Читать книгу Before I Melt Away - Isabel Sharpe - Страница 9

ANNABEL FROZE. Who the hell was ringing her doorbell at—she glanced at the clock—ten-seventeen on a week-night? She got out of bed and went to the window, strained to see if any sign of the caller was visible. No. He or she must be standing too close to the door; the roof obstructed Annabel’s view.

Okay. So how stupid was it for a woman living alone to answer the door at night?

Pretty stupid.

She grabbed a robe from her closet, jammed her feet into her ratty black slippers and started downstairs, unable to resist her curiosity. Was it the man fixing his tire? Maybe he needed to use her phone? Except what kind of person didn’t own a cell nowadays?

The bell rang once more, followed again by the rapping knocker. Impatient type. She hurried through her dining room, living room, then opened the door into the always chilly front entranceway. “Who is it?”

“Annabel. It’s Quinn Garrett.”

Annabel’s eyes shot wide; her mouth dropped open to emit incredulous laughter. Quinn. She should have recognized him immediately. Even if she couldn’t place him from the year he spent with her family on a high-school exchange program, she should have recognized him from the media fuss over the years. Newspaper, magazines, TV, the guy had become a household name—just not one she expected to show up on her street.

“Quinn!” She eagerly opened the door, then had to steel herself not to take a step back.

Yes, she’d seen that he grew up even more gorgeous than he’d been in high school. Lost the boyish roundness to his face, and the teenage awkwardness. But she was totally unprepared for the impact of seeing him in the flesh, totally unprepared for the intense buzz of chemistry—on her end anyway. Holy cheezits. She’d had a crush on him all those years ago, but the physical reaction was extremely different now that she knew what all those fluttery feelings meant.

“Annabel.” His voice was even more resonant coming to her live and in person, his eyes dark and intense; she could barely keep her gaze on his.

“Hi,” she said oh-so-brilliantly, sounding breathless and starstruck—not at all a coincidence, since she was both. “Quinn,” she added even more brilliantly.

His lips curved in a smile. “You grew up.”

“Oh. Yes.” She winced. Maybe try saying something intelligent? “So did you.”

Good job.

“I guess that makes two of us.” He grinned suddenly, a full white-toothed grin, which made him so sexy she feared hyperventilation. “I was planning to show up at a more reasonable hour, but when I saw you at your window, I thought I might as well say hello now.”

“Can I help?” She gestured out at his car, probably a rental—Lexus?

“Just a flat. All fixed.”

“Very good.” She moved aside in the doorway. “Come in.”

“Are you sure? You were on your way to bed.” He glanced at her robe, making her so not happy she’d grabbed the thick flowery one that had pills all over it. She’d much rather be wearing silk. Or even better, clothes. She felt vulnerable and strange like this, even though he’d seen her in her pajamas dozens of times. But then that was years ago; she’d been thirteen and hardly the stuff of male fantasy. More like an annoying little sister.

She did not want him to see her as an annoying little sister now.

He took off his coat and the white, probably cashmere, scarf, and, oh, my God, he was wearing a tux. Even homely looked good in a tux; gorgeous should be outlawed.

“I was at a party in Brookfield—I’m a little over-dressed.”

“I’m a little underdressed.”

“So we even out.” He stood, hands on his hips pushing back his jacket, clearly at ease in her living room, while she had to remind herself not to fidget.

“Have a seat.” She indicated the couch behind him. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water would be nice.”

“That’s all? I have cider, wine, beer, cognac…”

He held up a hand to stop her list. “Water is really what I want.”

“Water coming up.” She padded into the kitchen, feeling round and unappealing, wondering if it would be weird to go upstairs and throw on some clothes. Maybe a thong and a push-up bra? Or, okay, jeans and a nice tight sweater, too. But if she did that, he’d know she was uncomfortable around him this way, which would make things even more uncomfortable.

She ran the water until it was good and cold, filled a glass, poured Dove dark chocolate pieces, dried apricots and plain-roasted almonds into small brass bowls and put them on a wooden tray. Water might be what he wanted, but the professional hostess in her had to offer more.

