Читать книгу Long Slow Burn - Isabel Sharpe - Страница 11

MARIE WENT DOWN THE stairs from Roots Restaurant to the Cellar bar. Quinn Peters would be waiting there for their usual Friday night “meeting.” She’d call it a date, but she’d promised herself to keep any and all romantic thoughts about Quinn firmly under control, under wraps, underground. No point being a masochist by indulging in such fantasies.

She was late tonight. Ten minutes before she was due to leave, her delightful ex-husband, Grant, had called. He rarely did, but whenever his number showed up on caller ID, it was a guarantee Marie had some teeth-clenching time ahead of her. Tonight had been no exception. The louse had the nerve to ask if she’d consider returning the ruby-and-diamond channel-set ring he’d given her for their tenth and final anniversary, the one Marie called the Guilt Ring because Grant had already been having an affair with Lizzy, a woman nearly half his age.

Part of Marie wanted to give the ring back, preferably by jamming it down his throat. She wasn’t, and might never be, at a place where she could happily wear it again, so why not let it shine on someone else’s finger?

Because the other part of her, maybe not the most mature and gracious part, didn’t want to give him anything he wanted. Ever. Because he’d taken from her a good chunk of self-confidence, and though she’d come a long way, she was still struggling to get the rest of it back.

After she’d hung up the phone it had taken her half an hour to calm down to the point where she’d be able to face Quinn calmly and cheerfully.

Her stomach did a little flip. There he was, sitting at the long wooden bar, one empty seat beside him in the otherwise crowded room. Temperatures had flirted with fifty degrees that day; everyone seemed to be emerging from winter hibernation, restless for spring.

“Hi there.” She climbed onto the chair next to him, keeping her smile bright, hoping he couldn’t tell she’d been crying. They’d settled into a comfortable weekly routine of meeting for drinks and dinner. At first she’d been surprised he’d want to spend that much time with her, especially on Fridays, a prime date night. Before they’d become friends, they’d both been casual regulars at the bar, and Marie had been fascinated by his success with women. His relaxed charm hooked ‘em nearly every time. The fact that he looked like George Clooney didn’t hurt.

“Marie.” His welcoming grin always turned her a little giddy. She knew better than to react that way to Quinn, but her inner whatever-it-was insisted on rebelling. Luckily, she’d stopped short of falling seriously since he’d told her how much she reminded him of his sister.

Pop goes the ego …

“What are you drinking tonight?” Not that she needed to ask. “Oh, gin martini, something new and different.”

“Why mess with perfection?” He lifted his glass to toast her. “What’ll you have? My treat tonight.”

“Your treat?” Marie hung her purse on a hook under the bar. “Why, did something good happen?”

“No, actually, something bad.”

“Oh, no.” She turned with concern. He didn’t look upset—he didn’t look anything but gorgeous, as usual—but in her experience men could hide their feelings better than women. “What is it?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Uh.” Her eyebrows shot up. “You don’t know?”

“No, but I hope you’ll tell me.”

“Quinn, how many of those have you had?” She touched the base of his glass. “Something bad happened to you and I’m supposed to know what it is?”

“Not to me.” He flagged Joe, the dreamy-eyed bartender, on her behalf. As independent and competent as Marie was, moments of being taken care of like this were delicious. “Something bad happened to you.”

Marie gaped at him. “What gave me away?”

“You were late, you’re moving more slowly than usual, your body language is tense and you’re wearing heavier makeup around your eyes.”

“Sherlock, you impress me.”

“Thank you.”

“Marie, good to see you.” Joe put a coaster on the bar in front of her, his arm muscles ripped and rippling. He must spend half his life in a weight room. “What’s it going to be?”

“How about a Manhattan?”

“Manhattan it is.” He gestured between Marie and Quinn. “Will you want to order food now or wait awhile?”

“Are you hungry, Quinn?” Marie put a hand to her stomach, still churning from her recent fury and frustration. “I can hold off.”

