The Mighty Quinns: Tristan

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Tristan gasped. “You don’t mean that literally, do you?”

“There’s a lot of sex that goes on here,” she said. “And none of it has to do with me.” With that, she spun and crawled up the steep stairs. “I know you’re looking up my skirt,” she said. “Stop it.”

Tristan turned away and started down the path toward his cabin, confused. He’d had a lot of experience with women, enjoyed a lot of different relationships. But what was going on with Lily was beyond his experience. One moment they seemed like intimate friends and the next, they were snapping and sniping at each other and she was pushing him away. It was the damnedest thing, Tristan mused. And he was determined to figure it all out before it drove them both over the edge.

* * *

THE LATE AUGUST sun had disappeared below the horizon by the time everyone started to gather for what Violet was calling a “petit divertissement.” Over the course of the summer and the early fall, the inhabitants of the Fence Lake artists’ colony produced all sorts of entertainments, from musical revues to modern dance spectacles to productions of classic plays.

For tonight’s performance, Lily played her part by standing at the door and passing out programs she had designed at Violet’s behest.

Tonight, Billy Chadwick-Farnsworth, an elderly British playwright and sometime actor, had planned to stage scenes and soliloquies from Shakespeare’s Othello. Billy had been coming to Fence Lake for as long as Lily could remember. During the winter months, he returned to England to live with his daughter in Bath. But this year, there was gossip around the camp that he might decide to stay and pursue a newfound romance with Violet.

Little romances seemed to crop up every summer. Usually they were short-lived, and Lily didn’t expect this one would last long. Violet, though passionate about love, was far too independent to handle living with a man for more than a few weeks. A month had been the longest Lily could remember her staying with a man, and that had been with a sculptor who did all the cooking and cleaning.

Lily smiled to herself as she remembered her first romance at the camp. A handsome young photographer had wandered in one day, looking for a place to stay as he traveled across the country. She’d been nineteen. The passion between them had been instant. He’d stayed for a month before walking out of her life forever.

The thought of him brought a flood of bittersweet memories, but she had never regretted the affair. When she had passion in her life, her artistic talents came alive. Her emotions were the fuel that produced stunning work that she never seemed to be able to replicate on her own.

Could she allow herself the same indulgence with Quinn? She was older and wiser now. As she approached her twenty-eighth birthday, she knew that the time for passionate affairs was beginning to end. Her aunts had always told her that passions waned as wisdom grew. The older one became, the more difficult it was to forget the past and trust in love.

What if Quinn James was her last chance to produce truly great art? Each of her aunts had experienced that kind of love and spoke fondly of the men who had served as their muses.

Her last lover had been a Frenchman, two years ago. The affair had fueled an intense period of work. It had been a memorable summer, but she’d never completely surrendered her heart to him. Even as he’d walked out of camp, she’d known that another man would appear someday.

What if Quinn was that man? The one who would finally allow her to call herself a true artist? Then again, she’d never had to worry that any of her previous lovers were actually snakes in the grass. Could she be Quinn’s lover without trusting him?

“What are you frowning about?”

He stood behind her and Lily felt his hands slip around her waist.

“Nothing,” she lied, turning to face him. “What are you smiling about?”

“I’m happy to see you again. I’ve spent all evening looking forward to this.”

Lily pressed a program into his chest, pushing him away. “I thought you came here to work. If you spend your time thinking about me, how are you going to get anything done?”

“Maybe you inspire me,” he said. “Maybe you’re my muse?”

“That line has been used around this place far too often. More like I’m your amusement.”

“You are amusing, Lily. I have to admit that. So if you’re my amusement, what am I to you?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps you’re my Kryptonite.”

Quinn frowned. “You’re familiar with Kryptonite, but you don’t recognize the Cleavers?”

“I read a lot of comic books when I was younger. And we’ve had several graphic novelists here in camp.” She saw Bernie approach and Lily held out a program to him.

“I saved a seat for you in the front row,” Bernie said. “When you’re finished with the programs you can sit there.”

“Thank you, Bernie,” she began.

“Thank you, Bernie,” Quinn interrupted, “but she’s going to sit with me. I’m surprised you’d choose the first row. Aren’t you the kind of guy who likes to observe from a distance?”

Bernie’s face turned red and he hurried back to his seat.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Lily said. “He’s not a bad guy. And I’m sure there’s a woman out there for him. It’s just not me.”

“Exactly. So there’s no reason for him to watch you swimming in the lake, especially when you choose to do it naked.”

“Oh, you’ve gone from Kryptonite to White Knight. How wonderful.”

Violet appeared on the small stage and the house lights slowly dimmed. She wore a flowing dress made of iridescent ivory silk and chiffon with a beaded bodice. Her gray hair was loose and fell in waves down her back. A jeweled headband covered her forehead. She looked like something out of a Rudolph Valentino silent movie with her dark eyes and deep red lips.

“Come on,” he whispered, taking Lily’s hand and pulling her toward the door.

“I want to stay and watch,” Lily protested.

“We’ll be back before it’s over,” he assured her.

Lily refused to move until Billy launched into one of Othello’s soliloquies. She glanced over at Quinn, knowing exactly what would happen when they were alone. He’d kiss her again...and again...and maybe again. And suddenly, it wouldn’t be enough. She’d need more.

Lily groaned inwardly. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t surrender to him until she was sure he wasn’t a secret enemy infiltrator. To do that, she had to get a look at his novel. “Let’s go,” she whispered.

They snuck out the back, running away from the light that spilled off the wide verandah on the low log building. When they reached the beach, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Lily’s blood warmed and her heart began to race as her fingers tangled in his soft hair.

He wore a scent so tantalizing, she wanted to bury her face in the curve of his neck and inhale deeply. His mouth tasted of cinnamon. She experienced him with every sense she possessed.

He seemed to be enjoying the same experience. His fingertips skimmed over her body, splaying wide against the small of her back before circling her waist. His tongue delved deep and when he cupped her breast in his palm, Lily moaned softly.

“There’s something I want,” she murmured.

“Anything,” he whispered, his voice low and husky, his breath warm against her throat.

“I want to read your novel.”

Her request caught him by surprise and he frowned. “My novel? Now?”

“Yes. Do you have a copy?”

“Back in my cabin,” he said.

“Let’s go,” she said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the path.

“It’s five hundred pages long. You won’t be able to read it in one night.”

“Then I’ll take it with me.”

“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.