Читать книгу Prescription: Marry Her Immediately - Jacqueline Diamond, Lori Copeland, Jacqueline Diamond - Страница 12

Amy tried on two outfits while deciding what to wear to Quent’s house. If she’d had any more clothes with her, she would have tried those on, too.

“This must be some hot date,” said her cousin Kitty, who’d popped in to visit and was reclining atop the brightly colored comforter on the double bed. At seventeen, she had an outgoing nature and plenty of curiosity.

Unfortunately, there was no question of borrowing her clothes. Not only was she shorter than Amy, but she preferred skin-tight pants and tops.

“I’m just going to see my friend Quent.” Amy turned sideways to study her jeans and pink turtleneck in the full-length mirror. “We’ve got some work-related stuff to discuss.”

If she wanted to look her best, she was going to have to buy a mirror like this when she got back into her condo, she decided. Or maybe she should give away every mirror she owned and put on her makeup by feel. There was much to be said for giving your appearance as little thought as possible.

“I’ll bet he’s cute.” Kitty flipped back a long strand of brown hair.

“He is,” Amy agreed. “But he’s not for me.”

“Why not?”

“Too much of a playboy,” she said.

“If he’s in love with you, he’ll change,” advised her cousin with wisdom accumulated from years of watching TV shows.

“He’s not in love with me.” Amy shrugged off the pink turtleneck and returned to her first choice, a blue work shirt.

“He never will be, either, if you dress like a boy!” Kitty said. “No offense or anything.”

“Don’t you have homework to do?”

Her cousin heaved an exaggerated sigh, the kind that teenagers reserve for grown-ups. “I do my homework after dinner.”

“Your mom doesn’t make you do it first? Lucky you! My dad was really strict,” Amy said.

“Mom says parents have to pick their battles. As long as I keep my grades up and help out with the day-care kids during school break, she doesn’t nag me.”

That bit of motherly wisdom made sense to Amy. She stored it away to share with the Moms in Training.

After tucking in the work shirt, she decided she looked fine for tonight. The only thing she lacked was a coat.

“Do you have a jacket I could borrow?” She made a mental note to stop by her condo and pick up more clothes, now that she was allowed inside.

“Take whatever you want,” Kitty said. “It’s the least I can do after you loaned me your car last night.”

“That was an emergency.” An ailing neighbor had needed help picking up her medication. Since Aunt Mary was out, the teenager had volunteered to go.

“I like helping people,” Kitty said.

“You’ve matured a lot.” Amy regarded her young cousin affectionately. “You’ve been a good sport about my moving in like this. I hope I’m not getting in your way.”

“It’s fun having you here.” Kitty sat up on the bed. “When the little kids go home, it gets too quiet. I wish Dad would hurry back.”

“I know he misses you a lot, too.” Uncle Will, an engineer with a multinational company, was on long-term assignment overseas. It was his third stretch of being gone for months at a time but, Aunt Mary had explained, in another year he’d be able to take early retirement.

Amy hoped that, when she got married, she never had to be separated from her husband for more than a day or so. That was, assuming she ever found the right man.

Of course, women these days didn’t have to get married to lead fulfilling lives, she reminded herself. She had an interesting job and plenty of friends. That ought to be enough.

But it wasn’t.

Out of nowhere came an image of Quent in a tuxedo, standing in a church with love written on his face as she, Amy Ravenna, sailed toward him in a wedding dress. Not just a church, but a vast cathedral-like expanse of high arches and stained-glass windows; not simply a wedding dress, but a designer extravaganza spun from yards of silk and lace; not merely love, but utter adoration…

What was she thinking? Amy wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to plan a wedding like that! And as for Quent, he’d stated soon after they met that he wasn’t the marrying kind.

“I gotta go help with dinner.” Kitty hopped to her feet. “Good luck tonight.”

“I don’t need good luck. He’s a friend,” Amy said, and went to her cousin’s room to borrow a jacket.

WHEN HE’D RENTED his apartment, Quent had gotten a kick out of decorating it to suit his own taste and no one else’s. Now he wished he’d given more thought to the future.

The large recliner in one corner was about as far from seductive as furniture could get, and while that clunky lamp provided lots of reading light, it wasn’t likely to inspire Amy to do a striptease. He didn’t even have a couch, just a bunch of plastic chairs clustered around the Ping-Pong table. Well, there was nothing he could do about it now.

Leaving the pizza box and take-out soft drinks next to the net, Quent went into the bathroom to remove his contact lenses. The paint fumes at work made them sting after a while, and it would feel good to put his glasses on.

They didn’t look bad, he thought a minute later, regarding the frames in the mirror. In fact, they added a touch of class.

