California Man - The Author's Cut Edition

by EC Sheedy

All she had to do now was make the best of a bad situation—and get through dinner.

  After bathing and cleaning her biking wounds, she put on a pale blue cotton skirt and a white sweater, loosely braided her long hair, and applied light makeup. She was doing fine until she touched her mouth with the lipstick. At the memory of his strong, sure mouth pressed to hers, a knot twisted in her belly, the hand holding the lipstick stilled, and her eyelids drifted to a close. A slow soft warmth—like a lazy incoming tide washed through her.

  God, she was going crazy!

  She shook her head and took a deep breath, shocked at her physical reaction to a man who wasn't within ten miles of her. Excitement, heat—all of it laced with a numbing fear.

  Going crazy? She was already there.

  She smoothed her skirt and headed for the kitchen. She needed to start dinner—and get busy. Stop thinking.

  Above the greenhouse window near her sink, there was a needlepoint sampler, a gift from her mother. She glanced at it.

  Under a shy moon,

  the tender spirit wakes.

  Dream seeking, unafraid.

  She rinsed lettuce for a salad and smiled. It's Quinn who's unafraid, Mom. Not me. But if I try, try hard, maybe...

  He arrived promptly at seven. Emily heard the low rumble of the Range Rover and then his steps to her door. Fighting back her anxiety, she wiped her hands on a tea towel and headed for the door, breathing slowly and deeply as she went.

  "Hi." He smiled down at her, and despite all her efforts, she felt a catch in her throat. He seemed to fill her doorway, block out the world beyond. If only he weren't so... overpowering.

  "Hi," she mumbled, stepping back to let him in. When she'd closed the door behind him, she leaned on it for support.

  He bent to kiss her cheek but managed only a slight graze before she yanked her head back, banging it on door.

  "You okay?"

  She rubbed the back of her head. "Fine." And I'll stay fine as long as I don't get too close to you.

  He handed her the bottle of wine he was carrying, then looked around. "This place is great." There was genuine admiration in his voice as he surveyed her living room.

  "Thank you. I like it." And it pleased her that he did, too.

  Six years ago, Emily inherited the house, originally a summer cottage, from her uncle. And it was the house that cinched her decision to move from Victoria and make the island her home. She'd enlarged it by adding another bedroom, now used as her office and writing room, pushing out the living room wall for more space, and adding two large skylights. She'd done most of the work herself, using the island's skilled tradesmen only when necessary. Morningview, as she called it, was on the shore of Fulford Harbour, and Emily could watch the ferries come and go from Sydney on Vancouver Island, less than an hour away. The passengers often waved to her when they spotted her on the beach.

  Quinn shrugged out of his tan suede jacket. Wordlessly, Emily took it from him as he continued to look around.

  "You did most of this yourself? Incredible."

  His praise warmed her—but then it seemed everything about Quinn Ramsay warmed her. "As much as I could, yes."

  He switched his focus from the room to her. "Then you're one very talented woman."

  She didn't know what to say to that, so she asked, "Did you have any trouble finding the house? I suppose I should have asked how good Grace's directions were." She hung his jacket on a brass tree near the door, smoothed her hand over its softness and for a moment kept her back to him, breathing.

  "Her directions were fine. Zach and Blanche filled in the blanks when I asked them to point me in the right direction."

  She faced him then, "How do you know Zach and Blanche?"

  "They're caretaking the place I'm using on Southey Point. They told me you know each other."

  "Yes." So he was staying at Paul Severns' place, she thought. Zach and Blanche were longtime islanders; everyone knew about the famous Hollywood director they worked for. He'd bought the finest waterfront home on the island last summer. Maybe that's why she'd thought she'd recognized Quinn, maybe he was connected to the movies. An actor maybe. But somehow she didn't think so. Celebrity watching, being her guilty pleasure, she'd have remembered.

  Quinn sniffed the aroma coming from Emily's kitchen. "Smells good. Chicken, right?"

  "Chicken. You do like chicken, don't you?" She started to worry. Maybe she should have had steak. Men always liked steaks. Or maybe...

