With a Twist (10 page)

“Let me make
sure I’m getting this straight.” Anthony Dante looked completely mystified as he and Quinn sat at the bar at Dante’s after closing time. He pulled out a cigar. “You’re asking me for dating advice? You?”

Quinn’s idea was to talk to Anthony about Natalie. After all, Anthony had managed to win the heart of Natalie’s sister, Vivi, so he had to know something about how to woo classy Frenchwomen, right?

“Why are you surprised?”

“Because you’re the man, Quinn. Self-confident, suave . . .”

“True, but I’ve never gone for anyone like Natalie before.”

“You mean a snob?” Anthony said bluntly.

Quinn cringed. “Sounds like you don’t like her.”

“No, I do, I swear. But I’m not going to lie: I didn’t at first. In the beginning she thought I was mean to Vivi. But she’s come around.” Anthony lit his cigar. “Come on: you know what she’s like.”

“Yeah. But I kinda like it. Gives me something to tease her about.”

“I have noticed you two let it fly sometimes. Vivi says you both have been pussyfooting around this for a long time. So I don’t get why you’d need any guidance.”

“I’ve never pursued anyone this high-class.”

Anthony took a puff of his cigar. “She’s a waitress, Quinn.”

“Yeah, but that’s just temporary. In France she was some kind of civil servant in the government or something.” Quinn realized he barely knew about Natalie’s past. She tended to be tight-lipped, and he often got the sense she thought he was rude when he asked about it. But that’s how the French were: Ask them questions deemed too personal, and they thought you were rude. Ask them about anything else, and they’d argue with you till death.

“Some guy broke her heart,” Anthony told him, filling in a blank. “Upper-level government guy. It was a minor scandal.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She had to resign from her job. The papers raked her over the coals.”

Great. She probably thought all journalists were scum.

“Why now?” Anthony asked suddenly. “Why, all of a sudden, do you want to ask her out now?”

“There’s some other guy—a real dick—who she’s already gone out with once.”

He proceeded to tell Anthony all about Mason Clement. Anthony shook his head worriedly.

“Bad news about the accent, my friend. The ladies love accents.”

Quinn frowned.

“And you say he took her to a museum? Shit, I don’t think I’ve been to the museum since seventh grade, when we went on a field trip to the Museum of Natural History. You ever been there?”

“Yeah, about two years ago when one of the night watchmen was murdered.” Quinn rubbed the back of his neck, frustrated. “Can we get back to Natalie, please?”

“Sure. Just one more question: How do you know she liked going with him to the museum? Maybe she thought it was boring as hell. Maybe you have nothing to worry about with this guy.”

“I can’t take that risk. Tell me how you won Vivi.”

Anthony chuckled. “It wasn’t easy. But we started with a common link: we were both chefs. I think it helped sharing that passion.”

“The only common link I have with Natalie is a penchant for trying to get each other’s goat.”

“Reframe that, Bro: You’re both quick-witted. And clearly you both have a sense of humor, though hers isn’t, uh, apparent right off the bat.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Quinn paused. “She is snooty, isn’t she? You’re right.”

“Totally stuck up,” Anthony agreed.

“Cultured,” Quinn repeated, more to himself than Anthony. That was why she was drawn to Clement, with his goddamn Armani suits and jaunts to the museum.

“She likes expensive restaurants,” Anthony said. “She and Vivi are always talking about this or that restaurant in France.”

“Mmm.” Quinn didn’t do expensive restaurants. He couldn’t. Reporters didn’t make a lot of money. His salary never really mattered to him before; it was the buzz and satisfaction he got from his job that was paramount. Still, if using his AmEx card would get him what he wanted, then he was prepared to use it.

“If I were to take her to an expensive restaurant in the city, which one would you recommend?”

Anthony took another puff of his cigar. “How expensive?”

“The most expensive. One that you have to make reservations for weeks in advance. One she would have heard of.”

“You talking French?”

Quinn snorted. “Of course.”

