thanks for doing this for me.”
“Hey, anything for Anthony Dante.”
“Where’d you learn such a good French accent?”
“I do a little theater on the side,” the waiter said modestly.
“Well, you’re terrific. I really appreciate it. And I think she’s impressed.”
“She seems like a classy broad.”
“Probably too classy for me, but we’ll see.” Quinn held out his hand. “All right, I’ve steeled myself. Hand over the check.”
Quinn suppressed a choke when he saw the damage; the meal cost $350. He looked up at the waiter. “Holy shit.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
Quinn pulled his AmEx card out of his pocket.
“Thanks again, man. You saved my ass in a major way.”
Standing outside her apartment building, Natalie debated whether she should ask Quinn upstairs. She knew that in many instances, it was a euphemism for something else, and she certainly didn’t want him to think she was cheap or fast, because she wasn’t. Still, she could stand here and flirt with him a little, couldn’t she?
“So, now that you know everything about me—”
“Not everything.”
“What’s left?” she murmured.
“This.”
Quinn took her in his arms, crushing his mouth to hers. The rush of it made her feel so exhilaratingly alive it almost hurt. When he slipped his tongue into her mouth, deepening their connection, she felt weak-kneed, almost giddy. God help her, she’d let him make love to her right here in
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