California Man - The Author's Cut Edition

by EC Sheedy

  Bailly breathed in her face about a half hour later. She opened one eye and looked at him. A dog grin was in his eyes and his tail wagged expectantly. Emily gave him as close to a human smile as she could muster and threw the covers back. Feeling guilty for not letting him out earlier, she grabbed a cotton robe, and followed him to the door.

  "You're not going to be pleased, big guy. It's awfully wet out there."

  When she opened the door, Bailly looked out and then back to her, asking her to please turn off the rain. When she shook her head, he sat down in the open doorway, and eyed the monsoon with a bleak but patient demeanor. If she wouldn't stop it, he'd wait it out. Bailly hated to get wet. Emily nudged his rear end with a slipper-clad foot.

  "Sorry, boy, but there's nothing I can do about it. Away you go." Head down, ears back, Bailly obliged, but Emily knew he wouldn't be long.

  She went to the kitchen for a couple of Aspirins. She still ached all over, and a headache was blooming. It was not going to be a good day. As soon as Bailly came back, she'd go back to bed. Waiting, she stretched out on the couch and fell asleep instantly.

  * * *

  "Emily. Emily."

  The hand on her shoulder gave a gentle shake and her heavy eyelids opened. She must be dreaming. It couldn't be Quinn standing over her. She blinked again. It was.

  "What are you doing sleeping on the couch?" he asked.

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes. God, what she must look like! She ran her fingers through her sleep-mashed hair and sat up. He smelled outdoorsy and rain fresh and looked like some kind of rain god, if there was such a thing.

  Ignoring his question, she asked, "What are you doing here?"

  "For a while it looked like this deluge was going to stop, so I thought I'd be able to run with James. But by the time I got here, it was pouring again. Plus it seems he has some kind of flu bug. I saw Bailly on the porch, figured you were up, and thought I'd come begging for a cup of coffee." He paused. "I knocked, but I guess you didn't hear me. I opened the door to let Bailly in, and there you were—asleep on the couch. " He gave her an appraising look. "Are you okay?"

  "Other than the fact I ache all over, I'm fine. I guess I have what James has. But I'm well enough to make you a cup of coffee." When she started to get up, he held up a hand palm out to stop her.

  "I'll make my own. How about you? Can I get you anything?"

  "No, thanks," she said shivering involuntarily. "I'm fine."

  Quinn frowned slightly. "I don't think so. Come on. I'm putting you back in bed." His voice was firm.

  He picked her up. Picked her up! She wished to all the heavens she'd never, ever even seen a chocolate muffin, let alone eat one.

  "Bedroom?" He glanced between the doors leading from the living room.

  She nodded mutely in its general direction.

  He carried her to the bed, sat her on its edge, and helped her shrug out of her robe. No man had ever set foot in her bedroom before and certainly none had helped her undress while she sat still as stone and let him. But it happened so fast, and Quinn was so calm about it, she was stunned into embarrassed acceptance.

  The situation was so unbelievable as to be unreal. What was very real was the look Quinn gave her when he saw the sheer nightgown she was wearing. The pearl-gray silk was the color of polished silver. The gown had string straps and a matching lace bodice. It was a birthday gift from Grace. It arrived, Emily remembered, with a toast written on the card, "Here's to getting lucky." After last night with Quinn, it was the only nightgown she'd deemed suitable—and the first time she'd put it on.

  "Shouldn't you be wearing something warmer?" His eyes raked over her. "That's hardly sickbed attire."

  She dove into bed and yanked the covers to her chin, face scarlet. "It'll be fine."

  A soft smile played over his mouth. "You have a great body, you know—no matter how you try to hide it."

  She gaped at him—damned if he didn't look totally sincere. She muttered into the pillow.

  "What did you say?" He bent his dark head toward her.

  "I was asking myself if I'd buy a used car from this man."

  "You're so damn hard on yourself, Emmi. I said you have a great body and I meant it." His grin was wicked. "Maybe I'll have to show you how great. But not until you shake off that bug you've picked up. How about some orange juice?"

