California Man - The Author's Cut Edition (10 page)

"Why? I don't believe for one nanosecond I'm the person he will choose to spend the rest of his life with. Despite what you and Lynn think, I'm not that naive. He's an experienced, sophisticated man who's lived most of his life on the fast track while I've lived in a country rut. I just thought, maybe, I could let myself... go with it for the time he's here."

Grace stared at her. "
Go with it?
" she echoed. "Did someone sneak in and take over your timid-ass body while I wasn't looking."

Emily ignored the gibe. "Just being with him makes me feel alive, Grace—and I like the feeling. It's as if I draw power from him." A ruffle of time-worn fear fluttered briefly in her chest. She pushed the doubt away. "That can't be such a bad thing."

Grace shook her head, even paused to think—at least it looked that way to Emily. Grace never paused. "No. That's not so bad. And maybe I don't totally get your line of thinking on this. And Lord knows, it's time you took a few risks, but if he takes advantage of you, I'll—I'll take my rolling pin to him. And it won't be pretty."

Emily laughed when she thought about Quinn's big powerful body, her tiny blond friend—and a rolling pin. "It won't come to that. Besides, maybe having him take advantage of me is exactly what I want. How about that?"

Grace smiled then. "Emily Welland! You wanton female. I suppose I should pretend shock at that last statement of yours, but I think I'll eat one of my own muffins instead. I always eat when I'm jealous. Want one?"

"No, thanks. I think I'll leave the baked goods alone for a while."

"Uh huh—I see. The California man and muffins don't go together. Is that what I'm hearing?"

"That's what you're hearing."

Grace was still smiling as she went through the shared door. Still she managed one last scold. "I'm still telling you to be careful. Hear?"

After Grace left, Emily moved to the front of the store to straighten out the magazine rack. Her eyes fell on the most recent copy of
Persona,
and when she finished her task, she picked it up and carried it back to the counter, pausing long enough to look at Gina's picture on the cover before thumbing through to the article. The dark Italian woman was dazzling. Quickly, Emily turned to the text and scanned the black and white photos that accompanied it.

There were two pictures of Gina and Quinn, one on the red carpet, and the other walking down Rodeo Drive. There was also one of Quinn by himself. It showed him in running shorts and tank top, his muscles highlighted with the shine of sweat. He was bending over, both hands on his knees, head up. The photograph was obviously taken at the end of a race. She read the caption. "Quinn Ramsay, President of Action Sports, runs and wins for the Heart Fund in Pittsburgh." There was a brief bio under the picture. Actually, it was more a list of his past female conquests, along with the sly implication he'd met his match in the captivating Gina Manzoni. Emily was a critical reader and the article angered her. She knew instinctively that it trivialized him and whatever was between him and Gina. The article did say they were engaged.

Quinn denied that, and she chose to believe him. Besides, it didn't matter. Gina, California, Action Sports, Rodeo Drive, Red Carpets—they were his real world. A world he would soon return to. She closed the magazine and looked again at the cover photo. Gina Manzoni was stunning and had a traffic-stopping figure. How did men look at such a woman? What was reflected in their eyes? She couldn't imagine, but she was pretty darn certain that Gina Manzoni saw a very different reflection than Emily Welland.

She was pulled from her reverie by the sound of the bell over her door. It was Blanche Morgan.

"Hi, Em. Great day, huh?" She came to the counter. "I was wondering if that gardening book is in yet?"

"Not yet. Sorry. If you're in a hurry for it, I can call and check on it."

"No. It's okay." Blanche moved leisurely toward the freshly straightened magazine rack and picked up a copy of
Gourmet.
"If I can't garden, I might as well cook." She put the magazine on the counter and dug in her purse. "It's kind of nice having someone different to cook for. And, thank God, that friend of Paul's knows how to eat." She smiled then. "But I guess you'd know that. You had him to dinner, didn't you?"

Emily blushed and opened the till. Sometimes Salt Spring was a bit
too
small. What a grapevine. "Yes, I did, and you're right; he does enjoy food." She handed Blanche her change. "And by the way, thanks for the lunch the other day. It was great."

