by Caro Carson
“You deserve all my attention, not these constant interruptions.”
That was a rehearsed line if she’d ever heard one. The disappointment was sharp.
Quinn sat on his bar stool once more. He began flipping through his phone screens. “Not this Saturday, but next, I’ve got the whole day free. I want to spend it with you.”
When she said nothing, he asked, “Do you want to spend it with me?”
He sounded just uncertain enough for her to answer him. “Of course I do.” Her words came out as a whisper around the lump in her throat. He wanted to see her again in two weeks, when he wasn’t on call.
That was not the same thing as being a couple. When a man needed a woman, when he wanted to know her better, he didn’t wait two weeks to see her.
“Excellent.” Quinn sounded relieved. Happy, even. He leaned forward on his bar stool and kissed her on the cheek.
“Did you have any other dates in mind?” She was amazed at her own ability to be a smart aleck.
“I think I can rearrange some obligations this Friday.”
She must be lousy at sarcasm. He was taking her seriously.
“You should bring some things to keep here, so you can spend the night without having to pack every time. You know, a toothbrush, makeup, extra clothes, whatever you want.”
“We wouldn’t stay at my house? Is it more convenient for you here?”
“Your house is cute. You’ll let me keep a razor there, won’t you?” He grinned again, a man pleased with himself.
“And when your schedule does not permit us to get together? I assume we don’t see anyone else in between these dates.”
Ah, that wiped the smile off his face.
“This would be an exclusive arrangement. Very. That won’t be a problem for you, will it?”
She felt her cheeks grow hot. The nausea returned, but for an entirely different reason. She looked him in his green, green eyes for the first time since he’d started laying out his plans for their future. “I’m usually so busy with my one-night stands, it might be hard to break that habit.”
He didn’t miss her sarcasm this time. “I meant, you’re not involved with anyone else, are you?”
She gasped. “Would I have slept with you this weekend if I already had a boyfriend?”
For just a fraction of a second, he hesitated. Just a moment where she knew he’d thought that yes, some people would have a weekend fling on the side.
Not her. Never her. He didn’t know her at all.
Diana wanted to leave, immediately. Quinn was ruining every perfect memory she’d made.
His phone rang. He glanced at the screen and punched it with one finger, silencing it. “It was the service. Now I’ve got ten minutes. Let me start by apologizing. That was a stupid question. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” she said, but her lips felt stiff and the words were forced. She jumped off the bar stool and spun toward the hallway.
“C’mon, Diana. I’m distracted with these calls right now. You can see how crazy it gets. That’s why it would be better to see each other on the weekends I’m off.”
“So, basically, you are asking if I’m willing to schedule booty calls on an ongoing basis.”
“Booty calls?” The expression of disbelief on his face said it all. “For God’s sake, I don’t think in those terms. It’s called dating. Dinners. Movies. Whatever you like.”
He could call it whatever he liked. Putting it in sophisticated terms didn’t change what it was.
She headed for the dryer. She wanted her clothes, and she wanted to get out of there while she was still furious. Tears could come later, in privacy.
Quinn followed her. “What is so awful about asking you out for a date this Friday?”
Diana opened the dryer. She reached her hand into the hot, steamy interior. Swell. Her clothes were still damp. She pulled her underwear out, anyway, and tugged it on under the bathrobe.
“What are you doing? You’re getting very dramatic over this.”
“Let me make sure I have this straight,” she said, grabbing her red shorts off the top of the washing machine where she’d left them. She wriggled them over the wet underwear. “I get a toothbrush, a little drawer space and great sex when your schedule allows. Oh—and dinners out. I assume when you have official shindigs, I get to dress up and be your arm candy. Did I miss anything?”
She dropped the bathrobe to the floor. Let Quinn get an eyeful while she put on her wet bra. It soothed her pride to see him distracted by what he’d never have again. She whipped her shirt right-side-out, and put it on, too.
She buttoned as fast as she could. “That arm candy thing would be a challenge. I don’t do elegant well.”
She marched down the hall to retrieve her white sneakers from under the couch.
“Diana!” He caught her around the waist, then let go. “Your clothes are wet. Jeez.”
With her shoes dangling from her fingers, she slung her purse over her shoulder and headed for the door.
He easily matched her strides. “It’s ridiculous to leave in wet clothes. What’s wrong with scheduling a date next Friday?”
She turned to face him with her sneakers in one hand, the doorknob gripped in the other. “Nothing, when you put it like that, with all your cool reasoning. But you got my hopes up when you said we’d be a couple.
“What if you’re on call, and a phone call does upset you? Will you wait two weeks to talk about it with me? See—that never occurred to you. That’s what I think a girlfriend should be. A friend. One who is around, not one who is scheduled for dinner and bed at a convenient time later in the week. What happens if I miss you on a Wednesday?”
“We have phones, you know. I’m home most nights after seven, if you’d like to call.”
“Wow,” Diana said, a little stunned at his honesty. She could be honest, too. “That’s even more horrible than I thought. Remember that woman in the red dress? You’ll see her at another big event. Ask her to dance. She’ll be a good match for you. I am not.”