Anthony puffed on his cigar thoughtfully. “L’Orangerie. It’s one of the most expensive restaurants in Manhattan. I’d be shocked if she hadn’t heard of it. I took Vivi there once, and she nearly fainted with ecstasy. The food is really amazing.”

“I bet the prices are, too.”

Anthony turned up his palms apologetically. “Hey, you’re talking to the wrong guy here. I think it was worth every penny, but then again, I’m a chef.”

“You think that’s the way to go? Take her there?”

“Natalie? Oh yeah. You’ll need a tie, though.”

Quinn was mildly offended. “I own a few ties.”

“Just checking.” Anthony snuffed out his cigar. “I can pull some strings and get you in. When do you want to take her?”

“You mean if she accepts?”

“She’ll accept. Because if she doesn’t, Vivi will kick her ass from here to gay Paree.”

Quinn chuckled. “Sunday night would be good. She works Friday and Saturday.”

“Time?”

“Eight?”

“Don’t think it’ll be a prob. Call me and let me know if she accepts, and I’ll set it all up.”

Quinn clamped a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “I owe you for this, Anthony. Seriously.”

“Don’t be an
idiota
. Vivi is going to be thrilled about this.”

“How’re the wedding plans going?”

Anthony groaned. “It’s giving me constant
agita
. You want the definition of hell? Two chefs trying to select a caterer.”

“Yeah, but it’ll all be worth it in the end, right?”

Anthony’s face lit up. “Totally.”

Quinn slid off his stool. “All right, I’m off. Give my love to Vivi, Mikey, and Theresa, too.” Michael was Anthony’s brother, assistant head coach of the New York Blades. Theresa was his wife. Quinn knew them fairly well because they, too, often dined at Vivi’s. “Tell Vivi I’ll stop in soon.”

“Can I tell her you’re finally gonna to ask her sister out?”

“Yeah, just don’t say anything until I give you the green light. She could say no.”

“Ain’t gonna happen, my friend. Mark my words.”

10

“Forgive me, Mrs.
O’Brien
.
I was only trying to help.”

Quinn’s mother nodded tersely as Natalie brought the last few empty beer glasses from the bar into the kitchen while Liam locked up. Quinn had warned her not to suggest any menu changes to his mother, but Natalie couldn’t help herself. She didn’t see how adding a wine list, as well as a few classic dishes like quiche and coq au vin, could do any harm. Apparently, Mrs. O’Brien didn’t agree. “We’re an Irish pub, and we serve Irish food, period. We’ve been open close to forty years, and to the best of my knowledge, no one has ever complained about the menu,” she’d told Natalie frostily. Natalie apologized, but deep down she believed the O’Briens were making a mistake. Expanding the menu might bring in even more customers.

Humbly ducking her head, she left the kitchen, knowing Quinn was waiting for her. He’d made a point of pulling her aside during her shift, saying he wanted to talk to her. She saw no reason not to, even though she could guess what it was about: he was going to give her a hard time about Mason Clement. She knew his friends had told him about their date. If there was one thing she’d learned about Quinn and his fellow reporters, it was that they were a pack of gossiping biddies.

Her date with Mason had gone well. He was knowledgeable about art, which impressed her. They’d gone for coffee afterward, and he’d talked about all the different, exciting places where he’d worked: Tokyo, London . . . he was so erudite and sophisticated. So well traveled.

“I had a really nice time today,” he’d said to her when they finished their coffee.

“Me, too.”

“I’d like to see you again.”

“That would be nice,” she’d said, ignoring the lack of excitement she felt. Mason was nice. He was good-looking. He was funny. But she didn’t feel the kind of spark that shot through her whenever she tangled with Quinn. Still, she wasn’t going to turn down another date with such a charming man.

Mason looked delighted. “That’s great. I’ll ring you.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek. No pressure, no big passion play. He was ever the gentleman. Natalie was glad; she wasn’t sure she was a good enough actress to fake pleasure if he’d kissed her and it left her cold. Still, perhaps over time a spark might ignite?

