Before I Melt Away

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Before I Melt Away Page 16

by Isabel Sharpe


  Quinn drew the shades and shut the curtains over them. “Quite a snowman across the street, I noticed it earlier.”

  “Mmm. Kid and his mom across the street did it.”

  “Frosty?” He slid back into bed and pulled her close.

  “Brunnhilde.”

  He laughed. She moved closer to his warmth, wrapped her legs around his, put her hand to his chest enjoying the vibrations of his laughter, enjoying the feel of his skin, enjoying him. She hadn’t lain like this with a man since…ever. Not for more than a minute or two. So she wouldn’t get any sleep tonight. And she’d be a zombie in the morning cooking for his party. Right now, who cared? It was delicious. Deliciously warm, deliciously silent.

  Until Quinn cleared his throat and in a rich baritone, did the last thing she’d expect him to do: started singing “Frosty the Snowman.” She giggled at first, and then when it became apparent he intended to keep singing, she listened incredulously, then with real enjoyment. He sang pretty well for a computer geek, and she had to admit she was charmed.

  “‘So he said let’s run and have some fun, now before I melt away…’” His voice trailed off in the darkness.

  The meaning of his words sank in and Annabel’s smile faded. “Is that what we’re doing?”

  “You tell me.”

  She nudged him playfully. “You first.”

  He chuckled. “Ah, no, we control freaks won’t risk owning up to our feelings, will we?”

  “What a surprise.”

  “Okay, I’ll go first.” He turned and cleared his throat. “You ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Really sure?”

  “Sta-a-l-ling…”

  “Guilty.” His hand stroked her shoulder; she felt the tension rise in his body.

  Immediately a strong urge rose to put her feelings out there first, spare him any tension or fear, make it safe for him.

  “I’m not ready for this to end.”

  “Will you come to California to visit me?”

  They spoke at the same time and laughed together, nervously. Annabel bit her lip. “I would love to come to California, I just don’t see how I can—”

  “Take the time?”

  She inhaled deeply, blew out in a sigh. “Predictable, huh.”

  “Like a clock. How did you get that way?”

  “Gee, Freud, I dunno.”

  “You must have some idea.”

  “I do, I do.” She lifted her hand, let it drop back onto his chest. “I suppose I’m following in my father’s no-nonsense footsteps. Or rather taking up the challenge he laid down that being a girl, I couldn’t. Or maybe fulfilling the success he denied my mother.”

  “You think she regretted giving up her career?”

  “How could she not?”

  He shrugged. “Granted, I came to your family from a skewed perspective, but I’ve never seen a couple as happy as your parents.”

  Annabel lifted her head. “So that means I’m uptight and driven for no reason whatsoever?”

  He grinned, giving her an affectionate squeeze. “We’ll work on you. Not that I’m exactly Mr. Spontaneity.”

  “No.” She shifted beside him, wondering about her mom, loving that he said “we” and wanting to tell him she thought they were good for each other, that he’d already started changing her for the better, and that she wanted to help him, too. But she was too pathetically scared it would sound as though she was picking out their furniture already, and maybe too scared she would find herself wanting to. “So what’s your life like in California?”

  “When I’m not traveling? Let’s see. I get up every morning at five, work out, am at the office by eight, sit in meetings, put out fires, read too many reports, write too many letters, take someone dull out to lunch, do it again in the afternoon, and in the evening I either speak to business groups, have dinner with a friend or go home and read.”

  “Wow.”

  “More glamorous than you ever thought possible, right?”

  “Way more.” She smiled even as she felt the fear building in her at the question she wanted so much to ask him. “How long can you stay?”

  “Tonight or in Milwaukee?”

  “Both.”

  “I’m not leaving here until you kick me out.” He brought his hand up to lie across his forehead. “And I’m going to Maine on Christmas Eve, then home to California.”

  “Tomorrow.” Annabel swallowed against the stab of pain. Not a surprise. She knew he’d be leaving. “Your mom will be glad to see you.”

