All It Takes (Romancing Manhattan 2)

“Done.” He gestures for me to leave his office. “Do what you need to do, but I’m here if you need anything.”

I nod and hurry to my desk, and send my petition. Then, I take my things and drive home.

My home.

I feel numb now. The anger is still there, simmering just below the surface, but it’s as if the past few hours have happened to someone else and I’m watching it from the outside.

Damn, how I wish that were true.

I pull into my driveway, scowling when I see Quinn in his car out front.

And just like that, the anger bubbles back to the surface.

He emerges out of his car at the same moment I do, and I ignore him. If I start talking, I’ll rage at him, I’ll hit him.

I’ll say things that I can’t ever take back.

“Sienna, I need to talk to you. I’ve been blowing up your phone, but you’re not responding.”

And I don’t respond now as I unlock the door and walk into my house, Quinn right behind me.

“Baby, did you hear me?”

I set my bag in its place, then turn to him and prop my hands on my hips.

“How long?” I ask.

“How long what?”

“How long have you known that my father and uncle were the ones who got this whole fucking thing rolling?”

“Wait. Your father?” He looks honestly confused, and I wait for his answer. “Bruce told me it was Patrick who originally sent him the letter.”

“When?”

His jaw clenches and the muscle in it tics in that way it does when he’s irritated. “A while ago.”

I nod, not believing my ears. “Get out of my house.”

“Sienna—”

“No.” I turn around and stomp into the kitchen, needing to put some space between us. “You knew, Quinn, that my family was not just wasting my time but making a goddamn fool of me.”

“No, I didn’t,” he replies. “I had no idea that your father was involved, and I didn’t know until after you left my office today that Patrick has the final proof you need.”

“But you knew that Patrick was involved.”

He shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, it’s not bullshit. I couldn’t tell you. It was attorney-client privilege, Sienna. You know as well as I do that if I’d said anything it would have been illegal.”

“We were working as a team!” I yell.

“Bruce told me as a client. It’s a fine fucking line, Sienna.”

I shake my head and pull the pins out of my hair, needing to scratch my scalp, hoping to relieve the pounding headache I have.

“I need you to go,” I say. “I’m done, and I need you to go.”

He’s still for a moment. “I never lied to you.”

“You withheld important information.”

“I tried to tell you that I didn’t trust Patrick.”

“That’s weak, Quinn. I could tell you that I don’t trust Carter, and what does that do, exactly? Does it make you love him less? No, you’d roll your eyes and pat me on the head and say there’s no reason not to trust Carter.”

“I would ask you why you don’t trust him.”

“And if I’d done that, you still would have lied.”

He shakes his head in frustration. “As soon as Bruce gave me the go-ahead I tried to tell you. I’ve been trying to reach you since you left today.”

“How noble of you.”

God, I feel sick to my stomach. I’m going to throw up. I’m going to cry for days. I need him to go away.

“I told you yesterday that there are three men in my life that I trust. Every one of them disappointed me today.”

“Sienna—”

“Go.” I shake my head and lean on the island. “I’m done, and I want you to go.”

He walks to the door, but before he leaves, he turns back to me.

“This isn’t done. We aren’t done. But I’ll go for now.”

Just as the door closes behind him, my phone rings. It’s Louise.

“Hello?” Tears are already forming in my eyes as I hear Quinn’s car fire up outside and he speeds away.

“I just got off the phone with Mom. Sienna, what’s going on?”

“I need you.” It’s a whisper. “I need you at my house.”

“I’m already on the way. With wine, and a shitload of questions.”

“Hurry.” I hang up and collapse onto the island, my cheek on the cold quartz and hot tears streaming from my eyes.

Oh, my God, what just happened?

My whole world just fell apart in the span of two hours.

I thought I’d be punching something. Screaming and railing.

But I’m just lying on the cool countertop and silently crying because my brain just can’t do anything else.

I’m still here ten minutes later when Louise comes rushing through the door, two bottles tucked under her arms and her face also streaked with tears.

“Talk to me,” she says softly as she hurries to me and softly drags her fingers through my hair. “Mom’s a mess and couldn’t tell me much. Is it true?”