Before I Melt Away

by Isabel Sharpe

  “Mr. Fox, I—”

  “Uh-uh-uh…” He wiggled his index finger and glared at her coyly.

  “Dolph.” She didn’t need to look at the women to see the glances exchanged that time. “I have my own business to run still in Milwaukee. I’d need to—”

  “Ah, I understand. Well, you’ll be able to take care of whatever you need to close that down.”

  “Close it down?” She gaped at him, horror rising. “You said nothing about—”

  “Of course. I’ll need you with me. There will be lots of travel involved, no way to keep your little business going with this schedule. Teresa, coffee. In my office.”

  Teresa got up, seething resentment. The Dolphster put his arm around Annabel’s shoulders and led her out of the room. “Let’s go discuss this in private, hmm?”

  She let him lead her out, feeling Gina’s hate rays boring into her back. This was so not what she had expected. This was like being invited to a fabulously elegant dinner party and being served moldy food. She and the big Dolph needed to have a little talk.

  His office was large, lavish, unexpectedly colorful, the sills crowded with plants, framed posters of his products on the walls. His desk was immense, dark wood, neat piles of paper and folders, another plant that looked like silk.

  He parked her in a chair and went around to sit on his personal throne, accepted coffee from Teresa without thanks or eye contact and started rummaging in his middle drawer.

  Annabel waited until Teresa had left the room, then took a deep breath. “Dolph, I have no idea of the polite way to say this, but it seems as if there’s some misunderstanding among your staff of the role I’m going to be playing in this company.”

  He didn’t look up. “I’m not following.”

  “To put it bluntly, they think I’m your mistress.”

  “Would you like to be?”

  “Uh…” How did one turn down an offer so charming? He still hadn’t looked up. “No, thank you.”

  “That’s fine.” He extracted two packages of sugar from somewhere in the back of his drawer and shook them to get the crystals to the bottom, finally meeting her eyes. “You are beautiful. I would love to have you, but I don’t take women who are unwilling. Neither will I pester you—we have a business to run together, eh?”

  Annabel tried not to slump in too obvious relief. “Thank you. That was weighing on me.”

  “Think nothing of it. I will set the girls straight.”

  Girls? Annabel couldn’t help flinching, and at the same time wondering if any men were employed by Mr. Fox. Or unattractive women.

  “Now. You have your schedule. You will meet people today, then we’ll want to work on your look, do camera tests, photographs, make sure this will be as good a fit as I think it will be.”

  “Okay.”

  “Once the formalities are past, we’ll be traveling two to three weeks of the month, especially around product-launch times and holidays. We do lectures, demonstrations—I like to be out and with the people as much as possible. That’s what makes an impression. The personal touch, spending time with the ones who make the buying decisions, yes?”

  Annabel nodded. Part of her was thrilled. This man knew how to work hard. He knew how to push and get what he wanted. She’d learn so much from him, get all the experience and exposure she needed to branch out effortlessly on her own someday.

  At the same time, she now understood why he assumed she’d have to close Chefs Tonight. She thought of Stefanie and her students, out of jobs. Her clients having to cook for themselves until someone else came along.

  And she could see the rest of her life getting swallowed up in a way she hadn’t envisioned would ever be a problem until she met Quinn. Adolph Fox would be her constant companion facing a series of strange faces, cities, supermarkets, conference rooms and lecture halls.

  Nothing like what she’d found with Quinn would be possible for her again.

  And with that reality check, the last ray of hope that there would be some way to have her frozen cake and eat Quinn, too, was gone.

  Her cell rang. She dug it out, glanced at the unfamiliar Wisconsin number and threw Adolph a questioning glance.

  He spread his hands. “Business is business.”

  Annabel punched the phone on, trying not to think of Quinn insisting business should be pleasure.

  “This is Frank.” Stefanie’s husband sounded strained, hoarse, nearly unrecognizable.

  “Frank, what is it?”

  “Stefanie’s at Froedtert hospital.” His voice shook. “They think she’s going to lose the baby.”

