“Too bad. It’s a nice way to meet neighbors.”
True, if she had any desire to meet her neighbors, that would be a nice way. “I’m sure.”
She signed the check, handed it over to Kathy’s profuse thanks, and ushered her out the door when Kathy showed signs of wanting to linger and chat. Back in her office, Annabel grabbed a small stack of résumés from students at MATC. If the Dinner and a Show program went well, she should be in a position to hire more help. More help doing the work in people’s kitchens meant more of Annabel’s time freed up to generate new business. Things might be going well, but they could be going—
Doorbell. Back door again. She groaned and went to answer, hoping for a nice package or letter dropped at her door that she could pick up and bring inside without having to interact with anyone.
No package. A bunch of kids, probably from the neighborhood. Who—oh, no—started to sing, the worst, most off-key rendition of “Frosty the Snowman” ever heard by man or beast. The first verse was pretty cute, but when they showed signs of gearing up for verse two, she thanked them firmly and shut the door.
Apparently privacy in her own home was too much to ask.
Back into her office, a few e-mails, some correspondence…she was getting hungry. The very fact of life that made her business possible—that bodies needed regular feeding—could often be an inconvenient interruption.
An hour and a half later, papers spread out on her kitchen table, she’d eaten the rest of a decent beef-cabbage soup and the other half of a grilled chicken sandwich taken home the night before from Carter’s, her usual dinner spot. She’d also worked up a few ideas for their diabetic menu choices, and had an inspiration for a carb-free burger with artichoke bottoms instead of a bun for their Atkins selections. Substitute a portobello mushroom for the beef, and add it to their vegetarian menu.
Good work. After she cleaned up, she’d surf the net to see if anything new struck her for a Valentine’s Day special that would bring in more business after the big holiday rush subsided. And she needed to figure out how to lure more traffic to the Web site. Oh, and tomorrow she had a dinner party to cook for in the evening over on the East Side; she’d need to remind herself to get the fish in the morning from Empire Seafood.
Dishes done, she stepped into her clogs, grabbed the full garbage bag and hauled it outside to the receptacle behind the house. Started back in, then remembered she’d forgotten to check her mail, not that it was anything but catalogs at this time of year.
She walked briskly down the driveway in fog so thick it felt like a clammy attempt at a drizzle, with streetlights illuminating the mist like spools of glow-in-the dark cotton candy. The eerie silence on the street was broken only by her steps—impossibly loud, as if the sound waves were trapped, bouncing between the stone houses on the block like the ball in video Ping-Pong.
The temperature was supposed to drop radically tonight, possible snow predicted in the next few days. Oh, how not lovely. But that was Wisconsin in December. She pushed impatiently at her rapidly dampening hair and climbed three steps to her front door, heavy stained wood with an overly large brass knocker.
A breeze blew up suddenly, cold and damp. A glance over her shoulder showed the swirling fog lifting slightly, exposing the street. She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed them, elbow to shoulder. Creepy night. She started to lean toward her mailbox, when a black flash of movement reflected off the knocker. Annabel whirled around and scanned behind her.
Nothing.
Strange. She reached again for her mail—yes, catalogs, catalogs and more catalogs—when a sound…or was it just a feeling?…made her freeze again. Was someone watching her? She had the distinct impression of a presence nearby, of eyes on her. Her own eyes flicked over to the knocker, searching again for the brief reflected movement.
Still nothing. Then a noise. Annabel whirled around again. A footstep?
Annabel.
She gasped and put her hand to her hammering heart. God, for a second she even thought she heard her name whispered out there in the darkness. Was she losing it? The fog was creepy, but come on. Who the hell was going to be loitering around her house, whispering her name, a ghost? A squirrel or a cat, or someone’s pet had made a noise and her imagination cut loose, that was all. Sheesh, get a grip.
She put the catalogs under her arm when she spotted something definitely not good. Her door stood open, just a crack, but open.