“Same here. We’ll wait, Joe.”

“No problem. Your drink will be right up, Marie.” He tapped the bar smartly and turned to reach for a bottle of bourbon.

“So you get to decide.” Quinn’s touch was gentle on her forearm. “Do you want to talk fun stuff to cheer you up or do you want to tell me what happened?”

Marie bit her lip. She hadn’t been planning to spill, but the idea of unburdening appealed to her. Her ex had this way of making her question everything she knew to be right and true. “Grant called.”

“Oh, that sounds uplifting.”

“Like a too-tight WonderBra.” She rubbed her aching forehead. “He wants me to return the ring he gave me for our tenth anniversary, when the marriage was already over but I didn’t know it yet, so he can give it to his second wife for their fifth.”

Quinn’s easy, sympathetic smile turned to granite. “He what?”

“He figured I’d want to get rid of it, I guess.” She laughed at her ex’s typically insensitive and self-centered logic. “I see his point, but—”

“Are you kidding me? What point? He has none.” Quinn looked murderous and James Bond tough. “A gift is a gift. Not a loan, not a ransom and not a weapon. Your ex has the emotional IQ of a clam. Except for all I know, clams are very empathetic, and he doesn’t even rate that high.”

She managed a smile, relieved when Joe put her drink down and she could take that first icy gulp. The intensity of Quinn’s anger was thrilling. Brave knight defending the damsel in distress. Thrilling and dangerous, because against her best instincts, that level of passion had her wondering how much this sexy knight would summon for his real lady. “Thank you, Quinn.”

“I hope you’re furious as well as upset.”

She shrugged. “I don’t wear the ring. I hate everything it represents, but it is beautiful. Maybe it should be enjoyed by someone.”

“Then give it to Goodwill. Sell it on eBay.” He gestured too hard with his glass and splashed gin on the bar, but didn’t appear to notice. “Don’t let that cheap, cheating bastard have it back.”

Oh, Quinn. Marie took a turn with a comforting hand on his forearm, chiding herself for thinking his emotions had everything to do with her. Quinn had plenty to be furious about from the contents of his own baggage cart. His wife had cheated on him, married the other man, cheated on him, too, married the third one…. Who knew how long that twisted cycle would go on? “You’re absolutely right. I shouldn’t even be considering sending it back to him. In some ways it would be a relief to get rid of the thing, but then I’d torture myself thinking of her wearing it.”

“Unless …” Quinn turned slowly toward her. As always, she had to clear her mind when he set that wicked grin on full blast.

“Uh-oh, what’s that look for?”

He put down his drink and startled Marie by cupping her chin to bring her head closer, putting his fine, fine lips next to her ear. “Unless you send the ring directly to his wife with warmest wishes.”

“Why would I do that?” Shivers had gone through Marie’s body that had less to do with the vibrations of his deep voice and more to do with him being so close and touching her face.

Crazy girl.

“So you can make sure she knows where it came from and what kind of truly special and generous guy Grant is to want it back, just for her.”

Marie giggled, her bad mood dissolving in the masculine scent of his aftershave and the titillating thrill of his attention. “I think imagining that situation is all the revenge I need, at least right now.”

“Wise woman.” He turned back to his drink.

“Thanks, Quinn. It helps to be able to share this with someone who understands.”

“Believe me, sweetheart, I do.” He leaned over, pressing his shoulder to hers.

The intimacy became too much; Marie had to move away, reminding herself that he was a compulsive player. Reminding herself how lucky she was to be able to claim his friendship for the past couple of months, a relationship that undoubtedly had lasted longer than any of his recent romantic brushes with women. “Now that we’ve dismissed my clam of an ex, how was your week?”

“My week was dull.”

“How so?” She put on her most sugary smile. “No hot babe action?”

He scowled at her. “Marie …”

“Only six or seven this week? Three the most you could get in one night?”