  Annabel gasped; her stomach sank. “Baby?”

  “You did this to her. You worked her so damn hard the whole time. Couldn’t you see how tired she was?”

  Annabel’s jaw dropped. The rage and grief in his voice stunned her. “I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

  “No, you didn’t bother asking, did you.”

  “I did—” She stopped herself, feeling sick. He was right, in a way. She hadn’t asked hard enough. “Is Stefanie okay?”

  “I don’t know. She started bleeding, then she collapsed. How could you be so cold? I hope you rot in hell for this.”

  The line clicked off. Annabel sat frozen, still pressing her phone to her ear. The logical part of her was telling her that miscarriages were common, that they were caused many times by the fetus not being viable. That working as hard as Stefanie had wouldn’t be enough to hurt her or the baby. That Frank was obviously scared and that fear had turned to anger and Annabel was the obvious target.

  The rest of her felt like absolute donkey dung.

  “Bad news?”

  Annabel nodded, managing to get the phone down from her ear and power it off, stuff it back in her purse. “A friend is miscarrying.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Those things are hard.” He nodded, seeming genuinely sympathetic, then clapped his hands together. “Now. Where were we?”

  For ten more minutes, Annabel listened to him dictate how her life would go. Half listened. The rest of her was in the hospital with Stefanie. She wanted to be there with her. Not that there was anything she could do. Not that she felt she’d really caused her to lose the baby.

  But because she was important. And Annabel, for once, needed to take the time to make sure Stefanie knew it.

  Adolph pressed a buzzer on his desk, summoned a visibly hostile Teresa and gave her orders for transportation and lunch.

  Annabel blinked and focused on him. Is that how she was going to end up? Hated and alone? Was that the kind of future she was building for herself?

  It might have been. If she hadn’t met Quinn.

  She stood and picked up her purse. Adolph looked up in surprise. “Where are you going?”

  “To see my friend.”

  His salt-and-pepper brows lowered. “I have meetings booked for you all day, Annabel.”

  “I realize that. But she needs me.”

  He scoffed. “What the hell can you do, save this baby?”

  “No, but I can be there for her.”

  He gestured in frustration, let his hand slam down on the desk. “What the hell priorities are these?”

  “Good ones.” She laughed, a little hysterically. “Finally.”

  “You can’t just walk away.”

  “Surprisingly…mostly to me—” she shouldered her purse and looked him straight in the eye “—I can.”

  She swept out of the room, out of the contract, out of an opportunity that would have given her everything she thought she wanted.

  And very little she actually did.

  13

  QUINN STOOD on his mother’s back porch nursing a glass of wine, breath coming out frosty white in the bitter air. In front of him, the snow-and-pine-covered hills rose and fell in the distance; the afternoon sun shone weakly, already on its way down to early darkness. Inside, his mother napped, while the traditional Garrett Christmas Eve out-of-the-freezer meal of rich turkey soup made from Thanks
giving leftovers warmed gently on the stove. From Milwaukee, he’d brought French bread and some imported cheeses to go with it. Red wine. Just ripe d’Anjou pears. And a chocolate torte with enough calories per slice to keep a small village fed for a day.

  The soup represented their humble beginnings, their dedication to family traditions. The cheese and wine and chocolate were Quinn’s way of saying, yeah, but let’s not forget life can be good, too.

  Except right now life didn’t feel good. Would every meal he cooked from now on remind him of Annabel? Every second spent in the kitchen bring on painful memories?

  He pictured her, trotting after Adolph Fox, hungry for everything he’d teach her, pumped up by the thrill of achieving the pinnacle of her dreams. But how long would that thrill last? How long was Napoleon content with each conquest before the hunger started in again? Had she thought about him this morning or wavered on the way to Chicago? He’d like to think so. Hell, he’d like to hear her voice on the phone telling him it was all a mistake.

  But that had to be her move to make. No more manipulation from him. Nor was he going to whine at her to give him another chance. She’d made her choice, and he had to live with it.

