California Man - The Author's Cut Edition

by EC Sheedy

  When he could, he ran the course himself, but the growth of the business allowed less and less time for it. He'd always been gratified when people broke through barriers, those mental and emotional blocks that kept them from living up to their potential. More than once he'd been told the course had helped in their personal lives as well.

  He put both books on the counter and looked directly at Emily. He wanted to see those gray eyes again, but her head was stubbornly downcast. This frightened woman interested him. Captivated him would be more accurate.

  "These will be fine. I'll take both of them." He took his wallet from his back pocket. "Do you carry magazines?"

  Emily lifted her eyes briefly and nodded toward the front of the store. Then, wonder of wonders, she found her lost voice. "The new Sports Illustrated and Cycle West are in." Well, it sounded like her voice if you ignored the minor croak.

  He looked at her, surprised. "What makes you think those are the magazines I want?"

  "Aren't they?" Emily handed him his change.

  "Yes, but how did you know that?"

  "I, uh, didn't. I... guessed."

  "Good guess." He made no move to the magazine rack. "Emily?" He spoke her name softly.

  She didn't answer, couldn't answer.

  "Emily?" he repeated.

  "Will there be anything else?" she asked, sticking doggedly to business and wishing him gone so she could breathe again.

  He didn't go. Instead, he reached across the counter and lifted her chin with two fingers so their eyes would meet. His voice was low when he said, "Why are you so nervous? Is it me? Do I make you nervous?"

  Emily saw the sincerity in his dark blue eyes. But she couldn't totally account for her reaction to him. It was crazy—much worse than normal—and normal could be bad, very bad. She also couldn't lie to those stark blue eyes. She struggled to steady herself.

  "It's not... just you. I'm always a bit like this. Sometimes it's worse than others. I sort of—" She stopped, and he pulled his hand back from her chin.

  Now only his eyes held her. "Go on. You sort of what?"

  "Panic. I kind of panic at times. It passes." What am I doing, she moaned to herself, telling a stranger something so stupid? Why should he care for heaven's sake?

  "And I make you feel that way—panicky?"

  "A little," she lied. Little didn't cover it by half.

  "Why?"

  When her lashes fluttered down, and she started to lower her head, he stopped her. "Look at me. And tell me, why do I make you panic?"

  "I... don't know. Maybe because you're so alive... so vital." She had no idea where those words came from. They sounded stupid—but true. It was his vitality that scared her. "It's nothing, really," she added quickly.

  * * *

  "Nothing. I don't think so." Quinn considered her strange comment. He didn't know what to make of it or her, but he was curious. And maybe more than a little fascinated.

  She wasn't beautiful. Until you looked into those killer gray eyes. Her long brown hair was thick, straight, unadorned and tied back loosely with a piece of blue leather. And apparently she was addicted to outsized sweaters that hung almost to her knees. He suspected she was self-conscious about her body.

  He knew he was studying her too intensely when she visibly squirmed.

  "Is there anything else?" she asked, making busy work out of restacking some bookmarkers near the cash register.

  "Yes. I want to see you again." He didn't know who was more surprised by his words, him or her.

  Emily, appearing shell shocked, stared at him, then swallowed, visibly. If she had anything to say, she didn't find it behind her flushed face or in her trembling hands.

  "How about a bike ride?" he asked. "You can show me your island. Tomorrow? Your store's closed Sunday and Monday. It says so on the door."

  "I... can't," she stammered.

  "Why not?"

  "I, uh, don't ride bikes." She made more busywork with papers on the counter.

  "You never rode a bike when you were a kid?" He gave her a sideways glance and cocked an eyebrow.

  "That was a, uh, long time ago."

  "It's not something you forget. It'll come back."

  "I don't have a bike." Her hands never stopped moving on the counter.

  "I do. Two of them. One for me and one for you. It's settled then? I'll pick you up at eleven. Okay?"

  Her hands stilled abruptly and she looked at him in consternation. "Why are you doing this? Why would you want to go biking with me?"

