Before I Melt Away

by Isabel Sharpe

  “Catching flies with honey?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, are you just acting fascinated with me right now? So I’ll play your kinky sex games later?” She tipped her head coyly back, anticipating his answering zing.

  Instead, his eyes grew darker and more serious. “I’m utterly and genuinely fascinated by you, Annabel.”

  Oh, my God. She took in a long breath. “Me, too.”

  “Fascinated by you?”

  She laughed. “You.”

  “Good.” He brushed back a lock of her hair the wind had decided to fling into her face. “Mutual fascination is good.”

  He kissed her again, long and slow and sweet, and something went a little crazy in Annabel’s heart.

  It didn’t take a professional chef to figure out that whatever simmered between them was on the verge of being heated into a full, rolling boil. And she couldn’t decide if she wanted to pull back to maintain the temperature, or turn the flame up higher and risk getting overcooked.

  9

  QUINN STARED grimly at the cherry desk in his nearly dark apartment. Somehow afternoon had passed into evening almost instantaneously—and damn early—and he had yet to turn on any lights.

  After the initial high of being with Annabel yesterday, first at the After Hours event, then blissfully chopping and stirring and mixing—who knew cooking could be that fun and sexy and stimulating?—his mood had plummeted. He’d felt anxious and uneasy through this morning’s meetings, and an afternoon catching up with his assistant in California. He’d only called Annabel twice today, respecting her need to stay focused on her cousin’s party, but even that hadn’t done much to make him feel lighter.

  But then everything about his feelings for Annabel were new and confusing, so welcome to the damn club. The night they’d watched The Thomas Crown Affair—or attempted to watch it—had given him his first taste of jealousy. Nasty bitter stuff, he was glad to have avoided it before this. In the past, on the rare occasions a woman had tried to make him jealous, he’d either been amused or turned off.

  Until the sound of Annabel doing who knew what with that Aaron character had filled the theater, and a rage he could barely control had filled him. Not rage at Annabel, at least not once he registered the horror on her face and believed she never intended him to experience that part of the tape. But rage at the man who had touched her, at the pleasure he gave her, at all the things they’d shared that would always belong only to them.

  An utterly irrational waste of energy, as utterly and irrationally beyond his control as his own heartbeat. It had taken all his efforts to beat the fury down, convince himself he was being ridiculous and get the evening back on track. But the damage had been done, his own vulnerability exposed to him on a marquee lit with blinding lights. When they made love finally on the red velvet couch, he wasn’t thinking of his own pleasure, wasn’t thinking of how she made him crazy with lust or how badly he wanted to come inside her.

  He’d been thinking of how much he wanted their time together to be calmer, effortless and intimate. How much his need to see her had less to do with her and more and more to do with how he felt about her.

  After the sex, he hadn’t wanted to escape the way he always did, to keep emotions and the relationship sharply defined and easily contained. He’d wanted to lie there, lust sated, and experience her. Smell her, touch her, talk to her and watch her answer.

  Of course then, with sick irony, the fear she might not want that too had brought on the same need to escape he’d finally avoided, and he’d bolted from the couch. Until he knew whether her emotions were growing along the same lines as his, he wasn’t going to leave himself open for that kind of smack-down.

  Look at him, Mr. Extreme Caution. Until Annabel allowed herself to verbalize memories of Quinn in her young life, he hadn’t even felt safe kissing her.

  He turned on his desk lamp; the light made a warm yellow circle on the white blotter and pushed the rest of the apartment farther away into darkness. He picked up a piece of paper from the desk, the printout of an e-mail from his assistant. He made a diagonal crease and folded the extra along the bottom, then tore it off so the paper became a perfect square. He couldn’t remember the last woman he had kissed like that. Maybe there had never been a woman he had kissed like that. Maybe only the very first came close, Cornelia Lieder, a friend of John’s from Hartland High School—and she’d barely begun to emerge from girlhood.

  A few more folds and the shape of a bird began to emerge from the paper, origami he’d picked up from a business trip to Japan where he’d had the privilege of living with a local family instead of in a hotel.

  He could stay in Milwaukee a few more days. But he wasn’t really necessary to the negotiation process even now, hadn’t been for some time. He could have shown up a week ago, gone to a few parties, stayed a few days making nice with the natives and flown home to California. One person had changed his plans and Quinn wasn’t known for being tremendously flexible with his schedule.

  Worse, that one person had put thoughts of more plan changes in his head. Thoughts that involved a move to Milwaukee, of making the facility here dedicated to research and development instead of manufacturing. A division he could head up, reimmerse himself in the creative side of the business and leave the day-to-day CEO running of the company to someone else.

  Crazy. After one week. Except the dissatisfaction had been building for a while, dissatisfaction he’d carefully suppressed. It had taken Annabel—his feelings for Annabel—to bring it to his attention.

  The bird’s head emerged, long beak, graceful neck, thick body, a swan, or a crane. A discreet chime came from his laptop, indicating some task had come due on his calendar program. He put the bird aside and drew the laptop closer.

