There. Eleven fifty-nine; she heard a car pull up outside and went downstairs, taking her time, enjoying the cool rush of air under her skirt.
Her doorbell rang. The atomic clock in Denver must have just ticked over to midnight; she couldn’t imagine Quinn running on anything less precise.
Oh, she was going to spin his evening so out of control.
“Hello.” She smiled coolly, not betraying the flip-flops her heart started doing at the sight of him. His black coat hung open; he wore a tux again and, oh, my, nothing black-and-white and edible had ever looked that appetizing. “Milwaukee must be pulling out all the formal-wear stops for you.”
“Fund-raiser for the art museum.” He took a step into the foyer. She didn’t move back to give him room. “I was invited by the CEO of Herrn Brewing.”
“How is the deal going?”
“It’s going.” He took another step forward so Annabel had to tip her head back to see his face.
“How much longer until it’s a done one…?” She let the rest of her question go unsaid, and you have to leave town?
“Hard to say.”
“Ballpark?”
“Can’t even do that.”
“Avoiding the question?”
He tipped his head forward slowly, until his mouth was inches from hers. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“Avoiding the question.” She arched a disapproving eyebrow over her pleased half smile and turned to open the closet behind her. “I’ll get my coat.”
Quinn drove them south on Sixty-third Street, right on North Avenue and the few blocks to the Rosebud Cinema and Drafthouse, where they parked in the lot adjacent to the building.
“I love this place.” She walked next to him toward the entrance, bending her head into an icy gust of wind. “How did you hear about it?”
“I met the owner at a party, asked him if the place could be rented.” He reached the front door ahead of her and opened it with a slight bow. “In a word—yes.”
She preceded him into the dark foyer where to the right patrons could buy tickets, and to the left, beer, soda, popcorn and munchies and order pizza. She sent a surreptitious wink to the employee greeting them, a man named Jay she’d met earlier while making sure her own plans for the evening would happen.
They passed through the double doors into the dimly lit theater where rows of plush red velvet couches and love seats were interspersed with low tables. One couch in the center had been cleared around, and a table moved in front of it, draped with a white cloth. On the cloth, champagne flutes and a bottle chilling in an ice bucket; fresh caviar—undoubtedly beluga or osetra if Quinn was behind this—mounded in a crystal dish over cracked ice. A delicate china dish of salted almonds; a fine-textured pâté with dark shapes she guessed were truffles, sliced on a dark wooden tray and surrounded by melba toast and cornichons, tiny sour French pickles; a dozen oysters on the half-shell; finger sandwiches; tiny pastries; and a mystery dish with a domed cover. A single red rose in slender crystal vase added an elegant splash of color to the setup.
She smiled at Quinn. “This looks amazing. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He gestured her onto the couch and sat next to her—not close enough. She scootched over, feigning interest in the food, wanting Quinn to be very aware she was female tonight, very aware of the chemistry between them, since she planned to take full advantage later.
He pressed his thigh against hers, seeming to concentrate on taking the champagne bottle out of its bucket, but she had a feeling at least part of his brain was experiencing the touch. He opened the bottle expertly, the cork emitting a satisfying thunk rather than the huge pop that could mean spilling some of the precious liquid, and poured champagne for them both—be still her heart, Taittinger vintage.
Quinn lifted his glass in a toast. “Here’s to good times. Past, present and future.”
Annabel clinked her glass to his, sending him signals with her eyes that tonight would, indeed, be a very good time. “Here’s to a really nice idea.”
“It’s a great movie. After all we accomplished today I thought we’d enjoy watching it and relaxing.”
“Yes.” She smiled into her champagne. Relaxing? Not entirely her plan.
“Did you get a lot done this afternoon?”
“Oh. Yes. I did.” Not. But she’d never admit he’d managed to derail her so thoroughly. Nor could she tell him she’d spent some of that time planning tonight to blow his…mind. “I booked some Dinner and a Show clients. Caught up on some paperwork. Oh, and I lost one dinner party to the flu.”
“What day did they cancel?”
“Sunday.” She sipped champagne, pushing away the sneaking traitorous hope that he’d want to see her all evening.
“Let’s see.” He pulled a PalmPilot out of his jacket pocket and punched up his calendar. “Perfect. I want to book you for that night.”
“Oh?” She tipped her head to one side, trying not to show her pleasure. “For what?”
“A small dinner party.”
“How small?” Maybe two?
“Four to six.”
“Oh.” Her pleasure dimmed slightly; immediately she chided herself. A dinner party was far better than a date. She’d get to put on a show for whatever important people he was entertaining, make some lucrative contacts for the future. “Happy to do it.”
“Good. We can discuss menus another time.”
“I’ll e-mail you some options.”
“Done.” He put his planner away and handed her a small plate. “Now let’s eat.”
“It all looks incredible.” She sent him a sly look. “But of course, being a woman who hates mysteries, I want to know what’s in the covered dish.”
“Ah.” He held up a finger. “The pièce de résistance.”
“What could possibly be any piècer than what’s already out here?”
“Wait and see.”
