Prescription: Marry Her Immediately (2 page)

Now, as then, she did her best to ignore it.

“I’m glad to see what a gourmet cook you are,” Quent joked, nodding toward the take-out sacks stuffed in the wastebasket.

“Huh. Anybody can whip up a chicken cordon bleu.” Amy indicated a refrigerator magnet displaying the phone number of a local pizza parlor. “I’m famous for devising the most inventive combinations this side of Italy. Ever try pineapple, anchovies and onions?”

“I think I treated a kid for eating one of those last week,” Quent said. “By the way, I made the mistake of opening your fridge and nearly got sucked into the void.”

“You’re just mad because I’m out of beer.”

“That, too.” He removed the bag of popcorn from the microwave and replaced it with two mugs of water. Judging by the box of hot chocolate mix sitting nearby, Amy guessed she was in for a treat.

A thrumming noise drew her attention to the window. “What a torrent! It’s only rained this hard once or twice since I moved in.” She’d come to Serene Beach four years ago, after counseling patients at a low-cost clinic in Fresno.

“We could light a fire
in the fireplace,” Quent said.

A crackling blaze, hot chocolate, the man of her dreams taking her in his arms…Abruptly, Amy’s idyll vanished and she came down to earth. Or, more accurately, down to hearth.

“I don’t have a fireplace,” she said. “How about a portable heater?”

“Does it glow when it gets hot?” Quent asked.

She nodded.

“That’ll do.” He indicated the garment tucked under her arm. “What’s that?”

“Catch.” She tossed him the pink sweatshirt. “As I promised.”

He held it up. “Not really my color.”

“Pink looks good on blondes,” Amy said.

“In that case, how can I refuse?” He shrugged off his clinging wet shirt, gave his powerful chest a swipe from his towel, and reached for the sweatshirt.

Her kingdom for a camera, Amy thought. She wanted to stroke him so much her palms itched. It was almost an ache, this need to run her hands along that rippling bare skin and feel the masculine hardness.

She didn’t dare risk changing their relationship that way. Either Quent would start to feel uncomfortable around her or he’d add her to his collection of conquests. Either way, it would spell the end of their good times.

He yanked the sweatshirt into place. Although loose on Amy, it clung to him. “Not bad,” he said. “You loan this to all your boyfriends?”

“Only the blond ones,” she said.

“I hope you wash it in between.” The microwave bell rang, summoning Quent.

“Usually. If I remember.
I mean, they come and go so fast, who can keep track?”

She didn’t like misleading him, even as a joke, but if Quent discovered how little experience she had, the man would laugh. Amy couldn’t bear to be teased about the fact that she’d reached her third decade still a virgin, and not entirely by choice. Above all, she didn’t want Quent to be the man to whom she finally gave herself, because it would mean so much more to her than it possibly could to him.

Someday, Amy hoped to find a gentle, undemanding guy who would love and treasure her. The problem was that when she did meet men of that description, she felt a big fat nothing toward them. Certainly not the scary, exhilarating sense of riding a roller coaster that hit her every time she imagined Quent’s mouth covering hers, his body pressing her down…

“Is it something I said?” He stood there holding out a steaming mug of cocoa. “Or are you ignoring me on purpose?”

“I was remembering the last macho hunk who wore that sweatshirt,” Amy invented.

“I could wipe up the floor with him.”

“Oh, yeah? He was a wrestler.”

“Professionally?” he asked.

“Just with me,” she said. “I won, by the way. Pinned him best two out of three. Come to think of it, we never got to three.”

Carrying the popcorn, Quent led the way into the living room. “Maybe we should try that.”

“I wouldn’t want to hurt you,” she said.

“Hurt me? You didn’t take a close enough look at my muscles while I had my shirt off,” he shot back. “Care for me to strip again?”

With all my heart.
“I’ll pass,” Amy
said. “Hang on.”

She set aside her mug and dug through the front closet for the portable heater. She found it behind her ski poles and Boogie board.

