by Nora Roberts
“Tulips,” she said and walked to a clear-fronted, refrigerated cabinet. “In this rather tender pink. A quiet flower that’s sturdier than it looks,” she added as she brought them over for him to see.
“Bingo. You’re good.”
“Yes, I am.” She was enjoying herself now—not just for the sale, but for the game of it. This was the reason she’d opened the shop. “Number three?”
Aubrey, he thought. How to describe Aubrey. “Young, fresh, fun. Tough and unstintingly loyal.”
“Hold on.” With the image in mind, Dru breezed into the back again. And came out with a clutch of sunflowers with faces as wide as a dessert plate.
“Jesus, they’re perfect. You’re in the right business, Drusilla.”
It was, she thought, the finest of compliments. “No point in being in the wrong one. And since you’re about to break my record for single walk-in sales, it’s Dru.”
“Nice.”
“And the fourth lucky woman?”
“Bold, beautiful, smart and sexy. With a heart like . . .” Anna’s heart, he thought. “With a heart beyond description. The most amazing woman I’ve ever known.”
“And apparently you know quite a few. One minute.” Again, she went into the back. He was admiring the sunflowers when Dru came back with Asiatic lilies in triumphant scarlet.
“Oh man. They’re so Anna.” He reached out to touch one of the vivid red petals. “So completely Anna. You’ve just made me a hero.”
“Happy to oblige. I’ll box them, and tie ribbons on each that coordinate with the color of the flowers inside. Can you keep them straight?”
“I think I can handle it.”
“Cards are included. You can pick what you like from the rack on the counter.”
“I won’t need cards.” He watched her fit water-filled nipples on the end of the stems. No wedding ring, he noted. He’d have painted her regardless, but if she’d been married it would have put an end to the rest of his plans.
“What flower are you?”
She flicked him a glance as she arranged the first flowers in a tissue-lined white box. “All of them. I like variety.” She tied a deep purple ribbon around the first box. “As it appears you do.”
“I kind of hate to shatter the illusion that I’ve got a harem going here. Sisters,” he said, gesturing toward the flowers. “Though the sunflowers are niece, cousin, sister. The exact relationship’s a little murky.”
“Um-hm.”
“My brothers’ wives,” he explained. “And one of my brothers’ oldest daughter. I figured I should clear that up since I’m going to paint you.”
“Are you?” She tied the second box with pink ribbon edged with white lace. “Are you really?”
He took out his credit card, laid it on the counter while she went to work on the sunflowers. “You’re thinking I’m just looking to get you naked, and I wouldn’t have any objection to that.”
She drew gold ribbon from its loop. “Why would you?”
“Exactly. But why don’t we start with your face? It’s a good face. I really like the shape of your head.”
For the first time, her fingers fumbled a bit. With a half laugh, she stopped and really looked at him again. “The shape of my head?”
“Sure. You like it, too, or you wouldn’t wear your hair that way. Makes a powerful statement with a minimum of fuss.”
She tied off the bow. “You’re clever at defining a woman with a few pithy phrases.”
“I like women.”
“I figured that out.” As she finished up the red lilies, a pair of customers came in and began to browse.
A good thing, Dru thought. It was time to move the artistic Mr. Quinn along.
“I’m flattered you admire the shape of my head.” She picked up his credit card to ring up the sale. “And that someone of your talent and reputation would like to paint me. But the business keeps me very busy, and without a great deal of free time. What free time I do have, I’m extremely selfish with.”
She gave him his total, slid the sales slip over for his signature.
“You close at six daily and don’t open on Sundays.”
She should’ve been annoyed, she thought, but instead she was intrigued. “You don’t miss much, do you?”
“Every detail matters.” After signing the receipt, he plucked out one of her gift cards, turned it over to the blank back.
He drew a quick study of her face as the blossom of a long-stemmed flower, then added the phone number at home before he signed it. “In case you change your mind,” he said, offering it.
