Playing for Keeps (7 page)

“Quentin,” she finally replied, “you're right on time.” She glanced at her watch, but made no move to let him in. She could stand there all night looking at him in his faded blue jeans and crisp white shirt with three buttons casually opened at the top.

“May I come in?” Quentin asked.

“Oh, of course.” Avery stepped aside to allow him to enter her apartment.

He wasn't surprised to find her place was as meticulous and orderly as the lady herself. The warm earth shades oozed class and elegance. He stepped out onto her enormous balcony and found a great view of Central Park.

“Nice place,” he commented on his way back in. A little devoid of warmth, he thought, but nice all the same. He'd love to come in and spice it up with some color.

“Thank you,” Avery said. She was curious as to what was roaming through his mind as he fingered the Monet, Renoir and Degas prints that adorned her walls. He was probably thinking she was uppity and a snob.

“You must love the Impressionists,” Quentin said.

“Yes, I like their use of short, thick strokes, the soft edges, the intermingling colors and the way their paintings command your attention,” Avery rattled on, until she realized Quentin was eyeing her up and down. “What's wrong? Do you not like what I'm wearing?”

Quentin rubbed his goatee. “It's not that…” He paused.

“Then what?” she asked, exasperated. She thought she looked just fine. She was wearing Michael Kors, after all.

He chuckled at her tone. “It's fine if we were going to a fine-dining restaurant, but for where we're going this evening, you are a tad overdressed.”

“Where are we going?” Avery asked.

“To this Moroccan restaurant that I know in Jersey.”

“Moroccan?” she said haughtily. She'd never tried Moroccan food. All she knew was that they used a lot of curries and chutneys.

“Yes, Moroccan,” he replied, mocking her. “And I just thought you might feel more comfortable in some jeans. You know, less out of place, but it's your choice.”

She thought about it for a moment. He did have a point. She doubted her black pants and multi-floral blouse would fit in. “Give me five minutes,” she said and scurried off to her master suite.

It took longer than five minutes for Avery to rummage through her closet because she couldn't remember what she'd done with the single pair of jeans she owned.

Avery released a huge sigh of relief when they zipped up with ease. She glanced at her rear end in the mirror. The jeans hugged every curve, which was exactly how Quentin wanted them, she was sure. She replaced her jacket with one of Jenna's tops from her photo shoots. As a talent agent, she sometimes secured free clothing from the designers and passed along what she didn't want to Avery. The sexy, low-cut top wasn't really her style, but it fit the occasion.

She breezed down the hall and found Quentin perusing a magazine on the edge of the sofa. “Will this suffice, Your Grace?” she asked, bowing in front of him.

He smiled. Avery Roberts was certainly a shrew, but if she thought her sarcastic tone would send him running in the opposite direction, she was wrong. He had a bet to win. He would show his friends that he was still a playa and, like fine wine, he had only gotten better with age.

Quentin rose to his feet and pulled Avery toward him. “Yes, that will do,” he said, mere inches from her face. He loved the slight bit of décolletage he'd received when she'd bowed.

The breath caught in Avery's throat and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her, but instead he stepped away, leaving her bereft and wishing he had.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” she huffed, reached for her purse on the console in the foyer and preceded him out the door. Quentin smiled as he watched her switch. He definitely liked the way she looked in those jeans. She'd been anticipating that he was going to kiss her, but instead he'd wait and when she was panting for it, he would give it to her and give it to her good.

O
nce they exited her building, Avery looked up and down the street for a taxicab, ignoring the motorcycle parked directly in front of her apartment building.

“You don't have to worry about one of those,” Quentin said, walking to the Harley.

“Why is that?” she asked.

“Because we're taking this,” he said, hopping on the back of the bike.

Avery's eyes grew wide with fear as she walked to the curb. “Surely you jest. There's no way I'm getting on that death trap.”

“I'm not asking,” Quentin said, throwing her a helmet. “Get on.”

“Oh no!” She shook her head vehemently. She'd heard about people getting seriously injured or worse.

“Don't make me get off this bike and physically put you on it,” he warned.

“I've never been on a motorcycle before. What if I fall off?”

“Then I guess you had better hold on real tight, now, hadn't you?” Quentin chuckled. When Avery didn't move a muscle, he got off and walked around the bike. “There's nothing to be afraid of. I'm a good driver and we have helmets to protect us.” He took the helmet out of Avery's shaking hands and placed it over her head.

“My hair,” she said when he snapped the helmet in place.

“It'll be fine.” Quentin helped her onto the bike. “I promise I'll take good care of you.” He hopped back onto the bike and turned on the ignition.

Reluctantly, she wrapped her arms around his middle. “You'd better!” Avery yelled over the roar of the engine.

“Hold on,” Quentin said as they took off down the road.