Set up in front of the couch and plugged into an extension cord, it radiated a luxurious circle of warmth. Amy and Quent sank onto the sofa to enjoy it.

For some reason, they kept sliding to the middle. She tried not to react when his knee nudged hers or to the brush of his shoulder as he raised his mug to drink. But she couldn’t help it.

“I like your hair loose that way.” Quent’s voice sounded hoarse.

“It won’t dry in a ponytail so I shook it out.” She couldn’t meet his eyes, not sitting this close. They’d practically be kissing.

Overhead, a gust of wind hit the roof. Instinctively, she shifted closer to Quent, as if he could protect her from the storm.

Their hands met when they reached into the popcorn bag at the same time. Amy’s skin prickled.

“Next time I’ll stock up on supplies so we can each have our own,” she said.

“I prefer it this way,” Quent murmured.

She stopped trying to deny the heat deep inside her, the tingling in her lips, the inability to think of anything except Quent’s broad chest. She simply had to find an excuse to touch him, just once.

“Are you sure that sweatshirt isn’t too tight?” She ran her hand across his shoulders. “It looks snug.”

“I can’t tell you what that does to a guy.” He set his mug beside Amy’s on the coffee table and clasped her waist. “You’re
going to slug me for this, but I can’t resist.”

Amy’s mind went white. Time slowed, and the universe filled with the slow, inevitable descent of Quent’s mouth onto hers.

Her lips parted to welcome him. Despite its tenderness, the kiss jolted her. She swayed toward him until her breasts grazed his chest.

His palms caressed her hips, bringing her closer, then raised trails of sparkles as he stroked up her rib cage. She ought to draw back. Ought to, but couldn’t.

Amy played her hands along Quent’s back, down to that incredibly tight masculine butt. She might never get this chance again, she thought dazedly.

When his tongue explored the corners of her lips, she teased it with light nips that intensified his probing. At the same time, wonder of wonders, his strong, skilled hands slid beneath the waistline of her sweater and smoothed upwards to the swell of her breasts.

She wore only a thin sports bra, a fact that he discovered rapidly. His hands covered the small nubs, arousing white-hot flames that licked through her body.

Was he simply acting like a guy, responding unthinkingly to whatever woman he found himself with? Amy didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. She’d never felt such powerful sensations before.

“Amazing.” Quent drew his head back. “I should have known you’d be…you’d be…”

Whatever he meant to say, Amy was never to learn, because at that moment a huge crash shook the room. It felt as if a bomb had gone off.

She was too shocked to move until cold water blasted her face and tiny pieces of something spattered across her hand. “What on earth?”

With an oath, Quent
pulled her away from the couch. “We’d better turn off the power before something catches fire.” He reached down and unplugged the heater. “That’s for good measure.”

There were pieces of white ceiling plaster clinging to her sweater, Amy realized. Her brain still struggled to accept what had happened, but by the time they reached the doorway en route to the fuse box, the truth dawned.

She’d finally kissed the man of her dreams, and the roof had caved in.

“That’s one heckuva
palm tree,” said the fireman, studying the wreckage from the rain-drenched parking lot.

The tree had fallen straight across Amy’s roof, smashing shingles and the gutter. The fire-team members, their bright yellow slickers deflecting the downpour, had thrown a tarp over the roof to protect the contents from further damage, but it was clear the place would be unlivable for some time to come.

“How big do you make it?” Quent asked. “Twenty, thirty feet?”

“Hard to tell. You’ll need to get a private contractor out here to cut it up and haul it away, and you’ll need to board over that hole it made. I’d suggest you contact a roofer as soon as possible.” The man turned to talk to another firefighter.

The sheeting rain and stormy late-afternoon darkness diffused the lights of the rescue vehicles. Their flashing reds and haloed whites reflected eerily off the blacktop.

Holding the umbrella a neighbor had loaned them, Quent strolled to the overhang where Amy stood surveying the mess. “You wouldn’t happen to know a good roofer, would you?” he asked.

