Playing Dirty (16 page)

Martin’s words were still echoing in Quentin’s head the next morning.
She really wanted that gun
. And Quentin wanted to find out why she wanted it. A little revenge wouldn’t hurt, either, for the phone to Owen’s nose and the jar of garam masala broken on the floor. His hired car had driven him to the Galleria, and he’d sweet-talked the hotel desk clerk, a fan, into giving him a key card.

Sarah’s room was dark and, not surprisingly after the way she’d treated him yesterday, cold. The bathtub was dry, so she hadn’t taken a shower that morning.
He felt a flash of worry for her, which justified scanning her room and checking out her closet. Everything was in neat order. Nothing was wrong.

She always looked immaculate. Not a wrinkle in her clothes, not a hair out of place—until he got a hold of her. He doubted she would let anyone see her at breakfast in the hotel restaurant before she’d taken a shower. But underneath her soft skin, her muscles were rock-hard. If he had to guess, he’d say she was exercising now.

He resisted the urge to sift through her things, looking for the reason she felt so threatened. He quashed the even stronger desire to examine all her underwear. He consulted the hotel map on the bedside table and found the gym.

She was the gym’s only patron, jogging on a treadmill among the rows of white machines. As soon as he stepped off the elevator, he recognized the pink streak in her ponytail through the gym’s glass wall. Her back was turned to him, and she wore her earbuds plugged into her MP3 player, so she didn’t see or hear him. He sat in a chair just outside the elevator. He would watch her for a few minutes before entering the gym to surprise her.

She was a runner. He knew that right away. She was no dilettante. Her tank top and shorts were soaked through with sweat, as if she’d been here for a long time. Yet she showed no signs of being the least bit winded, or of stopping anytime soon. He wished he could see her face.

He wondered what she was running toward, or running from.

Martin’s words came back to him yet again.
She really wanted that gun
. This was the first time Quentin had seen her when she wasn’t on parade. She thought no one was looking, and her drive was raw and undisguised.
She really wanted that gun
. She had a problem, and she would take care of it. If not this way, another way, wheels always turning. Quentin understood this completely.

What he didn’t understand was how she was
still jogging
, her running shoes padding on the treadmill in time with his heartbeat. He had to exercise in short bursts each morning to keep from wheezing. He was actually jealous that she was healthy and athletic, probably going on ten miles by now.

Suddenly she jumped from the treadmill without turning it off and jogged to the water fountain in the corner. Quentin was poised to go either forward to greet her, or back into the elevator, before she discovered him. Then she bent over to drink from the fountain, and he decided to stay where he was. Discovery or no, if he died right now of an asthma attack, at least he’d had a view of Sarah Seville bent over in her running shorts.

She jumped back onto the treadmill without looking in his direction. He was invisible.

This was stupid. It was like he had a crush on her, which hadn’t happened to him since Vonnie Conner in high school. There was almost no resemblance between
Sarah and Vonnie Conner. Vonnie had been blond and busty, like Erin. A cheerleader. Only the feelings of lust, wistfulness, and loss that Vonnie and Sarah evoked were similar. The feeling that
he had to have this
and
he could not have this
.

He couldn’t have Vonnie Conner because in high school, he’d been lanky, glasses-clad, and asthmatic, without a truck. There hadn’t been much he could do about that. Sarah he could do something about. He could quit the Cheatin’ Hearts.

No he couldn’t. The band was counting on him. And what would happen to Martin?

What would happen to
him
?

He could convince her to quit
her
job. Maybe Martin was right. If Sarah felt she needed a gun to protect herself against a rock star in jail in a different hemisphere, it didn’t say much for her job satisfaction.

But this didn’t feel right, either. She
did
love her job. Maybe not that part of it, but she wanted to keep it badly enough that she was willing to tackle Quentin. She came on to him hesitantly, as if she wasn’t used to being sexy—though she seemed comfortable enough in those low-cut shirts and high heels. She put on a show because she loved her job. Like Quentin loved his.

The need to go to her, bring her down off that treadmill, and take her was so strong that he could feel the blood shifting in his veins with the gravitational pull.

It was too much.

And Quentin knew now Sarah was holding her cards too close to the vest. He wouldn’t find out why she felt so threatened until she decided to tell him herself. He slipped back onto the elevator and headed for home.

Sweetie, I just got your e-mail from several days ago. I am not as “wired” as you are. I have been in Birmingham all week at the Vulcan Regional Duplicate Bridge Tournament. Please come to the evening session after you finish work today. I am sorry that I will not be able to see you on your birthday. I am flying out early tomorrow morning for the Lake Taneycomo Regional Duplicate Bridge Tournament in Branson, Missouri.

Love,

Mom

Sarah stepped out of the shower still invigorated from her run and a long set of Cheatin’ Hearts on her playlist. Running had always helped her handle the
stress of Nine Lives. Running with Quentin’s strong, lazy melody in her ears was at once relaxing and terribly exciting. There was no way she could miss her date with him tonight, mother or no mother.

She toweled off and began her hundred-step beauty routine. Before her Natsuko-style transformation, she hadn’t worn much makeup. Natsuko required sultry eyes and clear skin. She called her mother on her cell phone and tried to blow her off between the moisturizer and the liquid foundation.

Her mother asked sharply, “Are you telling me that you cannot spare three hours per year to spend with your aging mother?”

Sarah was overwhelmed with anger that her mother manipulated her, guilt that her mother was right, anxiety that her mother would see her hair, and love. The mirror reflected her hand pressed to her cheek. Her mother’s cheek. The older she got, the more she looked like her mother. The pink hair did not fix that.

“I’m babysitting this band,” she explained weakly.