  "I want to, and I always try to get what I want. Don't you?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Eleven o'clock. Here at the store. See you then." With that he picked up his books and magazines and left.

  Emily stood stunned until the bell above her door tinkled its last tinkle. Had she just made a date with the man? No. She couldn't have! And for a bike ride at that! She'd look stupid and make a fool of herself. Well, she wouldn't show up, that was all. He didn't know where she lived. So he'd be angry, so what? She'd tried to say no, hadn't she? He wouldn't listen.

  She picked up the novel she'd been reading before her world turned upside down, and tossed it onto the shelf under her counter. Who could read? She stared out at the rain.

  She wouldn't show up. That was all there was to it.

  * * *

  At eleven o'clock the following morning, Emily was standing under the red awning of her store. She wore jeans she fervently wished were one size bigger, an oversized blue cotton sweater, and sneakers. The town was Sunday morning quiet. It was still too early in the season for many tourists, and the threat of rain kept most Sunday strollers at home. She peered up at the sky. It was overcast, but with luck the rain would hold off. On the outside everything was fine, but inside her nerves spiked and arced like winter lightning.

  She felt out of place standing at her own door, with THE DATE, as she now called it, lying ahead of her like a bed of hot coals. But tense with resolution, and exhausted by her own fear, she'd determined to go through with it, spent hours in front of her mirror giving herself pep talks and repeating ad nauseum, "I can do this. I can do this."

  When she saw a Range Rover coming down Lower Ganges Road, she knew it was him. Rugged car, rugged man. They were perfect for each other.

  I can do this. I can do this. I can—

  He pulled the ATV to the curb and jumped out. Coming directly toward her, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. "You came. Thank you." When she went rigid under his hands, he only smiled. "You ready for this?" He pointed to the two bikes in the back of Range Rover.

  "Not really," she answered honestly. When Quinn took the bikes out of the car and propped them up, she added, "They look, uh, big." Reaching out a hand, she touched the leather seat on one bike as if it were a sleeping boa constrictor.

  They were both men's bikes with a strong, solid crossbar running their length. She knew they were mountain bikes. There were hundreds of them on the island, but she'd never tried to ride one herself. But then she never did anything too physical. She suspected that Quinn Ramsay seldom did anything else.

  "It'll be fun. I promise," he said.

  She nodded slowly. "Right. Unlimited fun. Just what I need." Her tone was dry as continued to eye the big bikes.

  He looked surprised. "Were you being sarcastic?"

  She blushed and didn't answer.

  "I thought we'd ride around town first. It's quiet here and flat. When you get used to the bike, we'll head out."

  "Head out?" Okay, that sounds vaguely alarming. "Where exactly?"

  "Toward the beach I went to the first day I met you, if you think you can handle it."

  "I can handle it," she replied, actually sounding as if she were in her right mind.

  "I never doubted it." He tilted the bike toward her. "This is your bike. I already lowered the seat, but if it's not okay, I can lower it more. Let's go over to that empty parking lot." He pointed across the road from the sto
re. "You can give it a try and see how much you remember. Okay?"

  Emily gripped the handlebars and walked the bike across the street. It felt like ten tons of twisted metal, nothing at all like the old two-wheeler she'd had when she was ten. When they reached the parking lot, she studied the bike for a moment, then without thinking about it, moved it forward and put her left foot on the pedal. She was about to swing her right foot up and over the seat, but when she estimated the height of it, she reconsidered. Instead, she tilted the bike toward her and lifted her leg carefully to the other side. Straddling the brute, she put her foot on the right pedal and pushed off. So far, so good.

  Quinn sat on his bike with his arms crossed over his chest and watched her. Other than the front wheels wobbling when she made her corners she was doing fine. Then the front tire hit a rock and threw her off course. Trying to steady the bike, she forgot to brake and gained too much speed. Desperate to stop, all she could think to do was put her feet on the ground. A bad move that had her land on the crossbar—hard. Tears came to her eyes as she tried to get her breath, and she squeezed the handgrips so ferociously the blood drained from her hands.

