This Christmas memory she hadn’t shared at the restaurant. It seemed impossible she could have forgotten the episode in the first place, even more impossible that Quinn coming back into her life hadn’t triggered it sooner. And teenage-foolishly, she had to wonder if he ever thought of it after he went back home that year, or if seeing her again now had made him remember.
It had been a few days before Christmas; her mother and father usually had their party on the twenty-first or twenty-second. They’d decorated the house to the nines as usual, red-bowed garlands climbing up the front banister, a candle in every window, the huge stuffed Santa doll her grandmother made, Advent calendars, the tree of course, variously framed or displayed dreadful holiday art projects she and John had made over the years, and always mistletoe in the front foyer where her parents stood, to greet their arriving guests and again to hand out gifts to those departing—popcorn balls wrapped in red cellophane for the children and sprays decorated with frosted pinecones and velvet ribbon for the grown-ups.
That year, the year Quinn lived with them, the last guests had just gone out into dark December clutching their sprays, Christmas greetings and good-nights floating after them on the icy air.
Her parents had closed the massive arched front door for the last time, sighed in satisfaction, smiled at each other with love, and had gone arm in arm to the kitchen to supervise putting the chaos back in order. Annabel had snuck into the deserted foyer to snitch ribbon candy from the dish by the door, figuratively drunk with sugar, the Christmas spirit and the aura of joyful companionship still cozying the house. She’d been singing one of the carols her father led the guests in during the party, one of her favorites, “It Came Upon The Midnight Clear,” when Quinn had spoken suddenly behind her in his deep scratchy teenage voice and nearly scared her to death.
“You sing well.”
She’d turned to find him staring at her and at her crimson velvet party dress in a way that made her wish fervently he hadn’t caught her holding something as childish as Christmas candy.
“Thanks.”
She’d stared back at him, unable to understand what she saw in his eyes, noticing not for the first time how handsome he was in his gray-and-blue sweater, the grown-up bulge of a dark necktie at his throat.
And during that strange combination of tense and natural, staring at each other with the atmosphere stretched so thin time must have stopped, the mistletoe had made a little rustling sound and fallen onto the floor between them.
Quinn had picked up the sprig calmly, as he did most things, as if he wasn’t surprised in the least that it had been hanging up and now suddenly it wasn’t. He’d taken the few steps toward her and held the tiny branch over her head.
She could imagine what she’d looked like, eyes the size of walnuts, slack jawed, probably not even breathing. She certainly remembered what she’d been thinking.
And then he’d said, “If you were older, I’d kiss you,” laid the mistletoe on the table next to the ribbon candy and bowl of popcorn balls and walked upstairs without looking back.
She’d barely slept that night, reliving the moment over and over, hugging close the thrill each replay brought. By morning, reality intruded, she’d been so shy and unsure of herself, so full of the many emotions that scared and confused her, that she’d barely even glanced at him. For his part, he was back to his old self, a second big brother, and hadn’t come near her in that intimate, private way, that day or again. Eventually she convinced herself he’d just been teasing and had gotten over it. For the most part.
“Tired?”
Annabel opened her eyes and turned her head toward him without lifting it from the seat. He was driving with one hand, glancing between her and the road.
“A little.” Not at all. The evening had been so perfect she could make like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady and dance all night. But how else to explain her long reverie? I was actually thinking about the one time you nearly kissed me and was hoping you’d think I was plenty old enough tonight. “Are you tired?”
“I seldom am. And never in the company of a woman who fires me up the way you do.”
“I fire you up?”
“Absolutely.”
She blinked innocently, holding back a smile. “What, like, spiritually, you mean?”
He sent over a slow, lazy-eyed glance that instantly got rid of her need to giggle and replaced it with a more mature need. “Not exactly.”
Oh, my. Her sound of feigned disappointment made him smile. She loved that smile, a rare and sacred treat. She’d love even more to get him to do it often. “Intellectually then?”
The car approached the exit to Route 41 north…and passed it. He’d probably take the next exit, Hawley Road.
“Intellectually certainly.”
Annabel shifted in her seat. Her coat fell open and exposed a length of her thigh, which she didn’t bother to recover. Let him look. All the more fun built up for the next time they were together, if she got lucky and picked the right drawer…and got lucky.
“Hmm, so do I fire you up…some other way, maybe?”
He glanced over at her legs. Just to be cruel, she parted them, just a little bit.
“Definitely another way.”
“How?”
“Sexually.”
“Oh!” She gasped in pretended outrage and opened her legs a little more. “That’s shocking.”
“Isn’t it.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“No.” He turned on his blinker and changed into the right lane. “I should say, ‘Open your legs wider.’”
Annabel caught her breath. The command had come out calmly, naturally, as if he was asking her to roll down her window.
“Excuse me?”
He turned and looked her full in the eyes, then went back to driving.
A burn of lust started in her belly and down between the legs he wanted spread wider. She opened them more, her skirt riding up until the lace tops of her thigh-highs were exposed.
“How’s that?” Her voice came out breathless and excited, because, she was damn breathless and damn excited—and getting more so every second.
“Wider.”
