Shattered With You (Stark Security Book 1), Page 3

  How quickly things change, right? Because when I’d arrived six months prior, I’d been giddy at the thought of living in the UK for half a year. I’d come to London to join the cast of a unique improv company that performed modern riffs on favorite Shakespeare plays. The thought of playing a different role each night had made my heart soar and my creativity sing. The run was supposed to be five months, and afterwards, I’d spend a month sightseeing before heading back to Manhattan where I’d already lined up a small role as a murder victim in the upcoming season of a popular television show.

  But that’s not how things panned out. The show closed after one week, which meant I was in a foreign country with no income. I considered going home—I didn’t have immediate work lined up there, either, but auditioning in New York was at least a familiar process. Plus, I knew all the best temp agencies.

  Emma had come to my rescue, as usual. She reminded me that I’d flat-swapped. Which meant that I didn’t have a home to return to, since a British author was currently in my apartment, using the time to finish his latest project. “You’ve already got the flat in London,” she’d said. “All you need is spending money.”

  Since she knew I wouldn’t take her cash as sisterly charity, she offered me the long-distance job of organizing her and Lorenzo’s online files. It was a little bit of a gimme, but not entirely. Both Emma and Lorenzo lacked the organizational gene. They could scan, download, or type information into a computer, but then it just stayed there like a dead fish stinking up their hard drive. My job was to shove all those rotten fish heads into tidy little digital folders. Hard for them, easy for me.

  Which meant that I was gainfully employed in London with a job that took very little effort and left me with all the time in the world to explore the city, pretending I was a Londoner. Or maybe a runaway heiress. Or a travel photographer. God knew I took enough shots with my ancient Canon.

  And, in fact, it was the camera that introduced me to Quincy.

  It was an unusually warm day in March, my tenth day in London, and my twenty-fourth birthday. Since I had no one in town to celebrate with, I spent the day wandering London with my camera. Around lunchtime, I was taking photos of the ducks in Hyde Park—because you can’t have too many cute duck photos—and I’d been backing up slowly as I tried to adjust the composition. At the same time, Quincy had been walking down the path toward me, sipping a coffee and talking into his phone. He looked down as I stepped back, and boom, his white-starched shirt was drenched in black coffee.

  “Bloody buggering hell,” he snapped, then went immediately contrite as I turned around, completely and totally mortified. “Oh, bloody fuck, I’m sorry.”

  “No, no. It was my fault. I was … well, actually, I blame the ducks.“

  “Ah, I thought they might be up to something. They look a bit shady around the eyes.”

  I nodded sagely, ridiculously pleased that such a ruggedly handsome man shared my sense of humor. “And you see how they’re just meandering around now, pretending to be all innocent? But we know. We can see their devious little duck natures hiding right beneath the soft, feathery surface.”

  I was kidding, of course. Except maybe I wasn’t. There’s far too much darkness buried just below eye level. I should know. I’ve watched the shadows rise up more times than I like to think about.

  I started to brush away my words, to add something light to the conversation so he would only see the joke and not get an inadvertent peek into something deeper. But then I saw his eyes, and I stumbled. And that’s when I knew he understood. This was a man who’d stood at the threshold and looked into the abyss, too.

  I shook myself—it was a ridiculous thought. “Anyway, right. I should let you get going. You probably want to change that shirt. Actually, I should have it cleaned for you.”

  “Shall I take it off, then? Hand it over to you, and we can meet here again tomorrow?”

  “I—” He was teasing; I was certain of it. And yet my senses kicked into overdrive as I imagined him unbuttoning his shirt, stepping closer to give it to me. The scent of him. The frisson of awareness as our hands brushed. And then the anticipation as he leaned closer and—

  I took a firm step backward. “Maybe I should just write down my number and you can call me with the bill?”

  “Why don’t you let me buy you lunch and we’ll call it even.”

  “Oh. Well—wait. I think you’ve got that backward.”