“Here you go.” She smiled too brightly and headed toward him, feeling even rounder and less appealing when she saw how amazing he looked sitting on her couch, bow tie untied, collar button undone, arm up along the back of the sofa. GQ much? Of course, he’d probably been on their cover, probably more than once. It was so hard to reconcile the kid she’d known with this…well, look up male in the dictionary and find his picture.

He reached for the glass and lifted a dark brow at the tray of food. “With trimmings?”

“I am unable to serve only water to my guests. It’s become genetically impossible.” She perched on a chair across the narrow room. If she were dressed to match his trappings, she’d have no problem sitting next to him on the couch. Leaning close. Closer. Closest. Straddling him and…okay, enough.

“I remember being extremely well fed at your house. Your mom was a great cook. I’m sorry to hear she and your dad died.”

“Thanks.” Annabel’s voice dropped low in her throat. “I miss them.”

“They were great people. Your whole family. That year was really special for me.”

“Us, too.” She smiled, then almost wished she hadn’t when he caught her eyes and held on, and the tension stretched to nearly unbearable.

Not to beat around the bush or anything, but she wanted to sleep with him. Like crazy. The breakup with Bob weeks ago had left her alone, but satisfied. Usually it was six to eight months before she wanted to start in again. But one glimpse of this man had her libido rising like a chocolate Chambord soufflé.

“So, your brother John tells me you need rescuing.”

Annabel’s smile traded itself for a dropped jaw. “Excuse me? Rescuing?”

“He said you don’t know how to have fun anymore.”

“Huh?”

He cocked his head back to one side and shot her an amused look from under his lids. “Don’t. Know. How. To. Have. Fun.”

The overenunciation of each word of course brought her attention to his lips, which were full and all male and magnificent and why didn’t he just strip naked now and pleasure her until she screamed?

Because that would be fine. Really.

“Tell my brother John that I know how to have fun.”

He moved casually, adjusting his position on the couch, but his eyes were on her like a frog watching the bug soon to be glued to its tongue.

And oh, what a lovely image that was.

“How do you have fun?”

A flush rose to Annabel’s cheeks. She so wanted to answer that question in a very provocative and enticing way. But not while she was wearing bright red flannel pajamas and a robe that made her look like Mrs. Claus first thing in the morning. Besides, women must try to get into Quinn Garrett’s pants all day long. Inspiring all that lust probably got tedious. Not to mention that she’d been sort of a sister to him all those years ago, which might still be how he thought of her.

Bummer. Major bummer.

“When I want to have fun, I go out.”

“Where?”

“To restaurants, movies, clubs…” Okay, not clubs; noise and smoke were not her thing, but it sounded good.

“With whom?”

Whoever I’m boinking at the moment. “Dates.”

“When was the last time?”

“Is this an interrogation? Should I move the lamp so it shines in my eyes?”

“No.” He leaned on the sofa arm, index finger resting against his temple, fingers curled next to his mouth.

Bond. James Bond. Double-oh—

“When was the last time you went out and had fun?”

“Well, that was…” Annabel frowned. No fair. She broke up with Bob officially a month ago, and she hadn’t seen much of him for a week or two before that since she’d been so busy. “Probably not as long ago as it sounds.”

“That’s what I thought.” He drained his glass, put it carefully back on the coaster on her cherry coffee table and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. Immediately she wanted to copycat lean-forward, too. Even though he was sitting across the room, the gesture brought him closer enough—brought those killer eyes closer enough—that it felt intimate.

Damn the pilly robe.

“So what are you doing in Milwaukee?” With any luck he wouldn’t notice that she’d changed the sub—

“Changing the subject?”

Damn. “Okay, you got me.”

He started a smile, didn’t let it get far. “I’m here as decoration, mostly. We’re hoping to buy the old Herrn brewery and start manufacturing HC-3s here in Milwaukee. Other people do the talking, the negotiating, I show up and act like I’m important.”

“I imagine you are.”

“You always had a good imagination.”