She studied the card, found her lips quirking. “I could probably sell this on eBay for a tidy little sum.”
“You’ve got too much class for that.” He piled up the boxes, hefted them. “Thanks for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome.” She came around the counter to open the door for him. “I hope your . . . sisters enjoy them.”
“They will.” He shot her a last look over his shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
“I’ll be here.” Tucking the sketch into her pocket, she closed the door.
IT had been great to see Sybill, to spend an hour alone with her. And to see the pleasure she got from arranging the flowers in a tall, clear vase.
They were perfect for her, he concluded, just as the house she and Phillip had bought and furnished, the massive old Victorian with all the stylized details, was perfect for her.
She’d changed her hairstyle over the years, but now it was back to the way he liked it best, swinging sleek nearly to her shoulders with all that richness of color of a pricey mink coat.
She hadn’t bothered with lipstick for the day of working at home, and wore a simple and crisp white shirt with pegged black trousers, what he supposed she thought of as casual wear.
She was the mother of two active children, as well as being a trained sociologist and successful author. And looked, Seth thought, utterly serene.
He had reason to know that that serenity had been hard-won.
She’d grown up in the same household as his mother. Half sisters who were like opposite sides of a coin.
Since even the thought of Gloria DeLauter clenched his stomach muscles, Seth pushed it aside and concentrated on Sybill.
“When you, Phil and the kids came over to Rome a few months ago, I didn’t think the next time I’d see you would be here.”
“I wanted you to come back.” She poured them each a glass of iced tea. “Totally selfish of me, but I wanted you back. Sometimes in the middle of whatever was going on, I’d stop and think: Something’s missing. What’s missing? Then, oh yes, Seth. Seth’s missing. Silly.”
“Sweet.” He gave her hand a squeeze before picking up the glass she set down for him. “Thanks.”
“Tell me everything,” she demanded.
They talked of his work and hers. Of the children. Of what had changed and what had stayed the same.
When he got up to leave, she wrapped her arms around him and held on just a minute longer. “Thanks for the flowers. They’re wonderful.”
“Nice new shop on Market. The woman who owns it seems to know her stuff.” He walked with Sybill, hand in hand, toward the door. “Have you been in there?”
“Once or twice.” Because she knew him, very well, Sybill smiled. “She’s very lovely, isn’t she?”
“Who’s that?” But when Sybill merely tipped her head, he grinned. “Caught me. Yeah, she’s got some face. What do you know about her?”
“Nothing, really. She moved here late last summer, I think, and had the store open by fall. I believe she’s from the D.C. area. It seems to me my parents know some Whitcombs, and some Bankses from around there. Might be relatives.” She shrugged. “I can’t say for certain, and my parents and I don’t . . . communicate very often these days.”
He touched her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. They have two spectacular grandchildren whom they largely ignore.” As they’ve ignored you, she
thought. “It’s their loss.”
“Your mother’s never forgiven you for standing up for me.”
“Her loss.” Sybill spoke very precisely as she caught his face in her hands. “My gain. And I didn’t stand alone. No one ever does in this family.”
She was right about that, Seth thought as he drove toward the boatyard. No Quinn stood alone.
But he wasn’t sure he could stand pulling them into the trouble he was very much afraid was going to find him, even back home.
THREE
ONCE DRU HAD rung up the next sale and was alone in the shop again, she took the sketch out of her pocket.
Seth Quinn. Seth Quinn wanted to paint her. It was fascinating. And as intriguing, she admitted, as the artist himself. A woman could be intrigued without being actively interested.
Which she wasn’t.
She had no desire to pose, to be scrutinized, to be immortalized. Even by such talented hands. But she was curious, about the concept of it, just as she was curious about Seth Quinn.
