California Man - The Author's Cut Edition

by EC Sheedy

  "I say yes. You're exactly what I need to keep my mind off opening night. And I can't think of anyone I'd rather breathe with."

  For a time they sat in silence feeding the greedy gulls the remnants of their lunch. One of the things Emily loved most about Quinn was his easy silences. Remembering what he'd told her about his older parents and the quiet of their home made her think it was they who had given him this gift. As the silence grew, her question bubbled to the surface.

  "Quinn, did you—?" For the first time in days, she felt... nervous, hesitant.

  He stopped feeding the birds and looked at her. "Did I what?"

  "Nothing. I was probably imagining things."

  "I thought we were past the unfinished sentence phase of our relationship. What were you going to say?" He dropped a piece of crust for a bold spotted gull that had walked up and pecked demandingly at his sneaker.

  "I was going to ask what you said last night before we... when you were, you know, kissing me? I'm not certain you said anything but I thought—"

  She had heard him. Until now he hadn't been sure. He shooed the gulls away and gave her his full attention. "I asked you to think about the possibility of my asking more from you than just affection."

  More... A chill gripped her. "I don't understand." More meant not enough. She'd thought things were... beautiful. What had she done—not done?

  He swung one leg across the seat of the picnic bench. Now straddling it, he took her hands in his. "I want you to think about trading that 'affection' you feel for me into love, Emmi. I want to know if there's a chance you can love me the way I love you." His eyes held hers, direct and questioning.

  Quinn loved her. Impossible. Loving was a forever word, and he was leaving in less than three weeks. All of her efforts, all of her meager store of courage had been channeled into his time on the island. She'd refused to think beyond it. She wasn't sure she could... Her heart beat an uneven rhythm of fear and hope. She dropped her eyes and squeezed his big hands.

  Quinn watched her pale face, saw the welling of old fears and insecurities. He'd spoken too soon. He reached out and stroked the skin of her cheek, wanting to ease her tension. She responded to his hand by leaning her face into it but didn't speak.

  "It's okay. You don't have to say anything. As a matter of fact, right now, I think I'd prefer you didn't. Just think on it, okay?"

  She nodded. "Okay."

  "We'll talk Friday night after you've finished your balloon." He ran his thumb along her lower lip. "It can't be that hard to think about my loving you, can it?"

  * * *

  What was hard was thinking about anything else. Emily tried to concentrate on the sea of red nylon that claimed her living room. Sighing, she picked up the needle, determined to finish the next two seams before she went to bed. It was two a.m.

  "Damn it!" It must have been the tenth time she punctured her finger tonight. She raised it to her mouth, sucked the blood away, and stood up. Bailly's ears flicked, and he eyed her hopefully as she moved to the window.

  She looked down at him. "You could have gone to your bed, you know. You don't have to stay here with me."

  The Ridgeback lifted his head and swished the floor a couple of times with his tail.

  A tired smile crossed her face as she looked down at him. "You up for some fresh air, Bailly?"

  He was on his feet.

  "Let's go then. We'll go to the beach for a minute and ponder love and red balloons." Woman and dog walked in quiet companionship to the water's edge.

  Emily knew she loved Quinn. She'd known for days now. She smiled inwardly, thinking perhaps she'd loved him since that day in her bookstore when he'd asked her why he made her afraid. Still a good question, she thought. Even after all they'd shared, the laughter, the incredible physical intimacies, his love aroused more anxiety than faith, more fear than hope. "You make me sound like an alien life form." That's what he'd said the first night at his place, when she'd told him she never expected him to love her. He'd been right. That was exactly what she thought, what she still thought. He was a California man, a flash of golden, perfect male with a sunshine existence full of people and places as foreign to her as perennial orchids were to her northern garden.

  No. She'd never expected him to love her. Now that he did, could she hope he would keep on loving her? Wouldn't it be better to keep things as they were? Safe.

  She kicked a stone with her toe and stuffed her hands deep in the pockets of her jeans. "Safe!" She spit the word out like a rancid nut and lifted her chin.

  "I love you, Quinn Ramsay. I admit it scares me, and I don't know if we have the chance of an icicle in L.A. but, dear God, I love you so much I ache with it."

  She looked upward and a moonlit smile curved her lips. She had told the moon. Tomorrow night she would tell him. No more being safe.

