Quintic (77 page)

“Go fishing with Lonzo and
MacCarmick.” Go fishing with the A-team? Not so much fun in the
boat.

“Why?”

“You need the rest, Big
guy.”

Me? How the fuck did this become about me
? Time for a change of tactics. “It’s going to be cold,
Patricia.”

“Bring a sweater.”

“
How about
you?”
You’ll be cold all
naked in my boat
.

“It’s warm this time of the
year over there.”

OK, he was apparently missing
something. “Over where?”

“Italy.”

No fucking good. “I’m going
fishing, and you’re heading to Italy?”

“I’m going shopping. You don’t
like shopping.”

Indeed, he
did not unless they shopped for her, especially for lingerie. He
fucking
loved
lingerie shopping with her. “Why?”

“I don’t know why. It’s a male
thing, I suppose. Most men just don’t like shopping.”

An hour in the bathroom for her
and two glasses of scotch later for him, and she was still trying
to start a fight. Even knowing she was doing it on purpose, he felt
the restlessness grow. “Not the damn shopping! The vacation
together, Patricia. Why the hell not?”

“I want to be alone.”

“
No.” It
just came out. That was probably the very worst thing he could have
said at that point.
No
ranked right up there with the
moving-in-together incident, and she had thrown him out naked that
time.

“
No?
What do you mean ‘No?’ As if
it’s any of your damn rights to tell me no! You’ve been here every
damn day for the last three weeks. You had everyone on your damn
team come over. I’m all right.”

His eyebrow jerked up, but he
didn’t contradict her. She needed venting. OK by him. She was sexy
as hell when she ranted.

“Christopher James
MacLaren!”

Her howl
brought his attention out of his pants. “Yes, Darling of mine?” OK,
so he was grinning. She wanted to go to Italy? No fucking problem.
He liked fishing. He would go fishing while she went to
Italy.
I’ll let you have
Italian food, Italian wine, Italian shopping, but not one damn
Italian man.
He would go fishing alone
and get the wood camp ready for her return, scoop her up at the
airport and have her all to himself then. He needed to buy a
launch, though. He would go fishing alone and send the A-team over
with her.
No fucking Italian
man, Angel
.

Fishing Trip

“
C
hristopher James MacLaren, don’t
you dare!”

“
I haven’t
said anything
, Angel.”

“Damn you! You’re doing it
again.”

“
What am I
supposed to be doing exactly?” He asked in a soothing voice. He saw
no point in them both being angry.

“
This. I can
see it in your eyes; you’re already planning on having me
followed.”

“
On keeping
you safe,” he rectified, his calm voice somewhat a tad
sharper.

“
Don’t.
Leave me alone. Stop
interfering all the time. I’m a grown woman, and I can take care of
myself.”

Of
course
, she could. When she did her
writing, her living, her dating things, but not when she did her
damn research for her stories. Not when she bumped into her fucking
ex’s leftovers.
Not to worry,
Dollface,
I
am the one covering
the
dating thing now,
not your dead asshole ex, Joshua.
Even
when they were dating long-distance as he foresaw straight
ahead.

“
Patricia,
” he cooed in a gentle
voice.

“
Don’t
‘
Patricia
’
me! I’m going to Italy, and
you’re not! End of discussion. Go.”

He reviewed
his options. Italy wasn’t so bad. She liked it over there and would
surely return with a sexy honey-colour tan. He hoped for a slight
gain weight.
Don’t be shy
with the pasta, Angel, you haven’t been eating much
lately
.
Want money to splurge on new suggestive lingerie, clothes,
maybe a tie for me?
A smile on her face.
In her eyes.

“
Want me to
drive you to the airport, Darling of mine?”

“No.”

“Want me to help you pack?”

“No.”

He couldn’t help himself. “Want
me to kiss you?”

Her cheeks
turned pink, and she retreated to the bathroom. Their conversation
had not gone too badly. One of his men might know of an Italian cop
they could hire on the side.

He knocked
and yelled through the unlocked bathroom door, “Is Ingrid going
with you?”

“
No,” she
answered after a while.

Good.
Ingrid’s way of taking take of her prized writer-friend-surrogate
child was to get
her drunk and sexed up,
preferably by Italian men, preferably by younger Italian men. No
Ingrid meant no temptation. Yah right.

