QUADE: THE IRRESISTIBLE ONE

by Bronwyn Jameson

  "You're right. But before we pack it in, how about you give that swing one last try?"

  She looked dubious.

  "I'll stand way over here. No breathing. No instructions." He gestured toward the ball. "Have at it."

  When she connected with a solid thunk, when it sailed out in an almost straight trajectory, he could see the delight in her face. In her smile. Felt it shining as brightly as the late-afternoon sunshine, reaching out to wrap him in its warmth. What could he do but smile right back?

  "There you go," he said through his smile.

  "No need to sound so smug." She swung the club around in several rapid-fire circles, like a gunslinger after a showdown. "I was hitting an occasional decent one before you happened along."

  "You were woeful."

  "Was not."

  Quade laughed out loud – at her belligerence and because he simply felt like it – and when she closed the distance between them and stood smiling up at him, he felt a powerful urge to capture that delight between his hands, to taste it on his lips. When he felt her gaze focus on his mouth, he knew he'd been staring at the source of his temptation.

  That full-lipped, soft-textured, smart-talking mouth.

  Sobering instantly, Chantal stared up at him. "Thank you."

  "My pleasure," he replied with equal gravity.

  As she absorbed the shift in mood, everything inside her stifled. He was looking at her as if it had been a pleasure, as if he'd enjoyed standing close enough to breathe on her neck, as if he wanted to kiss her.

  Now. On the lips.

  A wave of longing washed through her, blindsiding her with its intensity, urging her to move closer, to place her hands on the broad wall of his chest. His heart pounded reassuringly loud so she slid her hands higher, up toward his neck.

  She moistened her lips. Her lids drifted shut.

  Suddenly hard fingers circled her wrists, forcibly removing her hands, setting her firmly back on her feet. When Chantal opened her eyes he was already striding out across the pasture, bending to pick up a golf ball, then moving on. Dang. No, this situation deserved a much harsher word than that old crock. Damn.

  Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.

  She'd been a whisper away from his lips, from his kiss. And she had no doubt that Cameron Quade would kiss with the same confidence, the same sure-handed skill, as he'd employed when tutoring her golf swing. Missing out on a kiss like that was enough to make a woman weep, especially a woman who'd never been kissed by a true craftsman. With a heavy sigh, she picked up her pail and stomped off after him.

  Had she read him wrong? She didn't think so, although perhaps she'd moved too fast. How fast was too fast? Some men didn't like aggressive women … although her lame attempt at a kiss hardly fit that tag. And that girlfriend he'd had at Barker Cowan, that Gina Whatsername in Contracts, she hadn't possessed a passive bone in her long, tightly strung body.

  Perhaps she should have grabbed hold of his sweater. Or his face or his hair. Lord knows, she wanted to bury her fingers in that thick dark head of hair. Whatever, her prekissing technique obviously needed as much work as her golf game. Perhaps she should enquire if the local community college ran any classes along those lines. Seduction for Beginners. Or Bedroom Technique 101.

  The questions, the answers, the conjecture looped through her brain in gloomily escalating circles the whole time she looped the front pasture, clearing it of golf balls. By the time they met by the side gate into her garden the sun was kissing the horizon with its last rays of light. He dropped a handful of balls into her pail, his expression cool.

  "Thanks again," she murmured. "For helping me out with the lower body thing."

  "You'll do fine once you learn to relax."

  Nodding, she swallowed audibly. Any second now he'd take that big step backward, lift a hand in fare-well and saunter off home. The thought filled her with an unreasonable panic. She wanted a chance to make up for her kissing gaffe. She wanted to make him laugh again.

  "The way I hit that last ball, I feel I owe you more than a casual thanks." She moistened her dry mouth. "Would you like to stay for supper?"

  "Can you cook?" he asked.

  "I took lessons."

  "And I should be reassured? You told me you took golf lessons, too."

  "I haven't poisoned anyone." She paused for effect. And because she couldn't help smiling at his dry answer. "At least not recently."

