The Girls Of Mischief Bay. Susan Mallery
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manufacturing products shouldn’t be reduced to the pejorative term “widget” was a part of the reason.
She glanced out the big window by her desk. The sun had set a while ago. There was no hint of light coming from the sky—not counting the bright lights from around the office building, of course. She’d been at the office since six thirty and except for taking a class at Mischief in Motion during her lunch break, she’d pretty much been chained to her desk.
She saved her files and began to shut down her computer. She would stop for some Thai food on her way home and spend a quiet evening by herself.
Because she didn’t have a date. Certainly not with Adam, who had yet to call after their single meeting.
She’d been hopeful, she thought as she watched her computer move from saving to shutting down. Hopeful that he was man enough to accept her success, her career demands, to respect them, even. But he hadn’t and that meant he wasn’t for her. But being logical didn’t help the dull ache she’d learned to recognize as loneliness.
Sure there were friends she could call. With Eric so busy with his screenwriting, Nicole was often up for dinner out. Tyler came with her, which was fine with Shannon. She enjoyed hanging out with the charming, happy little boy. Or she could see if Pam and John wanted some company for an after-dinner glass of wine. No doubt there would be delicious leftovers for her to dine on.
But while she loved her friends, she wasn’t lonely because of them. Every now and then, she wanted to find “the one.” That ridiculous concept she’d been unable to shake, no matter how she tried. Sometimes Shannon worried that all the talk about pair bonding in humans just might be true.
She pulled open the bottom desk drawer and removed her handbag. She reached for her cell only to have it buzz with an incoming call.
The screen flashed with the icon she’d linked with the name. A skull and crossbones. Humorous, but also a warning. Because hearing from Quinn was never good.
She considered letting the call go to voice mail. Mostly because that was the safest action. He wouldn’t leave a message. No doubt she wouldn’t hear from him for weeks. But if she did answer…
She grabbed her phone and pushed the talk button.
“Hello?”
“Gorgeous.”
That was all it took. A single word in that low, smoky voice. Her tension eased, her breathing slowed and between her legs she felt the telltale combination of hunger and dampness. She could talk all the successful-career, self-actualized crap she wanted, but at the end of the day, she was little more than Quinn’s bitch.
“Hey,” she murmured, even as she glanced at the clock on the wall and calculated how long it would take her to drive to Malibu at this time of the evening.
“Come over.”
Quinn didn’t ask. He instructed. He took charge. It was the same in bed, where he decided what they were going to do and who came first. She should have resented it, but she didn’t. There was something to be said for a man who took charge. She relaxed around him because there was no point in fighting the tide.
“I can’t stay,” she said—a feeble attempt to take control. But she’d learned the hard truth. Better to get what she wanted and escape than spend the night.
“No problem.”
There was a soft click. She knew the call had been disconnected.
She dropped her cell into her handbag, then crossed to the private bathroom that came with her C level title. After using the bathroom, she freshened her makeup and brushed her teeth. Then she left and headed for her car.
The drive to Malibu was simple. Head north on Pacific Coast Highway, which became Sepulveda and a half dozen other streets through Marina del Rey and Venice. She picked it up again in Santa Monica, then followed the road until she reached Malibu.
When people thought of that town they pictured beachfront mansions and star sightings. Both were plentiful, but much of the community was also old and a little worn around the edges. Tiny restaurants favored by locals nestled against the larger, more famous attractions, like Gladstone’s.
Shannon turned onto a small street. In one of those weird L.A. ironies, the most beautiful homes often had completely deceptive entrances. There was a garage, a secured gate and what looked like the beginning of a modest thousand-square-foot bungalow. All of which concealed eight or ten million dollars’ worth of luxury living and incredible views.
Quinn’s house was similar, although his gate kept anyone from pulling into the driveway. Shannon punched in the code. In that split second before the heavy iron gate swung open, she wondered if it would. Because she knew there would come a day when her code would no longer work. She often told herself that would be a good thing. Some days she even believed herself.
But it wasn’t tonight, she thought as she drove into the open garage and parked next to his Maserati.
She got out and walked inside.
Quinn’s house was built on the side of a cliff. The tri-level home was probably about five or six thousand square feet with an unobstructed view of the ocean from all three levels. During the day, the rooms were filled with light. At night, electric blinds protected the privacy from those who would try to capture a glimpse of how the beautiful people lived.
Shannon left her shoes in the foyer by the garage door and walked barefoot through the living room. Music played. She didn’t recognize the man singing, but she was sure he was one of Quinn’s latest finds.
A couple of lamps had been left on to guide her, but she could have found her way blindfolded. She ignored the elegant furniture, the expensive artwork, the too casually arranged throw pillows and headed for the stairs.
Down a floor was the kitchen and another living room. This was where Quinn spent most of his time. The upper floor was for entertaining. A dumb waiter allowed whatever catering service he was using to deliver food quickly and easily.
Instead of elegance, this level was all about comfort. Oversize leather furniture and a giant TV on the wall dominated the room. The electronic equipment could probably intimidate a NASA scientist. Being a successful music producer paid well.
Shannon circled to the final staircase and took it down a floor. She passed a small guest room and walked into the master.
The glass doors were open. Cool night air and the sound of the ocean mingled with the scent of wood burning in the fireplace. There was a large, custom bed, a couple of chairs and a man. Her attention zeroed in on the latter.
Quinn had been reading. He put down his e-reader and rose as she approached. His blond hair was too long, his blue eyes slightly hooded. He was the kind of man who took what he wanted and he looked the part. Despite the loose cotton shirt and chinos, he was dangerous. Like a beautiful, yet venomous snake—the more appealing the appearance, the more you had to beware.
She dropped her bag onto the carpet. He removed his shirt by simply pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. His pants followed. Being Quinn, he didn’t bother with underwear.
Shannon studied the honed lines of his body. Defined muscles swooped and hollowed. The man was pushing forty and yet could have easily been hired as a butt double for stars half his age.
He was already aroused.
She hesitated. Just for a second. It was like being in the first week of a diet when cravings were insistent and tempers ran high, and someone offered you a brownie. Did you accept it and promise to start again tomorrow, or did you do the right thing, take the empowering step and walk away?
She knew she’d already made her decision. Answering the call had been the equivalent of picking up that brownie. Now all she had to do was take that first bite.
She walked over to him. Quinn drew her close and kissed her. With the stroke of his tongue, she surrendered to the inevitable and promised herself she would do better tomorrow.