“The condo association will
take care of it,” she said. “I already called the manager.” Somehow, he saw, she’d managed to snag her purse and cell phone on their way out of the unit. “They’re the ones who carry our insurance and maintain the common roof.”

“We’ve been complaining about that tree for years,” grumbled the middle-aged woman who’d given Quent the umbrella. “I’m glad nobody got hurt.”

“I’m going to ask the battalion chief if it’s safe to go in and fetch some of my clothes.” Amy took the umbrella. “My laptop, too, and some case files I brought home.”

“I’ll talk to him.” Quent swiveled toward the firemen.

“It’s my condo. Besides, those guys have been taking funny looks at your sweatshirt,” she said.

“Huh?” He glanced down in surprise. Darn, he’d forgotten about the pink top and the feminine-looking cat.

“I can handle the situation,” Amy said. “Why don’t you just stand here and look pretty?”

“Why not? I’m so good at it,” he shot back. Her answering grin told him she’d enjoyed the quip.

Despite his remark, Quent would have preferred to take care of business himself, but Amy had already crossed the pavement. Her slim figure managed to be authoritative and sweetly appealing at the same time as she put her case to the man in the yellow slicker.

“Tell Amy to keep the umbrella as long as she needs it,” said the neighbor, and went inside.

Quent stuck his hands in his pockets to keep from obeying his instincts to charge out there and protect Amy. It was obvious she didn’t need his help.

She stood her ground, speaking calmly as the chief listened. A younger fireman, working nearby, kept glancing at her with unconcealed interest. If that guy came any closer, Quent was going to intervene.

It came as a relief
when the younger man moved away. Besides, the guy looked too callow for Amy.

Quent hoped he hadn’t annoyed her by grabbing her that way on the couch. After holding himself in check all these weeks, he’d seized his chance so abruptly he hadn’t shown much subtlety.

Maybe it was a good thing they’d been interrupted. Going to bed with Amy would be fabulous, but he wasn’t sure how they could strike the right balance. Relationships, in his experience, had a way of careening out of control.

Several years ago, Quent had nearly become engaged to a graduate student in business. The closer he and his girlfriend grew, however, the more they’d quarreled.

She’d resented his long hours at the hospital, while he’d experienced a spurt of jealousy when he saw her studying with a male friend. Their friendship had degenerated into mistrust and tension that all his efforts had failed to dispel. Soon they’d broken up and gone their own ways.

He didn’t want anything like that to happen with Amy. He didn’t want to lose her, and he knew their relationship would change irrevocably once they became intimate. Yet there’d been a fierceness to her response that stirred him profoundly. The things she could teach him…

He swallowed hard and tried to turn his thoughts to something unpleasant to cool his ardor. Foul-tasting medicine. Tetanus shots. Dr. Fingger, the interim head of the Well-Baby Clinic, wearing his customary prune-sucking expression of disapproval.

The tactic failed,
to Quent’s dismay. He knew perfectly well that his cutoffs didn’t hide much of anything. He preferred not to think of Amy’s pals chuckling if she described his awkward groping on the couch, followed by his obvious physical arousal as he stood watching her in the rain like some lustful tomcat.

Oh, heck, Amy wasn’t the kind of woman to make fun of him to others. At least, Quent didn’t think so, but the image of her friends’ mirth succeeded where his discouraging thoughts had failed, and his body came under control.

Amy returned a moment later. “They believe the place is structurally safe but they have to err on the side of caution,” she said. “They’re going to allow me inside for ten minutes. Can you believe that? Ten minutes to collect my gear for who knows how long!”

“Let me help,” he said.

“Great! I’d appreciate it.” She led the way to the wide-open front door. “We’re ready,” she told the battalion chief.

He nodded. “Go on in.”

The two of them hurried into a living room that resembled a war zone. It was too bad one lousy tree could do so much damage.

