The Romance Report

  The Romance Report

  Amy E. Lilly

  The characters in this book are fictitious or are referred to in a fictional context. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015914169

  1st Edition

  ©2015 Amy Lilly

  Bella Lilly Press

  Spanishburg, WV

  Cover Art by Shari Lilly Flynn.

  ISBN-13: 9780692515457

  DEDICATION

  For Maricruz and Laurie. They tolerate me.

  Phee Jefferson Series

  Death is Long Overdue

  Summer REading is Killing Me

  Permanently deleted (December 2015)

  Stand Alone Titles

  The Romance Report

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My eternal gratitude to my friends and family for their support and ability to ignore me when I get crabby due to writer’s block. I couldn’t have done this without Maricruz Baker and her mother, Ophelia. Her late night phone calls of encouragement and her mother’s research and input helped make this book possible. And to the inspiration for Quinn, Elizabeth L. One day she’ll know how much value she has.

  CHAPTEr ONE

  Quinn struggled to buckle her 3-inch black Prada heels while holding her cell phone between her shoulder and ear. “I can’t say no to my mother. She’s a force of nature when it comes to running my life. Right shoes, right career, right guy. She’s making up for all of those years that she and Dad were on the road.”

  “It’s a bad idea to take a date with you to review a restaurant,” Indie said. “I would have told her you had a meeting with your boss or something.”

  Quinn’s phone beeped indicating another call. She looked at the screen. “I swear that woman knows when I’m talking about her. I’ve got to go, Indie. It’s Mom.”

  “Call me and let me know how the date goes.”

  Quinn clicked over and answered, “Hello, Mom. Yes, I’m wearing the dress you bought me for my birthday.”

  “How did you know I was going to ask? Black is slimming, dear.”

  Quinn hopped around some more trying to buckle the other shoe. In frustration, she tossed the phone on her unmade bed. Her mother’s voice continued its lecture oblivious to the fact that Quinn wasn’t listening. She buckled the straps and slipped the black dress from its hanger and over her head. Quinn picked up the phone. “As I was saying, your father and I don’t understand why you insisted on taking the job with this half-baked website. We have contacts and could get you a real job.”

  “It is a real job with a real magazine, Mom. The world is changing. Publishers are moving to the digital world. I read your articles online with my morning coffee. It’s great not traipsing out at six a.m. to get the morning edition. I boot up my laptop and there you are.”

  “What’s the name of this magazine again?”

  “It’s called Under the Radar. Randall Kent, the owner, wants to feature restaurants, clubs and shops that don’t get reviewed but should. Tonight I’m checking out an Italian fusion restaurant called Marlowe’s,” Quinn said.

  “It’s in poor taste to mix work and dating, but tonight was the only night Tad had free while he’s in the city. He’s on target to make partner at the same law firm as his father. You remember T.K., dear. Your father went on that yearly deep sea fishing trip with him and a few others. Good family.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Quinn answered on autopilot. She wondered if her mom realized the only time Quinn called her Mother was when she lectured Quinn like she was still twelve. “I promise I’ll behave and not embarrass you. I’m sure Tad mixes business with pleasure, too. Isn’t that what corporate lawyers do? Seal the deal over a cocktail and perhaps a pole dancer or two?”

  “Don’t be crude. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” Anne Daniels said curtly and hung up.

  Quinn sighed again. Open mouth and insert a Prada heel. It seemed to happen more and more these days whenever she talked to her parents. Both worked as reporters for a national newspaper. Her dad focused on the political scene while her mother wrote about world events. When she was young, they were gone all of the time. Now that they were well established in their careers, they were able to stay home more often. Quinn knew they both expected her to follow in their footsteps and work for a big newspaper. They didn’t understand that after she finished her degree and got a job at the local paper, she felt lost. Her three months traveling abroad with Uncle Patrick should have shaken her out of her funk. Instead, a lingering sense of restlessness remained.