  "C'mon, Bailly. I've got a balloon to finish." And one to fly, she thought, the crinkle of a smile still on her face.

  Chapter 10

  "I think it's going to work. What do you think?" Emily turned her head to Betsy, her doubtful leading lady, and Granger. The three of them looked up at the brilliant red nylon suspended out of sight above the stage.

  "Lower it one more time," Granger replied, one hand stroking the day's growth of beard on his narrow chin.

  "Okay, but I'm sure it will work." Emily went offstage, untied a series of ropes fastened to a post offstage, and carefully lowered the red nylon. Her red balloon came down perfectly. She took a minute to glance at her watch. It was late. Almost nine.

  "Damn. That's good, Emily." Granger smiled and waved a hand. "Tie it back up."

  He turned to Betsy. "Looks like the danger of your balloon crash is past, thanks to our creative playwright. And now, my people," he glanced at the remaining cast members, "We are outta here. You're ready, the set is ready, and tomorrow we're going to knock 'em dead. Have a relaxing evening, everybody. Now beat it."

  * * *

  Within fifteen minutes, Emily was at Quinn's door, a casserole dish of lasagna tucked under her arm. She may be starting to trust his love, but her faith in his culinary skills was not so advanced. Her heart pounded as she rang the ship's bell hanging by the front door. Tonight was going to be a special night, full of love, promises, and...

  He answered the bell wearing wet swim trunks, a white towel around his neck, and a grin. His dripping hair was curled tight against his head. He wasted no time pulling her into his arms.

  "I brought dinner," she said inanely, a little stunned by the warmth of his welcome.

  "I missed you," he groused good-naturedly in her ear. "I hope that damned red balloon was worth it." He kissed her then, just enough to make her toes curl. "Was it?"

  "I'm not sure—now that you've reminded me what I've been missing."

  When a drop of water from his wet hair fell on her cheek, Quinn took his eyes from hers and stroked it away with a rough thumb. "I'm making you wet. Come in."

  He was making her a lot more than wet. He released her then, pulled her inside, and closed the door.

  "I hope you like Italian. I brought lasagna." Why am I so obsessed with food? she moaned to herself. I'm standing here with this incredible man in front of me all shiny and wet and I'm chattering about pasta. Hopeless, she was.

  He took the casserole dish from her shaky hands, put it on the hall table, and pulled her back to his arms. "I love Italian. But I love you more, Emily Welland. So much so, it scares the hell out of me."

  "Scares you?" she parroted, drinking in the intensity in his eyes.

  "It scares me that you might not love me back. I want to know, need to know, how you feel."

  "Here? Now? Standing in the hall?"

  His smile held a trace of impatience. "Why not? Will your feelings be any different in the sixty seconds it will take us to walk to the living room?"

  "Oh, Quinn, my feelings for you won't change—ever. Not in minutes. Not in years. You are the best... the most wonderful thing that's ever happened
to me."

  His voice softened as he urged her on. "Say it. I need to hear you say it." His eyes trapped her.

  "I—"

  The discordant clang of the ship's bell at the door cut her off. It was followed immediately by the entrance of a darkly tanned, blond man laden with suitcases. Emily looked at the stranger, then back to the man holding her in his arms; he looked shell-shocked.

  "Paul. I wasn't expecting you," Quinn said. "Not tonight anyway."

  The man stopped in his tracks and stared at the two people with their arms linked around each other. An apologetic expression came over his face as he shrugged a leather bag down from his shoulder.

  "Sorry, I should have called." He glanced over his shoulder out the open door. "This is not good—not good at all."

  Quinn rallied and headed toward him to help with the bags. "Inconvenient maybe but not the end of the world as your expression seems to imply. And it is your house." He glanced at Emily. "Emily, this is Paul Severns. My current landlord and former friend." The last was said with an arched brow.

  She took Paul's offered hand. Quinn was annoyed, but this man looked as if the sky was falling. Quinn's tease hadn't lightened his mood. His smile was friendly enough, but he kept looking over his shoulder.

  Finally Paul said, "Look, I'm sorry, buddy. I didn't know. If I had, I never would've—"

  Quinn frowned. "What are you talk—"

  "Quinn, caro mio!" A woman flew into Quinn's arms. "It has been so long—too long."