  “I’ll be glad to see her, too.”

  She stroked his chest, down his stomach, back up again, loving the warm, alive feel of him next to her. “What’s her name?”

  “Bridget. It means ‘resolute strength,’ which fits her. What does Annabel mean?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Graceful beauty.”

  “Let me check.” He rolled to the side and relit a candle beside her bed, then slid back beside her, took hold of her chin and inspected her like an auto mechanic checking a newly arrived part. “Yup. Graceful beauty it is.”

  She snorted and pushed his hand away. “What does Quinn mean?”

  “‘Wise.’ And Garrett means, ‘with a mighty spear.’”

  Annabel burst out laughing. “As one who was just speared, I can testify that it is indeed mighty.”

  “Why thank you.” He cupped the back of her head and kissed her mouth, then again, as if the one time wasn’t nearly enough. Which in her opinion it damn well wasn’t.

  “So, Mr. Mighty Spear…”

  “Mmm?”

  “You said I’d know when the time was right to ask about your family.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “I’m guessing now.”

  “Okay.” He rolled onto his back, dark eyes staring at the ceiling, lashes and candlelight making wavering shadows on his cheeks. “Here’s the fun version. Dad was an alcoholic, often violent. Mom protected me as best she could, but he got to me too sometimes. When I left for college, Mom kicked him out. He found someone else to beat up and eventually drank himself to death. I was an odd kid, a loner, not many friends. And they all lived happily ever after. The end.”

  “Oh, my God, Quinn.” She thought of him as the teenager who’d shown up at their house that fall—quiet, aloof, wary, and her heart felt as if it would break retroactively.

  “That year with your family was like paradise. That’s why I remember so much of it.”

  “I can see why.” Her eyes filled with tears, she couldn’t help it. It was as if his pain was happening to her.

  “I spoke to Mom yesterday. She said when I came home from that year I talked about you incessantly.” He turned to her, eyebrows lifted, eyes watchful. “What do you think that means?”

  She smiled through her tears at his teasing tone. “Um, that you’ve been in love with me your entire life?”

  She meant the words to come out flippantly, said with a smile, teasing him back. But her throat was still thick from emotion and the sentence came out deadly serious, throaty and passionate. Oh, God. She wanted to crawl under the bed and live forever after with the dust bunnies. What had possessed her to say that?

  “Quinn.” She struggled up onto one elbow and forced herself to grin wickedly. “I was kidding. Don’t freak out.”

  He put a hand to her hair and brushed it back from her face with such tenderness, her wicked grin didn’t have a chance of survival.

  “I didn’t freak out, Annabel.” He lifted his head and kissed her. “I was actually wondering the same thing.”

  11

  ANNABEL HALF WOKE to the vague feeling that it was late and she had huge things to do and not nearly enough time to do them in. Of course she woke up feeling that way every day, but something was different this morning.

  Her body registered the heat of another body against her back. Oh my. She’d spent the entire night with Quinn and actually slept. She c
ould never sleep with anyone in the bed. The few times she’d tried were such exercises in restless, blanket-warring, snore-blocking insomniac frustration, she’d finally put her foot down and wouldn’t let anyone stay.

  But here he was, and here she was, and it was morning, though probably pretty early. She blinked completely awake and lifted on her elbows, looked at the clock and gasped. Eight o’clock, how could it be? She hadn’t woken up once, not once! Slept like the dead with a man beside her…with Quinn in her bed…how on earth did she do that?

  “H’lo.” A strong arm looped itself around her and brought her back to lie against a warm chest.

  “Good morning.” She tried to remember her menu for the dinner party at his apartment tonight. How badly off was she? Stefanie would be here at nine. If she got up now and managed to—

  “Sleep well?” The hand attached to said strong arm began to investigate her breasts, her stomach, and…mmm…so on.

  “Quinn.” She tried to move away, but it was like trying to push through a metal subway turnstile without having paid. “It’s eight already.”

