“Whiskey? Scotch? Brandy? Beer? Wine?”
“Oh. Well…” She tried to keep her voice low and sexy, praying she was remotely convincing. She didn’t care what she drank as long as it was strong. “Brandy.”
“Sounds good to me, too.” He crossed to a dark wooden cabinet in the corner of the room and pulled out a brand that even Cathy knew was not cheap and two enormous snifters into which he poured generous amounts.
“Here you go.” He handed her the glass, touched his to hers. “I’m glad you showed up tonight, Cathy.”
“I am, too.” She took a healthy sip and immediately started to relax as the powerful liquid burned down into her stomach, leaving a sweet, warm aftertaste. “I almost didn’t.”
“Why not?”
Aw, hell. She was supposed to be trying out the experienced-seductress role here. Now what? Because I had so many men to choose from.
Ew. She couldn’t bring herself to shovel that much bull at him. “To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure I’d have the nerve.”
He swirled his glass, inhaled over it and took a long, slow, practiced sip, the only person she’d ever seen indulge the ritual and not look like a pretentious idiot. “But you found it.”
“Somehow.” She drank more herself, not elegantly but with purpose—her nerve was becoming stronger by the second. “It’s not like I do this a lot.”
He put on her favorite half-amused look. “Which ‘this’ are you doing, exactly?”
Her hand tightened on her glass. He was asking, Do you want to talk or do a whole lot more?
This time she didn’t have to think it over. “I have something to show you.”
His eyebrow lifted. She took one more sip of brandy and put the glass on an end table beside his burgundy sofa. Then she stood straight and tall, trying to keep her legs from shaking, slowly reached down and took hold of the hem of her sweater. Slowly again, she pulled it up, up, until her breasts, barely covered by the red lace, felt the cooler air of his apartment. Up and up and…ow.
Her earring snagged the loose knit and pulled hard. Ow.
This could not be happening. She brought the material down an inch and tried again. Up and up and…ow.
Great. Just fabulous. She was standing there with her sweater covering her face, arms raised, boobs waving in the breeze…stuck.
She’d never actually wanted to have a heart attack before, but it would be a nice distraction. “Um…Quinn?”
“Yeah.” His voice was close but—thank God—serious. If he’d been snorting and chortling, she would have died without the heart attack.
“My…earring caught on the sweater.”
“No problem.” He helped pull the material away from her face, which was undoubtedly pinker than the sweater, and started untangling wire from wool.
In the process, his fingers brushed her neck, which was the first time he’d touched her. And even though he’d done it to extricate her from a clumsy and mortifying situation, and even though she envied frogs hiding in the mud in the bottom of their ponds right now, she still felt a sharp thrill. Such was the power of Quinn Alexander.
The tug in her earlobe released; the sweater relaxed back where it had been when she’d walked in. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He rested his hand briefly on her shoulder, then dropped it to his side.
Well. Here she was, with her fantasy man in his apartment, all her clothes on, feeling like a complete idiot. Worse, he was looking at her not with burning lust but with gentle sympathy, which at least beat scorn, but not by much.
She should have stayed home. She needed remedial lessons even for Seduction 101.
“You know, Quinn, this could probably be more embarrassing, but only if a flock of pigeons flew overhead right now and let me have it. Otherwise, I think I’ve reached the uppermost limit.”
His grin came on quickly and faded slowly, while he gave her that intent Quinn look. “Maybe we should take this a little slower.”
“That would probably be good.” She hoped she didn’t sound too miserable. Frankly she wasn’t sure she was up to seduction part deux. Maybe he’d take the lead. Or maybe just talking was a better idea.
“Come on. Bring your drink.”
She picked up her brandy. “Where are we going?”
“We can sit in bed and talk until we’re comfortable enough to check out the underwear again. Okay?”
