The Quinn Legacy: Inner Harbor ; Chesapeake Blue

by Nora Roberts

  And kissed like Phillip Quinn.

  Though she had promised herself she wouldn’t dwell on that particular talent of his. He’d shown her just a little too much of that skill the night before.

  Now with the sails lowered, he motored gently away from the dock. She found some security in the low rumble of the engine. Not that different from a car, really, she supposed. This vehicle just happened to drive over water.

  Nor were they really alone. Her hands relaxed their death grip on the bench as she watched other boats skim and glide. She saw a boy who was surely no older than Seth, tucked into a tiny boat with a triangular red sail. If it was an activity considered safe for children, surely she could handle it.

  “Hoisting sails.”

  She turned her head, smiled absently at Phillip. “What did you say?”

  “Watch.”

  He moved gracefully over the deck, working the lines. Then suddenly the sails rose, snapped in the wind, filled with it. Her heartbeat skipped and scrambled, and her fingers tightened once more on the bench.

  No, she’d been wrong, she saw that now. This was nothing at all like a car. It was primitive and beautiful and thrilling. The boat no longer seemed small, or fragile, but powerful, just a little dangerous. And breathtaking.

  Very much like the man who captained her.

  “It’s lovely from down here.” Though she kept her hands firmly locked on the bench, she smiled over at Phillip. “They always look pretty when I watch from the window. But it’s lovely to see the sails from below.”

  “You’re sitting,” Phillip commented as he took the wheel. “And you’re enjoying, but I don’t think you’re relaxing.”

  “Not yet. I might get there.” She turned her face to the wind. It tugged and teased at her hair, trying to free it from the band. “Where are we going?”

  “Nowhere in particular.”

  Her smile warmed and widened. “I rarely have a chance to go there.”

  She hadn’t smiled at him just that way before, Phillip thought. Without thinking, without weighing. He doubted she realized how that easy smile transformed her coolly beautiful face into something softer, more approachable. Wanting to touch her, he held out a hand.

  “Come on up here, check out the view.”

  Her smile faded. “Stand up?”

  “Yeah. There’s no chop today. It’s a smooth ride.”

  “Stand up,” she repeated, giving each word separate weight. “And walk over there. On the boat.”

  “Two steps.” He couldn’t stop the grin. “You don’t want to just be a bystander, do you?”

  “Actually, yes.” Her eyes widened when he stepped away from the wheel. “No, don’t.” She stifled a scream when he laughed and snagged her hand. Before she could dig in, he’d pulled her to her feet. Off balance, she fell against him and held on in terror and defense.

  “Couldn’t have planned that one better,” he murmured and holding her, stepped back to the wheel. “I like getting close enough to smell you. A man has to get almost right here . . .” He turned his head, nuzzled his lips on her throat.

  “Stop.” Thrills and fears raced through her. “Pay attention.”

  “Oh, believe me”—his teeth caught and nipped her ear-lobe—“I am.”

  “To the boat. Pay attention to the boat.”

  “Oh, yeah.” But he kept one arm snug around her waist. “Look out over the bow, to port. The left,” he explained. “That little swash there goes back into the marsh. You’ll see herons and wild turkey.”

  “Where?”

  “Sometimes you have to go in to find them. But you can catch sight of them now and then, the herons standing like a sculpture in the high grass or rising up from it, the turkeys bobbling their way out of the trees.”

  She wanted to see, she discovered. She hoped she would see.

  “In another month, we’ll have geese flying over. From their view this area wouldn’t look much different from the Everglades.”

  Her heart was still jumping, but she inhaled slowly, exhaled deliberately. “Why?”

  “The marshland. It’s too far from the beaches for the developers to be very interested. It’s largely undisturbed. Just one of the Bay’s assets, one of the factors that makes it an estuary. A finer one for watermen than the fjords of Norway.”

  She inhaled again, exhaled. “Why?”

