Playing Dirty (37 page)

He put his hand on her hip and closed his eyes.

She put her hand on his chest and closed her eyes.

She rested. Blanked. It felt like a long time, but glancing at the beside clock, she saw only a quarter hour had passed when she woke and saw he was watching her.

His hand stroked her hip. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You won’t be able to wear that bikini for a few days. This is going to bruise.”

“It was worth it.” The panic rose inside her again, but she knew her words were true. Whatever the consequences of this day with him, she would cherish the memory.

“You don’t want me to get too close,” he whispered. “You still don’t want me to tell you.”

Tell me what?
cried Sarah, but she knew. She said, “No.”

“But we done done it, like you said,” he protested, “and we might as well enjoy it for the rest of the day.” Now his hand trailed from her belly up to her face, and his fingers traced her hairline. “You are so beautiful.” He seemed to be staring at her, studying her genuinely. “Have I ever told you that I
really
like your hair?”

She smiled.

“See,” he said, running his fingers down the damp strands, “like that, when it falls around your face. It could be a brown strand. It could be blond. It could be pink. It’s different, unpredictable.” He chuckled. “You think I sound like an idiot, like every other man . . . ”

He was about to say
in love
. She helped him. “Making love,” she suggested, and laughed lightly. “Declarations of a woman’s beauty never sound idiotic. They always sound
good
.”

He gazed at her seriously for a moment. Then he seemed to realize that it was no use. He laughed again. “Speaking of good,” he said, and she thought he would
make a comment about the excellent sex. “How about some naked Indian food?”

At sunset, they sat outside on her balcony, watching the lights of traffic. Quentin wore his boxers, Sarah a tank top and pajama pants. They looked like two people who’d just had long, hot sex over and over, and she loved it. She wished they could have hot sex and then flaunt the fact to her neighbors every evening, not just this one.

They swayed slowly on the porch swing. When Harold had lived here with her, he’d told her the swing couldn’t be hung here. She had showed him how it could be hung. He had still refused to help her, saying it was stupid to hang a Southern-style porch swing on a New York City balcony. She’d called Tom to help her.

She was glad she had. And she was glad this part of her apartment wasn’t tainted by the hand of Harold, so she could enjoy it with Quentin. Though she had to say that the hand of Harold was quickly fading. It had vanished from her kitchen. And her bathroom. And her bed.

She settled her head back against Quentin’s solid chest. “That was so good,” she said.

“The food or the sex?” he asked. The low notes of his voice vibrated through her body and gave her chills.

“Both,” she said.

“What was your favorite?”

“The aloo gobi,” she said. “And that time between
the chutney and the murg saagwala, when you had me turned around backward—”

“Oh yeah,” he said knowingly. “That
was
good aloo gobi.”

She hit his chest playfully, realizing as she did that this was exactly the move Erin was accustomed to executing on Owen. Shut
up
, Erin. Sarah asked, “What was
your
favorite?”

“
This
is my favorite. Sitting here with you, feeling like you’re mine, like I’ve marked you as mine. I don’t know where this caveman thing is coming from.” He bent toward her and ran his hand along his eyebrow. “Is my brow ridge growing?”

What about Erin?
she wanted to ask. She had a feeling this would not work out, but she didn’t want to discuss it right now. She suspected this was all she would get, and she didn’t want to ruin it.

She reached out one fingertip to trace one dark eyebrow, then the other. While he smiled and closed his eyes, she traced down his straight nose to his expressive lips and his square jaw, then up his cheek and into the tangled waves of his hair.

He opened his eyes and asked her gently, “You didn’t grow up in Schenectady, did you? You grew up in Fairhope.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked coyly.

“I can see you with big trees behind you, Spanish moss, watching the bay,” he said. “I hear it when you say my name. And I hear it when you’re about
to come. You don’t sound like Schenectady when you come. You sound like a Southern girl enjoying herself.”

Sarah sighed as the last of Natsuko dropped away under Quentin’s gaze. “Fairhope lost to your high school in the football playoffs once.”

“I remember.” Quentin nodded. “I came down for Owen’s game.”

“I wonder whether we saw each other.” She envisioned sixteen-year-old Quentin, tall and thin, a head above the crowd, untamed hair, glasses, a coat in November, worn jeans, the deck shoes in comparatively mint condition. She asked, “Can you picture me with brown hair?”

“I didn’t see you there,” he said. “If I had, I would have known it right then.”

Known what?
she ached to ask. But she didn’t want to know.

After the dusk faded, they went back inside. They had run out of ingredients for Indian food. Now, between bouts of making love, they talked, or one of them slept. Sarah thought each time surely
that
was the last time. And each time, after a pause, she felt Quentin rise into her again.

Late at night, when the noise of traffic outside her window had all but died away and Quentin had fallen asleep, Sarah fantasized about what it would be like to be with him, move in with him, marry him, have kids with him.

