Mile High with a Vampire by Lynsay Sands

Four

Quinn was standing in the hospital where she used to work, watching with bewilderment as people rushed this way and that, each one hurrying to handle some medical emergency or other and not one of them seeming to notice her presence. She glanced down at herself and saw she was wearing a bloodstained, white silk blouse and black pants. They were the clothes she’d worn on the plane, the ones she’d been wearing in the river, which was the last thing she remembered—spinning and tumbling through the rapids, swept along by the water like a cork caught by the currents.

She’d thought she was drowning, Quinn recalled, and now wondered if she had. Perhaps Marguerite had been wrong and immortals could die in other ways besides fire and decapitation. Perhaps she’d drowned in that river and was now a lost soul wandering the halls of the hospital where she used to be a surgeon before her old life had been ripped away from her.

“Is this where you used to work?”

Quinn turned sharply at that question and blinked as she found herself watching Jet approach. Unlike her, his clothes were pristine, his black slacks, white dress shirt, and black leather aviator jacket were as sharp as they had probably been when he’d put them on. Even his black, white and red striped tie hung perfectly.

“Did you die too?” she asked, finding the idea terribly sad for some reason.

“What?” Jet asked with surprise.

“I asked if you died too, Mr. Lassiter,” Quinn said gently, wondering if he didn’t realize that he had. It seemed the only explanation for both of them being in a hospital. Maybe this wasn’t the one she’d worked in. Maybe this was the hospital their bodies had been brought to in Ontario.

“Please, call me Jet,” the pilot said.

Quinn couldn’t prevent the grimace that twisted her lips at the suggestion, and said bluntly, “I’d rather not. No offense, but if we’re dead, don’t you think we should use our real names rather than silly pretentious nicknames?”

“Jet is my name,” he told her with gentle amusement. “It’s short for Jethro. But I’ve been called Jet since I was a kid.”

Quinn blinked at this news and then closed her eyes on a groan. “Oh God,” she muttered, and then forced her eyes open again almost at once. “I’m sorry. I just assumed it was a nickname and thought . . .”

“It was silly and pretentious?” he suggested when her voice trailed off with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry,” Quinn repeated on a sigh, her shoulders slumping. It seemed her afterlife was going to be peppered with as many embarrassing mistakes as her real life had been.

“Don’t be,” Jet said good-naturedly. “Jet would be a pretty silly and pretentious nickname for a pilot. I understand totally. In fact, that’s exactly how I felt about one of the guys I went through training with who insisted we call him Ace.”

“Short for Acheron?” she guessed.

“Nope. His real name was Eugene, and unlike the flying aces he decided to name himself after, he hadn’t shot down a single enemy aircraft, let alone the number that would have earned him such a title. That’s why going by Ace was so pretentious and silly.”

“Oh.” Quinn smiled crookedly, her shoulders relaxing. “Jethro, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, stepping back out of the way as several figures in blue gowns and masks wheeled a gurney with a patient on it between them, obviously hurrying for surgery. Once it had disappeared around the corner, he considered Quinn solemnly. “So, you think we’re dead?”

Quinn’s shoulders drooped again, and she shrugged unhappily. “It’s the only explanation I can come up with for being here. Besides, no one appears to be able to see us,” she pointed out.

He glanced around, seeming to consider that, and then said, “I don’t know. Immortals aren’t supposed to be able to die from drowning. Maybe this is a dream.”

Quinn snorted at the suggestion. “A nightmare I’d believe. Dream? No.”

“Why would a hospital be a nightmare?” he asked with interest. “You used to be a surgeon, didn’t you?”

“Used to being the key words in that statement,” Quinn said bitterly, stepping back herself now as a man in surgical scrubs rushed by with a nurse next to him briefing him on the patient he was about to operate on. Turning her attention back to Jet, she added, “I used to be a cardiothoracic surgeon. This just reminds me of everything I lost.”

“Being immortal means you can’t be a cardiothoracic surgeon?” he asked.

“Basically, yes,” she said wearily.

