California Man - The Author's Cut Edition (12 page)

He sensed his silence was causing her discomfort. "Tell me about it."

She looked away. "It's going to sound stupid—especially to someone as... experienced as you."

"It's impossible for you to sound stupid—about anything." He urged her on. "I want to know."
Need to know.

"All right." Still kneeling between his legs, she rested her hands on her thighs, and straightened her back. "I'll tell you, but you have to promise you won't laugh."

"Laugh? Why would I laugh?"

"Because men think women like me are weird. That we're a kind of joke or throwback."

"I think we've already established you're no expert when it comes to men," he said dryly. "So maybe you should skip the generalizations. Now come on. Talk to me."

So she talked, told him about Bill becoming a priest and her boomerang tryst with Peter. Even though she made short work of the story, it was tough to hide the uncertainty and the underlying ache that had stayed with her all these years.

When she finished, Quinn, his face serious, said, "So when I didn't call, I hit those old buttons—with a hammer." He paused. "I'm sorry."

"You're not responsible for my stupid phobias. I know they're dumb and that I own them. But with you, things were... different." She breathed deep. "That's why I want to—" She stopped, absolutely could not finish.

"Want to have sex with me?" He said matter of factly.

Of course, a scourge of heat tore up her cheeks, and all she could do was swallow and dip her chin to nod.

"What about love? Don't you want that?"

"Of course. But not from you."

He tilted his head, his brows knit. "Thanks a lot."

Emily wanted to kick her own butt. "I didn't mean it the way it sounded. I meant I don't expect a man like you to love me. It wouldn't be... natural."

At that he laughed. "God, but you have a way of saying things. Not 'natural'? You make me sound like an alien life form."

"In a way you are. You're all bright, shiny, fast-freeway LA—I'm a green, quiet, country-lane islander. We're different in inalterable ways. I could never be what you need." She fixed somber eyes to his. "Never."

"You know what they say about saying never."

At this moment, in this quiet room, Quinn believed anything was possible. But love? He didn't know anything about that particular emotion. That would take some thinking.

He reached for her, took her serious face between his hands. Pulling her to him, he took her face in his hands, played his thumbs over her soft skin. "But now..." His mouth hovered over hers. "I think it's time you went home, but before you do..."

He ran his tongue along the crevice of her lips, seeking entry. Emily quivered, and when her lips parted, his tongue entered, teasing and prodding, the stroke of it slow, hot, and sensual. When her soft moan purred against his lips, he took her mouth fully, deeply. Her hands, flat against his chest, moved to the muscles of his shoulders, where her fingers curled and bit into them before tangling in his hair.

Emily thought it couldn't get any better than the kiss on the beach. She was wrong.

The taste, the intimacy of his tongue curling around her own ignited her, the core of her melting under his touch. She sagged when he pulled back, his hands still holding her face. His hands had barely moved, yet she felt touched, caressed, all over.

His voice was low and husky when he said, "You'd better go."

"You don't want me then?" It was as if the lights went out. The room, even Quinn's face, so close to her own, seemed to fade and darken, and she was left to stumble on her own need, her unbelievable stupidity.

"Don't want you?" His voice was low, hoarse. "I want you so bad I need a pain killer, but I have to think... more important,
you
have to think. You have to be sure." He smiled, but it seemed tight, forced. "Go home—please—before I forget myself. I'll call you tomorrow. I promise."

* * *

Emily drove home on autopilot, mentally adrift in the sensation of Quinn's mouth covering hers, more focused on the twists and turns of the evening than the ones in the road.

She remembered his eyes, interested and thoughtful, her telling him things she'd never believed she could tell a man. Any man.
Ever
. Maybe she'd been a bit crazy, but nothing would make her regret her decision to confront him tonight. She touched her lips, smiled. To be kissed—like that!—had been reward enough. Even if she never saw him again...

The last thought brought the familiar stirring of anxiety, a building tightness in her throat. She pulled the car to the side of the darkened road and leaned her head on the steering wheel.

In a month, he'll be gone.
Remember that!
Don't start to dream the impossible dream. He told you—no commitments. Live with it or go back under your rock. This isn't about love...