  For several heartbeats she thought he wouldn't respond to her crack, but just as the disappointment sank heavily into the pit of her stomach, he smiled. Full dimples and all. As the impact of that smile danced through her blood, her heart burst into a rumba.

  "So tell me, Chantal… Lessons in golf, lessons in cooking. Do you do anything by instinct?"

  "I would say no, except I just invited you to supper and I think that might qualify." Her voice sounded low and husky, not at all as light as she'd hoped. "Will you stay if I promise to relax and keep it loose?"

  He didn't answer right off and in the tricky twilight his expression was unfathomable. The moment stretched, as taut as the tendons in her fingers where they clutched the pail. Perhaps she should let go the air backing up in her lungs. Perhaps she should laugh and ease the moment. Perhaps she should…

  "I don't think that's a good idea," he said quietly.

  "Oh." She swallowed a huge lump of disappointment. "Any particular reason?"

  "Here's the way I see it – I gave you a golf lesson because I owed you. Then you invited me to supper because you figured you owed me. Next, I'll be asking you out to dinner because I owe you for the supper." He paused long enough for her to imagine candlelight and violins, knees brushing under the table, hands touching and retreating across a snowy white cloth. "Where do you suppose all these favors will end?"

  Heart thumping, she moistened her lips and thought about his antique bed all dressed up in satin that shimmered under the midnight moon.

  "Better to call us even here and now, don't you think?"

  Didn't she think? What had she been thinking? If Cameron Quade wanted to start a relationship, there would be women queuing up all the way to Cliffton for the privilege. If he wanted someone sliding between his satin sheets, he would find a woman who knew how to slide, instinctively, not a woman who needed lessons in the basics of male-female relationships.

  "Before I go, there is one more thing," he continued smoothly. "You said Julia designed your garden."

  Chantal perked up slightly. "I did and she did. Do you want to look around? I just happen to have her card in my pocket."

  She extracted the card and handed it over. He pocketed it without a glance. "How about doing the guided tour tomorrow? It's getting a bit dark now."

  "I won't be home any earlier than this, unfortunately."

  "Working late?"

  "Golf lesson." She pulled a face.

  "No drama. I'll have Julia show me some of her other work."

  "I'd reschedule if I could, but Craig's already put himself out to fit me in."

  "I'm sure he has." A cynical smile twisted his lips as he turned to leave. "See you around, Chantal."

  What did he mean by that? I'm sure he has. Said in that tone of voice? Was he implying… She lifted her voice enough to carry across the orchard. "Craig has no interest in me other than the fact that I'm paying him to teach me golf."

  "If you say so."

  "And he does not watch my ass."

  He turned, hands on hips, and she could still see that smile, white in the gathering darkness. "Then he's an ass."

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  Doing as little as possible wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Quade arrived at this conclusion six days later, as he prowled around his sodden grounds. His bands itched to grab hold of a shovel or a hoe or a pair of tree loppers, but Julia Goodwin's instructions had been clear.

  "Hands off until I say otherwise."

  When he objected she'd asked if he really wanted her
help or not. He'd unclenched his teeth and agreed to meet with her Saturday afternoon, which, she'd apologetically informed him, was the soonest she could get out there.

  "Transportation difficulties," she'd said. "Plus the forecasts are for a wet week."

  A less honest man might have blamed his subsequent restlessness on the waiting. Or on the week's unrelenting rain. Or the hollow emptiness of a house he remembered resonating with laughter and redolent with the smell of home cooking.

  All of the above could claim some culpability but, in truth, his mood owed as much to self-flagellation for turning down Chantal's invitation. He couldn't cook worth a damn, he couldn't order home delivery out here in the boonies, and he'd turned down a home-cooked meal.

  That made him even more of an ass than the shortsighted golf pro.

  The long wet week provided plenty of opportunity to appreciate how much he had enjoyed her company – she'd amused him, stimulated him, and irritated him all at once. Yet when she issued that invitation, when she mentioned loosening up and he started to sink into the sultry depths of her eyes, he'd felt a compelling need to get out while he still could. As if she posed some kind of danger.

