Beneath the Surface (2 page)

You can run but you can’t hide. I’ll be seeing you soon . . .

Well, at least he wasn’t trying to kill her—yet. Considering their last encounter, once she got there, all bets would probably be off. Shit . . . was she really going to do this?

“He won’t refuse. He’ll help you if you tell him I sent you.”

CHAPTER

2

A
s the train pulled away from the station in Chicago, Quinn released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. They were moving again. She was safe—for now. The train began to pick up speed, and she settled back in her seat and tried to relax. Tension strung her muscles tight until her whole body ached. She still couldn’t believe this was happening, that a simple publicity piece for the Children’s Global Resource Network would have her running for her life.

Her mind vacillated between moments of shock, denial, and paralyzing fear as she tried to process the last twenty-four hours. She couldn’t sleep, exhaustion fueling the panic inside her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Emily’s lifeless eyes staring back at her and the guilt nearly crushed her. The god-awful images flashed through her mind like one horrific slideshow playing on an endless reel, joining those she’d collected in Haiti.

She looked out the window into the darkness, seeing nothing but her reflection in the glass. Quinn barely recognized the woman staring back at her. This wasn’t her—afraid and helpless. She was used to being on her own. If fact, she preferred it. Quinn was a bold and independent spirit that stared the face of adversity in the eye without blinking.

But this . . . this was unconscionable. What had happened to poor Emily, what was going on over in Haiti, what was happening to her . . . it was a nightmare she couldn’t wake from. She could barely do anything more than draw in one breath after another, praying the next one would be a little easier. But it wasn’t. Fear and grief suffocated her. Never in her life had she felt so helpless and utterly alone.

But her solitude was about to change in a hurry. And with each passing hour that brought her closer to Asher Tate, an all-encompassing sense of dread took root deeper in her gut. There was a very real possibility she was making a huge mistake here. Perhaps Nikko didn’t know his friend as well as he thought he did, because the man she’d met didn’t seem capable of protecting anything more than his bottle of Jack Daniel’s. She doubted much had changed in the months since she’d last seen him.

Thinking of Asher Tate shouldn’t have conjured a mental image of the man as easily as it did. Four months had been plenty of time to forget the infuriating jackass who seemed to possess the unique ability to bring out the worst in her. But thinking about Asher was better than the horrifying images that had been haunting her for the last twenty-four hours, so she let herself go with it, desperate for the mental reprieve, even if it was found in dwelling on the thoughts of the last person she ever wanted to see again.

“You are the most arrogant, conceited, egotistical asshole I’ve ever met,” Quinn hissed past her painted-on smile. Her arm was looped through the bended forearm of her counterpart as they started down the aisle. Even through his tux, she could feel the corded muscles beneath her touch and did her damndest to ignore the flutter of feminine awareness heating her blood, attributing the unwelcomed burn to anger.

Asher’s top lip quirked in amusement. He leaned close and whispered, “You kiss your boyfriend with that mouth, Quinn?”

His question twisted the knife Spencer had plunged into her heart. The wound that two years and half a world apart still couldn’t heal. Men . . . they were nothing but a bunch of self-serving assholes, and she was on the arm of their king.

Asher’s lips brushed the shell of her ear when he spoke, sending goose bumps erupting over her flesh. Her response to his nearness fueled the flame of her ire. “I don’t have a boyfriend,” she snapped between gritted teeth.

“Big surprise there,” he grumbled under his breath.

The bastard knew full well she could hear him. Quinn discreetly jabbed her elbow into his ribs, but his chuckle wasn’t the response she’d been hoping for. Nor was the shiver shuddering through her from the auditory caress of that throaty masculine rumble. She swore to the Lord Almighty that if they weren’t standing in front of an altar with three hundred guests staring at them, she would introduce her knee to his groin.

“Stop it, you two,” Nikko growled as they split apart, retreating to their respective corners. Quinn moved left, standing on the top step across from Asher. Nikko, her sister’s husband-to-be/referee, was in the middle, waiting for his bride to come walking down the aisle any moment.

Raven, a bridesmaid and Nikko’s fifteen-year-old daughter, snickered beside her. Holding up her bouquet, the girl tipped her face into the flowers. Her beautiful smile was infectious. Quinn winked, giving her future niece a conspiratorial grin, and whispered, “Your dad’s kinda scary . . .”

And in truth he actually was. When Violet had called her six months ago to tell her she was getting married and asked Quinn if she’d be her maid of honor, this was not the mental image she’d painted of the man who’d stolen her sister’s heart. Violet was the pragmatic one between them, a freaking psychologist, for chrissake—you didn’t get any more straightlaced than that. She’d always gone for dull and boring men, but there was nothing dull or boring about Nikko Del Toro.

“Nah . . . he’s not so bad,” Raven whispered back, the interlude music filling the church and muffling their voices.