The article she’d read had included some details on his personal life. She knew he’d come to the Eastern Shore as a child, taken in by Ray Quinn before Ray died in a single-car accident. Some of the story was a little nebulous. There’d been no mention of parents, and Seth had been very closed-mouthed in the interview in that area. The facts given were that Ray Quinn had been his grandfather, and on his death, Seth had been raised by Quinn’s three adopted sons. And their wives as they had come along.
Sisters, he’d said, thinking of the flowers he’d bought. Perhaps they had been for the women he considered his sisters.
It hardly mattered to her.
She’d been more interested in what the article had said about his work, and how his family had encouraged his early talent. How they had supported his desire to study in Europe.
It was a fortunate child, in Dru’s opinion, who had a family who loved him enough to let him go—to let him discover, to fail or succeed on his own. And, she thought, who apparently welcomed him back just as unselfishly.
Still, it was difficult to imagine the man the Italians had dubbed il maestro giovane—the young master—settling down in St. Christopher to paint seascapes.
Just as she assumed it was difficult for many of her acquaintances to imagine Drusilla Whitcomb Banks, young socialite, contentedly selling flowers in a small waterfront shop.
It didn’t matter to her what people thought or what they said—any more than she supposed such things mattered to Seth Quinn. She’d come here to get away from the demands and expectations, the sticky grip of family, and the unrelenting upheaval of being used as the fraying rope in the endless game of tug-of-war her parents played.
She’d come to St. Chris for peace, the peace that she’d yearned for most of her life.
She was finding it.
Though her mother would be thrilled—perhaps, stubbornly, because her mother would be thrilled at the prospect of her precious daughter capturing the interest of Seth Quinn—Dru had no intention of cultivating that interest. Neither the artistic interest, nor the more elemental and frankly sexual interest she’d seen in his eyes when he’d looked at her.
Or, if she was being honest, the frankly sexual interest she’d felt for him.
The Quinns were, by all reports, a large, complex and unwieldy family. God knew she’d had her fill of family.
A pity, she admitted, tapping the card on her palm before dropping it into a drawer. The young master was attractive, amusing and appealing. And any man who took the time to buy flowers for his sisters, and wanted to make sure each purchase suited the individual style of the recipient, earned major points.
“Too bad for both of us,” she murmured, and shut the drawer with a final little snap.
HE was thinking of Dru as she was thinking of him, and pondering just what angles, just what tones would work best on a portrait. He liked the idea of a three-quarter view of her face, with her head turned to the left, but her eyes looking back, out of the canvas.
That would suit the contrast of her cool attitude and sexy chic.
He never doubted she’d consent to pose. He had an entire arsenal of weapons to battle a model’s reluctance. All he had to do was decide which one would work best on Drusilla.
Tapping his fingers on the wheel to the outlaw beat of Aerosmith that blasted out of his stereo, Seth considered her.
There was money in her background, he decided. Seth recognized designer cut and good fabric even if he was more interested in the form beneath the fashion. Then there was the cadence of her voice. It said high-class private school to him.
She’d tagged James McNeill Whistler for the name of her shop. Which meant, he thought, she’d had a very tony education, or someone pounding poetry and literature into her head as Phil had done with him.
Probably both.
She was comfortable with her looks and didn’t fluster when a man made it clear she attracted him.
She wasn’t married, and instinct told him she wasn’t attached. A woman like Dru didn’t relocate to tag along after a boyfriend or lover. She’d moved from Washington, started a business and run it solo because that’s just the way she wanted it.
Then he remembered just how far off the mark he’d been regarding the fictional Widow Whitcomb Banks, and decided to hedge his bets by doing a little research before approaching her again.
Seth pulled into the parking lot of the old brick barn the Quinns had bought from Nancy Claremont when the woman’s tight-fisted, tight-assed husband had keeled over dead of a heart attack while arguing with Cy Crawford over the price of a meatball sub.
Initially they’d rented the massive building, one that had been a tobacco warehouse in the 1700s, a packinghouse in the 1800s and a glorified storage shed for much of the 1900s.
