persistent English Irishman.”
He wasn’t given time to ask what she meant.
“Richard is my agent. He brought me here with visions of champagne flutes and cozy corner booths dancing in his head.” Her expression fell into one of somber recollection. She stared at her thumbnail. “I reacted poorly.”
Jack brought her attention back to him a flick of his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You reacted rather well, I say. I can name a woman or two who’d have his tumblers in a jar.”
He didn’t get the laughter he’d expected.
She didn’t appear convinced. “Maybe.”
A fabulous display. Better than anything he’d seen on the telly in months. Such elegance and fire. Richard had gotten off easy. He deserved a black eye or bruised shin, if not both. “Richard’s gone. You’re still hanging around. I expected you to storm out of here like a… Well, like a storm. No booze at home?”
“I’m living at a hotel, and you’re right—no minibar.”
He wanted to know what ailed her but, even more, he wanted her to smile again. “That, my friend, is a new low. Only a man with no honor seduces a homeless woman.”
Her laughter burst through the gathering tension. Quinn scanned his face again. Her bright green eyes searched for something he wasn’t sure he had, but hoped like hell he could produce.
He drummed his fingers on the bar. “I have two questions for you now. Obviously, I can’t fathom where a homeless person finds such a fine tailor. I’d also like to ask your occupation since it necessitates an agent. I should point out he’s not a very good agent if you’re truly homeless. Then again, maybe you had loads of money and spent it on a dress, in which case you may want to consider hiring an accountant. Are you an actress?”
Quinn’s smile stayed put. “Not an actress. Richard is a literary agent. One of the best, I might add, despite his flagrant behavior.”
Jack cocked his head in surprise. “You’re a writer?” He’d imagined several occupations for Quinn—model, actress, corporate lawyer—but writer hadn’t made the list. He recalled her comment about the sort of character he’d make. A fiction writer, no less. “Anything I may have read?”
Her face lit up like Christmas. “Only if you’re a Clementine Hazel fan.” She managed the announcement with an impressive mix of shyness and pride.
It didn’t stop Jack from choking on the healthy slug of whiskey he’d just tossed back. He set his glass down with a thud and gaped at Quinn.
No. Bloody. Way. “You’re Clementine Hazel?” He shook his head decisively. “Nah. For starters, you’re too young. She’s been around for ages.”
She lifted one imperious brow in challenge to his doubt.
Jack laughed. “Bloody hell! You’re serious? I’m sorry, it’s… Well, we’re in Hollywood, love. You… I assumed you were a writer in the same sense my grocery bagger yesterday was an artist.”
She traded her raised brow for a genuine smile. “I’m definitely old enough. Ten years is not ages.”
He shook his head again and used this perfectly legitimate excuse to ogle her without seeming a cad. “Unbelievable. Clementine Hazel. Well, this is nuts, isn’t it? No, not for you, I suppose, but for me. I didn’t expect to visit L.A. and actually meet someone famous. I was willing to settle for staking out LAX for a blurry photograph of a Kardashian on my mobile.”
She smiled wide. “You’re a fan?”
Simply being responsible for the ridiculously pleased grin on Quinn’s face was enough to make his night. Knowing he’d put it on Clementine Hazel’s face was a story to go home with. Would he lose points for being starstruck? “My mum mostly, but I’ve read almost everything she’s—I mean you’ve—ever written. You’re notoriously gruesome. I’ll admit I’ve had to skip pages, but Mum has an iron stomach. There’s full-blooded Irish for you.”
He babbled, unable to stop himself. He’d imagined she’d be older and creepier in person. He’d also imagined he’d keep his cool when he met someone he admired.
Some imagination he had. “She’ll never believe I met you. She’s your biggest fan of all time. There’s never a question of what to buy her for Christmas or her birthday. I struggle when you go on holiday.”
Clementine Hazel, the goriest female novelist of their generation, actually blushed.
“Damn, you’re adorable. Mum might believe me if I take home a little insider information. Like, say, the story behind your pen name. How ’bout it, Quinnie?”
A strange light passed through her eyes. Had he said something wonky? She didn’t comment on it, however, only sipped her beer, pinkie poised, and then snorted. “What would you do? Write as Quinn Buzzly? You can’t take a name like mine seriously. Also, I hate to have to say this, but you realize it’s one of my best kept secrets, right? Clementine has social obligations and gets around, but Quinn leads a very quiet life.”
“Oh, Quinnie.” Jack took a moment to appreciate the irony of her simple proclamation. “I’ll tell you a little secret of mine. Afterward you can tell me the real story behind your pen name because I’m not buying this it’s-only-a-name business. In England, my dear, I wouldn’t need to introduce myself to you.”
“Low social standards?” She didn’t laugh, wink, or in any other way betray the comment as a joke, but by now, he was on to her.
The grin tugging at his lips belied his complaint, but he gave her a sideways glance all the same. “Now you want to be funny? Actually, I’m the stuff of tabloids over there. I’m an actor—one of the best, I might add, despite my flagrant behavior. Naturally, I understand the importance of privacy better than most. Your secret is entirely safe in my hands.”
Quinn took her time appraising him, much as he had done after she’d revealed her secret identity. He didn’t mind being on display while her olive eyes looked from his artfully tattered jeans to his salon-grade hairstyle. It was her response that goaded him.
“I don’t believe you.”
His glass of whiskey stopped halfway to his lips. “Not fair. I didn’t question your claim to be a best-selling novelist, did I?”
She shrugged one shoulder. The motion caused the brooch pinned to her gown to sparkle alluringly. Sheer willpower kept his eyes trained on hers. “Perhaps not, but my photo is on the back of most of those books you purchased for your mom. Who says you didn’t know who I was this whole time?”
Jack put on his incredulous face. An easy feat considering he felt incredulous. “For starters, I don’t do head games. Had I known who you were, I’d have asked for an autograph straightaway. I’m not exactly shy, am I? Besides, who looks at the author’s photo? I’ve read Clive Cussler for years, but if the man walked into this bar right now, I’d never know it.”
An autograph! Why hadn’t the obvious come to him? Probably because most of his brainpower had been focused on not staring at Quinn like he’d never seen a grown woman before.
He’d seen plenty of them but never one like her. Being wrapped in yards of silk and adorned with glittering diamonds would improve anyone’s appearance, but her elegance was as natural as her milky skin. She’d probably carry herself as gracefully in ripped jeans and a coffee-stained T-shirt.
Jack dashed from the barstool and returned with a napkin liberated from one of the unoccupied booths lining the far wall. He lifted his hand but instead of asking Busty the Barkeep for another drink, he requested a pen. He offered Quinn a self-deprecating grin. “I’m a dull crayon sometimes. An autograph, of course.” He slid the napkin and pen her way and begged. “Please.”
Quinn relented with a polite smile and took the