She dimpled a cheek at him and shot out a hip to provide a perch for her splayed hand. Quincy’s gaze snapped to the spot like metal shavings reeled in by a strong magnet. Something else snapped to attention right along with his gaze. Her slender fingers were tipped with shiny, natural nails. No painted acrylic tips, thank God. He hated them.
“The hens got me a done-over.” Still wobbly on the toothpick heels, she stepped out from the stove and did a slow, slightly precarious twirl to show herself off. Quincy prayed to God she didn’t fall and snap a fragile anklebone, even as he noted that the slight sway accented her legs and hips. “What do ye think, Sir Quincy?”
He thought he’d died and gone to heaven. Well, scratch that. He really, really liked what he saw, but what had she done with all her beautiful hair? It took a lifetime to grow a braid that long, and as big a pain in the ass as it had been to wash, dry, and braid again, he’d still thought it was beautiful. Not that the new cut wasn’t equally pretty. Hell, it was downright stunning.
“I donated me braid,” she informed him. “To a charity called Locks of Love that makes hairpieces for children who have no hair because they are ill.”
He moved slowly toward her. His tongue still wouldn’t come loose from the roof of his mouth. The unmistakable scent of Chanel No. 5 drifted to his nostrils. Man. He liked roses a lot, but Chanel totally blasted his olfactory senses. And on Ceara, the expensive perfume had its own allure, different somehow than it smelled on other women.
He finally got his tongue pried loose. “You look drop-dead . . .” He couldn’t think of an adjective to do her justice. “Drop-dead . . .” Where was his brain, in his hip pocket? “You look—”
Her blue eyes quickened with tears, and she wobbled on the high heels in a speedy attempt to sweep past him. Quincy snaked out a hand to catch her by the arm. Language barrier. She didn’t get what drop-dead, followed by any adjective, meant. “Gorgeous,” he blurted. “You are gorgeous—you totally eclipse any woman I’ve ever clapped eyes on. You look so beautiful I can barely think.”
She turned a questioning gaze on him, her eyes still shadowed with hurt. “Truly?”
She looked and smelled so fabulous that Quincy wanted to devour her right there on the spot. “Oh, yeah.” He released his hold on her arm. “Way too beautiful to eat in. Turn off the stove and give me fifteen to clean up. I’m taking you out to dinner. Someplace incredible. We’ll go into town by cab, wine and dine, and come home by cab. A lady as beautiful as you are deserves . . .” He honestly couldn’t think what she deserved. A charter flight to Paris for dinner, maybe? “The sky is the limit. Just let me get cleaned up.”
Her worried expression dissolved into an adorable, pleased smile that made his heart jerk. Smoothing her hands over her top and tight skirt in a way that nearly made his Adam’s apple stick to the back of his tongue, she said, “I canna go out in this. ’Tis a fer-home outfit. An outfit only fer ye. The hens say that is okay, to dress this way only fer ye.”
Quincy had always prided himself on being an open-minded, modern-day guy who applauded and encouraged females to express themselves, verbally or in their dress, so it stymied him that he really, really liked hearing that Ceara had dressed up in this man-killer outfit only for him. He wouldn’t be doling out knuckle sandwiches to any cowboys tonight, after all.
“That is the sexiest thing any woman has ever said to me,” he told her, and meant it from the bottom of his jealous heart. He stepped back to skim his gaze over her again, which made his pulse kick. “You dressed like this only for me? It’s not something you plan to wear—well, you know, out in public?”
“God’s teeth, no, only in our home, fer ye, and only fer ye.”
Quincy felt his shoulders relax. Maybe it was bad of him, but he didn’t want some other man salivating over her, and he knew damned well other men would. She was a knockout. How great was it that the only lights she wanted to knock out were his?
“Then just give me five to clean up.” He stepped over to the stove, took a gander, and changed his mind. “On second thought, how about I stay down here to help, and then we’ll go upstairs together?” What was that shit in the skillet? Quincy mentally shuddered. It resembled something the dogs might have puked up. Then he looked back at Ceara, and he honestly didn’t care. “Scratch that. With you on my menu, who wants to eat?”
He turned off the burner, grabbed her up in his arms, laughing when she squealed, and carried her upstairs. When he peeled off the jade green top, she stepped back from him, wobbling on the spiked heels, and said, “Wait! I need to get Mr. Midas.”
