California Man - The Author's Cut Edition

by EC Sheedy

  I know all about fascination, Bailly, my boy, she thought, when a pair of blue eyes came to mind.

  Here she was thinking about Quinn when she should be at her computer. Granger was getting impatient. He wanted a couple of minor changes in the second act by tomorrow night. With only two weeks before opening night, he had every right to be impatient. But she didn't want to work tonight. She wanted to dream. Dream about Quinn coming back, the time they would have together. Dream about his arms around her, the scent of him, his mouth, his eyes, the way he looked at her. He colored her world, dominated it, and for now, this special time, she was content with that.

  She gazed at the flat face of the sky and watched the sun's lazy golden descent, thinking right this moment Quinn would be watching the same sky from his Malibu deck. The idea cheered her, and she stood, brushed off the back of her jeans, and headed in.

  Duty prodded and guilt pushed. Granger needed his words.

  * * *

  Quinn stood in the living room of the luxurious Beverly Hills home and took a long pull on his drink. It wasn't yet midnight, but he'd had all of this party he could take. Time to get out of here.

  He heard a bright laugh and glanced again at the attractive brunette in the lime-green dress—well almost a dress. One designed to not make the male imagination work too hard. She appeared to be listening to the conversation of her male companion, but she was looking at Quinn. The laugh was for him, as was the invitation in her artfully made-up eyes. Eyes that hadn't left him since his arrival an hour ago. At first she'd piqued his interest. She fit his diversion criteria to a tee, a blue-ribbon distraction if there ever was one.

  He told himself to go for it, but somehow his feet stayed where they were. Then Paul stepped to his side and asked, "Want to tell me who she is?"

  Quinn glanced again at the laughing woman. "I don't know. It's your party. Don't you know your own guests?"

  Paul inclined his head toward the brunette. "I don't mean her."

  Quinn took another drink and gave his friend a questioning look. "Who then?"

  "The woman on your mind. Anybody I know?"

  "What makes you think I've got a woman on my mind?"

  "I know the look. It can take me days to get that look in front of a camera. Kind of an interesting cross between frustration and confusion."

  "Hate to disappoint you, but I was thinking about my meeting tomorrow." He put his glass down. "I'm going to clear out of here and get some sleep."

  "Alone?" Paul nodded toward the pretty brunette.

  "Alone."

  Paul smiled the kind of knowing smile only a good friend can give another and raised his glass. "I'm impressed. She must be a fascinating woman if she makes you go willingly to a lonely bed."

  "Say good night, Paul," Quinn demanded tersely.

  Paul laughed at the scowl on his friend's face. "Good night, pal. Sleep... loose."

  Chapter 8

  "Playing hooky, Emmi? I wouldn't have thought you were the type. Way too responsible."

  Emily spun around, then leaped to her feet. "Quinn!" Her heart nearly jumped out of chest—in joy not fright. Yet, standing a couple of feet from him, a wash of her habitual shyness kept her from rushing to him. But it didn't stop her from looking her fill. "You're back," she said, stating the obvious just to get her tongue in gear.

  He was so perfect standing there in freshly washed jeans and a snowy white shirt. While after spending the morning grubbing in the garden, and filling her window boxes with petunias and geraniums, she was a total mess.

  His smile was megawatt. "Yes, I'm back. A day late but back." Thank God, he said to himself as he looked at her. She looked incredible. Torn jeans, dirty hands, hair tied back with a piece of leather, bare feet, face smudged with garden soil. The four days had felt like months. He'd hoped she would throw her arms around him. Instead she was shy again and hesitant. Then he looked at her; there was no hesitancy in her eyes.

  "Come here," he said gruffly, reaching out a hand.

  She moved toward him and stopped. "I'm so dirty."

  "I don't care if you're covered in tar. I want to hold you. I missed you—really missed you."

  Emily gave him a look of pure sunshine and ran to his arms. "I missed you, too. You can't imagine how much."

  He hugged her to him long and hard, and for a time, neither of them spoke.

