Broken At Love (Whitman University) (11 page)

Emilie Swanson
, a voice whispered.

I shook my head. “I don’t want to sleep with her.”

His eyebrows went up. “Why ever not? She’s not your type, I realize, but Emilie’s pretty enough, and those tits—”

“—It’s not that,” I cut him off before he could go further. “She’s beautiful. And I don’t have a type.”

“Beautiful?”

My mistake caught his attention, as I should have guessed. He missed nothing.

Smoke from the cigar wound up from the couch and diffused in the air, sweet and cloying. Neither of us spoke for several minutes, but I’d be damned if he’d beat me at the silent battle-of-wills game. I’d grown up playing it every day with my father. Sebastian might have been my half-brother, but he’d grown up with his whore mother until he was eighteen and couldn’t match me when it came to deflecting emotional manipulation.

He hit the goddamn lottery the day he’d learned Teddy Rowland had fathered him. And I’d lost half of the fortune I’d earned with my silent childhood and every single time I’d been cast aside since.

“You like her.” He held up his hand when I started to protest. “Don’t bother denying it. There is no other reason for you to refuse to get between those shapely little legs. And by the state of your hair and misbuttoned shirt, I assume the lady is no longer playing hard to get.”

“I don’t want anything more to do with her. I’ll bag two or three more girls this week, whatever you think is appropriate. Whoever. Just not her.”

“No.”

My heart sank. I’d known he wouldn’t change his mind the minute he guessed it was personal. And not because of the money, although the bets he took over the course of four tennis majors added up to a small fortune. I got my cut of that, not that either of us actually needed the money.

He wouldn’t change the deal because he liked seeing me squirm. If I refused, then he wouldn’t take half of my inheritance, he’d take his blackmail public instead.

“I mean, unless you want to stop playing all together. I’d miss the cash but the fallout from your impressively shocking photos would be more than enough to keep me entertained for a while, and every blog, website, news show, and paper in the country—hell, half the world—would love to see your pretty little face on the front page.”

Sebastian had some rather unflattering photographs of me taken right after my career ended, and if they went public it would be the final nail in my coffin. My father would never allow the future of his company to be jeopardized by an unflattering reputation. He’d paid Sebastian’s mother over a hundred million dollars to go away and never return. She also signed over parental rights on a forged adoption document that made it look like my father had simply adopted a homeless kid off the street out of the goodness of his heart.

The photos Seb had of me contained various drug paraphernalia, including full-body shots with needles hanging out of my arms, pills crushed into powder on glass tabletops, naked escorts draped across my lap. I hardly remembered the four months it took me to pull my head out of my ass. The photos didn’t lie, though, and my father would disown me. Even if he didn’t, his shareholders wouldn’t be keen on being ordered around by a former drug addict. Goodbye, future.

When Seb first suggested the game as a way to make some cash, I’d agreed willingly enough, more for the challenge than the money. I’d come up with the idea of using the majors as a way to get back at Alexandria—the representation of all women everywhere—and prove I didn’t give a shit that she’d dumped me.

Which, while true in the sense I didn’t care about her whiny ass, was not true in the sense that she had no right to send me packing like a dog that had peed on the carpet one too many times.

“No. I don’t want to quit.” I sighed. “You’re really not going to be reasonable, I suppose.”

“On the contrary, I’m being very reasonable. I’d reasonably like to see you go over there and fuck this girl like you’ve fucked all the others. You’ve made her care about poor, misunderstood Quinn Rowland, the rich boy no one ever loved; now is the fun part. Reap your rewards and then leave her without a word. It’ll be good for you. Get her out of your system and we can get back to business.” He stood, ashing his cigar in the tray on the desk, and made for the door.

“You didn’t have to go after Toby so hard. Putting him the hospital nearly blew my cover. Again.” It was a nitpick, but I wanted something.

“I merely wanted to ensure he wouldn’t go tattling to his little crush and ruin everything once and for all. I figured you’d feel the same way.
Mea culpa
, brother.”

