“Oh, okay.” Darcy settled onto the stool next to him. She’d come here to apologize to Marie, but talking to Quinn was entertaining, and she still had half a drink to finish. If Marie would be calling later, Darcy could still make things right with her.
“So I guess it’s just the two of us again.” He lifted his martini toward her, expression warm. There was nothing overtly sexual about his behavior, but she sensed something in the atmosphere had shifted. A low buzz of excitement started in her chest. And ended abruptly when she thought of Troy.
Damn it. After one night nearly a week ago, he was not allowed to take over the rest of her life.
“I guess it is just the two of us.” She clinked glasses, smiling into his eyes, which were stunning. Dark and deep and slightly turned down at the corners. He reminded her of someone. Some movie star. James Brolin? Young Alec Baldwin?
No, no, duh, George Clooney, how could she have missed it? Her crush of all silver-screen crushes. Same quirked eyebrows, bold chin, finely shaped head with neatly cropped graying hair. Yum. Everything about Quinn Peters fit the bill for a night of sweat and pleasure.
“What do you do for fun, Darcy?”
“Work is my fun. I run a restaurant.”
He acknowledged her words with a quick nod. “Right. I knew that. Gladiolas. Very impressive.”
“Have you been there?”
“Not yet.” He turned his body toward her on the stool; his knee brushed the length of her thigh, making her skin come alive. The man was very, very sexy. And unless her receptors were on the blink, he felt the same way about her. So where did that leave Marie? Maybe Quinn thought they were just friends, but Darcy was pretty sure Marie had stronger feelings. Darcy might not be the world’s most impressive moral role model, but she would never hit on a friend’s love interest.
“I’ll get you into Gladiolas some night and cook a private dinner.” She arched an eyebrow. “For you and Marie…”
“That sounds interesting.”
Not committing himself. Because he wasn’t involved with or romantically interested in Marie or because he didn’t want Darcy to know he was? “What do you do, Quinn?”
“I dabble.”
“In?”
“Private investing.”
“I see.” She saw immediately that Quinn was probably loaded. And that his line of work would explain the jeans and casual blue shirt on a weekday afternoon. In a job like that he’d be very much his own boss, which made him even more attractive.
“So you never have any fun.” He touched her arm. “Not even on special occasions?”
“Is this one?” She couldn’t help smiling at him. He was irresistible.
“Meeting you could be nothing but a special occasion, Darcy.”
“Re-e-ally.” Oh, such a charmer. “And if I accept that compliment and return it, will I be causing any trouble for Marie?”
He didn’t blink. “Marie and I are buddies.”
“That’s what she said, but I wasn’t sure.” She wasn’t going to tell Quinn that she suspected Marie had, at very least, a killer crush on him.
“In fact, I’ll tell you a secret.” He beckoned her closer, touched his beautiful masculine lips to her ear, making it tingle with the desire for more touch. “She left just now so we could get to know each other better. Said she’s been wanting to match us up for months now.”
“Really.” Darcy was astounded. Had she and the girls read Marie that wrong about this man? “You’re sure?”
“She said as much.” He signaled Joe. “Another drink, Darcy? While we get to know each other better?”
Darcy held his gaze. She was beginning to suspect what kind of getting to know each other he ultimately wanted to do. And why not? Maybe it was what she needed to erase the stubbornly lingering traces of Troy.
She sent him a smoldering look that was partly ruined when her conscience thumped on the inside of her skull. Darcy, you moron, you don’t want to do this.
Yes, actually, she did. The guy looked like George Clooney. ’Nuff said.
“I’d love another drink.” She drained the one she had, probably two ounces in a single shot, and rested the glass back on the bar, smiling determinedly. “Getting to know you better sounds like it could make my whole night.”
6
DARCY DROVE SLOWLY UP E. Lake Forest Avenue, peering at the houses. Some numbers were visible, others not, but she was definitely close. Quinn’s house would be in this block.
