One Tough Cookie (24 page)

Taylor's eyes followed Paul's gesture toward the file. He stared at it for a minute, then let out a tired breath. "Yeah. Maybe you're right. Half right. I'll take it home."

* * *

Taylor turned the key to his apartment and the lock slid open. He dropped his briefcase, newspaper, and extra files on the side table near the door and shrugged out of his jacket. Without turning on the hall light, he headed for the kitchen. The fridge would give him all the light he needed. He had just opened the door and leaned over it when his arm was suddenly twisted upward to the center of his back. The grip was strong and unyielding. When he tried to straighten up, the hold tightened. He started to struggle.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, good lookin'. I'm a little out of practice, and I wouldn't want to break your arm. I'm hoping we're going to need it." Willy released him and stood back.

Taylor spun around, then stood still as stone. She was here in his apartment. If he had words in his head, he couldn't find any.

"Please, say something," she said. "Anything! I know I shouldn't have just shown up like this but I was... afraid. Maybe I should have called but—"

He didn't let her finish, just grabbed her and took her mouth in a near savage kiss. "Dammit, Willow, what took you so long?" He groaned the words as he pulled his lips from hers.

Still caught in the sensation of his kiss, the warmth of his arms, she stammered. "It's only been ten days, and I had to—" He nuzzled her ear. "Uh, visit with my—" He slipped her jacket from her shoulders. "...mother and—" He pressed his mouth to her lower throat. "Her new—" He kissed the corners of her mouth. "...husband."

"Got it," he murmured, undoing the top button on her shirt.

"Taylor!" She pushed him away, but not too far away, and smiled up at him. "Can I take this stripping down thing you're doing to mean you're glad to see me?"

He kissed her lightly before giving her a steady gaze. "You can take it to mean these past two weeks have been a living hell, that I love you, and plan to marry you at the earliest possible moment. And if you're not good with that, you'd better start running." He gave her a challenging look.

"I am so-o good with that… But—"

His brow furrowed. "I'm listening."

"There's one thing we need to work out. The cookbooks. I want to do them—and it will mean travel."

He kissed her again. "I'll go with you whenever I can. The rest we'll live with as long as you want us to. As long as I know when you come home, you come home to me. Fair enough?"

She nodded, closed her eyes for a second. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

"You're sure?"

"Never more so." Taking his face in her hands, and looking into his eyes, her own misty, she added, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me, Taylor Stanley Monroe. And I want you in my life—part of me—forever."

His heart beat to a new and powerful rhythm as he pulled her back to his arms. This sassy, smart-talking woman was his, and he'd never let her go. When he could find his voice, he said, "Say it, Willow, I need to hear it."

"Te quiero,
Taylor. I love you. I want you. I need you. And I always will."

He cupped her face and lifted it to his. "Then I'm one hell of a lucky guy, wild Willy."

Her sassy grin returned. "Yes, you are, good lookin', and don't you ever forget it or I'll—"

His kiss when it came was deep, hot, and lingering.

She completely forgot what she was going to say.

The End

Excerpt from

California Man

by

EC Sheedy as Carole Dean

© 1992, 2011 by Edna Sheedy

Chapter 1

Quinn Ramsay stood on the foredeck of the ferry staring at the island of his retreat. It was small, green, and tranquil—and it was a long way from L.A.

What the hell was he going to do here for six long weeks?

He zipped up his jacket, stuffed his hands into the pocket of his slacks, and shrugged his broad shoulders, the act half in resignation to his immediate future and half in defense against the cool wind blowing through the narrow channel.

What was it Paul called this place?

* * *

"Salt Spring Island is a jewel, Quinn,” Paul said. “A real jewel. Right up your alley. There's cycling, hiking, scuba diving—and great fishing. No problem for you to occupy yourself."

"I'll pass on the fishing, thanks, but the cycling will be good—and maybe the hiking. I could use the time to get in shape."
 

Paul Severns looked across the lunch table at him and arched a brow. "Yeah, you're falling to pieces, big guy. Anyone can see that. The star of my latest picture should look so good."

"Maybe so, but the last six months have been nothing but one damned meeting and one jet after another. I've spent so much time in elevators, offices, and underground parking lots, I'm beginning to feel like a caged chicken."

