California Man - The Author's Cut Edition (14 page)

"Shoot."

"Did you make Gina Manzoni work this hard to get into your bed."

Whoa...
His breath bunched up in his throat. "No."

"Why not?"

"Let's just say Gina isn't you. I'll get the coffee." He turned abruptly and headed for the kitchen.

Emily sat on the sofa, picked up a cushion, punched it in irritation, then yanked it hard against her chest, wondering morosely why she couldn't be more like Gina.
Aggressive.
The word stuck in her brain like a broken arrow. She didn't want to wait for Quinn; she wanted him now. Maybe she could get him to... the thought sank as quickly as it surfaced, weighted down by anxieties and insecurities. She had no idea what to do.

Quinn came back with the coffee.

"Do you have someone who can take over your store for a few days?" He handed her a steaming mug.

"Maybe. Why?"

"I thought we'd do a bit of sightseeing, have some time together. Maybe spend a couple of days in Victoria. I'm told there's a great hotel there. Right on the harbor."

"The Empress."

"That's it. How about it? Want to show me your hometown?" He looked at her over the rim of his mug. "Who knows, maybe by then we can even share a room." His smile was back and there was no mistaking the tease in his tone.

Emily threw the pillow at him. He wanted aggressive, didn't he?

* * *

"Now that's new reading material for you, Em." Grace looked across the counter and tapped a finger on the book in front of Emily, then twisted her head to see the title. "
Love and Sex,"
she read aloud. "What's this, a crash course?"

"Yes." Emily closed the book and gave Grace a good imitation of Mona Lisa. She didn't blush. Books never made her blush. "Grace, I've got a favor to ask. Can you look after the store for the next week? I'm going to have Marsha come in and cover for me, but she might need supervision. Would you mind?"

"No. I don't mind." Grace's expression rivaled that of a four-year old on Christmas morning. "What's up? Tell me it's that gorgeous California man? Or part of him at least."

Okay, now she blushed. "He wants me to show him more of the island and... maybe spend a couple of days in Victoria next week."

Grace took a long, hard look at her, her curious little girl look giving way to serious big sister. "You're sure about this, Em? Really, really sure? You've thought it through?"

"I'm sure. And yes, I've thought it through a hundred, no, a thousand times. It's definitely what I want."
He's what I want.

"All right then!" Grace gave her a solid thumbs-up sign. "That's great. Absolutely great. Let's go shopping?"

"Shopping?" Emily echoed.

"Judging from the book you're reading and your plans for a few days off, I'm guessing you might be thinking some of that sightseeing will be of a personal nature." She wiggled her eyebrows. "Come on. If we hurry, we can make the next ferry to Victoria. I know where there's this great lingerie shop and—"

"We can't leave... just like that. What about the stores?"

"Damn the stores. This is Salt Spring Island, remember. They've seen 'gone fishin' ' signs before."

When Emily started to protest again, Grace raised her hand. "Not another word. I'm going to freeze muffin dough. You, my dear, are going to close your till. We're going shopping for the sexiest underwear we can find. I will not have my dearest friend in all the world caught wearing industrial underpants."

Emily closed her till.

* * *

At seven o'clock that night, Emily struggled through her front door, laden with shopping bags. The Victoria buying spree went beyond underwear to blouses, skirts, new slacks—a whole size smaller than normal, she'd noted gleefully—shoes, and another nightgown. She dumped all of it on her bed and looked at it in a state of disbelief.
I may have to sell the store to pay for this.
But that unlikely prospect did nothing to lessen her happy buzz.

She hadn't had so much fun in ages.

Maybe because it was the first time she'd gone shopping with a man in mind, an incredibly sexy man with hot blue eyes and dark wavy hair. Amazing how thinking about Quinn influenced her choices. She'd never have bought the ridiculously expensive lace blouse with the high neck and row of tiny pearl buttons down the back without him in mind. Nor would she have considered the calf-length midnight blue velvet skirt that went so well with it. Emily loved the vintage look of the outfit and couldn't wait to wear it for him. Perfect for dinner at the fancy schmancy Empress Hotel restaurant. Another great thing was that the new clothes made her feel more confident, more womanly. She was starting to hang and fold them when the phone rang.