When he was younger, he’d figured most women would find him more attractive with contacts, but he doubted Amy cared. What a relief not to worry about something so superficial, he thought, and went to the kitchen to get paper plates.

THE GLASSES gave Quent a sexy, mature look, Amy thought when he opened the door. The contemporary shape of the rims emphasized the blue of his eyes and the strong contours of his cheekbones.

“I like them,” she said after studying him for a moment.

“These?” Absentmindedly, he pushed up the bridge. “They’re comfortable, I’ll say that.”

“You should wear glasses all the time. They’re cute.” She stepped inside and got her first clear look at the apartment.

Amy nearly laughed in relief. While she’d been imagining a den of iniquity, all she saw were the Ping-Pong table, a recliner, a few resin chairs and, in one corner, a tier of audiovisual equipment.

“The kitchen table is tiny,” Quent said. “I figured we could eat out here on the Ping-Pong table, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds like fun,” she said. “We can pretend we’re having afternoon tea at Wimbledon. In miniature, of course.”

“Wimbledon. Isn’t that a race track?” he asked as he opened the pizza box.

“It’s a tennis court in Great Britain.”

“Oh, right.” From a sack, he extracted napkins. “So you’ve been to England?”

“A couple of years ago.” Amy used most of her vacation weeks for travel.

“Where else have you gone?”

“One year I did a whirlwind tour of Europe,” she said. “Another trip, I went to Washington, D.C., and New York City. I love historic sites.”

“I knew you were a woman of the world, but I didn’t realize the extent of it,” Quent teased. “Let’s see…I went to Tijuana a few times.” The Mexican border town lay a few miles south of San Diego.

“It’s a start,” Amy said. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Mostly I shopped. The last time, I bought a poncho and some toys for my niece and nephew,” he said. “And practiced my high-school Spanish on the natives. They were very patient.”

“Do you plan to travel more?”

“I guess so.”

They seemed to have run out of things to say. Always before, they’d chattered away about sports, favorite shows on television—they both enjoyed science fiction—or whatever was in the news.

Tonight, Amy felt stiff and self-conscious. She decided it must be due to hunger. Once they started eating, they’d bounce back to normal.

When she pulled up a chair, the Ping-Pong table proved an awkward height, but she supposed there were advantages to having her food closer to her mouth. Less likelihood of spilling it on herself, for instance. “Oh, good, you got pepperoni.”

“Everybody likes pepperoni.” Quent distributed slices onto paper plates.

“Not vegetarians,” she said.

“Everybody except vegetarians.” When he sat down and stretched his long legs, they brushed hers. A shiver ran through Amy. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She tried not to think about how much she’d enjoyed that brief contact. Then she remembered the purpose of their meeting, and seized on it gladly. “I brought a list of topics for us to discuss.” Amy nodded toward a file folder she’d set next to the pizza box.

Quent swallowed a bite of pizza. “Just because I’m not bubbling with conversation doesn’t mean I need prompting.”

“About child discipline,” she said.

“Oh, right.” It was hard to read his expression behind the glasses. “Do you subscribe to any particular theory?”

“Love and communication.” To Amy, those were the keys to any relationship.

“How about safety?” Quent said.

“That’s important,” she agreed. “But I don’t see what that has to do with discipline.”

“What if love and communication don’t stop a child from trying to knock over the baby’s crib?”

“I’ll have to think about that one,” Amy admitted.

Quent downed what must be his third or fourth slice. “Want more?”

“No, thanks.” She’d had three pieces, which was her limit.

“Great!” He gave an apologetic shake of the head. “That didn’t come out right. I meant, if you’re sure you’ve had enough, I’ll save the rest for breakfast.”

“I used to love pizza for breakfast when I was a teenager,” Amy said.

“Wow.” Quent stood and closed the box. “I’ve never met a woman who understood about eating pizza for breakfast. Most of them think it’s gross.”

“It comes from growing up in a house full of guys,” she said. “Ready for Ping-Pong?”

“You bet,” he said.

“We can go over ideas for the presentations while we play.” Amy, like Quent, was kinesthetic, which meant she learned and thought best while in motion.

After he put the pizza away, they tossed the paper plates in a wastebasket. Soon they were slamming the ball back and forth almost as fast as they volleyed remarks about how to discipline children.

The problem was that they didn’t see eye-to-eye. Amy believed explanations and careful listening were vital to teaching children the rules. Quent stressed timeouts and suspension of privileges for disobedience.

He served the ball without losing the flow of their conversation. “Personally, I think there are kids who benefit from the occasional mild spanking. Since these young mothers may not understand the difference between appropriate punishment and hitting a child in anger, though, I’ll leave that out.”

“You believe in spanking?” Amy was so shocked, she barely managed to return his shot. “I would never spank a child!”