Quinn was waiting for her at his regular booth. He’d had two whiskey shots over the course of the night, in addition to his usual pint of Guinness. Natalie truly wished there was a wine list. It was so much more refined than beer and whiskey.

Quinn motioned for her to sit down opposite him.

“I can’t for very long,” said Natalie. “I’m supposed to be helping your brother clean up.”

“You’re with me. He hassles you, he can answer to me.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure he’d enjoy that,” Natalie said sarcastically.

Natalie checked over her shoulder to make sure. Liam was talking on his cell phone, frowning. She turned back to Quinn.

“So, I hear the drongo gave you a tour of the newsroom,” Quinn said sardonically.

I knew it,
thought Natalie.
I knew his friends told him.
She lowered her head for a split second so he couldn’t see the quick smile that passed over her face. He was jealous. What’s more, she was pleased.

“I have no idea what a drongo is,” she replied coolly as she lifted her eyes to his, “but if you’re talking about Mason showing me around the newsroom, then yes, I had a very nice tour on Saturday.”

“Ask him to tell you what a drongo is. I assure you, it isn’t a compliment.” Quinn looked amused. “How was the museum?”

Natalie put an elbow on the table, cupping her chin in the palm of her hand. “My, you newspapermen are gossips.”

“Let me guess: He paints in his spare time. And fences. Yeah, he definitely looks like a guy who fences.”

“Perhaps he does. At the very least, he knows about art.”

“So do I. Ever see that painting of dogs playing poker? I’ve got the original oil hanging in my living room.”

Sarcastic ass. “You’re jealous Mason asked me out.”

“Not jealous; disappointed. In you.”

“In me?” Natalie’s ire began to rise, but she tamped it down. That was what he wanted, and there was no way she was going to give him that satisfaction.

“Yeah, in you. You could do so much better than Clement.”

“Oh, yes, here it comes, Mr. Know-It-All holds forth.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Go on.”

“How would you like to go to dinner with me next Sunday night at L’Orangerie?”

Natalie stared at him. She knew all about L’Orangerie; Vivi had raved about it, and it was supposedly one of the most expensive restaurants in the city.

“Something wrong?” Quinn drawled. “Cat got your tongue? That’s an American expression, you know.”

“Yes, I
know
.” She paused,
“Connard,”
she added under her breath.

“Congratulations! You’ve just called me a drongo in your native tongue.”

So, he’d called Mason an idiot. Arrogant swine. At least the man pressed his clothing, which was more than one could say for Quinn.

Natalie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I don’t understand how this could be possible.”

“How what could be possible?”

“Getting into L’Orangerie. People wait months to get into that restaurant.”

“I’m not
people
,” Quinn said smugly. “I’ve got connections all over this city. You say yes, and there’ll be a table waiting for us at eight.”

Natalie was impressed, but again, she was not going to give Mr. Arrogant the satisfaction of showing it. “Why do you want to take me out to dinner?”

Quinn grinned. “Because I like you, Nat. You know that.”

Natalie gritted her teeth. “You know I hate being called that.”

“And you know that’s why I do it.” He shook his head, clucking his tongue. “God, I’ve missed annoying you.”

“Your mere presence annoys me.”

“So we’re still in love, then. I’m glad.”

Natalie just huffed.

“You want to have dinner with me or not?”

“Certainly,” Natalie said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I just need to check my schedule first and make sure I have no other commitments.”

Ha! Who’s annoyed now,
she thought, as irritation flashed across Quinn’s face.

“Yeah, well, let me know as soon as you can.” He stood. “You and Liam want help cleaning up?”

“No, we’ll be fine.”

Quinn slung his sports jacket over his shoulder. “Talk to you soon,
ma petite olivier
.”

My little olive tree. God, what an ass!
Yet there was no denying it; she enjoyed the way he teased her.
L’Orangerie indeed. She couldn’t wait to see what happened.

11