  "You okay?" Quinn pulled up beside her.

  She gasped for more air, then crushed her eyelids closed against the tears. "Fine. Just fine," she said. At least she'd managed not to fall over, but she knew she'd bruised a delicate part of her anatomy. She'd done the same thing as a young girl when she'd tried to ride her brother Martin's bike. It was painful then, and it was more painful now, heightened by major embarrassment.

  "Hurts, huh?" he asked, giving a slight grimace.

  God, they weren't two minutes into THE DATE and they were discussing her... privates.

  Why didn't I simply fall off the thing and land on my head and pass out? If I had to hurt something, why couldn't it be a... public part of my anatomy? Mortifying. I can hardly sit here and talk about—it—with him. Get over it, Emily Welland, just get over it.

  She looked at Quinn, sitting comfortably astride his bike, his long legs clearing the dreaded crossbar with room to spare. "You sure you're okay?" he asked.

  "Fine," she croaked, adding stupidly, "Nothing broken anyway."

  "Glad to hear it." He grinned at her. "Hard place to put splint."

  Emily felt her eyes widen, her face turn to fire, but she couldn't help smiling the tiniest bit. Somehow his tease made her feel better. Less like the village idiot.

  "Ready to roll?" he asked.

  She straightened her shoulders and got back on the bike. "Ready to roll," she echoed.

  * * *

  It was close to four o'clock when they got back to the bookstore, and in the last half hour, rain had fallen with a vengeance. They were soaked through, but only Emily was physically wrecked and completely exhausted. Quinn looked refreshed, as though he'd taken a quick spin around the block. Emily swore he hadn't breathed heavily all day.

  She had no idea how many miles they'd covered, but her aching legs put it at approximately the length of the U.S.—Canada border. She thought a minute. Yes, 5500 miles sounded about right. She rubbed one of her two throbbing thighs. For a person not accustomed to exerting herself, she knew she'd overdone it, but every time Quinn asked her if she was ready to quit, she'd said no. For some nutty reason, she wanted to prove she could handle it. The other crazy thing was she enjoyed herself.

  Still, it was a good thing he was so curious about the island. Without those stops he was always taking to look at a pasture or enjoy the view, she didn't know how she would have coped. When the stops became more frequent as the afternoon progressed, she realized they were more for her benefit than his.

  "Beat, huh?" Quinn asked, still comfortably astride his bike.

  He was oblivious to the pouring rain and the fact that his T-shirt was clinging to his muscles like plastic wrap. The rain had packed his hair close to his head in tight, sexy curls, while her own hair trailed over her ears and down her back in stringy, wet strands. Life just wasn't fair. With a quick movement she combed her fingers through it and pulled it behind her ears.

  "A little," she answered.

  When she got off the bike, she could still feel the imprint of the hard leather seat etched in her butt. Without thinking, she tried to rub it away. She stopped when she saw him studying her.

  "That won't help." He threw one leg easily over his bike seat, got off, and came toward her where she was standing under the bookstore awning. He looked at her forehead. "Let's have a look at those war wounds."

  "It's okay. I'll take care of them when I get home." She stepped back to avoid contact with him.

  Along with the aches and pains, she'd acquired a scraped knee and a bruised forehead, the result of a tree being in the wrong place. She'd traveled that road a thousand times in her car and never noticed that blasted maple branch. It took a mountain bike to find it—head on. The tumble was grand and undignified. She managed to tear her jeans and sweater and lose her leather hair tie. She didn't want to think about how scruffy she must look. Much like an abandoned alley cat, she guessed. She took another step back as Quinn continued his advance.

  "Stand still. I'm not going to bite," he ordered. He knelt down and gently pulled some threads of frayed denim from her scraped knee. A reddish scab had formed and the fabric was glued to it. He looked at it carefully.