“Why? Can’t you just change your name and move to a different state and—” He paused when she started to shake her head.

“Unfortunately, no,” she told him solemnly. “I’m afraid it’s a very small community. There are only something like thirty-five hundred certified cardiothoracic surgeons, and our numbers are dropping. Only thirteen hundred were certified in the last ten years. That makes it a very small pool to swim in and raises the risk of someone—another doctor or nurse in the field—recognizing me.” Quinn cast a miserable look around the hospital and added, “And it doesn’t help that I have published articles, given interviews, and been a keynote speaker at conventions that almost all thirty-five hundred cardiothoracic surgeons attended. I’m too recognizable in the field to risk it.”

“I see,” Jet said quietly, and then glanced around briefly before saying, “In that case this would be depressing. I think a change of venue is in order, then.”

“A change of venue?” she asked uncertainly.

“Yeah. This place is too busy and noisy and apparently just depresses you. We should go somewhere else,” he decided.

“I don’t know if we can,” Quinn said uncertainly. “Our souls probably can’t stray too far from our bodies, and if they’re here in this hosp—” Her words died abruptly as the hospital setting was suddenly gone and they were standing in a restaurant with old-fashioned tile on the floor and actual booths. There was a counter one could sit at running the length of the back of the restaurant in front of an open window to a kitchen, and it reminded her of a place she’d once eaten in, in a small town she, Pet, and Parker had stopped in on one of their daycation drives as mortals.

“This is better,” Jet said with satisfaction, and Quinn turned to him with amazement.

“Did you do this?”

Jet hesitated, and then shrugged and admitted, “I’m not sure. I was thinking we should go somewhere else. Maybe find a restaurant or coffee shop since I’m hungry, but definitely somewhere happier, and—poof, we were here.”

Quinn gazed around the warm and cheery restaurant. It was definitely nicer than the hospital had been, she thought, and then her stomach growled, voicing its opinion on the new location.

“Booth or stools at the counter?”

Jet’s question drew her attention away from her examination of the restaurant to his pleasant face. But she didn’t answer him right away. She was too busy trying to sort out what was happening. If she was dead, surely she couldn’t just zone in and out of places? Was it a dream?

“My choice would be a booth,” Jet said when she remained silent. “And chocolate shakes and fries.”

Quinn swallowed the sudden saliva in her mouth at the mention of shakes and fries, and nodded. When Jet immediately moved to the nearest booth, she followed and slid in on one side while he took the other.

“Chocolate shake and fries?” he asked.

“Strawberry shake and fries,” Quinn decided, and there were suddenly shakes and fries on the table between them, strawberry for her, chocolate for him.

Quinn eyed the fare with curiosity. She’d never had a dream like this, where she just thought of something she wanted and it appeared. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if life was like that? If she could just think that she wanted to be a mortal gal on a date in a restaurant and it was so? No more immortal business, no fangs or need for blood, no being chased through a boreal forest by crazed immortals in the midst of blood lust.

Unfortunately, life wasn’t like that. So, she’d best just enjoy the dream, Quinn decided, pushing all thoughts and worries about her real life away and leaning forward to take a sip of the strawberry shake. Her eyes widened and she moaned as thick, cold strawberry creaminess filled her mouth.

“Good?” Jet asked, watching her with fascination.

Nodding, Quinn swallowed the icy mouthful, and admitted, “I haven’t had one of these since med school.”

“Why?” Jet asked at once.

“They’re bad for you,” she said promptly. “Sugar and fat. Heart attack city.” Her gaze slid to the fries next to her shake and she unconsciously licked her lips.

“I’m guessing you haven’t had fries for a while either, then?” Jet said with amusement as she salivated over the golden goodness, almost afraid to try them. When she shook her head to indicate she hadn’t, he said, “Go on. Try one.”

His voice was deep and silky and incredibly sexy, and it made Quinn narrow her eyes on him suspiciously. “Let me guess. I really am dead, and you’re the devil sent to tempt me.”

Jet nodded solemnly. “I’m the devil, come to tempt you to eat a fry, which everyone knows is a sin punishable by an eternity in hell.”

