Her favorite off-white angora lay inside out on the bed, discarded on an issue of practicality. Pasta sauce would be so much less noticeable sloshed down the front of this sweater, and, when she cooked, stuff inevitably ended up sloshed. She constrained her hair with a couple of tortoiseshell clips, dusted her overheated face with powder, then, with significant effort, stopped herself dashing back at the same breakneck speed.
Difficult, but she impressed herself by managing.
Unfortunately she didn't manage to coax her face into a smile. As she walked – slow down, Chantal, don't stride! – into the large informal living room, she felt as if her attempt might actually crack her cheeks. When she noticed Quade, alone, bending down to a low bookcase shelf, she gave up her attempt altogether.
Side-lit by a table lamp, he looked – she licked her lips and blew out a hot breath – he looked delicious. She knew the kelly-green sweater would do amazing things to his eyes and when he hunkered lower, his jeans pulled tight and did amazing things to his thighs and buttocks. Oh, my Lord!
Pulse leaping as crazily as the flames in the fireplace, she watched him select her well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird then straighten. "How old were you when you first read this?" he asked, still with his back to her.
How had he known she was there? Could he hear the pounding of her heart above the music? Chantal swallowed and prayed her voice would work. "I don't recall. Fourteen, maybe." A little husky, but working, which impressed her all over again.
"And you decided you wanted to be a lawyer?"
"I was never going to be anything else," she said simply.
He turned the book over in his hands, touching the cover in a way that caused her skin to tingle. As if those strong hands stroked her with the same gentle reverence. "I bet there's a big difference between what you're doing now and your childhood dreams," he said, turning to face her. "I bet you dreamed of being a big trial lawyer."
"Didn't we all?"
"Not me. I never did acquire the gift of rhetoric."
"I don't know about that." She arced a brow at him. "Although your particular gift might see you in constant contempt."
"You think I curse too much?"
Tilting her head on the side, she smiled wryly. "Let's just say you've always been a straight-shooter."
"Are you referring to that … difference of opinion … we had at Barker Cowan?"
Difference of opinion? What an interesting interpretation. "As I recall, it was more a hauling over the coals."
"You deserved it."
Chantal felt herself stiffen reflexively. "I was perfectly justified—"
"See? A difference of opinion, just as I called it."
Chin raised combatively, she glared into his green eyes and saw he was fighting a smile. Dang. How could she retain her righteous indignation with that smile hovering, teasing, threatening to turn her to instant mush?
"Water under the bridge," she said with a dismissive shrug, but only because he'd managed to totally deflect her argument. She still knew she was right, she just couldn't remember why. "Where did Julia get to?"
"She went to see if she could help in the kitchen."
"And Zane?"
"He followed."
"What on earth could they be doing all this time?" She frowned crossly, and then her brain kicked in again. "Oh."
His smile spread. "Indeed."
They were probably lip-locked at this very moment. She wanted to roll her eyes and say something smart, but with her gaze fixed on the curve of Quade's mouth all she could think was lucky, lucky Julia.
"I brought something—"
"My CD?" Distracted by kissing-envy, she jumped in without thinking, and he stared back at her blankly. Okay, not the CD… "My sheets?"
"I didn't know you'd left a CD and as for your sheets—" He looked right into her eyes. "They're still on my bed."
This was exactly why she'd sent Julia shopping for new sheets. To keep his hot body – his hot naked body – from between hers. Chantal swallowed weakly. "I thought you preferred the satin ones."
"Yeah, but yours turned out to be much softer than I imagined."
"High thread count."
"If you say so." His shrug highlighted the breadth of his shoulders. She imagined them bare, in golden-skinned contrast to her stark white linen, and her knees turned to putty. "Don't you want to know what I did bring?"
He inclined his head toward the coffee table and for the first time she noticed the two bottles sitting there.
"Do you like merlot?" he asked in a voice as intoxicating as that soft red brew. But before she could reply, Julia's head appeared through the doorway to the kitchen. She looked flushed and very thoroughly kissed.
