California Man - The Author's Cut Edition (19 page)

Quinn put his arm around her shoulders and walked her to the door. When they turned back to say goodbye, Grace was watching them curiously. "Rain-colored eyes, eh? So that's what did it?"

"Yup. That's what did it."

"You wouldn't mind if I got contacts, would you, Emily? Gray ones?"

Emily smiled. "You make one move on this man, my friend, and you'd need more than contacts. I might just scratch your eyes out." Quinn's hand squeezed her shoulder.

Grace giggled.

"I wouldn't laugh if I were you, Grace," he said. "I'll bet Emmi could be quite lethal with those nails of hers."

Emily dragged him from the store.

In a couple of minutes they were across the street in Harbour Side Park. Quinn propped up his bike as she dug in the bag for their lunch.

"I'll go over there and get us some coffee," he said, nodding in the direction of a nearby kiosk.

Emily watched him go, enjoying the ripple of his muscular legs as he strode across the grass. He walked so purposefully, his masculine stride even and long. But then, everything about him was filled with purpose. That's why he's been so successful. He sees what he wants and goes for it. How she wished she could be like that.
God, I'll miss him.
Quickly shoving that unhappy thought aside, she directed her energies to the here and now. Maybe she was living in a lover's time warp, but it was the safe way, the surest way, to avoid being hurt. Still, she did have a question to ask, if for no other reason than to confirm his lovemaking hadn't both addled her brain and affected her hearing.

"We're in luck. A fresh pot." He was back. He handed her a coffee, took a drink from his own, and looked at her. "I missed you this morning."

"I missed you, too." She stammered a bit and tried to right her jumping tummy. It always jumped when he looked at her like that, all intense and serious. "But I thought it best I go. I might as well keep what's left of my reputation for... later." As a joke, it failed, so she took a bite from the salmon sandwich in her hand. Many more days with Quinn and she'd be expert in subterfuge and lies. But it would make things easier when he left. For him and her.

"Yes. I guess you should." He gave her a strange look. "Is it true what you told Grace about the time needed to finish your balloon?"

She nodded. "I started on it this morning when I got home. Thinking of a pattern, things like that. It's going to take longer than I thought. I wasn't planning on working this week. Now, having to man the store today, I'll have to make the balloon tonight. And to be honest, I'm more comfortable with a power saw than a sewing machine." She forced a smile. "At least it will give you a rest from my insatiable demands on your body."

"That kind of rest I don't need." He stroked her arm. "So you're telling me I won't see you tonight?"

"I don't think so." Her answer was filled with regret. More so when she saw matching emotion in his eyes. Their time together was so short, but the play, the balloon were important. She'd been working on it for months. She sighed.

He pulled his hand back, and Emily looked at her arm fully expecting to see scorch marks.

"When do you think you'll be finished?" he asked.

"I
have
to be finished by early tomorrow night. Granger wants the theater empty of cast and crew no later than eight. It's a long-standing rule of his. No last-minute pressure. He says everyone should relax the night before opening. I think he wants everyone to go home and practice deep breathing."

"I knew I liked this Granger guy. Come to my place when you're finished. We'll have a swim, dinner, and then do the deep breathing. What do you say?"

"I say yes. You're exactly what I need to keep my mind off opening night. And I can't think of anyone I'd rather breathe with."

For a time they sat in silence feeding the greedy gulls the remnants of their lunch. One of the things Emily loved most about Quinn was his easy silences. Remembering what he'd told her about his older parents and the quiet of their home made her think it was they who had given him this gift. As the silence grew, her question bubbled to the surface.

"Quinn, did you—?" For the first time in days, she felt... nervous, hesitant.

He stopped feeding the birds and looked at her. "Did I what?"

"Nothing. I was probably imagining things."

"I thought we were past the unfinished sentence phase of our relationship. What were you going to say?" He dropped a piece of crust for a bold spotted gull that had walked up and pecked demandingly at his sneaker.

"I was going to ask what you said last night before we... when you were, you know, kissing me? I'm not certain you said anything but I thought—"

She
had
heard him. Until now he hadn't been sure. He shooed the gulls away and gave her his full attention. "I asked you to think about the possibility of my asking more from you than just affection."

More...
A chill gripped her. "I don't understand." More meant not enough. She'd thought things were... beautiful. What had she done—not done?

He swung one leg across the seat of the picnic bench. Now straddling it, he took her hands in his. "I want you to think about trading that 'affection' you feel for me into love, Emmi. I want to know if there's a chance you can love me the way I love you." His eyes held hers, direct and questioning.

Quinn loved her.
Impossible. Loving was a forever word, and he was leaving in less than three weeks. All of her efforts, all of her meager store of courage had been channeled into his time on the island. She'd refused to think beyond it. She wasn't sure she could... Her heart beat an uneven rhythm of fear and hope. She dropped her eyes and squeezed his big hands.

Quinn watched her pale face, saw the welling of old fears and insecurities. He'd spoken too soon. He reached out and stroked the skin of her cheek, wanting to ease her tension. She responded to his hand by leaning her face into it but didn't speak.

"It's okay. You don't have to say anything. As a matter of fact, right now, I think I'd prefer you didn't. Just think on it, okay?"

She nodded. "Okay."

"We'll talk Friday night after you've finished your balloon." He ran his thumb along her lower lip. "It can't be that hard to think about my loving you, can it?"

* * *

What was hard was thinking about anything else. Emily tried to concentrate on the sea of red nylon that claimed her living room. Sighing, she picked up the needle, determined to finish the next two seams before she went to bed. It was two a.m.

