Kiss Don’t Tell

She slid under the quilt, determinedly bringing David’s face to mind, imagining him looking at her with longing three months from now.

‘Let’s make love,’ she whispered to her make-believe David—then sat bolt upright as butterflies swooped through her stomach. Because David’s face had disappeared, replaced by a different one. A swarthier one, with a scarred eyebrow and a five o’clock shadow and eyes that were dark as night.

It wasn’t blond, perfectly coiffed, pleasantly smiling David Bennett in her head; it was Adam Quinn with his short black hair and ferocious frown.

Lane ran a trembling hand over her belly, where the butterflies were rioting. ‘Stop it,’ she told them.

But they ignored her.

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_6186add6-5689-5ead-8dcd-b5f34322c08c)

‘You what?’ Sarah Quinn demanded, after a full thirty seconds of shocked silence.

‘I signed on,’ Adam repeated, sinking tiredly into his favourite green leather armchair with a freshly poured single malt Scotch—his preferred remedy in a crisis—within easy reach on the table beside him. A nice, warm, antique, wooden table.

Sarah slid into the armchair on the other side of the table and just sat there.

More silence.

At any other time, Adam would have been amused at his garrulous sister’s rare state of speechlessness. But not tonight, when he longed to have his library to himself to brood in peace. A man needed privacy to lick his wounds.

‘One job,’ Sarah said at last. ‘You had one job!’

Adam tossed back the full two fingers of his neat Scotch.

‘Seriously!’ Sarah went on. ‘What was so hard about it? Fifteen minutes, max—in, out, over. You’ve had entire affairs that have lasted longer than that.’

‘Shut up, Sarah.’

‘I wouldn’t have let you anywhere near her if I’d imagined, even for a second, it would turn out like this.’

‘Yeah, well if it was really that easy, why didn’t you talk her out of it yourself?’

Sarah grimaced. ‘I tried. Erica tried. Believe me. No luck.’

Adam poured more whisky into his cut crystal tumbler. ‘And who the hell is Erica?’

‘Lane’s housemate. Erica’s a flight attendant.’

‘Ah, a flight attendant. Now you’re talking. Where’s her contract? I’ll sign that one in a heartbeat.’

‘Dream on. They’ve known each other since they were kids—next-door neighbours, living in each other’s pockets, sleepovers, the works. Erica’s not going to whistle that history down the wind by stealing you out from under Lane’s nose. It’s a girl code thing; there’s no breaking the code.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Language!’

‘There’s no such thing as a girl code.’

‘Maybe not in your fast and loose world, but there most certainly is in ours. And in any case, Erica has a boyfriend, Jeremy, who isn’t insane enough to stand aside for you to have a crack at her. And she certainly doesn’t need to hire anyone for sex. She’s got enough raw material to write a regular blog on the subject.’

‘In your league, then. How many boyfriends are we up to for the year, Sarah? Remind me, will you?’

‘About on par with your excessive number of girlfriends, Casanova Quinn.’

‘They’re not my girlfriends.’

‘No they’re not, are they? Which makes my dating patterns more morally defensible than yours. At least I’m looking for love, not just shagging my way around the city of Sydney a street at a time.’

‘Who says I limit myself to Sydney?’

‘Ugh! You really are shameless. Brazen, blatant, debauched—’

‘Yada, yada, yada. Give the thesaurus a break and just think for a moment about your “morally defensible” crapola in light of the fact that you’re pimping me out to your friend.’

‘You weren’t supposed to sign,’ she said through her teeth.

‘And yet I did, and you set it up, therefore you are my pimp.’

‘Well someone had to step in.’

‘No, Sarah, they didn’t. At least not someone from this family. We’ve got enough problems with divorces and marriages happening like they’re on a spin cycle. We’re the last ones anyone should come to for sex therapy.’

‘Well that just goes to show that you know nothing, Adam Quinn, because it was Mum who suggested you for this job despite where she currently is in the spin cycle.’

He jerked upright. ‘What the—the fuck? You did not—tell me you did not!—talk to Mum about this.’

‘Well of course I did!’

‘I am going to murder you, Sarah.’

She opened her eyes at him. Wide, bright blue. Innocent. Like hell innocent. ‘I had to talk to someone!’

‘What about Erica the flight attendant? If she and Lane are so close, where was she when she was needed?’

‘Well duh! Thirty-five thousand feet in the air, that’s where! She was rostered on a flight to LA this morning, and that’s a four-day trip so she’s beside herself over what might happen while she’s gone. Which is probably why Lane chose last night to divulge her great plan. You know, get it out there and deal with the initial fallout knowing Erica wouldn’t have a lot of time to talk her out of it. So the end result is that I’m catapulted into the hot seat, with Erica begging me to come up with something to keep Lane safe in her absence. Damage control, that’s what Erica calls it. I’ve been nothing short of petrified, because Lane doesn’t see things the way the rest of us see them.’

‘Yeah, I’d say you’ve got that right. Jesus!’

‘Oh and I suppose you know everything about her, do you, after just one meeting? Because you don’t—that I can promise you!’

‘Okay, okay, so tell me: how does she see things?’

‘Straight like a ruler. Got a problem? Her brain tells her to fix it by going direct from A to B in the straightest line possible, no deviation. Whereas my brain goes all convoluted with curlicues and twists, via, F, G, and M, so I usually need someone to help me keep track of things, and when I woke up this morning and it all came flooding back to me and I realized there was nobody to help me and—’

‘Sarah, stop!’

Sarah stopped.