  As if.

  Sure, there was something appealing about her combination of soft curves and sharp tongue, something erotically enticing about her silken skin and rich eyes. But Chantal Goodwin was no beauty, not in the big scheme of things. Resisting the attraction was as simple as recalling the single-mindedness of career women with their sights set on the top, as easy as remembering the callousness of Kristin's deceit.

  He had called Chantal. She'd not been home. A busy lawyer like her had places to be, hours to bill. That cynical thought kept his feet planted on his side of the fence and a scowl planted on his face, and the latter felt much more at home than the smiles she'd coaxed out of him.

  Better to concentrate on whipping his garden into shape, he decided, not to mention the land beyond, which had fallen into an equal state of neglect. He didn't picture himself as Farmer Jones but he could employ a consultant, same as he was doing to compensate for his lack of gardening knowledge.

  The heavy throb of a large engine brought him out of his scowling reverie just as a big black tow truck appeared in his driveway.

  Julia Goodwin drove a tow truck?

  Quade did a mental double take as the vehicle lumbered to a halt, partly obscured by shrubbery. Expectancy tightened his gut at the sound of a door squeaking open then thudding shut and didn't relent when a woman strode into sight.

  She was a slightly taller, even curvier, more stunning version of her sister. Her thousand-watt smile looked capable of lighting every corner of his enormous cellar. And despite all that, Quade's pulse remained slow and steady. If this Goodwin sister invited him to supper, he would accept in a heartbeat.

  "Cameron Quade, I presume? I'm Julia Goodwin, which you've probably figured out all by yourself."

  Smiling back, he offered his hand. "Just Quade."

  "Just Quade, huh?" She took his hand and shook it firmly. No tremor, no spark, no heat cascading through his system. Odd, given his extravagant reaction to her sister … but fortunate, given the big stern-faced man who'd followed her from the truck and who now placed a proprietary hand on her shoulder.

  "Zane O'Sullivan." He extended his hand over Julia's other shoulder.

  "In two weeks' time he gets to be my husband," Julia added.

  "Lucky man." Quade met the big guy's gaze, which happened to be as strong and testing as his grip.

  "I think so."

  "You know so," Julia corrected, turning on her heel in a quick three-sixty appraisal of her surroundings. The action caused her unbuttoned coat to swing open and when she came to a halt with her hands planted on her hips, the tightness returned to Quade's gut with viselike intensity.

  Julia Goodwin was visibly, round-bellied pregnant.

  Struggling to pull himself together, he forced his gaze up, away, anywhere but there. Hell, she wasn't the first pregnant woman he'd seen, not even in the past month, since he'd found out about Kristin. About the pregnancy he'd known nothing about; the pregnancy she had chosen to terminate.

  "When are you due?" he asked slowly, and his voice came out strained, as if strangled by the tightness spreading into his chest and up to his throat.

  "Early November."

  "Is that a problem?" O'Sullivan looked as confrontational as his question sounded. Quade didn't blame him – not when another man had been gawking at his fiancée's belly. It's a wonder he wasn't wearing Zane O'Sullivan's substantial fist in the center of his face.

  Quade forced his lips into some semblance of a smile. "No problem. A surprise, that's all."

  "Well, hey, it was a surprise this end, too, but of the very best kind. This little one—" Julia patted her middle. "—doesn't stop me doing much. I wish I could say the same for Daddy."

  She tempered the cheerful complaint by resting her hand on O'Sullivan's arm and smiling up at him. A four-year relationship and Quade couldn't remember a time when Kristin had looked at him in quite that way. Hell, in the last year she'd barely found time to talk about anything outside of work, and she'd had her own agenda for keeping that channel of communication open.

  "I told Zane I'm not doing any of the physical work," Julia continued, "but perhaps you can reassure him? You know, on the digging and lifting front?"

  Snapping free of his bitter memories, Quade fixed the other man with a direct look. "I'm only in the market for design and consultancy. I want to do all the digging and lifting."

  O'Sullivan considered him levelly for a long moment before nodding. "Fair enough."