She chuckled, foolishly pleased he referred to their history, that he’d bothered to remember her. Or was doing a damn good job faking it. “We could use that kind of industry here. You’ll be doing the city a lot of good.”

“That’s the idea. I have a soft spot for Milwaukee, for obvious reasons.”

Annabel smiled graciously as his comment warranted, but she was thinking he probably didn’t have a soft spot anywhere.

How depraved was she to meet an old friend unexpectedly and want nothing more than to see him naked? “What brought you to this neighborhood tonight? You said you were at a party in Brookfield?”

“Spur-of-the-moment decision driving back. I wanted to see where you lived. Then my tire went, practically at your door and you know the rest.”

“It was funny, with the wind, dog howling next door, your jack clanking on the street—I thought I was being haunted.”

He narrowed his eyes for a fleeting second, then got up abruptly, approached her fireplace and crouched to examine the tiles. “Excuse me, but I have to see if these are what I think.”

“They are.” She laughed, a little nervously, willing the heat to stay out of her cheeks. How many people had she shown those pictures off to? Now she wanted to blush? “An artist used to live here, who apparently had a rather liberal view of life. But I like them. They’re not obvious unless you look closely. You’re the first person who spotted them on his own.”

“Am I?” His eyebrows went up, but she had the feeling he wasn’t surprised. She shouldn’t be, either. Even in high school, nothing had escaped his notice. Of course, that fact would have made no impression on her at thirteen, except that her parents kept commenting on what a remarkable boy he was. A remarkable boy who’d grown into a remarkable man. Damn shame Mom and Dad weren’t here to see it. Her mom especially had doted on Quinn, and missed him when he went back home, though she’d loved that he kept in touch for several years, especially at Christmas.

“Why the sadness?”

Annabel started. He hadn’t even glanced at her, she was sure. He was standing now, staring into the fireplace where her lone log still glowed orange underneath. Freaky how he did that. More than once when she’d been in thirteen-year-old hormone hell, he’d understood what she was feeling more than her parents had. Or so it seemed to her at the time.

“I was thinking Mom and Dad would have really liked to know you now.”

“Maybe they do.”

She shot him a startled look, then laughed. “I suppose that’s possible.”

He picked up a tiny framed print from her mantel, Three Spirits Mad With Joy, by Warwick Goble, a whimsical favorite of hers left to her by her mom. “I used to think the dead should be allowed to come back one day a year, to see the people who miss them.”

“You don’t anymore?”

He turned, cocking his head in a silent question.

“You said used to think.”

“Oh.” He put the picture down. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it in a while.”

“Who would you want to come back?”

“Sally.” He spoke without hesitation.

Annabel clenched her teeth against irrational jealousy. She hadn’t read about him getting married or being attached, but then Quinn Garrett was adamant about keeping his personal life away from the press. “I’m sorry. Someone special?”

“Very.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Guinea pig.”

Annabel burst out laughing. “Be serious.”

“I am serious. I had her when I was a boy. She listened to everything I said, never thought I was odd. It was always clear what she wanted from me.” He chuckled, reminding Annabel how seldom he laughed out loud.

“She sounds wonderful. Who else would you want to come back? I hope your parents are still in this world.”

“Mom is.” He moved back to the couch to grab his coat. Even in high school he’d been reluctant to discuss his life or his parents. All she knew was that they lived in Hartland, Maine—sister city to Hartland, Wisconsin, where Annabel had grown up, and that his father had worked at a tannery while mom stayed home.

“I should go.”

“You should?” She stood up, absurdly disappointed, and followed him into the chilly front entranceway.

“I’ve taken up too much of your evening already.”

She stopped herself from offering him the rest of it, wanting to ask Will I see you again? but hating the clingy-woman line. “Thank you for stopping by.”

“I’ll see you again.”

She couldn’t help the wide smile. “I’d like that.”

“I would, too.” He leaned forward and for one crazy second, she thought he was going to kiss her and her entire being went on hold. Then he stopped several inches away and she had to use everything in her power not to look disappointed.