  When Emily realized she was still clutching her hand spade, and she was making an awful mess of his shirt, she pulled away. "Look what I've done." She tried to rub off the dirt—with dirty hands. "Oh, damn, I'm making it worse."

  "I've got other shirts. Don't worry about it." He grasped both her hands and lifted them around his neck. "Can't you think of anything better to do than wipe at my shirt. Maybe something more... aggressive."

  Their gazes locked. "I think maybe I can." Standing on her toes she took his face in her hands and pulled his mouth to hers.

  He sighed into her parted lips and held her hard against his body. "That's more like it," he whispered when the kiss finished and he was nuzzling a tender spot below her ear. "Much more like it."

  "I've made your face dirty." She said. "Anyone would think you'd spent the afternoon mud wrestling." She rubbed at the smudge on his jaw, made it worse. "I give up." She took him by the hand. "You'll have to come in and wash up. When did you get back? Have you eaten? I've baked fresh bread. I can make you a sandwich."

  "Sounds good, but first come with me. I brought you something." He grabbed her mucky hand and pulled her up the driveway. "I parked on the road. I wanted to surprise you."

  When they got to his Range Rover, he opened the back and brought out a bike. A silver-gray woman's mountain bike. It was beautiful and exactly the right size.

  She grasped the handlebars and looked up at him. He had the expression of a young boy, pleased and expectant. She grinned in delight. "I love it, Quinn! I love it because it's from you and because... it has no crossbar."

  He threw back his head and laughed. When he looked back at her, she was already on the bike heading down her driveway, waving him to follow.

  She was propping the bike up against the house by the time he reached her.

  "Now tell me," she said. "When did you get back?"

  "About an hour ago. And in answer to your earlier question, I haven't eaten and I'm starved."

  "You don't look starved." I'm the one who's starved, she thought, starved for you. "But why don't you check out the fridge, see what you'd like. I'll have a quick shower and we'll eat outside. It's too good a day to waste indoors."

  "Sounds good." Again he pulled her close; she went willingly. "But don't take too long, okay? I'm hungrier for you than a sandwich."

  Emily looked at him in surprise. He had mirrored her thoughts exactly. She scooted to her bathroom, determined to make this the shortest shower on record.

  By the time she made it back to the kitchen, he was coming in from outside. He'd already put the sandwich fixings on the patio. He stopped when he saw her, inhaled sharply, and ran a hand down the length of her wet, slick hair. "You look great. Good enough to—" he stopped, his eyes darkening as he gazed down at her. "Good enough for anything." He paused again and ran his knuckles lightly along her jawline. "Tomorrow," he said suddenly. "Tomorrow we go to Victoria. Okay?"

  There was no mistaking his intent.

  "Tomorrow," she answered, trying to keep her voice and eyes steady as a shudder of raw sexual excitement shook her to her toes.

  He continued to gaze on her as if in a trance, his expression rapt and hungry. Emily felt a curious chill, followed by a rush of warmth, and wondered what about him was so different. Her eyes stayed on his until he took another deep breath.

  "Tomorrow." His smile melting her, he pushed some damp strands of hair off her forehead, his touch tender yet possessive. "But for now tell me what you've been up to while I've been gone. How's the play going? It opens next Saturday, right?"

  Taking a normalizing breath, she said, "Yes. The dress rehe
arsal is this Wednesday." She went to get two mugs from the cupboard and crossed the emotional bridge from passionate fantasy to daylight reality. It wasn't easy when the word "tomorrow" echoed through her head with the resonance of a high Alps yodel. She could scarcely hear the sound of her own voice.

  "Will we be going?"

  "Going?" she repeated absently.

  "To the dress rehearsal. I'd like to go with you. Or don't they allow outsiders?" He was reaching into the fridge. "Aha! Strawberries." He headed to the door and Emily followed, carrying the mugs.

  She hadn't thought about his seeing her play. Not at the dress rehearsal or any other time. It hadn't occurred to her he'd be interested. When they were at the door, she asked, "You'd really like to come?" Her words were laced with amazement.

