Oh, he looked so good. Hair damp and mussed from the shower, chamois shirt in a sophisticated olive-gray-blue plaid hanging open to show the smooth white tee hugging his chest, rugged olive-colored pants that perfectly matched the shirt—he’d known to pack an overnight bag, of course. Her fingers uncurled from knocking position and she had to pull her hand down to keep from smoothing the unruly hair off his forehead, just as an excuse to touch him, really, since the unrulies looked so sexy as is.
Wait. Ahem. Where was her outrage?
“Good morning, Annabel.”
“Oh. Good morning.” Hello? Outrage? She couldn’t summon enough of it to launch into her planned attack. For some reason, the sight of him and the sound of his rich, deep voice saying her name made her feel ridiculously happy.
What was this?
“There’s an outfit on my bed.” She folded her arms across her chest before she realized her words made absolutely no sense—and knew he’d understand perfectly.
“Why aren’t you wearing it?” He looked about to smile, as if he not only knew damn well why she wasn’t wearing it, but also looked forward to the showdown, because he knew he’d win.
Not so fast, lover boy.
“I can’t have adventures with you today. This is a workday for me.”
“Oh?” He reached for the ties on her robe and drew her into the room.
“Quinn.”
“Mmm?” His left hand went to the door and shoved to close it.
No. She shot out her arm and caught the edge behind her. “You kidnapped me, okay, but now it’s time for me to get back on track.”
“The fast track?”
“Damn straight.”
“I see.” He reached for her ties again; she backed against the door, grabbed the robe sash and knotted it firmly.
“Well, well.” He held her defiant gaze, a slow, wicked gleam coming into his eyes that excited her and—strangely—unnerved her. “I sense a stalemate.”
“Checkmate. Your loss.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure.”
She pulled the lapels of her robe closer together, then hated herself for betraying her unease. But with that intense predatory stare, Quinn was making her feel as naked under her robe as…she was. “No?”
“No.” He dropped to his knees, spread the edges of her robe below the knotted belt and pinned her hips back against the door with his large warm hands.
She gasped and reached down instinctively to cover herself.
“Don’t move.”
She put her hands back up and held still, barely registering the cool room air on her exposed sex before she felt Quinn’s warm breath replacing it.
Oh, oh, my. She clutched her lapels tighter together, thickly swaddled above the waist and utterly vulnerable and open to him below.
“What a sight.”
Annabel closed her eyes, experiencing a moment of strange shyness in spite of the reverence in his whisper. Since when had she been at all reticent about showing her body to a lover?
“Beautiful.” He moved closer and blew gently, wide-mouthed, a hot steady stream that made Annabel lean her head back until it thudded to rest against the door.
“So tell me what happens if you don’t accomplish today what you want to?” He whispered the words, then his mouth kissed her sex, a warm, lingering kiss.
Oh, she was so, so lost. “Um…I’ll get…behind.”
“Behind what?” His tongue found her, warm and wet, light strokes over her clitoris, then down lower, spreading and exploring, making her abdominal muscles contract and her hips push forward.
“My…schedule.”
“I see.” His mouth tightened over her clit; he sucked in a steady rhythm. Annabel lifted her head from the door, let it thud back, did it again, hot and restless, feeling the urgency of wanting to come, not wanting him to stop. Ever.
Except that he did. “So you might end up an entire day behind…what? Or whom?”
She swallowed, the sound loud in the room, silent except for her ragged breathing. This would not be a good time to bring up Adolph Fox’s frozen entrées. “Behind in my goals.”
“Ah.” He moved forward and his tongue shot her to heaven again, all the more for the teasing pause that preceded it—a long, leisurely series of strokes before he—no, no—stopped again. “Your goals have a precise expiration date? If not accomplished by Tuesday the twenty-third of two-thousand-whatever they are no longer viable?”
She made a sound of frustration, wanting his tongue to stop talking and go back to making her nuts. “If I don’t keep up the momentum…if I don’t stay hungry…”
“Then what?”