She could do the band’s PR from home. She pictured
herself living in his Birmingham mansion, surrounded by hills and trees. But he’d be gone on tour all the time. And she’d always worry about what he was doing on tour with Erin.

Okay, this was a fantasy. She didn’t have to think about Erin. She could pretend Quentin was faithful and not interested in Erin. She pictured him devoted to her. This was easy, after he’d made such careful, caring love to her all afternoon and evening. She pictured him as a guy she’d met at college, dated in the vibrant city, moved in with, and eventually married, like Harold. Like Wendy and Daniel, an easy relationship with nothing more serious keeping them apart than Daniel being exacting, Wendy talking out her ass, and the waterbed effect that had winged her in pregnancy. And now they had a beautiful baby.

Sarah and Quentin would not.

She realized, heart sinking into her belly, that she had fallen in love with him, and this was going to turn tragic.

But not yet. Not tonight.

She felt his eyelashes flutter and his stubble scrape against her cheek, and he stirred awake. In the soft glow from the streetlights outside, he smiled his slow, sleepy smile at her.

“What have you done to me?” she whispered.

He stirred against her down below. “Let me show you.”

They slept late in the morning, made love, ate one of Quentin’s huge breakfasts, made love again, and hailed a taxi for LaGuardia. Sarah was hopeful. In the sunny morning, possibilities for the future seemed brighter. Natsuko was skeptical. What Sarah read as Quentin’s enthusiasm this morning, Natsuko read as mania.

There
did
seem to be a marked increase in heavy petting when the airplane neared Birmingham and the
Fasten Seat Belts
light blinked on. And in the terminal, as they were about to pass through security, Quentin flattened her against the wall and pressed his lips to her chin. On her scar.

She shoved him away. “Did you check your phone?” she asked him suspiciously. “Did you get a message from Erin?”

He stepped out of the way of other travelers passing. “No, I haven’t gotten a message from her at all,” he said.

Sarah nodded. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” She looked through the security checkpoint. “You think she’s out there waiting for you, don’t you?”

He put both hands in his hair. “Sarah—”

“You know each other so well.” She turned on her high heel and stalked toward the gate.

“Sarah,” he said above and beside her as she walked quickly. “Sarah, I don’t want to leave it like this.”

As they passed into the public section of the airport, Erin looked up from a bench. Her big, innocent
blue eyes held a troubled expression, and she wrapped both arms around her abdomen. She looked strikingly like Wendy had looked sitting in the airport when she was pregnant.

Sarah went cold.

She supposed it could be Owen’s baby.

And it could be Quentin’s baby, from several weeks before.

Or Quentin could have had a relationship with Erin all along, unbeknownst to Sarah. Sarah didn’t think so. She’d been with him so much. She didn’t know where he’d find the time. He actually needed sleep at night. Besides, if he’d done it in the last few days, Erin wouldn’t know she was pregnant this soon.

No, it was from before.
Erin hides sobriety from men
. She must have suspected all week, and now she knew for sure. It was Quentin’s baby, all right. Otherwise, Erin wouldn’t have come to fetch him from the airport.

Quentin called to Sarah, but she kept walking right past Erin. She wasn’t going to look back. It took forever for her to reach the door to the parking deck where she’d left her BMW. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. She looked back.

He was in the huddle stance again, a winded football player, fists on hips, head down. Like he was listening to Erin’s plan. Not like he was in love with Erin.

Now he rocked back on one foot, hands still on hips, and watched Sarah go. And in that one glance, Sarah saw that she’d been fooling herself.

He
wasn’t
in love with Erin. He’d told Sarah he was, out of habit. Now he was in love with Sarah.

She had sensed this, but Natsuko had been protecting her. Quentin had fathered Erin’s child. When he found out, he would marry Erin, just as he’d talked about doing whatever Sarah wanted to do that first morning. Because he was a decent guy. A responsible man.

Mission accomplished
. With Erin and Quentin on the mend, permanently this time, the band would never break up now. Sarah walked out of the terminal before she could cry.

“There is a
vibe
,” Erin had said to Quentin at the airport. “But I’m not going to ask if you did her. In exchange, I want you to concentrate on this concert, and let the record company go on her way.”

Tamping down his panic, Quentin had obeyed, for the time being. He’d watched Sarah’s perfect ass in those tight pants exit the terminal. She’d looked back only once, wearing the poker face.

And now, poker face still on, she sat in the middle of the block of folding chairs set up in front of the stage beneath the statue of Vulcan, watching the run-through of the concert. The way her hair was pulled into a sophisticated ponytail down her back, it looked more brown than blond or pink. She wore the emerald necklace with a low-cut green dress. Her hemline was so short that he thought she might give everyone
a peep show when she uncrossed and recrossed her legs.