Читать книгу After Hours - Sandra Field - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

MARCIA stayed behind in the room that she now decided must be the gallery owner’s office, struggling to subdue a mixture of rage at Quentin’s effrontery and a truant amusement at his persistence. Mr. Quentin Ramsey, she’d be willing to bet, wasn’t used to women who said no. Not that she’d been playing games with him. She was in enough trouble at work, without adding a man who asked questions she didn’t want to answer, who had blue eyes that seemed to burn their way into her very soul and who was—she could admit it now that she was alone—sexual dynamite.

It wasn’t just his body, its hard planes ill-concealed by his tailored suit. His fingers were long and sensitive, the backs of his hands taut with sinews, and his face with its strong bones had character more than standard good looks—a character hinting at the complexities of the man within. It was an inhabited face, she thought slowly, the face of a man who’d tasted deeply of life, experiencing its dark side as well as its light.

She’d noticed an awful lot in a very few minutes. Too much for her own peace of mind. Altogether too much.

Every instinct she possessed urged her to head straight for the coat rack and leave. But if she did so Lucy and Troy would have a fit. She squared her shoulders and marched back into the gallery, purposely not looking at the painting so unimaginatively called Composition Number 8.

She picked out Quentin immediately; he was talking to a man in a pin-striped suit with every evidence of courteous attention. But then his eyes swiveled to meet hers, as though he’d sensed her standing there watching him. He winked at her. Marcia tilted her chin, turned her back and headed for the far gallery.

Lucy and Troy were gazing at a small work in one corner. Troy had his arm draped around Lucy’s shoulders while Lucy’s body language said more clearly than words that the man holding her was the man she adored. Again hot tears flooded Marcia’s eyes. I’ve got to stop this, she thought frantically. Right now. I’ve avoided marriage and commitment like the plague. So why does the sight of my sister’s happiness make me feel like a failure? Smarten up, Marcia! she made a gallant effort to gather the shreds of the control for which she was so famous. Then, her lips set, her chin high, she said casually, “Hi, Lucy... Troy.”

Lucy whirled, ducking out of the circle of Troy’s arm. “Marcia—I’m so pleased to see you!”

Marcia had never encouraged hugging. Lucy contented herself with kissing her sister on the cheek and Troy brushed his lips in the vicinity of her other cheek. Then Lucy stood back, scrutinizing her sister. “You look tired,” she said. “Are you all right?”

Exactly the question Quentin had asked. “I’m fine—-I’ ve been exceptionally busy at work. What do you think of the show?”

“There are four silk screen prints on the other wall that I lust after. And I think the acrylics are brilliant—such a departure.” Lucy put her head to one side. “This one, for instance—it’s a jewel.”

In exquisite detail Quentin had painted three little girls running through a meadow full of wildflowers; it was a tribute to his talent that the work was entirely without sentimentality. “They look like us,” Marcia blurted.

“Oh...I hadn’t thought of that. You and I and Cat, you mean. You’re right—two brunettes and a redhead!” Lucy laughed. “Maybe he saw the photo I have of the three of us on the piano.”

“Would you like to have it?” Troy asked, his slate-gray eyes resting affectionately on his wife.

“I would,” Marcia heard herself say.

Lucy was gazing at her speculatively and Troy’s eyebrows had shot halfway up his forehead. Aghast, Marcia sputtered, “I didn’t really mean that—I don’t want it, of course I don’t. You get it, Lucy.”

“Have you met Quentin?” Lucy asked.

“Yes. Very briefly. Please, Lucy, forget I ever said I wanted it. Buy her the painting, Troy.”

“I’ll get it for you, sis,” Troy said. “I didn’t give you anything for your last birthday.”

“But we never give each other expensive presents!”

“This will be the exception that proves the rule... I’ll be right back.”

And Marcia, for the third time that evening, found her eyes brimming with tears. Lucy drew her further into the corner, shielding her from the other guests. “You’re not yourself—what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.”

“Have lunch with me tomorrow.”