“Okay.” She followed him through the living room down a short hallway to a door on the left, feeling a little warm and fuzzy, which wasn’t at all what she’d expected. But Mr. International Playboy had just proposed something very sweet. Hanging out on his bed and talking sounded even better than sex. More…legit. More as though he cared about her as a person, not just a body in hot lingerie.
Right. Paging Cathy Ann Johnson. Cathy Ann Johnson. Please return immediately from fantasyland.
Honestly. Next she’d start believing in Melinda’s true-love horoscope. Quinn had plenty of practice making women comfortable enough to get naked. He was a man on the job. She’d be a fool to start romanticizing him now.
His bedroom was done in the same tasteful manner as the rest of the place. Books and music crammed floor-to-ceiling shelves along one wall. No TV, and she didn’t remember seeing one in the living room either. No sports memorabilia, no trophies. So he wasn’t like her brother, consumed half the year by the Mets and the other half by the Giants or Knicks or Rangers.
“Here we are.” He turned on a lamp on the oak desk at the back of the room and tipped the shade toward the wall. Then sat on the bed, swung his legs up, moved over and patted the dark blue comforter beside him. “All aboard.”
She took off her shoes and sat next to him, less nervous than she had been in his living room. He arranged the pillows comfortably at their backs, then clinked her glass with his again and they both drank. The brandy burned less going down now and fortified her more. The seduction pressure was off. She was going to spend intimate time with her fantasy man.
This could be totally fun.
“Question-and-answer time.” Her fantasy man settled himself against the pillow. “Tell me, Cathy….”
“Yes?”
“What’s your favorite food when you’re sad?”
She shot him a sideways look, equal parts surprised and charmed by the question. “You’ll laugh.”
“Try me.”
“Okay.” A deep, dramatic breath, as if she needed it for courage. “Oreos.”
“That’s funny?”
“Dipped in peanut butter.”
“Still not funny.”
“Then rainbow sprinkles.”
“Hmm…”
“And mayonnaise.”
He pressed his hand to his mouth as if to stop himself spewing brandy. “Please say you’re kidding.”
“I am.” She giggled. “About the mayo.”
“Good.” He drained his glass and leaned over to put it on the floor. “Oreos with peanut butter and sprinkles is a perfect sad food. Why did you think I’d laugh?”
Cathy shrugged. “I don’t know. Yours is probably loin of venison with juniper berry reduction.”
“Ha! Now I’m laughing. Why would you think that?”
“Because…” She examined her glass, feeling foolish. “You’re so…”
“Stuffy?”
“No, not at all.” She turned toward him, and her heart lurched again when she met those deep, perfect eyes that turned down slightly at the corners and made her—
“Okay, not stuffy. Then what?”
She forced her gaze to her own feet so she could follow the conversation. “Experienced and…sophisticated and smooth and…”
“Macaroni and cheese. From a box. With a side of Ho Hos.”
“Yeah?” She turned to him again, wondering what it was about being here on his bed that made him seem less intimidating, less fantasylike, in spite of the jolt she got from eye contact with him. Maybe it was the idea of him eating macaroni and cheese and
Ho Hos to make himself feel better. Or even the idea that a man like Quinn had anything to be that upset about.
“Yeah. Now ask me one.”
“Okay.” She took another sip and moved to a more comfortable position, giddy at their unexpected camaraderie. “What’s your favorite country to visit?”
“Since I’m going there next week, England.”
“And if you weren’t going there next week?”
“England.”
“Why?”
“No language barriers, good restaurants in London, great pub culture. Short distances to Scotland, Wales, Ireland, the continent. I lived outside London as an exchange student when I was a boy and went back to spend a couple of summers after that. So it’s a little like a second home.”
“And what made you want to spend a year there now?”
“That’s two questions, Cathy.”
She grimaced, squashing a cheap thrill at the sound of his deep voice saying her name. “I cheated.”