  She finished applying her makeup and brushed her long, dark hair into a severe ponytail. She added a deep rouge lip stain that made her pale complexion even paler. “I might not be a fashion model, but I wouldn’t toss me out with yesterday’s fish,” Quinn told her reflection then blew herself a kiss.

  She checked the time on her cell phone. If she didn’t hustle, she’d be late to meet Tad. She grabbed her purse and keys and headed out the door. As she clattered down the stairs from her apartment, she rounded the corner and slammed right into a solid wall. A solid wall with muscles and a hint of men’s cologne that wore a suit and tie. Her eyes moved upward, and Quinn saw an amused smile on the face in front of her. An attractive man with sandy brown hair and a hint of a five o’clock shadow on his chin looked down at her. He held a leather duffel bag in one hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” Quinn apologized. “I was in a hurry to meet someone and wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  “I’m sure I’ll survive the assault. I’m Zach Taylor. I moved in last week. You must be Quinn. I meant to come introduce myself before now, but fate has intervened and saved me from bad manners.” Zach held out his hand. Quinn grasped it. Unlike some men, his handshake was firm without crushing her fingers. The worst kind of handshake was the limp and clammy one.

  “It’s nice to meet you. I hate to be rude, but I’m already late for a date,” Quinn blurted out.

  “I’d hate to keep the lucky guy waiting. Stop by for coffee and a chat anytime. It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” Zach said.

  “You, too. And again, I’m really sorry for barreling into you. Bye!” Quinn gave a quick wave with her hand and headed down the next flight of stairs.

  Exiting her brownstone, she looked around for a cab. Not spotting one, she strode down the sidewalk towards downtown. After two blocks at a breakneck pace, Quinn’s feet already ached. The heels she wore might be smoking hot, but they were torture devices as far as she was concerned. She’d rather wear a pair of flip flops than heels of this height. Marlowe’s was at least ten more blocks away. Thank goodness she spotted a cab letting off a fare. She whistled and hobbled her way down the sidewalk to grab it. A few blissful minutes off her feet later, the cab delivered her to the restaurant.

  Quinn spotted Tad Kincaid at a table in the far corner of the restaurant, and waving away the hostess, she made her way to the table. “Sorry I’m late, Tad. I ran into my new neighbor as I headed out the door.”

  “I was thinking you had stood me up. There’s a first time for everything,” Tad said. He reached up a hand and smoothed his blonde hair. Quinn hadn’t seen him since he was a teenager. He had changed little in the intervening years. He still sported the same clean-cut, All-American male looks he did when he was seventeen. She wondered if his ego was the sa
me as well.

  “I’m sorry,” Quinn said again as she sat down across from him. She longed to take off the offending heels. Her feet felt like two giant sweet potatoes fresh out of a hot oven. She needed to loosen the straps before they exploded out of the Prada shoes. “It’s been a long time. You look good.”

  “Thanks.” Tad preened. He leaned forward and whispered, “What’s the deal with this restaurant? The chef came out a little while ago and I swear he looked like he got released from a prison chain gang. He had more tattoos and piercings than a biker. If you want to go somewhere else, we can.”

  Quinn reached down and tried to unfasten the buckle on her shoes. “Todd Marlowe is supposed to be the up and coming chef in Italian fusion food. He’s edgy and modern. He went to a top cooking school in Paris, not Prison Cooking 101 class. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” She pretended to get something from her purse. She grabbed the offending buckle, yanked it open and eased her foot out of the shoe. Quinn glanced down and saw Tad was wearing a pair of Gucci loafers. Without socks. Not even no show socks from what she could tell. Appalled by the imagined stench of his leather bound sweaty feet, she accidentally banged her head on the table as she hurried to rid herself of the image of Tad’s toes. “Ouch!”

  “Are you okay?” Tad said with what seemed more like annoyance than concern.

  “I’m fine. I was trying to turn my cell phone off so it wouldn’t disturb us,” Quinn lied.