“Who?”
Her cheek dimpled in an impossibly irresistible and impish grin. Waving a hand at him, she disappeared into the bathroom and returned, holding a shiny gold vibrator. With a click of the button, she had it going and touched the tip to that sensitive spot just below her ear. Quincy’s mouth watered for a taste of that place. Her grin grew more mischievous, and she trailed the tip of the vibrator along the top of her lacy, half-cup bra, letting her head fall back and moaning.
Quincy was across the room before he knew he’d moved. Okay, okay. He could see how Parker got turned on when his wife played around with Mr. Purple before they made love. He wondered fleetingly if Parker had been told about Mr. Midas. How many brothers knew the color of the vibrators used by their sisters-in-law?
God help me. I’m kinky, too.
* * *
After two rounds and no food, Quincy was deep into an exhausted sleep when Ceara shook his shoulder. He smacked his paper-dry lips, tried to peel his eyes open, got a blurry impression of the most gorgeous naked redhead he’d ever seen, and sank back into his recovery zone with a deep groan.
“Quincy, ’tis important! What is group text? If I text back, will I reply to the wrong person?” Another shake. “Quincy? I need ye to help me!”
He got his eyelids to crack open a quarter inch. Group sex? Nah, this was Ceara, not some bimbo from a honky-tonk. He swallowed, wished for a long, tall glass of water, and forced his eyes open wider. Group text. Despite the fact that his bones felt like warm bacon grease and his limbs wouldn’t move, he managed to fully open his eyes.
“Group text?” he croaked.
“Yes!” Ceara cried. “’Tis urgent. A hen is in trouble. It says, ‘Distress signal!’”
Quincy yawned broadly. Tried to think. “A group text. Hmm. Just reply. It goes to every damned body in the group.”
“But na to Clint?”
That brought his eyes all the way open for sure. He pushed up on an elbow to look at her phone. “What the hell’s going on?”
Ceara shoved at his shoulder. He was so exhausted from making love to her that he toppled like an uprooted sapling. “What the hell’s going on?” he repeated.
“’Tis hen business. Explain to me about group messages.”
Quincy tried. His brain was foggy. His body had turned to the consistency of an overcooked noodle. Just text back. It goes to everyone in the group. At least he hoped he said that. He sank into darkness, his body still humming from an overdose of pleasure.
* * *
Ceara didn’t know what to do. Loni needed help with Clint. He wouldn’t make love to her the way she wanted. He was afraid of hurting her. Loni felt well enough for what she called a “wham-bam,” and she was in tears because Clint had barely done it with her since her illness, and after she’d dressed sexy for him tonight, all he’d given her was “milquetoast.” Now he’d rolled over in bed and gone to sleep. She was tired of the “fragile” treatment.
Before Ceara could start to reply, Rainie texted back to Loni. He needs a wake-up call. What was a wake-up call? Surely, Ceara reasoned, Rainie wasn’t proposing to telephone Clint herself to wake him up? As Ceara pondered that, Dee Dee texted and said that Loni just needed to be patient. At that point, Rainie broke in again and said, I take it back. You are a dinosaur after all, Dee Dee. She needs a good screw, and God knows, after almost dying, she deserves one. Mandy texted,
Hold on; let’s not get weird. Clint’s just having a moment. Sam texted to say, Clint has always been Mr. Responsible. He’s just worried about you, Lonikins. Your blood got really thin. You were bleeding out your eyes. He’s probably afraid he’ll hurt you inside. Loni texted back. I cut my finger today peeling potatoes. That is so much BS. I don’t have thin blood now. Dee Dee chimed in, Be patient, dear heart. He’ll get there. Loni wrote back, Hello, I am already there, and he isn’t here with me. I almost died. I need a good—well, you know. I want to feel alive again, and he’s making me feel like I’m still almost a corpse.
Ceara glanced over at her unconscious husband. Looking at him, she couldn’t resist a little satisfied grin, even if it was brazen. She had wiped all thought of boring from his mind. But that was behind her, and now Loni, her dear friend and sister, needed help. She stared down at the phone’s bright screen, studying the text line. She knew that in order to write, all she had to do was touch it. So she did.
Pecking at the letters, she wrote, ’Tis clear to me we need a hen party. You helped me seduce my husband. Now Loni needs help to seduce hers.