  His smile shot straight through me, warming me from the inside. “No,” he said. “I didn’t.”

  “Oh.” I rarely date. I’d had my share of one-night stands, though. Bar pickups. Friend fix-ups.

  Most of the time, those encounters were just fine. Nothing special, but more entertaining than an evening with a battery-operated boyfriend.

  It was the next morning that was always the kicker. Because no matter how energetic that romp in the sheets might have been, it was never quite right. Never quite what I needed. What I craved.

  And what I knew I shouldn’t want.

  The next morning was always an awkward, silent, stumbling hell. Stilted conversation and that too-familiar tightening in my chest, because the bottom line was that I didn’t know how to tell Mr. Last Night that he really hadn’t gotten it done.

  Not that this coffee-soaked stranger was inviting me into his bed. At least not overtly. But there was an electricity between us that was already snapping and crackling. Go with him, and I was certain that the afternoon would lead into evening, and the evening would lead to sexy hijinks.

  Did I want that? Another attempt to find a guy who filled that hole inside me? Another futile fuck and then the disappointment of slinking away unsatisfied? Because I was always unsatisfied.

  Part of me liked it that way, because if I ever did find a guy who touched those secret, hidden desires, I’d have to finally acknowledge those dark needs that had teased me since puberty. But that wasn’t a place I wanted to go. Because that was the place that reminded me of him. That reminded me that his blood flowed in my veins, and that at my core lay something very, very bad.

  I stifled a shiver, hugging myself as I looked up at this smiling stranger with the stormy eyes. Better to just push him away now and be done with it. At least then I could go home and enjoy the delicious fantasy of the man and avoid altogether the disappointing reality.

  That was the plan, anyway. The execution turned out to be a lot harder.

  His gaze bore down on me. “I’m not quite certain if I should take your silence as a yes or a no.”

  “Sorry.” I stifled a wince. “I appreciate the offer. Really. But I probably shouldn’t.”

  He said nothing for a moment, just looked at me with those dark, penetrating eyes. Then he took a single step toward me so that he was close enough that I could reach out and touch him. Close enough that I caught the scent of musk and male hidden under the overpowering aroma of coffee.

  A charged silence hung between us, broken only by the low quacking of the ducks. My breath came shallow, and I could feel my pulse beating in my throat. And the longer his eyes stayed on me, the more an unexpected heat built between my thighs.

  Really shouldn’t, indeed.

  When he finally spoke, there was no disappointment in his voice. Just a low, even tone that suggested that nothing ever ruffled him. And that he was used to getting what he wanted.

  “Are you saying no because you’re afraid of what will happen between us? Or are you more afraid that nothing will happen at all?”

  “I—”

  That’s all I managed before the words caught in my throat and my mind turned to mush. My senses were on overdrive, and every warning bell in my head was going off. This was the kind of guy who could get under my skin. This was the kind of guy I should run from.

  Finally, I gathered my wits enough to answer. “Those are my only two choices?” I lifted my brow in what I hoped was a haughty gesture. “I think you’re being awfully presumptuous.”

  “I’m not. But I
also have rules, and one is that I never argue if a woman says no. So tell me, Eliza. Are you declining my invitation to lunch?”

  “I—wait. How do you know my name?”

  His eyes dipped toward the ground where I’d dropped my camera bag. Eliza T. Right there on the top, along with an email address to help the bag find its way home to me in case it got lost.

  “Right.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, not entirely sure why I was still here. Hadn’t I already assessed this guy? Didn’t I already know he was dangerous?

  But maybe a little danger was exactly what I needed.

  No. Don’t go there, Eliza. Do not go there.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, taking that first tiny mental step in the absolute wrong direction.

  “If we’re parting ways, I hardly think that matters.” He reached out, and I was surprised to find my hand rising to meet his. “Will you tell me something?”

  “Maybe.”