  “Good. There’s nothing I hate more than someone talking nonstop on their phone during dinner. I’m an attorney. My clients need constant access to me, but I draw the line at having the phone on at dinner,” Tad said with a self-important tone. “So, Quinn, what have you been doing since the last time I saw you…what was it? Ten years ago?”

  “Just about. If I recall correctly, it was your brother Rodney’s sixteenth birthday party. You were home from university and didn’t have time for silly teenagers.”

  “Well,” Tad chuckled, “you know what it’s like with little brothers and sisters. They’re annoying until they finish puberty.”

  “Not really,” Quinn said. She guessed Tad forgot she was an only child. The waiter arrived and handed them menus.

  “My name is Jack and I’ll be your waiter this evening. Our special is a Shrimp Fra Diavolo. It’s jumbo shrimp served in a spicy marinara sauce and garnished with mussels, clams and basil. Would you like to see our wine list?”

  “Yes,” Quinn started.

  “No, that’s unnecessary. We’d like a glass of your house red to start, and I’ll take prime rib, rare, with a baked potato and green beans.”

  “Sir, we don’t serve prime rib,” Jack said, confusion on his face.

  “You don’t serve prime rib? Really? Quinn, your mother said you reviewed high-end restaurants online. What four-star restaurant doesn’t serve prime rib?”

  “This is an Italian fusion restaurant. It’s Italian with a Caribbean flair, not English,” Quinn explained. “And I try not to let the restaurant realize I’m writing about their food. It screws the pooch if you do.”

  Tad’s face twisted in consternation as he absorbed what Quinn said. “Hmmm…I’m not familiar with Italian fusion food, but what the heck, I’m nothing if not open-minded. Jack, give us a few minutes and get back to us. In the meantime, if you could bring us the house red, that’d be great.”

  “Jack, one moment. Could you bring me a glass of Chardonnay, please? House is fine, but a glass of water with a twist of lemon to go with it would be outstanding.”

  “Certainly. I’ll be right back.” Jack almost saluted as he turned and hurried away from what was turning into a tense evening.

  Quinn looked over the top of her menu at Tad. He was exactly the kind of guy her mom would adore. Clean-cut, well-educated, and a good job. A solid middle-class male. She could even see the start of a receding hairline. Tad would be bald as his dad by forty. He was probably boring as hell, too. His father, T.K., was. Quinn shook her head. She had promised her mother she would give Tad a chance. After her last boyfriend disaster, anything would be an improvement. Thomas, the hot guitarist, turned out to be a little too hot for her to handle. Actually, the items in his apartment were hot. Quinn considered herself lucky that he’d only “borrowed” her bedroom television and not everything she owned. She shook her head as she remembered his telephone call asking her for bail money. No more artists or musicians, Quinn promised herself. From now on she planned to date nice, normal men with boring day jobs.

  “Earth to Quinn. Hello? Is anyone home?”

  Quinn realized Tad had been speaking to her. “I’m sorry,” Quinn apologized for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. “I’m trying to decide what to order. Everything looks so good.”

  “I’ll stick with the seafood fettucine. Half the stuff on the menu doesn’t even sound like food. I’m a meat and potatoes guy with a little pasta now and then. I’m made in America. I like American food. Nothing weird like octopus or snails for this guy. I run and lift weights three days a week. I like to load on the carbs before a run, but give me a juicy rib eye and I’m fat, dumb and happy,” Tad said.

  “Wow. I’m impressed. You’re in great shape.” Quinn threw the proverbial dog a bone. See, Mother, I can flirt with the best of them.

  “Yep. Sitting behind a desk all day isn’t good for the old arteries even at my age. Besides, love the old man, but his spare tire is not something I plan to inherit.” Tad patted his flat stomach. He made sure to lean forward and subtly flex his chest muscles. Quinn tried not to grimace.

  Jack returned with the glasses of wine and Quinn’s water. “I hope you’ll find our house wines to your liking. The owner takes particular pride in stocking the wine cellar with outstanding vintages. Our house wines come from a small winery in the Virginia Piedmont.”