"Glad to do it. Would have made something a bit more exciting if I'd had more time. If you do it again when he gets back, give me a little more notice, and I'll make you a picnic to remember."

"Gets back?" Her stomach took a tumble. "I didn't know he was gone."

"Oh? He said he was going to island hop for a few days. Wants to see some of the other islands. He took his bike and left this morning for Galiano." Galiano was a neighboring island to Salt Spring about a half-hour ferry ride away.

"Well, he's got good weather for it anyway." Emily covered her disappointment with the innocuous comment and an unconcerned tone. Completely unable to account for the strange sense of hurt lodged behind her ribs.

"Yeah, he does." She lifted the cooking magazine. "Thanks, Em. Give me a shout when that book comes in, will you?"

The tinkling bell sounded Blanche's exit and Emily took a deep swallow. He'd left the island without so much as a see you later. And here she was stupidly disappointed, and the tiniest bit hurt.

Get a grip, Emily. He doesn't owe you any advance notice of where he's going or what he's doing

Opening the new publishers' catalogue on the counter, she tried to concentrate on the fall book offerings. She'd see Quinn when he came back. She was sure of it. She closed the catalogue and swallowed. Just not sure enough, because in the next second, in walked trusty old fear, like a terrier with a thorn in its paw, to start nipping and chewing on her fresh courage.

It couldn't be happening again, could it?

* * *

The following Sunday afternoon, her phone rang; it was Lynn and she was gushing. Emily pulled her gaze from the computer screen and tried to take in what her friend was saying.

"I can't thank you enough, Emily. Quinn is exactly what James needs. He's been wonderful. Comes by every day since he got back on Thursday to help him practice. Yesterday he brought him a special pair of running shoes. James refuses to take them off." She laughed. "I've never seen him so excited. Quinn says there's no reason for James not to win his race. Wouldn't that be great? I've been meaning to call for a couple of days, but my folks have been here and we've been so busy, I've barely had time to breathe."

Silence.
He was back and he hadn't even called
.

"Emily? You there?"

"I'm here."
He hadn't even come by the store. It was happening again. It was. It was as if she were soaked in man repellent.
She felt sick.

"Something wrong?"

"No. Nothing. I'm at the computer. Over-engrossed, I guess. I'm really happy for James. But you have nothing to thank me for. Quinn and James found each other before I asked. When's the big race anyway?"
He'd been back for four days. Four full days!

"That's one of the reasons I called. The games are the same weekend as your play opening, so we won't be there. James is in the hundred-meter on Saturday and the relay on Sunday. We'll have to catch it when we get back. I'm sorry I'll miss opening night. How's it going anyway?"

"Good, I think. I was at rehearsal last night. The cast is super." Emily marched out the proper response.

"I'm sure it will be better than good."

"I hope so." She was having trouble keeping up her end of the conversation. Her mind a glut of question marks and confused thoughts, all of them swirling around Quinn.

"Are you sure you're okay? You sound a little weird."

She managed a laugh. "I'm always a little weird. You know that. But right now, I need to get back to my excuse for a third act. So I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Okay, I'll call you tonight. Bye."

Emily put down the phone, stood, and moved to the window. Leaning her forehead against its cool glass, she stared outside but saw nothing.
He'd been back on the island four days!
He'd driven right by her place to work with James, deliberately ignored her, acting as though he'd never kissed her. Once again she'd played the fool, a silly gullible fool.
You're a slow learner, woman, a very slow learner.

Feeling an awkward catch in her throat, she reached for her sweater and headed to the beach. She needed to think, but there'd be no tears. She'd handle this; she was a big girl now. She'd lived this long without Quinn Ramsay or anyone else; she would go on as before. A couple of kisses didn't change anything. A man like Quinn was too much for her anyway. She'd never hold the attention of a man like that. Gina Manzoni's face filled her vision. That's the kind of woman for him, beautiful, slim, talented.

The kiss. What about the kiss?

