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Before I Melt Away
Isabel Sharpe


A steamy Christmas fling…'Tis the season to have fun, but personal chef Annabel Brightman isn't having any! Her crazy business keeps her on the run catering dinners and parties for other people to enjoy. Her ex is engaged–to someone else. And as for sex–everything seems frozen inside. Until Quinn Garrett appears on her doorstep one chilly December night offering the promise of heat.Or the real thing?Quinn has never forgotten Annabel from high school. But now it's lust at first sight…soon followed by hot sex between them that's passionate, inventive–and highly addictive. He can't get enough of her in bed, in the kitchen…. And he's touched by this unexpected Christmas gift. Annabel is melting–falling hard for him, it seems. But has her heart truly thawed?









She wanted to sleep with Quinn…


Not to beat around the bush or anything, but Annabel wanted to make love with him. Right now. Like crazy. The breakup with her ex weeks ago had left her alone, but satisfied. Usually it was six to eight months before she craved intimacy. But one glimpse of Quinn on her doorstep had her libido rising like a chocolate-Chambord soufflé.

“So your brother John tells me you need rescuing,” he murmured.

Annabel’s welcoming smile traded itself for a dropped jaw. “Rescuing?”

“He said you don’t know how to have fun anymore.” His eyes twinkled.

“Huh?”

Quinn cocked his head to one side and shot her an amused look. “Don’t. Know. How. To. Have. Fun.”

The overenunciation of each word brought her attention to his lips, which were full and all-male and magnificent. She could imagine him kissing every inch of her body. Why didn’t he just strip her naked now and pleasure her till she screamed?

Because that would be fine. Really. And maybe even fun…







Dear Reader,

I’ve always loved the Charles Dickens story A Christmas Carol. It hit me one day that it would be fun to write a Christmas Blaze novel with a female “Scrooge” heroine. Of course, instead of three spirits, she has the sexy-as-hell and very real man from her past, Quinn Garrett, to guide her to her own salvation. Which he does in a highly sensual, won’t-take-no fashion.

I’m also a big fan of reunion stories where couples who didn’t get it right the first time manage to struggle through personal growth in round two and reach their happy-ever-after. In Annabel and Quinn’s case, teenage unrequited love is given a second chance—this time with all the additional fun adults get to have.

Hope you enjoy the book! And if you lived a second-chance-at-teenage-love story, e-mail me through my Web site, www.IsabelSharpe.com. I’d love to hear it!

Cheers,

Isabel Sharpe




Before I Melt Away

Isabel Sharpe







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Birgit,

with gratitude, respect and affection




Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13




1


To: John Brightman

From: Quinn Garrett

Date: November 19

Subject: Long time no see

Hello, John. I googled your name and found your work e-mail. You’re no longer in Wisconsin—big disappointment. I’m heading to Milwaukee in December to see about starting a manufacturing plant for the HC-3 and was hoping to see you. I have a lot of good memories of the year I spent with your family. Hope you are well.

Quinn

To: Quinn Garrett

From: John Brightman

Date: November 20

Subject: Re: Long time no see

Quinn! How the hell are you? God, it’s been forever! Sixteen years? Of course I’ve followed your rise to the top with Holocorp, so I know more about you than you do about me. I guess you’re probably sick of comparisons to the big Gates guy, but if the shoe fits… Congratulations, you’ve done the world of technology a lot of good. My students already act as if holographic computer screens have been in existence since the dawn of time.

I’m teaching at Rollins, still can’t get used to the Florida climate. My sister is the only one left in Milwaukee; I’m sorry to say my parents passed on, Dad about six years ago, Mom two.

Look Annabel up when you’re there. She started a personal chef business a year ago and is running herself ragged. Take her out and make her have some fun, for God’s sake. You might be the great success story of the twenty-first century, but I can’t believe you’ve forgotten how to have fun. She apparently has.

Will you be around at Christmastime or back in California? Or are you visiting your folks in Maine? I wasn’t planning to come home; Annabel doesn’t “do” Christmas anymore, but if you’re there, maybe I will, and bring Alison and the kids. I’ve got a cousin who owns a house next to the lake and there’s plenty of room.

