by Tara Janzen
“No . . . I, um, I don't think that would be such a good idea,” she said, but she had to look away when she said it. She couldn't out-and-out tell him she didn't want him to stay. She couldn't lie like that and look him in the eye while she did it.
The room hummed with silence before he quietly asked, “Do you want to see me again?”
God, he wasn't going to make this easy, and she didn't quite have the courage to completely throw him away. Not yet.
“Maybe . . . maybe we could go on a date. Sometime. Later,” she said desperately.
DATE?” Quinn repeated, feeling a tremor run through him, a very uneasy tremor. He wasn't precisely sure what she meant, but he didn't think dating could be good, especially if it was later.
Later than what? he wanted to ask, but didn't quite dare. He'd thought they'd kind of skipped the dating stage for something a lot more meaningful.
“Sure. Later. It's what people do. Maybe we could, uh, get to know each other better that way.”
Or maybe not, was what it sounded like, and his uneasy tremor started to turn into a full-blown quake. Get to know each other? What the hell did that mean?
How could he possibly know her better? He knew he'd loved her since he was sixteen. Knew the sound of her voice filled him with a sense of joy and well-being he would never have dreamed possible. He knew what she tasted like in the middle of the night with her legs wrapped around his shoulders—incredibly, mind-blowingly good. Amazing. It was a physical sensation that registered in every cell of his body, all at once, everywhere. He'd never known anybody like that before. He didn't want to know anybody else like that, ever—even if it was possible, which he very sincerely doubted. If what he felt with her had been easy to find, he would have found it long before this. God knew, he'd put in plenty of effort, all of it pretty damn good fun.
But Regan, she was beyond fun. Way beyond. And if she wanted to date, he could stop thinking like a guy long enough to take a few steps back and date—but not later. No way was he going to wait for an ominous-sounding “later.”
“How about if I pick you up in, let's say, an hour?” Okay, that had been a little harder to say than he'd hoped it would be, because he'd hoped to be spending the next hour or eight sleeping with her, making love with her, not getting kicked out of her house.
But he could date instead.
Sure he could, if that's what it was going to take to get her past whatever it was that had put that look in her eye. The look that told him she was confused and exhausted and maybe a little afraid of everything that had happened between them.
“The sun won't even be up in an hour,” she said.
“Good point,” he conceded.
“And I really am tired,” she added, taking a step back. “It's been a long night.”
And that was a huge understatement.
“How about if I get opera tickets for tonight?” Hawkins had a great connection to the Denver Opera Guild. “Or we can have dinner.” His first choice. He'd much rather look at her from across a candlelit table than to sit watching anything else, even if it was La Traviata.
“I have to work in the morning,” she said, retreating another step.
He was losing ground, fast. He could feel it slipping out from under his feet like a California mud slide, and he got an awful feeling that if he let her get away from him now, he wouldn't get her back.
“Takeout,” he offered. “I could bring Chinese takeout, for everybody, and we could all, uh, eat together, you, me, Wilson, and Nikki, and maybe we could play cards.”
Strip poker on seven-card stud was a good game for him. He could have her down to her birthday suit in two hands. Of course, Wilson and Nikki would also be down to theirs, which wasn't at all what he had in mind.
The look she was giving him told him he'd sounded way too desperate with that last idea. He needed to get a grip. She'd had a wild night, probably the wildest night of her life, and he could understand that she might need a little downtime.
He just wished to hell she'd spend it with him.
But she wasn't going to—he could tell by looking at her. She needed some space. And he needed to be grown-up and give it to her.
Shit.
This didn't look good. This didn't look good at all.
CHAPTER
29
AFTER FOUR DAYS and twenty-eight unanswered phone calls, Quinn was pretty damn sure he'd figured out what she meant by “dating later.” She meant never—but he'd be damned if he was going to accept that. He knew what she'd felt when she'd been with him. He was a smart guy and not given to self-delusion, and he was not a one-night stand, not for Regan McKinney.