  “So?” His fingers reached their intended goal between her legs and she grabbed his hand away, trying not to savor the warmth of his body pressed against her back.

  “So…I can’t believe I overslept. I have to get up and start on your dinner party. I haven’t shopped yet for the perishable stuff, I need to—”

  “Get takeout.” He moved quickly, flipped her on her back, pinned her there and began kissing her stomach, moving downward, obviously intending to be on his way to making her a happy, happy woman.

  Except this wasn’t the time for happiness. This was the time for work. “I can’t do this. I have to make a phyllo mushroom tart and salad, roast a leg of lamb with potatoes, olives and artichokes, and prepare raspberry gelato, raspberry chocolate tartlets with hazelnut crusts and miniature raspberry parfaits.”

  “So what’s your point?” His tongue prepared to invade her body and her sanity. She wiggled free and sat up on the bed, eyeing him warily.

  “I have to get going. I can’t stay. This party is important. I want to do it right for you.”

  “I don’t mind. And I can help again if you want. Or why not just make one dessert instead of three?”

  “You don’t understand. You’re—”

  “Leaving tomorrow morning.”

  Ouch. Okay. That shut her up. Annabel dropped her eyes to the sheet, not able to meet his gaze. “True.”

  “And that’s it for us.”

  “It is?” She did look at him then, anxiously, she was sure. A miserable little balloon started inflating in her chest, taking up too much room and hurting.

  “Apparently. I don’t live here, you said you can’t come to California even to visit. Where does that leave us?”

  “Apart.” She whispered the words while the balloon inflated further, to bursting point, only she had a feeling this balloon would never pop, just keep growing larger and larger and hurting more and more.

  “Right. Apart. So I want to make love to you this morning. Cut out one of the desserts. Buy prepackaged greens for the salad. Better yet, get a bucket of chicken with sides, call it a dinner party and spend the whole damn day with me, Annabel.”

  Her heart reacted viscerally to the emotion in his voice while her head knew it was impossible. “I can’t do that. You’ve got the bigwig from Janson Corp. coming. This is my job. My reputation. Would you show up to a big speaking engagement unprepared? Give the audience an aural bucket of chicken when they were expecting three courses of perfection?”

  “Touché.” He sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “No. I wouldn’t.”

  “I won’t, either.”

  “I know.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead, a long, sweet kiss that for all its chasteness turned her gooey and hot. “Forget I suggested it. Pure selfish greed.”

  “Yep.” She sent him a sly glance. “Although…I could just make the raspberry tarts and the parfait.”

  “Now we’re talking.” He reached for her waist, pulled her forward, then eased her onto her back and lay over her, reached for a condom from her bedside table. “You’re sure you can’t serve fast food?”

  “I’m sure.” She put her arms around his neck and moved her hips suggestively. “But why don’t you try and convince me otherwise?”

  “Deal.”

  Half an hour later, they lay together, panting subsided into slow, relaxed breaths, and mmm, Annabel was practically sore from being convinced. He was the best convincer she’d had in a long, long time. No, ever. She’d miss him like mad when he left. And that was such an atrocious understatement she couldn’t believe she’d even thought it.

  Last night he’d shocked her by wondering out loud if the L word applied and she’d started bawling again, oh, my God, what a wreck she was. Annabel, the great implacable one, who ran her business on her own, weathered the storms, out there every day upbeat and positive—she’d been reduced to a hormonal sniffling wreck.

  If this was love, well, frankly, this felt more like insanity.

  What had there been to say? No more than had been said this morning. In the context of their lives, whether or not they were in love didn’t make a whole hell of a lot of difference either way.

  Quinn lifted his head from next to hers, glanced over at the clock and back with a raised eyebrow. “I suppose round two is out of the question?”

  She didn’t need to know the time to answer that one. “Uh-huh.”

  “You sure?” He moved in and out of her, not fully erect, but still hard enough to make her squirm and wish she could change her mind. “Maybe you could only make one dessert?”