Got to run to a class, stay in touch.

Best,

John



ANNABEL TURNED her minivan into her narrow driveway on Sixty-third Street in Wauwatosa, only three blocks west of the Milwaukee city line, pressed her garage-door opener and sailed into the two-car garage. Yes, indeed, she was fried like an egg. All day, cooking a week’s worth of meals at the Bergers, the fussiest people on earth. Ted, one of the students she hired to help out, was cramming this week for his exams at Milwaukee Area Technical College, so Annabel had taken over at a time she’d rather be working on getting more new business. Things might be going well, but they could be going better. Her personal mantra.

This time of year was always nuts. Starting mid-November, people wanted to party instead of work. Which meant shifting from high gear to overdrive. Plus, in addition to her regular roster of clients and the extra holiday dinner parties, this year she was adding a new option—Dinner and a Show. Pairing an early dinner party at the client’s home with tickets to The Nutcracker or A Christmas Carol, or a Milwaukee Symphony Holiday Pops Concert. Included in the deal was a limo chauffeuring the lucky paying guests to and from. Dessert and drinks after the show could be had in addition to or instead of dinner.

Brilliant, if she did say so herself, which she did and no apologies. With any luck she could get a real office someday and lose the stigma of the cute little woman starting a cute little business out of her home. Pat, pat, pat and a cheek pinch—yick.

If Annabel had anything to say about it, Chefs Tonight would be anything but cute. Chefs Tonight would someday be an empire. Her dishes would be delivered around the world, syndicated newspaper columns would feature her menus, her cookbooks, her recipes. She’d be the female version of Adolph Fox, the success comet whose tail she was following, the man who’d put his signature gourmet food in every supermarket freezer in the country.

She stepped out of her minivan—oh, for a sexy convertible, but sexy convertibles were bad news when it came to lugging clients’ groceries around town—and grabbed her fancy leather briefcase, a gift to herself last summer when she signed on her tenth client.

Outside in the misty, damp December air, she jabbed the button to lower the garage door. It was unusually warm for this time of year, upper forties and densely foggy, ho, ho, ho, thanks a lot. The houses across the street appeared and disappeared as if they, not the fog, were undulating and immaterial.

The soles of her clogs clunked across cement to her back door, her footsteps louder than usual in the thick, silent air. She grabbed her keys and let herself into her house, kicked off the shoes and padded to the back bedroom her assistant used as an office.

“Hey, Stefanie. Any messages?” She glanced at the miniature lit Christmas tree on Stefanie’s desk. “Very cute.”

“How was it being back on the front lines today?” Stefanie smiled over from the holograph hovering above her desk, where she was entering in the dietary requirements of a new client. Her usually clear eyes looked puffy and bloodshot; her normally rosy skin was pale and blotchy, as if she hadn’t slept well in days.

“Grueling. Like being back in school. But you know the Bergers. Meat-and-potatoes father, mother on the Atkins diet, son won’t eat vegetables, daughter is vegan. No wonder Mom Berger hired us.”

“No wonder.” Stefanie yawned, rolled her chair to her desk and handed Annabel four pink message slips.

“Any new business queries today—I hope?” Annabel leafed through the messages and made a sound of exasperation. “Bob called again?”

“Three times in the last hour. The poor man is obviously still hoping you’ll get back together. He said he wanted to catch you in and I shouldn’t tell you he called.” Stefanie rolled her eyes. “Like I wouldn’t.”

“Well, he’s persistent, I’ll give him that. What else?”

“Four phone queries, responding to the regular ad in the Sentinel. Five calling about Dinner and a Show and three e-mail responses.”

“Any through our Web site?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Annabel glanced at the other messages—one from a downtown organization that wanted her to give a cooking demonstration for at-risk kids. Like she had the time? She handed that one back to Stefanie. “All in all, a good day. Say no to these people, send them a check. Fifty bucks should make them happy.”

“Will do.” Stefanie yawned again, guiltily covering her mouth. “Sorry, it’s this weather. Four-thirty, getting dark already, and the fog makes me want to curl up and sleep forever.”