With that, she executed another first: a grand exit, complete with the perfect slamming of the door.
Chapter Eleven
It had never occurred to Diana that a grand exit would be difficult when the guy was rich.
If the rich guy lived in a high-rise building that had an elevator, then while one waited for the elevator, the rich guy could easily stroll to the elevator bank and continue the conversation.
Darn it all.
“You’ve made your point,” Quinn said, sounding like a stern parent from TV. “Come inside.”
There were three sets of elevator doors. Diana stood in front of the one that sounded like machinery was running behind it. Hurry up, hurry up.
She refused to look at Quinn. She’d had her say, and she needed to stay mad for a while, at least long enough to get a taxi and get home. Lord, how long would it take for a taxi? They were pretty scarce in Austin. She might need to walk to Sixth Street to hail one.
She started to pull on one sneaker, balancing with her hand on the call button, with its arrow-pointing-down emblem. Although it was already lit, she pushed it again, anyway. Hurry, hurry.
One of the other condo doors in the hallway opened, and a neighbor stepped out to get his Sunday paper. “Morning, Quinn.”
“Good morning,” he answered, and Diana credited his unflappable manners to Marion MacDowell. She felt another pang—she’d probably never see her pretend-mother again.
The neighbor looked at her, and made no move to take his paper and go.
Quinn reached for her arm, but she warded him off with her sneaker. “Leave me alone. We’ve said everything there is to say.”
“You’re making a scene,” he said through clenched teeth.
“I’m putting on a sneaker.” She put her foot down and started on the second sneaker. The interested neighbor was not her problem. “You shouldn’t have followed me out here. You’re ruining it.”
He kept his voice low, but it was seething with displeasure. “I’m ruining your attempt to run away again?”
The warmth of the dryer had left her clothes, but not the dampness. The air-conditioning in the hallway was close to making her shiver. “We’re not a match. I should have left after our last dance at the gala. None of this weekend was supposed to happen.”
“Ah, that last dance. That beautiful moment that will never come again. You’re damned right it won’t, not if you leave. Nothing can happen if you leave.”
The elevator was almost to their floor. She could hear it. It was time for the second grand exit of her life. She’d make this one kinder.
“I stayed, and we had a perfect weekend, Quinn, full of wonderful moments. I’ll never forget it. Thank you.”
Diana pressed a last kiss to his lips.
The elevator didn’t stop. She heard it travel past them, up to a higher floor.
They stood there, staring at each other.
Quinn opened his mouth to say something, but Diana put her hand up to stop him. “Shh. We said goodbye.”
She bounced on her toes a little, just to keep moving and stay warm, as they waited some more. Finally, the elevator arrived—not the one she was standing in front of. The next one over.
She kept her chin up as she walked three steps to her left.
“Goodbye, Quinn.”
But as she turned to go in, another person was coming out, a taller woman, ready for an elegant Sunday brunch in slacks and pearls. Diana remembered her from the gala: Becky’s stepsister, Quinn’s friend in the stunning blue gown.
Patricia Cargill barely glanced at Diana as she walked into the hallway.
Diana stepped into the elevator. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the reflections of herself in the mirrors. The doors slid shut, but not before she heard Patricia’s voice, as refined as Patricia herself.
“Hello, Quinn. Did I catch you coming out to get your paper? What perfect timing. It’s like you were waiting for me.”
* * *
Quinn resented the clock. As he let Patricia into his condo, his phone rang, flashing the time at him before he could swipe the screen to answer. It wasn’t even noon. They’d agreed to be together on Sunday, but Diana had left when they still could have made love for hours.
What would have been the purpose of those extra hours in bed, before they’d go their separate ways? Sex just for physical pleasure?
A booty call.
“MacDowell,” he snapped into the phone. It was the answering service, calling back because it had been ten minutes since he’d missed their last call.
Ten freaking minutes since he’d explained to Diana that he wanted a long-term, exclusive relationship with her.
Ten minutes since she’d told him his offer was ruining her idea of a perfect weekend. That made no sense. She’d shushed him, shushed him, and gotten on the elevator and left.
Unbelievable.
The answering service relayed five messages to him, each one nonurgent, nothing that the patients couldn’t have called his nurses about on Monday. For this, he’d lost his concentration on what Diana was saying. He’d botched something up—he remembered apologizing—oh, yeah. The exclusive thing.
Patricia was helping herself to his kitchen, loading a K-Cup into his coffee machine. He watched her select a coffee mug from his cabinet, as if it mattered which drug logo freebie she was seen using. He was the only one here to see her, anyway. That was Tricia, though, fastidious to a fault. He knew her well, two years to Diana’s two days.
Yet he’d known Diana well enough to know she didn’t have a boyfriend. She wasn’t using him to cheat on someone else. It was impossible to imagine her sneaking in a weekend fling while her regular guy was out of town. Why the hell had he said something so stupid?
He remembered an important detail: she’d already been upset before that. She didn’t like that he’d developed a routine with other girlfriends while he was on call. What had she expected? He couldn’t go back and undo his past.
He sat on the bar stool, feeling like gravity was too much to fight standing up. He’d give a million dollars to feel as good as he had this time yesterday. A million dollars.