  "I like food, period," he said. "Chicken will be great." He lifted the wine bottle in his hand. "If you have a corkscrew, I'll open the wine."

  "I'll get one." Emily headed for the kitchen, aware of his following her. She rifled a drawer for the corkscrew and gave it to him. Her hand shook only slightly. With deft movements, he opened the wine bottle.

  "A couple of glasses and we're all set." As he spoke, he spotted the glasses on the top shelf, just over her head. When he reached for them, his arm brushed over her shoulder. She ducked under it and moved quickly toward the stove.

  "This is going to be a long night if you persist in running away from me, Emily."

  "I'm not running. I'm, uh, checking the chicken." Liar!

  He poured the wine and handed her a glass. "You're running," he stated emphatically.

  "I am not running."

  "Okay." He first raised a skeptical brow, then he raised his glass and clinked hers. "Here's to not running and... making new friends."

  "New friends," she repeated, taking a sip of wine and looking into the darkest most intense blue eyes she'd ever seen.

  "Would you like to go on a hike tomorrow?" he asked.

  Something in her snapped to fearful attention. "A hike? We haven't gotten through dinner yet." Okay, she sounded inane. She often did.

  "What's dinner got to do with it? Zach told me there's a good six-mile hike near here. Ruckle Park, I think he said. It's not supposed to be too difficult, and he says the whole trail has great ocean views. So... are you game?" He looked at her over his wine glass.

  When Emily didn't answer—couldn't answer because she couldn't process the invitation—he left the question in his eyes and said, "Okay. We'll—how did you put it?—get through dinner first, then I'll ask you again."

  She managed a nod to that. "Why don't you go sit down. The chicken is ready."

  "Can I help?"

  "No. I can manage, thanks." If he didn't move out of the kitchen soon, she'd faint from lack of air. Maybe she should open a window.

  "All right. Any chair?"

  She nodded again and turned back to the oven. She was taking the chicken out, when there was a rap on the door. She looked at Quinn and at the roasting pan in her hands. "Would you?"

  "Sure."

  "Thanks. It's probably James."

  Quinn didn't quite understand why, but the male name, the idea of a male caller, surprised—and irritated him. But when he opened the door and looked into a pair of eyes as blue as his own and almost at the same height, he smiled. The boy, a bare inch shorter than himself, was maybe seventeen or so.

  "Hi. I'm Quinn. Emily's chained to the stove at the moment," he said. When he offered his hand, the boy looked at it, then back at Quinn's face as if trying to sort something out.

  "Hello, James." Emily came up from behind. At the sight of her, the boy smiled.

  "Hi, Emmi. I brought Bailly back. I gave him lots of walks just like you asked me to. He was a really good dog, too." Only then did Quinn notice the large dog beside the boy, tail moving like a gyro at the sight of Emily.

  Emily smiled at the teenager and took the leash from his outstretched hand. It was the first time Quinn had truly seen her smile, and it was what he knew it would be, soft, warm, and penetrating. Something within him tightened when he realized how much he wanted her to smile at him like that.

  As Bailly and Emily had a cuddly reunion, he looked back at the boy, who was openly studying him.

  "Who's he, Emmi?" He pointed at Quinn.

&nb
sp; "A new... uh, friend, James." She turned her gray eyes to Quinn. "Quinn, this is James, my neighbor and one of my very, very best friends."

  "And Bailly's," the boy added proudly.

  "Oh, yes. Especially Bailly's good friend," she added with a deepened smile.

  Again Quinn offered his hand, and this time the tall boy took it and gave it a quick, awkward shake. "Nice to meet you," he said politely, immediately turning his attention back to Emily. "Want me to take him tomorrow, Emmi? Mom says it's your day off. She said you might want to shop or something. She said it would be okay." The boy looked hopefully down at Emily.

  "I don't know, James. I was planning to stay home tomorrow." She shot a glance at Quinn. "But, uh, I might be going out. Can I call you?"

  James's slow gaze considered this. "Okay. You call me. But not too late," he instructed.

  "Not too late," she agreed. "And thank you, James. Bailly always has a good time with you."

