Quinn's Woman

“I’m sure it is.”

He studied her, his dark eyes taking in every detail of her appearance. Once again she had the ridiculous urge to make sure no strands of hair had pulled loose from her braid.

She returned the appraisal, checking out his blue short-sleeved shirt tucked into jeans. His feet were bare and his hair tousled. It might be the middle of the afternoon, but he looked as if he’d just gotten out of bed.

He pushed off the door frame and stepped back. The invitation was clear. Come on in.

She stepped into the room, showing a confidence she didn’t feel. Familiar statistics filled her mind—the number of women attacked in hotel rooms each year, the number of women date raped in hotel rooms, the number of—

She drew in a deep breath and consciously cleared her mind. Quinn wasn’t going to attack her. She’d come here on her own. No one was drunk, no one was going to get hurt. Perspective, she told herself. If nothing else, she could stomp the hell out of him and make her escape. He might have fifty pounds of muscles on her but his bare feet were no match for her heavy boots.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to a chair by the window.

She took in the plain room, the large bed, a desk with a straight back chair, the low dresser with the television. There weren’t any personal effects lying around, with the exception of a hardback mystery propped open on the bed. No pictures, no wallet, no dirty socks.

Instead of taking the seat he offered, she grabbed the chair from the desk and turned it around. She was less than ten feet from the door. When Quinn sat on the edge of the bed, she had an unrestricted escape route to either the door or the window. Not that she planned to need either.

When he was settled, she tried to remember what she’d wanted to say. Somehow she’d forgotten all of her carefully constructed opening lines. So not like her. She would have to improvise.