“I can’t. I’ve got to go into work.”

“Darn your work, Marcie!”

Lucy only used Marcia’s childhood name when she was upset. Marcia said, “I’m going to phone Mother in the morning—could you and Troy come for dinner on Sunday? Catherine’s free.”

“Love to,” Lucy said promptly.

“Come around six, then... I do wish Troy wasn’t buying me that painting.”

“Too bad we can’t take it home right away. It’d look perfect in your bedroom.”

A painting of Quentin Ramsey’s in her bedroom? No way, thought Marcia, and from the corner of her eye saw Emily Harrington-Smythe parting the crowd with Troy in her wake. “An excellent choice,” Emily said, sticking a little red circle beside the painting. “Congratulations, Dr. Donovan.”

“Happy birthday, Marcia,” Troy said, with a lazy grin at his sister-in-law.

The painting was hers. Whether she wanted it or not. Standing on tiptoes, Marcia kissed Troy on the chin and said limpidly, “Thank you, Troy, that was sweet of you.”

“Let’s go and find Quentin and tell him what we’ve done,” he rejoined.

In sheer panic Marcia said, “I’ve really got to go—I was in the lab at six this morning. But I’ll see you both on Sunday.” Giving them a quick smile, she almost ran from the room.

Quentin was standing in the far corner of the gallery with three very attractive women—two of them blondes, the other a voluptuous creature with glorious black curls. He was laughing at something one of them had said. Marcia pulled on her coat, picked up her umbrella and scurried out into the rain.

Marcia’s mother, Dr. Evelyn Barnes, was a forensic pathologist, a poised and gracious hostess and a demon golfer. But when Marcia phoned her from work the next morning, Evelyn sounded unusually flustered.

“Dinner? On Sunday? With the family? Let me get my book... I—Marcia, could I bring someone with me? A friend?”

“Of course. Is Lillian in town?”

Lillian was her mother’s best friend, who had moved to Toronto only a month ago. “No—no, it’s not Lillian. It’s a man.”

Evelyn always had an escort to the concerts and dinner parties she frequented, but never allowed these undoubtedly very fine men to mingled with her family. “You’re being a dark horse, Mother. What’s his name?”

“Henry Woods. He’s a broker. I—I’d like you to meet him.”

Trying very hard to hit a balance between unmannerly curiosity and diplomatic uninterest, Marcia said soothingly, “That’s just fine. Six o’clock?”

“Lovely. We’ll see you then.” Evelyn, who usually liked to catch up on all the family news, smartly cut the connection.

More slowly, Marcia put the receiver down. If she didn’t know better, she’d say her mother was in love. Her cool, unemotional mother in love?

It didn’t look as though her dinner party would be dull.

At five to six on Sunday Marcia was putting the finishing touches to her make-up. The same perverse instinct that had caused her to claim the painting of the three little girls had induced her to ignore the elegant but rather dull outfits that made up the bulk of her wardrobe, as well as her horn-rimmed glasses. She was wearing black stirrup pants with a long black sweater emblazoned with the golden face of a lion; her pumps were black with gold buckles. Despite the addition of the mysterious Mr. Woods, this was only a family dinner, she thought defiantly, adding scarlet lipstick and big gold earrings that dangled against her neck. Besides, it had rained all weekend.

The security buzzer sounded and Lucy’s voice came over the intercom. A few moments later there was a tap on the door. Before Marcia could say anything, Lucy handed her sister the baby so she could take off her coat and said ingenuously, “We brought Quentin along. I hope you don’t mind? The cocktail party he was supposed to go to was canceled because the hostess had the flu.”

Christopher Stephen Donovan grabbed at Marcia’s earrings and drooled down the shoulder of her sweater. Quentin’s eyes were even bluer than she remembered them. Marcia backed up so that they could come in and mumbled untruthfully, “No, that’s fine. No problem at all.”

Lucy handed Troy her coat and swiped at Lucy’s shoulder with a tissue. “He’s teething again—I keep telling Troy someone should invent a better method for the acquiring of teeth. Here, I’ll take him now.”