  At least now he knew he could fall in love, that there were women out there he could think about making a life with. Before this, he honestly hadn’t been sure if he had the ability in him, or if he would spend the rest of his life with occasional women and his billions. If there was Annabel, there had to be more like her. Right? Other fish in the sea?

  He tossed the rest of his excellent red wine out into the snow, where it made a bloodlike crevice. Crap, all of it. He was hooked on her. By the time he managed to fall out of love with Annabel Brightman, if it were even possible, he’d probably be too old to get it up anymore. She’d brought him out of the careful coffin of his existence, brought him alive again, and now it hurt like hell to be going back six feet under with the memory of what real life felt like.

  The cold started pinching his ears and nose; he turned and went back inside. The house smelled like pine and turkey and herbs; it was warm and comforting and he told himself to cheer the hell up. No room for grumps on Christmas Eve. He had everything he wanted materially, his mom was healthy and happy, there were presents under the tree, good food on the stove and in the refrigerator. Time to be grateful for what he had instead of moaning over what he’d lost.

  He rolled his eyes and shut the sliding porch door behind him. Yeah, nice try. That crap didn’t work, either.

  Fighting gloom, he strode into his room, now officially the guest room, and booted up his laptop to check e-mail.

  To: Quinn Garrett

  From: John Brightman

  Date: December 24

  Subject: Merry Christmas

  Hi Quinn. Just wanted to say Merry Christmas. I’m sorry you weren’t able to spend it with us here, but I understand. Our house is always open. Let us know your schedule and we’ll be really glad to see you anytime.

  Must run, the kids are losing their minds as they do every year. But I wanted to know if you knew what was going on with Annabel. She doesn’t seem quite herself, and not in a good way. She’s usually pretty open about what’s going on, but this time I got nowhere. Of course I’m worried about her.

  Hope you are well.

  John

  Quinn scanned his e-mail for anything else important, putting his emotions deliberately on hold. Finding nothing, he closed the program and allowed himself to react. First came the surge of concern. Second came frustration. Why the hell was Annabel putting them through this if they were both miserable? Third, unwillingly, came hope. Maybe she was unhappy enough to change her mind?

  No, he couldn’t think that way. Unless he heard it out of her mouth, there was no point creating a fantasy and allowing himself to be carried off.

  He shut down the laptop and put it away, rummaged in the case for his cell. One message. Annabel’s number. His heart started pounding. He punched into his voice mail and put the phone to his ear. The message had come in shortly before noon.

  “It’s Annabel.” Her voice sounded thick, uneasy. “I’m…on my way home now. And I’ll be there tomorrow if you want to call. Merry Christmas. Bye.”

  He blew out a long breath, tried again to rid himself of the rush of protectiveness. She’d sounded down. Uncertain. Not herself, exactly as John sensed. And going home from Chicago that early? Though, of course, it was Christmas Eve.

  So what now? Call full of hope only to find out she was having a lonely moment. Maybe the first morning with Dolph had overwhelmed her, but that was all? Or she just wanted to hear his voice? Then what? They’d chat politely, wish each other Merry Christmas and hope things were going well?

  God no, he couldn’t stand that. He wanted so damn much more. Worse, he was barely hanging on to the last little thread of his pride by not rushing to call her back. By not hopping into his plane and attempting one more time to carry her off to his castle. Or bringing his castle to her via the R and D facility in Milwaukee as he’d thought of doing more and more frequently until Adolph had shown up with his offer. She could snip even that last little bit.

  “Quinn.” His mother emerged from her bedroom, still using a walker until her hip healed completely. Her cheery welcoming smile dimmed as she searched his face. “Time for drinks, isn’t it?”

  “Anytime you’re ready is time for drinks, Mom.” He got up from his old desk, kissed her forehead and helped her into the living room and onto the sofa. “Want me to light a fire?”

  “Sure. But drinks first. When you’re as old as I am, you gotta have priorities.”