The girl was teasing her. Quinn knew Raven adored her father. In the few days she’d spent with them before the wedding, she’d watched them all together—Nikko, Raven, and Violet. Truth be told, she envied her sister. Violet was finally getting the family she’d always wanted and Quinn was genuinely happy for her, she really was. But it also highlighted the painfully obvious fact that Quinn was nowhere near finding true love or settling down, and knowing her luck, she never would.

But this was good—Nikko and Violet. Quinn might not know the ex-marine turned MMA fighter very well, but she knew he loved her sister and his daughter—fiercely—and that was good enough for her. Despite her initial reservations, she genuinely liked the man, even if she didn’t necessarily agree with his choice in friends.

Quinn was still smiling when she caught Asher’s gaze across the aisle. Surprise briefly registered in his eyes, along with something else she didn’t dare name. He looked at her like he couldn’t believe she was actually smiling—at which point her grin promptly left her face.

She held zero affection for that man. Honestly, she held most men in rather low regard, but this one was a particularly sharp burr in her ass she could well do without. Perhaps it was his audacious arrogance, or maybe because he’d been in town only three days and had probably fucked as many women. Every time she saw him he had a new flavor of the day hanging off his arm. The last one of which she’d had the distinct displeasure of walking in on when she’d entered the coat-check room to retrieve her jacket at the rehearsal dinner last night. The girl who should have been working at the desk was up against the wall with her legs wrapped around Asher’s bare ass, his slacks sagging around his knees.

She wouldn’t think about the perfection of that ass or the flex of muscles on display as he thrust into the woman pinned between his huge body and the wall. He didn’t even have the decency to look embarrassed at being caught. The least he could have done was stop fucking her long enough for Quinn to get her coat. Sure he was shit-faced, but that was no excuse, and now she was partnered with the pig throughout this wedding and the reception. Best man and maid of honor . . . Oh joy. Her plane for Haiti couldn’t leave fast enough.

Quinn’s thoughts fast-forwarded through the wedding, which was now mostly a blur. She wished the obscurity of her memories had done her the courtesy of blotting out the rest of that day. It was frustrating what the mind recalled with startling clarity and which other things it chose to forget. If only her memories were like e-mails, and she could scroll through her inbox and archive the things she wanted to remember and delete the others. Asher’s inbox would be titled: Proceed with Caution.

“I pray the guy my sister just married isn’t as big of an asshole as you.”

Asher’s grip on Quinn’s hand tightened until she winced, his arm around her waist flexing as he sucked her up tightly against him. She stumbled forward, her breasts mashing into his chest. Damn, this guy was huge. The top of her head came just below his chin—typical male that he would try to use his size and strength to bully her. But what disconcerted Quinn the most was her reaction to him. Heat flooded her veins at the close contact, making her breasts tingle. A rush of electricity ran straight into her core. She prayed Asher wouldn’t feel the pebbling of her nipples or the hammering of her heartbeat through his thin dress shirt.

He’d shed his jacket and tie during the dinner, unfastening enough buttons of his shirt to give her a glimpse of smooth tanned skin and a hard muscled chest. His sleeves were rolled up his forearms, revealing several gray-wash tattoos. The only one she could read was the Old English scripting “Semper Fi” underneath his right forearm as he held her hand up, waltzing her around the dance floor.

Curiosity beckoned her to look at his ink, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of staring at him long enough to decipher the imagery sleeving a good portion of his arms. However, she had to admit the dichotomy of a large, well-built, tattooed man in a tux was a sexy combination. Too bad it had to be this jerk sporting the look.

They’d just started the bridal party dance. Aiden, Nikko’s other groomsman, was dancing with his wife, Ryann. Quinn would have been happy to dance with her niece, Raven, but to her father’s obvious displeasure, some other guy had stepped in and swept the girl onto the dance floor—which only left the maid of honor and the best man. Fantastic . . .

Asher was a surprisingly good dancer. It wasn’t a skill she’d expect a man of his caliber to possess. Most men his size didn’t have the control over their body or the fluid grace to move without looking like a bull in a china shop.

God help her, how long could this song last? Her breasts were still crushed up against his chest. He held her so close she could feel every muscular detail of his body molded against hers. And he made no attempt to hide the very prominent erection that was digging into her belly, grinding against her as they stepped and turned, their waltz morphing into a modified salsa that was drawing the eyes of many guests.

In fact, if she had to guess, she’d say he was taking great pleasure in the ardent, wanton gazes of the single women watching them. A spark of jealousy flared to life inside her that she dismissed as nothing more than simple feminine rivalry. Her traitorous body took a secret thrill that she was the one who aroused him—the one he wanted. For the moment, anyway . . .

Quinn took pride in knowing she was probably the only single woman in the universe who wouldn’t spread her legs for this man, and the thought of sending him back to wherever the hell he came from with a severe case of blue balls pleased her immensely. They both had flights scheduled to depart in a few hours and would need to be leaving for the airport soon.