But Christopher had locked his arms around Marcia’s neck and burrowed his face into her shoulder. He smelled sweetly of baby powder and warm skin, his weight solid against her body. Her arms tightened around him as she rested her cheek on his wispy hair. Oh God, she thought helplessly, here I go again. I want to weep my eyes out. I’m cracking up. I’ve never wanted children. Not once in my thirty-three years.

Quentin, meanwhile, had been hanging up his coat and combing the raindrops from his hair—more to give himself time to collect his wits than from any urge for neatness. His first glimpse of Marcia in all that black and gold had sent a jolt through his system as though he’d grabbed a live wire; he’d simultaneously wanted to look his fill and throw her down on the carpet and kiss her senseless. Then Lucy had given her the baby, and, as though the carpet had moved beneath his feet, he’d seen her holding his child, their child, the fruit of their love.

You’re nuts, he told himself astringently. She hasn’t even agreed to have lunch with you and you’re already into fatherhood? He said, “Marcia, I brought you these. They were selling them at the market.”

Marcia looked up. He was clutching a large, inartistic bouquet of mixed flowers—oranges clashing with pinks, purple next to magenta. His gaze locked with hers and she found herself quite unable to look away. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Lucy can show you where to find a vase.”

“Left my suit back at the hotel,” he added.

He looked extremely handsome in soft-fitting gray cords and a dark blue sweater. “I see,” Marcia said inanely.

Quentin handed the bouquet to Lucy and stepped closer to Marcia. “He’s going to pull your hair out by the roots... Let go, Chris.” Then she felt the warmth of a man’s fingers against her nape and felt his breath stir her hair. Every nerve in her body sprang to jangling life. Her shoulders rigid, her breathing caught in her throat, she heard Chris mumble a protest; his little fist tightened on her hair and she winced.

“Easy, Chris...there we go.”

With infinite gentleness Quentin had loosened the baby’s hold. As he eased the child out of her arms his forearm brushed her breast. The shock ran through her body; he must have felt it. She flashed a desperate glance around and saw that Troy and Lucy were watching her with considerable interest. I will not blush. I will not, she told herself. She said in a strangled voice, “I’ve got to keep an eye on the dinner. I’ll be right back.”

Troy started setting up their portable playpen, Quentin swung baby Chris high over his head so that he gurgled with laughter, and Lucy followed Marcia into the kitchen. “Is Mother coming? Yummy—something smells delicious.”

Glad to talk about anything other than Quentin, Marcia said, “She’s bringing a man,” and relayed the gist of the phone call. Before she’d finished Catherine arrived and sauntered into the kitchen, and she had to go through her story again.

Dr. Catherine Barnes was petite like Marcia, elegant like their mother, and did research in pancreatic cancer. “I’m on holiday for three whole weeks,” she crowed. “I’m looking after Lydia’s dogs next week, so I’ll get lots of exercise and fresh air. You look like you could do with some sun, Marcia, you’re much too pale.”

Cat was a fitness freak who could always be counted on to say it like it was. “Thanks,” Marcia said drily. “But it does happen to have been raining for the last four days—or hadn’t you noticed? Would you pass around the crab dip, Cat? And I’ll get Troy to pour drinks.”

Lucy had jammed the flowers in Marcia’s largest vase. “Where’ll I put them?”

Quentin was standing in the kitchen doorway, minus Chris. “I’ll put them in the middle of the table,” he said.

Marcia had placed an attractive arrangement of silk flowers that matched her china as a centerpiece. She watched Quentin plunk it on the sideboard and put the motley bouquet in its place. He was exactly the kind of man she disliked—making decisions without consulting her, taking over as though he owned the place. As he came back in the kitchen she said frostily, “The only thing missing from that bouquet is skunk cabbage.”

“Better luck next time.”

“Next time? You don’t look the type to enjoy city life. I can’t imagine you’re going to stay in Ottawa for long.”