There. Number 819, an attractive brick Tudor with a bay window on the lower level, rounded front door, dormer on the second floor and a decent-size yard. Not the largest house on the block, not as ostentatious as she’d imagined, but in a neighborhood like this, not far from Lake Michigan, even a garage would be out of her price range.
She pulled opposite and parked, turned off the motor of her in-her-price-range red Kia Rio sedan.
Well. Here she was. This would all have been easier if she’d gone home with Quinn last night, the night they met. But he’d invited her for tonight, so what could she do? The problem was that the twenty-four-hour gap had taken away from the chemical momentum.
All day she’d been debating: to go or not to go? Quinn was undeniably attractive, and Darcy had talked to Marie last night to apologize and to hear from the horse’s mouth that a “visit” between them would not be encroaching on her friend’s man-territory or her heart’s desire. Marie had been so enthusiastic about the idea of them getting together for a fling tonight that Darcy had hung up feeling a little disoriented. Except Marie was so anxious to get Darcy into a relationship she’d probably tell Darcy to go ahead if the guy was a terrorist.
Tonight the guy was Quinn. And no matter how hard Darcy tried to focus her memory on his looks, his solid, mature body, his charm and appeal, she couldn’t get more than a fuzzy image. Those martinis must have affected her more than she realized.
No matter. As soon as he opened the door and stood there in all his George Clooney glory, the rest of the night would fall into place.
She hoped.
Marie had also mentioned she’d be hosting a party at the end of the month for couples engaged and married over the last five years who’d met through Milwaukeedates.com, and was hoping to hold it at Gladiolas. Cutting it kind of close, but the restaurant didn’t have many reservations that night, and if Marie chose food off of the regular menu, Darcy could manage it. No doubt Marie hoped Darcy and Quinn, or Darcy and Chaz or Darcy and someone would be there as a couple.
Not likely.
Her car door handle stuck; she used her shoulder to open it and stepped out into the darkening evening, which had turned chilly. The Kia’s door contributed a loud thunk to the silent neighborhood when she closed it. Wild Tuesday night in Whitefish Bay, huh.
So.
Darcy stood staring at the house opposite. All she had to do was cross the street, walk up to the front door and ring the bell. So simple, even a child could do it. Why did it feel as if she needed a Ph.D. to manage? She should be excited, hot with anticipation for a night between the sheets with a sexy older man.
There was some of that, yes. But also an odd resistance. Nerves? Instinct?
Troy.
No. She crossed the street in exasperation, heels chock-chocking across the asphalt. She’d had her usual day off today, and had taken care with bathing and dressing, wearing a dark, flowery skirt with shades of red and blue and a clingy low-cut top in the same burnt-red color she’d painted her lips.
Troy was ancient history. A memory, even though it, yes, was a powerful one. It drove her crazy that she could barely remember Quinn’s face, while Troy’s features still haunted her with startling clarity. In weak moments she thought she should get his address from Justin, re-establish contact and see what this was about. In stronger moments she laughed at herself for even considering it. Reliably, like a Swiss watch, she was drawn to men who appointed themselves number one and couldn’t be bothered to adjust their schedules or priorities or emot
ions for her sake. What made her think Troy would be any different? Just because she was hornier for him than any guy she’d met in a long time?
No. She was here, she was going to be with Quinn. They’d have a great evening, which would effectively erase any and all temptation to get herself involved with another guy who’d end up only appreciating that she cared for him because he cared so deeply for himself, too.
Up the front walk, the house loomed larger, almost spooky in its silence. Up the front steps, one, two, three, hand toward the doorbell and…
Darcy closed her eyes. She couldn’t do this. Whether it was fear or solid instinct or what, resistance hit her like a meteor.
She turned and reached the first step toward retreat. The door swung open behind her.
Ugh! Busted. Quinn must have heard her. Fight or flight kicked in. She wanted flight, to sprint back to her car and pull out in a screech of tires away from her terrible mistake coming here, back home to solitude and safety.