The answer was swift.
So he tested you, tried you out, so what? Just because his mouth on yours tilted your world doesn't mean it did the same to his.
She needed to resign herself to who she was, what she was. There was no shame in it. She just didn't have
it
—whatever
it
was that attracted men. She'd never had it and never would have it. Her mind moved back to the familiar territory that held her own shortcomings. It was comfortable there, secure. Except for the dry burning behind her eyes.

Without warning, a ragged smile wound its way across her lips.
If I'm not careful, I'll go down for the third time in a sea of self-pity—and they'll need blotting paper to mark my watery grave.
She grimaced when the image captured and filled her vision. She saw her hand flailing impotently as she started to sink, felt her lungs fill with brine from the white-capped ocean. A piece of flimsy paper was floating nearby; there was writing on it. Just before it broke up and disappeared into the sea's vastness, she read it.

Here lies loveless Emily, almost

virgin, willing spinster, wilted

wallflower, silent scribbler—felled by

a kiss. She went down without a fight,

a love coward to the end.

Her wry smile returned.
You're nothing if not dramatic, Emily.

It wasn't self-pity that made Emily snap to a standing position and turn back toward the house. It was a sharp stab of resolution.

I am not a coward. Maybe Quinn doesn't
owe
me an explanation, but I damn well want one.

"And I'm going to get one." She couldn't resist saying the last words aloud.

She wanted the ocean to hear.

* * *

When Quinn heard the doorbell, it surprised him. This was the first time he'd heard it since he'd been here. Zach and Blanche, on the rare occasions they came, always knocked. Behind the door was an even greater surprise.

"Emily?" His hand tightened on the doorknob.

She was frighteningly pale, and it looked as if she was having trouble breathing. When she raised a hand and pressed it to her chest, he saw she was trembling. But her face was rigid, and the look she gave him was grim and determined.

Damn it! This wasn't good.
He stepped aside. "Come in."

She moved into the house, her right hand forking nervously through her hair, pushing it back behind her ears. When she taken a few steps into the house, she spun to stare up at him, her chin raised.

"Emily—" he started.

"What exactly are you doing?" she demanded.

"Doing?"

"On this island, on Salt Spring. Why are you here?"

He didn't answer. She was angry and hurt, he could see that. He decided to play for time. Ignoring her question, he asked, "Have you eaten? I was about to have dinner. I'm on my own tonight. Blanche has forsaken me for a weekend with Zach in Vancouver. If you can handle a steak and a salad, I've got enough."

Emily shook her head—vehemently.

He ignored that too and took her elbow to direct her to the sun deck. "Why don't we talk while I cook? How do you like your steak? Let me guess... medium. Right?" They were on the deck now, and he let go of her elbow.

"I told you. I don't want a steak," she said.

"Loosen up and humor me, okay? I'm tired of eating alone. Medium?" he asked again.

He took her stony silence for acceptance.

"Good. Medium it is. We'll talk while we eat." He looked at her and couldn't resist running his knuckles across the heat of her cheek before moving to the barbecue. "I'm glad you came. I've missed you." It surprised him that he said it, and surprised him even more how much he meant it.

* * *

Emily didn't bother to mask her surprise, couldn't have if she'd wanted to—which she did not. "If you missed me, why didn't you call, come by—something?" There it was. Out in the open. The minute she said it, she wanted the words back. She was crazy to come here. Where was her pride? Buried under overwhelming curiosity, that's where. The new, improved Emily wanted—
needed
—to know why he'd rejected her. Damn any pride standing in the way of that.

He said nothing and rubbed at one eyebrow with his thumb.

"Why?" she repeated.

After another moment of silence, he said, "I thought it was the right thing to do." His gaze stayed level with hers while his hands slipped into the back pockets of his jeans.

"The right thing to do?" She echoed the words, even though they told her nothing. "I don't understand."

"I like you. Too damn much." He paused. "And what you don't need is a short-term relationship with a one-time visitor to your island."

"You decided that all by yourself, did you?" Emily felt heat rising to her face, but it was not the heat of fear; it was the heat of anger. "That's a bit arrogant, don't you think? Making decisions for me on the basis of a few hours together."