“I’m counting on you to show me some fun while I’m here, Annabel.” His eyes were warm, bottomless, and he smelled like expensive male heaven.

Oh, yes. “How long will you be here?”

“As long as it takes.”

“To negotiate the acquisition?”

He lifted one eyebrow briefly, then leaned the rest of the way toward her and kissed her…

On the cheek, oh crap.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” He let himself out and strode down her front walk toward his car.

Annabel shut the door slowly, not wanting him to turn and catch her mooning after him but reluctant to cut herself off from the sight of him. Her heart was pounding, cheeks flushed, body buzzing with excitement in spite of her disappointment. She’d see him again. When she wasn’t wearing pajamas.

Across the street, she heard his car door open, close, the engine start up and drive slowly away.

She’d be wearing nothing like pajamas. Nothing to remind him of the year when she’d been practically his little sister. Then maybe his next kiss goodbye wouldn’t be aimed at her cheek.

And maybe, just maybe, it would last all night.

THE PHONE RANG. Annabel’s eyes shot open.

Early. Very early. Her body could tell. Who was calling? Had something happened? She’d been dreaming—a curtain around her bed, some menace approaching, about to yank it back…

She reached for the phone, glancing at the clock. Six o’clock. If Ted was trying to worm out of cooking for the Moynahans today, she’d kill him.

“Annabel.”

The adrenaline that had kicked in at her abrupt awakening doubled. No, tripled.

“Quinn.” She pitched her voice higher than usual so he wouldn’t hear the sleep still in it.

“I woke you.”

Annabel rolled her eyes. She couldn’t get anything past the man. “It’s okay.”

“Have breakfast with me.”

“I can’t.” The words came to her lips before she’d even thought them through.

A low chuckle on the line. “Let’s try that again. Have breakfast with me, Annabel.”

This time the request, or rather command, sneaked past her Automatic Self-Denial System—was it the sexy way he said her name?—and she found she really wanted to. But she had so much to—

“Café at the Pfister. At seven.”

She smiled and fell back onto the bed, one hand holding the phone to her ear, the other pushing her hair back. Could she? A quick shower, dressing for him in actual clothes, a quick fifteen-minute drive downtown, breakfast for an hour or so, back here ready to go by eight-thirty or nine—not that much past her usual time. And it might be her only chance to see Quinn again; the man was doubtless booked solid while he was here. Everyone must want a piece of him.

Okay, she was convinced.

“That sounds fine.”

“See you then.”

He signed off and she threw back the covers, bounded from the bed and shed her pajamas on the way to the shower. Fifteen minutes later, washed, dried, lotioned and deodorized, she stood in front of her closet, awash in an unfamiliar emotion: indecision.

There was only one outfit she knew she wasn’t going to wear, and that was the one she’d just picked up off the floor and tossed back onto her bed. But what? Sexy? Businesslike? Formal? Casual?

No jeans at the Pfister, Milwaukee’s grand old hotel. And she was sick of won’t-show-or-hold-stains pants and shirts for work at clients’ homes. But the all-business suits she wore to networking events…so cold, so…not seductive. Not that she wanted to be blatant about it. But hell, she was single, he was single; consenting adults could create many hot, appetizing scenarios if all the ingredients came together properly. She’d certainly love to taste what he was made of. And while she wouldn’t go as far as throwing herself at him, looking female wouldn’t hurt.

She settled on a red suit with a knee-length skirt and plunging V-collar jacket, nipped in at the waist. Under it a black stretch camisole with built-in bra. Silver earrings, a silver chain, plain stockings and high black pumps, which always felt confining and wobbly after so much time in clogs and slippers.

There. Not too conservative, not too sexy. And it was breakfast, after all, not dancing by moonlight.

Oh, but that was a nice thought, too.

Makeup next—not too much on her still-sleepy face or risk looking like a professional escort, ahem. Mascara, blush, red lipstick blotted down to a respectable level of brightness, under-eye concealer. Was it her imagination or did she need more of that every year as she neared thirty? A wrinkled-nose look at her nails. No way could she keep polish on with all the chopping and scrubbing she did in her job. Ah, well. She was more than the sum total of her manicure.