She spread them all the way, coat open, skirt hiked up to her hips, black lace panties now visible in the dimly lit car.
He drew in a sharp breath, glancing back and forth from her wide-open legs to the road. “Put your seat back.”
She fumbled for the handle, reclined the seat and lay there, turned-on out of her mind, waiting for what he’d do or say next, the car speeding down the highway, streetlights lighting and receding to darkness in a steady rhythm.
Quinn switched his left hand to the steering wheel, slipped his right hand out of its leather glove, and slid warm, slow, sure fingers up her thigh, over to the smooth sensitive center, and under her panties. Found her, wet, hot, aching for him, and began to stroke.
Clearly the man knew what he was doing.
She lifted her hips to his touch, wedged her knees and feet so she could thrust against him, and oh it was heaven. In a matter of one minute, she was so close to climaxing she could feel the sweat break on her body, the steady building of the sensation.
And the slowing of the car.
She opened dazed eyes to Quinn, who brought the car to an abrupt stop on the shoulder of the highway, just out of range of a streetlight, reached over her and opened the glove compartment.
Condoms.
Her breath went in and her arousal became so hot and needy she felt like a raging beast-woman. He wanted her here, barely a mile from her house, wanted her so badly he couldn’t wait.
Neither could she.
He reached down and jerked back his seat, undid his pants, brought himself out, hard, proud and ready, and rolled on the condom. “Come here.”
She shook her head, laughing, hot, breathless, already climbing over to him. “I can’t believe we’re going to do this. We could be arrested.”
“We won
’t be arrested. Come here.”
“I’m here, I’m here.” She straddled him, pushing her panties aside. His arms came around her, lifted her hips up, then onto him and oh, the feel of him filling her up, she nearly came just from that, from his strength helping her move up and down over his cock, the whoosh of vehicles going by, shaking their car, and the frantic thrusting of their bodies reaching, reaching…
Her orgasm hit first. She cried out, thrashed on top of him, trying to get it to stay, stay with her, keep him inside just like this, just like this…
“Annabel.” He tensed, whispered her name again as he came, bringing her a new, shivery wave of excitement until slowly she came down.
Finished. Over. Oh, my word.
Quinn brushed a kiss over her cheek, clasped her hard to him, then let go. She climbed off, still breathing fast, body glowing, and collapsed in her seat. A nervous giggle bubbled up. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
“No?” He grabbed tissues from a box in the console between them, disposed of the condom and did up his pants, his movements brisk and efficient, not at all panicked or rushed, as if he did this all the—
Ew.
Annabel’s thrill turned distinctly un-thrill-like. Did he? Go to strange towns, pick up women and screw them in his car on the way home? Was this not unbridled passion but just his fetish thing?
Double ew.
Quinn turned off the hazards, put the Lexus in gear, found a safe break in traffic and pulled the powerful car back out onto the highway.
Finished. Over. Oh, my word.
Annabel wrapped her coat around her. What had she done? What had—
Oh, come on. She wasn’t going to play some bogus temporary insanity card—Oh gee, what came over me? She was an adult; she knew what she was doing. But he—
“What’s wrong?” He reached over, took her hand and squeezed it gently.
“Nothing.” She forced a smile, praying it was dark enough in the car that he’d buy it. “That was really great.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing to—”
“Annabel.”
She sighed. “Yes.”
“If we’re going to see a lot of each other while I’m here, and I hope we are, you need to be honest with me or we’ll poison whatever we’re starting.”
Annabel swallowed hard. She did not like being spoken to like a petulant child. Even if, yes, okay, she just happened to be acting like one. Damn him, he was right.
“I was just wondering if roadside sex is something you enjoy.” She froze herself off. How did you politely ask someone about their sexual habits?
“Didn’t I seem to be enjoying it?”
“I mean…frequently.”
He chuckled, loosened his grip on her hand and changed to stroking her palm and the undersides of her fingers. The gesture felt warm and affectionate and nothing like what she imagined a fetishist would do. “The last time I had sex in a car I was barely old enough to drive it.”
“Oh.” She gave a silly giggle of relief and twined her fingers with his.
“What about you? Have those legs enticed many men into pulling over on Wisconsin’s highways?”
“Oh, no.” She tipped her head, narrowing her eyes. “Would it bother you if they had?”
“Absolutely.” He spoke without hesitation, and her heart raced. “Same way it bothered you when you thought I might make this a habit.”
“Yes.”
“Then neither of us have to worry. This was something special for both of us. Ladies and gentlemen, the control freaks are tied at one apiece.”
Annabel laughed and leaned her head back, feeling the contented glow of satiation returning. The evening was officially perfect. As much as she had wanted to take Quinn home and spend leisure time in bed, the truth was she didn’t operate well on less than four hours of sleep and the clock was ticking. She had plenty to do tomorrow and didn’t want to be exhausted trying to accomplish it all.
The sign for the Hawley Road exit glowed green in his headlights…and past.
“Didn’t you mean to take that exit?” He’d have to backtrack to her house now.
“No.”
She frowned. “But if you take Sixty-eighth —”
“I’m not taking Sixty-eighth.”
“What?”