Besides, he was dying without her. He had nothing left to lose.
Skeeter and Johnny still had his COPO Camaro broken down, and they'd made some adjustments to Roxanne, so Hawkins had asked him to give the Challenger a spin, and he'd spun himself and the big green machine all the way up to Boulder.
He missed Jeanette, but there was always another Jeanette out there somewhere, waiting to be rebuilt.
There was only one Regan.
He pulled up to the curb in front of the McKinney house, let out a short breath, and swung out of the car. He didn't allow himself to hesitate. He knew she was home. He'd radioed the cops on his way up the turn-pike.
Clearing the front porch steps in two long strides, he crossed to the door, gave the doorbell one intrigued glance, and pushed the button.
A bloodcurdling scream erupted from the house.
Holy shit. He jumped back, wondering who in the world was dying.
Then it hit him, and he grinned.
Christ, that was just what he needed, when he was already nervous as hell.
There was probably no need to ring the doorbell again, so he waited.
And waited.
Until he finally heard someone coming.
The door swung open, and his breath actually caught in his throat at the sight of her. It was Regan, and she was wearing a dress, a killer dress with tiny ruffled straps on a wraparound halter top guaranteed to knock him down dead. It was blue, with blue and white flowers swirled all over it, and it made her skin look cool and creamy. She did not tan, ever, and her shoulders were enough to break a grown man's heart.
“Hi,” he managed, which was more than she seemed to be able to do.
She looked frozen in the doorway, despite the ninety-seven-degree day.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered after an endless silence. “I . . . I have a luncheon. At the university. For the geology department.”
She was lying. What he didn't know was why. So he pushed her. “Are you speaking?”
“No.”
“Then you have a minute. Can I come in? Please?”
He could tell by the stricken look on her face that ingrained politeness was the only thing that got him through the door.
Okay, he told himself. Don't panic. He'd given this a lot of thought. Sure they'd had a crazy night together, maybe one of the craziest ever, but there had been more than craziness, and she had to know it. She was scared, was all. Scared of him, of what they'd done, of what she'd felt. He was going to make that all go away.
She led the way into the kitchen, and he followed, counting every step as a victory. She had her hair rolled up in kind of a French style, very elegant, and there was the faintest sheen of dampness on the nape of her neck. He wanted to start licking her there and work his way down to the really good stuff. But he wasn't going to do that. No. He was going to behave. He was not going to seduce her or push her into something she needed time to think about. He was playing for keeps, and that meant having patience.
She came to a sudden halt in the hallway, and to keep from running into her, he caught her with his hands, the biggest mistake he could have possibly made. Her skin was so soft, and so warm.
“Sorry, I—” Hell, he wasn't sorry. He was speechless with wanting to pull her into his arms and kiss her
. He should let go of her. He knew it. He just couldn't do it. And so much for his good intentions. Hell.
“Quinn, I . . . I can't do this.” Her voice sounded very weak, like she might start crying any second.
“Can't do what?” he asked, gently turning her in his arms.
“Be with you. See you.” Her eyes were downcast. All he could see was the top of her head, until he lightly grasped her chin and tilted her face up toward his.
That's when he saw her eyes, and what he saw made his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach.
“You've been crying,” he said. Her eyes were red-rimmed, the soft gray color washed out.
“Ever since you left.” The admission came hard to her. He could tell by the way she shifted her gaze to the floor.
“Why, Regan? If that's how you feel, why haven't we been together?”
“Because I don't have the courage for it. That night . . . I can't live like that, Quinn. Never knowing if you're safe. Violence around every corner. People putting a price on your head.” Her gaze came back up to his. “I love you, Quinn. More than I ever dreamed I could love someone, but it would kill me to live like that.”
She loved him. Quinn felt the words ease the tension that had been building in him since she'd all but pushed him out her front door. He could handle the rest of it if she loved him.