  His thumb lightly stroked my skin, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through me, teasing that already growing ache at my core. “Why are you hesitating when you clearly want me—”

  I sucked in air, irritated by his presumption. And by the truth of it.

  “—to take you to lunch.”

  “Oh.”

  He cocked his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. I felt my cheeks burn. Obviously, he knew exactly what I’d been thinking. “Don’t shy away from what you want,” he said, his voice soft but commanding, full of a quality I couldn’t define but that I knew I craved, even as it scared me.

  “Say yes,” he continued. “I promise, you won’t regret it.”

  “I don’t usually go out with strangers I meet in the park.” My suddenly dry mouth made my voice rough.

  “I like being an exception.”

  I looked him up and down, and I had to grin. “Yeah. I bet you do. Fair enough, Mr. Mystery. But I’m buying lunch.”

  “Not a problem,” he said with the kind of sexy grin designed to make a woman melt. “I’ll buy breakfast.”

  I tilted my head, making a show of looking him up and down. “In that case, I think you better tell me your name.”

  4

  It was Quincy. Quincy Radcliffe, which seemed so very British to me. But not in a clichéd stuffy way. Quincy had more of a sexy, James Bond vibe.

  “I like it,” I announced. “It suits you.”

  “Most of my friends call me Quince,” he said.

  “Really? You seem like a two syllable kind of guy.”

  He eyed me sideways as we continued walking through the park toward the street, though I wasn’t sure which street. Hyde Park is huge, and I’d managed to get completely turned around.

  When we finally escaped paradise for the hustle and bustle of cars and cabs and buses, I turned in a circle, trying to get my bearings. No luck. “In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m not from around here. Any suggestions on where to feed you? And don’t even try to talk me out of paying.”

  “What makes you think I’d do that?”

  “There’s a chivalrous look about you.”

  “You have something against chivalry?”

  “Let’s just say I like a little bad in my boy.” Oh my God, where had that come from? It wasn’t true at all. I was fishing in the nice guy pool, and I was certain that eventually I’d catch one who wasn’t lacking. Who’d satisfy me in a way that didn’t touch the scary shadows in my soul.

  Bottom line? I needed a guy who was way the hell and gone from my father. Which meant I definitely didn’t need a bad boy.

  He paused on the sidewalk, and I turned back to see what had caught his eye, only to realize that it was me.

  “What?” I asked, suddenly antsy under his attention, like I’d walked through a charged electrical field.

  His smile was slow and easy, the kind that reached his eyes and suggested that he knew a secret.

  “Quincy,” I demanded. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said in voice that telegraphed the opposite. “I just think that you’re a woman with a lot of layers, Eliza T. And I’m going to enjoy peeling away each and every one of them.”

  “Presumptuous, much?” I spoke archly, but it was just for show. That electrical sizzle had ramped up, making the tiny hairs on my arms stand up and the back of my neck prickle. Right then, a little peeling sounded just fine by me.

  For a moment we simply looked at each other until, finally, I cleared my throat and looked away.

  “No,” he said.

  I turned back. “No?”

  He reached out, and my breath caught as he gently ran the pad of his thumb along my jaw. “No, I’m not being presumptuous.”

  “Oh.” My cheeks burned, and not from the bright spring day. “I—um, I still have absolutely no idea where to eat around here.”

  His hand left my jaw, leaving a warm spot on my skin that suddenly consumed every ounce of my attention. Or it did until I felt that same hand at my lower back, the pressure just enough to guide me down the sidewalk. I realized I was grinning like a fool, and I looked down at the ground to hide my goofy expression. I wasn’t entirely sure what was going on here, but I couldn’t deny that I liked it.

  As I’d insisted, I did buy him lunch, and although I hadn’t planned on a full-on formal dining experience, the cute little pub in Mayfair he guided us to was significantly less posh than I’d intended, especially considering we ended up at the take-out window.