Quinn wrinkled her nose at his teasing and reached for the vinegar among the various condiments placed in a neat little collection against the wall at the end of the table. As she splashed the clear liquid over her fries, she said, “Laugh if you wish, but every journey starts with one step. First, it’s a shake and fries, and then it’s a gluttonous orgy of food on the table.”

“Ooooh, you said orgy,” Jet pointed out with glee, and then chuckled at her blush. “What if I promise I won’t suggest another item of food?” he asked, his tone turning distracted as he watched her switch out the clear bottle of tangy liquid for ketchup and begin pouring that liberally over the vinegar-soaked fries.

Quinn shrugged, her attention absorbed in what she was doing as she now switched the ketchup for salt and began to shake that over the ketchup and vinegar topping. She was nearly drooling at the prospect of finishing dressing the fries and actually being able to eat them.

“Dear God, you aren’t really going to eat those like that, are you?” Jet asked with disgust when she continued to shake the salt on until crystals were actually visible as a thick layer on the top.

“Have you ever had fries like this?” Quinn asked as she set the saltshaker back.

“Hell, no,” Jet assured her.

“Then you have no right to comment. Try one and then you can speak your mind,” she challenged, eyeing him across the table.

Jet peered from her face to the fries with distaste and started to shake his head in refusal.

“Funny, I had no idea you flyboys were such cowards,” Quinn said lightly, picking up her fork and stabbing several goop-covered fries.

Muttering something under his breath, Jet picked up his own fork and stabbed one of her fries, then quickly shoved it into his already grimacing mouth. That grimace faded as he chewed, however, and Quinn began to grin when he reached for the vinegar before he’d even finished chewing and swallowing.

“That was exactly my reaction when I first saw Cynthia Vance eating her fries like this,” she told him.

“Cynthia Vance?” he queried as he finished pouring the vinegar over his own fries and reached for the ketchup.

“A girlfriend in high school,” Quinn explained. “We had third period lunch together in grade twelve and used to go to a restaurant next to the school. The first time I saw her eat them like this I was disgusted. She said, ‘Don’t knock it till you try it,’ or something to that effect and goaded me into trying one.” Smiling wryly, she shrugged. “The next thing I knew I couldn’t eat fries any other way. At least I used to,” she added, her tone turning wry. “I haven’t had fries since around the time I graduated med school either.”

“Good God. For that long?” Jet asked with dismay. “That’s practically a crime. Fries are awesome.”

“Yeah, they are,” she agreed on a little sigh as she gathered more fries on her fork. “But I’m in health care. I have to live by example and eat healthily. Someone guzzling down grease, sugar, and salt is hardly in a position to lecture their patients on a healthy diet, are they?” she asked, but then her lips flattened out as she recognized her husband’s words coming out of her own mouth. Patrick was the one who had nagged her into a fat-free, taste-free vegetarian diet, and the words she’d just regurgitated were the exact argument he’d used.

“Please don’t tell me you’re one of those rabbit-food-eating people.”

Jet’s question, spoken with mounting horror, drew her from her thoughts and Quinn opened her mouth to say yes, she was, but then paused to reconsider. Was she? Was she really? The truth was she hadn’t enjoyed living off salads and seeds. She’d missed French fries, pizza, and burgers. And—oh my God—cakes, Quinn thought suddenly. Fudge brownies, strawberry shakes, potato chips, and cookies . . . The list of things she’d missed over the years was endless.

“No,” she said finally. “I don’t think I am.”

“You don’t think?” Jet asked, one eyebrow raised.

Quinn grimaced and shrugged. “I’m afraid I have eaten mostly rabbit food since I was pregnant with Parker, so nearly”—she did the math quickly in her head; Parker was twelve now and she’d started eating vegetarian six months before he was born—“nearly thirteen years now. But I didn’t really enjoy it, so don’t think I’m a dedicated rabbit-food eater.”

Jet considered that, his gaze moving over her, but simply said, “That seems a shame. Why eat vegetarian if you didn’t enjoy it?”