  Emily felt her eyes widen, then widen more when Gina Manzoni grabbed the ends of the towel draped around Quinn's neck and pulled his mouth to hers. She gave him a lingering, possessive kiss while Emily sagged against the table that held her abandoned lasagna. Gina Manzoni. Here.

  Almost exactly Emily's height, Gina was beyond beautiful. She was an Italian stunner, a certified, authentic level ten. Perfect hair, perfect eyes, perfect skin, and perfect figure. Perfect everything—even the mouth she'd attached to Quinn. When Emily glanced away she caught both herself and Gina reflected in the hall mirror. Comparison was unavoidable. Emily felt her chest wall crumble. I look like spare parts.

  Gina's mouth was on his before Quinn could react. Frozen by shock, he stood statue straight, his mouth yielding nothing to hers. When he felt the probe of her tongue, he shifted his head back and grasped the rose-tipped fingers gripping his towel. With exaggerated care, he unclasped her hands and moved her away from him. And while Gina looked smug, Emily looked as if she'd just come down hard on another crossbar. The curses in his head would have shocked the crew on a frigate, but pissed off as he was, he kept his mouth shut, knowing nothing would make Gina happier than a good fight.

  He remembered how amused he'd been when she'd first told him that fighting energized her, made her hot. How she enjoyed emotions bouncing around like thunder and lightning. At first he hadn't believed her, but he found out later she hadn't lied. There would be no fight, nothing that would allow Gina to gather strength.

  "Sorry, man. Really sorry." It was Paul again.

  Quinn glared at him, then back at Gina. He forced a smile to his rigid lips. "Nothing to be sorry for." He picked up Paul's suitcase and reached for Gina's. "I think it's about time we got out of this hall. You could both probably use a drink. I know I can." He kicked the door shut with unnecessary ferocity.

  Emily delayed before following the threesome to the living room, wishing now she'd taken the time to shower and change before coming—or maybe had a little plastic surgery. Never, absolutely never, had she been in the company of three more physically perfect human beings. She knew it shouldn't matter, appearances weren't everything, were in fact nothing at all, but she couldn't ignore the differences between them, these glorious sun-drenched people and the quiet islander. They looked like magazine covers. Paul, so blond and tanned with that soft white cotton sweater draped casually over his shoulders, was perfect for GQ, while Quinn, in his wet swimsuit, with his sexy good looks and swim-curled hair, was definitely Playgirl material. Centerfold, she added, her eyes relishing his long, muscular frame. And Gina? Gina would look good on anything from People magazine to a French postcard. Emily smoothed back her hair and grimaced. Despite her recent weight loss and new haircut, she felt fat, frumpy, and frazzled.

  Quinn was already behind the bar. He opened a beer for Paul and poured a hefty shot of scotch for himself and red wine for Gina. Emily declined a drink with a silent shake of her head.

  When Quinn looked into her sober gray eyes, he felt a little sick. Gina wouldn't be easy on her. At that thought, the dark-haired beauty spoke.

  "You have not introduced us, Quinn." She turned her earth-brown eyes to Emily for the first time.

  "This is Emily Welland, Gina. Emily, I think you know who this is."

  "Of course. I've seen your pictures, Miss Manzoni. They don't do you justice." Emily swallowed and worked to ignore the nervous fluttering in her stomach.

  "Call me Gina, please." She gave Emily a narrow, appraising look. When she started to speak again, Paul interrupted.

  "You live on the island, Emily?" His smile was friendly and open enough that it took the edge off her flutter.

  "Yes, I do. For about six years now."

  "What in heaven's name do you do in such a remote place? Does it not get boring?" Gina interjected.

  Emily thought to tell her that she lived within an hour or two of a couple of million people but decided against it. It wasn't her job to educate Gina Manzoni. Besides, to her it probably was remote.

  "It's quiet... and peaceful but not boring. The people here are wonderful and my store keeps me busy." Emily couldn't remember the last time she was bored.

  Paul spoke again. "What store is that?"

  "I own a bookstore. Welland Books."

  Gina moved to a chair near Quinn and sat down. "A bookstore!" she said as though Emily had told her she took in washing for a living. "And to you this is interesting?"

  "Gina!" Quinn growled. "Stuff it!"