"Damn it!" It must have been the tenth time she punctured her finger tonight. She raised it to her mouth, sucked the blood away, and stood up. Bailly's ears flicked, and he eyed her hopefully as she moved to the window.

She looked down at him. "You could have gone to your bed, you know. You don't have to stay here with me."

The Ridgeback lifted his head and swished the floor a couple of times with his tail.

A tired smile crossed her face as she looked down at him. "You up for some fresh air, Bailly?"

He was on his feet.

"Let's go then. We'll go to the beach for a minute and ponder love and red balloons." Woman and dog walked in quiet companionship to the water's edge.

Emily knew she loved Quinn. She'd known for days now. She smiled inwardly, thinking perhaps she'd loved him since that day in her bookstore when he'd asked her why he made her afraid. Still a good question, she thought. Even after all they'd shared, the laughter, the incredible physical intimacies, his love aroused more anxiety than faith, more fear than hope. "You make me sound like an alien life form." That's what he'd said the first night at his place, when she'd told him she never expected him to love her. He'd been right. That was exactly what she thought, what she still thought. He was a California man, a flash of golden, perfect male with a sunshine existence full of people and places as foreign to her as perennial orchids were to her northern garden.

No. She'd never expected him to love her. Now that he did, could she hope he would keep on loving her? Wouldn't it be better to keep things as they were? Safe.

She kicked a stone with her toe and stuffed her hands deep in the pockets of her jeans. "Safe!" She spit the word out like a rancid nut and lifted her chin.

"I love you, Quinn Ramsay. I admit it scares me, and I don't know if we have the chance of an icicle in L.A. but, dear God, I love you so much I ache with it."

She looked upward and a moonlit smile curved her lips. She had told the moon. Tomorrow night she would tell him. No more being safe.

"C'mon, Bailly. I've got a balloon to finish."
And one to fly,
she thought, the crinkle of a smile still on her face.

Chapter 10

"I think it's going to work. What do you think?" Emily turned her head to Betsy, her doubtful leading lady, and Granger. The three of them looked up at the brilliant red nylon suspended out of sight above the stage.

"Lower it one more time," Granger replied, one hand stroking the day's growth of beard on his narrow chin.

"Okay, but I'm sure it will work." Emily went offstage, untied a series of ropes fastened to a post offstage, and carefully lowered the red nylon. Her red balloon came down perfectly. She took a minute to glance at her watch. It was late. Almost nine.

"Damn. That's good, Emily." Granger smiled and waved a hand. "Tie it back up."

He turned to Betsy. "Looks like the danger of your balloon crash is past, thanks to our creative playwright. And now, my people," he glanced at the remaining cast members, "We are
outta
here. You're ready, the set is ready, and tomorrow we're going to knock 'em dead. Have a relaxing evening, everybody. Now beat it."

* * *

Within fifteen minutes, Emily was at Quinn's door, a casserole dish of lasagna tucked under her arm. She may be starting to trust his love, but her faith in his culinary skills was not so advanced. Her heart pounded as she rang the ship's bell hanging by the front door. Tonight was going to be a special night, full of love, promises, and...

He answered the bell wearing wet swim trunks, a white towel around his neck, and a grin. His dripping hair was curled tight against his head. He wasted no time pulling her into his arms.

"I brought dinner," she said inanely, a little stunned by the warmth of his welcome.

"I missed you," he groused good-naturedly in her ear. "I hope that damned red balloon was worth it." He kissed her then, just enough to make her toes curl. "Was it?"

"I'm not sure—now that you've reminded me what I've been missing."

When a drop of water from his wet hair fell on her cheek, Quinn took his eyes from hers and stroked it away with a rough thumb. "I'm making you wet. Come in."

He was making her a lot more than wet. He released her then, pulled her inside, and closed the door.

"I hope you like Italian. I brought lasagna."
Why am I so obsessed with food? she moaned to herself. I'm standing here with this incredible man in front of me all shiny and wet and I'm chattering about pasta.
Hopeless, she was.

He took the casserole dish from her shaky hands, put it on the hall table, and pulled her back to his arms. "I love Italian. But I love you more, Emily Welland. So much so, it scares the hell out of me."

"Scares you?" she parroted, drinking in the intensity in his eyes.

"It scares me that you might not love me back. I want to know,
need to know,
how you feel."

"Here? Now? Standing in the hall?"

His smile held a trace of impatience. "Why not? Will your feelings be any different in the sixty seconds it will take us to walk to the living room?"

"Oh, Quinn, my feelings for you won't change—ever. Not in minutes. Not in years. You are the best... the most wonderful thing that's ever happened to me."

His voice softened as he urged her on. "Say it. I need to hear you say it." His eyes trapped her.

"I—"

The discordant clang of the ship's bell at the door cut her off. It was followed immediately by the entrance of a darkly tanned, blond man laden with suitcases. Emily looked at the stranger, then back to the man holding her in his arms; he looked shell-shocked.

"Paul. I wasn't expecting you," Quinn said. "Not tonight anyway."

The man stopped in his tracks and stared at the two people with their arms linked around each other. An apologetic expression came over his face as he shrugged a leather bag down from his shoulder.

"Sorry, I should have called." He glanced over his shoulder out the open door. "This is not good—not good at all."

Quinn rallied and headed toward him to help with the bags. "Inconvenient maybe but not the end of the world as your expression seems to imply. And it is your house." He glanced at Emily. "Emily, this is Paul Severns. My current landlord and
former
friend." The last was said with an arched brow.

She took Paul's offered hand. Quinn was annoyed, but this man looked as if the sky was falling. Quinn's tease hadn't lightened his mood. His smile was friendly enough, but he kept looking over his shoulder.