“Sometimes in life you have to do things that you might not enjoy . . . for your own good,” she added when he frowned.

“Maybe that’s true when it comes to blood tests and colonoscopies and stuff like that, but not eating. Good Lord, a person has to eat three times a day. What kind of life is it if you don’t enjoy at least some of those meals?”

“Pretty unappetizing,” Quinn muttered under her breath, and didn’t tell him that wine had helped wash down most of her meals over at least ten of those years while she was mortal. Looking back on it now, she recognized that she’d been well on the way to becoming an alcoholic. Wine hadn’t just helped wash down her meals, it had taken the edge off her irritation with her husband’s late hours and arrogant bossiness.

“Well, that’s really sad.”

Quinn glanced at Jet with a frown, half-afraid she’d spoken about her wine drinking aloud. “What is?”

“That you spent thirteen years eating that way if you didn’t enjoy it,” he explained. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t eat healthily for the most part, but life is too short to avoid such pleasures altogether.” He frowned as he finished saying that, and then added dryly, “Well, it’s short for most of us anyway.”

“Maybe,” she said with a shrug. “But as Patrick used to say, food is fuel, and like an expensive car given only premium gas, we should feed our bodies only premium food.” She scowled and then added, “Mind you, while he said that a lot, I found a cache of M&Ms and chocolate bars in his desk after he died, and when I was going through his paperwork after everything settled down, I noticed he had charges on his credit card bills for McDonald’s and other fast-food restaurants. So, I suspect he just didn’t want me to get fat. I mean, he did start on this kick about our eating healthy when I began gaining weight while pregnant.”

Jet’s eyebrows rose at this. “I kinda thought it was normal for a woman to put on weight while pregnant.”

“Yeah,” Quinn said on a sigh, and then told him, “Pet thought he was just being a controlling ass, but then she didn’t like him from the start. She didn’t think he respected me or how hard I worked and . . .” She sighed and shook her head. “I’m afraid in the end I agreed with her. Patrick didn’t see me as an equal. Or maybe it would be closer to the truth to say he didn’t want me to be an equal. I think he wanted me to continue to be the cheerleader to his star quarterback like in high school.”

“Instead, you both ended up being quarterbacks,” Jet suggested. “Your husband was a doctor like you, right?”

Quinn hesitated and then explained, “Actually, he was an oncologist to my cardiothoracic surgeon.”

Jet’s eyebrows rose at this. “So, you were the quarterback and he was the cheerleader.”

Quinn blinked in surprise at the suggestion. “No. You were right—we were both quarterbacks.”

Jet looked dubious at this claim. “I think a heart surgeon beats out an oncologist for position of quarterback.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he asked, “Who needed more schooling and training?”

“Well, I did,” she admitted reluctantly.

“Uh-huh,” he said, not seeming surprised. “And who made more money?”

“Me,” she said almost apologetically. “But oncologists—Cancer is . . .”

Jet arched his eyebrows, waiting patiently for her to finish her thoughts aloud, but every time Quinn opened her mouth she heard her husband’s words leaving her lips and stopped. Mostly because she was now questioning her husband’s words. She had been since he’d attacked and turned her. Maybe even before that. According to Patrick, oncology was the most important area of medicine. Cancer killed in huge numbers, and didn’t discriminate, taking both the old and the young. Everyone trembled when a cancer diagnosis was spoken. Not so much with heart problems. Hell, half of her patients wouldn’t follow diets or even take their pills regularly.

Even so, Quinn hadn’t really agreed with Patrick’s assessment but, suspecting his self-esteem was a little bruised by her success, she’d kept her mouth shut and let him spout off about how much more important he was than everyone else. Now she said what she really believed. “Everyone working in the medical profession is a quarterback, from nurses to brain surgeons. Every one of them is necessary and important. Doctors, whether general practitioners or specialists in oncology or cardiothoracic surgery, couldn’t get along without the nurses, the phlebotomists who take the blood to be tested, lab technicians, X-ray technicians, and so on.”