“What if he kept running into traffic?” Quent slammed a ball right by her. “My point.”

“I thought we weren’t keeping score.” They’d agreed that conducting a formal game would interfere with their work.

“Doesn’t matter. I still like knowing I won the point.” He grinned.

“It depends which point we’re talking about. I don’t agree about spanking,” Amy said as she retrieved the ball from behind a stereo speaker. “My dad never spanked us, and we didn’t run into traffic.”

“Maybe he didn’t spank you because you weren’t the kind of kids who needed to be spanked.”

“You’re baiting me.”

“You just hate to admit I’m right.”

She glared. Quent laughed. “Don’t worry. I promise not to mention corporal punishment in our talk.”

“Good.” After a moment’s consideration, she said, “I think it’s okay for us to have differing opinions as long as we agree on the main issues.”

“Sounds good to me,” he said. “When are we giving these talks?”

“Saturday morning, if you’re free.” Amy had forgotten to mention the short notice. “I know it’s the Thanksgiving holiday, but most of the girls will be there.”

“No problem. I’m on duty, so I’ll be around,” Quent said. “The department has some charts I can use.”

“Great!”

Amy was glad to get the matter settled. Quent looked so appealing with his blond hair ruffled and his polo shirt clinging to his chest that she had a hard time thinking about the presentation.

If there’d been a couch, she would have been tempted to push him onto it. But the very thought of trying to curl against him in the awkwardness of a recliner suggested a humorous rather than amorous result.

“So how many kids do you want to have?” Quent asked.

Surprised by the question, Amy lost her concentration and served the ball into the net. “Why do you assume I want kids?”

“When you were staring at those babies at the birthing center, you had a look on your face like…like…”

“Like what?”

“Like you wanted to hold one in your arms.”

“Sure. They’re cute. Big deal.” The last thing she wanted was for him or anyone to feel sorry for her. So what if she hadn’t been able to make her dreams come true? There was plenty of time left.

Yet for some reason, she served the ball so hard it nearly missed the table. It chipped off the edge at an angle and shot by him.

“Foul!” Quent called as he went after the ball.

“It is not!” She refused to concede, even though she suspected he was right. Besides, they weren’t supposed to be playing for real.

“It was over the line.”

“There is no line.” The table, which he must have bought secondhand, had faded. Amy saw nothing wrong with using that fact to her advantage.

“Everybody knows there’s a line.” Quent returned to his place. “However, I’ll concede if you answer my question.”

“Which question?”

“How many children do you want?”

“I never thought beyond one,” she said.

One child to hold in her arms. One cradle to rock. One tiny pair of upraised arms and one little face gazing at her lovingly. It seemed like a whole universe.

To Amy’s annoyance, his serve whizzed past her. The man had an annoying way of distracting her.

“One?” Quent shook his head, which made his glasses slip lower. “I picture you as an earth mother. Three or four at least.”

“Then I’d better start soon. Not tonight, however,” she added in case he misinterpreted her remark.

Quent reddened. “I wasn’t implying that you should. I hadn’t even thought that far.”

It was time to quit dancing around the obvious. “Don’t tell me you haven’t had sex on your mind since we nearly got beaned by that palm tree,” Amy said. “Well, get over it.”

“How about you?” he demanded. “You’ve been thinking about it, too, or you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Too late, she saw the trap she’d set for herself by raising the issue. It would be unthinkable to tell the truth about her lack of experience and how much making love would mean to her. Instead, she said, “You’re my buddy. We’d both regret it if we yielded to impulse.”

“I’m not so sure,” Quent said. “Maybe we ought to go ahead and get it out of our systems.”

His words stung. Was it possible that making love, which would turn her life upside down, would cure Quent of any feelings for her whatsoever?

Although he didn’t seem like the cruel type, Amy knew that men sometimes behaved coldheartedly toward the women they’d “conquered.” The prospect was too painful to contemplate.

Struggling to keep her tone light, she said, “I don’t know when I’ve received such a romantic offer. Who needs flowers, wine and trips to Tahiti when a man whispers in your ear—what was that again?— ‘Let’s get it out of our systems.”’

Quent had the grace to look ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”

“Apology accepted.”

“I don’t mean to be pushy,” he went on, “but it’s hard on a guy, knowing how great you must be, imagining all the things you can teach me.”

What on earth was he talking about? Amy supposed she should order an advanced sex manual on the Internet and find out. Even if she did, however, she still wouldn’t know how to put it into practice.

If only she dared level with him. But she’d grown up with guys and knew how he would react. Men didn’t sympathize about stuff like being a virgin. Quent would tease her mercilessly, and Amy, for all her apparent self-confidence, was sensitive on the subject.