  "Not life-threatening. You're right, though, you should go home and clean it up. It could use some antiseptic."

  He stood then. With a shop door behind her and six feet two inches of male in front of her, Emily was trapped in the doorway. Her throat constricted and she kept her eyes fixed on his shoulder. It had been easy enough cycling side by side with him, but his looming in front of her made her nerves jump.

  "Have you got any antiseptic at home?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  "Bandages?"

  She nodded again.

  "Can I drive you?"

  She shook her head.

  He took a step back then, and Emily let a long-held breath escape from her tight throat.

  "What about dinner? Say about seven?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Why not?"

  "You don't want to have dinner with me." Emily's statement lay flat and hard between them. She spoke with absolute certainty. Dinner. Across a table. Conversation. No escape. She'd combust.

  He looked at her for a long time, then without warning he lowered his head, his blue eyes marking their target.

  "What—" she started.

  His mouth found hers with the question half formed on her lips. He gave her no time to react, no time to deny him, and no time to mount a defense. He simply took her head in his hands and kissed her, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world to kiss Emily Welland on the steps of her own store. His lips were rain damp and surprisingly soft, and her own mouth, softened by shock, opened slightly. Somewhere, deep inside, a switch flipped on, a switch that until this moment had been permanently set to off.

  His hands moved from her face to her shoulders before he pulled back from her. It wasn't until then she realized her eyes were closed. When had that happened? She popped them open and looked straight into his.

  "Now, say that again," he said. "How I don't want to have dinner with you. Will it be your place, my place, or neutral territory? It's your choice."

  His hands stayed on her shoulders. She looked down at them, certain steam must be rising from her wet cotton sweater. She swallowed to find her vocal cords. Not a trace.

  When she didn't answer, he studied her a moment, then said, "My guess is you would be happier having me to your house. You'd feel more comfortable there. Am I right?"

  Because something in her throat seemed bent on strangling her, all she could do was look into his questioning eyes and nod.

  "Good, then I'll be there at seven. Morningside Road. Right?" At her look of surprise, he added, "Grace told me. Said you practically built it yourself." He stroked her wet hair, used his index finger to shift a soggy
strand off her bruised forehead. "And relax. Please. It's just dinner. Nothing more—unless you want it to be. You're the one in charge. You're the one in control. Remember that."

  She watched him walk away, watched him load the mountain bikes, watched him get behind the wheel of the Range Rover. She continued to stare dumbly as he waved and turned the big SUV onto the road to Southey Point. When he was out of sight, she wrapped her arms around herself and headed for her car.

  I'm the one in charge, she repeated. I'm the one in control. The words were at odds with the anxiety that punctured her confidence as easily as darts did cork.

  Chapter 3

  Emily sank gratefully into the old claw-footed tub. The soapy water stung her knee, but she didn't care. She would tend it after the bath. In a couple of hours, Quinn was coming to her house. Why he was coming was a mystery, but he'd seemed determined, which try as she might, she couldn't understand. She'd been her usual tongue-tied, backward self all day. Hardly the most entertaining of companions. The bike ride had been bad enough, but at least it hadn't left much time for conversation.

  Tonight would be different. Two people in a room together meant... conversation. She rubbed her throat with a soapy hand. So not her strong point. Or any other kind of point.

  Looking back on the afternoon, Emily realized how strange it was. They'd scarcely talked at all. Quinn didn't initiate much conversation, instead he'd stuck to occasional questions about the island and the Pacific Northwest. He hadn't asked her anything personal, and she hadn't volunteered any information. She'd thought him bored to death. More than once she'd wanted to talk, especially at the beach. She wanted to learn about him, where he came from, what he did—everything. But was afraid he'd think she was prying.

  She shivered when she thought of him, here, in her house, and the familiar clump of nerves formed in her throat. God, she was such a cowardly idiot. Always letting panic and faceless fears rule her life. She let out a long breath.

  You are who you are, Emily Welland, so don't expect anything to change anytime soon.