The other rooms appeared undamaged. With her usual efficiency, Amy handed Quent a suitcase from the hall closet.

“I’m going to get the papers and laptop out of my office,” she said. “Grab my clothes out of the bedroom, will you? Business suits, jeans and blouses are in the closet. My underwear’s in the top drawer of the bureau and my nightgowns are in the middle.”

“You want me to handle your—?” He stopped, remembering that they had only ten minutes and he was wasting time. Her approach made sense, since he’d have no idea what papers to take or where to find them in her office. “Okay.”

She vanished through
a doorway to the right. The other bedroom on that side was empty, so Quent turned left.

The first thing that struck him was Amy’s fresh floral scent. The second thing were the framed posters of ice skaters and gymnasts. He was surprised not to see one of the 49ers, and realized she must not be as big a fan as she claimed.

After plopping the suitcase on the bed, he retrieved some clothes from their hangers. There wasn’t time to fold them neatly. Suits, jeans and blouses all got rolled up and stuffed inside.

Although he knew they were pressed for time, Quent hesitated before opening the bureau drawers. He didn’t like invading Amy’s privacy. Even with his girlfriend, his only contact with her lingerie and lace nighties had been removing them in a hurry.

He yanked on the center drawer first and took out a folded nightgown. The silky fabric flowed across his hands like warm water. Draped on Amy’s body, it must reveal every curve and inlet, he thought, and hurriedly stuffed it into the suitcase.

Quent braved the top drawer. Panties and bras were stuffed together, entangled with pantyhose. The jumble reminded him of his own sock drawer.

Try as he might, he couldn’t suppress an image of Amy wearing this stuff and peeling it off in front of him. With her experience, she’d probably perfected the art of the striptease.

“Hey!” the subject of his yearnings called from the hallway. “They’re calling for us to come out. You ready?”

“I’ll be right
there!” Quent grabbed a handful of underwear, shoved it into the suitcase and clicked it shut.

They scurried out together. Amy lugged a satchel full of papers plus her laptop and the umbrella. “I’m glad they let me in there. I kept thinking of other things I need. Did you get everything?”

“You bet,” Quent said. “If I ever need a job as a ladies’ maid, you can give me a reference.”

“You did take some shoes, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Shoes?”

“You know, the things to go on my feet?” Amy groaned as they emerged into the blustery day. “Oh, well, I suppose it’s my fault for forgetting to mention it.”

The firemen refused to let them back in. “The building inspector called and said to keep the premises vacated until he makes sure it’s safe,” the battalion chief told them. “He won’t be able to get here before Monday.”

“I’ll survive,” Amy said. “At least I’ve got my credit cards.”

“I’ll pay you back for the shoes,” Quent said.

“You will not. I can always use a new pair.”

She left the place open, after the chief promised to lock up personally when his crew was finished and give the key to her neighbor. Even under the eaves, the air hung heavy with moisture, and Quent knew they both needed to get dry.

In the parking lot, he got a bright idea. Well, maybe not totally bright, if he’d given himself time to think about it, but right now Quent’s brain couldn’t stretch beyond the need to get Amy alone and resume the activity that had been so rudely interrupted.

“You can stay
with me,” he said.

She handed him the umbrella and, waving aside his attempt to help, began stowing things in the trunk of her sporty sedan, which she’d moved out of her carport because it, too, was damaged. “You’re inviting me to move in with you till my roof gets fixed?”

“Why not?” That was one of Quent’s mottos.

“Because…” Amy pushed back a strand of black hair that had draped itself across her cheek. Quent fought down the urge to reach out and stroke that tantalizing wisp. “We’re friends. If I move in with you, stuff will happen, and then we’ll both get self-conscious about it and we might not be friends anymore.”

“Sure we will.” He had a sneaking suspicion she was right, but it didn’t pay to think too far in advance, because you never knew what the future would bring. “Life’s too short to deny yourself.”

“You really believe that?”