"How was the fishing trip?" Quinn's voice, deep and intimate, flowed down the line.

Her heart rate tripled and her knees instantly turned to molasses; she sat on the edge of her bed. "Fishing? Oh. Those signs were Grace's idea. We, uh, went shopping." She held up a strip of satin in her hand that had miraculously been turned into a bra.

"I hope you bought something X rated." Quinn laughed.

"As a matter of fact, I did. Enough silk and satin for my next half-dozen affairs."

"You planning on making this a habit, Emily?" He didn't sound happy about it.

"Maybe." She twirled the satin bra in the air, feeling wanton at the thought of wearing it. "What did you do today?" she asked.

"Spent most of it thinking about you."

"Oh." Her twirling stopped, her mouth went as dry as her brain, and she put a hand on her stomach to still the butterflies.

"Have you eaten?" he asked.

"Not yet." Emily was still lost in the idea of Quinn thinking about her. The idea of occupying space inside his head was appealing—and foreign.

"Want to try Hastings House? I've heard it's good."

"I'd love that. I hate to admit it, but in all the years I've lived on the island, I've never been there."
Mainly because I can't afford it.
Hastings House with its rustically beautiful waterfront accommodation and gourmet dining room was both elegant and expensive.

"Good. We can discover it together. Pick you up in an hour—will that work?"

"An hour will be fine."

After she'd hung up the phone, Emily looked at the clothes strewn over her bed with renewed interest and made her decision—the black cotton jersey dress, simple and comfortable. She headed for the shower.

She was five minutes from ready when she heard Quinn's knock. She opened her bedroom door long enough to yell, "Come in," then took one last look in her mirror to check her makeup and steady her jumping nerves. She couldn't remember when she'd last taken an hour to get ready—for anything. Ten minutes was more her timeline. She smoothed the clinging black fabric over her hips, adjusted its scooped neckline, and took a deep breath.
Ready or not, here I come.
She stepped into the living room.

Quinn's eyes were dark with admiration and he took her in from head to toe. "You're beautiful, Emmi."

"Thank you. So are you."

He laughed, but she meant it. He
was
beautiful. Dressed in navy slacks, a super white shirt, and a deep-blue sweater, and with his dark hair grazing the sharp edge of his collar, he was so beautiful he made her ache. She wanted to walk over and kiss him, ever so lightly on those softly smiling lips.
Do it, Emmi,
she told herself, but she didn't. She stared at him instead.

"Now that we've decided we're both 'beautiful people' shall we go?" he asked.

"I'll get my coat."

When he'd helped her on with it, he pulled her back to his chest and kissed her lightly on the neck.

"Hm-m, and you smell good, too.
Very good
." He nuzzled her throat, inhaled deeply, then abruptly stepped back.

She faced him, wordless, the imprint of his lips on her neck still searing her skin.

His eyes were grave when he said, "You know, I think this 'romantic encounter' with an island girl might end up being more than I bargained for. It's a good thing we're going to be out in public tonight."

Emily, her knees weak, her mind a fog, would have been happy—ecstatic—to stay right where they were. And she was tempted to say so, but Quinn opened the door before she got her vocal cords tuned, and in seconds they were in his Range Rover headed to dinner in Ganges.

Sitting beside him in the darkened cab, she had one happy thought.
He does have to bring me home after dinner.

* * *

The evening was—Emily searched for the right word—
glorious
. She glanced at Quinn's shadowy profile in the night-darkened car. He drove in a silence as complete as her own, his right hand resting idly on the wheel as the left steered from below.

Closing her eyes, she let her head fall against the backrest, playing the evening back, scene by scene, setting the memories firmly in place.
Yes. Absolutely glorious.

There was the light squeeze Quinn gave her shoulder when he helped her off with her coat. His hand on the small of her back as they walked to the table. The way he'd tilted his head and smiled at her as he studied the wine list and asked what she preferred. Candlelight shadows on his upturned palm when he'd reached across the table to take her hand. A hand she gave willingly. Then his eyes, hot and dark, gazing at her across his warmed brandy glass.