She held on for dear life. On the forty-minute drive from Manhattan to Parsippany, New Jersey, Avery prayed. She didn't know why she'd allowed herself to be bullied into getting on this contraption. She must be mad. When they finally stopped at a small strip mall, she drew a long-overdue deep breath.

Quentin jumped off and took off his helmet. “Are you all right?” he asked, because Avery had had a death grip on him the entire way and he'd barely been able to breathe.

“I'm okay, I think,” Avery replied.

After she removed her helmet, Quentin secured it on the bike and grabbed her by the hand. “C'mon, you'll love this place. They have a live Moroccan band and belly dancers.”

“Belly dancers!” Avery exclaimed.

The restaurant's large wooden doors opened up into a warm atmosphere with hand-painted murals and a fabric-draped ceiling. The red-and-orange color scheme was a tribute to the many images she'd seen of Morocco and was nothing like any other restaurant she'd ever frequented in New York.

They were ushered into a large open room where they were seated with other guests on banquettes strewn with ornate pillows. Avery was surprised that there weren't any tables. Handmade, intricately designed circular gold trays served as their tabletop. Before the meal arrived, a waiter dressed in traditional Moroccan clothing brought over a
tasse
and a basin, and set them on the small round wooden table.

“What's that for?” Avery asked.

“It's for us to wash our hands.”

“Whatever for?”

“Because we eat with our hands,” Quentin returned, rolling up his sleeves.

“That's completely uncivilized.” She was used to eating with utensils.

“It's the Moroccan custom. And as they say…when in Rome…” Quentin dipped his hands in the water. “C'mon, don't be such a spoilsport.”

He was glad when Avery finally joined her hands with his in the basin. Quentin poured water over her hands with his and although it was a purely innocent gesture, it was highly sensual. And to make matters worse, the restaurant was so crowded, she and Quentin had to sit so closely their thighs touched. It made Avery completely aware of him at her side. She finally had to ask, “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I wanted you to try someplace different. Take you out of your comfort zone.”

“Why?” she asked, drying her hands with a towel the waiter had left.

“Because, my dear—” Quentin tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear “—you need to live a little.”

“I am very cultured,” Avery replied, somewhat offended by his offhanded comment.

“Why must you be so combative? I just wanted to show you something different. Can't you let me do that?”

Her eyes narrowed and he thought she was going to say no, but she smiled instead and said, “Yes. So, what are we having for dinner? Because I have no idea what to order.”

Quentin ordered items for them both to share, so Avery could try several of his favorite foods on the menu.

While the waiter put their order in, Quentin used the time to learn more about Avery. He found she was a lot more open-minded than he'd thought and enjoyed many of the same things that he did. She had an affinity not just for art, but the theater, literature, classical music and travel. She was well traveled and had seen her share of Europe.

“Have you ever been to the Middle East?” Quentin inquired.

“No, I haven't,” Avery replied. “I'm sure you have some interesting stories you could tell. I saw your Iraq photographs in
Time
and they were amazing. You captured the despair and fear in the country.”

“You have no idea the horrors and atrocities that soldiers face when they go to war. It's brutal. No wonder many of them come back traumatized. My photographs capture only a second of the things they see and experience daily.”

“Are you going back any time soon?”

Quentin shook his head. “No, as much as I enjoy life abroad, I'd like to stay on American soil for a while. And plus, I kind of like the sights right here in New York.” He glanced at her sideways.

Avery blushed because Quentin was in no way hiding his obvious interest in her.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked, inching closer to her.

“Uh…no,” she said. “It's just that you and I…”

“Have more in common than you realized,” Quentin finished.

He was right, but she wasn't about to admit that. “No, what I was about to say is that we've lived totally different lives. I was brought up in a cocoon on Park Avenue, sheltered from the horrors of the world, except what I see on the news. While you've seen them. Lived them. I'm sure that had to change you.”

“Yes, it has,” Quentin said and reached for her hand. He held her small delicate hand in his large one. “It's made me value life and all it has to offer.”

Despite their differences, Avery felt a pull toward Quentin and had it not been for the waiter returning with their hummus appetizer on a beautifully decorated platter, she might have fallen into his arms.

“What is it?” Avery asked, looking at the strange mixture.

The waiter answered, “It's a combination of chickpeas, tahini, spices and olive oil. Please try it.”

“Here.” Quentin grabbed a piece of flat bread and dipped it in the smooth, creamy mixture. He leaned over and brought the bread to Avery's lips. “C'mon, don't be a chicken.”

She opened her mouth and took the plunge. She bit into it and found the hummus to be surprisingly tasty.

“So, what do you think?” he asked, licking the remnants off his fingertips.

Avery turned and smiled at Quentin. “It's not bad. Actually, it's quite good.”

