Before I Melt Away

by Isabel Sharpe

  The closet door swung under the force of her shove, hit the jamb with a satisfying thud, then bounced back open slightly. She took a deep breath and turned to face the flowers again. They were beautiful. And unless she wanted to “wear her mood” and show up dressed for heavy combat, she’d better calm down.

  Granted, maybe, possibly, yes, okay, she had a teeny-weeny chip on her shoulder. Her father had made it clear that women weren’t ever going to take the place of men on the battlefield of life, and that those who tried somehow betrayed their gender. He’d encouraged her brother, applauded his achievements, and while Annabel was his special little girl and always would be, she got the sense that when John had chosen teaching instead of big business, he’d left a hole Dad never bothered hoping Annabel could fill. Certainly not with something as girly as food service.

  Was that what drove her? Partly, sure, that—and her own Dad-inherited need to do things in a big way. But the drive certainly fueled her irritation at the message on the flowers, which Quinn had bought to be supportive and thoughtful, so she should chill the heck out and…she glanced at her watch…yikes! Get dressed!

  She took the stairs two at a time, launched herself into her room and came to a stop in front of the closet. All day she’d been distracted by thoughts of this date—what would they do? what would she wear? where would they go? would they…mmm…or not?—and finally decided to take Quinn at his word, wait to see what mood she was in and dress accordingly.

  Now she wished she’d planned ahead, her usual strategy.

  So…

  Would they be going out? Staying in? There wasn’t much open now. Milwaukee was hardly the city that never slept. If they went out, she’d need something warm to combat the icy temperatures. But if they stayed in…she could get away with next-to-nothing.

  Gulp.

  Could she open the door to him in next-to-nothing?

  Her stomach growled. She was starving, so she hoped the evening involved food, though if they stayed here, she had almost nothing to offer him, which meant—

  Okay, Annabel, focus. Clothes first, the evening would decide itself.

  She scanned the contents of her closet and glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes. Ack!

  Pants? A Dress? Skirt?

  Deep breath. Calm down. If she dressed her mood now, she’d have to wear something so full of static she’d crackle if anyone went near her.

  First she needed to decide her mood. Something besides frazzled. She took more deep breaths, then deeper ones, closed her eyes, imagined seeing Quinn—how would she feel? Not quite daring. Not quite demure. Available, but not easy. Calm, confident, in control.

  She opened her eyes and approached her closet again. She slid a hand between a black rayon blouse and white silk and encountered something exquisitely soft. Cashmere. Annabel drew the top out and smiled. Apricot-colored cashmere, wide neck, nearly off the shoulder, fairly tight fit.

  Pair it with a slit-to-heaven, knee-length black wool skirt. Seductive without being obviously so, good to go out, good to stay in.

  Yes.

  She shed her sensible slim-fitting black gabardine pants and acrylic knit sweater, her skin and nerves enjoying the air and freedom. Stepped out of her Victoria’s Secret cotton panties, unhooked and pulled off her underwire bra, raced to the shower to soap off the kitchen smells, and came back into her room, too nervous to glance at the clock. Calm? Did she say she wanted to be calm?

  Focus.

  Underwear: black lace micro-bikini. Matching push-up bra. Sheer black thigh-high stockings.

  Makeup: eyeliner, mascara, concealer, blush, the barest smear of deep rosy apricot color on her lips.

  Before she put the skirt and top on, she stole to the mirror to check herself out. Would he see her this way tonight? Dressed only in black lace and nylon? Would he want to?

  Oh, she hoped so. She very, very much hoped so. She looked good, her body slender, firm and strong. And suddenly she felt good, the way she looked, the way she wanted to appear—calm, confident and sexual.

  A chuckle escaped her. He’d said to dress her mood. Well, this was pretty much it.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, someone she assumed was Quinn chose that exact moment to ring her front doorbell.

  Annabel started and glanced at her clock.

  Midnight. On the dot.