“Darcy.”
She stiffened. Whirled around.
Troy. Tall and killer handsome in the warm glow from the front light. Her fight or flight instinct tripled, but this time she chose fight.
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
Darcy gaped. She’d gotten the wrong house? But she was sure the number matched what Quinn wrote down for her the night before at Roots. His handwriting had been clear and masculine, nothing scrawled or easy to mistake.
“I’m sorry. I was looking for—”
“Quinn.” He stood solidly, feet planted slightly apart, hands on his hips, very much the immovable object. And an irresistible force, all in one dreamy, dark-eyed package.
Damn it. She was confused, horrified, pleased and hot for him, all at once, and it was confusing the heck out of her.
“How did you know I was looking for Quinn?”
“Sorry to say you’ve been punked, Darcy.”
“Punked.” She was still gaping, trying to figure out what the hell was happening while her brain was noticing all the sexy and oddly endearing things about him. Like the—
Wait, Darcy?
“How do you know my name is—” The obvious details clicked; she fisted her hands. “I am going to kill Marie.”
“Marie, Quinn, me, we were all in on it. Triple homicide is a pretty bad deal.” He gestured to the open door behind him. “Maybe you’d rather come in?”
“For what?” She was angry, tempted, repulsed, furious, excited, outraged, thrilled…and therefore going to be exhausted when all this was straightened out. At which point Marie would be lying lifeless, having just been fatally shrieked at.
Troy folded his arms across his beautiful chest and looked at her intently, which made her even more breathless and shaky than she already was. “Whatever would make you feel comfortable.”
“What would make me feel comfortable is if you and Marie would stop manipulating me.”
“I wanted to see you again.”
“And you get your way no matter what? Even if it means sacrificing what I want?” What had she just been saying? Darcy muttered a few choice words about men and their pigheaded egos.
“You had no interest in seeing me again?”
“None.”
“After that incredible night together.”
“It was okay.” She’d lost some of her safe outrage in the lie, and it showed in her tone.
“No urge to find out whether what’s between us means anything more than animal attraction?” He started toward her.
She held her ground, fighting the urge to back down the stairs. “None.”
“No urge to feel my hands on you, my mouth on you. My body over yours, under yours.” His voice dropped to low, smooth temptation. “Inside yours.”
“Zero.” Her voice dropped, too, into the obvious emotional crackle of someone not telling the truth. She wrapped her arms around herself, hating her reaction to his approach.
“Zero.” In less than a second, he took a last step, took hold of her upper arms and took possession of her mouth.
She slammed her hands to his chest, pushed him back. He lost balance and control for only half a second, stood solid again, watching her. Their breaths came out loud and harsh in the silent neighborhood.
Darcy should leave. Now. She should be forceful about putting an end to this farce while she still could. She should march out of here and teach him and Marie and Quinn a lesson about respecting her decision to stay away from this man—from any man.
Her feet wouldn’t move. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from Troy’s.
Damn it.
She couldn’t leave.
As if he read her mind, he moved in again, his lips soft and warm in the cool air, his taste and scent impossible to resist, drawing her to him until a wildfire of longing burned as powerfully as the first time, and Darcy lost herself to her body’s sensual demands for this man’s touch.
She let out a helpless moan, hating the sound, hating herself for needing this so much that she couldn’t hold on to the defiant attitude that had seemed so important to her pride.
Troy broke the kiss; the silence was again filled with the sound of shallow, uneven breaths. She should say something. She should do something. She should collect her thoughts and act, be decisive and strong, and make sure he understood—
“It’s still there.” He spoke reverently, stroked her hair, touched her cheek, rubbed his thumb over her lips. “Whatever this is between us, it’s still there. I didn’t imagine it.”
Darcy’s only reaction was a convulsive swallow. She was overwhelmed, leaning against his chest, hers so full of emotion she couldn’t speak.
