QUADE: THE IRRESISTIBLE ONE

by Bronwyn Jameson

  Then he cleared the long-tray truck that had partly blocked his view, and her sleek silver coupe came into sight. It had been keyed. From one end to the other, a deep ugly gouge. Every hot infuriated word fled his brain.

  "Ouch," he said softly.

  She didn't turn her head, but he heard her draw a fractured breath, saw the flash of anger in her eyes. "Not exactly the word I was thinking. In fact, not even close."

  "I guess not." He knew not. "Had the same thing happen to my Beemer once. I'd only had it two weeks."

  "I've had mine four." She touched the door, running her fingers gently along the wound. "What did you do?"

  "Reported it and had it fixed."

  She laughed, a short harsh sound completely at odds with the way her hand caressed her car, completely at odds with the softness of the night. "Then I guess that's what I'll do, too."

  Straightening her shoulders, she reached for the driver's door but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Give me the keys. I'll drive."

  She shook her head. "No one drives this car but me."

  "You're shaken up, you're angry, and you drive too fast when you're not. I'd rather not take my chances."

  Her eyes flashed dark fire. "It's a nice night for a walk, Quade."

  "Is that what you intended when you rushed out of the bar? That I should walk home?"

  With his hand still on her shoulder, he felt her tension. "I … I wasn't thinking. I wouldn't have left you there."

  "Pleased to hear it. Now give me the keys."

  "I'm not angry anymore. And I'm a good driver."

  "Subjective, I was in the passenger seat earlier. You drive too fast." She opened her mouth to protest and he didn't let her. "How about when you took on that truck up Quilty's Hill? You couldn't back off. Tell me, Chantal, is everything a contest with you? Do you tackle everything full throttle?"

  His subtle emphasis on everything was deliberate. So was the way his gaze shifted to her lips, to the soft rise and fall of her breasts as she drew a shaky breath. The way his hand shifted on her shoulder, gentling, one caressing stroke down her upper arm and back to her shoulder. He felt her slight tremor, his own tightening response.

  Then he took the keys from her lax hand and slipped between her and the driver's door. "And before you start thinking up reasons why I shouldn't drive, I don't speed, I do pay courtesies to other drivers and I sat on the one glass of wine all night."

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  «^»

  After ten minutes, Chantal couldn't stand the silence any longer. She could have put some music on – God knows, she had enough to choose from – but she had already provided one opportunity for smirking without him seeing her entire boy band collection.

  Besides, she didn't want him to think she was brooding over the who-drives issue. That would be petty, given she had been angry and shaken, and not only over the car vandalism. When she took off out of The Lion she hadn't outpaced the doubt demons – they had all come along for the ride. Better to talk than to brood, she concluded. Better for the sake of learning more about Quade, and better for the sake of quieting those demons and calming her jumpy nerves and distracting her jumpy imagination. That kept leaping ahead to the end of the drive.

  Did he still want her out of these clothes?

  Oh, dear Lord, she really had to stop thinking about that…

  "I hope you don't mind me asking—"

  "That phrase only ever precedes a question I do mind being asked," he interrupted, but she heard wry humor in his voice.

  Good, she thought. Humor is good.

  He made a carry-on gesture with one hand, a strong, capable hand with long, elegant fingers. He used them a lot when he talked and a lot when they were close. Recalling his hand on her shoulder, her arm, brought on a familiar rush of warmth. Imagining them on her bare skin caused a fiercer lick of desire, and then she felt him watching her, watching her watching his hand.

  Caught, her face heated and she looked away, clearing her throat and remembering what she had meant to ask. "I've been wondering about your MG. Will you have it going soon?"

  "Maybe." He smiled that sexy little smile, the one that just hinted at dimples. "Hope you're not thinking turnabout is fair play, because you are not getting behind the wheel of that baby. No way."

  "Because I drive too fast?"

  "Yes."

  She didn't bother taking offence because she sensed there was more to come, important more to come. It was in the slight narrowing of his gaze, in the drumming of his fingers on the wheel.