“Full pardon.” He sent a contemplative stare out into the room. “I’m going because I’ve started feeling restless and dissatisfied, though I love my job at Connoisseur. Even though individual assignments still fascinate me, every year it feels like more of the same. I’m traveling to places only long enough to capture a surface portrait, then back home only long enough to reconnect with my life before I have to leave again. I want to delve more deeply into photography, academically speaking. And try my hand at some of my own artistic work. Not to mention just be in one place for a while.”
“Wow.” God, he had depth, too. More than that, she could relate to his feelings of restless dissatisfaction, only instead of traveling abroad and seeking new enriching challenges, she’d taken up knitting again.
She dared another glance at him. Who could resist? But just a glance or she’d start staring again like an adoring puppy. “That sounds incredible.”
“It is what it is.”
“I’ve never been anywhere.”
“Nowhere?” He was clearly skeptical.
“Well, Canada. And summers in Vermont. And on a Caribbean cruise. And my family took a road trip out west. And—”
“That’s not anywhere?”
“Well it’s not…exotic and—”
“The Caribbean isn’t exotic?”
“I mean it’s…” She gestured impatiently toward the window with her glass. “Mostly I’m here.”
“In the most culturally rich, dynamic, sophisticated city in the world. Yeah, I’d say you’ve barely lived.”
“No, but…”
He reached over and—oh, heaven—laid his hand on her thigh. “Why are you putting yourself down? You do that at the office, too.”
“I do?” She stared at the long, strong fingers spanning her leg, feeling his warmth seeping through to her skin, and she started to think that maybe talking wasn’t going to be quite enough to see her through the evening.
“You told me you always eat boring food for lunch and—”
“I do eat boring food for lunch.”
“—and you aren’t as sexy as Gwyneth in editorial and—”
“She used to be a model! She’s unbelievable.”
“—Gerard Butler wouldn’t look at you twice and—”
“He wouldn’t.”
“What makes you so sure?” He gestured, which meant he had to take his hand off her thigh, which she thought should be made illegal in all fifty states.
“Well, come on.” She finished her brandy, happy and glowing, and put the glass on his bedside table. “He’s…have you seen this man?”
“Yes. But he hasn’t seen you, so you don’t know.”
“Oh, for—” She rolled her eyes in pretend exasperation. “I’m not the kind who turns heads. It’s not a big deal, I’m not making myself out to be some gruesome Griselda, it’s just the truth.”
He turned toward her, head still resting against the wall. “You turned mine.”
She caught her breath and gave up holding back the adoring-puppy stare, because there was nothing else she could do. “Oh…but…”
“But what? Would I have invited you into bed if I wasn’t attracted to you?”
“That was the underwear.” She was moving her mouth, words were coming out, but all she was aware of was blue, blue eyes that were looking at her with heat that reflected itself in some of her body’s very favorite places.
“Even if you’d shown up without the underwear.”
“Really?” She felt as if she were at the top of a high, very slippery slope, peering down and wondering how that first step would feel.
“Especially if you’d shown up without it.” He gave a Groucho Marx waggle to his eyebrows and she burst out laughing. Saved from herself, thank goodness. Saved by this totally unexpected side of him that she was loving. At the office he was smooth, sexy, übermasculine, charming, sometimes flirty but not like this—casual and boyish and just…fun.
“My turn to ask you something, Cathy Ann Johnson.”
She managed to stop laughing, but giggles stayed at the ready. “Okay.”
“Where do you live?”
“In the ugliest building in Brooklyn, Fifth Avenue and Eighth Street.”
“Eighth Street? I know that address. I love that building. It looks like some fabulous futuristic castle.”
“Uh…it looks like someone ripped up the blueprints, taped them randomly back together and said, ‘Okay, build this.’”
“When you get home, look again.”
She made a face and shrugged. “If you say so.”
“I promise it will be worth it.” He nudged her gently with his shoulder.
She kept her eyes on her lap, suddenly nervous again and not sure why. “Okay. I’ll look.”
He nudged her again and a giggle worked its way up, seeking escape. She turned to find him closer and the urge to giggle sprinted away.