“I can’t wait.” She craned her neck forward as he took hold of the top of the silver dome and looked back expectantly.
“Are you ready?”
She nodded.
“You sure?”
Annabel laughed. “I’m sure, I’m sure.”
“Voilà.” He swept off the dome with a flourish worthy of a professional.
On the silver tray beneath sat a large candy bar, a plastic cup of fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt, and a box of unfrosted blueberry toaster pastries.
Annabel caught her breath and moved her hand to her chest. “What’s this?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I…yes. Of course.” She laughed uncertainly. Every time her mom went shopping and asked if there was anything special the kids wanted, Annabel always said the same thing: Snickers, Pop-Tarts and Dannon fruit yogurt. And her organic-before-organic-was-cool mother always rolled her eyes. She made her own yogurt, Annabel could put jam in it, breakfast should be heavy in protein and fiber, and candy bars should be bought with her own allowance.
Quinn had not only remembered, so many years later, but made sure her silly childhood wish came true.
“Quinn…this is…it’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
The minute the words left her mouth she felt like cringing. For heaven’s sakes. Plenty of people had done nice things for her. If she sat down and thought about it, examples would come positively rushing to her consciousness. In droves. She thought.
“What about the time your brother made up that beautiful song about you?”
Annabel burst out laughing. “Annabel the Cannibal?”
“That’s the one.”
She put her hands to her temples and shook her head. “How do you remember so many things about that year?”
“I paid attention.” He shrugged, but the gesture didn’t look convincingly nonchalant. “I paid a lot of attention.”
“Why?”
“Because.” His face started to go cold; his jaw tensed. “It was very different for me.”
“D
ifferent how?”
“Just different.”
“Okay.” She took a sip of champagne to put off her frustration. So her life was an open book and his was bound and locked, key thrown off a cliff. “Will you always shut me out when I ask about your family?”
He held her gaze and, for a second, she thought she’d made him angry. Then he dropped his eyes to his glass and brought them back up noticeably softer. “Not always.”
“When won’t you?”
“You’ll know.”
She held up her glass, wanting to roll her eyes and growl at him. Why couldn’t he answer any question straight out? She couldn’t wait for her part of the evening to start, halfway through the movie. See how he liked having the control on her side. “Okay. Here’s to then.”
He nodded and clinked with her. “I’m sure many more people would do nice things for you if you left yourself open to it.”
It was Annabel’s turn to shrug. A picture came into her head of the little boy handing Tanya a picture he’d made himself and she pushed it away. “Still trying to get me to change?”
He reached out and smoothed her hair, let his hand trail down her jaw. “Still trying to get you to change back.”
Annabel frowned, remembering the feeling she’d had that morning, that the girl Quinn remembered was someone so different from who she was now.
She tossed off the rest of her champagne. People grew up, they evolved. Maybe he wanted her to be forever thirteen and gaga about the world, with all kinds of leisure to enjoy exploring it, but she wasn’t. She was a grown woman running her own business. And she’d come here to do grown-woman things, not have her life examined again.
“Ready to watch the movie?”
Annabel nodded and Quinn took off his jacket, then his bow tie and cummerbund, undid the top two buttons on his shirt and rolled his sleeves up to the elbow and, oh, my God, the man was made for evening-clothes casual. He looked twice as sexy half-undone as he did dressed to the nines.
She took a long, deep breath, smiling at him. Yes, indeed, she was definitely ready.
He poured her more champagne, they loaded up their plates, then he signaled the projectionist. The room darkened, and The Thomas Crown Affair started rolling.
Annabel watched the intrigue unfold, swallowing oysters, savoring the truffle pâté and the caviar, crunching almonds, sipping champagne, the bubbly warm glow spreading through her, mixing with the glow of anticipation.
Yes, she was enjoying the movie, but all along she was hyperaware of the man beside her, of her nakedness under her skirt, of the soft red velvet underneath them. Pierce Brosnan and René Russo danced, parried, manipulated, two strong people unwilling to give an inch, both determined to stay on top of the situation and each other.
Gee, she couldn’t think of any other couple like that.
Quinn put down his glass, placed his arm along the back of the couch and invited her in closer. She put her glass next to his on the table and moved toward him until they again sat thigh to thigh, a warm, strong connection.
“Here.” He pushed her head gently so it rested on his shoulder while they watched, turned and kissed the top of her head, his hand idly stroking her arm.
For one aching second, she wondered if she’d made a mistake, if one-upping him in the manipulation department was really what she wanted out of the evening. This was so peaceful, so companionable. It felt so relaxed and so…right.
Then René Russo started her hot dance in the nearly see-through black dress as the frenzy of seduction took the film over.
The projectionist knew his job; it was too late to turn back.
Annabel had to be ready.
Pierce yanked René in for a kiss and the screen went dark. Quinn barely had time to tense beside Annabel, when right on cue another reel came up. It was one a passionate filmmaker ex-lover named Aaron had shot of her a few years ago, on a crazy night when they’d both been high on the arrival of the first springlike day and some very nice Meursault. Annabel had gotten the original back from him when they split, and though she hadn’t watched the show since the night they made it, she remembered clearly how it had gone.