Glance in the mirror—okay, who was she kidding, a long, careful study—and she was ready. To have breakfast with Quinn. Oh my, yes.

In her unsexy minivan, she drove Route 41 to I 94, past the Brewers Stadium, past the sour-mash-and-hops smell of the Miller brewery, then off the highway and in among the buildings and asphalt of downtown, over on Wisconsin Avenue to Jefferson, circling the nineteenth-century, green-awninged Pfister and into the hotel’s garage.

Her heels made important-sounding click-clacks down the ramp, then tap-tapped into the elevator to the first floor and went quiet on the lobby carpet into the café.

She mentioned Quinn’s name unnecessarily to the maître-d’—unnecessarily, because within a heartbeat of being inside the restaurant, she saw him. Couldn’t help seeing him. He stuck out among the other suited men in the room, even though there was no immediately definable reason why he should, other than that he was familiar. But it went beyond that, if the glances from other diners were anything to go by, beyond even his celebrity. The man radiated…sex. No, he radiated power and authority and grace. And if you happened to find those traits sexy—and who didn’t?—then yes, you could say he radiated sex. Which she just did say. Not that she was repeating herself because she was flustered…or anything.

He stood and watched her coming toward their table, apparently at ease with eye contact since they were out of speaking range, which made most people busy themselves with glancing at watches or fussing with silverware.

She neared the table and said hello, beaming goofily; she couldn’t help it. He said hello back and sat only after she’d parked her butt opposite. Funny how she never noticed men’s badly fitting suits, but she sure noticed one that fit well. It didn’t just hang on him, or fight his movements. It rested and breathed with him, sat perfectly when he did. It would look so wonderful draped over a chair after he’d taken it off for the purpose of thrashing around with…okay, she had to stop that.

“I’m glad you decided to join me.”

“I got the impression you wouldn’t have let me refuse.”

“True.” He gave that implied smile and picked up a menu. “If you said no, I was going to show up at your house with bagels and coffee.”

“A man who gets what he wants.”

He regarded her with an enigmatic expression that made her want to x-ray his brain and see what was going on inside. “I’ve been reading a biography of Napoleon. That man had a hunger for power and acquisitions that could never be satisfied.”

“After you’re crowned emperor, what’s left?”

“Exactly. Sometimes I get what I want. But I always want what I get. It’s enough.”

“Admirable.” She picked up her menu, thinking he might as well call himself emperor. He’d single-handedly revolutionized the PC, the industry, and practically the world. It was a no-brainer he had enough. While she was still struggling to get her business off the ground.

“Easy for me to say?”

Annabel blinked up from Lighter Fare. “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Read my mind.”

He gave a slow grin. “I invented a mind reader, too, didn’t you hear? Little chip, implanted in my temple.”

She laughed, thinking that the familiar comfort of having known him a long time ago, contrasted with grown-up sexual edginess, made their chemistry even harder to resist. “Ah, so that’s how you do it.”

“Most people would be thinking the same thing. That it’s easy for me to say I’m satisfied, when to all appearances I have everything.”

“Probably.” She didn’t want to go into the fact that he seemed to be able to read her mind when she couldn’t possibly be thinking what everyone else would be thinking.

“So maybe I am perceived as the emperor now. But I was satisfied when I was working for Microsoft. And I was satisfied when my start-up company netted thirty thousand annually—when the HC-1 was considered a novelty sci-fi gimmick that would never catch on. So I’d like to think wanting what I get is a true philosophy.”

“Very Zen of you.” She picked up her water glass and took a sip, not entirely convinced. People happy with less didn’t generally end up with so much more.

“But I have to tell you something even more important than my life’s philosophy.”

She put her glass down. “What’s that?”

“You are incredibly beautiful all grown-up, Annabel.”

All grown-up Annabel was very glad she wasn’t still holding the glass, because at his comment it would have slipped from her fingers and crashed all over the lovely table. Oh, did that sound wonderful coming from him.