“You stole my heart, Regan,” he told her. “And I don't particularly want it back.”
“Oh, Quinn,” she said, and he didn't think he'd ever heard a sadder voice. It was more than he could take.
Still holding her chin in his hand, he lowered his head to give her a sweet kiss, just a kiss, just a moment of his mouth on hers without any of the crazy heat that had so consumed them Friday night.
But she undermined his innocent intentions with an unbidden sigh and the slightest touch of her tongue to his lips. It was a fleeting caress, just the briefest touch of dampness, but it was enough to challenge him to his core.
He held himself very still, knowing how easy it would be to give in to the sudden surge of heat she'd sent streaking through his body. How easy it would be to find himself with her legs around his waist, his body pressing her back against the wall, and her dress gathered up in his hands.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't afford to give in to all the lovely, earthly lust she inspired. They'd made love four incredible times that night, and it hadn't been enough to hold her to him. If he wanted her, he had to give her something more—and he definitely wanted her.
“Come with me, Regan,” he said, lifting his head from hers. “Can you give me an hour? There's something I want to show you. Someone I want you to meet.”
She held his gaze for a long time before she nodded her acceptance. “I . . . um, okay,” she said hesitantly, every doubt she had written on her face and echoing in her voice. “Just an hour.”
He didn't give her a chance to change her mind. In minutes, he had her buckled in to Roxanne, and the Challenger fired up and ready to roll.
They didn't have far to go. Fifteen minutes of maneuvering crosstown traffic through Boulder got them to the east side and a new housing development of high-end homes.
Regan instantly knew where they were, and whom he wanted her to meet, and for the first time since he'd walked back in her door and back into her life, she felt the stirrings of hope.
Meeting a man's mother for the first time could do that to a girl.
“This is your mom's house,” she said, and he nodded.
“She doesn't know we're coming,” he said. “I didn't want to get her hopes up and then have you turn me down.”
“Is it going to be okay? Us just showing up like this?”
In answer, he let out a short laugh. “Trust me, Regan. She's my mother. I could show up at two o'clock in the morning with half the Barnum and Bailey circus in tow, and she'd be glad to see me—and then she'd feed everybody. I hope you're hungry.”
She wasn't. Not at all. Especially now. But she was excited. He'd brought her to meet his mother.
“My mother died a long time ago,” she told him. She didn't know why she told him, but suddenly it seemed like something he should know. “My dad, too.”
“I remember,” he said, surprising her. “Wilson used to talk about your parents a lot, when he'd have us out there on some godforsaken hillside, scratching in the dirt. Every time one of us whined—and there was plenty of whining—he'd tell us another story about your mom and dad and what great adventurers they both were, and sometimes he'd sort of wander into the story of how they died.” He reached up and caressed her face, his thumb gliding smoothly across her cheek. “I'd kiss you,” he said softly, “but I don't think you want to meet my mom looking like I just tumbled you in the backseat.”
No, she guessed she didn't, but she was tempted. Darn tempted. She'd missed him so terribly, and he looked good enough to eat, in a white polo shirt, button-fly jeans—yes, she'd noticed—and his snakeskin cowboy boots.
At the front door, he rang the doorbell once before letting himself in with a key. “I've never actually lived here,” he explained, “but Mom likes me to have a key and come and go at will. It's just her way, I think, of trying to make up to me for all those times we didn't have a place to go. Crazy, huh? Like I don't have a house in Evergreen and an apartment at Steele Street.”
“You have a house in Evergreen?” she asked, naming a town up in the mountains but close to Denver. It was amazing what she didn't know about him.
“Yeah. I guess we never got to that part, did we?” The lock turned, and he opened the door wide, gesturing her inside.
“No. We didn't.” She walked into a large foyer that flanked an even larger great room, and her eyes opened wide. The house was beautifully decorated with broad strokes of color and eclectic furniture, rich tapestries, wool rugs on wooden floors, and open beamed ceilings. Regan's first thought was that Nikki would love it. Nothing matched, but everything fit together perfectly.
