California Man - The Author's Cut Edition (15 page)

"Only for a few days. Three if I can get everything done that I have to."

"But why?"

"It seems the potential buyers for my business have come up with a few more questions. Questions I can't handle by phone, but I'll be back by Friday at the latest. It's business, Emmi. I have to go."

Ignoring the scissors doing a fine job of cutting up her chest, Emily reminded herself,
no claims on his life
. No better time to start than right now and consider it a dry run for his final leaving that she'd have to face in a few weeks. She smiled into his eyes and surprised herself by reaching out her hand and brushing his hair gently over his ear.

"Then I'll see you in a few days. Salt Spring will be here when you get back—and so will I."

* * *

Quinn stared out the plane window into the pale yellow air of L.A., oddly disoriented. If this was home, why did he feel as though he'd left the best behind? His mouth twisted. Ironic as hell. He'd left here two weeks ago filled with questions, and here he was two weeks later with even more. And none of them concerned his business. They had to do with an island woman, bookstore owner, playwright who'd managed to get under his skin and settle in without his seeing it coming. It made no sense. They had nothing in common. Their lives were poles apart. Emily leaving her idyllic island to live in L.A. Not going to happen. She'd be miserable. He stopped.

Where the hell had that thought come from?

He leaned back into the leather seat.
You're starting to fantasize, Ramsay. Most likely because she hasn't been out of your mind since you left the island.

He damn well missed her—after knowing her a bare few days. It made no sense. The timing to get involved with a woman—particularly one like Emmi—was brutal.

What he needed was a diversion, something or, better yet, someone to take his mind off her, so he could refocus on his business.

"Would you please put your seat in the upright position, sir," the flight attendant said. "We'll be landing shortly."

Quinn nodded and secured his seat belt. A diversion. Yes. There were lots of those in L.A.

* * *

That evening Emily sat on her log with a steaming mug of coffee in her hand and thought about Quinn—how she was already missing him. She watched the setting sun slip lower on the horizon, knowing the next few days would be the longest of her life.

Bailly pawed in the sand close by, beginning anew his ongoing search for the tiny crabs that scuttled about under the beach rocks. She'd never yet seen him catch one and wasn't sure he wanted to. She watched him tilt his head as he uncovered yet another of the tiny crustaceans for his curious examination. He was fascinated.

I know all about fascination, Bailly, my boy,
she thought, when a pair of blue eyes came to mind.

Here she was thinking about Quinn when she should be at her computer. Granger was getting impatient. He wanted a couple of minor changes in the second act by tomorrow night. With only two weeks before opening night, he had every right to be impatient. But she didn't want to work tonight. She wanted to dream. Dream about Quinn coming back, the time they would have together. Dream about his arms around her, the scent of him, his mouth, his eyes, the way he looked at her. He colored her world, dominated it, and for now, this special time, she was content with that.

She gazed at the flat face of the sky and watched the sun's lazy golden descent, thinking right this moment Quinn would be watching the same sky from his Malibu deck. The idea cheered her, and she stood, brushed off the back of her jeans, and headed in.

Duty prodded and guilt pushed. Granger needed his words.

* * *

Quinn stood in the living room of the luxurious Beverly Hills home and took a long pull on his drink. It wasn't yet midnight, but he'd had all of this party he could take. Time to get out of here.

He heard a bright laugh and glanced again at the attractive brunette in the lime-green dress—well almost a dress. One designed to not make the male imagination work too hard. She appeared to be listening to the conversation of her male companion, but she was looking at Quinn. The laugh was for him, as was the invitation in her artfully made-up eyes. Eyes that hadn't left him since his arrival an hour ago. At first she'd piqued his interest. She fit his diversion criteria to a tee, a blue-ribbon distraction if there ever was one.

He told himself to go for it, but somehow his feet stayed where they were. Then Paul stepped to his side and asked, "Want to tell me who she is?"

Quinn glanced again at the laughing woman. "I don't know. It's your party. Don't you know your own guests?"

Paul inclined his head toward the brunette. "I don't mean her."

Quinn took another drink and gave his friend a questioning look. "Who then?"

"The woman on your mind. Anybody I know?"

"What makes you think I've got a woman on my mind?"

"I know the look. It can take me days to get that look in front of a camera. Kind of an interesting cross between frustration and confusion."

"Hate to disappoint you, but I was thinking about my meeting tomorrow." He put his glass down. "I'm going to clear out of here and get some sleep."

"Alone?" Paul nodded toward the pretty brunette.

"Alone."

Paul smiled the kind of knowing smile only a good friend can give another and raised his glass. "I'm impressed. She must be a fascinating woman if she makes
you
go willingly to a lonely bed."

"Say good night, Paul," Quinn demanded tersely.

Paul laughed at the scowl on his friend's face. "Good night, pal. Sleep... loose."

Chapter 8

"Playing hooky, Emmi? I wouldn't have thought you were the type. Way too responsible."

Emily spun around, then leaped to her feet. "Quinn!" Her heart nearly jumped out of chest—in joy not fright. Yet, standing a couple of feet from him, a wash of her habitual shyness kept her from rushing to him. But it didn't stop her from looking her fill. "You're back," she said, stating the obvious just to get her tongue in gear.

He was so perfect standing there in freshly washed jeans and a snowy white shirt. While after spending the morning grubbing in the garden, and filling her window boxes with petunias and geraniums, she was a total mess.

His smile was megawatt. "Yes, I'm back. A day late but back."
Thank God,
he said to himself as he looked at her. She looked incredible. Torn jeans, dirty hands, hair tied back with a piece of leather, bare feet, face smudged with garden soil. The four days had felt like months. He'd hoped she would throw her arms around him. Instead she was shy again and hesitant. Then he looked at her; there was no hesitancy in her eyes.