Sebastian left the room. The scent of smoke and pure evil remained in his wake and I sat breathing it for several minutes, trying to soak it in and return to my former self. I was going to have to finish what Emilie and I had started.

Desire stirred at the thought. So did my anger. I would use them both to get through the next days. If ire took over it would consume my misgivings, eat them the way fire devours an entire structure, and I could prove to Emilie that she wanted nothing to do with me.

Besides, she was no better than Alexandria.

Emilie was a girl, and eventually she’d show her true colors. I could get her naked in the next hour, and it shouldn’t take more than a day or so for her to admit she cared about me. Then I would walk away without a backward glance. Like always.

My entire life I had been left behind by everyone and everything that was supposed to care about me. My mother. My father, in the sense that he wanted nothing to do with me. Alexandria. Tennis.

No one ever stayed. So I didn’t, either.

Chapter Twelve

I caught her on the way into her studio around eight the next morning.

The guarded look in her dark eyes tried to crack my re-hardened insides. She smiled that smile, the one that wasn’t sure it wanted to emerge, but this time I didn’t wish I could make it sure of me. Emilie shouldn’t be sure of me. She was too smart for all of this, and it made me angry all over again that she was about to fall for it.

“Hey,” I said as she stopped in front of the glass doors of the old building.

People bustled up and down the streets in this old part of town, headed to work or school or breakfast. None of them paid us any mind, didn’t have a clue what happened to us last night and didn’t care. She met my gaze and the embarrassment I’d prepared for caught my breath.

“Where have you been?”

“I told you, something came up at the party.”

“What?”

I paused, unprepared to be thoroughly questioned. No one had cared to grill me since I’d fired my first tennis coach when he tried to play daddy one too many times. “A family matter. I don’t care to discuss it.”

“Okay.” She shrugged, her coffee-and-cream skin peach in the cheeks.

“You were going to work?”

“Yes. I need to finish the centerpiece in the next couple of days.”

“Have you had breakfast?”

“No. I was going to grab some coffee in a bit.”

The stilted conversation belonged to people who knew one another casually, not to people who had been half-naked in an elevator less than twelve hours ago. I hated it. More importantly, I didn’t have time for it.

Maybe I wanted to erase the worry in her eyes and the wrinkle between her eyebrows, if only for a few hours. “You go get to work. I’m going to get us some coffee and breakfast.”

“Quinn?”

Her voice stopped me before I’d made it five steps. It trembled, but when I turned she smiled, and it punched me in the chest. “Yeah?”

“Try to make it back in less than eight hours this time.”

“Deal.”

***

I was gone less than twenty minutes.

Upstairs in her drafty but comfortable loft, I unpacked bagels and coffee. She told me how she took her coffee and I made it for her, blowing the steam away before putting it in her hand. Our fingers brushed and it took everything in me not to jerk away.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She went to pick up her paintbrush, then stopped. “I really need to work, Quinn.”

“I won’t bother you. I brought my laptop.” I patted the bag slung over my shoulder. “Homework.”

Emilie raised her eyebrows. “Homework?”

“I decided you were right. About my dad. If I want him to take me seriously, I’ve got to start acting serious. There’s a big project coming up in my multimedia class and I was thinking I could use it to design some progressive integrated media for Rowland’s overseas expansion portfolio.” I stopped talking, embarrassed that I’d said so much.

“I have no idea what most of that means, but it’s good that you’re excited. I don’t know a whole lot about your dad that the rest of the world doesn’t know, too, but if you want to be a part of what he’s built, then you should show him.” She turned to her easel and picked up the paintbrush. “Now get started so I can finish this.”

The ratty couch was more comfortable than it looked; no springs poked my ass and the fabric was worn and smelled lightly of sunshine, as though in its previous life it enjoyed soaking up the rays. My laptop warmed my knees and the coffee sloshed in my stomach. At some point I noticed Emilie had changed her canvas for a blank one, leaving the sexy painting full of vibrant summer colors against the wall.