“You want to know what's even crazier?” he asked, following her inside and shutting the door behind them. “I make a point of showing up unannounced at least once a month, just because she gets such a kick out of it.”
Regan thought she'd been in love with him before, but he'd just won her heart forever.
“Hey, Mom!” he hollered, taking her hand and leading her through the great room toward an open set of French doors off the large kitchen. “She's probably in the garden. I don't know where the girls are, probably shopping. They're like an Olympic tag team at the mall.”
“How old are they?”
“Fifteen and thirteen. Hellions both.” He grinned.
“Oh,” Regan said, catching sight of a woman pruning rosebushes in the backyard. “What's your mother's name?”
“Solange.”
The woman rose to her feet, turning toward the house, and it was all Regan could do to keep her feet moving.
“She's French?” she asked, glancing up at him.
He came to a stop at the open door and met her gaze. “Half French from her mother's side.”
“Quinn!” his mother called excitedly from the yard, and Regan returned her attention to one of the most beautiful women she'd ever seen in her life. Solange was Quinn Younger, female version, with long dark hair that fell in a stylishly silky cut to her shoulders. Features that were chiseled on him were exquisitely delicate on her. They had the same green eyes, the same dark brows, except hers were elegantly shaped. She was dressed in a sleeveless red knit top and black capris with ballet slippers on her feet. She wasn't wearing makeup, but she didn't need makeup. The warmth of her smile made her glow.
She automatically wrapped her arm around Quinn's waist when she came up, and when she took Regan's hand during the introductions, she didn't let go.
“I am so pleased to meet you,” she practically crooned, tucking Regan's arm next to her own and leading her out to a shady portion of the patio next to a small fountain with a fishpond. “Quinn, honey, why don't you bring us
some tea.”
And thus began one of the most remarkable afternoons of Regan's life. She'd never been so fussed over and catered to, or interrogated with such gentle grace. After about half an hour, the girls returned home, and the party picked up in pace. Food and photographs from Quinn's and the girls' childhoods started showing up at the table, and a garden tour was given. By the time Solange's husband, Jerry, got home from work, Quinn had the grill fired up—and through it all, a slow realization began to dawn on Regan: Quinn was easy to love, not hard like she'd feared so desperately, and she wasn't alone in loving him. She didn't know how much his mother knew about what he did, but a few things the older woman said made Regan feel Solange knew more than she liked. That she, too, had her fears and concerns, but she loved him anyway, without reservation.
Anyone who loved had a lot to lose, but who was willing to lose the love to lessen the risk?
Not her, Regan realized, not if it meant giving him up.
After dessert and coffee, Quinn stood up and offered her his hand.
“Come on,” he said, with an irresistible grin. “I'm going to give you the real garden tour.”
She took his hand, and the girls giggled, and Solange beamed, and Jerry fussed with the grill. The yard was huge, almost half an acre in back, and by the time they'd strolled through his mother's rose garden, the lights on the patio were nothing more than a luminous backdrop against the darkness of the night.
“Have you had fun?” he asked.
“More than fun,” she confessed. “Your mother, your family, they're all wonderful.”
“You'll like my dad, too. Things are a bit more rambunctious at his house. The boys are younger than Jessie and Lynne. I thought, if you'd like to keep dating me, we could go over there next week. What do you think? I can get you a good deal on your next set of tires if you say yes.”
“Bribery?” she teased, charmed that he would stoop so low.
“Whatever it takes,” he said, unabashed.
“I haven't thanked you yet for getting my car back to me.” Her Taurus had shown up, none the worse for wear, the day before. It had broken her heart at the time, the reminder of him, and she'd spent the rest of the day crying, just as she had the day before and the day before that, but she didn't feel like crying anymore. “I suppose someone will be coming to pick up Betty.” He had left her the candy-apple-red Coronet to drive, just like he'd promised.
