My Darling Melissa (38 page)

“I’d love to spend Saturday with you, Mr. Williams,” she said sweetly.

Twenty-two

The look that passed between Quinn and Mitch there in the dining room of the State Hotel was not a friendly one. Melissa almost expected St. Elmo’s fire to crackle along the shabby cabbage-rose carpet.

Her hand lingered on Mitch’s. She looked up at the father of her child and arched one eyebrow, as if marveling at such a rude intrusion. “Quinn,” she said, and that had to suffice as a greeting.

Without waiting to be invited Quinn appropriated a chair from the next table and sat down. Melissa looked for blue flames to consume the tablecloth and the limp lace curtains at the windows.

The tension proved intolerable to Mitch; he slid back his chair, mumbling words that Melissa didn’t quite catch, and jammed his hat onto his head. “I’ll see you Saturday,” the lawyer told her pointedly, without so much as another look at Quinn. A moment later he was gone.

“Saturday?” Quinn inquired.

Melissa smiled brightly. “That’s the day of the picnic at
your hotel.” She paused to remove her napkin from her lap, fold it in a tidy fashion, and set it aside.

Quinn scowled and pulled an envelope from the pocket of his shirt. He clearly didn’t want to discuss the picnic; perhaps he had hoped Melissa would never even learn there was such an event going on. That way he could have cavorted with Gillian with impunity.

“I got a letter from Keith,” he said, as though a grievous crime had been committed. “He’s coming here.”

The alarm Melissa had felt earlier was heightened. She forgot her differences with Quinn for the moment. “What did he say?”

Quinn gave a sigh. “Just that he’ll be in town tomorrow. Melissa, he’s a preacher, and he’s not going to look kindly on our situation.”

“What situation is that?” Melissa chimed, secretly thinking that Quinn was right about the reason for Keith’s visit. If anyone in the family had fallen ill, she would surely have been asked to come home immediately.

Rich color moved up Quinn’s neck. “You know damned well what situation—our marriage was a charade, and here you are pregnant!”

“Shhh!” Melissa hissed, embarrassed. She didn’t know why someone didn’t just hire a bugler or a town crier and be done with it.

“We’ve got to do something!” Quinn persisted. Though he tried to keep his voice down, people were still looking.

Melissa sat back in her chair. Her chin was at a regal angle, and she kept her hands folded in her lap. The picture of serenity she presented was a false one. “What do you suggest we do, Mr. Rafferty?” she asked coolly.

He glared at her. “I’m asking you to marry me. Now that that newspaper nonsense has been settled, there’s no reason for us to stay apart.”

So he’d learned of Mr. Bradberry’s return to Port Riley. Melissa was so instantly and completely furious that she hadn’t the time to reflect on how fast gossip travels in a small community. “To think,” she whispered, sliding back her chair and rising, “that I expected comfort and understanding
from you—that I actually went looking for you!”

Quinn got to his feet. “Melissa, wait,” he said hoarsely.

She willed herself not to cry. “I’m not in the market for a man to pat my head and wipe my nose, Quinn Rafferty,” she told him, gathering up her letters and leaving money on the table to pay for her lunch. “I can take care of myself!”

With that she turned and swept majestically out of the dining room. Quinn caught up to her in the middle of the lobby and grasped her by one arm. Soon Melissa was being propelled out of the hotel.

She knew it would be fruitless, as well as humiliating, to protest or try to break away, so she pretended to be willing. Except for the flush in Melissa’s cheeks and the stubborn set of Quinn’s jaw, a passerby would have seen nothing suspicious.

They had stridden down the street to the depot and entered the railroad car before Melissa lost control. Filled with disappointment and pain, she began grabbing up the books that covered Quinn’s desk and hurling them at him. He dodged the first few, then simply walked through the onslaught to take Melissa by the wrists, forcing her to stop.

“Melissa, listen to me,” he said, giving her a little shake. “What I said about the newspaper—I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

She categorically refused to cry. No matter what, she had shed enough tears. “Get out and leave me alone,” she said, glaring up into his eyes. “I won’t let you hurt me anymore.”