Quinn looked out over the beach in front of his Malibu home. His gaze slid disinterestedly over a perfectly sculptured California body, then down to his watch.

Relax,
he told himself.
It's Sunday afternoon. Your schedule is clear until tonight.
Then? Another plane to catch. He was sick to death of his schedule. "So tell me more about this island jewel."
 

"It's off the coast of Vancouver Island in British Columbia. I found out about it from a guy on the lighting crew when we were shooting up there a couple of years ago. He took a bunch of us fishing—I ended up spending a week, then buying a place. As a place to mull things over—get out of the glare—it’ll be perfect. I think the population is seven, maybe eight thousand. There's no night life to speak of." Paul spotted the bikini, paused to take a drink and a look, then continued, "I guess the best word to describe it is peaceful."

Quinn mulled over the description.
Peaceful…
Not entirely sure how much of that he could take.
 

Paul went on, "My place is on the waterfront at the north end. The whole island can't be more than twenty miles in length, so it doesn't take long to get anywhere. There's a caretaker and his wife, Zach and Blanche, who live on the property year-round, but they're in a separate cabin, so you'll have your privacy. I've told them you're coming, so they'll have everything ready for you. If you get bored, you can hop a ferry or seaplane to Vancouver or Victoria, but I doubt that you will."

Quinn wasn't so certain. Wasn't one man's paradise another man's hell? He drank his coffee in silence.

Paul seemed to hesitate before asking, "Are you going to call Gina, let her know where you're going?"

"No."

"She'll ask, you know."

"She can ask all she wants, but my plans for the next few weeks don't include Gina Manzoni."

"What’ll I tell her?"

"Tell her whatever you want. She's your star. You'll think of something—just leave me out of it."

* * *

The ferry bumped itself into the dock at Vesuvius Bay, and Quinn returned to his Range Rover. He took another quick look at the map Paul had drawn for him before driving off the ferry.

Although he was grateful for the use of the house, he was more than a little worried about the solitude. All Paul's talk about peaceful made him edgy. Used to a crazed schedule and a lot of action, he wasn’t sure he could cut it.

Stow it, Ramsay. You're here to think about an offer on your company in the eight figures—action enough for any man.

He spotted Dogwood Lane and turned left. Paul's house number was carved into a piece of driftwood that marked the entrance to a long driveway shadowed by tall cedars. He turned in and saw the caretaker cottage to his immediate left.

When he knocked on the door, he was greeted by a tiny woman with long brown hair and a big smile. He introduced himself, and she extended her hand.

"I'm Blanche. We've been expecting you." Turning her head a bit, she called out, "Zach, he's here."

Zach stepped into the room, his smile friendly. "Carry on down the driveway a bit, Mr. Ramsay, and you'll see the house. I'll get the key and be right behind you."

Zach arrived at the house a minute or two behind Quinn, who was already starting to unload the car. He was taking out two mountain bikes when Zach arrived carrying a plastic container.

"Blanche thought you might like a snack. It's a bit of stew and a couple of buns. If you've eaten, she says you can save it for tomorrow." Zach opened the door and headed for the kitchen. He put the container down and helped Quinn with his luggage. That done, he turned to go.

"If there's anything you need, or want to know, about the island, Mr. Ramsay, let me know. I was born here, so there aren’t too many questions I can't answer. Paul said to make sure you were comfortable, and Blanche and I intend to do just that."

"Thanks. But if you really want me to be comfortable, call me Quinn."

Zach looked relieved. "Quinn it is. I'm away then. The phone number for our place is tacked up on the fridge if you need anything."

Quinn followed him to the door and watched him disappear behind the row of cedars. He stowed his luggage in the spacious master bedroom, gave silent thanks for the king-sized bed, and walked through the rest of the house. As with his own home in Malibu, its focus was the waterfront. A wall of glass framed the narrow channel of water separating the smaller island from its large neighbor, Vancouver Island. But unlike the wide sandy beach at Malibu, here the shoreline was rocky, defining itself in craggy, misshapen stone beyond a tall, twisted arbutus tree.

He opened a sliding glass panel and stepped onto the deck overlooking the pool and then the ocean. The breeze was cool and fresh against his face as he watched the slow sinking of the sun. So this was Paul's jewel.
 

Not bad. Not bad at all.
 

For the first time, he started to look forward to the pure uneventfulness of the coming weeks.

* * *