"There you are, sis. Do you want me to do anything to help with dinner? Because I'm starving."
Chantal gathered herself. She had guests, a dinner to prepare. A bedazzled head to clear. "You cannot eat the food before it's served. That would be helpful."
Julia grinned, then popped something into her mouth. It looked awfully like the remains of one of the dinner rolls. "Oops, too late."
* * *
The only way she could concentrate on cooking was to chase all chattering you-didn't-mention-what-a-first-grade-hunk-Quade-is distractions from her kitchen with instructions to set the table. Delving deep into the chest freezer for more bread rolls, she sensed a new disruption.
Her first abstracted thought was: so that's how he knew when I came into the living room – he felt me eyeballing his backside.
Her second abstracted thought: if I stay here much longer, generating this amount of body heat, I'll defrost the whole freezer-load of food.
While she extracted herself from the freezer depths, she rued the fact that her jeans, like everything else in her wardrobe, fit a little too snugly.
"Julia sent me after a corkscrew."
"Top drawer, beside the stove," she instructed.
He fetched it – she heard the drawer slide open then click shut – but she felt the touch of his gaze as she placed the rolls in the microwave. Suddenly her roomy kitchen felt very small, the lack of words between them awkward.
"For some reason I'm one roll short," she said, punching buttons to start the oven. She turned to find him leaning against the bench top, tapping the cork-screw against his thigh. A frown drew his dark brows together.
"Sorry for the lack of notice. Julia said you wouldn't mind."
"Julia's right – I don't mind. And the bread shortage isn't because you're one extra but because she's been sampling the goods."
She crossed to the stove, lifted the lid and carefully stirred the simmering soup. It looked good, smelled even better. Thank you, God.
"Knowing Julia," she continued conversationally, "you'd have had little choice on whether you came or not."
"I had choice. That bossy thing you Goodwin girls have going doesn't sway me."
Funny, but she'd never heard bossy sound like a compliment before. It was that voice, that mouth. Irresistible. The word drifted unbidden through her senses but she shook it away. "So, why did you come?"
"Curiosity."
What a curious answer… She turned a little, resting her hip against the stove, so she could see his face. "Curiosity about?"
"Your sister says you're an excellent cook."
And he didn't believe her. Well! Indignation rising, she lifted a ladle full of the thick orange puree and tilted it this way and that in the light.
"Pumpkin?" he asked.
"Roasted pumpkin with green apple and thyme."
"Gourmet," he murmured but she noticed him inhale the aromatic steam. She noticed his eyes haze just a smidge and her stomach dipped with satisfaction. He would change his mind about her cooking skills before the night was over.
"Would you like a taste?" she asked.
"Is it safe?"
Perhaps it was her imagination, but his cool Midori gaze seemed to slide to her mouth and back again. Chantal felt the impact flow through
her blood in a prolonged wave of longing.
The touch of his lips wouldn't be safe, not to her sanity, not to her senses, but she didn't care. Oh, how she didn't care!
Gaze locked with hers, he slowly ducked his head to the ladle suspended between them. When he sipped from the edge of the tilted spoon, she felt her own lips open reflexively, felt her tongue touch the very center of her top lip. Felt a soft sigh of appreciation slide between her open lips. Saw something flicker darkly in his eyes. Desire? Resolve?
He leaned closer, beyond the spoon, and another sound escaped her throat, a sound of heightened anticipation. When his tongue touched her top lip, one soft stroke, she allowed her lids to drift shut. She needed to concentrate, to categorize each nuance, the whisper of his exhalation against her cheek, the slight change in angle that brought their lips into perfect alignment, the sensual slide of his tongue. Top lip, bottom lip. Sweet, spicy, hot. So delicious, the rush of flavor, of heat, of desire, but still just a sample, she knew, of what was to come…
Her knees turned weak, her shoulders slumped, her elbows gave way as a rich multitude of sensations coursed through her body. And then the ladle slipped from her fingers, bumped down the front of her jumper and clattered to the floor. Eyes flying open, she jumped back just as Julia barreled through the door. Pulling up short, she took in the scene in one raised-eyebrows look, turned on her heel, and left as quickly as she'd arrived.