Then it had been a boatyard, transformed and outfitted by the brothers Quinn. For the last eight years, it had belonged to them.
Seth looked up at the roof as he climbed out of the car. He’d helped reshingle that roof, he remembered, and had nearly broken his neck doing it.
He’d smeared the hot fifty-fifty mix on seams, and burned his fingers. He’d learned to lap boards in the bottomless well of Ethan’s patience. He’d sweated like a pig along with Cam repairing the dock. And had escaped by whatever means presented themselves every time Phil had tried to shoehorn him into learning to keep the books.
He walked to the front, stood with his hands on his hips studying the weathered sign. BOATS BY QUINN. And noted that another name had been added to the four that had been there since the beginning.
Aubrey Quinn.
Even as he grinned, she shoved out of the front door.
She had a tool belt slung at her hips and an Orioles fielder’s cap low over her forehead. Her hair, the color of burnt honey, was pulled through the back loop to swing at her back.
Her scarred and stained work boots looked like a doll’s.
She had such little feet.
And a very big voice, he thought when she let out a roaring whoop as she charged him.
She leaped, boosted herself with a bounce of her hands off his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. The bill of her cap rapped him in the forehead when she pressed her mouth to his in a long, smacking kiss.
“My Seth.” With a loud hooting laugh, she chained her arms around his neck. “Don’t go away again. Damn it, don’t you dare go away again.”
“I can’t. Too much happens around here when I’m gone. Tip back,” he ordered, and dipped her away far enough to study her face.
At two, she’d been a tiny princess to him. At twenty, she was an athletic, appealing handful.
“Jeez, you got pretty,” he said.
“Yeah? You too.”
“Why aren’t you in college?”
“Don’t start.” She rolled her bright green eyes and hopped down. “I did two years, and I’d’ve been happier on a chain gang. This is what I want to do.” She jerked a thumb toward the si
gn. “My name’s up there to prove it.”
“You always could wrap Ethan around your finger.”
“Maybe. But I didn’t have to. Dad got it, and after some initial fretting, so did Mom. I was never the student you were, Seth, and you were never the boatbuilder I am.”
“Shit. I leave you alone for a few years, and you get delusions of grandeur. If you’re going to insult me, I’m not going to give you your present.”
“Where is it? What is it?” She attacked by poking her fingers in his ribs where she knew him to be the most vulnerable. “Gimme.”
“Cut it out. Okay, okay. Man, you don’t change.”
“Why mess with perfection? Hand over the loot and nobody gets hurt.”
“It’s in the car.” He pointed toward the lot and had the satisfaction of seeing her mouth drop open.
“A Jag? Oh baby.” She darted over the stubble of lawn to the lot to run her fingers reverently over the shining silver hood. “Cam’s going to cry when he sees this. He’s just going to break down and cry. Let me have the keys so I can test her out.”
“Sure, when we’re slurping on Sno Kones in hell.”
“Don’t be mean. You can come with me. We’ll buzz up to Crawford’s and get some . . .” She trailed off as he got the long white box out of the trunk. She blinked at the box, blinked at him before her eyes went soft and dewy.
“You bought me flowers. You got me a girl present. Oh, let me see! What kind are they?” She pulled a work knife out of her belt, sliced the ribbon, then yanked up the lid. “Sunflowers. Look how happy they are.”
“Reminded me of you.”
“I really love you.” She stared hard at the flowers. “I’ve been so mad at you for leaving.” When her voice broke, he gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. “I’m not going to cry,” she muttered and sucked it in. “What am I, a sissy?”
“Never.”
“Okay, well, anyway, you’re back.” She turned to hug him again. “I really love the flowers.”
“Good.” He slapped a hand on the one that was trying to sneak into his pocket. “You’re not getting the keys. I’ve got to take off anyway. I’ve got flowers for Grace. I want to swing by and see her on my way home.”