“I wasn’t going to—but I’ve changed my plans,” he said. “A friend of mine who’s away owns a place in the Gatineau Hills, so I’m going to stay there for a while. You and I still have to have lunch—or had you forgotten?”

“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Confidence gets results, Dr. Barnes.”

“Up until now confidence might have gotten you results,” she said sweetly.

“Are you suggesting I should change tactics?”

“I’m suggesting you abandon the project.”

“I don’t think so. You’re an interesting challenge.”

Her nostrils flared. “Now you’re being insulting.”

He stepped closer and said softly, “You liked it when I touched you.”

Gritting her teeth, Marcia thought about icebergs and glaciers and Scotch on the rocks, and her cheeks stayed only as pink as the heat of the stove warranted. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. A man of your experience should be more adept at distinguishing between a woman who’s startled and a woman who’s ready to fall at your feet.”

Quentin was by now thoroughly enjoying himself. “Dear me... a woman has never once thrown herself at my feet. Does that make me a failure as a man? Although it does sound rather a deranged thing to—Oh, thanks, Troy. I’ll have a beer.”

Had Troy been listening? Appalled, Marcia said stiffly, “You’ll have to excuse me... Oh, there’s the buzzer—that must be Mother.”

Evelyn Barnes looked very attractive in her rose-pink dress with her gray hair softly curling round her ears. Her usual escorts were tall, patrician-featured men, who considered themselves essential to the running of the country; Henry Woods was short, stout, bald and unassuming, with a pair of the kindest brown eyes Marcia had ever seen. She warmed to him immediately. She made introductions all around, Troy passed the drinks, and Marcia set a place for Quentin at the table, seating him where the flowers would screen him from her view.

Two and a half hours later Marcia was plugging in the coffee-machine in the kitchen. She was pleased with the success of her dinner party. Quentin and Henry bad proved to be witty and entertaining, Cat had thrown off her normal reserve and the baby had filled any gaps in the conversation. As for herself, she’d managed to avoid anything but minimal contact with Quentin. He couldn’t move out to the Gatineau Hills fast enough for her.

She reached in the refrigerator for the cream. But the container was almost empty and she’d forgotten to buy a new one. She went back in the living room. Troy and Quentin were getting out the chess pieces while Evelyn was giving Chris his bottle. “I’ll have to run to the corner store—I’m out of cream,” Marcia said. “Won’t be a minute.”

Quentin got to his feet. “I’ll come with you. I need to walk off some of that excellent dinner.”

She couldn’t very well tell him to get lost. Evelyn wouldn’t approve of that. So Marcia got her purse, pulled on shiny black boots and her raincoat and went out into the hall with him. His belted trenchcoat gave him the air of a particularly rakish spy.

“Let’s take the stairs,” Quentin said. “I shouldn’t have had a second helping of that chocolate dessert—deadly.”

“It was only Belgian chocolate, whipping cream and butter,” Marcia said, wide-eyed. “Oh, and six eggs too.”

“It should be against medical ethics to make caffeine and cholesterol taste so good.”

“It’s Cat’s favorite dessert. That article she told us about was interesting, wasn’t it?”

But Quentin hadn’t braved the rain to talk about Cat. As they went outside he opened Marcia’s umbrella, held it over their heads and pulled her close to his side, tucking her arm in his. “There,” he said. “Alone at last.”

His strong-boned face was only inches from hers; his gaze was intent: She said coolly, “This is a big city—we’re scarcely alone.”

“Don’t split hairs, Marcia. There are just two people under this umbrella-tell the truth for once.”

“All right, so we’re alone. So what?”

“Why did my painting make you cry?”

“Quentin, I have guests who are waiting for their coffee—come along!”

“You’re bright, you’re competent, you’re a dab hand with Belgian chocolate—and you’re scared to death of your own emotions. That’s quite a combination.”