  4

  SO.

  Annabel let out a two-second burst of nervous laughter. Quinn Garrett was waiting outside on her front steps and all she had on were bare coverings of lace and nylon.

  She glanced at the apricot sweater and black skirt lying on the cherry rocking chair in her room, and again at herself in the mirror. Hadn’t he said to surprise him? Hadn’t she just said she looked and felt strong and confident?

  Yes, but there was a difference between feeling strong and confident alone in her bedroom and answering the door to someone she didn’t know that well wearing only underwear.

  The bell rang again; Annabel snatched up the sweater and dragged it on, stepped into the skirt and ran downstairs zipping it up behind her. She’d certainly like him to see her in sexy underwear—and less—but maybe before the first date even began was pushing it. Second date? She’d have to see. Assuming he was interested in her, and not just acting on orders from her brother, John. Though she couldn’t imagine this man acting on orders from anyone but himself.

  She ran through the still-dark living room, flipped on the outside light, yanked open the outer door and padded into the foyer, the brick-colored tile chilling her stockinged feet as she opened the front door to Quinn.

  “Hello.” She smiled breathlessly. He was stunning in his long black wool coat and white silk scarf. Elegant like Pierce Brosnan, primal like Russell Crowe, his breath emerging white and steady in the icy air. “Sorry to make you wait, you caught me half-dressed.”

  “What a shame.”

  She wasn’t sure how to take that, and his faintly amused expression didn’t help at all, so she stepped back and gestured him inside. “Come in.”

  He preceded her into her unlit living room. For a guilty moment she lingered behind him, enjoying his tall, black, broad-shouldered presence. She’d brought a few men home in her time, but none of them had filled the place the way this one did. Was his aura really that powerful or was her fascination simply feeding it? Or both?

  The tall, black, broad-shouldered shape turned, making Annabel aware that gawking at him in the darkness was a tad on the weird side.

  “Sorry for the mole atmosphere.” She hurried to turn on the floor lamp beside the couch. “I had to rush after I got home—oh, and thank you so much for the flowers.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She turned on another lamp, feeling as if she should say something more, maybe something about the smell-the-roses note, but given how it had hit her the wrong way, she couldn’t risk sounding snarky. “They’re beautiful.”

  “I’m glad you like them.” He put his hands on his hips, pushing back the edges of his coat, and studied her, again giving her the feeling he was dissecting her brain, understanding everything she wasn’t saying about the note. How did he do that?

  “I want you to enjoy them.”

  “Oh, I will.” Annabel smiled agreeably. He was so hard to read. He wanted her to enjoy them, yes, but they symbolized more than that. An implicit criticism of her lifestyle and ambition. Something her father would have done, only not so subtly.

  His eyes traveled over her outfit; his lips hinted at a smile without giving one.

  “So your clothes are telling me you’re in the mood to do just about anything.”

  She nodded, wondering what he’d have done if she’d opened the door in black lace. Though from what she could see of his dark trousers and what looked like a suit jacket, he was feeling too formal to jump her.

  Darn.

  “Yes, I’m up for anything.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No. Have you?”

  He shook his hea
d, reached into his coat pocket and produced a small package wrapped in tissue and a plastic bag. “I found this at an antique shop downtown today.”

  She nodded politely, confused by the non sequitur, and watched him unwrap an exquisite miniature dresser, barely five inches high, that looked as if it belonged in an extremely fancy dollhouse, the kind she had been in awe of as a child, not that she’d played with dolls that much, but just to have something so lovely in her room.

  “It’s beautiful.” She approached and touched the tiny thing reverently. Tortoiseshell, it looked like, with ornate brass overlay. Three drawers, complete with tiny handles and miniature brass keyholes. Stunning and no doubt valuable. “Are you a collector?”

  “It’s for you.”

