An Uncommon Honeymoon Read online

  Quinn whipped her phone from her pocket and did a quick search. “Actually it’s both. All gastropods are mollusks, but not all mollusks are gastropods.” As she put her phone away, she said, “Thus endeth the marine biology lesson.”

  He shot her an affectionate smile. “I love how being married to a librarian means my questions will never go unanswered.”

  “Ah. So that’s why you married me. For my reference skills.”

  “Well, you do have other skills I appreciate.” He raised his glass and sipped his wine, failing to hide his lopsided grin.

  Her eyes twinkled with mischief. “Yes. I can catalog with the best of them.”

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m talking about.” He returned his glass to the table. “Cataloging.”

  “Well, if that’s what you want to call it.” Smiling at his quiet laughter, she closed her menu and set it on the table. “I’m going with the salmon.”

  “And I’m gonna live on the edge and try the conch ravioli.”

  A roar of raucous laughter boomed from a table at Quinn’s four o’clock. She peered over her shoulder to check out the rowdy bunch. It was a table of six—three men and three women. One of the men was red faced, and not in the “spent time in the strong, tropical sun” way. The guy was well lubricated. Noting the number of bottles and glasses populating the table, she had the feeling the volume from that particular group was only going to increase as the evening wore on.

  When one of the other men occupying the table looked directly at her and smiled, she gasped. She recognized him. The chiseled jaw, the thick black hair, and those emerald-green eyes were unmistakable. Her head snapped around. Wide-eyed, she leaned toward James and hissed, “One of the guys at that noisy table over there? It’s Rhys Townsend.”

  His eyes darted toward the party of interest and back to her. “Who?”

  “Rhys Townsend. He plays Edward Walker in the movies. They just finished filming Destination Khartoum.”

  “He must be here on vacation. I’m sure he’s exhausted after all of those fake shootouts and pretend car chases.”

  She smirked. “Don’t be snarky. Not everyone can be you.” She peeked over her shoulder again. The gaze of Rhys Townsend hadn’t left her.

  Her head whipped around again. Busted.

  “You should go over and talk to him,” James said.

  Her mouth went Sahara desert dry. “Really? You think?”

  “Why not? You’re a huge fan and this is probably the only chance you’ll ever have to talk to him.”

  “What do I say?”

  “I’m a big fan? Edward Walker is my favorite character ever?” His eyebrows rose with inspiration. “I know. Have him autograph the novel in your purse.”

  “But he didn’t write it. He just plays the main character in the movies.”

  James gave her a flat stare. “You mean to tell me if you had a Harry Potter book with you and you saw Daniel Radcliffe sitting at a nearby table, you wouldn’t ask him to sign it?”

  “Good point.” She retrieved her purse from the floor and fished out the paperback and a pen. “You want to come with me?”

  “Nah. You’re the fan. I’ll stay here to keep our server from thinking we’ve abandoned our table.”

  “You’re not worried about me talking to a good-looking movie star?” she teased.

  “Not to sound too cocky, but I’m sure you’ll come back to me. You weren’t exactly calling out Rhys Townsend’s name a little while ago.”

  Her face flushed hot when visions of her and James in the shower together before dinner flashed in her mind. Water streaming over his wide chest and down his hard, flat abs. Soapy hands gliding over wet skin . . . His name had indeed echoed off the shower tile. Repeatedly.

  She sucked in air through her nose, blinked, and shook her head. “Yeah,” she drawled. “I’ll definitely be back.” To soothe her cottonmouth, she downed three swigs of water before pushing back her chair. She rolled to her feet and held her bag across the table. “Hold this please.” It contained, among other things, her Baby Glock.

  He took it and set it on his lap. “Married three days and I’m already the guy holding his wife’s purse.”

  “I promise to give you a proper thank you later,” she said in a husky tone.

  His gaze burned into her, igniting a fire inside. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  She was tempted to skip everything, haul him back to their room, and ravish him. Only her growling stomach and the promise of a delicious dinner kept her from doing just that. “Be back in a minute,” she said and headed for Rhys Townsend’s table.