She stared at herself, up on the screen wearing a tight knee-length black skirt slit nearly to her hip on the left, and a low-cut clingy red top, laughing, a little nervous, waiting for Aaron to tell her to start. She remembered how shy she’d felt at first, how much wine and cajoling Aaron had employed to get her to do it.
“What’s this?”
She felt Quinn’s eyes on her and turned to smile sweetly. “Me.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I can see that. But what—”
“Okay.” Aaron’s voice came from the speakers. “Let’s do it. Go, Annabel.”
Music started playing, a low drumbeat that filled the theater like a too-regular heartbeat. On the screen, Annabel started to sway, face turned to one side.
The drumbeat grew louder, then louder still, booming around the dark walls and couches around them, resonating in their chests. The on-screen Annabel raised her head, raised her arms and began to undulate her body.
Beside her, Quinn’s breath went in, then he sat still and silent, no longer relaxed against her. Oh, he was going to enjoy this. She’d make sure of it.
Movie Annabel turned and presented her back to the screen, parted her legs in a bold, high-heeled stance and made frankly sexual circles with her hips, crossed her hands to her waist and lifted the top up and up…and over her head, revealing a naked back.
“Oh, God.” Quinn’s fierce whisper made something warm start glowing in Annabel’s belly. This was good. This was going to be good. This was the right move tonight.
Chords chimed into the frenzied drumming, insistent, driving, guitars and synthesizer, some wild piece Aaron had composed.
On-screen Annabel responded, back still to the camera, flinging her hips and head side to side, long hair flying wild, gradually working the skirt down and off her naked bottom, kicking it to the side with strappy sandaled feet. She danced on, topless now, black garter belt and stockings, no panties, hair cascading down her back.
Beside her, Quinn’s breath shot in and out in an irregular pattern. Perfect. Good. She slid her hand over to his thigh, brought it up to the hard bulge in his pants. Unzipped, unbuttoned, brought him out and slid off the couch, crouched down in front of him, put her mouth just over the head of his penis and circled him with her tongue.
On screen the music changed; the chords stopped; the drums slowed to loud percussive attacks. This was when she’d turned slowly to the camera, bare breasted, arms above her head, naked except for the garter belt and stockings, which hid nothing.
Quinn whispered her name and pushed his hips forward. She grasped the base of his erection with a firm hand and slid up and down, keeping the tip in her mouth, swirling her tongue over and over the head, tasting the beginning of fluid gathering already.
His body tensed and he made a guttural sound. His hands grasped her hair hard. She listened carefully to his breathing, to his sounds of pleasure, repeating whatever got the strongest reaction so she’d know how best to bring him close. The drums quickened again. She knew the camera was zooming in; her dance was getting wilder, she was touching herself, rolling her nipples, stroking her breasts, her hands traveling down over her own sex, where she would spread her legs for the final shot before the screen went suddenly dark.
There. One huge bang on the drum. There would be four more, then the close-up and finish.
Bang.
She took all of him in her mouth, down as far as her throat would let her, then back up, sucking hard, then down again, cupping his balls in her other hand, manipulating them gently. He groaned and let go of her hair, fisted his hands against the red velvet. This was perfect. Where was his control now? In her mouth, in her hands.
Bang.
Deep-throating, pulling back and working him with her hand, while her lips teased the top, then surging down again.
Bang.
Bang.
The end. Fade to black. She lifted the condom and prepared to roll it on him and climb on for the ride of his—
“What the hell is this?”
Annabel froze in a half crouch in front of him. He still stared at the screen, but he was not looking happy. Not happy at all. Strange sounds were coming through the speakers, moans and grunts and…her own protesting voice.
She turned around and gasped. The camera was still running, filming the wall where she used to be standing.
Apparently Aaron hadn’t cut to black when he’d edited, as he planned.
Apparently Aaron hadn’t edited at all.
So apparently she and Quinn were watching what the rest of the episode looked like after Aaron attacked her and pushed her back on the bed in his room.
Oh shit.
“Turn it off.” She called out the words, even knowing the projectionist was gone, as he’d promised to be, and heard an eerie echo of her own words through the speaker. She turned back to the screen, confused until she realized on-screen Annabel had told Aaron the same thing at the same time.
Aaron came into view, reached toward them to switch off the camera, thank God, and the screen went dark.
And silent.
And so did the theater.
“Um.” She dared a look at Quinn. “That last part wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“No?” He reached forward, grabbed her under the armpits and lifted her to lie back on the couch, lunged over her and covered her with his body. “No?”
“No. The shot was supposed to fade to black. The dancing is all I wanted to show you.”
“I liked that part.”
“I’m sorry.”
He gripped her shoulders. “What are you trying to do to me?”
“Turn you on. That’s all. I swear. It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“It was definitely that.”
“I mean a nice one.”
He watched her for a moment, his breathing ragged, face strained. “Who is that guy?”
“I haven’t spoken to him in years. I made him give me the film when we broke up. I haven’t looked at it since he made it.”
Before I Melt Away Page 10