“I'm glad you like it.” They continued their seven-course Moroccan journey when he offered her another delicacy,
bastilla.
Crisp phyllo leaves powdered with cinnamon and confectioner's sugar enclosed the delicate, juicy filling of saffron chicken. It was completely sensual having Quentin feed her, and not just because it was a mouthwatering blend of tastes and aromas, but because of the way Quentin looked at her. His gaze was a soft caress across her face and Avery had to admit she enjoyed the attention.

They continued their meal with
harira,
a traditional Moroccan lentil soup, and a tabbouleh salad of couscous, tomato, herbs and olive oil.

“I've never had anything quite like this,” Avery admitted when they were halfway through their entrée of slowly braised baby lamb
tagine
served with saffron rice. “Thank you,” she said when they ended the extravagant meal with a plate of fruit, pastries and a cup of mint tea.

“Don't thank me yet,” Quentin said when the live Moroccan band took to the stage. “The night isn't over yet.”

Avery turned her head at the exact moment the belly dancer came sashaying into the room. Avery had no idea how she could shake and gyrate her hips with such ease. There was no way
she
could do that. Or so she thought.

The dancer made her way around the room, asking several patrons to join her in the native ritual. When she made her way to their banquette, Quentin pointed to Avery. “She'd love to dance.”

“Unh-unh.” Avery vehemently shook her head. “I don't belly dance.”

“It is easy,” the woman said with a thick Moroccan accent. “Come, I will show you.” She pulled Avery to her feet and before Avery knew it, the woman had wrapped a large piece of fabric around her hips.

Standing, Avery noticed all eyes in the restaurant were on her as the Moroccan woman placed her hands on Avery's hips and showed her the movements in quick succession. Avery tried to follow suit, but found that belly dancing was not her forte. As she was sure Quentin had suspected. When she turned and attempted to gyrate her body to the live music like the dancer, she found Quentin's hot and hungry gaze fixed on her. Everyone in the restaurant clapped enthusiastically, cheering her on.

Quentin, meanwhile, was having great fun watching Avery give belly dancing her best effort. She wasn't inept, but she wasn't great either. If his friends could see her now, he highly doubted they'd be calling her an ice queen. Despite her initial objections to his mode of transportation and choice of restaurant, Avery had come through like a real trooper. She'd shown that she could let down her hair and it made Quentin admire her courage.

Afterward, Avery took a bow and returned to her seat. “How was I?” she asked breathlessly.

Ever the gentleman, Quentin lied right through his teeth. “You were great.”

“Liar,” Avery said, smiling at him. “I'm going to kill you for this, Quentin Davis,” she whispered in his ear.

“I look forward to it,” he whispered back.

They left the restaurant shortly thereafter and headed back to New York. At a stoplight, Avery nudged him, lifted her faceplate and asked, “What's next?” She was sure Quentin had something else up his sleeve.

“It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, now, would it?” he asked.

An hour later found Quentin parking his Harley outside a small club. “You'll never believe who's playing here tonight.”

“Who?”

“John Mayer. He doesn't do small venues like this anymore, but because he got his start in places like this, occasionally he'll play in one. C'mon, I think his set is about to start.”

He rushed Avery inside the small club. She wouldn't have suspected Quentin was the type to listen to acoustic soft rock, more like rhythm and blues and hip-hop. Quentin continued to surprise her at every turn with his eclectic range of tastes.

The hour-and-a-half concert was on point. John Mayer sang his hits “Your Body Is A Wonderland,” “Why Georgia” and “No Such Thing.” Throughout the concert, Quentin never strayed far from Avery's side. If she wanted a drink, he was right there. If she was grooving to the music, he was right behind her with his arms casually wrapped around her waist as he swayed with her.

Quentin noticed that Avery didn't object when his arms encircled her. He was definitely making progress. When Mayer sang a ballad, Quentin turned Avery toward him and they danced nice and slow.

Avery didn't realize just how much she'd been enjoying Quentin's company until the date was over. He'd stirred emotions she'd never felt before.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening,” Avery said when they finally made their way back to her apartment building. Hopping off the back of the bike, she handed Quentin his helmet.

“You're welcome,” he said as he turned off the ignition. He swung his leg over the bike and locked both the helmets in place.

“Have a good night,” Avery said and started to walk away, but Quentin said, “Wait!”

He quickly spun her around and before she realized what was happening, his lips were on hers—and they weren't unwelcome. Instead, they felt warm and inviting. Quentin's kiss was slow and addictive. It was like a drug she couldn't get enough of and needed a hit from. When his tongue thrust hot and masterfully into her mouth and persuaded her into a duel, Avery responded with equal ardor. His hands, meanwhile, scorched a trail as they skimmed her throat and the fullness of her breasts.