  When she reached it, she stopped and stared into that familiar and handsome face.

  He smiled at her expectantly.

  Her tongue felt two sizes too big for her mouth. “Hi, Mr. Townsend,” she said haltingly. “I, um, I really love your Edward Walker movies. I’ve seen them all a bunch of times. My favorite is The Shogun Sword, where you, I mean Edward Walker, had to fight that Samurai wannabe, Take-haru Shimizu, on that rickety bridge over that gorge.” A moment ago, she could barely speak. Now it was nothing but verbal vomiting. “It wasn’t even in the book, but it was so gripping. The whole thing made my palms all sweaty. I can’t wait to see the next movie.” Her mind kept going and so did her mouth. “Did you know that many consider the deepest gorge in the world to be the Kali Gandaki Gorge in the Himalayas? It all depends on how you measure it.”

  She willed herself to stop and internally cringed now that she’d finally turned off the word spigot.

  “It’s always nice to meet a fan,” Rhys Townsend said smoothly. His dazzling smile showed off a set of perfectly straight teeth. Their whiteness in contrast to his tanned face nearly blinded her. His British accent wasn’t as refined as his movie alter ego’s, but his baritone voice was just as rich.

  She relaxed now that Townsend hadn’t called security to drag her away. “I’m sorry you caught me staring. I’m usually more polite.” She gave the other members of the party a tentative smile.

  The three women were clone-like in appearance. They were in their mid-twenties and blond, and wore too much makeup. In unison, they glanced up and gave Quinn the once-over. Apparently, she was found lacking since they turned away and tipped their heads together in private conversation.

  “S’all right,” the red-faced man said in a volume greater than necessary. “Happens all the time.” He pointed at Townsend with his drink. Some of the amber liquid sloshed over the rim of the glass and splashed onto the tablecloth. “Right, Rhys?”

  She internally rolled her eyes. Of course the most obnoxious person at the table was an American.

  From a distance, Quinn had estimated the inebriated guy was the same age as Rhys Townsend, about forty or so. Up close, she now realized he was closer to her and James’s ages, late twenties. Based on the way he seemed to be actively pickling his liver, she wondered if he would even reach forty.

  He looked vaguely familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on from where. Maybe he was Rhys’s fellow actor. He had the looks for it. Whatever his claim to fame, with his preppy clothes, four-hundred-dollar haircut, and massive watch forged from a solid gold ingot, the man oozed affluence.

  “That it does,” Rhys answered.

  Quinn turned the paperback around so Rhys could see the cover. “I was wondering if you could autograph my book. I know it hasn’t been made into a movie, but it is an Edward Walker story.”

  “Ah, yes. The Leopard’s Claw,” Rhys said and took the book and pen from Quinn. “Don’t mention this to anyone, but it’s being considered for the next Walker movie.” He clicked the pen and opened to the title page.

  “I hope they choose it,” Quinn said. “I haven’t finished it, but Takudzwa Marufu is a great villain.”

  “I’ll be sure to cast your vote with the producers on your behalf,” Rhys said with a smile. Pen poised on the page and ready to scribe, he looked up and asked, “What’s your name?”


  She answered, and while Rhys signed the title page, her gaze flicked to the third man at the table. He was a mountain of a man with an intimidating mien and massive, tattoo-covered arms bulging under a tight, black T-shirt. A two-by-four cracked over his bald head would snap in half like a matchstick. The bodyguard, she surmised.

  “There you are, Quinn,” Rhys said and returned to her the now signed book and pen.

  “You wanna sit with us?” the red-faced man asked, gazing at her with rheumy eyes.

  Before Quinn could decline, Rhys threw a glance in James’s direction. “I don’t think she does, Gibson. Her dining partner appears keen for her to rejoin him.” To Quinn, he asked, “Boyfriend?”

  Quinn tossed a look over her shoulder at James. His expression was amiable enough, but she noted the sharpness in his eyes. He wouldn’t fully relax until she was safely back with him. “Husband. We’re on our honeymoon.” Addressing Rhys again, she said, “Thank you for the autograph.”