Quent shifted the umbrella, trying to keep them both dry. Rain tickled the back of his neck. “Sure I do.”

“Don’t you ever worry about consequences?”

“Not if I can help it.” At least, that had been his attitude until last year, when his niece and nephew were orphaned. Even since then, however, he preferred not to dwell on things he couldn’t control.

Amy shook her head. “Whatever works for you. Anyway, thanks for the offer, but my aunt lives a couple of miles away. I’m hoping she’ll take me in.”

A mixture of disappointment and relief welled up in Quent. Sure, he wanted to take Amy home and ravish her. He’d been fantasizing about it for weeks.

But underneath her gung-ho exterior, he knew Amy was complicated. Around her, he sometimes caught himself thinking about things he was in no way ready for, like a long-term relationship.

“You’re
sure?” he said.

“Positive.” She reached out and ruffled his hair. “See you at work on Monday.”

“You bet.”

He handed her the umbrella and waited until she pulled out of the parking lot before taking refuge in his SUV. Quent debated whether to stay and keep an eye on her unit until the condo association got workmen out here. Considering that it was nearly dusk on a Saturday, however, he might have a very long wait. If Amy wasn’t worried about security, she probably knew best, he decided, and pulled away.

He negotiated the side streets to Pacific Coast Highway and swung north onto Serene Boulevard, which ran uphill toward the inland mesa area where he lived. Partially blocked by fallen palm fronds and other wind-blown debris, traffic inched up a steep incline toward the bluffs that separated the beach area from the mesa.

Quent was passing Serene Park, a green expanse with a great view of the ocean, when one of his contact lenses began to smart. It was a sharp, intense itch, as if a grain of sand had worked its way under there. Concerned about driving with such a distraction, he pulled into the deserted park and stopped.

There was no sense trying to fix things under these circumstances, so Quent popped out both lenses. He replaced them with a pair of glasses from the glove compartment.

Water gusted across the windshield and drummed on the roof. The SUV swayed in a burst of wind. Even the tail of a hurricane could pack a lot of force, he mused, and decided to wait awhile before resuming his journey along the clogged street. Maybe this downpour would let up.

Only now, sitting
quietly with rain pounding outside, did Quent become aware of the tautness in his body. It wasn’t the pleasurable sexual tension he’d felt earlier with Amy, but an intermittent uneasiness that had dogged him for the past year.

He realized he was having a delayed reaction to the crash of the tree breaking through the roof. It had brought back with vivid clarity the moment when he’d awakened in darkness to the jarring ring of the phone. He’d still been living in San Diego, where he’d grown up, and had been finishing his neonatology residency.

For a disoriented moment, he’d figured one of his roommates would grab the phone. When neither answered, he’d remembered they were both working the night shift, so he’d answered.

He could still hear his father’s voice, almost toneless with shock. “They’re dead,” he’d said. “I should have seen it coming. Why did Jeffrey let her drive?”

Quent’s first reaction had been confusion. “What do you mean, they’re dead? Who’s dead?”

“Everyone,” Bruce Ladd had growled. “All of them. Except the kids.”

Until that moment, the demands of studying and working combined with his own playful nature had kept Quent from paying much attention to his family’s problems. He’d assumed the people he loved would always be around, always be fine, always be able to manage.

He knew that his mother, Alice, drank too much, and that his father responded by withdrawing emotionally. He’d never understood why his older brother Jeffrey refused to acknowledge the seriousness of Alice’s drinking, but then, Quent had tried to persuade her to seek help and knew how futile that was.

That night changed
everything, too late. He hadn’t known, at a gut emotional level, that the people you loved could suddenly be snatched away from you. And he’d never imagined the abyss that would open up inside.

At the hospital, he learned that Jeffrey, Jeffrey’s wife Paula, their infant daughter and young son had gone with Alice to a friend’s barbecue in the countryside. Quent’s father, Bruce, had declined, because he had brought home overflow work from his law practice.