  Annabel jerked her head up to meet his dark eyes; her mouth opened, then shut. The combination of surprise and the shock of attraction left her brainpower nearly blacking out. “But…I mean you’ve already…the flowers…”

  “It’s a game.”

  She glanced down at the tiny piece of furniture. “A game.”

  “It came with three keys, one for each drawer.” He rummaged in the plastic bag and came up with a miniature Ziploc bag containing three of the tiniest brass keys she’d ever seen. “Would you like to play?”

  “How?”

  “Pick a key. Each drawer has an idea for how we spend the evening. Whichever your key opens, that’s what we do.”

  She laughed, surprised Quinn Garrett had a whimsical side. She would have thought he was so tightly controlled, he’d never leave their plans up to the roll of a dice—or in this case the turn of a key. The guys she dated were generally uncomplicated, what-you-see-is-what-you-get. Quinn seemed anything but. “What are my choices?”

  “Do you have to know?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I’m a control freak. I have to know.”

  He appeared to be thinking that over, but she’d bet it wasn’t exactly news. “You never give up control?”

  “Never.”

  “Hmm.” He emptied the tiny keys from the bag into his large palm, where they looked even tinier. “Then we have a problem.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He lifted his head. “I don’t either.”

  Annabel stared up at his impassive face, trying to get a handle on what had suddenly flared between them, other than the obvious chemistry. For some reason she got an immediate picture of herself straddling him, making him beg for the release only she could give him.

  Mmm, twisted. Let him mind-read that.

  Quinn did smile then, a slow spreading of those fabulous lips, though not far, as if the mechanism were rusted. “A challenge for both of us.”

  Heat found her face. Rather than mind reading, maybe he’d been thinking the same kind of thoughts about her that she’d been thinking about him all on his own. She liked that idea.

  “So what are my choices?”

  He arranged the three keys between his thumb and index finger so they stuck up like a tiny fan. “A private screening of The Thomas Crown Affair at the Rosebud Cinema.”

  “Ooh. Yes?”

  “A private after-hours dinner at Sanford Restaurant.”

  “Mmm. And?”

  “A private evening.” His voice dropped. “In your bedroom. Or in mine.”

  Annabel drew in a breath so long she wasn’t sure it would ever stop. “Oh, my.”

  He took a step closer. She could feel his warmth radiating across the few inches left separating them. Oh, my.

  “Choose a key, Annabel.”

  “I’d rather just pick an evening?”

  “Which one?”

  “The third.” She was whispering, nearly faint with excitement. “Definitely.”

  He shook his head and held up the miniature keys. “Choose.”

  Annabel bit her lip, examining the tiny strips of brass as if one of them might have “all-night sexathon” engraved on it. Then her eyes slipped upward, landed on his, and lust ran so hot through her she could barely stand it. “Quinn…”

  “Which key?”

  She forced her eyes back down and, with embarrassingly shaky fingers, selected the one in the middle. He seemed as cool and collected as ever, damn him, while she was practically climaxing just thinking about being with him. “This one.”

  He handed her the miniature key and her embarrassingly shaky fingers got even more embarrassing as she tried to fit the metal sliver into the first lock.

  “Relax.” He drew warm fingers over the skin of her shoulder exposed by her sweater’s wide neckline, slid them to the back of her neck and massaged lightly.

  “Touching me is not going to make me relax.”

  “No?”

  “No.” She was whispering again. His fingers were strong and skillful and incredibly arousing.

  The key didn’t work in the first drawer. She took a breath, pressing back against his fingers, and moved it to the second. He walked around behind her, spread his hands on her shoulders and made glorious circles of pressure with his thumbs in the middle of her back where all her tension collected.

  “Ohh, that’s heaven.” She tipped her head to one side, feeling the length of her neck sensitive and exposed when gravity swept her hair aside. Her head dropped back, nearly to his chest, and she closed her eyes. His breath caught briefly; his fingers lost their rhythm, then found it again. Annabel lifted her head, trying not to smile and give away her satisfaction. Maybe not so cool and collected?