Which left Chantal to deal with sloshed soup and one very uncomfortable man. He stood rubbing his forehead and looking as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just done. She couldn't quite believe what he'd just done. She definitely couldn't believe what he was about to do…
He grabbed a dishcloth and started dabbing at her sweater. Down her abdomen, over her belly … and everywhere he touched seared like molten flame. Face flushed, pulse galloping, she drew in a shallow shuddery breath and felt him still. His eyes were lowered but she saw his nostrils flare and a shiver – hot, cold, yes, please – raced through her.
But he pushed the cloth into her hand and muttered, "That's got the worst of it," before stepping well clear.
Disappointment thundered hard on the heels of hope. Obviously he didn't want to talk about the kiss, let alone carry on where they'd left off.
Well, fine. She wasn't about to ask. Or beg.
"I guess I'd better get on with this cooking or we won't be eating till midnight," she said, shucking off a disturbingly intense sense of regret. She ducked down to grab a saucepan, dashed to the sink, back to the stove.
"Are you all right?" he asked after a frantic minute's activity.
"I'm fine. Why?"
"You look a bit … flustered."
Really? she thought. Only flustered? She could have sworn she looked somewhere between full boil and complete meltdown whereas he looked as cool as ever. Totally unaffected. Her heart did a duck and dive.
"Heat from the cooking." She flapped a hand in front of her face and inspiration struck. "Or perhaps I'm coming down with something. I've been feeling a bit fluish all day."
"You have?"
Well, no, but when he frowned at her she thought he looked concerned. Concerned she was contagious, no doubt, so she kept on talking. "The other day we were playing the back nine and got caught in the rain. By the time we made it to shelter, we were drenched."
"Golf in the rain? Isn't that a bit much even for, you?"
Chantal bridled at his tone of voice. "The shower caught us by surprise."
"The clouds gave you no clue?"
"I didn't care about the clouds," she snapped back. "I needed to catch up on my lessons."
"With Craig I presume?"
"Yes."
He snorted. Then said nothing while she measured pasta and counted to ten to control her temper. She about had it under control when he muttered, as if through a tightly clenched jaw, "It's only a game, Chantal."
"You think I put myself through all this frustration for a game?" she asked, whirling around to stare at him.
"Let me guess … golf is a smart career move. You want to impress Godfrey and maybe a client or two?"
Yes, she had taken it on for precisely that reason but it had become a personal challenge, a task to conquer. She wanted to succeed. But she wasn't about to make any apologies or to defend herself. She merely murmured, with just a touch of sarcasm, "How perceptive of you."
"Not particularly." His tone was as cutting as his gaze. "Kristin would play golf in a hurricane for a pat on the head from her boss."
He left her standing there stunned, not by his words but by the bitterness that sharpened the taut planes of his face and glittered in his eyes. By the knowledge that whatever had broken up his engagement had totally torn him up inside.
* * *
Chapter 5
«^»
"Oh, no, you don't." Julia moved pretty speedily for a well-fed pregnant lady, snagging Chantal's arm before she could follow Quade and Zane and a cart-load of crockery into the kitchen. "Yes, they're men, but I think we can trust them to pack a dishwasher."
"They're my guests."
"Technically I'd say more freeloaders than guests. Besides, Quade offered."
"He was being polite. No one offers to do dishes because they want to."
"True, but in this case you're doing them a favor."
Incredulous, Chantal laughed.
"No, really. They've been dying to get rid of us womenfolk so they can talk cars to their hearts' content." Julia tugged at Chantal's sleeve. "Let's go take a weight off. And please, could you try to relax?"