  “The shallows, for one thing. A good estuary needs shallows so the sun can nourish aquatic plants, plankton. And the marshlands, for another. They add the tidal creeks, the coves. There.” He brushed a kiss over the crown on her head. “Now you’re relaxing.”

  With some surprise, she realized she wasn’t simply relaxing. She’d already gotten there. “So, you were appealing to the scientist.”

  “Took your mind off your nerves.”

  “Yes, it did.” Odd, she thought, that he would know so quickly which switch to throw. “I don’t think I have my sea legs yet, but it is a pretty view. Still so green.” She watched the passing of big, leafy trees, the deep pockets of shadows in the marsh. They sailed by markers topped with huge, scruffy nests. “What birds build those?”

  “Osprey. Now they’re experts at those disassociation techniques. You can sail right by one when it’s sitting on its nest, and it’ll look right through you.”

  “Survival instinct,” she murmured. She’d like to see that, too. An osprey roosting on that rough circular nest, ignoring the humans.

  “See those orange buoys? Crab pots. The workboat putting down that gut? He’s going to check his pots, rebait. Over there, to starboard.” He nudged her head to the right. “The little outboard. Looks to me like they’re hoping to catch some rockfish for Sunday dinner.”

  “It’s a busy place,” she commented. “I didn’t realize there was so much going on.”

  “On and under the water.”

  He adjusted the sails and, heeling in, skimmed around a thick line of trees leaning out from shore. As they cleared the trees, a narrow dock came into view. Behind it was a sloping lawn, flower beds just starting to lose their summer brilliance. The house was simple, white with blue trim. A rocker sat on the wide covered porch, and bronze-toned mums speared out of an old crockery tub.

  Sybill could hear the light, drifting notes of music floating through the open windows. Chopin, she realized after a moment.

  “It’s charming.” She angled her head, shifting slightly to keep the house in view. “All it needs is a dog, a couple of kids tossing a ball, and a tire swing.”

  “We were too old for tire swings, but we always had the dog. That’s our house,” he told her, absently running his hand down her long, smooth ponytail.

  “Yours?” She strained, wanting to see more. Where Seth lived, she thought, struck by dozens of conflicting emotions.

  “We spent plenty of time tossing balls, or each other, in the backyard. We’ll come back later and you can meet the rest of the family.”

  She closed her eyes and squashed the guilt. “I’d like that.”

  * * *

  HE HAD A place in mind. The quiet cove with its lapping water and dappled shade was a perfect spot for a romantic picnic. He dropped anchor where the eelgrass gleamed wetly, and the sky canopied in unbroken autumnal blue overhead.

  “Obviously my research on this area was lacking.”

  “Oh?” Phillip opened a large cooler and retrieved a bottle of wine.

  “It’s full of surprises.”

  “Pleasant ones, I hope.”

  “Very pleasant ones.” She smiled, raising a brow at the label on the wine he opened. “Very pleasant.”

  “You struck me as a woman who’d appreciate a fine dry Sancerre.”

  “You’re very astute.”

  “Indeed I am.” From a wicker hamper he took two wineglasses and poured. “To pleasant surprises,” he said and
tapped his glass to hers.

  “Are there more?”

  He took her hand, kissed her fingers. “We’ve barely started.” Setting his glass aside, he unfolded a white cloth and spread it on the deck. “Your table’s ready.”

  “Ah.” Enjoying herself, she sat, shaded her eyes against the sun, and smiled up at him. “What’s today’s special?”

  “Some rather nice paté to stir the appetite.” To demonstrate, he opened a small container and a box of stoned wheat crackers. He spread one for her and held it to her lips.

  “Mmm.” She nodded after the first bite. “Very nice.”

  “To be followed by crab salad à la Quinn.”

  “Sounds intriguing. And did you make it with your own two hands?”

  “I did.” He grinned at her. “I’m a hell of a cook.”