“The Cheatin’ Hearts,” her mother said. “After you e-mailed me, I looked them up on your Internet. I’ve heard a song of theirs, ‘Come to Find Out.’ Catchy, if risqué.”

“That pretty much describes them,” Sarah acknowledged. “Mom, I don’t want to dis you, but I’m swamped with work today. And tonight, I’m supposed to keep up with one of the band members, who causes problems when left unattended.”

“The one with the green eyes?”

“Since when do you notice?” Sarah asked suspiciously.

“I’m old,” said her mother. “I’m not dead.”

“They’re really more hazel,” Sarah lied.

“Bring him to bridge. He can
hang out
, as you say.”

“Look, Mom, I’m not mixing business with mother,” Sarah said with finality. She needed to see her mother. She
needed
to see Quentin.

After she hung up, she considered the implications. Her mother would want her to stay for dinner at the hotel after the bridge session. Strangely, Quentin seemed to have passable table manners. There had been no table when he’d stood in the kitchen to eat breakfast, but he’d chewed with his mouth closed. She called Quentin’s cell phone.

He sounded like he was standing in a blender full of margaritas. “Are you in your car?” she asked. She only became more confused when he said yes. They had made their ill-fated trip to the firing range last night in Martin’s truck, with Martin driving. She’d concluded Quentin was the Cheatin’ Heart without wheels. “Are you driving?”

“No,” he said.

“Who’s driving?” she asked in a panic. He’d better not be with Erin.

“The guy I hire to drive me.”

Oh. “But in
your
car?”

“Well, in the car I hire to go with the driver.”

Right, the car service he’d mentioned several times. Sarah was exasperated. She was trying to put together
the puzzle of the Cheatin’ Hearts, but he was hiding the pieces from her. “Quentin, why don’t you drive yourself?”

“Because I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“Why
not
?”

“Because I don’t need one when I’m hiring someone to drive me.”

“You’ve been rich for two years,” Sarah said. “How did you get around before that?”

“I lived on the bus line.” He paused, then said, “Good morning, sunshine,” and laughed and laughed until she laughed.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I just hate it when you hold out on me.”

“I understand,” he said, still holding out.

“Why aren’t you recording my album?” she asked.

“That’s where I’m headed.”

“Really? Then where have you
been
this early in the morning?”

“Fishing.”

She sighed. He was so friendly and open, mostly, but when he chose to close down, it was like talking to a wall. “Quentin,” she said, “I don’t want to cancel our date tonight—”

“You’d better not,” he warned her.

Suddenly she was aware that she was standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror. She slid her thumb slowly across her nipple. Shuddered. Reached for her bathrobe.

“I don’t want to,” she repeated huskily, “but something’s
come up. I have to play bridge. You can still go with me so Erin thinks we have a date, but you’ll just be sitting there while I play bridge. Is this too uncool for you? Would it ruin you if a photo ran in the Cheatin’ Hearts Death Watch that showed you with me while I played bridge?”

“Unless I’m at one of my usual bars, or in the town where I grew up, I don’t get recognized. We’re careful to keep our hats on when we’re performing.” Slow on the uptake, he asked, “Bridge, the card game?”

If she didn’t tell him the whole story, he’d keep asking. She lay on the bed and hugged herself into a ball. “About four years ago, my dad retired, and he and my mom set off on a bridge tour of the United States. I never understood it myself. I guess some retired couples have their RVs, or their gardens, or their grandchildren, and my parents had bridge. Then, about two years ago, my dad died of a heart attack.”

Quentin was saying he was sorry, but Sarah didn’t want to hear it, only wanted to get this story out and over with. She interrupted him, “And then my mother started her solo bridge tour of the United States. I know what she’s doing. She’s looking for my dad. You’ll hear her. She has a different partner every time, and every one drops tricks or passes her forcing bid. She wore her poker face at the funeral, didn’t shed a tear. I know this is it. This is the tears. This is her sick style of mourning. She left so fast that I had to clean up her house after the wake.”

Sarah was spilling this story maniacally. She forced
herself to take a deep breath before finishing slowly, “My mother never comes to see me. She hardly ever goes home. We usually see each other at Christmas, but not last year. I was in Rio.”

“So, you’re her bridge partner for a few hours,” Quentin said, accepting casually, which Sarah appreciated.

“It doesn’t even make that much sense,” she admitted. “Beulah has been her partner for the whole tournament, even though the very first morning, Beulah put Mom in slam missing two aces. I’m sure you’ll hear all about this, too. But Mom’s made a commitment to Beulah until the end of tonight’s session, and she won’t break it. Besides, she and I had a little altercation when I was thirteen, which I won’t get into, and I swore I’d never be her partner again.

“No, I have to go to the partnership table and get paired with someone. There are a few normal people. And some people who eat paste. And some hardcore people like my mother. Luck of the draw.”

Quentin said, “I play bridge.”

“You do not.”

“I play all the games.”

You sure do
, Sarah thought. She arranged to pick up Quentin for the bridge tournament that night. Then she called her mother back. “Now, listen, Ethel. This band is worth millions of dollars to Manhattan Music, and therefore, it’s worth my job to me. Please remember that when you foil me.”

“You could always get a job at the Fairhope Country
Club,” her mother drawled elegantly. “They need a public relations expert. Their Cobb salad is an absolute shame.”

Sarah tapped one fingernail on her phone in irritation. Yesterday she’d handled the
New York Times
and
Vanity Fair
, but she couldn’t handle her own mother.

“I’m just joshing, sweetie,” her mother finally said. “Stop tapping.”

“Do not
josh
me about this. If you want me to play bridge, you have to help me keep up the image to Quentin that I’m a tough New Yorker.”