QUINN, his lean body clad in supple motor-cycle leathers,
strode into the swish foyer of the world-famous magazine
Chic.
The glass swing doors closed behind him and, green eyes
narrowed, he paused for a moment to get his bearings.
Nothing in his attitude hinted at the fact that he knew
that had the person he sought known he was there he would
undoubtedly have found himself chucked out on his ear!
By nature Quinn was a confident individual — in his ex-
perience assurance was far more likely to open doors than
an apologetic manner — but he considered this situation
called for a extra degree of audacity. The meek might well
be going to inherit the earth but Quinn couldn't wait that
long — he was a man with a mission!
At any time Quinn had the sort of face that made people
look, and then look again, their eyes admiringly drawn to
the pleasing arrangement of strong bones and intriguing
manly hollows that made his irregular features stand out
from the crowd. At that moment his expression — a fairly
accurate reflection of his one overriding emotion, determi-
nation — drew more second glances than usual.
His steely purpose extended beyond the tight-jawed, edgy
expression on his saturnine features, his entire lean,
loose-limbed body was tense with resolve; even his soft-
footed tread had something uncompromising about it. In
fact Quinn oozed danger, and human nature — or at least
female nature — being what it was, this was the fatal
ingre- dient that had every woman in the place instantly
riveted.
In the normal run of things Quinn wasn't much bothered
about the impression he made on people, except when, as
part of his professional role, he needed to put them at
their ease. His present enterprise was purely personal,
and he had other, more urgent, things on his mind than
racing pulses! He was going to see Rowena, and if that
involved an unseemly contretemps with a security guard,
chaining himself to an immovable object or just generally
making a spectacle of himself, so be it!
Dignity had its place — hell, he was great at dignity, he
oozed the stuff morning till night — but now wasn't the oc-
casion to display restraint. He'd been displaying it for
the past couple of months and where had it got him...?
Fobbed off, ignored and generally given the run around,
that was where!
His chiselled jaw tightened another notch as he contem-
plated the abysmal way Rowena Parrish, his long-time
friend and recent lover, had been treating him since that
memorable night in New York.
No, the time had arrived for a little bit of positive
action. Quinn wasn't a man accustomed to dealing with
rejection or failure, and he was damned if he was going to
accept it now without some sort of explanation. It would
have to be an extremely good one too if it was going to
satisfy him!
"I'm here to see Ms —" he began firmly as he approached
the nearest of the receptionists arranged around a big
half- moon-shaped desk.
"Oh, and she'll definitely be glad to see you." There was
a fervent nod of agreement that slid like a Mexican wave
down the line of pretty faces.
It wasn't that the other applicants hadn't been good-
looking. Like this one they'd all been sheathed in sexy
black leather, and unlike this clean-shaven specimen
they'd had the air of dissipated ruggedness that went with
a sprin- kling of designer stubble. Despite this advantage
none had even come close to matching the indefinable
something ex- tra that this guy had by the bucketful!
The receptionist and her companions had all been watch-
ing his approach, mouths slightly ajar. His every physical
attribute — these included legs that were longer than
long, narrow hips, a washboard-flat belly and wide,
powerful shoulders — had been digested, drooled over and
stored for future dreamy reference.
Quinn, ready to do battle, was a little taken aback by
this response. He cleared his throat and frowned
suspiciously — was this some new devious ploy of Rowena's
to get him out of her hair?
"Right, then, I'll just go to...?" 'If you'll give me your
name I'll let them know you're on your way up."
"Quinn Tyler." There was no instant start of recogni-
tion — good, Rowena hadn't left any instructions to have
him thrown out if he showed up as she had done at her
apartment building.
After a lot of judicious eyelash fluttering the young
woman consulted the screen in front of her. "We haven't
actually got you down...it must be some sort of mistake."
There were fervent nods of agreement. "No problem, I'll
just add your name here," she told him cheerfully.
It was slowly dawning on Quinn that there was some sort of
mistaken identity thing going on here, but as this seemed
to be working in his favour he didn't see much point
setting the record straight. If it got him closer to the
inner sanctum and Rowena he was quite happy to play along,
though that might be easier if he knew what role he was
meant to be playing.
He dismissed any lingering qualms with a philosophical
shrug — it couldn't be worse than a punch-up with
Security, could it...?
Elbow leaning on the desk, he shamelessly utilised his
most winning smile. "That's very good of you..." he con-
sulted the name badge pinned to her ample
bosom '...Stephanie."
A couple of minutes later, his fixed smile faded abruptly
as he stepped into the glass-fronted lift and it began its
smooth ascent. He looked at the piece of paper the nubile
Stephanie had thrust into his hand, and his brows rose cyn-
ically at the sight of a scribbled phone number before he
crushed it carelessly between his strong fingers.
The directions he'd received from Stephanie took him to a
long, narrow room that contained a row of chairs and
little else furniture-wise.
Quinn blinked; he was looking at a leather fetishist's
dream. Males, mostly a few years younger than himself —
mid to late twenties, he estimated — filled the available
chairs. They were all clad in a similar fashion to
himself — black leather from head to toe.
As he was surveying the surreal biker reunion scene in
front of him, a door just to his left opened and he turned
to see a short female figure dressed in a garish
combination of lime green and cerise emerge, carrying a
clipboard.
"Who's first?" The black leather rose en masse in re-
sponse to her slightly bored query.
Apparently oblivious to the sudden rise in testosterone
levels and anxiety, she ignored all the figures trying des-
perately hard to be rampantly male and turned instead to
the one conveniently closest — ironically he was the only
person present not trying to catch her attention.