“I’ll…stop being hungry.” She made herself sound confident. She knew what she was talking about, no matter how he twisted it.
“So push the date of your success back one day and the balance of Annabel’s universe is forever lost.”
“Quinn.” She gestured and let her hands drop, arousal beginning to fade into exasperation.
“I’m here.”
“I’d love to spend the day with you, that’s not the issue.” She took hold of his wrists, intending to get him to release her. “I just need to get to work.”
His wrists didn’t budge. She might as well have been trying to dislodge burned caramel from a saucepan with Q-Tips.
“Let go of—”
He lunged forward again, pressed his mouth to her sex, tongue working in earnest.
Annabel cried out; her head hit the door again with a sharp crack. If there was pain, she didn’t feel it. She was too swallowed up by the pleasure he was giving her.
Oh, oh, yes. She spread her legs wider, pushed her hips forward; his tongue left her clit, traveled down, then up inside her with thrusts that made her ache for the feel of his penis the same way.
“Quinn.”
“Mmm?”
“On the bed.”
“No time.” Back to her clit, he worked it with utter confidence and a sense of purpose that sent her over the edge.
“Oh.” The climax built then burned through. Her hands reached, trying to grasp hold of something on the smooth walls, head twisting side to side.
Then pulsing release, over and over…and Quinn’s tongue slowing to keep pace with her comedown, teasing her into aftershocks until she couldn’t anymore.
His strong arms supported her undignified and limp slide into a languid, sated heap on the floor. She smiled and reached to touch his cheek, stroke his fine jaw. He turned and kissed her palm, helped her stand again, kissed her forehead and each temple, and…drew back. Left her standing there offering her mouth, feeling like a geek on a disaster prom date. Okay. No kissing. But didn’t he at least want her to return the favor sexually? “What about you?”
He trailed gentle fingers down her shoulders, arms, over her wrists and pulled her hands into his. “Another time.”
“Not now?” She moved closer, let her pelvis brush seductively across his erection.
“Believe me, I won’t say no later. This morning I have other plans for us.” He brought her hands to his lips and kissed them, one then the other. “But right now I want to know why spending one day with me would be such a terrible mistake, something you seem to think you’d regret for the rest of your life.”
Annabel closed her eyes. Oh, jeez. Why did he have to put it that way? It made her sound so…foolish. And selfish. And misguided.
Which was exactly why he put it that way—so he could win. And worse, in her state of extreme…languor, shall we say…with his body and charisma and—maleness, damn it—exerting that incredible magnetic pull on her good sense, Annabel wanted him to win. And he knew that, too.
She opened her eyes to insist that she didn’t buy tickets for anyone’s guilt trips, but he put his hands to her face and gently laid his forehead to hers and the words died in a rush of lovely warmth.
She sighed. “No, I wouldn’t regret it for the rest of my life. But—”
“Then we’re on.”
And guess what? He was so damn good at it that she wanted to be here. Except she couldn’t let him walk all over her without some conditions. “I need to be home by lunch.”
“After.”
“Before.” She lifted her head and held his gaze, forcing hers to remain steady.
“Okay. Agreed.”
“And my giving in does not hand you the right to trick me again. You might have won this time, but—”
“Annabel, I’ll just have to ask you to trust me on something.” He stepped away from her, put his hands on his hips and regarded her grimly. “You might not think so now, but believe it or not, this way we both win.”
THE MINUTE the Lexus turned off Highway JK onto a long two-lane farm road, Annabel knew where Quinn was taking her.
“This is where Dad used to get our Christmas tree every year.”
Quinn smiled, the smile that made her want to dance in delight—except the Lexus was a tad small for that. He’d emerged at least partway from his taut mood; yes, the smile faded as quickly as it came, but traces of it still hung around the corners of his mouth. “I want a tree in my apartment. I thought we could get one here for old times’ sake.”
He pulled up to the squat wooden building that housed the office, probably once a storage shed on the original farm. They emerged into the cold and trudged through snow toward the entrance. J. L. Clarke’s Tree Farm. The sign was still there, red lettering on a green rectangle, tilted to one side now, and in need of a fresh coat of paint.