“Come inside, Darcy—” he bent to kiss her again “—to tell me why, when you respond to me like this, you disappeared, why you ignored my email and took down your profile.”
“I can tell you that now. Right here.”
“Inside.” He took three steps back, opened the door and gestured her in.
For a moment she rebelled. He’d gotten her here by trickery. He was insisting she come in. This was all feeling very manipulative and self-serving, and her alarm bells were ringing. No man would ever have her again who didn’t care enough to compromise, who didn’t care enough to give as well as receive, who expected her involved in his life, but made no effort to become involved in hers, made no effort to understand what was important to her.
Then she looked and saw that though Troy stood confident and calm, waiting, his eyes were anxious and vulnerable.
Aw, hell.
“Okay.”
Air exited Troy’s mouth and she realized he’d been holding his breath. Nearly comical, but somehow it wasn’t in her to be disdainful of this man and his emotions, at least not right now, not tonight. Instead, she was touched.
Yeah, touched. In the head. Why was she leaving herself open to more disappointment? Letting down her guard meant passionate first feelings she might mistakenly think were love. It meant relaxing into coupledom, starting to believe that this time love could last forever. Then, inevitably, the courting period would be over, the demands begin for his every need to be met, along with the sudden indifference to hers.
All guys weren’t like that. She knew that no matter how much she blustered and put on the big man-hater act, which burst out of her like anger. Not all guys, no.
Just the ones she fell for.
You could kick a dog only so many times before his loyalty wore out and self-protection and the survival instinct took over. Except the stupid hope wouldn’t quit, the longing to get it right, the need to believe that this time maybe she’d learned. That this time maybe things could be different.
Marie thought she wasn’t a romantic? She was too much of one.
She stepped into Troy’s house, feeling as if she’d crossed a figurative threshold along with the literal one. The place was like him, relaxed, welcoming, but classy, in good taste.
A dog approached her, muscular and c
lean, reddish-gold with white around his muzzle and ears. Very pretty with intelligent eyes.
“This is Dylan. You like dogs?”
“Sure.” She liked them when they didn’t like her too much. The whole jumping, slobbering thing wasn’t ideal, but Dylan seemed well-behaved, greeting her with a restrained sniffing bout and wagging tail.
She looked around while petting him, at good quality furniture, chairs and sofa upholstered in teal and beige with rust accents, and bright coordinating silk pillows. Looked at the television, but no recliner; at landscapes and prints on walls painted a pale orange; at lamps with multiple arms snaking out, tiny colorful shades on each bulb. At smooth stone sculptures on the mantel of the beautiful fireplace; at a tall, narrow vase filled with curly willow on an end table. In short, she looked everywhere but at him.
“Nice house.”
“Mom’s an interior decorator. The living room was my Christmas present, but I think it ended up more her present than mine. A little too decorated for my taste, but it’s comfortable.”
Darcy nodded, a fish out of water in Troy’s elegant house. Even a mistake-glance at him brought back their skin-on-skin passion all night long at the hotel, and she wondered how she’d stay out of his bed this time and whether, if he made a move, she’d end up caring about anything but getting naked with him again.
“Would you like a drink?”
“I’d love it.” More like needed it.
“Beer? Gin? Vodka? Tequila? Or I could open a bottle of wine.”
“Wine would be nice. Red, if you have it.” She was curious what he’d offer, moved around his living room, observing, touching, anything to hide her horrible awkwardness.
“Red wine coming up. Have a seat.” He disappeared into the kitchen, which Darcy was dying to see, but refused to follow him, puppy style, especially since Dylan already had that job.
She blew out a breath and perched on the edge of the teal couch, pushing at magazines scattered on his coffee table: Men’s Health, National Geographic, Newsweek.
So. They were going to have a talk. In Darcy’s experience, talk was a euphemism for screaming first, lapsing into furious silence second.
Hot to the Touch Page 8