"You! You'll do..." Her eyes travelled up the six-foot-
five frame, getting wider and wider the more she saw. She
paused, blinking in bemused fashion when she eventually
encountered the greenest pair of eyes she'd ever seen.
Long, curly ebony lashes any woman would have traded her
soul for and equally dark, well-defined brows were suit-
able accessories for these truly spectacular orbs.
Sophie had seen it all but even she couldn't repress a
tiny sigh of feminine appreciation. He might not be
trying, but this guy was succeeding fairly dramatically on
the ram- pant male front!
Her eyes eagerly slid over the strong, hawkish nose that
bisected the hunk's lean features and dropped to the wide
firm line of a sensationally sexy mouth. A slow grin
spread across her features.
"You'll do very well indeed," she told him with a throaty
chuckle.
Quinn, aware of a battery of resentful eyes on his back,
found himself being bundled by the tiny figure through the
door and into the connecting room.
In contrast to his colourful escort the elegant female be-
hind the desk was clad totally in black. She looked at
Quinn for a full thirty seconds before smiling — he had
the distinct impression her facial muscles didn't get a
whole lot of prac- tice with this procedure.
She rose to her feet. "Anna Semple." Instead of extending
her hand as Quinn had expected, she walked around him,
head on one side in a bird-like attitude — he found
himself thinking 'vulture' at this point. "And who might
you be?" Anna asked, somewhat taken aback to discover
that, instead of looking eager to please, this candidate
was glancing at his wrist-watch.
"Quinn Tyler." He couldn't decide whether he was amused or
irritated by the treatment.
"I haven't got a Quinn Tyler down here," her colourful
companion revealed, consulting her list.
"No matter." His interrogator frowned as though his name
was tugging at her memory. "These don't look like props."
She ran a hand lightly over the sleeve of his well-worn
leather jacket and gave another vulpine smile.
"They're not." 'And have you done much of this sort of
work, Quinn Tyler...?"
Time to ditch the subterfuge and move on to his main
objective. "Actually I think there's been some sort of..."
He edged surreptitiously towards the door.
"Who sent you?" 'Nobody sent me." 'Initiative! I like
that, don't I, Sophie? But you have an agent?" If he
didn't this opened all sorts of interesting pos-
sibilities — such as an exclusive contract. Now wouldn't
that be nice? Very nice, she decided, trying and failing
to dis- cover any flaws in the hunk. Forget the leather
spread — this guy could front their 'new season — new man'
feature that was to run for three consecutive issues, she
thought excitedly.
Quinn was a patient man, but even he had his limitations.
He'd seen farmers giving prospective purchases at a live-
stock market a more subtle survey than this female was
giving him! Any minute now he was convinced she'd ask him
to show her his teeth! He was almost right...
"Take off your shirt and jacket, will you?" Anna re-
quested, casually retaking her seat.
Quinn's eyes widened as it dawned on him she was deadly
serious. And I thought my job called for personal
sacrifices! he thought.
"Is that all?"
The younger woman looked startled by his response, but the
irony sailed right over the older female's head.
"Yes, that'll be sufficient." Anna flicked her female
companion an amused look as the big man remained
immobile. "Not shy, are you?" she taunted indulgently.
"Not shy, no," Quinn replied honestly. Just a bit partic-
ular about who I take my clothes off for. The thought of
removing his clothes focused his mind forcefully on his
original objective — Rowena.
Now, if she'd asked him his response would have been quite
different. With reluctance he dragged his mind clear of
the various stimulating scenarios it had immediately con-
jured up along this theme.
He was just about to break the news that, whatever they
had in mind, he wasn't available when the door behind him
opened a crack, and the sound of voices drifted in — one
at least he identified instantly.
"Have I got the go-ahead on the "Having It All" feature,
Rowena?" Sylvia Morrow urgently hailed her editor who,
oblivious to the admiring male eyes lining the wall, was
taking a short cut through to her top floor office. She'd
worked hard for that office.
Rowena was a tall, beautiful young woman with typical
English-rose colouring, classical features, natural ash-
blonde hair and a shapely but slender body. She was not
unaware of the impact her looks made on people, but she
felt on balance that these attributes had been more of a
hindrance than a help in her single-minded efforts to gain
the right to call that office on the top floor her own.
The job of editor that went with the luxury office was
still new enough to seem unreal. It was the goal she'd
been working towards ever since she'd left university with
a first-class honours degree, no experience, no money and
boundless ambition.
Now she was there — she had it all! Funny, she'd ex-
pected success to feel quite different. The route to the
top hadn't been easy — people had said she was too young
and some still were saying it — but she was proving them
wrong.
The vague feeling of anticlimax was, she supposed, to be
expected. Perhaps if her personal life wasn't such a mess
she could have enjoyed her moment of glory, but ironically
she'd never felt more confused or unhappy in her life. And
whose fault was that? Quinn Tyler's.
She conveniently ignored the inescapable fact that she
herself was at least fifty per cent to blame for her
present predicament.
"Are you all right, Rowena?" Sylvia's concerned glance
slipped from the haunted expression on her boss's pale
face to the slim hand pressed against her enviably flat
belly.
They had both been at the glitzy party of yet another new
perfume launch the previous evening, the food and drink
had flowed freely and Sylvia, who was congenitally
incapable of refusing freebies, had woken feeling a trifle
delicate that morning. It seemed unlikely Rowena had over-
indulged too — self-control was Rowena's middle name.
Rowena smiled stiffly and, trying not to draw attention to
her action, removed her hand from her stomach. If she
wasn't careful, she thought worriedly, people were going
to start putting two and two together.
"I'm fine." She was in control now and didn't show even by
so much as a flicker of an eyelash the conflict that was
raging in her head.