  With that the boy was gone, and Bailly was giving Emily's "new friend" a thorough investigative sniff.

  "What kind of dog is he?" Quinn studied him and noticed the line of hair growing backward along the dog's spine, ending in two small whirlpools of fur near his shoulders.

  "A Rhodesian Ridgeback."

  "Friendly?"

  "Very. Mostly he just lies around." Emily stroked the dog's velvety head and gently tugged an ear. "You're a world-class sleeper, aren't you, boy?"

  Good thing, Quinn thought, as he watched him head to the fireplace and stretch out. He must weigh an easy hundred pounds.

  Emily said, "Dinner's ready. Why don't you go back and sit down? I'll be only a minute." She headed back to the kitchen, and Quinn followed her to retrieve the wine before taking his seat.

  "Who was that?" he asked as she sat down opposite him at the small table.

  "James? He lives next door with his mother. As you probably guessed, he dog-sits for me. Looks after Bailly, takes him for walks. He's a great kid."

  Quinn considered his next words. "He's not quite normal, is he?"

  "No. He was brain damaged in the car accident that killed his father. He was two years old."

  "Damn. That's terrible."

  Emily's eyes met his directly, and for a moment, they shared compassion for James's tragedy.

  "James is a great kid," she went on. "And he's come a long way thanks to his mother, Lynn." Quinn's interested gaze and her own special feeling for Lynn and James made it easy for Emily to continue the conversation. "Lynn McDonald was a registered nurse. After the accident, she took all kinds of special training to help her care for James. She said she didn't want to depend on anyone but herself to do what was best for him. She works with him constantly, and even after all these years, he continues to improve. Lynn wants him to be as independent as possible. Right now, she's got him involved in some special games for the handicapped, both physically and mentally. He seems to thrive on it."

  "What kind of games?" At the mention of sports, Quinn's interest was piqued further.

  "Track and field. James is a runner. Loves it. He's entered in the hundred-meter and the relay, although I think this is one challenge Lynn is finding tough. Like me, she's, uh, never been much for sports."

  "You did well enough today, and bike riding is a sport."

  She shook her head slightly. "Today nearly killed me," she admitted to both herself and him.

  "Maybe so, but you hung in there." He leaned back in his chair and drank some wine. "Why didn't you quit? We could have stopped at any time."

  "I don't know." Emily stalled, prodded a piece of chicken to the edge of her plate, surprised by her lack of appetite, especially after the day's activity. She'd been more comfortable talking about James and Lynn.

  "I think it's because you're not used to quitting." He cocked his head. "Though I have to admit, there were times today—looking at the effort you were putting in—I considered carrying you and the damn bike back to Ganges."

  Emily felt her cheeks redden, but when she looked across the table, saw the tease in his gaze, she found herself smiling. "That bad, huh?"

  "Tomorrow we'll take it easier. I promise."

  "I didn't say I was going with you tomorrow."

  "You haven't said you're not, and we have gotten through dinner. Almost."

  "Almost," she echoed before retreating into silence—a silence left undisturbed as they finished their meal. Oddly, the lack of conversation seemed to bother her more than it did him. He appeared easy with silence. It didn't put him on edge as it did most people.

  When the meal was over, Emily got up and started to clear the table. "Would you like coffee, dessert? If you sit in the living room, I can bring it there."

  "Just coffee will be fine, thanks." Quinn picked up his plate and followed her to the kitchen. He knew she was tensing up again, and for some unexplainable reason, it was important to him she not be nervous around him. He cleared more dishes, then moved to the living room.

  He was sitting on the sofa, one arm draped over its back, when she came in with the coffee. He watched her pour coffee for both of them, then take a chair across from him near the stone fireplace. She looked edgy and the gentle smile was gone. He wanted it back. To get it, he decided on the direct approach.

  "Emily, do you realize you haven't asked me a single personal question after more than seven hours together. Wouldn't you like to know if I'm an ax murderer wanted in fifty states or maybe a husband who has run out on his wife and five kids? Or are you just not interested?"

  Her eyes shot to his. "Of course, I'm interested. I just didn't think..." Her voice trailed off.