Her words seemed to wound him; it was as though he hadn’t known that he’d hurt her and found the knowledge shattering.

Melissa turned away, unable to bear the look on his face. “You’ve got to let me get on with my life,” she said. Then she paused, drew in a deep breath, and let it out on a lie. “I don’t love you, Quinn. Maybe I never did. I can be fickle—just ask Ajax.”

The silence that followed was long and dreadful. Quinn finally broke it by saying, “Let me hold you, Calico. Let me comfort you.”

She shook her head, careful to keep her back to him. “I don’t need comforting,” she answered, and that was another untruth. “I feel perfectly fine.”

Quinn turned her around by her shoulders. “You were counting on that newspaper for a way to make some kind of mark on the world,” he said gruffly. “Melissa, I’m sorry.”

She kept her eyes lowered, fighting a desperate battle against the tears that came too readily these days. “It’s a little late for that,” she replied.

He curved a finger under her chin and lifted it. “A few minutes ago you told me that you went looking for me. You want me to hold you—why can’t you admit that?”

Melissa let her forehead rest against his shoulder, and he made a haven for her within the circle of his arms, linking his fingers together at the small of her back. “I really don’t need your sympathy,” she said with a little shuddering sigh.

Quinn kissed the top of her head. “Of course you don’t,” he agreed, with a smile in his voice. His arms tightened, and he felt solid and good, even if he was dressed in oiled trousers, a woodsman’s shirt, and cork boots. It was obvious that he hadn’t been working, for he didn’t smell of sweat.

One of his hands moved from her hip to her breast in a slow, caressing motion with hardly more substance than a whisper.

“You probably don’t need this, either,” he teased, chafing an eager nipple to attention with the side of his thumb.

Melissa moaned. “You are an unconscionable rascal,” she managed to say.

“Thank you,” Quinn replied, his lips moving against hers now, soft and warm.

“This wasn’t—exactly—the kind of comfort I expected,” Melissa murmured just before he kissed her. The torrent of longing he unleashed during that deep and thorough foray left her weak.

Quinn circled her trembling lips with the tip of his tongue. “Surely you wouldn’t want me to pat you on the head or wipe your nose,” he muttered. “Not an independent, resourceful woman like yourself.”

“Assuredly not.” Melissa sighed as he held her deliciously close to him and at the same time trailed his lips along the length of her neck. He lingered at the pulse point for a time, deliberately wreaking havoc with her heartbeat, then began unbuttoning the front of her dress and eased the material away from her breasts. Next he led her to the fur-covered bed, sat on its edge, and arranged her so that she was facing him, straddling his lap.

The formidable Corbin will deserted her, as it always did whenever this man worked his magic. She admitted to herself, in those exquisite moments when he was baring her breasts, that this was what she had wanted when she’d gone looking for Quinn earlier. He’d been right, though he wouldn’t hear such a confession from her lips if he lived to be as old as that mountain of his.

Instinct caused Melissa to lean back against the hard support Quinn’s left hand offered her. His right was busy paying a gentle homage to her naked breasts, preparing them for the work of his lips and tongue. She whimpered as she finally felt the heat of his mouth close over one nipple. Her hands were frantic and strong, gripping his shoulders as she offered up the sweet plumpness he sought.

When he had reduced her to writhing need he gently removed her clothes garment by garment, loving each part of her as he bared it. At last she was naked, and she had never felt more beautiful than she did when he laid her gently on the fur spread and offered caresses of another sort while he removed his own clothes. His dark eyes moved over her, possessing her. It was as though he massaged her with some rich, spicy oil.

At last he stretched out on the bed beside her, running one work-roughened hand over her belly, her breasts, her smooth white thighs. She was desolate; only a complete union with Quinn could appease her, and she pleaded with him as he put her pliant body slowly, methodically, through its paces.

He took her only when she thought she had nothing left to give, when she wanted to sink into the soft fur beneath her
and become a part of it. She was totally spent, having reached pinnacle after pinnacle. She would grant him the solace he demanded, and then maybe, when he was satisfied, he would allow her the deep sleep she craved.