  “Hmm.” She giggled. “I suppose I could make just one big raspberry tart and serve it with whipped cream.”

  “Have I ever told you how much—” His cell phone rang. He scowled and lifted off her, carefully pulling out so not to hurt her or disturb the condom. “Sorry. Annoying as hell I know, but I have to take calls after eight.”

  “I understand.” Business, she understood. Matters of the heart were completely mysterious.

  “Hello?” He sat on the edge of the bed. She moved closer and spooned around him, unable to resist even the smallest chance to touch him.

  She should just be honest and face it. She didn’t want to cook at all. She wanted to lie here with him for the rest of the day, for the rest of the week, for the rest of the year and beyond. Talk, laugh, make love, eat only when necessary. Was this what her mother had felt? Was this why she’d given up a shot at courtroom fame? And was Quinn right, that Mom had found the trade-off well worth it?

  For the first time in her life, she could imagine how that might be true. Her mom might even have said so, in so many ways, but Annabel hadn’t been ready to hear it. Maybe Annabel was in love. Or maybe she was just growing up and figuring out that things were never quite as black-and-white as they seemed in youth.

  She drew her hand down the wonderful muscled back next to her. Maybe she could just bake the potatoes plain, in with the lamb. And serve olives in a dish on the side. They were perfectly delicious on their own. Artichokes were out of season now anyway.

  “Okay, yes. I’m delighted you’ll be there, thanks very much for calling.” He snapped off the phone, then tipped his head back as if he was asking the ceiling for guidance on a troubling issue.

  “What is it?” She let her finger ski down the vertebrae moguls of his spine, down to the sexy hollow just above his buttocks. “Extra people tonight? Back to two desserts?”

  “Two more people.” He twisted around so he could see her face. His own looked fairly grim. “Something tells me you’re really not going to be happy with a bucket of chicken now.”

  “Oh?” Alarm bells started ringing. Loudly. “Why’s that?”

  “That call? The guests coming tonight?”

  “Ye-e-es?”

  “I wasn’t sure if he’d make it, so I didn’t want to get your hopes up.


  Annabel lifted her head off the mattress. “What do you mean? Who is it?”

  He chuckled with dry irony and let his hand drop down on her rear with a playful smack. “Time to get up, Ms. Personal Chef. Tonight you’re cooking for Adolph Fox.”

  ANNABEL CALLED goodbye through her back door to poor, exhausted Stefanie, thanked her for the morning and early afternoon of frantic help, then hoisted the last bag of food into her minivan to take over to Quinn’s apartment. Adolph Fox would be there. She couldn’t quite wrap her brain around the fact. That must explain why she wasn’t more pumped up. Something had to explain it. For heaven’s sake, this man was her idol. At worst, he could give her valuable advice, at best become her mentor and launch her on her way to the big-time career she’d always wanted.

  Maybe she was tired. Maybe she had some Quinn-induced block to actually understanding what this could mean to her.

  Maybe she was so crazy about him that she couldn’t bring herself to care.

  She slammed the liftgate down. Which was exactly why she’d wanted so badly to keep her heart free. Now that Quinn had wormed his way in, her goals were fuzzing out. She couldn’t think past the next time she’d get to see him, couldn’t stop trying to scheme how she could find some way to keep seeing him after he left tomorrow.

  Was she turning into her mother? She couldn’t imagine being happy just as Mrs. Quinn Garrett. Couldn’t imagine a lifetime wondering how far she could have taken her company and her talent and her name.

  And yet Quinn had been back in her life a week—granted an intense week—and already the thought of seeing him only the odd times he managed to make it back to Milwaukee didn’t feel as if it was going to be enough.

  Not nearly.

  She closed her back door and rested her head against the cool glass window for just a second. To regroup. As if one second resting her head against cool glass was going to solve anything. But rushing to this dinner party, where she’d be caught between Quinn hosting and Adolph Fox guesting, was going to be much more symbolic pressure than she was in the mood for.

 

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