  Call Mom. He stared thoughtfully at the message. Not until this moment had it occurred to him that the regularly scheduled electronic reminder to call his mother was an indication of how rigid his own life had become.

  Only one thing felt rigid around Annabel, and she had a way of taking care of that rather quickly.

  He picked up his phone and dialed home. His father had long since left. He’d rotted away his liver in some other woman’s house and died a few years ago, mostly unlamented by his only child.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Right on schedule. I can set my watch by you.”

  He frowned. Up until today, he’d taken her first line of their every-week chat as a compliment. “How are you doing, Mom?”

  “Fine. The new hip works much better, thanks to you and all your money.”

  He couldn’t help smiling. She never missed the opportunity to take shots at his billions, and never seemed to mind when they made her life easier or better or simply more enjoyable. “I’m glad the surgery helped. Did the new laptop get there?”

  “Yes. And the tray, so I can work at it in bed. That was thoughtful, son. Now I can surf the Net with the best of ’em.”

  He grinned, imagining her in their tiny house, which she refused to move out of, surrounded by more luxury items than she had ever known existed, let alone dreamed someday she’d own. She’d kept the living room the way it had always been, apart from new upholstery and carpets, so as not to appear to be—in her words—inviting the Lord’s wrath with way more stuff than a decent Christian woman should have.

  None of which sinful stuff she refused.

  He was delighted. Considering what his dad had put her through, he wanted her remaining years to be as pampered and luxurious as possible. “How’s Hank? Still proposing?”

  “Every month, regular as church. Damned old fool.”

  He chuckled at the affection in her voice and got up to turn on the lamp next to the couch. “So love burns brightly still.”

  “He’s good to me. More than your father could imagine even on his best days.”

  Quinn pictured his mom and Hank sitting together in the family room on the new sofa, watching one of the reality shows his mom adored on the
wide-screen TV he had bought her, holding hands, quiet and content.

  “Mom, I—” He broke off, appalled at what he’d been about to say.

  “What is it?” Her voice sharpened into parental alarm.

  “Nothing’s wrong.” He held up his hand as if she could see the placating gesture. “I was just going to tell you something.”

  “And?”

  “And I changed my mind.”

  “You have some disease.”

  “I’m healthy as a horse.”

  “Then you met someone.”

  He took a deep breath, crossed back and sat again at his desk. Since when did he think he could hide anything from her? “Yes.”

  “Took you long enough. I was starting to think you were gay.”

  “Not gay. Selective.” Or something. He nestled the phone between his ear and shoulder and picked up the origami bird to give it long, strong wings. “Remember Annabel Brightman?”

  “Ah, still.”

  “What do you mean, still?”

  “You came home from that year talking of nothing else.”

  “I did not.”

  “Humph. Fine. You know best, I’m sure.”

  He finished the bird and set it on the desk, where it balanced perfectly, wings spread slightly as if it were itching to take off and circle the room. “It’s not…I’m very…she won’t—”

  His mother’s laughter cut him off. “I like this girl already.”

  “Thanks.” Quinn rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

  “Let me guess. She won’t drop and give you twenty when you order her to like every other person you encounter in your life?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing. I was afraid you were going to start thinking you could walk on water the way people treat you.”

  “No worry, you keep me humble.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  He tightened his lips. “She lives here. I live in California.”

  His mother scoffed. “What’s the real problem?”

  Quinn frowned. Picked up another piece of paper—a thank-you from the American Cancer Society for his last donation—and began folding an airplane, a model he’d designed as a boy.

  “Hey.” His mother’s voice became gentle and sweet, the way she’d talk to reassure him after one of Dad’s violent outbursts. “Sad to say there’s not a damn thing you can do about the way she feels except be your own sweet self. And even then, no guarantee she won’t bust your heart in a million pieces. But I tell you, you can sit in that office and make billion-dollar decisions by yourself for the rest of your life, or you can get out there and do something important. Tell this girl you love her and give her a ring and a houseful of babies and make yourself happy. God gives us precious few opportunities for happiness. When one comes along, you grab on and ride for all it’s worth or you’re a damn fool.”

  She muttered a few extra sentiments under her breath, which weren’t exactly flattering to him or his gender. Quinn grinned to gain power over the lump in his throat. Good old Mom. She’d waited a long time to grab her own happiness, had kicked his father out of the house only after Quinn went off to college—and he’d only agreed to go if she promised to get rid of Dad. No way would Quinn have left her alone with him.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay, tomorrow I’ll tell her I love her and give her a ring and a houseful of babies and—”

  “Right, Mr. Smart-ass. Just don’t be scared to live, Quinn. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You’re welcome. Now get the hell off the phone, my soaps are starting.”

  “I’m gone. Take care.”

  “I always do. It’s you I worry about.”

  “You’re my mom, worry is what you do.”

  She chuckled. “I’ll see you soon, Quinn, you coming tomorrow or Christmas Eve?”

  “Christmas Eve. In the morning.” He grimaced, guilty he was cheating his mom for one more night with Annabel.

  “See you then. I’m glad you met someone. I hope she deserves you.”