  "It's my father's car, really. He did all the early work, spent years chasing after parts. Ever heard the fourth rule of restoration?"

  She shook her head. "Not that I recall."

  "The bloke who has the part you desperately need got rid of it yesterday."

  "Sounds like a cousin to Murphy's Law."

  "Twice removed." Their eyes met and held for a moment, smiling, enjoying the subtle irony until he needed to look back at the road. "Dad lost his enthusiasm after Mum died and didn't ever get back to finishing it. It's giving me something to do while I'm waiting on Julia's garden plans. I decided to finish the job, for Dad. Kind of a…"

  His voice trailed off and Chantal finished for him. A memorial. Wow. Overwhelmed by the notion, she didn't speak for several minutes, not until she could trust her voice.

  "Is that why you're restoring the garden? Is that for your mother?"

  His drumming fingers stilled. He glanced her way, surprise and something warmer in his expression. The something warmer took a firm hold on Chantal's heart, made her feel like she was smiling right there in her chest. "I guess I want things the same as they used to be, or close to. I don't know what that says about me … probably that I'm not much good at doing nothing."

  "Or that you loved your parents and miss them."

  He lifted a shoulder and shifted in his seat. Uncomfortably? Self-consciously? The band of warmth around Chantal's heart squeezed a little tighter. She was in big trouble here, she knew it, but she liked the feeling too much to fight it. Way too much.

  "Any other plans for the way things were?" she asked.

  "There's the land. It's been neglected, wasted. I've been thinking about what to do with it."

  "You could start a free-range egg enterprise. You already have the stock."

  He laughed. "If I could only find where they're hiding the eggs."

  "Have you considered grapes?"

  "They're on my short list. Why?" She saw a slight shift in his posture and felt a sharp shift in his interest.

  "They do well around here. Climate and soil are ideal and there's boutique wineries springing up everywhere which add to the marketing options."

  "Downside?"

  "You have to know what you're doing."

  "You sound like you do."

  "Yeah, I sound like I do." She smiled wryly, thinking about how little she knew about other things, such as the getting-her-clothes-off thing. "I've done some work for the local Wine Producers Co-op, that's all."

  "Are grapes profitable?"

  "I couldn't say. James would know." When he lifted a brow in a who's James? look, she expounded. "James Harrier. He's a consultant who specializes in vines and orchards."

  She offered to introduce them at the wedding, which changed the course of the conversation to Saturday's guest list and the fun job of seating such a motley assortment where they were likely to do the least damage during the reception dinner. Midway through the easy exchange they arrived in his yard, and he turned off the engine. Chantal had been aware of all that, but she kept batting the conversational ball back, knowing that once it went out of play she would have to deal with what happens now?

  Now had arrived.

  Closeted in the darkness, in the stillness, the atmosphere felt intensely intimate. She closed her eyes and breathed an intricate mix of man and machine, male and Mercedes. A night bird hoo-hooed and she heard the subtle creak of leather as he shif
ted in his seat, but he hadn't turned her way. His eyes weren't on her face, her body. She would have known.

  Without opening her eyes, without so much as a peek, she could picture exactly how he looked, wrists crooked over the top of the steering wheel, a slight frown drawing his dark brows together as he searched the darkness of his garden for the owl. The image filled her mind, filled her senses.

  "I haven't done this in a lot of years," he said softly.

  "Sat in a car and talked?" Is that what he meant? She opened her eyes and turned to see him. Exactly as she'd pictured. "Did you used to do that a lot?"

  "Not so much of the talking." Slowly his head rolled her way, and there was something about the smooth control of the movement, something about the white flash of his smile that mesmerized her. She could picture that exact motion in bed, dark hair against pale pillow, and the smile that seduced. "How about you?"

  She swallowed. "Not me."

  "You've never been parking?"

  "No."

  In a move as practiced and seductive as that smile, he turned his shoulders to rest an arm along the back of her seat. When his fingertips brushed her hair she ached to dip her head into the almost-caress. "Never necked?"

  "No." She moistened her lips and watched his eyes track the movement, felt those long, elegant fingers curl into her hair.