He shook his head. “You are too much.”

No, she wasn’t enough. She patted his shoulder. “Sorry. You know I love to tease you about your … expertise.”

“I did know that.” He hunched his shoulders, let them drop. “It’s actually been a while.”

“Really?” She wasn’t sure what to do with his serious reaction. Usually he joked right along with her. “How come?”

“The chase is losing its appeal.”

Marie frowned at his profile. She’d never seen him like this, defenses nearly breachable. “Why do you think that is?”

“Primarily because of what I was catching.”

“Germs? Viruses? STDs? What?”

He chuckled. “That’s why I love you, Marie. You are smart, funny, compassionate and truly disgusting.”

“Thank you, dear.” She felt a blush rising and was mortified, which made her blush hotter. Men of his ilk should not be allowed to say “I love you” unless they meant it. “Go on about leaving the chase. I really do want to hear why you think it’s not satisfying anymore.”

“Well.” He finished a sip, put his glass down, smoothed the edges of the napkin under it. “I’m thinking it might be time for a deeper connection. One that’s longer lasting. Maybe a rela—”

“Uh-oh.”

“A rela-a—” He clutched at his throat, made a horrible choking noise. “Rela-a-a—”

“—tionship?”

“Thank you.” He mopped at his brow. “One of those.”

She rolled her eyes and laughed at his act, feeling sick underneath. She shouldn’t be making this about her, but if Quinn got a girlfriend, she could lose him, would probably lose him. She’d have to face how much he’d come to mean to her. And why she was no longer putting any serious thought or effort into matching him up with Darcy. “Congratulations, Quinn. This is a great step forward.”

“Thanks.” He moved restlessly in the chair. “So when do you take your great step forward?”

“Me?” His question startled her; she laughed shortly. “I’m not interested in getting married again.”

“Did I say married?”

“No, I know, I know.” She waved his comment away, wishing he’d change the subject. “Right now I’m not interested in any of it.”

“Hmm.” He tilted his head, eyebrow quirked suggestively. “Not in any of it?”

Marie’s face caught fire again. What would he do if she said she was dying for sex? Probably recommend a friend. Some dumpling-shaped guy more appropriate for her. “I’m happy alone. It’s going to stay that way for a good while longer.”

“Okay, then.” He emptied his martini, put the glass down, signaled to Joe. “I’m having another drink. You want one, too?”

She felt rebuked and wasn’t sure why. “Not yet. Maybe food?”

“Sure. Menu, too, Joe? Thanks.”

The couple beside Quinn got up and left. A new couple sat down, arms around each other, heads together, giggling. They were probably in their late twenties, a dozen years younger than Marie, more than fifteen younger than Quinn. Marie wanted them to be exactly that carefree and happy together for the rest of their lives, and it saddened her that the odds weren’t great.

“Hey.” She punched Quinn playfully. “You want to tell me why you shut down all of a sudden?”

“Sorry.” He turned in the chair so he was facing her. “I’m on edge tonight.”

“I ‘fessed up earlier. Your turn now.”

“Nothing really.” He shrugged. “Probably just that I’m ready for spring and spring isn’t ready for me.”

She rolled her eyes. “Honey, it’s March. This isn’t Florida. You’ve got months yet.”

“That I knew.”

“What else, Quinn? There’s something.”

“I was just thinking.” He twisted his mouth. “That maybe we could have done some relationship-type things together.”

Joe put down the second martini and menus—perfect timing, because Marie’s heart stopped until she realized what Quinn must have meant. “You wanted to compare notes on dating?”

Quinn thanked Joe and handed her a menu. “Yes. Compare notes on dating. Misery loves company, right?”

His facial muscles had loosened, but his voice still held an edge. She wished he would confide in her. Maybe a conquest had gone wrong? A woman had turned him down? Maybe two? Enough to make him lose confidence?

She couldn’t imagine Quinn anything but confident. Especially with women.

