His (10 page)

I sigh deeply. Being a kept woman kind of sucks so far.

“Sure,” I say. “I think I’ll head out for a bit.”

Turner just nods and gets to work in the kitchen. I get my coat and hat and leave through the front door of the warehouse, keeping my head down to block the icy wind whipping at my face.

It feels good to be walking. Normal. Some of the people I pass on the streets ignore me, but others look over. Some even nod or smile. Apparently an expensive coat and boots make me worthy of their notice.

I put a few miles behind me and realize walking in brand-new leather boots with heels is uncomfortable. I kind of wish for my old, worn-out tennis shoes. But at least I’m not cold.

Finally, I arrive at my destination and feel a warm sense of calm. If I have a happy place, this is it. I go inside and breathe in the familiar scent of paperbacks. This library branch covers four floors, and I take the stairs up to the third one.

Anna is sitting off to the side at the front desk. I smile as I approach her, almost tearful with happiness. Her dark auburn curls are tucked away behind her ears, and I see the glint of the silver chain she keeps her glasses on so she doesn’t lose them.

She looks up and her face lights with happiness. “Quinn, it’s so good to see you.”

When she comes around the desk to hug me, I close my eyes and let myself be comforted by her familiar powdery scent and ample, cushy bosom.

“I have a message for you,” she says when she pulls away.

“You do?” My heart races with excitement. How could Bethy have sent me a letter through Anna so quickly?

“She called and said she’s safe in the place where your father’s favorite baseball team plays.”

My shoulders drop as the tension slides away. She’s safe. They’ve made it to Chicago. Relieved tears sting my eyes.

“Mind if I ask what’s up?” Anna says. “I’ve never seen the two of you girls apart.”

I sniffle and gather myself. “Yeah. We had a great opportunity come up.”

“Well, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

I’ve known Anna since shortly after we arrived in New York. This library became a haven for us. It was a place to get warm in the winter and cool in the summer, all while losing ourselves in the stories that lined the walls of shelves. Anna took to us and slipped us food from her lunch when we were here.

“I’m happy,” I confirm. “I needed a way for Bethy to send me messages, and I would have asked you first, but—”

She puts a hand up to stop me. “You don’t need to ask. I’m glad to help.”

“Thank you.”

“I set aside a couple books for you,” she says, heading back around her desk. “Maybe it was wishful thinking. Like if I saved them, you’d come by and see me. And look, it worked.”

She passes me two thick paperbacks.

“These couldn’t come at a better time,” I say. “Thanks, Anna.”

Someone else comes up to the desk, and she greets them. I fade into the background, heading for my favorite reading chair in a secluded corner of the floor.

Did Anna even notice my haircut, makeup, and nice new clothes? If so, she showed no sign of it. I smile as I settle into the club chair I think of as mine. It’s not surprising, really. Anna never saw me as a homeless woman. To her, I’m just Quinn. The world could use more Annas.

By Wednesday, I have a new routine. After Andrew eats breakfast and leaves for work, I make a sandwich and pack it in my backpack. Then I lace up my old shoes and walk to the library, where I spend several hours reading and hoping a letter from Bethy will come.

Andrew gets home from work around seven every evening, and we eat whatever Turner made for dinner that night while making polite, meaningless small talk. When he asks me what I did that day, I tell him I read, which is true.

I leave to head home from the library early Wednesday because it’s a long walk to the warehouse, and I have to get myself ready for the fundraiser tonight. I’m dreading it, but I know I have to put on a brave face.

When I walk through the front door, Dawson is pacing the living room as a man and a woman sit silently on the couch.

Dawson looks relieved when he sees me.

“Andrew’s on his way home,” he says with a note of apology. “I didn’t know where you were, and I had to let him know you were gone.”

“Am I a prisoner?” I demand, setting my backpack down.

“Not that I’m aware of.” He gestures to the man and woman, and they get up from the couch. “The hair stylist and makeup artist are going to set up in Andrew’s bathroom because it’s bigger than yours. Go ahead and get into your gown.”

I’d like to tell him I’ll get ready when I please, but he’s right; I do need to get moving.

“Your gown is hanging in your bathroom,” he says, his face buried in his phone.

I step into the marble bathroom inside my bedroom and see that he hung a pretty but conservative dark gray dress on the door and left black heels and black lingerie on the counter.

Fuck him.
No one
is choosing my underwear for me. I may not control much in my life right now, but I’m holding on to a few things. I go into the walk-in closet that houses my new clothes and choose nude lingerie, a sleeveless, dark wine-colored gown, a black wrap, and black strappy heels.

I change into the gown and shoes and study my reflection in the mirror. I’m too thin, my collarbone showing prominently in this dress. I’ll just have to leave the wrap on at the event. My cheeks are still pink from the cold outside.

There are butterflies in my stomach, and I kind of hate myself for it. I feel excited about wearing this beautiful gown and getting my hair and makeup done. I’ve never done anything like that.