  “You’re welcome. Happy honeymooning.”

  “Thank you.” Quinn turned on her heel and hurried back to her table.

  “How’d it go?” James passed her bag over to her. “I ordered for you, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Rhys Townsend is really nice.” She stuffed the book and pen in her purse and set it on the floor between her feet. “He didn’t even bat an eye when I started rambling about the deepest gorge in the world.” She took a deep drink from her wineglass.

  James smiled affectionately and said, “Which is . . .”

  “You know me so well,” she said before relaying to him the information. “The younger guy with Townsend was blitzed.” Her nose crinkled when she scowled and shook her head. “I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before, like I should know him.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “Did you catch a name?”

  “Townsend called him Gibson.”

  James took piece of garlic bread from the basket and tore it in half. “Gibson,” he said quietly, clearly mulling over the name in his mind. A few seconds later, he set the uneaten bread on a plate and looked up at her. “I think I know.”

  He took his phone and tapped at the screen with his thumbs. A half a minute later, he nodded, shifted his weight onto one hip, and returned the phone to his pocket.

  She waited for him to convey his findings.

  He picked up bread, took a bite, and chewed deliberately. The twinkle in his eye told her he was merrily yanking her chain.

  “Care to share?” she asked.

  He swallowed. “What’s it worth to ya?”

  She bit back a smile. He was so damn charming. “I might ask you the same question.” An eyebrow arched defiantly.

  “Withholding sex already?”

  She tried to keep a straight face, but failed miserably. “I can’t even tease about that. The very idea makes me ill.” After a sip of wine, she said, “Okay, here’s the deal. Tell me what you know and I’ll give you a back massage as soon as we get back to our room.”

  He squinted and scratched his cheek. “You have to use massage oil.”

  “Of course.”

  “Hot massage oil.”

  “It’d be wrong if it wasn’t.” Her heart rate spiked just thinking about straddling her husband, her hands gliding over his slicked-up skin.

  “Naked.”

  “I assumed you would be.”

  “No. Both of us. Naked.”

  Her stomach fluttered. “Deal.”

  He beamed at her. “You’re not very good at this negotiating thing. You never even countered my offers.”

  “That’s because your offers were my counteroffers.” She took another sip of wine and set the goblet on the table. “You know what?” He leaned in when she lowered her voice and said, “I don’t even care who the sloshed guy is anymore. I just want to go back to our hotel. I’m ready to live up to my end of the bargain.”

  He ran his tongue over his lips. “I wonder if we could get—” His words were cut off when their server arrived with their dinners.

  Set before them were plates laden with food. Quinn breathed deeply and filled her nose with a mélange of mouth-watering aromas. She forked a bite of salmon drenched in a lemon butter caper sauce into in her mouth and purred. It was simply divine. She snatched a piece of garlic bread and broke it in half. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll give you that back rub after we finish dinner.”

  “That’s fine,” he said before stuffing his mouth with ravioli. “We need to eat to keep up our strength.”

  “I like how you think.” She bit into the bread and hummed with pleasure at the intense flavor.

  “And since I know you’re good for that massage, I’ll give you the intel on Rhys’s friend. His name is Gibson Honeycutt the Fourth. His great-grandfather was a real estate tycoon. The family is worth a gazillion dollars.” He shoveled in another forkful of pasta. “Also, his dad, Gibson Honeycutt the Third, is a senator.”

  “Right. I remember now. He’s the senator’s son who had a fling with that reality TV star. He got her pregnant and it turned messy when he left her for another woman. My guess is one of the women over there is that other woman.” A corner of her upper lip lifted into a tiny sneer. “Although, for all we know, she might be the newest other woman.”

  “Yeah. He seems like a real charmer,” James said wryly.

  Quinn pushed the less than gallant Gibson Honeycutt IV from her mind and changed the subject. “What do you want to do tomorrow? Snorkel? Take a boat out? Lie on the sand like beached whales?”

  His head cocked to one side. “You know? I’m having a hard time thinking about anything beyond you fulfilling your part of our deal tonight.”

