The Truth About De Campo(41)
She sensed his presence as if a whisper of air had carried him to her. Looked up at him, the bright glimmer in her eyes wrapping itself around his heart and tugging. She’d been crying. Quinn, who took everything on the chin like a prizefighter and just kept on going, had finally showed a chink in her armor.
Run, a voice inside him warned. Run before this all comes falling down around you. Except he didn’t. He stepped closer, lowered himself down beside her and dunked his feet in the bathtub-warm water.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She shook her head.
“What’s wrong?”
She pressed her lips together. “I don’t know.”
He pushed a wayward chunk of her hair behind her ear so he could see her face. “You’re too hard on yourself. You need to back off and accept help before you break.”
“It’s not that.”
Just as Quinn had crossed the threshold into his room that night, Matteo knew what he was about to ask was the verbal equivalent of doing the same. But the words tumbled out of his mouth anyway. “Then tell me what it is.”
She looked down at her hands. Twisted them together in her lap. “You made me feel alive the night we were together. Like for the first time in my life I could feel like everyone else. That I wasn’t a machine programmed to churn out profit numbers...”
His heart stalled. “You aren’t unfeeling, Quinn. You just don’t know how to express yourself.”
“I’m scared to.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Being like this,” she said, waving a hand at herself, “is the only way I know how to be.”
“You can do it,” he growled. “I’ve watched you command a room of fifty workmen with your pinky, Quinn. A little self-honesty is not that hard.”
“All right then.” She turned to face him, amber fire burning in her eyes. “You want me to face my feelings? Speak my mind? You said a man would have to be crazy to walk away from me and yet you’ve had no problem doing that.... Actions speak louder than words, Matteo.”
“You know why I walked away from you,” he said harshly. “You know why we both walked away.”
She balled her hands into fists. “And so now you move on. You go your merry way, chalk me up as another of Matteo De Campo’s conquests while I—” She stared down at her fists. “I am...conflicted.”
Matteo felt as if someone should read him his rights. Tell him anything he said could or would be used in a court of law against him. Except his particular court of law was a ten-million-dollar deal that had become his personal hell.
“You see?” She sliced a hand through the air at him. “It’s easy for you. You probably have a dozen names in your smartphone you’re just dying to call when you get home.”
“That is ridiculous,” he muttered. “We are negotiating a deal that will make the front page of The Wall Street Journal, Quinn. This is not about our hormones.”
“I know that.” She slammed her mouth shut, wrapped her arms around her chest and did an impression of a statue. Saliva pooled in his mouth at the sight of her plush flesh fighting for freedom over her bikini top. God, he wanted to touch her.
Her eyes grew brighter, the delicate muscles of her throat convulsing. “Tell me what’s really bothering you,” he said roughly. “Despite what women think, we men are actually not mind readers.”
“I’m afraid,” she threw at him, aggravation lacing her tone. “I am scared that I’m never going to feel what I felt for you the other night for anyone else. That what we had was some one-night aberration and I’m going to go back to being cold old Quinn who can’t have an orgasm because she can’t let go long enough to let it happen.”
His heart plummeted to somewhere beneath the concrete. “That’s crazy. Of course you will.”
She shook her head, lips trembling. “I’m scared I’m never going to feel that alive again, Matteo. It terrifies me.”
“You will,” he said hoarsely. “You just need to find the right man.”
“The right man?” She looked at him as if he had cotton batting for a brain. “Am I the only one who thought what we shared the other night was inordinately special? Please tell me I’m not that big a fool.”
He pressed his lips shut.
“Goddamn you, Matteo.” She planted her hands on the ground to roll to her feet. “You could at least tell me the truth.”
His hand clamped around her wrist. “You want the truth?” She gasped as he yanked her back down, her thighs landing hard on his, her hand against his chest to steady herself. Blood pumped through his veins, filled his head with such pressure he was blinded to common sense. His gaze locked on hers like a heat-seeking missile. “The truth is I’ve spent the last week trying desperately not to make a mistake that will damn both of us. And if you think,” he ground out harshly, “that there has been one minute I haven’t thought about us together, then you can think again.”