  “The man cooks, has excellent taste in wine, appreciates ambience, and wears his Levi’s very well.” She bit into the paté again, relaxed now, the ground familiar and easily negotiated. “You appear to be quite a catch, Mr. Quinn.”

  “I am indeed, Dr. Griffin.”

  She laughed into her wine. “And how often have you brought some lucky woman to this spot for crab salad à la Quinn?”

  “Actually, I haven’t been here with a woman since the summer of my sophomore year in college. Then it was a fairly decent Chablis, chilled shrimp, and Marianne Teasdale.”

  “I suppose I should be flattered.”

  “I don’t know. Marianne was pretty hot.” He flashed that killer grin again. “But being callow and shortsighted, I threw her over for a pre-med student with a sexy lisp and big brown eyes.”

  “Lisps do weaken a man. Did Marianne recover?”

  “Enough to marry a plumber from Princess Anne and bear him two children. But, of course, we know she secretly yearns for me.”

  Laughing, Sybill spread a cracker for him. “I like you.”

  “I like you, too.” He caught her wrist, holding it as he nibbled at the cracker she held. “And you don’t even lisp.”

  When his fingers continued to nibble, at the tips of her fingers now, it wasn’t quite as easy to breathe. “You’re very smooth,” she murmured.

  “You’re very lovely.”

  “Thank you. What I should say,” she continued, and eased her hand out of his, “is that while you’re very smooth, and very attractive, and I’m enjoying spending time with you, I don’t intend to be seduced.”

  “You know what they say about intentions.”

  “I tend to hold to mine. And while I do enjoy your company, I also recognize your type.” She smiled again and gestured with her glass. “A hundred years ago, the word ‘rogue’ would have come to mind.”

  He considered a moment. “That didn’t sound like an insult.”

  “It wasn’t meant to be. Rogues are invariably charming and very rarely serious.”

  “I have to object there. There are some issues that I’m very serious about.”

  “Let’s try this.” She peeked in the cooler and took out another container. “Have you ever been married?”

  “No.”

  “Engaged?” she asked as she opened the lid and discovered a beautifully prepared crab salad.

  “No.”

  “Have you ever lived with a woman for a consecutive period of six months or more?”

  With a shrug, he took plates out of the hamper, passed her a pale-blue linen napkin. “No.”

  “So, we can theorize that one of the issues about which you are not serious is relationships.”

  “Or we can theorize that I have yet to meet the woman I want a serious relationship with.”

  “We could. However . . .” She narrowed her eyes at his face as he scooped salad onto the plates. “You’re what, thirty?”

  “One.” He added a thick slice of French bread to each plate.

  “Thirty-one. Typically, by the age of thirty a man in this culture would have experienced at least one serious, long-term, monogamous relationship.”

  “I wouldn’t care to be typical. Olives?”

  “Yes, thanks. Typical is not necessarily an unattractive trait. Nor is conformity. Everyone conforms. Even those who consider themselves the rebels of society conform to certain codes and standards.”

  Enjoying her, he tilted his head. “Is that so, Dr. Griffin?”

  “Quite so. Gang members in the inner city have internal rules, codes, standards. Colors,” she added, selecting an olive from her plate. “In that way they don’t differ much from members of the city council.”

  “You had to be there,” Phillip mumbled.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing. What about serial killers?”

  “They follow patterns.” Enjoying herself, she tore a chunk off her slice of bread. “The FBI studies them, catalogs them, profiles them. Society wouldn’t term them standards certainly, but in the strictest sense of the word, that’s precisely what they are.”

  Damned if she didn’t have a point, he decided. And found himself only more fascinated. “So you, the observer, size people up by noting what rules, codes, patterns they follow.”

  “More or less. People aren’t so very difficult to understand, if you pay attention.”

  “What about those surprises?”