  "Didn't think what?"

  "I didn't think you'd want to tell me anything. I mean, we barely know each other."

  "And we never will unless we ask—and answer—a few questions. That is how it works, you know." He noticed her faint accent on the "me" in her question and wondered again why this attractive, accomplished woman wrapped herself in nerves and timidity. It made no sense.

  "Are you?" she asked, her voice so low he barely heard her.

  "Am I what?"

  "Someone's husband?"

  "No." Now there was a question with promise. At least she's a little bit interested. When she fell silent again, he decided to carry the ball.

  "In answer to your next question—'What do you do for a living, Quinn?'—I run a chain of sporting goods stores."

  "Action Sports!" Emily came close to shouting the words, her eyes widening. "That's who you are. I should have recognized the name, or the face for that matter." She looked up and to the left, one index finger tapping her lower lip, as if she were straining to draw details from a fuzzy memory. "Quinn Ramsay of Action Sports recently engaged to Gina Manzoni. A dark, super hot twosome about town." She quoted verbatim from a recent edition of a weekend tabloid and looked at him. Her look was strangely curious as if she were seeing him for the first time.

  What the hell... "Right on the first, wrong on the second. I am not, and never was, engaged to Gina Manzoni."

  "According to her you are. I read it—a month or two ago in—I don't remember which paper, we get so many..." She frowned so deeply it must have hurt, then said, "What are you doing having dinner with me if you're engaged to a beautiful, talented woman like that?"

  There it was again, that accent on the me. "Like I said, I'm not engaged to Gina Manzoni. Never was and never will be. What you read was a mistake."

  "Why would she say you were? I mean, if it wasn't true." Now she just looked puzzled.

  "For the answer to that, you'd have to ask her."

  "She's on the cover of this month's Persona Magazine. Have you seen it?"

  "No. I don't read that kind of magazine. Strictly Sports Illustrated and Cycle West, remember?" He searched his head for a change of subject, came up empty. And Emily seemed pleased enough to stick with this one.

  "She's lovely," she said, with a touch of awe. "Is she as beautiful in person as in her pictures?"

  He c
ouldn't lie. "Yes. Yes, she is." He did not want to talk about Gina. Period. "Now can we change the subject? Or do you want all the gory details of my private life?"

  The second Emily put Quinn and Gina together, relief flooded through her. Her world righted itself, except for the odd prickle of pain along her senses. But that was easy enough to ignore to get things back to where they should be. Safe territory. Once-removed. Separate.

  Ignoring the deepening scowl on Quinn's face, she answered his question. "No. No gory details. Would you like that dessert now?"

  "No. Damn it. I don't want dessert. I want to talk."

  "We just did that."

  "That wasn't talk. That was a rehash of tabloid trash. I didn't think that kind of crap would follow me all the way up here."

  "All the way up here?" she repeated. He'd said it as if he were on the edge of an ice floe in the Arctic. "For your enlightenment, Mr. California, we read in Canada, too. That is, when we're not hunkered down in our igloos trying to get through our endless winter."

  He had the grace to look chastened. "I didn't mean it like that."

  "Well, that's how it sounded."

  "What I'm trying to say is that I'd like to forget about Gina Manzoni and everything that's been written about us."

  "I already have. Do you want dessert or not?"

  "No!"

  "More coffee, then?"

  "No. I don't want any more coffee."

  Emily got up and started to clear their cups from the table.

  Quinn watched her in amazement. Whatever happened to the timid, scared girl he'd spent the day with? It was as though she'd evaporated, been replaced by this coolly distant creature who appeared totally uninterested in him. He was intrigued.

  "Can you tell me how we've gone from strained silence to a cold war in one headlong dash?" he asked.

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "We're fighting—or didn't you notice?"

  "I'm not fighting. You're the one who's fighting. If I touched a nerve, I'm sorry. I guess being away from your fiancée or ex fiancée or whatever makes you testy." She walked to the kitchen.

  "I am not testy! And where in hell did you dig up that word? And there's no fiancée. Ex or otherwise."