  "No time like the present," he murmured, leaning forward slowly – much too slowly – and pressing his lips to her forehead in a kiss so gentle she barely felt it. But when he trailed those heavenly lips all the way to her temple, he left behind a delicate thread of desire that seeped all the way into her soul.

  He eased away and her soul sighed with disappointment. "Have we started yet?" she asked.

  Smiling, he touched her bottom lip with his thumb. "Just about."

  That thumb continued to tease her lips, the bottom and then the top, turning her weak with desire. To be kissed, to be touched in other places. Hot, breathless, she imagined that lazy stroke tracing the line of her throat, cruising over the swell of her breasts, pressing against her tightly aroused nipples.

  With an impatient growl she grabbed at him, sinking her hands into the soft knit of his sweater, dragging him those last few inches until his lips were on hers, her mouth under his. A satisfied sound escaped her throat as she opened her mouth, inviting him, accepting him, and the kiss exploded. From restrained exploration to consuming passion in one little sound, in one beat of her heart, in one long unrestrained stroke of his tongue.

  Inspired, she followed him, learned from him, dueled with him. When he retreated she took the lead, sinking into the hot cavern of his mouth, feeling the smooth edge of his teeth, sampling every flavor. Pleasure sang in her veins, pleasure and a rush of feminine power she had never experienced before.

  When she paused for breath, the hands cupping her face slid to her shoulders and his lips slid to her throat. The nuzzling warmth of his lips, the gentle bite on her earlobe, made her hum low in her throat.

  "If this is necking," she breathed, "then I'm sorry I missed out."

  He laughed, a soft harsh sound, velvet in the darkness. "If you wore straitjacket shirts like this, I'm not surprised you missed out."

  "I don't think I can blame my clothes." Her voice sounded thick and throaty, but then his hands were on her shirt, swiftly and expertly popping buttons.

  "No?"

  The backs of his fingers touched bare flesh, and she sucked in a shallow breath. "You remember me as a teenager. I was a natural born man-deterrent."

  His hands stilled, she prayed because he'd finished with the buttons, not because she'd sounded too derisive or, worse, self-pitying.

  "I remember you being a pain in the ass. I guess that's a deterrent."

  Relief washed through her, so intense and heady she laughed out loud. "Yeah, well, I overplayed every hand trying to get your attention. The completely inept virgin with a king-size crush, that was me."

  The ensuing silence reverberated through Chantal's body. Relief turned to cold dread. The big V word, proven atmosphere chiller, and she had just tossed it out there. Dumb move, Chantal, very dumb. She couldn't look at him, couldn't do anything but shake her head and cringe deep inside as he drew back into his own space, as she waited for his response.

  None was forthcoming. No jokey rejoinders, no stunned expression of disbelief. Chantal felt so twitchy, so tightly wired, she thought she would snap. Pasting some semblance of breeziness on her face, she waved a hand dismissively. With the other she, belatedly, drew the open sides of her shirt together. "And I guess that was way more information than the occasion demanded."

  She felt his gaze on her face, heard him inhale, and the whistle of breath sounded unnaturally loud in the oppressive atmosphere. "Are you still…?"

  "A virgin? Technically, no."

  "You want to elaborate on that?"

  No, she didn't want to elaborate but seeing as she had dug herself into this hole, she might as well bury herself. "There's not a lot to tell. One regrettably ordinary experience a long while ago and that's my sexual CV. Short and not so sweet. Big surprise, huh?"

  He huffed out a breath. "You might say that … although that in itself is no surprise. You've been surprising me and confusing me on a regular basis from the minute I arrived home."

  His admission twined itself through Chantal's intense sense of letdown, halting the downward spiral. It almost sounded like… She studied him closely in the darkness but could read nothing in his expression. "Is this a good thing?" she asked.

  "Yes. No." He laughed shortly. "I came home to sort out my life. I don't want confusion, I don't need complications."

  "Perhaps you should have thought of that before you started undoing buttons." Defiantly she met his gaze, daring him to take issue. But when his gaze dropped, a liquid slide down her bare throat, her breasts tightened reflexively. She clutched the sides of her shirt together.