“I can’t go down that road, Quinn.” In any other difficulty she’d be first in line offering him support and a figurative shoulder, but she wouldn’t be able to stand hearing anything about him trying to date seriously.

“It’s fine.” He buried himself in his menu. “So how’s the matchmaking business going with Kim?”

Marie slumped in defeat. When all else failed, bring out the change of subject. Okay. She’d go with that. She shouldn’t be wasting energy wishing he felt comfortable enough with her to share whatever it was. That was for another woman someday, apparently sooner rather than later.

“Kim is terrific.” Marie glanced at her watch. “As a matter of fact, she’s out with Troy right now.”

“Troy …”

“Cahill. Friend of Justin.”

“Justin …”

“Candy’s fiancé.”

“Got it.” His face cleared. “Candy and Justin, last month’s meddling.”

“Matching, not meddling.” Marie rolled her eyes. “They’re deliriously happy.”

“Weren’t we all.”

“Oh, you cynic.” She smacked him with her menu, surprised by this dark side of him tonight, and wishing she could help with whatever had caused it—short of going back in time and preventing him from marrying The CheaterBeast. “We had to go through what we went through for some reason. The trick is to figure it out and then work up the courage to move on.”

“Here’s to getting there.” He lifted his glass.

“However long it takes.” She hoisted hers; they both drank.

“You think Kim and Troy are a good match?”

Marie frowned. “I’m not sure. Kim is beautiful and very talented, but shy and a little down on herself. Troy is a very good-looking, well-put-together, wealthy man, and I think she’s a little intimidated. I’m hoping she gives herself a chance to shine. She has no idea how sexy she is.”

“Hmm.” Quinn smirked at his drink. “That reminds me of someone.”

“Yeah? Who?”

He twisted to look at her, then for some reason started laughing.

“What is so funny?”

“Never mind, you wouldn’t get it. Just tell me, Marie. What advice would you give Kim about this problem?”

“Why?”

“I want to pass on your wisdom.” He dug out his BlackBerry and pulled up a blank email. “I’ll write it down and send it to her.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay.” Marie looked up into the decorative hanging of tangled metal roots over the bar, trying to clear her head, muddled by bourbon and by Quinn’s mood tonight. “Let’s see. I’d tell her to go back though her life looking for messages she received about her sexuality and her self-esteem, and see if there’s a pattern she can identify that could be informing how she feels about herself now.”

“… feels … about herself … now.” He put in the period with a flourish. “And?”

“Undoubtedly the message that she isn’t worthy is coming from some judge figure in her life, probably a parent. She needs to tell that judge that she’ll be deciding her own feelings from now on.”

“… from now … on.”

“And then she should dress to kill, look in a mirror and promise to give herself positive feedback every day on how she looks and who she is and what she deserves.”

“… what … she deserves. That it?”

“She should probably go to therapy and talk the whole thing out, but this will help if she’s honest with herself, yes.”

“Excellent.” He selected a recipient and punched the send button. “She’ll be very surprised to hear from me.”

“And pleased, I hope?”

“Me, too.” He shrugged, putting the BlackBerry back in his pocket. “Want to order dinner?”

“I do.” She tossed back the rest of her drink and picked up a menu, hunger signals finally able to be heard through the decreasing clamor of her emotions. Helping people feel better about themselves always made her feel better about herself, too.

She and Quinn chatted easily for the rest of the evening, all the bizarre tension completely dissipated. As usual after their Friday night meeting, she felt refreshed and revitalized on her walk home to her beloved Victorian in the same quirky Brewer’s Hill neighborhood as the restaurant.

Inside her front door, she flicked on the light and said hello to her gray tabby, Jezebel, who’d come to greet her by weaving around her legs, making walking as difficult as possible. On the way up to her bedroom on the second floor, Marie sorted through the day’s mail, ditched most in the recycling box near her desk, and powered up her laptop. After changing into her beloved sloppy, nonbinding and infinitely comfortable sweats, she sat at her desk and waited for Jezebel’s predictable jump into her lap for the evening’s kitty-worship.