Joe Clarke had been at UW Madison with Annabel’s father. Every year Annabel and her brother and Dad—sometimes Mom, too—had come here early in December to cut a tree. After Dad died, Mom had bought an artificial one, even though John, in horror, had volunteered to come up from Florida and harvest a live one for her.
No, Mom thought it was time for a change. Annabel thought her sensible. Why hang on to traditions when those you shared them with were gone? Time to make new ones, adjust to life’s shifts. No point living in the past.
She peered at her watch as they clomped up the wooden steps. Breakfast at the inn had been delicious, but it was nearly eleven and Quinn had promised to have her home by noon. So this would have to be—
Quinn grabbed her wrist on their way into the building. “I dare you not to look at your watch again until you get home.”
Annabel rolled her eyes over a half smile. “You think I’m hopeless, don’t you.”
“Hopeless, no. Obsessively deranged, possibly.”
She laughed and preceded him into the familiar, rough room, where her steps slowed. Dozens of bow saws hung on hooks on the back wall. Across from them the doughnut machine sat quiet today, but the usual hot cocoa steamed in a big black pot with a silver lid, the sweet scent of chocolate mingling with pine. At their entrance, a tall, broad-shouldered white-haired man stepped out of an inner office and grinned.
“Annabel Brightman, as I live and breathe.” Joe Clarke extended a large, rough hand to shake, then pulled her in for a back-pounding hug. “How great to see you.”
“It’s great to see you, too, Mr. Clarke.” An unexpected lump threatened to make an appearance in Annabel’s throat until she swallowed it away.
“Joe, call me Joe.” He beamed at her, his lined face still handsome, eyes still piercingly blue under bushier-than-ever brows. Annabel had always thought he looked a little like Paul Newman and adored him for it.
She introduced Quinn, then she and Joe chatted, recalling old times, old friends, people she hadn’t given a thought to in years.
“I miss your dad.” Joe took off his Green Bay Packers hat and clutched it in his weathered fingers. “I guess you do, too.”
Annabel nodded, not wanting to speak. The light touch of Quinn’s fingers on the small of her back told her he was, once again, tuned into what she was feeling. It was comforting and unnerving at the same time. Like a wonderful twin and a loss of privacy all wrapped up together.
“Well.” Joe cleared his throat and put his cap back on. “Hardly anyone around today, with the snow and it being a weekday. I’ll send a wagon to drop you wherever you like, or you can walk. There’s a field right out back with trees ready to cut.”
Annabel sent a glance to Quinn, who nodded, understanding her silent question. “We’ll walk, thanks, Joe.”
They picked out a bow saw with a chipped yellow handle and trudged on the snowy wagon track to the field just beyond the barn, where they turned in among the straight lines of Fraser firs. Annabel wandered down the row, remembering her father striding ahead, saw on his shoulder—he brought his own, naturally—eyeing the trees, challenging her and Joe to see if they could spot the best one. He always claimed the right tree would speak to him. And he always did pick the perfect one, the perfect shape and height, with just enough room between its topmost branch and the ceiling for the gold lit star their mother loved.
The trees will tell you, you’ve just got to listen. Same way you’ve got to listen to yourself, to your own heart.
As a teenager, she’d rolled her eyes behind his back. Trees talking to you, asking to be picked? Right. Sure, Dad. Millions of men in the world and she got the weird one who talked to trees.
Now, in his figurative footsteps, inhaling the piney perfume and the more elusive smell of snow and cold, she felt a nagging longing for something she couldn’t precisely identify, and half-seriously let herself listen, walking through the silently falling snow, an occasional cold kiss that turned too quickly to wet on her cheek or nose. Instead of trees, however, she found herself mostly aware of the man beside her, who seemed as comfortable wandering around an orchard as he did tasting wine in an exclusive restaurant.
She smiled at him, grateful for the silly stocking hat and the unglamorous sweats he’d provided, keeping her toasty in the windless cold.