Steady. Her heart pounded harder; she swallowed with difficulty. Stefanie had been fairly spacey the past few weeks; she might have forgotten to close it.
The wood felt cool and slightly damp under her fingertips as she pushed it open and went inside. In the living room, she paused, ears straining. No noise. Nothing looked disturbed. She went through the house, approaching each room with caution.
Nothing.
Okay, she was satisfied no one had been here who wasn’t supposed to be. Stefanie must have left the door open. The spooky weather had set off Annabel’s fear.
Back downstairs, she relocked both doors. Then for good measure, she checked that the first-floor windows were locked, too.
Good. Back to normal. Weirdness dispelled. Maybe to add warmth, she’d light a fire in her kinky fireplace—the tiles around the hearth had been painted and installed by the house’s previous occupant. At first glance, innocent decoration. But a close look showed various couples enjoying various acts of…non-innocence.
Annabel loved them.
She crumpled newspaper, added kindling, and one log—why bother with more when she’d only be here briefly?
While the fire caught, she turned the heat down to sixty, turned on the outside lights and went up to her room. Changed into her bright red pajamas, brushed her teeth, washed her face, and took two cooking magazines back downstairs. So she could research while enjoying the flickering flames.
Six fairly dull articles later—how to make the perfect holiday centerpiece…what, to distract from bad food?—the breeze that started lifting the fog earlier had become a serious wind, rattling her windows and moaning through the crack under the front door. Annabel shivered. Wind was a restless, roaming, angry force and it made her want to bury herself under her blankets and pillow the way she had when she was a child. Thunder and lightning, no problem. Hail, ditto. But strong winds, no thanks. One tornado-producing storm had roared through her childhood and blown into her a healthy fear of that power.
The fire all but out, she beat a hasty childish retreat upstairs into her room. By that time, the gusts had died down a bit and another sound rose up, a clanking rattle, as if someone was dragging metal down the street.
She laughed uneasily and shook her head. So now her ghost had chains? How clichéd.
The wind picked up again, the rattling came closer, then an unearthly howl competed with the gusting blasts.
“Oh, for—” Annabel leaped to the window. This was starting to feel like the setup to a horror movie, and it was giving her the heebie-jeebies.
She yanked aside the curtain and pulled up the shade, determined to find normal and comforting explanations.
Ha. Just as she thought. The howling was Elsa, the beagle next door. Clanking chains—she scanned the street. Hmm.
Wait… Annabel squinted and pressed her forehead to the glass. Across the street, a man was jacking up his car. Ta-da. Clanking metal equaled jack being dragged around the car. Aha. Nothing like the delightful dullness of everyday explanations for her fears.
She stayed at the window and watched the man working, squatted in the street next to his flat tire. He had on a long dark dress coat, unusual in this neighborhood, where most of the men wore casual parkas.
The headlights of an oncoming car caught him; he turned his head and stood to get out of the way. Annabel registered a strong nose, nice profile, dark hair ruffling in the wind. He looked vaguely familiar.
The car passed, leaving the man in darkness again, except for the glow of the streetlight in front of A
nnabel’s house, no longer so shrouded by fog. She watched, waiting for the man to crouch and continue working.
Instead, he turned and looked directly up at her, as if he’d known she was standing there. Annabel gasped and instinctively lunged out of sight, then stood in the shadow of her curtain, hand pressed against her chest. He looked familiar straight on, too, but she couldn’t place him. Someone she had met at an after-hours event? She went over his features in her memory, trying to imagine him with a drink in his hand, or sitting in a lecture hall, or at a family dining table while she served dinner.
No luck. But she knew him, no question.
On impulse, she yanked down the shades, turned the lights out in her room and crept back to the window, folding back the edge of the shade just the tiniest bit so she could peek without being silhouetted by the light in her room.
He was gone.
She blinked and searched the area around his car. Nothing. Nowhere. Vanished.
Okay, the night was getting even weirder now.