Without warning, a sense of loss crept over her, then an aching sadness. Her timidity, her stupid irrational phobias, had caused her to miss so much these past years. Had she not been shackled by her own weaknesses, there would have been other nights like this one.
Other men...

She stole another look the man beside her, his profile outlined by the moonlight at the car window, and her regret vanished.
No.
She'd missed nothing. Because no one else would have been Quinn.

Maybe it was the hand of fate that brought him, for this brief time, to her island. But it was the right time. The right man.

Yet she would have to watch him walk away.

She cut off that unsettling thought, refused to dwell on it. Tonight, now, this moment, and the moments of the next few weeks would be enough. Had to be. There would be no commitments and no strings. She owed him that.

His warm hand grasped hers.

"You're very quiet." He took his eyes from the road long enough to appraise her melancholy look. "Why so serious? You enjoyed dinner, didn't you?"

"I loved it. It was a fabulous evening."

"Those words don't match the expression on your face. A good description would be pensive, I think. Second thoughts—about us?"

Quinn felt a flicker of fear at the idea she might have changed her mind, that his plan of taking things slow had backfired.

"Second thoughts? A few. But none of them are fearful, and none of them have an ounce of regret. You?" Emily tried to sound casual and ignore her twittering stomach.

Quinn pulled into her driveway and stopped the car. Through the night shadows he turned to her. "You know I have to go back to L.A. Everything I have, everything I am, is there. There's no changing that." He was being honest, but he couldn't help wondering who he was trying to convince, Emily or himself.

"I get that. And I won't break, I won't fall apart when you go. I only need..." She wanted to say,
you, I need you,
but didn't. She backtracked. "Because I need something from you, doesn't mean I'm going to lay claim to your life." She lifted her head. "Nor do I want you to lay claim to mine. An act of... sex isn't a chain around either of our necks. I just want something... beautiful." She was pleased at how modern she sounded, hoping she'd hit the right note. Still this was getting too serious, so she added, "Besides, if you expect me to be 'aggressive,' it may never happen."

"It's going to happen, all right." He kissed her lightly then took her hand and held it palm flat over his heart. "Feel that? Feel what you do to me?"

Emily's breath gusted from her lungs, and she swore her heart stopped. The heat of him, the harsh pounding in his chest intoxicated her. His chest hair was soft, slightly springy under the fine cotton of his shirt. She closed her hand, scraped her long nails across his chest. She closed her eyes, heightening her sense of him, absorbing him. When she felt the tightening between her legs, she exhaled, and in an unthinking rush of movement, wrapped her arms around his neck and nestled her head under his chin. With her ear close to his heart, the pounding grew louder. Her fingers caressed the soft hair at his nape, then moved upward, reveling in its thickness.

"I love the feel of you, Quinn." She lifted her eyes to his. "I love the—"

His mouth took hers, restless, demanding. He flicked his tongue along the line of her lips, then probed inward, seeking, playing, dancing.

Her heart drummed, a jungle beat, and a moist heat built between her thighs. Moaning, she squirmed and pressed close, her tongue loving his, meeting it stroke on stroke. The soft sound of her pleasure made him groan. Roughly, he crushed her to him before shuddering his frustration into her shoulder.

"I think we should stop," he said in a hoarse voice. "When we make love, it isn't going to be in the front seat of a Range Rover." One more second of this and Quinn knew he'd lose control—something he didn't have a hell of lot of when it came to this gray-eyed woman.

Emily pulled away, her fingers reluctant to leave his soft, thick hair, her mouth damp from his kisses. He felt so good, smelled so good, she wanted to touch him all over. He was driving her crazy.

"I don't want to stop," she said. "And we don't have to stay in this car. I have a..." she gulped, "a perfectly good, uh, bed not a dozen steps away." She blushed furiously, but she'd said it and she was glad.

"I know you do, and I want to be in it—with
you.
But I'm leaving tomorrow, very early, and I don't want to have to run away from you." He touched her face, his expression intense.

"Leaving? I don't understand." She was stunned. He'd said nothing about leaving during dinner.