“It’s the kind of building you might not appreciate right away, even if you can’t help noticing it. But once you see it in the right light and with the right attitude, you can’t help being drawn to it. You should try to see that and understand.”
“Okay.” Her voice came out a whisper. He’d been talking about an ugly hunk of masonry, and somehow she was left feeling as if he’d been telling her she was the most wonderful, special person he’d ever met.
“Good.” He smiled just enough to move his mouth and warm his eyes. Up this close, she could see the strong line of his jaw shadowed gold-brown with the evening’s stubble, a tiny scar on the bridge of his nose and the shallow-lined texture of his lips. “Now you ask me something.”
“Okay.” She was caught again in his mesmerizing gaze, but this time her heart kept a steadier rhythm and her shyness began to recede. This was good. This was right. This was going to happen just the way it should. “What do you look like naked?”
“I’ll show you.” His voice dropped lower. “But later.”
“Why later?”
“Because—” he leaned toward her “—right now I really want to kiss you.”
“Oh.” The syllable came out a soft, helpless invitation. Yes, please.
She moved to meet him, his lips touched hers…and huge cover-the-sky fireworks exploded.
3
KISSING QUINN WAS THE most…it was…oh, my…A sharp burn of lust traveled down a predictable path. Less predictable was the ache, part bliss, part longing, that started in her chest and began to spread.
Oh, no. Oh, no. To him, the kisses were simply a prelude to getting laid. This was foreplay, not romance, no matter what Madame Cassandra or Melinda or horoscopes said.As if to prove her right, he drew back and looked at her—not dreamily, not burning with barely suppressed desire, but frowning, though with a hint of mischief.
She braced herself. “Is something wrong?”
“I’m worried. If just kissing you is this hot, I don’t think I’ll survive the night.”
Wow. Wow. He felt it, too. Her confidence swelled. “And…
do you care?”
“No.” He grinned, looking so gorgeous in the dim light that it hurt. “But be prepared. You’ll have to dispose of my body later.”
“Okay.” She sent him a look under her lashes. “Though there are a few other things I’d rather do with your body.”
“I like the sound of that.” He met her halfway for more kisses, and this time she managed to keep her heart quiet. Sort of. For the most part.
A minute later, however, the deep, fabulous kissing had turned urgent and a little desperate. Or maybe a lot desperate.
They broke apart again, breathing hard. Quinn smoothed back her hair. “I think I’d like to see that underwear now.”
“I think I’d love to show it to you.” Quite brilliantly, considering her brain was dissolving into hormonal mush, she remembered to take out her earrings before she slipped off the bed and stood—since her stomach would stretch tighter that way than sitting down—preparing for the unveiling. She wasn’t going to think about all his other women and their supremely perfect bodies, beside which hers would pale in comparison. And speaking of pale…
Stop, Cathy.
She pulled the sweater off, wishing she had the nerve to do a bump-and-grind routine, to take this slowly and be outrageously seductive. But it took all she had to stand there and uncover her flaws.
“Oh, man.” His words came out half-choked, and it occurred to her that he was a male, and she was a female about to get naked in front of him for the purpose of sex, and he probably didn’t give a flying anything if she was too lumpy or too white.
She put her hands to the waistband of her pants, reminding herself that models were starved and scary-looking, and lowered the material, dragging her socks off as she stepped out of each leg so she wouldn’t be left wearing sexy underwear with black wool-blend crawling up her ankles.
He gave an appreciative moan and started taking off his own clothes in a big hurry. Which she would take to mean he wasn’t disappointed. At all. Not by a long shot. A tremendous sense of joy filled her. Quinlan…Jussstin…Alexaaander thought CathyAnnJohnson was hot, even stripped down to her lingerie-covered imperfections.
Which was a coincidence, because she felt the same about him, even fully clothed. And as he got closer to naked it became obvious, though not surprising, that his body was perfect, golden and muscled with dark hair in all the best places.
Secret Santa Page 12