He found her
rosiness arousing while her withdrawals rendered him utterly
helpless. He might even consider giving her a fucking younger
Italian stud if he thought it would help, but she wasn’t ready. She
was too damn fragile still. For now, she might be shying away from
his caresses, but it wouldn’t last. She was damn resilient, the
toughest woman he knew. He intended to be near when she was indeed
ready.

“
Are you
shopping for guys too?” No answer. “Are you?” Not now for sure, but
later?

“
What if I
am?”

Indeed,
what
if? He chose the safest option. “Can
I shop too?”

“
You can do
whatever the heck
you want, Big
guy!”

Not good.
“Are you planning on staying in there until your plane
leaves?”

Silence
beyond the door.
OK then,
Pussycat. Only one way to find out
. A
lock wouldn’t have made a fucking difference.

“
Christopher
James MacLaren, get out!”

He
had
caught her lying in her
oversized
empty
bathtub. Yup, napping. “No fucking
way.”

She
rolled her eyes at him but stayed in the
tub.

He
sat
down on the rim. “What are you doing,
Angel?”

“Thinking.”

“What about?”

“Things.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

He
smiled.
“You stole my line,
Princess.”

“Fuck you.”

I will, Princess. I will. I’m waiting for
you
. “You should talk about it. How about
Reid?” She smirked. “Ingrid?” She frowned harder. “One of the
guys?” He would let her talk to anyone on his team. It could even
be Hamilton for all he cared. Ham was better than an Italian guy;
he could fire the guy after. Beat him up.

She showed
him the fin
ger.

“
How about
Johnson
? He’s good at it.” He’d better
be, he was the team’s appointed shrink. Not that the doctor had
offered any helpful tips besides the ‘
issues
’ and
‘
give it
time
’ shit.

“
Really? Is
that why you talk to him so much?”

OK, so he
didn’t believe in the psychoanalysis shit for himself. He didn’t
need therapy; he had her. Before her, he had survived on scotch and
fights and jogging and smoking, random women and attitude. She
worked a million times better, so now he only fell back on scotch,
fighting, jogging and smoking those times when she threw him
out.

He
sighed.
“Promise me something,
Angel.”

“I know this is a trick.”

Of
course
, it was. But she was healing, and
when pussycats healed, the first thing that came back was their
damn curiosity.

“
OK, fine,
Big guy, I’ll bite. What?”

The damn
woman
was worse than a cat. Fucking
lovely. “I wanna be the first.”

A pink hue
crept over her cheeks, but she couldn’t pull back now, could she?
Not from the fucking bath.

“
What
are you talking about, Christopher? I will not
promise you anything! Who do you think you are? Get out. I have to
pack; the plane leaves in three hours, and I’m no way near drunk
yet,” she snapped back at him.

A question,
a negative, a question, then a change of subject composed her
retort, so yup, she was healing pretty damn fast. She had
understood fucking well what he had asked too.
I get it, Angel. The creep has disgusted you,
and now you’re fed up of men and sick of cops.
Again
.

The cop
thing did not worry him. She forever hated all policemen (it had
almost become a habit), all except him, him and a couple of others
(his team, including Charles, three or four rookies at the
precinct, maybe Steve too now). Hence, as long as her animosity
towards cops did not extend to him, he didn’t give a
shit.

Men, she
disliked from time to time.
Her previous
remedies had included brainless young jocks, faraway Italians,
gentle older men and jerks. Apparently, she had kept up the routine
for years with very few intermissions; he was the most recent
break. He was determined to be the last, but with that imagination
of hers, she might fucking convince herself she was due for an
Italian stud, or a young Italian jerk with an older man’s gentle
manners.

She
abandoned the previously half-packed
bag
in a corner for a small carry-on. She barely filled that with her
laptop, her toothbrush, a bottle of wine for the road, her cure for
her fear of flying, and a single change of clothes.
Good, she’ll be busy shopping
then
.

She insisted
on taking a cab. He let her go with a kiss on the top of her
head
. Thirty minutes later, he was home
packing a change of clothes and a sweater in a backpack. He wasn’t
upset nor angry.

She had held
her breath during his kiss but had not shied away, another sign she
was getting better. Italian men weren’t so bad, right? They had
never hurt her.
I just want
you back with a smile on your face. The rest doesn’t matter.
Yah right.

When he
realised his fists were clenched, he changed into sports gear and
decided to go jogging. He spent the rest of the day varnishing the
terrace bench. Her pale skin was going to be stunning against the
dark wood. He intended to let it dry overnight, apply another coat
tomorrow morning, then drive straight to his camp.