“Happy?” He grabbed her hand and swung it back and forth.
Absurdly, though she’d never admit it. “This is a nice surprise, Quinn. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You came here the year you were with us. Remember how my dad used to say the right tree would signal you to choose it?”
“I certainly do.” He tugged on her hand, pulling her closer.
“What do you think. Hear anything?”
He looked around at the neat rows of Frasers. “Now that you mention it, I did hear ‘Take me, now, please,’ but I kind of hoped it was you.”
Annabel laughed and took a couple of playful steps away so their arms stretched nearly horizontal. “Maybe it was.”
“Oh?” He pulled her back again. “Tell me more.”
She grinned at him, loving the cold, loving the warmth of her body in the chilly air, loving the spicy familiar scent of the firs. She didn’t get outside enough. Most people didn’t. They spent too much time avoiding nature, rushing from car to office to supermarket to home. Spending time like this, outdoors, then going home to a steaming mug of—
Oh, my gosh. She stopped in her tracks. What a perfect idea. She could bring clients here in early December, have them pick out a tree, then serve them cocoa or hot cider or buttered rum with cookies or tea sandwiches or—
“I see him too.” Quinn spoke quietly. “He’s stunning.”
He who? She turned distractedly to see where Quinn was looking, rummaging for her cell to call Stefanie.
“Don’t move.” Quinn put a hand to her arm. “He’ll fly away.”
Fly, huh? She followed his gaze through the snowflakes to a red cardinal perched on a branch ten yards down the long row, brilliant scarlet against the snow-covered green, like the one and only perfect Christmas ornament the tree needed.
The bird turned profile, eyeing them, head making jerky little movements as he apparently sized them up. Another male
flew to a nearby branch; a less brightly colored female joined them. Annabel stood still, watching the birds watching them, and in a weird intuitive moment, felt this was her tree. The one Dad would want her to pick.
She rolled her eyes to shake herself out of the bizarre trance. Make that Quinn’s tree. She wasn’t getting one. And birds sitting on branches didn’t mean the tree was signaling her to choose it; it meant the birds wanted to sit there. That was their bird thing to do.
“That’s our tree.”
Annabel jerked her eyes toward Quinn, already walking toward the fir. Had he felt it, too? Or was he joking?
“I guess it is.” Her fingers became aware of the phone she still clutched in her pocket. She pulled it out and dialed her office number, turning her back on Quinn’s inevitable disapproval.
Voice mail picked up—Stefanie must be on another line or occupied; Annabel had checked in before breakfast to make sure today’s client was covered, so she knew Stefanie was there.
She started to leave a message, then glanced over her shoulder at Quinn, still with his back to her, looking the tree over, shaking snow from its branches, his broad shoulders and turned-up collar in stark black contrast to the green-and-white backdrop.
Annabel wrinkled her nose. Talking loudly on the cell would be grossly out of place in this quiet lovely spot. Despite what he might think of her, she could still appreciate that. The phone got punched off; she let it drop back into her pocket and joined Quinn at the tree. Her idea wouldn’t go anywhere in the next couple of hours while she was his hostage. And it was way too late in the season to do anything but plan the events for next year anyway.
“Want first crack at it?” He held the saw out to her, eyes uncharacteristically warm, which did something a little funny to her insides. With her luck he’d seen her put the cell back and was all caramel-gooey and proud, thinking he’d reformed her.
Well, okay, he did have something to do with her disconnecting the call; she’d give him that.
“Sure.” She took the saw and bent down to find the best cutting angle—not easy with the tree’s low-growing branches.
Fifteen minutes later, with Quinn’s efficient and her fairly clumsy efforts, they’d managed to cut the tree down and drag it triumphantly back to the office, where Joe refused payment over Quinn’s insistence, and Quinn made arrangements on his cell for someone—she pictured a manservant named Jeeves—to come pick up the tree later that afternoon and deliver it. Oh, it must be so nice to have everyone jump when you said jump. When Annabel told people to jump, they returned the favor and suggested Lake Michigan.
Before I Melt Away Page 7