The response was gratifying. All the hens were up for a party, and Ceara was elected as hostess. Once that was decided, Ceara stuck the charger thing into her phone, switched off her bedside lamp, and snuggled down against her husband. He smelled good, like sweat, horses, and man. She touched the tip of her tongue to his chest. Hungry, because they hadn’t eaten, she decided she could sustain herself by nibbling on him all night.
Once he recovered from the hen seduction, of course. Ceara would always be grateful for all the female advice. Quincy had loved Mr. Midas when she’d teased him with it, just as the hens had told her he would.
* * *
Life with Ceara. Over the next few weeks, Quincy learned it was folly to expect the usual. As required by the Church, he and Ceara began meeting with Father Mike two nights a week for marriage preparation classes. Quincy had thought the sessions would be serious, rushed encounters, but instead, because both he and Ceara were cradle Catholics, already secretly married, and were getting along well together as a couple, the priest barely touched on religion, gave them little if any relationship counseling, and spent most of the hour laughing and slapping his knee, delighted by his exchanges with Ceara. They often spoke Gaelic, told Irish jokes, and shared stories of their personal encounters with the “wee folk.” Though Quincy felt that meeting with Father Mike was mostly a huge waste of time, he didn’t complain, because Ceara so enjoyed chatting with the man.
“So when will we be ready to renew our vows and get our marriage recorded in the Church?” Quincy asked Father one night.
The priest shrugged. “Soon, I’d say. These get-togethers are a mere formality at this point, more fer the records than to educate or counsel ye on how to make the marriage work.” Father Mike settled a fond gaze on Ceara. “The banns have been posted in the bulletin three Sundays in a row now, so we can arrange for the ceremony to take place anytime.” He patted Ceara’s arm. “Ye’ve come a long way, lass, considering that ye started this relationship more or less in a jail cell.”
A horrible thought struck Quincy. With all that had happened since their wedding night, he’d completely forgotten to drop the charges against Ceara. “Oh, shit.”
“What?” Father paled a bit. “What is it, me boy?”
Quincy quickly collected his composure. “A small detail I forgot to take care of.” What if the cops came pounding on his door to arrest his wife? He hadn’t checked at the post office to see if she’d received any court summons at general delivery. “I, um . . . hell. In the morning. I’ll take care of it first thing in the morning.”
Ceara fixed a solemn gaze on him. “’Tis something bad. I see it in yer eyes. A burden shared is a burden more easily borne.”
Quincy really, really didn’t want to tell her that she still had criminal charges hanging over her head, but in the spirit of total disclosure, which he felt was vital to a solid relationship, he couldn’t very well keep the truth from her. “I forgot to go down to the police station and withdraw the charges against you for breaking and entering.”
Long silence. Then Father Mike harrumphed as if to clear his throat. Quincy expected Ceara to give him a tongue-lashing. Instead she started to laugh. Her laughter soon turned to helpless giggles, and then she was hugging her sides with tears streaming down her cheeks. Between gasps for breath, she cried, “The men in blue may come and haul me away in me wedding gown!”
How she found that possibility amusing, Quincy didn’t know, but somehow her mirth was contagious, and soon he and Father were laughing as hard as she was. The moment Quincy regained his composure, he put a voice-activated reminder into his phone to go to the station first thing tomorrow. For reasons beyond him, that sent his wife and the priest into gales of laughter again.
The next hen party took place at Quincy’s house—well, now his and Ceara’s house—and when Quincy inadvertently interrupted by entering the kitchen for some lunch, Ceara handed him a tray, escorted him to the door, and told him to eat in the arena office. Quincy felt like a dog that had just been given the boot because he was suspected of planning to pee on the floor. Later, as he munched on a pastrami sandwich with mustard and whole-fat Swiss cheese, he wondered what had happened to a man’s home being his castle. Hmm. He guessed that when a king acquired a queen, there were always some adjustments to be made.