  "I could use a glass of water." Or better yet, given her heart seemed intent on beating its way out of her chest, a shot from one of those animal tranquilizer guns.

  When he left the room on his water search, she lay back into her pillow and closed her eyes. Damn and double damn. Why do I have to have the stupid flu now of all times? Obviously all the powers of heaven were stacked against her having a love life.

  When he came back with the water, she sipped it, then rested her head on the pillow. He brushed the hair back from her forehead and kissed it lightly.

  "Get some sleep. I'll see you later."

  When the bedroom door closed behind him, she cursed again—but she did sleep, deep and feverishly. It was close to seven o'clock when she woke again. It was still raining and so cloudy the world was already in semidarkness. She sat up, put her bare feet on the floor, and took stock of herself. Better, she decided, much better—and hungry. Remembering some leftover soup in the fridge, she headed for the kitchen, not bothering with slippers or robe.

  She was halfway there before she noticed Quinn stretched out on her sofa, Bailly asleep beside him on the floor. How comfortable and at ease he looked, as though he belonged here, sleeping in her living room on a rainy Monday. Even in sleep he seemed calm and self assured. How she envied him that. All her moves were accompanied by a jangling bunch of nerves—except sometimes with him.

  With nothing to stop her, she continued studying him. One hand rested on Bailly's back, and a book lay open across his chest. His hair was longer. Uncut since coming to the island, she guessed. She badly wanted to touch it, feel it curl and wrap around her fingers as it had during those few magical moments last night. Mesmerized by his sleeping figure, she stood there letting time and motion stop.

  When Bailly decided to get up and come to her, his movements woke Quinn. His eyes opened on her, and he stared at her a long moment before giving her a slow, sexy smile. Emily was certain she saw a jagged bolt of blue lightning arc between them in the darkened room. It thudded against her chest with enough power to bend her ribs.

  "Hi," he said, his eyes never leaving her face.

  "Hi." She stared back as though in a trance.

  "Feeling better?" He didn't move.

  "I think so." She blinked to break the spell. "I'm hungry—if that counts for anything."

  She was also half naked, she remembered with a jolt.

  Before she could turn to the bedroom to get her robe, Quinn was beside her.

  "I'm hungry, too. I'll fix us a sandwich. You take the sofa."

  She didn't protest. Couldn't. Quinn's hands on her bare shoulders made her knees buckle. She'd been perfectly all right until then. She sank into the warmth left by his big body and the faint scent of his aftershave.

  He tucked her under the light cotton coverlet she kept on the sofa for those reading nights by the fire. "There. Comfortable?"

  "You don't have to fuss over me. I'm fine. Really."

  "I like 'fussing' over you." When he sat on the edge of the sofa, she shifted to make room. He leaned an arm on the back of the sofa, bent to look closely at her, and put his hand on her forehead. "Are you honestly feeling better? You feel warm."

  Warm! She was bonfire hot, and not from the flu. "I'm okay," she whispered, liking the feel of him against her thigh, liking the light in his eyes when he looked at her.

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  Quinn, having trouble evening out his breathing, stroked her cheek with his knuckle, before dropping his hand to the hollow at the base of her throat. Her skin was smooth, unblemished, like glowing satin. He followed the line he made wit
h his finger from her throat to the blanket that shielded more of that amazing skin from his gaze, then stopped.

  He looked at her, pulled the blanket down an inch. "You okay with this?"

  "I'm... okay."

  The blanket offered no resistance, and he dragged it downward to uncover the rise of her lace-covered breasts. Breasts rising and falling in quick time—he hoped to the beat of her heart.

  Looking at her creamy skin made his breath catch. He curled his finger under the edge of the delicate lace, and watched as her rapid breathing caused her breasts to strain against the silk, her nipples hardening under the snug bodice of her gown. He wanted to touch them, more than touch. He wanted them in his mouth, to taste them with his tongue. But if he was going to do this, he was going to do it right—while hoping to hell he wasn't making the worst mistake of his life. He might want this woman—maybe a bit too much—but he wouldn't hurry her, and now wasn't the time. Pulling the blanket back up to cover her, his eyes met hers. He drew in a deep lung-expanding breath and started to get up. Emily touched his arm, stopped him.