  Quinn grinned and went to the kitchen, poured her a sherry and one for himself, though he didn’t much care for the stuff. And halfway through that first glass of wine he’d already known alcohol was a bad idea in this mood.

  He brought the sherry back to his mother, put his down on the coffee table and squatted by the woodstove, laying the newspaper, bits of old shingles and birch logs that would make the cozy evening seem complete.

  Yet all he could think about was how only Annabel could make it truly complete for him. He was turning into a miserable excuse for a—

  “So are you going to stay here dutifully with your old mother and be a complete pathetic sap the whole holiday or are you going to fly back to Milwaukee and spend Christmas with her like you really want to?”

  Quinn stayed where he was, struck a match, lit the newspaper, watched the flame spread along the printed words, turning them brown and brittle. “I’m staying with you.”

  “Oh, good choice.” His mother made a scornful noise. “I’ll be fine here, son. Hank is coming over later. He and I have had some lovely Christmasses together. And with you out of the way we can get naked.”

  Quinn laughed, rose to his feet and looked at his mom tenderly. “Is that right.”

  “Seriously.” She blinked back, utterly guileless. “You’d be doing us a favor.”

  He sat next to her on the sofa, took up his sherry glass and toasted her. “Thanks, Mom. But I think I’ll stay anyway.”

  “Suit yourself.” She clinked his glass, took a healthy gulp and pointed to the tree. “Your present for tonight is the red round one. Open it now.”

  “Okay.” He got up again and searched the pile of wrapped gifts. During his childhood, his mom always allowed one present on Christmas Eve, since he’d been too excited to wait until the next morning. They’d kept up the tradition for whatever reason.

  The round red present was nestled to one side. He picked it up and also the box of ridiculously expensive hot-chocolate mix he had brought his mother, who liked her cocoa as strong as coffee and nearly as bitter.

  She opened hers first, exclaiming over the chocolate as if it were the crown jewels. Moms were so good that way.

  He opened his carefully, pleased smile already in place. An ornament emerged from the wrapping, clear glass carefully painted with a blue-green swirling design and a dove, olive branch in its beak,
soaring through the abstract sky. Printed around the top, in careful teenage handwriting, “To Quinn. Merry Christmas. With Love, Annabel.”

  Quinn looked over the top of the ornament, through the bright haze that seemed to be covering his eyes, his arm still held up high as if it had frozen. “Where did you get this?”

  As soon as he asked, he knew. He’d brought it home that year, wrapped it carefully in tissue paper, tucked it in a shoebox and hid it high in his closet where no human ever ventured.

  “I found it years ago, after you went to college and your father left, when I was cleaning. In a box, along with an old dried-up sprig of mistletoe and a Valentine it looks like you never sent her. I thought it was time you saw it again. Couldn’t decide at first whether to give it to you like this, or hang it on the tree, or just bash you over the head with it and hope you came to your senses.”

  Quinn stared at the ornament. The swirls Annabel had painted danced, and the bird flew joyously over the surface of the glass, bringing the plain brittle surface to warm life. The same way she’d brought him to it.

  The longing for her became so painful that he stood abruptly, unable to sit there and take it anymore.

  His mother peered up at him, love and pride sparkling in her faded brown eyes. “Going somewhere, dear? I hope?”

  He shook his head, chuckling at his own idiocy. Who the hell was he kidding? He’d been in love with Annabel since he was seventeen years old, and he wasn’t going to give her up now, no matter how long it took, no matter how many kicks in the teeth she dealt him, no matter how much deprivation he had to suffer for each precious minute he spent with her. He’d come alive in the last week and he wasn’t going to let any of that life go to waste.

  “Yes.” He grinned sheepishly at his mother, adrenaline and joy sparking through him. “I’m going.”

  ANNABEL WEDGED her van between two SUVs in the Froedtert hospital parking garage. She’d miraculously arrived at Union Station in Chicago only fifteen minutes before a train scheduled for Milwaukee, so she was here barely two hours after Frank had called. She’d tried twice to call him back, but he hadn’t answered her message. Which wasn’t good.