  Quinn sipped her wine and nodded in appreciation. “It’s wonderful. Just the right amount of oak with a hint of smokiness.”

  “Not bad. Jack, I’d like the seafood fettucine. Quinn?”

  “I’ll be adventurous tonight. I’d like the wild boar asado with sour orange mojo. I love plantains and can’t wait to try this dish.”

  “Superb choice, madam. May I suggest a Grenache with your meal. It pairs well with the wild boar,” Jack said. “We have one from Pasado Vineyards I guarantee you will love.”

  “Sounds great. I’ll trust your judgment.”

  “Excellent.” Jack took their menus and headed towards the kitchen.

  “You realize that they suggest those wines to up sell you. I guarantee you the wine he suggested is one of the more expensive wines on the list,” Tad informed her.

  Quinn bit back the urge to call Tad a tight wadded twit. She picked up her glass of wine and took her time sipping it. “Don’t worry,” she said, her voice sticky with saccharine sweetness, “it’s on my expense account. This is a business dinner, not a date.”

  Tad let out an annoyed huff. “I can afford any wine this place serves. I was trying to be helpful. I waited tables at a swanky restaurant during undergrad. Dad thought it would build character for me to earn my spending money.”

  “Writing about food and wine is how I make my bread and butter,” Quinn replied, feeling guilty for not being nicer to Tad. Maybe he was trying to be helpful. Lots of people didn’t know about the restaurant business or wine. Perhaps he wasn’t the jerk he used to be. She blamed the sockless loafers. They screamed spoiled son of the country club set. She wondered how the leather didn’t shrink from the sweaty feet. “Plus, I spent three months touring the restaurants of Italy and Spain with my uncle who's a chef.”

  “That’s right. I forgot about your uncle. Dad was telling me he owned a little diner that received some positive press.”

  “It’s a restaurant, not a diner, and yes, it’s received rave reviews. Uncle Patrick is putting a new flair on Irish fare. It’s not mutton and potatoes anymore. He’s going to the local farms and incorporating fresh produce and meat into new dishes. Anyway, he and I
traveled to out of the way eateries and met several amazing chefs and home cooks. His plan is to incorporate what he learned and create something different from other restaurants. I’m excited.”

  “At least you can cook. I’m all thumbs in the kitchen. You must fix me a home-cooked meal soon.”

  Fortunately Quinn was saved from responding to Tad’s not so subtle hint by the arrival of dinner. Jack slid her plate in front of her. She swooned from the intoxicating scent of oranges mixed with spices. She closed her eyes and inhaled. When she opened them a few moments later, she saw Tad holding a forkful of food in front of his face and peering closely at it.

  “I don’t think this is seafood fettucine,” he said.

  “Why do you say that? It looks like it to me.”

  “No. It smells funny.” He sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “This,” he shoved the offending fork at Quinn, “has some kind of weird spice or something besides seafood and pasta.”

  Quinn looked at the forkful of pasta. She reached over and took it from him. She tried a bite and tasted nothing out of the ordinary. “It’s fine. Try it. If you’d prefer, we can trade dishes.”

  “I don’t want your dinner,” Tad said each word slowly as if she didn’t understand English. “What I want is a freakin’ prime rib and a normal dinner. Instead, I get some weird fusion pasta crap and crabs.” Tad slammed the fork down on the table. His hand hit the edge of his pasta plate on its downward journey. The plate flipped, and the pasta flew across the table and landed all over Quinn.

  All conversation in the restaurant stopped. Quinn felt a noodle slide off her head and down into her cleavage. A shrimp somersaulted off the edge of the table and into one of her Prada heels.

  “What is wrong with you?” Quinn said through gritted teeth. “You are a pompous, spoiled brat. I can’t believe my mother thought we’d hit it off. I’d rather date a rabid raccoon than you!” She spotted Jack easing his way towards their table, unsure if it was a smart move or a death wish. She reached down and dumped the errant shrimp from her shoe.