Emily sat upright, gripping the wheel until her hands ached.

You fool! You crazy nonsensical fool! You love him—or you're falling for him at warp speed. Not exactly love at first sight, but definitely love at second kiss. Fool. Fool. Fool!

Damn... I love him and it already hurts.

Tears burned behind her closed lids and her chest was vise-tight. Grace was right. Anticipating pain didn't make it hurt less. She shook her head to clear it and reached into the glove compartment for a tissue. Maybe she should run. Now. Before it was too late. Maybe she was temporarily crazed by lust and about to make the biggest mistake of her life. Anything was possible.

She sat back in the seat and spoke into the night. "I won't run. I'll have this month with him. I'll take the risk, because he's worth it—
and I'm worth it
." Decision made, she put the car in gear, but kept her foot on the brake while she took a few stabilizing breaths. "And there'll be no more talk of love," she said to the night. "He'll leave and I'll have a great memory. That's it. That's all."

She pulled onto the road and headed for home. "You're an incurable romantic, Emily Welland, and you'd better get over it."

* * *

The next morning it was raining, a Pacific Northwest downpour, strong and steady. Emily heard it bouncing off the skylight in her living room. She forced herself to look at the brass clock beside her bed and moaned. Ten to ten. It had to have been six-thirty or so before she'd finally fallen asleep. Feeling much like a sack of wet cement, she dragged herself from bed and headed to the bathroom.
This is not how you expect to feel after a night with the most exciting man you've ever met.

A look in the mirror told the bald truth. The color of her skin matched the gray of her eyes. She ached all over, and her rolling stomach confirmed this was more than from lack of sleep. Grateful it was Monday and the store was closed, she headed back to bed. A bit more sleep and this plague would pass.

Bailly breathed in her face about a half hour later. She opened one eye and looked at him. A dog grin was in his eyes and his tail wagged expectantly. Emily gave him as close to a human smile as she could muster and threw the covers back. Feeling guilty for not letting him out earlier, she grabbed a cotton robe, and followed him to the door.

"You're not going to be pleased, big guy. It's awfully wet out there."

When she opened the door, Bailly looked out and then back to her, asking her to please turn off the rain. When she shook her head, he sat down in the open doorway, and eyed the monsoon with a bleak but patient demeanor. If she wouldn't stop it, he'd wait it out. Bailly hated to get wet. Emily nudged his rear end with a slipper-clad foot.

"Sorry, boy, but there's nothing I can do about it. Away you go." Head down, ears back, Bailly obliged, but Emily knew he wouldn't be long.

She went to the kitchen for a couple of Aspirins. She still ached all over, and a headache was blooming. It was not going to be a good day. As soon as Bailly came back, she'd go back to bed. Waiting, she stretched out on the couch and fell asleep instantly.

* * *

"Emily
. Emily."

The hand on her shoulder gave a gentle shake and her heavy eyelids opened. She must be dreaming. It couldn't be Quinn standing over her. She blinked again. It
was
.

"What are you doing sleeping on the couch?" he asked.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes. God, what she must look like! She ran her fingers through her sleep-mashed hair and sat up. He smelled outdoorsy and rain fresh and looked like some kind of rain god, if there was such a thing.

Ignoring his question, she asked, "What are
you
doing here?"

"For a while it looked like this deluge was going to stop, so I thought I'd be able to run with James. But by the time I got here, it was pouring again. Plus it seems he has some kind of flu bug. I saw Bailly on the porch, figured you were up, and thought I'd come begging for a cup of coffee." He paused. "I knocked, but I guess you didn't hear me. I opened the door to let Bailly in, and there you were—asleep on the couch. " He gave her an appraising look. "Are you okay?"

"Other than the fact I ache all over, I'm fine. I guess I have what James has. But I'm well enough to make you a cup of coffee." When she started to get up, he held up a hand palm out to stop her.

"I'll make my own. How about you? Can I get you anything?"

"No, thanks," she said shivering involuntarily. "I'm fine."