She smiled faintly at her new creation, looking inspired. Her cheeks glowed and stars shone in her coal black eyes. Her black hair hung down her back in a long ponytail, but silky strands had escaped and settled against her cheeks and neck. A brush hung from her right hand like an extension of her arm, like I knew it would the night I met her and saw the way she stared with such intensity at the Gauguin in our hallway. Concentrating on her canvas, standing with her feet spread apart like Peter Pan in ratty shorts and a paint-splattered hip-length sweatshirt, I thought she was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen.

It was then I realized the real reason I was going to sleep with her, get her to admit she wanted to date me, and leave her.

Because Emilie Swanson was far too good for me. One day she’d realize it and hit the bricks.

I was merely going to do it before she could.

The buzzing comfort in this place, the way we were quiet but together, wrapped around me and I felt safe. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt at home in a place other than a tennis court.

***

I woke up with Emilie’s tentative mouth pressed against mine.

When my eyes flew open she sat back on her heels at my feet. “Couldn’t resist. You looked adorable.”

“No one has ever called me adorable in my entire life.”

“Maybe you never let anyone watch you sleep, then.”

The taste of her lingered on my lips and I licked them, my eyes traveling down over her body. She must have read my mind—not that it would have been difficult—because she stood up and pulled off the long sweatshirt, dropping it at her feet. The shorts were next, leaving her standing in front of me in a thin brown tank top and a scrap of pale pink lacy underwear.

“Come here,” I demanded, reaching out to grab her hips. My voice sounded scratchy and hoarse, I supposed from just waking up.

Emilie smiled a slow smile, one that was sure this time, and spread her knees around my hips, settling on my lap. My body responded immediately and there was no way to hide it. She leaned her arms into the couch and slid her tongue along my lower lip, catching it in her teeth a little roughly.

She gave me a saucy grin that made me want to stop letting her be in control. “You taste good.”

“Like sleepy breath?”

“No. Like the ocean if it were made of whiskey.” Her breath whispered across my face.

Hot breath trailed down my jaw and neck, along with her lips, and the occasional slip of a tongue, driving me mad. It had been a long time since I’d sat back and let a girl have her way but I didn’t stop her. The desire stumbling through my blood urged haste, but I wanted it to last.

“You like whiskey?”

“I love whiskey. It’s delicious.”

“Mmm.” Words escaped me as her fingers worked their way under the hem of my thin t-shirt and splayed out on my stomach.

She tugged it over my head, running soft hands over my chest before slipping off my lap and back to her knees. Kisses trailed down my stomach and I couldn’t suppress a groan when her palm rubbed me through my jeans. The rest of my patience evaporated when she went for the button fly.

I hooked my hands under her elbows and dragged her back onto my lap, sliding the thin shirt over her head, baring her body to me from the waist up. The ability to breathe escaped me at the beauty of the moment. I wanted to remember this; her chest heaving in time with her heart, desire tightening her golden skin in anticipation of my touch.

My hands brushed the base of her neck, pulling gently until her lips met mine and opened eagerly for my tongue. The willingness of her entire body turned me on as much as anything else. With women, I took what I wanted with gilded words and carefully orchestrated movements. Emilie was giving it to me like a gift, open and offered even with the knowledge that I wasn’t the guy she thought I could be.

She pushed my hands down until her tits filled them. They responded to the lightest touch, and the way she shuddered harder with each brush of my thumbs loosed a groan from deep inside me. I throbbed against my jeans almost painfully, unsure how much longer I could draw this out but wanting her to remember it.

That I made her feel good, even if it was only once.

Her tongue grew more demanding against mine, pushing harder and asking for more. Then pulled her lips away, eyes like black pools of water reflecting the stars. “Quinn,” she breathed against my mouth.

“Hmm?”

God in heaven do not let her say stop. I’d never hurt her—or take from any unwilling girl—but I’d have blue balls for a week.

“Do you think you can fuck me on a couch?”

Her use of that word in this moment, along with the memory it evoked of last night in that elevator, sent me over the edge. I stood up with her in my arms, her gorgeous legs wrapped around my waist, then turned and dropped her on the couch. My jeans and boxer briefs were gone, along with her pink lace distractions, in the next two seconds. Another minute and I had the condom out of my pants pocket and in place.