Stephanie Doyle - Calculated Risk

“By you?”

“Not always, no.”

Sabrina pressed. “But sometimes, right?”

Somewhat reluctantly, he nodded. “When you went to Monte Carlo,” he admitted.

“You were there?” She couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. All this time, she’d imagined that the split that had occurred between them had sent them in opposite directions in life. Now she’d come to find out he’d seen her. As recently as a few years ago.

“I was in Europe at the time. You leaving the country was a concern. I was asked to check in on you.”

He’d been so close, but he hadn’t even bothered to say…what? Hello, Sabrina. Long time no see. No, he wouldn’t have done that. As far as he knew, she hated his guts.

She wondered when she had stopped. Certainly, before Monte Carlo.

“I spotted you almost immediately,” he added.

Sabrina thought back to the Monte Carlo trip. She’d targeted the most exclusive casino. Her goal had been to go in, strike quick and make a speedy exit before anyone understood what she was capable of. In Vegas she’d worn out her welcome because she’d gotten too greedy, made too much of a spectacle of herself and her talent. By the time she got to Atlantic City they were already on the lookout. She hadn’t wanted to repeat that mistake in Carlo. She’d also wanted to ensure it would be possible to come back.

“Really? I wore a wig and tinted glasses.”

“Ice blond. Long. I remember. You wore a short black dress and impossibly high heels. Men turned to look at you as you made your way through the tables, but you didn’t seem to notice. They couldn’t keep their eyes off you.”

She got off the bed and circled it so that she stood directly in front of him. “And what about you? What did you think of me?”

“I thought you looked silly,” he stated bluntly. “Like a little girl trying to play grown-up. Then you sat down at a poker table and I watched you methodically take each man at that table for every penny he had. They were furious, while you seemed slightly amused at their expense.”

“I’ve got skills,” she quipped and leaned against the table the TV sat on. Silly. She’d been going for sexy vamp, and he thought she’d looked silly. Of course, it shouldn’t have bothered her, but she was a woman so naturally it did.

“I wondered at the time, why not blackjack. You could easily count the cards. It wouldn’t matter how many decks they pulled from. It was a safer bet.”

“Ah, but not as challenging. With poker there’s more than just brains involved. I can calculate the odds that the cards I’m holding will result in a winning hand. Plus, I can remember every card thrown on the table. You play the odds and more often than not you’re going to win. But that’s where using my brain ends and other skills kick in. You’ve got to be able to keep your cool. And you’ve got to be able to bluff. Sometimes it all comes down to a good bluff.”

“And you’ve got skills in that area, too.”

Sabrina folded her arms over her chest in a defensive move. “You’re like a clock, you know that? What, do you have some internal alarm that goes off every hour reminding you not to trust me and then to tell me about it? I forgot how single-minded you can be. Let me ask you something. Did you ever trust me?” She’d been trying for sarcasm, but her last question had sounded far too sincere.

“Trust no one,” he reminded her, quoting what she used to call the CIA credo.

She dismissed that shallow reply and uncrossed her arms and walked toward him. “I think you did. I think you trusted me. No, I know it.”

“You’re letting it get personal again,” he said softly.

“That’s because it was personal.” She moved a little closer to him, invading his space. She could see the muscles in his jaw tightening. She could see that she was making him uncomfortable. She’d forgotten the pure rush of fun she always experienced whenever she was able to shake the unshakable Quinlan out of his comfort zone.

“You hated it, too. Hated that I had gotten under your skin and you couldn’t shake me. I knew that. But you couldn’t help yourself. You let me deep inside, all the way. To a place I doubt you’d ever let your own mother go. You refused to admit it then, probably still do, that’s fine. But don’t kid yourself. Don’t think for a moment I didn’t know what was happening between us.”

“You were nineteen years old,” he countered. “You knew nothing.”

She stepped closer and saw that he wanted to take a step back. But he wouldn’t. The man was too stubborn for his own good. “Yes, but a nineteen-year-old genius can sometimes be wise beyond her years.”

She put her hand on his chest, felt that it was still solid. She expected nothing less. Her hand rested over his heart and she could feel the even beat of it. Bump, bump.

“Stop it.”

But he didn’t remove her hand, and he didn’t step back.

“I don’t know what it was, Q. The chemistry, the timing or just you and me. But I was different for you. And you know it. That’s why it hurt me so much when it was over. I wonder, did it hurt for you, too?”

He didn’t answer, but she could feel the muscles under her hand tightening and, beneath her palm, his pulse picked up speed.

“Did you miss me after I was gone?” she pressed. She’d forgotten-no, not forgotten-had blocked out the memory of his overwhelming size. She’d blocked out how good it felt to stand this close to him, to feel the heat from his body and know that here, in this position, she was safe from everything except him.

“What did you really think when you saw me in Carlo?” she whispered. As she tilted her head up, her lips brushed against his jaw.

Then with the lightning-fast speed she was accustomed to he pounced. He dropped his head and took her mouth. The rush of heat and pure sex stunned her. She’d had sex before him-a teaching assistant at Harvard who had gotten off on the idea of screwing a genius-and she’d had a handful of lovers since. But nothing had ever compared to Q. There was an intensity about him physically and mentally that lent itself to sex. His tongue plunged beyond her lips in a heady rhythm. And she met his ardor with equal force. This was what it was supposed to be about, she thought drowsily.

There were those who needed to romanticize sex because, for so many, it was just an act. A few minutes of rubbing bodies together that resulted in a pleasurable feeling. But the real thing didn’t need flowers or sweet words or explanations. It was a connection that transcended words and left only the physical.

This had no name. No rules. No boundaries. This was where she and Q lived. She had missed this place.

His body moved and, as smooth as Ginger Rogers, she glided gracefully with him. With his mouth still attached to hers, his left leg moved forward. Her right leg moved back. His right leg pressed into her thigh. Her bottom hit the bed with a bounce. He leaned over and she surrendered eagerly to his size, his strength and the exhilaration of what it meant to be with a man as powerful as him.

“I missed you,” she whispered into his ear. It galled her to admit such a truth, but she couldn’t hold it back.

“Shh,” he ordered.

He pressed her body into the bed. His chest pinned hers and his hands held her wrists to the mattress. For an interminable amount of time, he held his mouth just above hers. She tried to reach for him, but he pulled back and she remembered that this was part of it, too, the fight for control. Her strength matched against his.

Finally, he bent down so that his tongue teased hers. And again the fire was lit. A hundred times over. As soon as they had a taste of one another they couldn’t stand not to have another. And another. Together they were addicted.