  Paul ignored Quinn and Gina to concentrate on Emily. He seemed to accept that he couldn't do anything about the situation he'd created by bringing Gina with him and was obviously trying to make the best of it. "I've probably been in your place then. Is it in Ganges?"

  Emily nodded. The fluttering was back but there was something else, too—a tightening in her spine. She decided she didn't like Gina Manzoni. Not one bit. Nor was she going to be intimidated by her. She straightened her shoulders to answer Paul's question. "If you have been in, I don't remember, and I think I would. The whole island knows about you." Emily gave Paul Severns her full attention. He was a super attractive man. She would have remembered those bright blue eyes and blond hair. She would have remembered the feeling of empathy he exuded. "Maybe you went to my competitor. There are two bookstores on the island."

  "Maybe I did. If so, I won't make the same mistake again. I'm sure your competitor isn't half as lovely as you." He grinned at her and she smiled back.

  Quinn glowered at his friend. First Gina rides in on his coattails and then he makes moves on Emily. "Emily is also a writer," Quinn said. "Her first play is being staged tomorrow night."

  "Really. Then why don't we all go? I'd love to see what you've done," Paul said with genuine enthusiasm.

  Emily paled, then reddened. Her distraught expression told Quinn he'd made a serious error.

  "No! That wouldn't be a good idea at all." Emily turned beseeching eyes toward Quinn. Why, oh why, had he brought up her play? These people were Hollywood professionals. They would laugh at her paltry effort. "I'm sure my play wouldn't interest you at all."

  Gina smiled. "Oh, but we would love to come. All of us. Would we not, Quinn? It will be... fascinating." Gina's agreement was too fast, too easy. Quinn glared at her over the rim of his glass.

  "Really, you wouldn't like it," Emily said. "I mean, it's amateur stuff. It's nice of you but—" She was desperate to convince them not to come.

  Paul broke in. "No buts. We're comin
g and that's that. I got my start in amateur theater. It's been a long time since I've had the chance to enjoy it. It'll be great." His eagerness was genuine.

  "Yes. Perfetto." Gina echoed, appearing to relish Emily's discomfort. Quinn glanced at Emmi; she looked as though someone had put matches under her fingernails. Gina decided to light one. "You are afraid we'll upstage you, cara?"

  "Upstage?"

  "It is opening night, is it not? Perhaps you are afraid we steal your limelight? If that is how you feel, we will understand." Gina paused for dramatic effect. "Or is there another reason you do not want us to come to your, uh, little production?"

  Being upstaged was the last thought on Emily's mind. Or at least she thought it was. About now she wasn't sure, but she couldn't' miss the challenge in Gina's words. She was saved from answering by Paul's interjection.

  "Don't be patronizing, Gina." He snapped. "Emily just has a case of opening night jitters. You've never worked in live theater, so you wouldn't understand that. But maybe we have been insensitive. Correction, I've been insensitive." He looked at Emily. "If you don't want us to come, we won't. Say the word."

  Emily reached through her self-doubt and grabbed her pride. "No. It's fine. Really. I'd, uh, like you to come." She had nothing to be ashamed of. Least of all her play. "I didn't mean to sound... inhospitable."

  "It is settled then." Gina looked smugly pleased when she tossed a look in Emily's direction. "Now tell me, cara, what does one wear to an opening night on... where are we again, Paul?"

  "Gina!" He spoke the name with a roll of his eyes.

  "Oh, yes, Salt Spring Island?" She appraised Emily's outfit of jeans and a T-shirt with undisguised scorn. "I would not want to... how do you say?... overdress for the occasion."

  Emily stiffened at the implied criticism. "Whatever you choose to wear will be fine. We're very casual on the island."

  "Yes, that I see," she drawled. "Comfort before fashion, si?"

  Emily turned her silver eyes directly to the woman across from her. This time she looked in, not at, her, and this time the comparison was not so painful. Gina's almond eyes were callous, hard, and without hesitancy. Everything about her spoke of aggressiveness, ambition, and self-concern. This was the woman Quinn had once loved, come close to marrying. A woman so different from herself—so forceful. She couldn't imagine it, but it was true. How many more people like Gina populated his world? It didn't bear thinking about. No. She was wrong. It did bear thinking about, a great deal of thinking. This was her first honest glimpse of his world. From what she could see, she'd be as much at home there as on Pluto. A curl of misery and confusion twisted through her core.