  Satisfied, Quade shifted his attention back to Julia. "You didn't mention the wedding. You're going to be busy."

  "Not with Chantal on the team."

  "Everything's organized?"

  "With the precision of an army maneuver," Julia replied. "And I appreciate something to do other than worrying about the weather."

  Quade gestured at the overgrown beds. "You think this will be enough to keep you busy?"

  "Piece of cake. Speaking of which, I don't suppose you have any of that chocolate cake left?"

  Clueless, he looked to O'Sullivan for help, and received a don't-ask-me-mate shrug.

  "I felt sure there was a Sara Lee in the shopping I did for you, but not to worry." Hand on belly, Julia grinned ruefully. "It's probably best if I don't spoil my appetite, seeing as Chantal's cooking dinner."

  "She's a good cook?" Quade couldn't help asking.

  "She's good at everything she sets her mind to."

  "Except golf."

  He hadn't meant to share that observation, but it appeared he had. A stunned silence followed.

  "Chantal has taken up golf?" Julia asked on a rising note of disbelief.

  He hitched a shoulder. "She's taking lessons."

  "From Craig McLeod at the Country Club?"

  "Pretty Boy's a golf pro?" O'Sullivan sounded as surprised by this as Julia was about the Chantal/golf connection.

  While the other two discussed their former schoolmate, Quade chewed over the nickname. He wasn't sure if he should be laughing or scowling. He didn't want to ask, but he couldn't help himself. "People call him Pretty Boy?"

  "Not to his face."

  "Which, I hasten to add, really lives up to the promise," Julia chipped in. "How is it you know about Chantal's golf lessons?"

  Her question interrupted a mental scenario where Chantal's backswing caught McLeod square in his pretty face. The image cheered Quade far more than it had any right to. "She mentioned it, in passing."

  "In passing, huh? Do you two pass often?"

  "We're neighbors."

  It might have been his imagination, but her ever-present smile seemed to turn speculative. "So, Just Quade, before we get down to garden business, what plans do you have for dinner tonight?"

  * * *

  "Hey, sis. Where are you?" Piping from the answering machine, Julia's voice sounded even
chirpier than usual, Chantal decided, although that might have only been in comparison to her own unchirpy mood. "I thought you'd be slaving over a hot stove with us coming to dinner in less than an hour. Which is why I rang. Hope you don't mind but we're bringing your neighbor … although that took some talking. You must have made quite an impression. Not. Anyway, see you soon."

  Chantal sank slowly into a lounge chair. Quade was coming to dinner. Exactly as she'd imagined in all those midnight fantasies. Except – unlike her fantasies – he wouldn't be turning up on her doorstep with a bottle of wine in one arm and a bunch of flowers in the other.

  Oh, no, he was being dragged by the bootlaces because Julia had a way with persuasion. With a growl of frustrated despair, Chantal buried her face in her hands. She would kill Julia, truly she would, but first she needed to pull herself together. She peered through a gap in her fingers and groaned. On second thought, she would postpone pulling herself together until she had pulled her house together.

  Scooting around the living room, she straightened furniture and tossed pillows onto chairs, arranged the magazines into careful piles and gathered up all her work files from the floor in front of the fire. The dead fire. Cold ashes. Unwelcoming. Help!

  With a hand splayed against her chest, she could feel her escalating heartbeat. A glance to the mirror above the hearth – hair a windswept mess, no makeup, unflattering brown sweater – did nothing to alleviate her rising panic. She had forty minutes. She needed a plan of action. She needed music, a soothing antidote in times of stress.

  Six long strides took her to the sound system and she dropped to her knees. Brows knit, she ran a finger down the CD tower. Where was her favorite stress-buster? Her mind slid instantly to the last time she had needed it…

  It was likely still sitting in Quade's stereo.

  * * *

  The forty minutes flew, but not as fast as Chantal's hands or feet. In the time between first hearing the rumble of Zane's approaching truck and the sound of Julia calling, "We've let ourselves in, okay?" she changed into her best jeans and her second-favorite rust-colored knit.