  “Yeah.” Her imagination—and her autonomic nervous system—kicked into overdrive. “Maybe we should ask for the check.”

  “You don’t mind skipping dessert? I hear they have some incredible coconut pie here.”

  She slid her foot from her sandal and stroked his shin with her toes. “Maybe we can get it to go.”

  They got it to go.

  Chapter Seven

  Quinn had never been inside a casino until that evening. A librarian’s pay never had her swimming in pools of cash like Scrooge McDuck. She loved her job and the income kept her housed, clothed, and fed, but not much else. So the idea of taking her hard-earned money and likely losing it playing games of chance had always been a nonstarter for her. She was better off playing Go Fish with Bailey.

  She did have experience playing card games, though. Her brothers had taught her how to play Texas Hold’em when she was younger. Of course, her rambunctious brothers were never content to play for meager plastic poker chips. That wasn’t “full contact” enough for them, so they invented something called “Bathroom Poker.” The player who lost the hand had to drink a glass of water. The diabolical part was once someone went to the bathroom they had lost and were kicked out of the game. Since she and her brothers were—and still are—highly competitive with each other, no one wanted to go out. As the game wore on, squirming, wiggling, and sweating ensued. She was the youngest kid in the family and therefore had the smallest bladder. Added to that, she had the least amount of poker experience. As a result, she was usually the first one bounced. Still, it taught her to be a thoughtful, if not conservative, player.

  Sitting at a poker table now, Quinn glanced up at the sign pointing toward the ladies’ room. Giddiness rippled through her at the knowledge she could go use it and still rejoin the game. She smiled to herself. She loved her crazy brothers.

  She rolled up the tops of her two hole cards with her thumb and stared at her pair of tens. With another ten and a pair of threes face up on the table in front of the dealer, she already had a full house. Had they not been at a table where each participant played against the dealer, she could have won a monster pot.

  It would have been especially enjoyable to win a boatload of chips from the balding, fifty-ish man who, from his lobster-colored skin, had spent too much time in the sun
. His serious losing streak had him dyspeptic. And, for some odd reason, he seemed to hold Quinn personally responsible for his run of bad luck. He openly glowered at her every time she won a hand. His increasingly red-faced animosity made no sense to her. They weren’t playing head-to-head.

  Balding Guy’s wife had apparently seen it all before. She sat on the stool next to him and nursed her martini, impervious to his sour huffs and grumbles. Only an occasional eye roll altered her mask of boredom.

  Devil horns practically sprouted from Quinn’s head. If she was going to be the target of his unjustified ire, she was going to have some fun with it. And she could do it, too, with her full house.

  Going the “dumb blonde” route, she blew out a sigh and said to James in an affected voice, “Can you help me, baby? I don’t know if I’m doing this right. Should I make one of those bonus side-bet thingies?”

  He rubbed her back and played along, eyes sparkling with humor. “You already did, darlin’. Before the cards were dealt.”

  “I did?” She looked down at the different stacks of chips on the table and giggled. “You’re right, Jimmy baby. I did.” She tossed a couple of chips into the ante pile. “I guess I’ll keep playing then.”

  “If you want,” James said. He vibrated with suppressed laughter. “We’re just here to have fun.”

  As if his honor as a member of the He-Man Woman-Haters Club were at stake, Balding Guy added chips to stay in the hand.

  With a thousand-yard stare, his wife took another sip of her martini.

  The dealer turned over the last final two cards.

  “I won, didn’t I, baby?” Quinn asked, wide-eyed. She flipped over her hole cards, showing her full house.

  “You sure did, sweet cheeks,” he said with a megawatt grin. “You won three hundred dollars.”

  Sweet cheeks. It was all Quinn could do not to collapse to the floor overcome with laughter.

  A vein in Balding Guy’s forehead bulged like a thick rope. He turned a dangerous shade of purple and growled, “Come on, Barbara. Let’s go hit the slots.”

  “Thank Gawd,” Barbara drawled. She tossed back the rest of her drink, set her empty glass on the table, and snatched up her chips. Without another word, they bolted from their seats and were gone.