Forget it. Back to bed, to Gourmet and Food & Wine. He probably gave up on the tire and went into his car to dial roadside assistance.
She’d settled back into her bed and picked up her magazine when her front doorbell rang, followed by the sharp metallic rapping of the knocker.
2
ANNABEL FROZE. Who the hell was ringing her doorbell at—she glanced at the clock—ten-seventeen on a week-night? She got out of bed and went to the window, strained to see if any sign of the caller was visible. No. He or she must be standing too close to the door; the roof obstructed Annabel’s view.
Okay. So how stupid was it for a woman living alone to answer the door at night?
Pretty stupid.
She grabbed a robe from her closet, jammed her feet into her ratty black slippers and started downstairs, unable to resist her curiosity. Was it the man fixing his tire? Maybe he needed to use her phone? Except what kind of person didn’t own a cell nowadays?
The bell rang once more, followed again by the rapping knocker. Impatient type. She hurried through her dining room, living room, then opened the door into the always chilly front entranceway. “Who is it?”
“Annabel. It’s Quinn Garrett.”
Annabel’s eyes shot wide; her mouth dropped open to emit incredulous laughter. Quinn. She should have recognized him immediately. Even if she couldn’t place him from the year he spent with her family on a high-school exchange program, she should have recognized him from the media fuss over the years. Newspaper, magazines, TV, the guy had become a household name—just not one she expected to show up on her street.
“Quinn!” She eagerly opened the door, then had to steel herself not to take a step back.
Yes, she’d seen that he grew up even more gorgeous than he’d been in high school. Lost the boyish roundness to his face, and the teenage awkwardness. But she was totally unprepared for the impact of seeing him in the flesh, totally unprepared for the intense buzz of chemistry—on her end anyway. Holy cheezits. She’d had a crush on him all those years ago, but the physical reaction was extremely different now that she knew what all those fluttery feelings meant.
“Annabel.” His voice was even more resonant coming to her live and in person, his eyes dark and intense; she could barely keep her gaze on his.
“Hi,” she said oh-so-brilliantly, sounding breathless and starstruck—not at all a coincidence, since she was both. “Quinn,” she added even more brilliantly.
His lips curved in a smile. “You grew up.”
“Oh. Yes.” She winced. Maybe try saying something intelligent? “So did you.”
Good job.
“I guess that makes two of us.” He grinned suddenly, a full white-toothed grin, which made him so sexy she feared hyperventilation. “I was planning to show up at a more reasonable hour, but when I saw you at your window, I thought I might as well say hello now.”
“Can I help?” She gestured out at his car, probably a rental—Lexus?
“Just a flat. All fixed.”
“Very good.” She moved aside in the doorway. “Come in.”
“Are you sure? You were on your way to bed.” He glanced at her robe, making her so not happy she’d grabbed the thick flowery one that had pills all over it. She’d much rather be wearing silk. Or even better, clothes. She felt vulnerable and strange like this, even though he’d seen her in her pajamas dozens of times. But then that was years ago; she’d been thirteen and hardly the stuff of male fantasy. More like an annoying little sister.
She did not want him to see her as an annoying little sister now.
He took off his coat and the white, probably cashmere, scarf, and, oh, my God, he was wearing a tux. Even homely looked good in a tux; gorgeous should be outlawed.
“I was at a party in Brookfield—I’m a little over-dressed.”
“I’m a little underdressed.”
“So we even out.” He stood, hands on his hips pushing back his jacket, clearly at ease in her living room, while she had to remind herself not to fidget.
“Have a seat.” She indicated the couch behind him. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Water would be nice.”
“That’s all? I have cider, wine, beer, cognac…”
He held up a hand to stop her list. “Water is really what I want.”
“Water coming up.” She padded into the kitchen, feeling round and unappealing, wondering if it would be weird to go upstairs and throw on some clothes. Maybe a thong and a push-up bra? Or, okay, jeans and a nice tight sweater, too. But if she did that, he’d know she was uncomfortable around him this way, which would make things even more uncomfortable.
