Page 40 of Playing with Fire

But first, I really needed to pee. “Quinn?”

“Mmmm?” He really needed to stop nibbling on me. If he didn’t, I’d never want to leave his bed. “How haven’t I tired you out yet?”

Determined to say something other than ‘let me up or I’ll pee on you,’ I replied, “Where’s your bathroom?”

“But I like it when you’re dirty.”

Nice. I liked it when he was dirty, too, and he liked showing me just how wonderfully sinful he could be.

Screw it. “Let me up or I’ll pee on you.”

Quinn laughed and pointed at a closed door. “Through there.”

It would be a lot easier to escape his warm bed if he let me go. I wiggled free, shivering at the way his hand skimmed over my skin, and made a strategic retreat to the bathroom. Marble floors, a huge tub with jets, and a separate shower promised I’d spend some of the best moments of my life in Quinn’s home.

That was it. If he wanted me to leave, he’d have to kick me out, and I’d fight tooth, claw, hoof, and horn to stay. “I’m never leaving,” I declared before closing the door.

Point to me. I didn’t slam it like I often did when overly excited or pissed.

He chuckled, a sensual, rumbling sound.

Police Chief Samuel Quinn wouldn’t be laughing when I made myself at home in his tub and made good on my promise never to leave. I took the quickest shower possible before preparing for the nicest soak of my life. In one of the three big cabinets, I found a bottle of sea-scented bubbles and a staggering number of body washes.

Later, when I finally drifted down from the heavens and crash landed back on Earth, everything would go wrong. I’d find out I was in a hospital again or dead, the usual result of doing the right thing at great risk, having helped a lot of people—and Quinn—because I could rather than for a paycheck.

Alternatively, maybe the universe was rewarding me for a job well done and sent payment in the form of Quinn. Was he the naked model? Maybe he was a gift from Santa, because I sure as hell couldn’t figure out why the man would want me of all people.

And holy shit, had he wanted me.

I could die happy, and I eased my way into the warm water with an ecstatic sigh. Life, for the moment, was absolutely perfect. I wanted to kiss whomever had invented bathtubs with jets in them, as the rush of water not only made the bubbles better but also worked the stiffness out of my muscles.

A phone rang, evidence I was somehow in a very real world. Quinn cursed in the bedroom and answered, “It better be an emergency, otherwise, the answer is no. Gardener’s taking a bath, and there’s no way in hell I’m bothering her unless it’s really important. What is it?”

Quinn had just sealed his fate, which he would learn soon enough. By defending my bubble bath, he signaled the end of his reign as a free man.

Damn it, that had to be the predatory unicorn in me still talking.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t. Could anyone blame me for wanting to stay in heaven after having found it? Maybe I’d, in some horrible fashion, done Quinn a favor by taking those photos of his ex-wife. Maybe if I pitched the argument in the right way, I’d believe it for a little while.

I submerged to my chin and snorted so the bubbles wouldn’t go up my nose.

Quinn made a frustrated noise in the other room. “I may require a manual. How long should I leave Gardener in the tub before it’s safe? What? What the hell do you mean there’s no manual? You’re the one who wants me to come into work tonight. That’s not at all reasonable. Under the assumption I can coax her out of her hard-earned bath, we’ll come to the station. Probably around ten, since we’ll need dinner first.”

There was a long moment of silence, and Quinn gave one of those little growls that made me hold my breath so I could better listen while my toes curled. “No, I’m not leaving her home alone. She can sleep on my couch at the station, supervised. Those are doctor’s orders—she’s to be supervised in case exposure to so much neutralizer compromised her immune system again. She’s coming in with me, and that’s final.”

Quinn hung up, and at the rate he was grumbling and growling, he’d lose his voice in short order.

I thought long and hard about what I’d overheard. Obviously, I’d need to address the whole leaving the house at all issue. Wait. He planned to be at the station by ten? After dinner? What time was it?

The last time I had checked a clock, it had been eight in the morning. How long had we been occupied in his bed?

And elsewhere in his home. Everywhere in his home. I thought about that long and hard.

No wonder I was sore.

Quinn knocked on the door. “Bailey? We need to go to the station in a few hours.”

“What time is it?”