Besides a rum and cola before dinner, Marcia had had two glasses of red wine with dinner. She said, pulling her arm free as she turned to face him and wishing that the umbrella didn’t cloister them quite so intimately, “You want the truth? I’ll give you the truth. You’re wasting your time, Quentin. I’m thirty-three years old—not fifteen. If I’m scared of emotion I presumably have adequate reasons, and if I’m as bright as you say I am they must be good reasons. I’m also much too old to be spilling out my life story to every man that comes along.”

Quentin didn’t like being bracketed with a procession of other men. He wanted to be different. He wanted to shake her up. As raindrops spattered on the umbrella he stroked the smooth fall of her hair with his free hand and said huskily, “You look like an Egyptian goddess in that outfit you’re wearing.”

Hot color flared in her cheeks. “I wouldn’t have worn it if I’d known you were coming,” she said, then could have bitten off her tongue.

He pounced. “You don’t want me seeing the real you?”

“I don’t know who the real me is anymore!” Marcia exclaimed, then rolled her eyes in self-disgust. “Telling the truth seems to be addictive. Quentin, it’s pouring rain. Let’s go.”

“Maybe I call you to truth,” he said quietly. Then he clasped her by the chin, lowered his head and kissed her full on the lips. Her lips weren’t cold; they were so soft and desirable that he lost all track of time and place in the sheer pleasure of the moment. When she suddenly jerked her chin free, it came as a physical shock.

“You mustn’t do that,’ she gabbled. ”You scarcely know me. You can’t just go kissing me as if we’re lovers in a Hollywood movie—and now you’ve got lipstick all over your mouth.”

She sounded anything but unemotional, and her first, instinctive yielding had set his head swimming. Quentin fished in his pocket, producing another handkerchief. “You’d better wipe it off,” he said.

“So that’s why you carry a hand kerchief—I should have known,” she said nastily, and scrubbed at his lips with painful vigor.

He was suddenly angry out of all proportion. Pulling his head back, he said, “Let me tell you something—my dad was a lumberjack in a little village in New Brunswick that I’m sure you’ve never heard of—Holton, in the Kennebecasis Valley—and my mom cleaned the houses of the rich folk. A white handkerchief was the mark of a gentleman to her, and when I won a provincial art competition at the age of twelve she gave me six boxes of handkerchiefs. I may not qualify as a gentleman but I loved my mother, and that’s why I always carry a white handkerchief.”

Marcia stood very still. Water was dripping from the prongs of the umbrella and her feet were getting cold. She said, “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have said that.”

She was looking straight at him, and her apology was obviously sincere. “Okay. But you really get under my skin, Marcia Barnes.”

“That’s mutual,” she snorted, and wiped the last of the lipstick from the corner of his mouth. His nose was slightly crooked and there was a dent in his chin; his brows and lashes were as black as his hair. As for his mouth... She shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. She had never been kissed like that in her life. Brief, beautiful and bewildering, she thought, tugging at his sleeve and starting off down the sidewalk, even through his coat she could feel the hard muscles of his arm.

They walked in silence for several minutes. Then Quentin said abruptly, “Have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

“I can’t.”

“Tuesday, then.”

“You’ll be in the Gatineau Hills.”

“I have a car. It’s less than an hour’s drive.”

“The store where I can get the cream is in the bottom floor of that apartment block—I won’t be a minute,” Marcia gasped, then darted from under the umbrella and ran inside.

The harsh fluorescent lighting and the aisles packed with food restored her to some kind of sanity. One kiss and I would indeed have fallen at his feet, she realized grimly, taking the container of cream out of the refrigerator and marching to the checkout. But just because my hormones are doing a dance like daffodils in springtime doesn’t mean I have to have dinner with the man. In fact, it’s precisely why I shouldn’t have dinner with him. I’m in enough of a muddle without adding a wild card like Quentin Ramsey to the pack.

She paid for the cream and went outside. Quentin was waiting for her, a tall, blue-eyed stranger standing under a streetlamp. He did call her to truth, she thought unhappily. To truth and to emotion—a devastating combination for a woman used to hiding herself from both. How was she going to convince him that she didn’t want to date him? Normally she had no trouble getting rid of men who forced their attentions on her.