“I said I’m not taking Sixty-eighth.”
“Uh. Qui-i-inn?”
“Ye-e-es?”
“Are you planning to take me home?”
He squeezed her hand again and let it go, turned and winked a wink that made her insides go a little nuts.
“No, Annabel, I’m not.”
5
ANNABEL DRAGGED herself awake in the gloriously soft, warm unfamiliar bed at the Riverside B and B in Hartland.
Time. What time was it? It felt late. Light was creeping in around the blinds, but the alarm hadn’t gone off yet. She turned and blinked at the clock, trying to get her eyes to focus…
Nine o’clock. Nine! She’d set the alarm for seven, what the—
She bolted upright, grabbed the clock and pushed the button to check the alarm setting.
Noon?
She couldn’t possibly have screwed up. She’d set it last night for seven, turned it on, tested it. What could—
Huh? A note lay on the beautiful Shaker-style bedside table, between the rose-shaded lamp and the tissues in a fancy black lacquer box. A note on ivory paper with embossed initials “QG” in a bold navy font.
Sleep well, my beauty. Quinn
What? That hadn’t been there when she—
Slowly Annabel’s groggy brain caught up to what had happened. Quinn had happened. Again. He must have snuck in after she’d gone to sleep, and instead of having wild sex with her again, which was why she left the damn door unlocked in the first place, he’d changed the alarm and left the note.
Sleep well, my beauty? As in, until Prince Charming awakens her with a kiss and rescues her from her life?
Ohhhh, she was so going to have a little talk with Mr. Puppeteer. Last night was bad enough, bringing her to this place where he’d already reserved rooms for them, surprise, surprise—not. And yes, okay, she was sort of disappointed at the plural rooms, but then she could never sleep with another body taking up space in bed anyway. Maybe he was like that, too. Or maybe he had his public reputation to uphold, whatever.
He’d certainly been secretive and distant in the car last night, not telling her where they were going until they arrived, not telling her why he’d brought her here for the night. What was the point driving half an hour out of the way to spend one night and head back the next morning? Especially if they weren’t even sharing rooms? Plus, it had started snowing on the drive over, coming down heavily by the time they pulled into the huge colonial’s long driveway. Great. A big storm was all she needed. Good thing she wasn’t due at a client’s this morning. Or all day for that matter. But she sure had plenty else to do.
She bounced out of the four-poster bed and padded over quaint rag rugs laid on dark-honey hardwood into the blue-and-white-tiled bathroom, and glanced out the blue-curtained windows at the snow still coming down, darn it. The shower came on cold with no signs of turning warm quickly, so she made use of the facilities while the water heated, still thinking about Quinn.
Like she’d stopped since he rang her doorbell three nights ago?
To tell the truth, his reticence the night before had felt a little strange after that incredible sex in the car. Once she’d given up trying to pry his agenda out of him—and why had she ever thought she’d be able to?—they’d mostly driven in silence, then checked in equally quietly downstairs, where the apple-cheeked middle-aged proprietress could not beam hard enough at Quinn. He’d seemed distracted, or maybe simply back to his usual controlled self. Of course she and Quinn had only just met again. She hadn’t anticipated—or even wanted—smothering affection. But after that fabulous sex, she hadn’t expected him to act like…
; She stopped with one leg sticking into the tub and frowned. Actually, he was sort of acting like…her.
Her frown grew deeper. Wasn’t this how she behaved around the men she slept with? Hadn’t a few of them complained that she turned them off like an overprocessing blender when the sex was finished? Is this what they felt like? Sort of abandoned and maybe a little…used?
Hmm.
But then men were famous for rolling over and going to sleep afterward, while women equally famously wanted the snuggle thing to go on for all eternity. Annabel had always had more of a male attitude toward sex, that was all.
So why did this bother her now?
She rolled her eyes. She’d get over it. Meanwhile her foot was getting a nice shower and the rest of her was still out in the cold, so she’d probably be smart to stop standing on one leg like a dork and get herself clean.
Ten minutes later, she’d showered and made use of the high-quality toiletries provided by their hosts, wrapped herself in the sky-blue terry robe hanging on the door and barged back into the room, not wanting to think about having to wear a short skirt and tiny black flats out into the snow. Brr. Maybe she could—
Annabel stopped short. On her made-up bed, neatly laid out, were a pair of cozy-looking bright red tapered knit pants, delicate long underwear—silk?—a white sweatshirt decorated with a holly print down both sleeves and along the neck, snow boots, red suede mittens, and a red stocking cap that read Ho-ho-ho in green letters around the white brim.
And another blasted note.
Thought these might come in handy for our adventures today. Quinn.
Today? Adventures today? Not tonight after work? What was he smoking? And why hadn’t she taken a clue from the alarm-clock adventure and locked the door while she was showering?
And…damn her for even thinking it, but why hadn’t he tried to join her in the shower? Not that she had time, of course, silly thought. The only thing she wanted to do today was get back home and get busy.
She marched out into the hall and lifted her fist to knock on Quinn’s door.
Of course Mr. Psychic opened it immediately and she nearly found herself knocking on his…on his…forehead and…um…
Before I Melt Away Page 6