  "Is that a problem? I want to go to the opening too. Assuming, of course, there's no black tie required. I left that in L.A." He grimaced broadly.

  Emily laughed. "No to both questions. It's not a problem and it's definitely not black tie. More like blue jeans and sneakers."

  "Perfect." He reached for the mustard.

  Emily watched him casually put together a sandwich, stupidly pleased that he looked so much at home.

  He caught her looking at him. "Aren't you going to eat?"

  "No. I'm not hungry. You go ahead." She continued to study him, drink him in. Something was different about him. She decided to ask.

  "You're very... happy today," she said. "Did your meetings go well?" She leaned back in the old Cape Cod chair and took sip of coffee.

  "Very well. It seems my decision to take this Salt Spring sabbatical has worked in my favor. The buyer has upped the offer. Turns out my dropping out, coming here, was an effective negotiating ploy."

  "Was it? A negotiating ploy, I mean?"

  "No. I honestly needed to think. The first offer was enough. I didn't need any added monetary incentive." He grinned at her. "Not that I'm going to turn them down, you understand."

  She looked across the rim of her coffee cup. "You've decided then?"

  "Almost. I have a couple of things to check out and that will be that."

  "You know what you're going to do then... after the sale?"

  He gave her a look she couldn't read. "I know what I'd like to do, but I'm not sure yet whether it will work out. Like I said, I have a few things to check out. But so far things look good." He smiled then. "From where I sit they look damned good."

  "I'm happy for you. It all sounds exciting and... mysterious, like you're about to embark on a grand adventure." She didn't ask any more questions. Quinn's business was his business. It had nothing to do with her.

  "A grand adventure..." He seemed to ponder the words. "I'd like to think so. Adventure—and challenge—is exactly what I need." After a quick glance at his watch, he stood. "We've got time for a quick trial run with that new bike before I have to go. Are you game?"

  Emily wasn't actress enough to hide her disappointment. "You're leaving? So soon?"

  "Have to be on the seaplane to Vancouver in three hours, but I'll be back in the morning. I have a dinner meeting tonight and breakfast meeting early tomorrow. The guy I'm meeting is on a tight schedule. I probably should have stayed on in Vancouver today, but I wanted to see you. I figured a couple of hours was better than nothing." He tilted his head, arched a teasing brow. "Is that look on your face telling me you can't live without me for another night?"

  "I can, but I'm not sure I want to," she answered honestly. We have so few nights, so very few, before you leave for good.

  "Then I'll have to make it up to you. Big time. Starting tomorrow. Fair enough?" He stroked her face.

  "Fair enough."

  * * *

  Emily still couldn't settle down. It had been two hours since Quinn left, and before long it would be dark. Restless and moody, she decided to go for another bike ride. She was amazed at what a difference it made to have a bike the right size. She was enjoying it, and Bailly loved running alongside her.

  "If we keep this up, Bailly, we'll be in great shape."

  They'd turned left on Morningside when she saw James. She smiled and waved. When she stopped, Bailly went to say hello.

  "Hi, Emmi. Quinn gone?" James got right to the point as always.

  "Uh-huh."

  "But back tomorrow, he said."

  "Right. Back tomorrow." She leaned on the handlebars of her new bike. "He says you're doing super well, James."

  James beamed, and it made her heart pinch the tiniest bit. He'd become attached to Quinn, maybe too attached, and would be almost as disappointed as she would be when he left. And that worried her, but Lynn said not to let it, because James had to learn to say goodbye like everyone else.

  "You like him coaching you, huh?"

  His smile widened. "He gave me these." James lifted his left foot and pointed it toward her. It wasn't the first time he'd showed her his new running shoes with their red and blue stripes. She pretended it was.

  "Cool," she said. "I bet you'll beat everybody wearing those shoes."

  "Quinn says if I work hard—really, really hard—I'm gonna win. Want me to show you what he taught me?"

  "Sure." Emily, still leaning on her bike, watched James take his start position, then hurtle down the road. He was fast, and he sure was motivated. Thanks to Quinn.

  When he came back and stood in front of her, barely out of breath, she said, "That's great, James. Really great."