  She smiled, appreciating the question as much as she appreciated that he would think to ask it. Most laymen she’d socialized with weren’t really interested in her work. “They’re factored in. There’s always margin for error, and for adjustments. This is wonderful salad.” She sampled another bite. “And the surprise, a pleasant one, is that you would have gone to the trouble to prepare it.”

  “Don’t you find that people are usually willing to go to some trouble for someone they care for?” When she only blinked at him, he tilted his head. “Well, well, that threw you off.”

  “You barely know me.” She picked up her wine, a purely defensive gesture. “There’s a difference between being attracted to and caring for. The latter takes more time.”

  “Some of us move fast.” He enjoyed seeing her flustered. It would be, he decided, a rare event. Taking advantage of it, he slid closer. “I do.”

  “So I’ve already observed. However—”

  “However. I like hearing you laugh. I like feeling you tremble just slightly when I kiss you. I like hearing your voice slide into that didactic tone when you expand on a theory.”

  At the last comment she frowned. “I’m not didactic.”

  “Charmingly,” he murmured, skimming his lips over her temple. “And I like seeing your eyes in that moment when I start to confuse you. Therefore, I believe I’ve crossed over into the care-for stage. So let’s try your earlier hypothesis out on you and see where that leaves us. Have you ever been married?”

  His mouth was cruising just under her ear, making it very difficult to think clearly. “No. Well, not really.”

  He paused, leaned back, narrowed his eyes. “No or not really?”

  “It was an impulse, an error in judgment. It was less than six months. It didn’t count.” Her brain was fogged, she decided, trying to inch away for some breathing room. He only scooted her back.

  “You were married?”

  “Only technically. It didn’t . . .” She turned her head to make her point, and his mouth was there. Right there to meet hers, to urge her lips to part and warm and soften.

  It was like sliding under a slow-moving wave, being taken down into silky, shimmering water. Everything inside her went fluid. A surprise, she would realize later, that she’d neglected to factor into this particular pattern.

  “It didn’t count,” she managed as her head fell back, as his lips trailed smoothly down her throat.

  “Okay.”

  If he’d taken her by surprise, she’d done exactly the same to him. At her sudden and utter sur
render to the moment, his need churned to the surface, thrashing there. He had to touch her, to fill his hands with her, to mold those pretty curves through the thin, crisp cotton of her blouse.

  He had to taste her, deeper now, while those little hums of shock and pleasure sounded in her throat. As he did, as he touched and as he tasted, her arms came around him, her hands sliding into his hair, her body turning to fit itself against him.

  He felt her heart thud in time with his own.

  Panic punched through pleasure when she felt him tug at the buttons of her blouse. “No.” Her own fingers shook as she covered his. “It’s too fast.” She squeezed her eyes shut, struggling to find her control, her sense, her purpose. “I’m sorry. I don’t go this fast. I can’t.”

  It wasn’t easy to check the urge to ignore the rules, to simply press her under him on the deck until she was pliant and willing again. He put his tense fingers under her chin and lifted her face to his. No, it wasn’t easy, he thought again as he saw both desire and denial in her eyes. But it was necessary.

  “Okay. No rush.” He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip. “Tell me about the one that didn’t count.”

  Her thoughts had scattered to the edges of her mind. She couldn’t begin to draw them together while he was looking at her with those tawny eyes. “What?”

  “The husband.”

  “Oh.” She looked away, concentrated on her breathing.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Relaxation technique.”

  Humor danced back and made him grin at her. “Does it work?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Cool.” He shifted until they were hip to hip and timed his breathing to hers. “So this guy you were technically married to . . .”

  “It was in college, at Harvard. He was a chemistry major.” Eyes shut, she ordered her toes to relax, then her arches, her ankles. “We were barely twenty and just lost our heads for a short time.”

  “Eloped.”

  “Yes. We didn’t even live together, because we were in different dorms. So it wasn’t really a marriage. It was weeks before we told our families, and then, naturally, there were several difficult scenes.”