  He hung up the phone, and laughed bitterly. He’d done the impossible, revolutionized technology and the world, brought to the reality of people’s everyday lives what many said would remain only in science fiction, and he was utterly stumped how to start bringing emotional intimacy to a relationship.

  But to admit failure now would be to make the kids at school and his father right about him. That he would always be odd, cold and alone. He’d already lived too much of his life fulfilling their prophecy. Able to make small talk with anyone who came along, but crippled when it came to real sharing. Ironic, of course that the person who had accused him, his father, was the person who had the biggest hand in cutting that part of him off. When home wasn’t safe, it was hard to grow up warm and trusting and open.

  Which is why that year in Hartland had been like falling into a Candy Land version of life, and why he’d clung so tenaciously to those memories. He’d been a different person with the Brightmans. And he wanted to become a different person with Annabel.

  He pulled his laptop closer, opened the hologram screen and his e-mail program. He needed a break from thinking about her. Sooner or later, he’d figure out what next step to take. Often solutions came to him when he stopped clouding his brain with thoughts and let it do its job unfettered by consciousness.

  He scanned the list of incoming mail, spam and business and—like a sign that stopping thinking about Annabel was going to be impossible from now on—an e-mail from her brother, John.

  To: Quinn Garrett

  From: John Brightman

  Date: December 22

  Subject: Christmas

  I know this is last-minute, but Alison and I wondered if you’d like to fly down to Orlando and join us for Christmas. I called Annabel and it sounds like she’s planning to be her old Scrooge-y self and sit home alone. I wasn’t sure if you had other plans.

  I guess you guys have been seeing each other here and there. Am I crazy or did I detect that there’s something more than just palling around going on? I promise I won’t show up with a shotgun, quite the opposite, I would be thrilled.

  Let me know about Christmas.

  Best,

  John

  Quinn read the e-mail a second time, then a third. Then hit reply and started typing.

  To: John Brightman

  From: Quinn Garrett

  Date: December 22

  Subject: re: Christmas

  Hello, John. Thanks for the invitation. It’s very generous of you to open your family’s home to me at Christmas. However, I’ll be visiting my mom in Maine as usual. I’ll make it a point to travel to Florida in the New Year so we can get together.

  I have been seeing a lot of Annabel. She’s a unique individual and I hope I have been doing her some good. She’s had the same effect on me.

  Thanks again for your invitation. My best to your wife and children.

  Quinn.

  Quinn reread the note. I hope I have been doing her some good. She’s had the same effect on me. He closed his eyes. As usual he wasn’t saying more than he was. Which in business was often a very smart strategy. Let your opponent talk, give him silences nerves would force him to fill. Make him risk divulging things he shouldn’t. Keep your own hand close, no tipping, the old poker face.

  But this wasn’t about business. What had he told Annabel about mixing pleasure into her business? He needed to separate business from his pleasure.

  He picked up the paper airplane, launched it, watched it glide gracefully across the room and slide to a smooth landing on the Oriental rug, exactly in the center of an ornamental circle. With all due respect to his mother, it was a little early for I love you, marry me, have my children. But for the first time in his life, he could see that as a possible outcome of a relationship.

  Which meant he couldn’t keep acting as if Annabel’s transformation was the p
oint of them getting together. He had some transforming to do himself. He needed to open up to her, make it clear that happy-ever-after was something he could see evolving out of what they’d barely started, see how she reacted and whether she could see it, too. Stop shutting her out from so much of his life and his past. Tell her who he was and what he wanted, from his life and from her.

  He scrolled back up into the body of the e-mail. Positioned his cursor after “She’s had the same effect on me” and typed, “In other words, I’m falling for her like a boulder shoved off a cliff.”

  He grinned, chuckled, laughed out loud.

  And hit Send.

  ANNABEL CAREFULLY LADLED steaming oyster fennel soup into a two-handled cream soup bowl of Linda’s Christmas china set. Cornish game hens sizzled away in the oven along with prosciutto, pine-nut stuffing. A medley of root vegetables flavored with ginger waited on the stove for a final reheating. Two fruit conserves already graced the sideboard in the dining room; a mesclun salad with grape tomatoes and Belgian endive waited for last-minute dressing before being served after the meal, in the European style. The Bûche de Noël was decorated, a rolled cake frosted with chocolate and made to look like a log, complete with meringue mushrooms dusted with a touch of cocoa powder. For color, she’d decorated the plate with sugared cranberries and mint leaves.

  Everything was in place, on time, oh, she loved the satisfaction of running the show, putting on a really elegant, sophisticated good time. Everyone here would leave remembering the lovely party—and Chefs Tonight. With luck, orders would come in for her services from the guests and their acquaintances. Word of mouth was her very good friend. Now she just needed to spread it across the country.

  Stefanie appeared from the kitchen for the next round of soup, her pleasant expression dropping off into exhaustion the second she reached the safety of the kitchen. Annabel handed her two more bowls, lips pressed together in concern. She wished she could spare Stefanie, who really looked like she needed to rest for about a month. But there was no way Annabel could cook and serve this meal by herself in a timely fashion at this critical stage.