The first long, sliding stroke set her afire all over again. Shifting so that he was standing beside the bed, he held Melissa’s hands wide apart and kissed and suckled her breasts while taunting her with his hardness. He would give her a few inches, then withhold himself until she searched for him with her hips, trying to possess him.

When at last she was frantic, her neck and back arched in utter surrender, Quinn plunged deep inside her. That single, powerful motion wrung a series of broken cries from Melissa as her body convulsed repeatedly in a primal ecstasy unlike anything she’d felt before.

By the time her fierce spasms had abated, Quinn’s were beginning. He grated out her name as both a blessing and a curse while his powerful muscles locked to thrust him as deep inside her as he could go. While he spilled himself into her he prayed to her and he berated her in a tangle of hoarse vows.

She received him joyously, for his seed was precious to her even though it had already taken root in her darkness and her warmth. Her hands moved soothingly up and down his moist back, and she whispered gentle words, as though he’d been injured and needed consolation.

It was only later, when they were both getting back into their clothes and their right minds, that Melissa grew angry once more. “I suppose you think everything is fine now,” she spat as she fastened the front of her dress. “You probably expect to do the same thing again right after supper, and then get my brother to marry us tomorrow morning in your front parlor!”

Quinn chuckled and shook his head as he tucked in his shirt and closed his trousers. As he was buckling his belt he said, “Your mind has obviously been working along those lines, Calico, even if mine wasn’t.”

Melissa went red at the implication that she’d been
thinking in terms of marriage when he hadn’t. She put her hands on her hips, thrust back her shoulders, and drew in a deep, furious breath, but before she could unleash her fury Quinn gave her an impudent kiss.

“Save the indignation, Your Majesty—I’m perfectly willing to make an honest woman out of you, and your brother is about the only man I’d trust to perform the ceremony. After what happened in Seattle, I’m taking no chances.”

Melissa stepped back, incensed. “Do you call that a proposal, Quinn Rafferty?” she demanded. “I certainly wouldn’t. Why, you sound like you’re doing me a tremendous favor—”

A muscle bunched in his jaw, and the look in his eyes was sharp enough to slice deep. “You’d better thank the good Lord that you’re pregnant,” he bit out, “because if you weren’t, I swear I’d blister your shapely little backside right here and right now!”

She folded her arms and stood her ground. “So that’s how you mean for it to be? In between pregnancies you plan to wallop me whenever I step out of line?”

He shoved one hand through his hair in frustration and made a sound that was half growl and half war cry. “Why the hell does this always happen?” he roared, flinging his arms wide of his body. “Five minutes ago you couldn’t get close enough to me. Now you’re twisting my words to make me sound like my father!” He stood close to Melissa now, his brown eyes scorching hot as they linked with her blue ones and held her prisoner as effectively as if he’d manacled her with his hands. “I’m not like him,” he hissed.

Melissa’s eyes went wide. Her bravado was faltering in the face of Quinn’s anger, and she laid her hands on his upper arms to quiet him, to offer an unspoken apology. “Tell me about your father, Quinn,” she said quietly.

He turned from her. “The devil himself wouldn’t keep company with that old man,” he answered in a low, rough voice. After a few moments Quinn looked back at Melissa over one shoulder, and she glimpsed an old, deep-seated misery in his eyes. “I’m tired of trying to reach you, Calico,”
he said. “You know where I live. I’ll be around until I’ve met with Keith.”

With that Quinn walked out of the railroad car, leaving Melissa to wonder what had happened to spoil the soaring closeness they’d enjoyed during their lovemaking.

Once she could trust her knees to support her Melissa left the sanctity of the railroad car and went to talk with her banker. Frank Crowley didn’t say whether he approved of her decision to buy out Gillian’s share of the new hotel, and Melissa didn’t ask for his opinion. When she was satisfied that the proper papers were being drawn up she turned her efforts to the task of moving from the State Hotel to the Seaside.