She ran the water until it was good and cold, filled a glass, poured Dove dark chocolate pieces, dried apricots and plain-roasted almonds into small brass bowls and put them on a wooden tray. Water might be what he wanted, but the professional hostess in her had to offer more.
“Here you go.” She smiled too brightly and headed toward him, feeling even rounder and less appealing when she saw how amazing he looked sitting on her couch, bow tie untied, collar button undone, arm up along the back of the sofa. GQ much? Of course, he’d probably been on their cover, probably more than once. It was so hard to reconcile the kid she’d known with this…well, look up male in the dictionary and find his picture.
He reached for the glass and lifted a dark brow at the tray of food. “With trimmings?”
“I am unable to serve only water to my guests. It’s become genetically impossible.” She perched on a chair across the narrow room. If she were dressed to match his trappings, she’d have no problem sitting next to him on the couch. Leaning close. Closer. Closest. Straddling him and…okay, enough.
“I remember being extremely well fed at your house. Your mom was a great cook. I’m sorry to hear she and your dad died.”
“Thanks.” Annabel’s voice dropped low in her throat. “I miss them.”
“They were great people. Your whole family. That year was really special for me.”
“Us, too.” She smiled, then almost wished she hadn’t when he caught her eyes and held on, and the tension stretched to nearly unbearable.
Not to beat around the bush or anything, but she wanted to sleep with him. Like crazy. The breakup with Bob weeks ago had left her alone, but satisfied. Usually it was six to eight months before she wanted to start in again. But one glimpse of this man had her libido rising like a chocolate Chambord soufflé.
“So, your brother John tells me you need rescuing.”
Annabel’s smile traded itself for a dropped jaw. “Excuse me? Rescuing?”
“He said you don’t know how to have fun anymore.”
“Huh?”
He cocked his head back to one side and shot her an amused look from under his lids. “Don’t. Know. How. To. Have. Fun.”
The overenunciation of each word of course brought her attention to his lips, which were full and all male and magnificent and why didn’t he just s
trip naked now and pleasure her until she screamed?
Because that would be fine. Really.
“Tell my brother John that I know how to have fun.”
He moved casually, adjusting his position on the couch, but his eyes were on her like a frog watching the bug soon to be glued to its tongue.
And oh, what a lovely image that was.
“How do you have fun?”
A flush rose to Annabel’s cheeks. She so wanted to answer that question in a very provocative and enticing way. But not while she was wearing bright red flannel pajamas and a robe that made her look like Mrs. Claus first thing in the morning. Besides, women must try to get into Quinn Garrett’s pants all day long. Inspiring all that lust probably got tedious. Not to mention that she’d been sort of a sister to him all those years ago, which might still be how he thought of her.
Bummer. Major bummer.
“When I want to have fun, I go out.”
“Where?”
“To restaurants, movies, clubs…” Okay, not clubs; noise and smoke were not her thing, but it sounded good.
“With whom?”
Whoever I’m boinking at the moment. “Dates.”
“When was the last time?”
“Is this an interrogation? Should I move the lamp so it shines in my eyes?”
“No.” He leaned on the sofa arm, index finger resting against his temple, fingers curled next to his mouth.
Bond. James Bond. Double-oh—
“When was the last time you went out and had fun?”
“Well, that was…” Annabel frowned. No fair. She broke up with Bob officially a month ago, and she hadn’t seen much of him for a week or two before that since she’d been so busy. “Probably not as long ago as it sounds.”
“That’s what I thought.” He drained his glass, put it carefully back on the coaster on her cherry coffee table and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. Immediately she wanted to copycat lean-forward, too. Even though he was sitting across the room, the gesture brought him closer enough—brought those killer eyes closer enough—that it felt intimate.
Damn the pilly robe.
Before I Melt Away Page 2