Late that night, lying in bed beside his wife after an amazing lovemaking session, Quincy received a text from Clint. What’s this Mr. Midas thing all about? Loni bought one this afternoon because Ceara says you like hers so much. Quincy felt a flush creep up his neck. He propped himself against the headboard, contemplated his sleeping wife and the phone, then wrote back, Mr. Who? Clint didn’t take that lying down. You know damned well who. Mr. Midas, gold, cylindrical, and a lady’s best friend. Quincy grinned as he shot back, Mr. Midas may be your lady’s best friend, but he’s not my lady’s best anything. I take care of my husbandly duties, otherwise called doing my homework. Clint returned fire. Okay, fine, be a jerk. It was your wife who bought the first one. Beginning to enjoy himself at his brother’s expense, Quincy replied, Sorry, pal. If you’re looking for advice, I’m not into the kinky stuff. Parker’s your man if you need any pointers. Quincy could almost hear Clint cursing and sputtering. He turned off his phone volume, settled in under the covers to draw Ceara into his arms, and made a mental bet with himself that Loni had fallen asleep tonight wearing nothing but a satisfied grin.
A few days later, Ceara wore blue jeans for the very first time in order to get lessons using a Western-style saddle, which required that she ride astride the horse instead of perching sideways in voluminous skirts. As sexy as she looked in the tight blue denim trousers, compliments of Sam, Quincy forced himself to concentrate on her seating and reining techniques. To his surprise, she took to the change with a speed that so amazed him he deemed her trail-ready in less than a half hour.
“You’re incredible with horses,” he told her. “I mean really incredible.”
Her cheek dimpled in a pleased smile. “’Tis true of ye as well, Quincy.” Shifting the reins to one hand, she tapped her temple. “Ye have the same gift that I do with horses, though mine is now greatly weakened. If ye tried, ye could talk to them using only yer mind.”
Quincy figured pigs would fly before he ever managed to convey anything to a horse telepathically, but that night as he made his final rounds of the stalls, he stopped at Beethoven’s to give it a whirl. Crossing his arms on the top rail of the gate, he focused on the stallion. Back, he thought, using a command he knew Beethoven understood well. The horse jerked his head up, still munching grain, and stared suspiciously at Quincy.
Heartened because the animal had clearly picked up on something, Quincy tried again. Back, Beethoven. Back! The horse only snorted and swished his tail as if to rid himself of a fly.
So much for his telepathic ability with animals, Quincy thought
crossly as he closed down the arena for the night. During the brief walk across the ranch proper to the house, he wore a scowl. But when he stepped into the kitchen, his frown lines were quickly replaced by an amazed smile. Ceara wore a see-through sparkly negligee trimmed in bright pink ostrich feathers. Bye-bye, grumpiness; hello happiness.
Quincy loved his wife’s in-house seduction outfits, but this one truly took the prize. He barely spared a glance for the skillet meal she’d been monitoring, which smelled fabulous. A man didn’t live by bread alone.
* * *
Two days later, Quincy told Ceara to put on her borrowed riding jeans and the boots Rainie had bought her at the thrift shop. While she changed clothes, he found her one of his spare jackets, a wool muffler, and a pair of old leather gloves that Sam had left behind at his house after a visit. Then he set himself to the task of preparing a spur-of-the-moment picnic lunch, which he’d tuck into a saddlebag. A blanket! He needed to find a nice wool blanket. No spring-afternoon ride with a beautiful woman could be complete without mindless sex under a pine tree.
“So what are ye thinking, Quincy?” Ceara asked as she reentered the kitchen, freshly washed jeans skimming her legs and rolled at the ankle because they were too long on her.
Making a mental note to take her shopping for some proper riding gear, Quincy grinned and swung an arm toward the windows. “Do ye not see the weather, lass?” he said, mimicking her Irish brogue for effect. “’Tis a fine spring day, warm as a weevil in a fresh-baked biscuit! ’Tis off for a horseback ride we go.”
She laughed, rewarding him with a dimple in both cheeks, a sight he glimpsed only when she was very pleased. “’Tis a stranger pretending to be me husband, surely. Me Quincy is American and canna speak the Irish.”
“When I mean to seduce my wife, I can speak any language necessary.” Abandoning the assorted food items and blanket on the table, he closed the distance between them, hooked an arm around her waist, and tipped her backward until her spine arched for a movie-screen Gone with the Wind kiss. As he came up for air, he searched her slightly unfocused but still puzzled gaze. “Did you understand that language, Ceara mine? It’s a beautiful day. I’ve made a picnic lunch. I want to take you riding in the wilderness area across the road and make passionate love to you in the woods.”
Perfect Timing Page 24