As she cudgeled her brains, he forestalled her. “If you’re too busy at work to have dinner through the week, I can wait until next weekend.”

Marcia bit her lip and started to walk back the way they’d come. “Quentin, I don’t want to see you again. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but that’s the way it is.”

“Why not?”

She said childishly, “Because. Just because! Okay?”

“No, dammit, it’s not okay! I know you’re attracted to me, and I’m willing to bet you don’t lose your cool with anyone else the way you have with me. My painting made you cry, your whole body responds when I touch you, and the more I see of you the more I figure Lucy doesn’t have a clue what makes you tick.” He drew a harsh breath. “Plus she told me how much you wanted the painting of the three little girls—the one Troy bought for you.”

Spacing her words, Marcia seethed, “I can want a painting. That doesn’t mean I have to have dinner with the artist. You’re not a stupid man and that’s not a very complicated message. So why aren’t you getting it?”

“Because I don’t want to,” he said tightly. Although his features were inscrutable, Quentin was beginning to feel scared; any time he’d visualized finding the perfect woman she’d been as delighted to discover him as he her.

If Marcia had used her common sense she would have changed the subject. “I don’t understand you—why are you pushing me so hard?” she cried.

“If I told you, you’d laugh in my face.”

“Then please just drop it, Quentin.”

“I can’t!” He took a deep breath, trying to think. “I’m going to be seeing a fair bit of Troy and Lucy over the summer, so I’m bound to see you again. Unless you avoid them for the next two months, of course.”

“I’ll make sure when I go and see them that you’re not included,” she snapped.

“So you’re not indifferent to me... If you were, you wouldn’t care if I was there or not.”

“I don’t like being harassed.”

His steps slowed. “That’s an ugly word.”

“Then don’t do it.”

Her jaw was set mutinously. The pale sweep of her cheekbones made him ache somewhere deep inside. He said desperately, “Marcia, I don’t think I’ve ever begged a woman to spend time with me... I guess I’ve never had to. So if I’m not doing this well it’s because I haven’t had any practise. I’m begging you now. You’re important to me in ways I don’t understand but that I know to be real. Give me a chance—that’s all I ask.”

To her infinite relief she saw they’d reached the driveway to her building. It took all her courage to look up at him, and the torment in his face almost weakened her resolve. “There’s no point—please believe me.” She tried to smile. “I’m sorry.”

She was right, she knew she was; she was being sensible and rational. She had never thought of herself as an overly adept judge of male character, but she was certain that any relationship with Quentin wouldn’t be shallow. Better to end whatever was between them now rather than later.

So why was she filled with the same bitter regret that his painting had called up in her? And why did she feel as though she’d just trampled on a whole field of daffodils?

She stalked into the building and up the stairs, and before she unlocked her door forced a bright smile on her face.

The next two hours were purgatory. But finally Evelyn and Henry stood up and everyone else followed their lead.

Quentin pushed back his chair, trying to stretch the tension from his shoulders. Troy had trounced him royally at chess because his mind had been anywhere but on the game. His thoughts had been going round and round in circles that had ended up exactly nowhere. He should have kept his cool with Marcia. Kept things light and on the surface. Instead he’d kissed her before she was ready, and badgered her as if his sole intention had been to push her away.

For a man she’d said wasn’t stupid, he’d sure blown it. Nor did he have any idea what he was going to do next. According to Marcia, there wasn’t any next.

He was the last one to go out the door. Marcia shrank away from him, and he saw that there were faint blue shadows under her eyes. Filled with a passionate compunction, and another emotion that he wasn’t quite ready to label fear, he said roughly, “If you change your mind, get in touch with me. You can always reach me through Lucy and Troy.”

“Yes... yes, of course,” she said, already starting to close the door.

She couldn’t wait to be rid of him—that was the message. Quentin headed for the elevator where the rest of them were waiting, somehow made appropriate small talk until Troy dropped him off at the hotel and then headed for the bar. There were times in life when only a double rum would do.