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“Are your—?” I stop and laugh. “You know I don’t even know how old you are?”
He glances sharply at me. “Does it matter?”
I shrug. “Not really. I can roughly guess your age, but I was just about to ask you about your parents and it occurred to me I didn’t know how old you are. Not that I naturally assume your parents are—” My words dry up when a viciously arctic look crosses his face. Beneath my hand, his thigh bunches in rigid reaction. I’ve stepped on a huge, throbbing nerve. “I’m sorry, we can skip the family history if you prefer.”
He remains silent for a few blocks. I can tell he’s reeling himself back from wherever he’s at. “My mother died when I was fifteen.” The answer is completely devoid of emotion. “My father…” he glances at me. “You don’t know who my father is?”
I shake my head.
He pulls the car to a stop in front of a building in Gramercy Park. Black and gold double doors front the restaurant and the sign etched in gold on the wide black awning reads Juniere’s.
A valet jogs over to the car, but Quinn’s focus stays on me. “My father is Maxwell Blackwood.”
I stare back blankly. “Sorry, no clue who he is, although I think I may have seen his picture on a magazine that first day I served you.”
Another gleam weaves through his eyes, but it doesn’t stay for very long. “Maxwell Blackwood is the incumbent governor of New York.”
My eyes widen and my mouth drops open. I try to adjust both quickly before I make a complete idiot of myself. “I. Wow. You must be proud.” The second the words leave my lips, I want to take them back. My clanging instincts scream no, he’s not proud. Far, far from it. “Or not?”
He squeezes my hand then lets go. The valet opens my door, and I join Quinn in front of the restaurant. He passes the keys to the valet and slides his hand around my waist.
We enter the split-level restaurant and are led upstairs by a smartly dressed maître d’ who addresses Quinn by name, tells him how honored he is to have him revisit after so long. Quinn’s nod is curt, enough to dissuade further conversation.
The smoky mirrored ceilings and grey marble decor bleeds class and exclusivity. There are about a dozen tables on the second floor. We’re led to the table in the middle, which involves passing several tables with diners who obviously know Quinn Blackwood. Ergo, he gets respectful nods and smiles and I get the, who the fuck is she looks. One particularly potent one makes me miss my step. Quinn’s hand tightens on my waist.
When we reach the table, he helps me with my jacket, which he hands to a waiter, then pulls out my chair and leans close behind me. “Stop looking so wide-eyed and beautifully lost. It pushes my manic button.”
My whole body is caught in a tremor as I settle into my seat. When he sits down, I glance at him and grimace.
“Sorry, I—”
“Please don’t say you can’t help it.” He arranges his wine and water glasses a short distance away from his plate. “That’s worse.”
I purse my lips, aware that the words flowing from him are almost an afterthought to whatever is going on behind his eyes. And something’s going on. Something so dark and deep, I’m too scared to even look directly at him for too long.
I toy with my water glass and on a wild whim, nod when the sommelier arrives with a chilled bottle of wine. I have a feeling I’ll need the rare alcohol boost to survive the evening.
“You never told me how old you are.”
He takes a large sip of wine and his eyes hook into me. The outer ring of jagged black around his iris seems to be eating up the blue. “Old enough. Maybe even too old.”
“What does that mean?”
He just shrugs.
I set my glass down. “I’m sorry if I broached a touchy subject. You should have stopped me if you didn’t want me to ask.”
“You wanted to see beneath the layer. Don’t blame me if you don’t like what you see.”
“Is this how your dates normally go?”
“This isn’t a normal date.”
For some reason alien to me, I try harder. “Tell me how your other dates go, just for the hell of it.”
“A fuck for a starter, a fuck for the main and a fuck for dessert,” he murmurs, loud enough for me to hear, low enough not to be overheard.
Heat surges through me. “So I’m the exception to the rule?”