She opened her email program while she scratched soft ears and brought Jezebel’s rumbling purr to life. New emails: five. One from a college roommate, one from Mom and Dad …

Marie’s eyes jumped down the list. One from Quinn? How did he get home so much faster than she had?

Her phone rang and she did a comical back and forth, phone to email to phone, before grabbing the receiver and checking caller ID. Candy. She’d take it.

“Hey, woman, what’s up?”

“Ugh.” Candy’s melodramatic exasperation made Marie smile. “I just came back from the cocktail party from hell. The caterer was late, someone stole half the booze, one guest drank the other half and threw up, you name it.”

“That does not sound fun.” She touched her mouse, staring at Quinn’s email, then snatched her hand back.

“Anyway, I’m looking ahead and life is going to be a little calmer for a week or two, so we should get serious about planning Kim’s party.”

“Right. We should.” She swiveled her chair away from the monitor so Quinn’s note wouldn’t tempt her while talking to her friend, but it was as if it was sending out rays that burned her back. “I’ve already enlisted her brother, Kent, and that Nathan guy to help.”

“Perfect. We’ll need pictures of her at various ages, maybe a few personal items, like, I don’t know, some favorite stuffed animal or toy, old favorite outfits, diplomas, awards, anything like that. Her mom might have some stuff to contribute. We should also find out her favorite foods, beverages, all that, too. And figure out where we want to have it.”

“We can do it at my office or we can—”

“Ooh, I forgot to ask, how did her meeting with you go? Did she like Troy?”

Marie tsk-tsked. “Client confidentiality, Candy. You can ask her.”

“Aw c’mon. You can’t even—” A deep voice sounded in the background, then Candy sighed. “Justin says I shouldn’t snoop.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I hope she finds someone. She’s so sweet.”

Marie scratched under Jezebel’s chin. “Ah, but I’m betting there’s a vixen in there somewhere.”

“A vixen!“ Candy whistled. “Has anyone used that term in the past twenty years?”

“So I’m old.” She rolled her eyes. “Go jump on Justin and leave me alone.”

“Mmm, good idea.” Candy sighed blissfully. “So I’ll plan and you set our spies in motion. Oh, and I had a great idea for an early birthday present from the three of us, you, me and Darcy. Next Saturday I want to try out a salon where I might get my wedding hair done. I think we should make it a spa day, invite everyone and then pay for Kim.”

“I love it! I was thinking along the lines of sexy underwear to inspire her on the dating quest.”

“Ha!” Candy giggled. “That is too perfect. Let’s do both.”

“Done.” Marie gave in, twisted around and peeked. She hadn’t dreamed it; the email was still there.

Candy chatted a minute more, then Marie made her escape and shamelessly spun the chair back to her computer, Jezebel giving a brief mrrf of protest. Marie clicked open the email from Quinn, scanned the words, caught her breath and read them again, her brain whirling in confusion.

Go back though your life looking for messages you received about your sexuality …

Why had he sent the email to her? A blind copy? A carbon? A mistake? She peered at the header. He’d sent it to her directly. And she’d been sitting right there at Roots; he hadn’t sent it twice. What the hell?

That reminds me of someone I know. He’d been talking about another woman who didn’t realize how sexy she was.

He couldn’t be talking about Marie.

She hit Reply, typed quickly.

Did you send this to me by mistake? Or is this a blind copy?

Then she hit Send and got up from the desk, pushing a very annoyed Jezebel off her lap because there was no way she’d survive sitting there waiting for him to respond. She’d go completely mental.

Her email chimed. She whirled around in the middle of the room. Already?

Of course, it could be from anyone.

She rushed to peer at the screen. It was from Quinn. A simple response, straight to the point.

Answering both questions: Absolutely not.