“I like that view,” Jet said solemnly.

“It’s the truth,” Quinn said with a shrug, and then wanting to be fair, she added, “As for my husband, I think I might be giving the wrong impression here. Patrick was a good man, and a very good oncologist. He cared about his patients and did his best by them.”

“What about you and Parker?” Jet asked, and when she stared at him blankly, not sure what he meant, he asked, “Was he a good husband and father?”

Quinn sighed and peered down at her plate, surprised to note that it was empty. She’d eaten every last fry while they’d talked. Now she set her fork down and took a sip of her shake while she considered the question. Finally, she sat back and said carefully, “Well, he wasn’t an alcoholic, or drug abuser, and he never hit or was verbally abusive to either of us.”

“That’s kind of the basics expected by most women. Like tires on a car,” Jet pointed out, eyeing her closely now as if trying to read her mind.

“Yes. You’re right, of course,” Quinn murmured. Toying with her fork on the plate, she said slowly, “He was a good husband at first, very affectionate and supportive. He encouraged me to pursue cardiothoracic surgery.” Pausing, she licked her lips and then admitted, “But in the end I think he regretted it. I think he struggled with my success. I was gaining quite a rep in my field. I was starting to draw attention and garner job offers from the big-name hospitals across the country. I was even asked to be the keynote speaker at a convention the week he died, and the more success I had, the more he seemed to withdraw emotionally, and the more he seemed to need to control things around us.” She paused briefly before acknowledging, “And I let him.”

“Why?” Jet asked at once.

“Because it was easier.” She was so ashamed to admit it, the words were almost a whisper, but then Quinn cleared her throat and went on. “Because my job was so high stress, and I had to always be in control and on top of things there, it was actually something of a relief just to let him helm the ship at home, even if I didn’t always like the outcome.” She didn’t add that even his emotional withdrawal had been easier for her, because it had allowed her to withdraw as well. Dealing with another’s emotions and needs could be exhausting, and between Parker and her work, Quinn’s life had already been exhausting and demanding enough. Not that she’d found Parker’s needs exhausting or overly demanding. That had been different. She loved her son and had always made time and found the energy for him. Quinn simply hadn’t been able to find either when it came to dealing with her husband’s insecurities and the need for control they caused.

Jet was silent for a moment, but rather than comment on what she’d said, he asked, “And how was he as a father?”

“He loved Parker,” she said firmly.

“I hear a but,” Jet said quietly.

Quinn glanced down sadly at her ketchup-stained plate as she thought about her son and the lack of relationship he’d had with his father. Finally, she said, “Well, like most men, Patrick was completely useless when Parker was a baby. He wanted nothing to do with diapers and burping, and forget him getting up in the night with him,” she said, rolling her eyes, and then realizing how bad she was making Patrick sound, she tried to be fair and added in his defense, “But he was an oncologist and needed his rest.”

“And you were a cardiothora-thingie,” Jet pointed out.

Quinn smiled at his mangling of her profession’s name, but didn’t correct it for him and said, “I wasn’t yet. I was in the middle of my five-year surgery internship when we had Parker.”

“Oh. Well, still. You’d have needed your sleep too,” he argued.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Fortunately, Patrick agreed to get a nanny so that my surgery internship wouldn’t be interrupted.” Quinn didn’t mention that it had taken nagging and threats to get him to do that. She simply hadn’t been able to manage her internship and being a full-time mother both, especially not when—after insisting they start a family at that point—Patrick hadn’t lifted a finger to help her with Parker. In fact, if it weren’t for her sister, Quinn probably would have dropped her internship and become a general practitioner. But Pet hadn’t allowed that to happen. She’d stepped in to help with Parker, and was the one to suggest hiring a nanny, and then had encouraged her to harass and nag Patrick until he gave in.

“What was he like as a father once Parker was out of diapers?” Jet asked.

Quinn grimaced before she could stop herself, but then cleared her expression. She was determined to be fair here. “He was proud of him. Parker’s exceptionally smart,” she explained. “He’s a freaking little genius, really, and Patrick was proud of him for that.”