"Come here," he said gruffly, reaching out a hand.

She moved toward him and stopped. "I'm so dirty."

"I don't care if you're covered in tar. I want to hold you. I missed you—really missed you."

Emily gave him a look of pure sunshine and ran to his arms. "I missed you, too. You can't imagine how much."

He hugged her to him long and hard, and for a time, neither of them spoke.

When Emily realized she was still clutching her hand spade, and she was making an awful mess of his shirt, she pulled away. "Look what I've done." She tried to rub off the dirt—with dirty hands. "Oh, damn, I'm making it worse."

"I've got other shirts. Don't worry about it." He grasped both her hands and lifted them around his neck. "Can't you think of anything better to do than wipe at my shirt. Maybe something more... aggressive."

Their gazes locked. "I think maybe I can." Standing on her toes she took his face in her hands and pulled his mouth to hers.

He sighed into her parted lips and held her hard against his body. "That's more like it," he whispered when the kiss finished and he was nuzzling a tender spot below her ear. "Much more like it."

"I've made your face dirty." She said. "Anyone would think you'd spent the afternoon mud wrestling." She rubbed at the smudge on his jaw, made it worse. "I give up." She took him by the hand. "You'll have to come in and wash up. When did you get back? Have you eaten? I've baked fresh bread. I can make you a sandwich."

"Sounds good, but first come with me. I brought you something." He grabbed her mucky hand and pulled her up the driveway. "I parked on the road. I wanted to surprise you."

When they got to his Range Rover, he opened the back and brought out a bike. A silver-gray woman's mountain bike. It was beautiful and exactly the right size.

She grasped the handlebars and looked up at him. He had the expression of a young boy, pleased and expectant. She grinned in delight. "I love it, Quinn! I love it because it's from you and because... it has no crossbar."

He threw back his head and laughed. When he looked back at her, she was already on the bike heading down her driveway, waving him to follow.

She was propping the bike up against the house by the time he reached her.

"Now tell me," she said. "When did you get back?"

"About an hour ago. And in answer to your earlier question, I haven't eaten and I'm starved."

"You don't look starved."
I'm the one who's starved,
she thought,
starved for you.
"But why don't you check out the fridge, see what you'd like. I'll have a quick shower and we'll eat outside. It's too good a day to waste indoors."

"Sounds good." Again he pulled her close; she went willingly. "But don't take too long, okay? I'm hungrier for you than a sandwich."

Emily looked at him in surprise. He had mirrored her thoughts exactly. She scooted to her bathroom, determined to make this the shortest shower on record.

By the time she made it back to the kitchen, he was coming in from outside. He'd already put the sandwich fixings on the patio. He stopped when he saw her, inhaled sharply, and ran a hand down the length of her wet, slick hair. "You look great. Good enough to—" he stopped, his eyes darkening as he gazed down at her. "Good enough for anything." He paused again and ran his knuckles lightly along her jawline. "Tomorrow," he said suddenly. "Tomorrow we go to Victoria. Okay?"

There was no mistaking his intent.

"Tomorrow," she answered, trying to keep her voice and eyes steady as a shudder of raw sexual excitement shook her to her toes.

He continued to gaze on her as if in a trance, his expression rapt and hungry. Emily felt a curious chill, followed by a rush of warmth, and wondered what about him was so different. Her eyes stayed on his until he took another deep breath.

"Tomorrow." His smile melting her, he pushed some damp strands of hair off her forehead, his touch tender yet possessive. "But for now tell me what you've been up to while I've been gone. How's the play going? It opens next Saturday, right?"

Taking a normalizing breath, she said, "Yes. The dress rehearsal is this Wednesday." She went to get two mugs from the cupboard and crossed the emotional bridge from passionate fantasy to daylight reality. It wasn't easy when the word "tomorrow" echoed through her head with the resonance of a high Alps yodel. She could scarcely hear the sound of her own voice.

"Will we be going?"

"Going?" she repeated absently.

"To the dress rehearsal. I'd like to go with you. Or don't they allow outsiders?" He was reaching into the fridge. "Aha! Strawberries." He headed to the door and Emily followed, carrying the mugs.

She hadn't thought about his seeing her play. Not at the dress rehearsal or any other time. It hadn't occurred to her he'd be interested. When they were at the door, she asked, "You'd really like to come?" Her words were laced with amazement.

"Is that a problem? I want to go to the opening too. Assuming, of course, there's no black tie required. I left that in L.A." He grimaced broadly.

Emily laughed. "No to both questions. It's not a problem and it's definitely not black tie. More like blue jeans and sneakers."

"Perfect." He reached for the mustard.

Emily watched him casually put together a sandwich, stupidly pleased that he looked so much at home.

He caught her looking at him. "Aren't you going to eat?"

"No. I'm not hungry. You go ahead." She continued to study him, drink him in. Something
was
different about him. She decided to ask.

"You're very... happy today," she said. "Did your meetings go well?" She leaned back in the old Cape Cod chair and took sip of coffee.

"Very well. It seems my decision to take this Salt Spring
sabbatical
has worked in my favor. The buyer has upped the offer. Turns out my dropping out, coming here, was an effective negotiating ploy."

"Was it? A negotiating ploy, I mean?"

"No. I honestly needed to think. The first offer was enough. I didn't need any added monetary incentive." He grinned at her. "Not that I'm going to turn them down, you understand."

She looked across the rim of her coffee cup. "You've decided then?"

"Almost. I have a couple of things to check out and that will be that."

"You know what you're going to do then... after the sale?"