Tricia slid the coffee mug under his nose. “You need this more than I do. Rough night at the hospital?”
“Fishing for info is beneath you. I know you’ve noticed that there are two plates here.”
She laughed. “I was trying to be nice. I take it whoever she is has left the building, and I’m not in danger of getting an eyeful of any supermodel strolling around in her all-together?”
“You saw her go.”
Quinn sipped the coffee. Maybe it would clear his mind, which was currently short-circuiting after the exit that Diana had made.
“That girl? I assumed she was your neighbor’s little hottie. A fruity sequined shirt— Oh, Quinn.” She chuckled. “Wherever did you find her?”
Quinn shot her a look, one that would have silenced any man who insulted a woman he was with. Had been with. Past tense.
Patricia abruptly stopped laughing, but not from his look. She’d apparently just remembered who Diana was. “Wait—not the real estate agent from the gala?”
Quinn didn’t bother answering her. He wanted to mentally review the whole disastrous last scene with Diana, pull out the details and find the precise moment it had all gone sour.
His uninvited visitor wasn’t helping any. Patricia cleared away the plates and forks and put the dirty skillet in the sink, turning on the water with a quick flick of her wrist, rinsing traces that Diana had been there down the drain.
“Is there a point to this visit?” he asked. He could hear the irritation in his own voice.
So, apparently, could Patricia. “Don’t take your lousy sex life out on the woman who gives you coffee.”
“It wasn’t lousy,” he said.
She snapped the water off.
“And you can’t give me coffee I already own.” He took another sip after his halfhearted dig. He and Patricia had gone from acquaintances to friends since last year’s relief trip, but Quinn couldn’t enjoy their usual sparring today.
Patricia dried her hands and came to lean on the counter next to him. “Let’s go out. I’ll buy you coffee. I wanted to bounce some ideas off you about Texas Rescue. I got quite the scoop out of Karen Weaver on Friday.”
“Who?”
“The new director. Honestly, Quinn, you spoke with her at length during the gala. Where’s that famous head for details?” She gave his head a little push to the side with the tips of her fingers, then smoothed down the hair she couldn’t really have messed up.
Diana’s fingers had been in his hair just ten minutes ago. No, more like twenty now. Quinn jerked away from Patricia’s hand, then pushed his own hand through his hair, trying to play off the fact that he was overreacting to everything.
“I can’t go out. I’m on call.”
“What’s new? Bring your phone.”
“Not today. I’ll take a rain check.”
“Karen will be at our steering committee meeting.” Patricia pouted and tugged him out of his chair. “Come eat with me. I can’t exactly talk about her when she’s right there.”
Since she had him standing, Quinn walked her to the door. “You’ll find a way. I’ll see you then.”
* * *
By five that evening, Quinn was sick of wallowing in his own thoughts. He’d spent the day on his sofa—trying not to think about making love on it with Diana. He’d put the car race on TV—after moving the pillow she’d blocked the satellite box with.
He’d drifted off to sleep a few times, only to be jarred awake by the ringing of the phone. He knew it couldn’t be Diana, because they hadn’t gotten around to exchanging phone numbers. Still, he was disgusted with himself for being disgusted when it was his own answering service.
None of the day’s calls had been as intense as that one from the E.R. this morning, the one that had upset Diana.
She’d been right. That call had been more serious than the average one. As upsetting as it had been for her, her first instinct had been to find out what Quinn needed. To ask if he was okay.
He’d been an ass to laugh off that kind of rare concern. Except when it came to Diana, concern wasn’t rare. She was concerned for everyone she met, and for every dog she met, too. She was concerned for men who’d been dead and buried for fifty years on a ranch.
Quinn jackknifed into a sitting position on the couch, determined to deal with this loss once and for all.
Nothing lasts indefinitely.
An ending is an inevitable part of any relationship.
I did my best.
It didn’t matter how many times the loop repeated. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this relationship shouldn’t have died.
Couldn’t she see that he was the kind of man who would put some effort into making a girlfriend feel good out of bed as well as in it? Look at how he’d tried to make her feel better about those fifty-year-old graves. He was capable of showing concern, just as she was.
Actually, his mother had been the one to really make her feel better. Hell, Patch the Second had done a great job. Quinn had given her his best all right: his mother and his dog. That was all he had to give a woman.
Quinn got to his feet, scooped a throw pillow off the floor, and pitched it at the sofa. He needed to clear his head. He didn’t know why Brian had needed him to take call, but he called him on the chance that Brian could resume phone duties before seven. He could. Quinn transferred call duty back to him, stomped into his boots, grabbed his helmet and headed for his motorcycle.
The bike had been Jamie’s, but Quinn had ridden it for him while he was deployed to Afghanistan. Engines that sat unused for a year got gummed up, so Quinn had agreed to drive Jamie’s baby a few times a month, just to keep the engine alive. Jamie had surprised them all by returning home from his deployment with a real baby. Since the motorcycle couldn’t hold a baby’s car seat, and since Quinn had become accustomed to his twice-monthly motorcycle rides, Quinn had bought the bike from Jamie.