Quinn frowned slightly. "I don't think so. Come on. I'm putting you back in bed." His voice was firm.

He picked her up.
Picked her up!
She wished to all the heavens she'd never,
ever
even seen a chocolate muffin, let alone eat one.

"Bedroom?" He glanced between the doors leading from the living room.

She nodded mutely in its general direction.

He carried her to the bed, sat her on its edge, and helped her shrug out of her robe. No man had ever set foot in her bedroom before and certainly none had helped her undress while she sat still as stone and let him. But it happened so fast, and Quinn was so calm about it, she was stunned into embarrassed acceptance.

The situation was so unbelievable as to be unreal. What was very real was the look Quinn gave her when he saw the sheer nightgown she was wearing. The pearl-gray silk was the color of polished silver. The gown had string straps and a matching lace bodice. It was a birthday gift from Grace. It arrived, Emily remembered, with a toast written on the card, "Here's to getting lucky." After last night with Quinn, it was the only nightgown she'd deemed suitable—and the first time she'd put it on.

"Shouldn't you be wearing something warmer?" His eyes raked over her. "That's hardly sickbed attire."

She dove into bed and yanked the covers to her chin, face scarlet. "It'll be fine."

A soft smile played over his mouth. "You have a great body, you know—no matter how you try to hide it."

She gaped at him—damned if he didn't look totally sincere. She muttered into the pillow.

"What did you say?" He bent his dark head toward her.

"I was asking myself if I'd buy a used car from this man."

"You're so damn hard on yourself, Emmi. I said you have a great body and I meant it." His grin was wicked. "Maybe I'll have to show you how great. But not until you shake off that bug you've picked up. How about some orange juice?"

"I could use a glass of water." Or better yet, given her heart seemed intent on beating its way out of her chest, a shot from one of those animal tranquilizer guns.

When he left the room on his water search, she lay back into her pillow and closed her eyes.
Damn and double damn. Why do I have to have the stupid flu now of all times?
Obviously all the powers of heaven were stacked against her having a love life.

When he came back with the water, she sipped it, then rested her head on the pillow. He brushed the hair back from her forehead and kissed it lightly.

"Get some sleep. I'll see you later."

When the bedroom door closed behind him, she cursed again—but she did sleep, deep and feverishly. It was close to seven o'clock when she woke again. It was still raining and so cloudy the world was already in semidarkness. She sat up, put her bare feet on the floor, and took stock of herself. Better, she decided, much better—and hungry. Remembering some leftover soup in the fridge, she headed for the kitchen, not bothering with slippers or robe.

She was halfway there before she noticed Quinn stretched out on her sofa, Bailly asleep beside him on the floor. How comfortable and at ease he looked, as though he belonged here, sleeping in her living room on a rainy Monday. Even in sleep he seemed calm and self assured. How she envied him that. All her moves were accompanied by a jangling bunch of nerves—except sometimes with him.

With nothing to stop her, she continued studying him. One hand rested on Bailly's back, and a book lay open across his chest. His hair was longer. Uncut since coming to the island, she guessed. She badly wanted to touch it, feel it curl and wrap around her fingers as it had during those few magical moments last night. Mesmerized by his sleeping figure, she stood there letting time and motion stop.

When Bailly decided to get up and come to her, his movements woke Quinn. His eyes opened on her, and he stared at her a long moment before giving her a slow, sexy smile. Emily was certain she saw a jagged bolt of blue lightning arc between them in the darkened room. It thudded against her chest with enough power to bend her ribs.

"Hi," he said, his eyes never leaving her face.

"Hi." She stared back as though in a trance.

"Feeling better?" He didn't move.

"I think so." She blinked to break the spell. "I'm hungry—if that counts for anything."

She was also half naked, she remembered with a jolt.

Before she could turn to the bedroom to get her robe, Quinn was beside her.

"I'm hungry, too. I'll fix us a sandwich. You take the sofa."

She didn't protest. Couldn't. Quinn's hands on her bare shoulders made her knees buckle. She'd been perfectly all right until then. She sank into the warmth left by his big body and the faint scent of his aftershave.