“That’s it? He was proud of him?” Jet asked, tilting his head. “Did he take him to ball games, or to movies? Or take him fishing? Anything?”

Quinn actually felt tears sting her eyes at the question. Those were the things she’d wanted for her son, a father who spent time with him and took him out to do guy things together. It was what she’d expected and hoped for, but . . . “Patrick was very busy with his practice. He didn’t have a lot of spare time.”

Jet nodded silently, but there was a deep understanding in his eyes that made her uncomfortable. She felt like she’d blabbed that her husband had basically ignored their child for the most part, and that she’d often felt like a single parent, and by the time of the attack and his death, she’d been considering divorce for several years but was just too busy to pursue it. That was the truth, though. She had been considering divorce. She hadn’t been happy, and Patrick certainly hadn’t seemed happy in their marriage anymore either. He hadn’t been happy since a year after Parker’s birth. That was when Patrick suggested they start trying for another child. His plan was one every two years until they had three, he’d said. But Quinn had been horrified at the prospect. With his lack of help and interest in the child they already had . . . well, she’d refused to have a second one at that point, saying they’d wait and have another child once she was done with her internships. It was the first time she’d said no to him and not let him have his way. She didn’t think he’d ever forgiven her for it. By the time she was done with her internships, she and Patrick were hardly sleeping together anymore and the marriage was already on shaky ground. Having a second child when she was considering divorce hadn’t seemed a smart idea.

And all of this was something Quinn had been avoiding thinking about these last four years. It had felt unfair and unfaithful to think of her husband’s flaws when he was dead. So did her anger at his attacking and turning her and her son, and she still had a lot of that anger, but couldn’t even think about it without feeling guilty for being angry at her dead husband.

Pushing these thoughts away as too depressing to consider, Quinn picked up her shake and sat back to consider the man across from her rather than the man who had betrayed her.

Jethro Lassiter was a good-looking man. He was also tall, and well-built, with dark hair. He looked the physical, outdoorsy type. Her husband had been tall and dark haired too, but his body had been more lean and . . . well, he’d looked like a doctor, someone who spent more time with books than doing physical things. He hadn’t been broad-shouldered and muscular like Jet.

“So, your father used to take you fishing and to movies and ball games?” she asked to change the subject.

Much to her surprise, Jet shook his head. “My dad was a navy pilot too. He died in the Gulf War when I was two. But I always imagined that’s what it would have been like if he’d survived and been around to help raise me.” He smiled crookedly and added, “And now I imagine doing all those things with my own child someday. Giving them the childhood I missed out on. So I can enjoy it vicariously, I suppose,” he confessed with a grin.

Quinn smiled, charmed by the idea that he was already imagining the child he hoped to someday have and was actually planning to spend time with his offspring. She suspected he’d be a good dad, the kind she’d hoped for her own son to have, she thought, but tilted her head slightly and asked, “You were a navy pilot before working for Argeneau Enterprises?”

Jet nodded.

“Oh,” she breathed, imagining him flying fighter jets into dangerous missions. “Your mother must have been horrified when you joined the navy after your father died that way.”

Jet shrugged. “I’m afraid my mom didn’t take losing my dad and being a single parent too well. Although, mostly, I think it was guilt.”

“Guilt?” she asked with confusion.

Jet nodded. “It seems Dad had been unemployed for a while when she found out she was pregnant. They had a big fight about it, her demanding he get a job or she’d leave him. He stormed out and joined the navy that night.” Jet shrugged. “Two and a half years later he was dead and she kind of crawled into a bottle and still hasn’t crawled out.” He pushed his own plate away and sat back before smiling faintly and adding, “Fortunately, our neighbor, Marge Forsythe, was a wonderful caring woman who was more than happy to take care of me when my mom wasn’t able to. Marge basically raised me along with her daughter. We were the same age, so Abs and I have always been best friends.”

“Abs?” Quinn echoed with confusion.

“Abigail Forsythe, now Notte,” he explained. “Her mom is the neighbor who helped raise me. Well, she raised us together, really. We’re more like brother and sister than anything.”