  “Was your shirt so cheap that you think it would be unfair for me to shell out for a full meal?” I knew it wasn’t cheap, of course. When you grow up watching your sister pull off complicated cons just to score a room for the night, you learn a bit about the wardrobe habits of the rich and successful. From what I could tell, Mr. Quincy Radcliffe was either a very experienced con, or he came from money.

  Note the came from. Not new money. And yeah, there’s a difference. A newly monied man might have been polite about the soiled shirt, but he would have still been irritated. And he certainly wouldn’t still be wearing it, the brown stain across his chest like a beacon declaring his—or my—clumsiness.

  “First of all,” Quincy said, “some of London’s best food comes from pubs. And second, I’m going to guess that you’ve never had a Scotch egg.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I’m more of a wine girl.”

  He just chuckled, then held up two fingers to the man at the window. “Trust me,” he said, as I shelled out very few pounds in exchange for two little paper boats. In each sat what appeared to be a giant hush puppy surrounded by sweet potato fries.

  I looked at the meal dubiously, then followed him to one of the outdoor tables. “Do I get a hint?”

  “A hard boiled egg, sausage, bread crumbs. And it’s deep-fried. Need I say more?”

  “Not to me.” I wouldn’t call myself a foodie, but I’m definitely a girl who likes to eat. Which explains why I also like to work out. Although like might be a slight exaggeration.

  I used a little plastic knife to cut through the breading to reveal exactly what he’d described. An egg nestled in a delicious layer of sausage-y goodness. I cut a piece off, used the toss-away fork to spear it, and then bit into what had to be a tiny niblet from heaven.

  “Holy wow.” I covered my mouth with my napkin—my best first date manners—and looked up at him. “You are an amazing human being for turning me on to these.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it.” His mouth twitched.

  “Don’t even say it.” I could hear the laughter in my voice, because I knew exactly where he was going.

  “Say what? That I’m very happy to have turned you on? I wouldn’t dream of being so forward.”

  “Mmm.” I took another bite, and wisely decided to stay silent. An easy plan to stick to since the food was delicious and my mouth was fully occupied.

  Despite his earlier tease that he’d buy breakfast, I’d expected him to make his escape. Probably he’d tell me he needed to get home and change before an evening meetin
g. Because clearly this was a guy who worked in the private sector. But he never even hinted that he wanted to get away from me. On the contrary, when I told him that I’d only been in London for a little over a week, he suggested one of the hop-on/hop-off double-decker tour buses. And because I’m a total geek about that kind of thing, I accepted immediately.

  It was only when we were settled next to each other on a small bench seat at the top of the bus that the import of his offer hit me. Somehow, our chance encounter in the park had morphed into an actual date.

  I really needed to remember to thank those ducks.

  Despite a decent guide who spoke to us from the front of the bus, I learned nothing about the city. Instead, I spent the next hour flirting with the man beside me. Sharing details about our lives and cracking the occasional stupid joke.

  “Actress,” he said, when I refused to tell him what I did and ordered him to guess.

  “You’re good. Most people I’ve chatted up over here think I’m a grad student.”

  “I spend a lot of time watching people.”

  “Is that part of the job description for an international financial consultant?” I’d gone first in the guess-my-job game. I’d guessed that he was in the corporate world, but he’d narrowed down the specifics for me.

  He shook his head. “No. Let’s just say it’s one of my special skills.”

  “So lay it out. What marks me as a woman of stage and screen?”

  “For one thing, the prop.” He glanced down at my camera bag, then back up at me, the certainty reflected in his face both impressing and scaring me. No one but Emma had ever seen me quite so clearly.

  “Prop?” I tried to keep my voice nonchalant, but I don’t think I succeeded. “I like to take pictures, that’s all.”

  He nodded, as if encouraging me to talk, and despite telling myself that I was going to shift the conversation around to him, I heard myself saying, “I’m lousy at it. Snapshots, sure. But anything that resembles actual art? Or skilled photography? Really not me.”