After Cameron Quade had raised her core temperature to boiling with one expert kiss, only to dunk her straight into the ice-cold water of his condemnation? No, she didn't think she could relax any more now than she had during dinner. Not when she kept recalling the look in his eyes when he mentioned Kristin's name. Not when her own response was a worrisome need to reach out, to soothe the hurt, to make it better. She was pretty sure Cameron Quade wasn't looking to her for emotional healing.
Finally she relented to her sister's insistent arm-jiggling and allowed herself to be led to the lounge setting by the fire. She didn't follow Julia's eloquent suggestion to take a weight off.
"If you're not going to sit, could you at least stop pacing?" Julia said after several seconds. "I'm getting tired watching you."
Chantal planted her feet in front of the hearth, forcing herself to still. Unfortunately this allowed her sister to fix her with a now-I-have-you-alone look. Way safer to instigate the conversation myself, Chantal decided. "What do you mean about the men wanting to talk cars?"
"Apparently Quade has some old sports classic in his shed." A smug smile curved Julia's lips. "Zane says its line and shape are almost as sweet as mine."
"The MG," Chantal said softly, recalling the car's sexy low-slung frame as clearly as if she'd seen it yesterday.
"The what?"
"The old sports car – it's an MG."
Julia shook her head. "You amaze me. How did you know that?"
"I…" Chantal hesitated. Why not share the whole sordid tale? It would definitely distract Julia from the story she really wanted to hear, the one about what she'd stumbled upon in the kitchen earlier. "Do you remember the summer I clerked at Barker Cowan? The firm Quade used to work for?"
"I remember how deadly important it was for you to clerk at the 'right' places. I remember those discussions around the dinner table," Julia said dryly.
"Well, it was important."
She'd wanted to experience a diversity of practices and to learn from the best in their fields, although in this case there'd been another factor influencing her choice. A twenty-something-year-old hunk of a factor.
She couldn't stand still; she had to pace. "It was the October long weekend. I was home from uni and I heard Quade was visiting with his father, so I drove out there. I wanted to know more about the firm, to see if I wanted to clerk there." A perfectly acceptable reason, she had decided at the time,
to meet the intriguing Cameron Quade. "Anyway, his father answered the door and said Cameron was down at the shed, tinkering with the car."
"Ahh. So he was working on this MG way back then?"
Yes and no. Chantal moistened her dry mouth and decided to spill it all. "When I walked in, it wasn't the car he was working on."
Julia's brows rose sharply. "Who was he, um, working on?"
"An associate at Barker Cowan, as it turned out. Quade's father hadn't mentioned he had company, although I was so naive I'd probably still have waltzed right in there."
Almost seven years and she still flinched recalling that moment of discovery. Still felt the rapid flush of heat that had washed through her, part embarrassment and part fascination.
"They didn't see you, right?"
"Good God, no. I turned and ran." Although not straight away. In fact, she'd been too paralyzed to move for a long enthralled moment.
"How did you know it was an MG?"
Chantal stopped pacing and blew out a hot breath. "I'm observant. Besides, I was looking anywhere but at … them."
"I can't believe you never told me about this." Julia puffed out a disbelieving breath before continuing, "I can't believe you ended up going to work at this Barker place."
"Mother organized it through Godfrey. She thought she was doing me a favor."
And so began the summer-in-hell, as she struggled to shut out those car hood images and her own fantasies born of them. She'd dreamed of being the woman spread across stark red duco. In her dreams she had felt the cool steel under her back and the hot man against her front; she'd experienced the magic of a lover's kiss and heard the low sounds of pleasure in her own throat. From each such dream she'd woken perspiring, disoriented, and still untouched by any lover.
"Wow," Julia breathed softly, as if party to Chantal's secret thoughts. "How did you deal with seeing Quade and what's-her-name every day?"
"I focused on the work." Or at least I tried to.
"But could you look them in the face? You know, around the coffee machine or over depositions or whatever law clerks do?"
"You remember me at nineteen." Chantal's attempt at a smile felt leaden. "Take a wild guess."
QUADE: THE IRRESISTIBLE ONE Page 5