  "Sex doesn't have to be complicated," he said as his gaze rose to meet hers. "Not if both players know the score."

  And wasn't that the rub? He knew exactly what he wanted and she … she had a mind overflowing with insecurities and a heart overflowing with foolish hopes. She also had her pride. Swallowing, she lifted her chin. "You think, just because I'm inexperienced, I don't know what this is about?"

  "You tell me, Chantal. Look me in the eye and tell me this is only about getting naked. Tell me you're not hanging onto some teenage infatuation that's all tied up in hearts and flowers and walks down the aisle."

  "You know my opinion on marriage," she said stiffly. "I thought it was pretty close to yours."

  "That's not what I asked. Why have you been celibate for so long? What have you been holding out for?"

  She could tell him the truth. I haven't bothered because no one had made me feel it was worth my while. No one has ever made me feel the things you do. Or she could bluff.

  Chin high, she forced her gaze to his, to the sharp glitter of his eyes in the darkness. "Your ego's severely inflated if you think I was holding out for you, especially since I thought I'd never see you again."

  "Still not an answer."

  Damn him. "You want a yes or no answer? Okay, yes. I do want to get naked with you. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

  "All I want to hear is the truth, Chantal."

  "And how will you know when you're getting it? As you've pointed out more than once, I'm a lawyer, one you can't even decide if you like."

  "Oh, I like you all right." His voice was low and rough, his gaze dark and dangerous. Nerves started jitterbugging in Chantal's stomach. "This afternoon in my shed, I liked the hell out of the way you looked at me. Tonight at dinner, every time your thigh brushed against mine, I liked you a little better. And just now, with my tongue in your mouth, I was about ready to explode with liking you."

  Oh. Her nerves stopped dancing and settled as a sick heavy weight in the pit of her stomach. All those things, purely physical. He didn't like her, he wanted her. Naked. For se
x. A one-night stand, or maybe not even a whole night. Wham-bam, see you later ma'am. She knew all about the last.

  Could she accept that and nothing more? Remembering all she had felt earlier in Julia's garden? Knowing she was more than halfway in love with him? Worrying her bottom lip, she stared out into the night, but he saved her from answering. At least for now.

  "It's your call, sweetheart, and your time frame. Once you've stopped biting that lip, you know where to find me."

  * * *

  Ever since he'd come home, Quade's conscience had ridden him hard. Some days he figured it was his mother's influence ensuring he lived up to her standards. Other times it was guilt driven, remnants of the months spent chiding himself for not seeing what was going on before his own eyes, in his own home, in his own bedroom. All because he'd been too wrapped up in his career.

  Conscience, a need to do the right thing, obligation – whatever the reason, he found himself dressed in a dinner suit and walking through the flower-covered arches into Zane and Julia's garden on Saturday afternoon. Zane had asked him to come early, to maybe play groomsman, if Mitch didn't show. Mitch had shown. Expression distant, eyes flat, he looked as though he'd rather be swimming with sharks.

  Quade knew how he felt.

  Edgy, hollow, conflicted. All the things he had felt during the rehearsal would be ten times worse this afternoon, and that was without the extra complication of the bride's little sister. As good as a virgin. With a seven-year-old crush on him. He blew out a hot breath. Those revelations still unsettled him, made his feet itch with the need to bolt. Now would be the perfect time, before the sprinkling of guests who'd already arrived for the nuptials noticed him.

  Except bolting felt too much like cowardice, as if he couldn't handle whatever she might dish up to him next. Quade shook his head and expelled a self-mocking laugh. What could she possibly come up with to top Wednesday's gobsmackers?

  Three minutes later she rushed out the back door and answered his question. Holy hell. He could only stare. That was a bridesmaid's dress? Wasn't there some rule about taking the attention away from the bride? He couldn't imagine there'd be an eye – a male one, at any rate – fixed anywhere but on those curves encased in lace the color of her kiss. Rich, luscious, rose-pink.