The Mighty Quinns: Tristan

“I only brought one copy.”

“We have a photocopier in the rec hall. I can make a bunch of copies.”

“Wouldn’t you rather go back and watch Othello?”

Lily stopped and faced him. What was that? Four excuses? Or was it five? “Is there some reason you don’t want me to read your work?” He gave her an uneasy smile. He was hiding something and Lily intended to get to the bottom of it. “Is there even a novel?”

“Of course there is,” Quinn said. “Why would you think there wasn’t?”

“I’m not sure. But I have to wonder if you made it up. Just to get an invitation to the colony.”

“So I could get to know you better?” Quinn nodded.

“Perhaps,” she said. “What other possible reason could you have?”

“I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you.” This time, he grabbed her hand. Lily had trouble keeping up with his long stride and when they reached his cabin, she was out of breath.

Quinn opened the door and ushered her inside. The room was lit by an old stand lamp next to Finch’s desk and another smaller lamp on a table at the end of the sofa. Neither one of the lamps provided enough light to read by. “There’s better light in my bedroom,” he said as if he could read her mind. “I bought a new lamp this afternoon. And my manuscript is in there.”

Lily drew a deep breath and gathered her resolve. Just entering his bedroom would be fraught with peril, but she had to find out if he was a writer. If there was no book, it was proof that he had ulterior motives for being at the colony. If he was, then perhaps she could indulge in the kind of wild affair that she needed.

She slowly walked into the dark room. He came in behind her and she closed her eyes, waiting for him to touch her, to pull her into his arms and kiss her again. She’d come to crave that first rush of desire, that moment when she lost touch with reality and surrendered to his taste and his touch.

How easy it had been to accept this addiction. And like all addictions, she knew her need would only grow with time. Already, a simple kiss was no longer enough to satisfy her. Now she wanted his hands on her body or his body pressed against hers, or—

Lily sucked in a sharp breath as the light flipped on. He stood next to the bed, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. Slowly, he pulled back the mosquito netting that was strung around the bed. “Why don’t you take this and get started. I’m going to walk back down and watch the show.”

“You can stay,” she said.

“That would be far too much temptation for me. I imagined quite a different scene when I invited you into my bed for the first time. I’ll come and get you before the grand finale.”

Lily took the manuscript from his outstretched hand. “All right. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“I hope you like it,” he said.

Lily looked at him for a long moment. “What?”

He nodded toward the papers she held. “The novel. I hope you like it.” With that, Quinn turned and left the bedroom.

Lily drew a deep breath as she stared down at the cover page. “Legal Tender.” There was no author name. She crawled onto the bed and pulled the mosquito net around her, then adjusted the two pillows. “Let’s see what kind of writer you are, Mr. Quinn James.”

From the very first line, the story captured her imagination. It began with a crime so cunning and complex that Lily immediately found herself invested in the victims. Strangely, it was a crime without a hint of violence. Instead, it tore apart the fabric of a dozen peoples’ lives, putting them through a hell that they never could have anticipated.

The scenes were gripping and emotional, each one leading to the next so it was impossible to stop reading. Every chapter ended in an emotional or a physical cliffhanger, and each one built the conflicts to a crescendo.

Lily was stunned at how tight the writing was. His style was simple, yet vivid, tiny details adding to the narrative. Flowery prose was almost nonexistent. As a romance developed between the main characters—a female law student and a private detective—Lily was impressed by his handling of both characters’ inner voices.

Often, it was easy to tell if a book was written by a male or a female, simply by the way they wrote about the opposite sex. But Quinn had a real knack for getting inside a woman’s head and knowing how and what she thought.