“Abigail Notte?” Quinn’s eyes widened incredulously and she sat forward. “Any relation to Santo Notte?”

“Yeah. Abigail’s husband and life mate, Tomasso, is Santo’s cousin,” he explained.

“Oh my God!” Quinn breathed, her eyes going wide. “Then you and I are related by marriage.”

Jet blinked in surprise at the claim. He’d never really thought of it that way, and wasn’t that comfortable thinking that way now. Good Lord, he’d been lusting after her for four years. He didn’t want any sort of familial tie, even if only through marriage. So he pointed out, “Well, Abs and I aren’t legally related.”

Quinn waved that away. “You just said you’re like siblings. Which makes you my sister’s husband’s cousin’s wife’s brother.”

“Well, that fits the old six degrees of separation rule,” Jet muttered.

“Yes, it does,” she agreed, and then said, “I think Parker must have met you at one of the Notte family dinners. I remember him chattering away about some pilot he’d talked to,” she said thoughtfully, and then shrugged and offered him a warm smile as she held out her hand across the table. “Well, nice to meet you, Jet.”

His eyebrows rose and he hesitated, but then did reach out one large hand to enclose hers. It was a really big hand. Hers disappeared inside of it and Quinn felt a small tingle slide from her fingers and palm, up her arm, from the contact as they stared at each other. But neither of them actually shook; they just held hands across the table for a moment and then both broke the hold at the same time and sat back to eye each other with speculation.

Quinn had no idea what he was thinking, but she was wondering how old he was and if he was married. He was probably married, she decided. He was too damned good-looking to escape the hordes of females that would have chased him. Besides, she was pretty sure he was more than a couple years younger than her own forty years and she was no cougar. Not that it mattered. She was in no position to be interested in anyone right now anyway. She needed to get her head on straight before she even considered dating, and Quinn knew it. She had a son she had to consider. A son whom she’d left in Italy with his aunt Pet and uncle Santo earlier that day, where he was waiting for her to get her shit together.

Quinn’s mouth tightened at that thought. She’d flown to Italy three and a half years ago, determined to bring her son back with her. Instead, she’d stayed to visit her sister, who had been caring for him while she recovered from the turn. In the end, she’d just not returned to America. She’d rented a cottage and lived in Italy for three and a half years, moping around in misery when she wasn’t homeschooling her son. Finally, Pet hadn’t been able to take it anymore. She’d tried gentle talks and encouragements the first couple of years, but finally this last year she’d gone the hard-ass route, telling her that she was wasting her life and moping around being miserable, and didn’t her son deserve better than a mother who wasn’t even wholly present mentally and emotionally most of the time?

Her sister knew she was struggling with this whole immortal business and her feelings about Patrick. She’d started badgering her to go back to North America, but Toronto rather than Albany, and she’d given her the name of an immortal psychologist who might be able to help her. Gregory Hewitt. Quinn had almost laughed when Pet had mentioned the name. Marguerite had suggested she see the man before Quinn had flown off to Italy, but she’d refused, assuring her that some time with her sister would mend what ailed her.

She should have listened to Marguerite, Quinn acknowledged to herself now. She’d gotten to know the woman pretty well during the time she’d stayed with Marguerite and her husband, Julius, after waking up to the nightmare her life had become, and had realized rather quickly that Marguerite was a very wise woman.

Ah, well, Quinn thought now, better late than never. She’d go back to Toronto, and go see this psychologist, who happened to be Marguerite’s son-in-law, and get her head on straight. Then she’d get on with her life and be a proper mother to her son. She didn’t have time for men before that was all done, and probably wouldn’t afterward for a while.

“Do you want anything else or would you like to go for a walk?”

“A walk?” Quinn asked, glancing around with confusion when Jet gestured out the window next to them. Her eyes widened when she saw that there was a beach across the street from the restaurant they were in, and the sun was setting. It was quite lovely. Nodding, she slid out of her side of the booth and allowed him to take her arm to walk her out of the restaurant.