  "Why are you stopping?" Emily's gray eyes were direct.

  Trust Emily to be forthright. She was the oddest mixture of innocence and seduction he'd ever experienced. They were going to be wonderful together—when the time was right.

  "You've been sick, remember." He paused. "Besides, you and I are going to have a talk first."

  "Does that mean you're going to... you know—"

  He couldn't help smiling. "When you set your mind to something, you don't let go, do you? Should I be worried about my virtue here? Is your plan to have your way with me then toss me aside?" He rested a hand on her shoulder and used his thumb to stroke her jawline.

  She smiled, too—and not so shyly as when he'd first met her. "Would that be so terrible?"

  "I'm not sure. I've never been used for exactly this purpose before."

  Emily bolted upright and the thin coverlet dropped to her waist. She pulled it up and clutched it to her chest, her face earnest. "Honestly, I never thought about it quite that way. It's more because... because you're special. So strong about things. It couldn't be just anyone. It has to be you. It's not about using—truly, it isn't."

  "What's it about then?" Now that he thought about it, the using part of this arrangement did bother him—a little.

  Emily swallowed visibly. "For me it's about how I feel when you touch me. What I see in your eyes. It's about a stumbling first step and who I want to take that first step with. For you maybe it's as simple as..." She watched him. "Satisfaction for a job well done."

  He laughed at that.

  She went on. "I mean it's not using if everything is up front from the beginning, is it? You told me yourself, you're leaving in a month. A brief romantic encounter with an island girl can't be too painful, can it?

  Yes, he was leaving... What she said made a crazy kind of sense. Normally he liked things that made sense, liked escape routes. Trouble was Emily was a new kind of normal. He felt as if he were running up a hill and he couldn't see the other side. "We're already having a 'romantic encounter,' or didn't you notice?" His thumb whispered across the rise of her breast.

  "Oh, yes. I certainly did notice."

  "Progress then." He pressed a kiss to the palm of her hand and stood, needing some space, needing control. "Later, we'll take it from there. But right now you need to eat. What's in that fridge of yours?"

  "I'll help." Emily started to get up, then remembered the revealing nightgown. When she wrapped the blanket around her, she looked up to see the tease in Quinn's eyes.

  "Cold?" he asked.

  "No, I'm, uh,..." She trailed off, suddenly and intensely angry with herself. Damn it! She was always trailing off,. Seconds before she'd been calmly discussing how and when she was going to have sex with this man, and now she was wrapping herself up like a mummy. He must think her the most Victorian creature he'd ever met—or the Mad Hatter.

  "If you are feeling better and want to help, why don't you go get dressed?" He reached for the edge of the blanket and gave it a light tug. "Clutching this thing in the kitchen could be awkward. It might even fall off. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

  Emily raised her eyes to his and took a silent breath. Without a word, she dropped the blanket, turned, and headed for her bedroom.

  Quinn watched her walk away and wondered how much sexual frustration he could handle in the wait for the perfect time. He hadn't realized how lush she was. Was he imagining it, or was she thinner than when he'd first seen her a couple of weeks ago? Thin or no, she had the greatest... backside he'd ever laid eyes on. She should be proud of that body, not hiding it under baggy sweaters and blankets. Before this month was over, he vowed, she would be. He turned toward the kitchen and started to think about the next four weeks.

  The sale of his business the last thing on his mind.

  * * *

  "Had enough?" Emily asked, rising to clear the plates. Quinn rose with her.

  "Plenty, thanks. Does your fridge always show such a good yield. If it does, I might go foraging in there more often." He picked up his plate and followed her to the dishwasher.

  "I like to cook. A bad habit when there's only one mouth to feed. Tends to make for a lot of leftovers, but I keep cooking anyway. Coffee?"

  "I'll make it. It's about the only thing I'm expert at in the kitchen." He headed toward the coffeepot.

  "Oh, I don't know. You did okay last night."