Maybe there’s a little Cinderella in me, after all, but only as far as the dress and shoes are concerned. I’m definitely not looking forward to an evening out with the closest thing in my life to Prince Charming. Andrew has been cold and distant since Saturday night.

I’m on my way to his first-floor bedroom to meet the makeup and hair people when his voice makes me stop halfway down the stairs.

“Well, where the hell
was
she?”

“She didn’t say,” Dawson answers.

“Who drove her?” Andrew demands.

“I don’t know.”

“Are you taking care of her at all? I told you to see to her needs.”

There’s a pause on Dawson’s end of the conversation. He’s like a different person with Andrew. When he speaks, there’s none of the impatience he always shows for me.

“I’ve been busy with your dry cleaning, delivering those reports, and—”

Andrew cuts him off. “Don’t give me your bullshit excuses. Can I rely on you or not?”

“Of course.”

I try to walk loudly down the stairs, and I clear my throat as I walk into the living room.

“Quinn,” Andrew says, looking startled. “Is everything okay?”

“Of course.”

“That dress is
not
going to work,” Dawson says with a roll of his eyes.

Andrew cuts him down with a look. “She looks perfect.” He turns back to me. “Where were you today?”

“The library.”

His eyes widen with surprise. “The library? But I have a private library here.”

“Well, I like the public one,” I say with a shrug. “Your books are mostly nonfiction.”

“How did you get there? Did you take a cab? I have a driver you can use anytime.”

“I walked.”

His lips part with surprise. Dawson cringes.

“You walked?” Andrew booms. “In the dead of winter? Through the Meatpacking District?”

I have to hold back a laugh. “I’ve been in far worse places, you know. And I had my knife.”

“You don’t have to walk everywhere and carry that damn knife anymore,” Andrew says. “If you need something, just say so.”

“I don’t.”

He rubs a hand down his face, looking frustrated. “Let Roy drive you. Can you at least do that?”

“I like walking.”

“Use the treadmill in my gym.”

“It’s not the same. I miss the sounds and smells of the city.”

He wrinkles his face in confusion. “You like the smell of car exhaust?”

“I’m used to it.”

“You need to get used to being provided for.”

I meet his gaze defiantly. “Don’t make yourself out like some benefactor. We both know why I’m here. The only one providing for me is
me
.”

A tense silence hangs in the air. We’re staring each other down, both refusing to look away. I see Dawson edge out of the room from the corner of my eye.

We’re alone now, and Andrew walks toward me purposefully. My hand instinctively goes to my thigh, though there’s nothing there but the soft sheen of the gown’s fabric. I clutch it nervously.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Andrew says, sounding offended by the very notion.

“I know.” My tone is more confident than I feel.

It’s not that I think he’s going to attack me right here. I’m not afraid of that. I’m worried about my sister, and I’m starting to think Andrew’s sorry about the deal we made. He was interested in me that first night, but now he’s gone all the time, and he broods on the rare occasions he is here.

“Are you ready to go?” he asks gruffly.

I lower my brows skeptically. “No. Dawson brought people to do my hair and makeup.”

“Go, then. I’ll get changed.”

He turns for his bedroom, and I follow him. When he walks through the door, he gives me a confused look over his shoulder.

“They’re—” I point over his shoulder “—in your bathroom.”

After a glance through the doorway of his bathroom, he scowls. “I’ll just use another bathroom.”

My heartbeat feels like a snare drum in my chest. I want to ask him if he still wants me here. It shouldn’t matter to me—I already have his money for the first month—but it does.

It matters so much. I can’t stop wondering if my time on the streets has made me into a cold, calculating shrew. Can a man like Andrew feel attracted to a woman who glares at him and reaches for her hunting knife every time he gets within five feet of her?

I don’t care about the things most women my age do. I can’t get past survival mode. It’s on my mind from the time I wake up in the morning and look around frantically to make sure I’m safe until I fall asleep trying to remember how it felt to have Bethy warm and secure next to me.

And yet . . . I find myself caring just a little about what Andrew thinks of me. I wish he could see my strength and realize I’m not a vulnerable little thing in need of protection.

The makeup artist washes my face and puts rich-looking makeup on my skin while the hair stylist curls and pins my hair into a glamorous style. I watch them in the mirror and realize no matter what I’m wearing and how much luxury I’m surrounded by, I’ll never match this reflection on the inside. I’m just a ruthless tunnel rat.

All that worry over whether I’d be able to stomach sex with Andrew . . . and the reality hurts on a whole new level. He doesn’t even want me.

Andrew

I can’t look away from her. Quinn’s naturally beautiful. Her big eyes, high cheekbones, and radiant smile set her apart from other women, no matter what she’s wearing.

But when she steps into the living room, I’m floored. That dress was
made
for her lithe body and smooth, fair skin. Her blond hair falls past her bare shoulders, and her face is made up like a model in a magazine spread. Her smoky eye makeup and red lips make me drink in a heavy breath and let it out slowly.