  The second drawer didn’t open, either. She fit the key into the third lock, twisted, opened it, heart pounding, and pulled out paper folded into an impossibly tiny origami bird. “Did you do this?”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled her back against him briefly, a moment of heavenly contact with his strong, warm body, then let her go and watched her unfold the creases with her yes, okay, by now ridiculously shaky hands.

  Dinner at Sanford’s.

  For a moment she stared at the words, as if her brain was so primed to see “your place or mine” that it refused to accept anything else.

  Damn.

  “Excellent.”

  She turned to face him and held up the paper. “This is the one you wanted?”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “One appetite at a time.”

  “Do I get to open the others after dinner?”

  He folded his arms like a stern father. “No.”

  Annabel laughed in spite of her disappointment. Okay, regroup. Yes, she was starving. And Sanford Restaurant arguably served the best food in town. Plus, mmm, they could still find their way to his place or hers later on.

  She gave herself a mental smack. And when was she planning to sleep? Tomorrow was another day, she had calls to make, people she had to—

  “I’ll tell you a secret.”

  Annabel blinked and brought herself back. “What’s that?”

  He leaned down next to her ear, making her skin buzz, making her want to turn her head just a few degrees and grab his lips in the sexiest kiss she could give him.

  “All the drawers had the same option.”

  “What?” She stopped wanting to kiss him, and glared accusingly instead. “You’re kidding.”

  “Dead serious. You can have the other two keys if you want to check.”

  “But that’s not fair.”

  “Did I say it was fair?”

  “You led me on.”

  “Yes.”

  “You manipulated me.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “So, that’s…well, it’s dishonest. And creepy.”

  “Maybe.” He grinned then, the rare stunning smile that changed his whole face and reminded her so much of the boy she used to know.

  “But Annabel, wasn’t it fun?”

  ANNABEL LET her head loll back on the seat of Quinn’s rented Lexus speeding west on I 94 toward her house, and closed her eyes, not tired at all but wanting to savor and relive the evening. Oh, what a good meal. Champagne to start, then a salad of grilled shrimp
with grapefruit vinaigrette, seafood cassoulet, lavender honey-roasted suckling pig and a to-die-for bittersweet chocolate tart. The chef was an artist. She’d love to sneak some of those recipes into her repertoire. One of these days she’d have to go suckling-pig shopping and experiment.

  What it had cost Quinn to have the chef stay this late and keep the restaurant open for the two of them, even with a skeleton staff, she didn’t want to know, but it had been fabulous. Luxurious, leisurely and so-o-o intimate. One of these nights she’d have to cook for Quinn herself—at her own private restaurant.

  Right now, though, she was full, jazzed, happy, pleasantly tipsy and mildly infatuated. These were good things. Now she could go home, get four or five hours of sleep and start her day tomorrow with the promise of seeing more of Quinn in the near future. Maybe even tomorrow night if he was free and willing.

  He’d been easy to talk to, not so much the man of few words he’d been in her apartment. After a few awkward beginnings, a few obviously polite questions, they’d begun to chat more naturally—of course the wine had helped that along. And while he was still a private person, and had this way of directing questions back so the conversation always seemed to center on her, they’d brought up some wonderful memories, things she hadn’t thought of in years. Like the time he and John stayed out past curfew and had to sneak inside through her bedroom window because her furious father had locked them out. And the time he and John put Barbie’s underwear on her hamster and she’d been so livid she hadn’t spoken to them for days.

  Of course tonight, picturing poor little Ralph frantic in pink nylon practically made her spit out her champagne laughing.

  One memory, however, had intruded totally unexpectedly while they reminisced about her parents’ annual Christmas party, startling Annabel into trailing off mid-sentence. Immediately, Quinn had given her that I’m-reading-your-mind look, but though he might see she was rattled, even he couldn’t possibly guess why. Or so she’d like to think.