  "If you like your potatoes rare and your steaks crisp."

  "What about when you're at home—in LA? What do you cook there?"

  "I don't, at least not very much. I eat out—a lot. I had a live-in cook, housekeeper for a while, but I was never home enough to keep her busy. She either left or died of boredom." He paused, seemed to think. "Maybe I should check. She might still be there, decomposing in a back room somewhere."

  Emily laughed. "Where exactly do you live?"

  "In the air, mostly. Or Malibu. I also keep an apartment in New York."

  "How long have you been living like that?" She was totally intrigued. How different his life was from her own, homes in different cities, hopping on and off airplanes while she had settled into island life with the idea of never moving again.

  "Pretty much from the day I started Action Sports. Actually, the Malibu place is my first stab at a permanent home. Bought it a couple of years ago."

  "Do you like it there?"

  He turned from his task with the coffee to look at her, his expression thoughtful as if he'd never considered the like/dislike aspect of his living conditions. "I like the setting, the ocean, the sunsets, but the house doesn't feel much like a home."

  "Why not?" She glanced up at him, while beginning to clear the rest of the table.

  "When I bought the place, I hired an interior decorator. I intended to work with her, seriously get into it, but I was too busy. Finally, I just told her to go ahead and do what she thought best. The extent of my instructions was to 'do something homey.'" He looked around and swept a hand to take in Emily's house. "I meant like this—what I got was chintz and cabbage roses." He grimaced. "It's not exactly me as they say in designer circles."

  "You're kidding." No way could she see Quinn surrounded by cabbage roses.

  "I keep promising myself to redo the place, but I haven't found the time."

  "Your life sounds very... full. Do you like it that way?"

  "Overall? Yes. I like action. Things happening. Though lately, it's been too much even for me. Still, when Paul offered me his place here, I was nervous at the thought of all this peace and quiet."

  "Not surprised. Salt Spring is a far cry from Los Angeles." She remembered the pictures of Quinn in Persona, running in charity events, attending premieres. She leaned against the counter and wiped her hands with the tea towel, kept her gaze on him. She could look at him forever.

  "That it is, but so far I've enjoyed every minute here. There've been some pleasant surprises on this i
sland." He looked at her and smiled. "One in particular."

  She looked away.

  He moved toward her and took the tea towel from her hands. "So... How come so many questions? You've asked me more in the last ten minutes than in the past two weeks. Are you actually interested in me at last?"

  She didn't hesitate, didn't fudge. "I've been interested in you since the day I first saw you riding your bike in Ganges."

  He drew in a deep breath and the smile left his face. "I like you, Emily Welland. Did you know that? I like you... too much." He kissed the tip of her nose, then hung up the towel. "The coffee will be a couple of minutes. Let's sit down." His hands stroked down from her shoulders to grasp hers and lead her to the sofa.

  Chapter 7

  When Emily tensed at even this friendly touch, she was again angry at herself. Damn old habits. They died hard.

  She wanted to be with Quinn more than anything else in the world, but she couldn't control these intermittent stabs of fear, the anxieties that kept poking and pricking at her resolve. Gloriously happy one minute, then terrified, convinced she was a crazed fool, that she'd never please him—fail him in some gargantuan way. God, the man had been with Gina Manzoni! How could she compete with that? But she'd set herself up to make love with him, and she'd do it—if it killed her. Which it very well might. Like if he laughed at her. She couldn't bear that. If only she was experienced. If you were experienced, you idiot, you wouldn't be throwing yourself at him. God, she thought then, is that what I'm doing? Maybe I should...

  "I'd say a penny for those thoughts, but I get the feeling they're worth a lot more."

  "I was thinking about—"

  "Let me guess. You and me. Right?"

  She nodded.

  Quinn studied her face, so tense and serious. He'd never been with anyone as frightened—as vulnerable—as Emily. And all because of sex. Something he hadn't attached any real importance to—other than taking the necessary precautions—for years now. Somewhere along the line the word just had attached itself to the word and never left. Just sex. Except with Emily. With Emily there'd be no qualifier used to water it down. No just.