Behind Your Back, стр. 13

She arches one auburn eyebrow and presses her lips together into a smile.

“Do you use that line on all the girls?”

I smile as well.

“No. Just on you.” Now this is a lie. I’ve used that line many times before, but none of those times matter. This matters. Right here. Right now.

“Nice. You almost sounded like you weren’t lying when you said that,” she says, her smile widening. I lean back in my chair. It’s true. She’s definitely different than I thought she’d be. Good.

“Would you believe me if I said I’ve never told a natural redhead that?”

She sips her drink and doesn’t answer.

“What brings you here, Saige Beaumont?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Her foot bumps mine under the table and I’m sure it’s not an accident. She’s flirting with me.

“Yes, I would,” I say. Another truth.

She rolls her eyes and in that moment she looks younger than her twenty-two years.

“I’m doing homework. Does that make me less attractive?” Quinn and Sylas are both attracted to smart girls.

“Not at all,” I say. “What were you studying before I rudely interrupted you with my gratuitous staring?”

She leans in just a little.

“Art. Specifically impressionism.”

“Art, huh?”

“Art,” she repeats.

“And what have you learned about impressionism?”

She smiles before she answers.

“That if you stare at it too long, you can give yourself a headache.”

I chuckle a little.

“But life could be worse. I get to look at beautiful things all day and try to figure out why the artist painted the shadows that way, or what they were inspired by, or what that tree symbolizes. Do you like art?” I decide to give her an honest answer.

“Some of it. Older rather than newer. I saw an exhibit once where a woman drank colored milk and then vomited on the canvas. I thought it was a joke until I went to the show and there she was. I had to leave when she started the live portion of the show.” Even now, thinking of it makes me queasy. What some people consider art is definitely questionable.

Saige makes a face.

“I’m not a huge fan of modern art. Give me a thousand year old cave painting any day over a vomit painting,” she says. I nod, agreeing with her.

“And what do you with yourself, Quinn?” It’s my fake name, but I like the way she says it. Almost with a smirk. Like it amuses her.

“I’m in finance,” I say. I don’t want to give her too many details about my fake life yet.

“So you get paid to spend other people’s money?”

“More or less,” I say. I like the way she thinks of things.

She makes a face that says she doesn’t find my job appealing.

“Not a big fan of money?” I find this ironic, given how she grew up. Her birthday parties were grand affairs with ponies and balls and tiaras. I’ve seen all sorts of pictures that Cash dug up. My favorite is of her on the back of a spotted pony, wearing an expression on her face that plainly said the horse was going too slow for her liking.

“I like money as much as the next person, but I’ve found that love of money is a huge problem. But I probably shouldn’t say that to someone whose job is dealing with it.” I’m not so easily offended.

“I don’t think of myself as dealing with money. I never see actual bills. It’s all just abstract numbers on a spreadsheet. Percentages and profits and loss. That’s the real secret to money,” I say, waving my hand.

“What is?” she asks, leaning even closer.

“That it doesn’t exist.” I wave my hand in front of her face and then smile at her.

She grins back at me, her teeth white against the red of her lipstick. Her lips are the perfect shape for kissing. Hopefully soon I’ll get to taste them and see how they feel against mine. Something tells me that Saige Beaumont knows how to kiss.

I check my watch, which I didn’t take off when I changed my clothes. It’s a Rolex and I know she’ll notice that it’s expensive.

“Would you like to take a break from the impressionists and have coffee with me?” I say.

Her eyebrows draw together and she holds up her half-finished drink.

“I already have coffee.”

“Of course,” I say as if I’ve just realized we’re in a coffee shop. “Well, how about dinner instead?” That will give me a chance to go to my apartment, put something nicer on and get another one of my sports cars. Something less flashy this time.

“I think that can be arranged.” She sips the last of her coffee and then tosses the cup.

“Great. Where would you like to go?”

“Oh, so you’re going to make me pick?” she says as she sits back down.

“Unless you want me to surprise you. I can do that as well. Whatever you want, Saige.” I want to say her name over and over and I have no idea why.

“I like surprises.” She smiles and rakes her hair back with her hand.

“Okay then. Shall I pick you up around six?” She nods.

“Great. How about you give me your number?” she says. I pull my regular phone out and wait as she recites the numbers to me. I put them in my phone under “Redhead.”

“And do I get your number? In case something goes wrong?” she says, getting out her own phone. I rattle off the number to her. Good thing I can memorize numbers. Not as good as Hardy, of course, but close enough.

“Well, then. It was nice to meet and stare at you, Saige Beaumont,” I say, getting to my feet.

“It was nice to meet and be stared at by you, Quinn Brand,” she says before strutting back to her table and resuming work on her laptop.

The pleasure is all mine, Redhead.

Eight

As soon as I get home, I call Cash.

“And have you seduced her?” he asks.

“Nearly. We’re going out to dinner. Let the wining and dining begin,” I say as I go through my closet to pick out something to wear.

“Go with that Prada suit and the black Ferragamos. White shirt underneath. Simple and classic,” he says. It’s a bit dressier than I’d intended, but I think it will work.

“I didn’t ask, but thank you,” I say. Cash sometimes answers questions I don’t ask. I’ve gotten used to it.

“You’re welcome. Now got get her and keep me updated.” I hang up with Cash and get dressed. Good call on the suit. It sets off my dark hair and makes me look older and a little bit dangerous. Or maybe I’m getting ahead of myself.

I throw a hoodie on over the suit coat and head to the garage where my cars are. I bypass two and go for the black BMW. It’s still a nice car, but not as nice as the Ferrari.

After stripping off the hoodie, I stash it in the trunk and get into the driver’s seat.

Time to pick up the redhead.

Saige’s apartment is on the top floor in a nice brick building. Of course, her father owns it and she doesn’t pay rent. I send her a message that I’m downstairs and ask if she wants me to come up and get her. It’s hard to know what she’d prefer.

Come on up. I’ll buzz you in. I park the car and get out to ring the bell. The door opens and instead of climbing the stairs and getting sweaty, I take the elevator.

I hear her footsteps as she walks toward the door after I knock.

It opens and she smiles at me. My heart stops for a second.

“Hey,” she says, leaning a little to the side. It’s as if she knew I would wear black, and she’s dressed to match in a simple black strapless dress with lace around the hem. Her hair is loosely twisted up in the back, with a few tendrils caressing her neck.

Her green eyes are hooded by smoky lids and she’s got her signature red lips. All in all, she’s breathtaking.

“Hey,” I say after I’ve looked her up and down. I can’t help myself.

She smiles and her teeth are brilliant against the red of her lips.