  "Guess what? I'm gonna run in another race after this one. In..." He stopped to think for a minute. "August. It's in Vancouver. August in Vancouver," he repeated before going on. "Quinn says he'll help me. He says the games are super important. They have gold and silver medals and everything. Not just ribbons."

  "I don't think—" Emily stopped. James must have his dates confused. Quinn would be gone by August, long gone. Still it wasn't like James to have it wrong. When he was told a date or month, he etched it in stone. He might not be able to relate it to the length of time, but he always remembered the specifics. She hoped Quinn hadn't misled him in a misguided effort to be kind. She'd hate to see James disappointed.

  "Ja-ames. Ja-ames." It was Lynn calling. Emily looked at her watch. Nearly seven-thirty.

  "You'd better go, hon. Your mom's calling."

  "Okay. You coming to see me race next Saturday?"

  "I hope so. But only the hundred meter. I can't stay for the relay. I have to get back to help with my play."

  "Come with Quinn, okay," he instructed.

  "Okay. Now you'd better get going before your mom gets mad at you for being late."

  James ran back down the road, spun around once to wave, and ran on. Lynn had told her how thrilled he was about the weekend games, but Emily hadn't realized how thrilled until now. If he won, and she prayed he would, she knew it would make Quinn happy. But even if he didn't win he'd have given his best and know it. And that was winning in her book.

  She got back on her bike—no crossbar—and smiled. Maybe Quinn was going to make both her and James winners.

  Bailly, a few paces ahead of her on the road, tossed off an impatient bark. She started to pedal. "Okay, Bailly boy, let's roll."

  * * *

  The seaplane pitched and tossed as it came in for a landing on the choppy waters at the Vancouver terminal. Quinn looked at his watch. Less than half an hour to get to his room at the Four Seasons, change, and make his dinner meeting. He'd be a few minutes late, but Claude would wait. He hailed a cab. When it pulled to the curb, he opened the door and tossed in his overnighter.

  "Four Seasons," he told the driver, then settled into the seat.

  He smiled to himself, anticipating the surprise on Claude's face when he hit him up for money. It would be a first, that was for sure—just as this meeting was. Claude Christopher and Quinn Ramsay hadn't sat down together for at least ten years. They'd been too busy beating each other up in the marketplace.

  Quinn had told him very little when he'd called him in L.A., only that he had
a proposition that would be good for both of them. Claude would assume that meant money in, not money out.

  Quinn leaned back in the seat; he felt edgy, but it was a good edgy. For the first time in years, he was excited about something. And if Claude could feel the same, they'd be good to go. His support might not be critical to the project, but it would speed up the start-up phase. Quinn had badly wanted to talk his plans over with Emily but decided to wait until things were firmly set. He still had i's to dot and t's to cross.

  Too bad he hadn't been able to meet with Claude in Los Angeles, but his schedule had made it impossible. Quinn knew all about that kind of schedule and was grateful his longtime competitor agreed to a stopover in Vancouver. Otherwise it would have been back to L.A. and away from Emily.

  He didn't want to be away from her. He'd made that decision during a couple of long, restless nights in Malibu. What he didn't know was how she felt about him. She was attracted to him, that he got, but he sensed a constant distance in her, a protective reserve. What that meant he didn't know, but in the next few days, he intended to find out.

  He'd kept his word, given her time to think things through. A process that wreaked hell on his libido, but he hadn't rushed her. He'd scarcely touched her, for God's sake! And this morning, when she'd pulled his mouth to hers—the first openly sexual move she'd put on him—he'd damn near lost it. He could still feel her pressed against his length. His very hard length.

  He shook his head and stared out the cab window.

  You're an idiot, Ramsay.

  Agreed.

  But I'm an idiot who doesn't want to screw up. One who wants to make a special time—for a special woman. And if that takes a bit of patience, I'm good with that.

  * * *

  The next day, after he'd spent some time coaching James he walked back to Emily's house. She was in the bedroom packing. "Miss me?" Quinn asked wrapping his arms round her from behind.