Shattered With You

Chapter Eight

She turned, her brow furrowed. "Teleportation?"

"Funny. The fire escape."

He expected her to protest, and he had all the reasons why they couldn't go out the front lined up and ready to go. Most important, avoiding the authorities.

As for reason number two, that stemmed from the fact that he'd just hacked Lassiter's computer system and now held in his pocket a flash drive with stolen information that he was quite certain Lassiter would kill for. Probably Lassiter had yet to discover the breach. But that wasn't a gamble Quince was willing to make, especially not with Eliza in his care. So any exit that reduced the chance of stumbling over Lassiter, the better.

Eliza didn't argue. She just nodded and stepped toward the window, then hitched the dress up to mid-thigh, giving him an enticing view as she hooked her leg over the sash.

He frowned at her bare feet. "Shoes?"

She glanced down at the impractical heels she'd left on the floor. "I can't climb in them."

True enough; the fire escape was constructed with a metal grating, and the heels would sink right through. Still, they needed to look like a couple out for the evening once they hit street level. He took one more look at her, the dress even more sheer now that it was backlit by the city's ambient light.

"Here," he said, shrugging out of his suit jacket and handing it to her. Then he bent and picked up the shoes. "I'll carry them. We'll need to blend."

She drew in a breath, squared her shoulders, and didn't protest.

Considering the nightmare he'd dragged her into, she was being quite compliant. He had no idea how she'd ended up at this party, but he could assume. Her acting career had stalled. She needed cash. One of her friends moonlighted as an escort and told her about these parties where a girl could earn enough in a night to last her six months. It had been too tempting to pass up, and Eliza had turned into the real-life version of Denny's alias—a struggling actress resorting to selling herself to make ends meet.

And didn't that just break his heart?

As far as Quincy was concerned, a woman could make a living however she wanted. In theory, he had no problems with sex as a commercial transaction. So long as the person getting paid was entering into the arrangement fully of his or her own free will, then the details of what went on in the bedroom—including activities or payments—were nobody else's business.

But Eliza wasn't just anybody. She was his, dammit.

The thought hit him like a sledgehammer, and he shook himself as he mentally backtracked. Because she wasn't his. Not anymore. She hadn't been for a long, long time.

But just because he no longer had a claim on her, didn't mean he no longer understood her or cared about her. He knew her, dammit. Her heart and soul; her fears and doubts.

She'd told him how she'd grown up. The abusive father. The protective big sister. The months living the streets. She'd witnessed the kind of perversions that no little girl should ever have to deal with, and yes, her past had scarred her.

But it hadn't destroyed her.

He knew that; he'd seen it. Hell, he'd helped her discover what she needed to feel whole. For Eliza, sex had always been about the connection. The surrender.

The trust.

The Eliza he knew would have to be truly desperate to sell herself to a stranger.

And yes, he'd taken her places she'd never gone. Pushed her limits. Claimed her submission. And together they'd lost themselves in shared ecstasy. But the road they'd traveled had been paved with trust. With passion. And, yes, with love.