“Quinn! Dammit. I’m freaking out! Are you hurt in there?”
She nearly cried wit
h relief when she heard Rick’s voice from the other side of the door. Shaking, Quinn unhooked the chain and slipped the deadbolt. She no sooner had the door open and Rick was pushing inside, searching the room like a predator flushing out its prey.
When Rick decided the room was empty and finally turned to face Quinn, she saw his eyes go straight to her hand. Trembling all over, she looked down to she was still clutching the seven-inch chef’s knife, her knuckles white from the tight grip she had on the weapon. Calmly, without showing any hint of fear or hesitation, Rick walked over to Quinn and gently pried her fingers off of the knife. He brought it to the kitchen, placing it gently on the counter top.
The relief Quinn had initially felt at Rick’s appearance quickly evolved into anger.
“What the hell, Rick! You scared the crap out of me! Why the heck are you beating down my door?”
Instead of apologizing, Rick stepped up, toe-to-toe, and threw her fury right back at her. “I was knocking for ten fucking minutes, Quinn! I thought you were hurt in here or worse! Christ, you took five years off my life.” She saw his hand twitch as he rubbed it down his face, but any softening in her attitude from seeing that he was truly concerned was overtaken by the adrenaline pulsing through her veins.
“I was in the shower, jerk! Then I was drying my hair. Why the heck would you think I was hurt?”
Rick’s rage disintegrated before her eyes. His demeanor went from furious to neutral in the span of two seconds. “I thought you may have fallen or something.” Rick’s tone was calm, collected.
It was total bullshit and she knew it. His shaking hand proved that he cared. That he was worried… about her.
Quinn gaped. Rick was clearly lying, but why? Why wouldn’t he admit it? They were friends and friends cared about each other.
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I wasn’t home?”
Rick scoffed. “No.”
That was it, that one arrogant word. Now Quinn was royally pissed. “Oh, I see. You think I’m just sitting around here all day waiting on you to swoop in and save me? Well screw you, Ricochet!”
Quinn stabbed her finger into Rick’s chest as his eyes widened. She knew she was playing with fire. She just didn’t care anymore. He was being a conceited ass and she didn’t deserve it. “For your information, I have a date in an hour. I’m not a lonely old spinster. So if you don’t mind, now that you’ve barged in and can see that I’m perfectly fine you can get the hell out!”
Quinn reached behind her and opened the door, tired of being bossed around and manhandled by men. Where was Rick two years ago when Travis was beating her on a daily basis? Where was his concern then?
“A date?” Rick gawked at her.
“Yes,” she folded her arms over her chest, “I know it’s shocking to you that pathetic little Quinn is getting a life, but you’ll get over it.”
Rick’s face fell. The shock and anger diffused, leaving him looking crushed. He wouldn’t make eye contact with Quinn as he walked past her and out the door. Without another word, Rick was gone. If Quinn didn’t know any better, she’d have sworn he looked… hurt.
I can’t believe it. ‘Ricochet’ Rick might actually care.
A MOTHER FUCKING date!
Rick felt like he was going to crawl out of his own skin. He wanted to fight, and he wanted it bad. To go inside the gym, find a sparring partner, and feel his knuckles burn, feel the power in his body as he lunged and punched another person.
Fighting and fucking, those were Rick’s two favorite forms of stress relief. Of course, now that Quinn and her hot little ass were occupying his every thought, fucking was completely off the table. Rick knew there was no way he would find any woman interesting enough or gorgeous enough to hook up with since meeting Quinn. Hell, with his one and only hook up since they met, he couldn’t even get it up without picturing her.
Rick couldn’t fight tonight either. Because then he wouldn’t be able to make sure Quinn was safe on her date. Instead, he took his frustration and used it for surveillance.
Aggravated and restless by the constant deluge of foreign feelings— things like affection and love— Rick patiently watched Quinn’s apartment from his car. He parked next door at a tiny bagel shop run by a nice couple from Long Island. That way Quinn, or anyone from the gym, wouldn’t spot him acting like a total psycho.
Relationships might not be something Rick understood, but surveillance… that he could do in his sleep, no matter how pissed off he was. At exactly eighteen hundred hours, he observed a late model SUV as it pulled into the lot and around the back of the gym.
Fucking douche is right on time. I hate him.
A tall, dark-haired man in his mid-twenties got out of the car, bounding happily up the stairs to Quinn’s door. Rick gripped the steering wheel hard enough to feel pressure in his knuckles. The door opened and the man disappeared inside.
Fucker’s good looking too, bastard.
It took all of Rick’s training to rein in his swirling, intense emotions. Staying calm under pressure was easy when you weren’t emotionally involved. But this shit? Watching Quinn go on a date with another man? It was fucking torture, even for Rick with his years of Force Recon experience.