“Thank you.” Her cheeks grew warm. “You’re pretty spectacular all grown-up, too.”

“Thank you.” He, of course, didn’t blush. His self-control was absolute. And yes, she’d love to make him lose it.

“Can I take your order?” The matronly waitress stood at the table, bowing slightly forward, as if in the presence of royalty.

Annabel glanced longingly at the skillet breakfast on the menu, but if she started her day with that much heavy food, she’d want to crawl in bed and stay, and she had a lot to accomplish. “I’d like the yogurt-and-fruit parfait, orange juice and tea, please.”

“Smoked-salmon bagel, no cream cheese, grapefruit juice and coffee.” Quinn handed his menu to the waitress, who actually did bow before she swept away.

“Tell me about your business, Annabel.” He turned those magnificent eyes back on her. It was true what people said, that when Quinn Garrett spoke to you, he made you feel no one else existed. She’d just like to know he was genuinely feeling that way with her.

“I’m a personal chef. I do your grocery shopping, come into your home on a day you choose, cook a week’s worth of meals from menus you select, package, freeze and clean up the whole shebang.”

“Wow. Where do I sign up?”

She smiled, and let the eye contact go a little too long, just for the cheap thrill. “I will also come into your home, cook, serve and clean up your dinner party—sit-down or buffet.”

“Maybe I’ll hire you while I’m here. My place has a fairly decent kitchen.”

Her heart leaped, for professional reasons this time. Quinn would no doubt be entertaining high-powered Milwaukee elite. She could make some valuable contacts. “You’re not at the hotel?”

He shook his head. “I’ve rented a furnished apartment.”

“So you’re staying on for a while?”

“It looks that way.”

She was so pleased she actually laughed. “Oh, that’s great.”

The waitress arrived with juice, leaving Annabel’s gushing enthusiasm hanging in the silence between them.

Fawn on, little sister.

Quinn nodded his thanks to the waitress, then fixed Annabel with his dark brown eyes again. “I want to see a lot of you while I’m here.”

Oh, my. It was on the tip of her tongue to say You can see all of me, but she thought that was a little grossly eager. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” He sat back as if satisfied the deal had been cemented.

Annabel gave herself a figurative smack out of fantasyland. See a lot of her? Hello? Do we have lots of time to be lollygagging around with People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive?

“Though actually, I’m pretty crazy busy at this time of year. People want to party, so the holidays are my most profitable time.”

“We’ll work it out.”

Absolute confidence. Annabel leaned back to give the waitress room to set down breakfast. That’s what made people like Quinn—and Napoleon—succeed. She was confident her business would do well, but not absolutely confident. She needed to ratchet that up a few notches, get herself in a position of more security so she could—

“I assume your nights are free.”

The spoonful of yogurt made it only halfway to Annabel’s mouth. “My nights?”

“Yes.” He glanced up calmly from his bagel, on which he was arranging salmon, tomato slices and capers, a combination she’d already filed away in her mental recipe holder. “How much sleep do you need?”

“I…not much. Five or six hours.”

“Then we’ll have nights together.”

Stay away, blush, stay the hell away. Did he mean…what did he mean? Did his—

He reached across the table, laid his finger against her lips, shushing her, even though she hadn’t said anything.

“Don’t think. Don’t wonder. Just agree.”

Her mouth opened. Then shut. She hadn’t a clue what to say.

“Annabel.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“What time will you be home tomorrow night?”

“Um…midnight.” He didn’t move his finger while she answered, and the sensation of her lips moving over his skin started her heating up.

“I’ll be at your house at midnight. Wear whatever mood you’re in.”

Her head started spinning. She was barely able to grasp any of this. Wear her mood? “What do you mean?”

“Surprise me, Annabel.”

“Oh.” She still whispered, unable to produce tone, breathing high and fast, color blooming in her cheeks. “Yes. Okay.”

“Good.” His voice dropped; he moved his finger gently back and forth on her mouth, as if he were a hypnotist, luring her into a trance. “I think I’ll be able to surprise you, too.”