“Ha! It’s your space heater, roasting you soporific.”

“I’d be a lump of ice without it.” Stefanie shivered and rubbed her hands together over its warmth. “You must have been an Eskimo in another life.”

“Cold is good for you.” Annabel smiled and headed for her own office.

“Oh, someone else called, but didn’t leave a message. Deep voice, totally dreamy-sounding. Said he wanted to surprise you.”

“Really.” Annabel paused in the hallway, frowning. Who would want to surprise her? “It wasn’t John goofing off?”

“No. I’d know your brother’s voice, even clowning around.”

“Hmm. Okay. Probably another male who didn’t quite get the meaning of ‘it’s over.’” She continued into her office, grinning at Stefanie’s giggle. Running joke between them that Annabel had an army of men clawing to get back into her life. Right now that army consisted of: Bob, whom she’d dated briefly, though longer than most—three months—before she got restless. Or bored. Or just too busy.

When she went looking for a man, she wanted her sexual itch scratched, a warm body to provide company for a while, then to leave so she could work on business until the urge struck again.

She was always up-front about what she wanted and they all reacted with the same patronizing nod, and the same gleam in their eyes that said they knew it was only a matter of time before their irresistible masculinity got her in touch with her inner need to be enslaved.

Strangely enough, it never had. Oh, my. Gasp of surprise and horror. A traitor to her gender she must be.

The look of bemused shock on the men’s faces when she broke it off was identical, too. Impossible for them to comprehend that a woman didn’t see her salvation in the form of a man. Ball-breaker, bitch, slut—she’d been called them all, and worse. When all along she’d been nothing but honest about where the relationship would end up and what she wanted it for.

Even more ironic, if she’d been one of their male buddies, they’d admire her. Hey, dude, there’s someone who got it right. Hot babes when he needs them, dumps them when he’s done, no entanglements, no strings. But she was a woman, and they didn’t like seeing their own behavior reflected back.

Tough. Like a turkey roasted too long. This worked for her.

She went into her office, enjoying the clean, sleek look of the cream-colored walls, beige carpet and honey-maple furniture. The furniture had been an indulgence, but what was the point in buying cheap things that wouldn’t last?

None. Why buy jarred caviar when you could save up for fresh and be sixty times happier, even if you could only eat it a quarter as often? You still came out ahead.

The phone rang; she waited for Stefanie to pick it up, curious about the deep-voiced man. Raoul had a pretty deep voice. But he’d long since married and would have no reason to call. Peter—maybe, but they’d parted badly. David, ditto.

Stefanie exchanged warm Christmas wishes with the caller, then clicked the hold button.

“Annabel, it’s your cousin Linda.”

“Oh, no.” Annabel braced herself and picked up her phone. Either Linda had more questions about her husband, Evan’s, holiday business party, which Chefs Tonight was preparing again this year, or, as every year, the same invitation—We’re having a Christmas party, hope you can join us. Sweet of her, but Christmas was one of the few days this time of year that Annabel could avoid anything that involved either preparing food or parties. Her idea of Christmas heaven was staying in bed all day, watching movies and eating junk food. “Hi, Linda.”

“Hey, Annabel. How’s business going?” Linda’s voice always sounded as if she was about to laugh, was laughing, or had just stopped. Annabel had a perfectly well-evolved sense of humor, but she would never understand what Linda found funny every second of the day.

“Business is booming, thanks.” She kept her answer short, knowing Linda didn’t really want all the details of how her business was going, and because they’d talked only last month about Evan’s party. “How are Evan and the kids?”

Okay, so she asked. She had to ask. But Linda didn’t realize that Annabel wanted to hear about Linda’s kids exactly as much as Linda wanted to hear about Annabel’s business.

After three minutes of detailed descriptions of each child—how many were there, a hundred by now?—his or her activities, clothing, cute antics, new words, Annabel couldn’t take it anymore.

“So then Lawrence was sitting there, covered in yogurt and I—”

“Linda, I’m so sorry to interrupt you, but I have another call I have to take. Was there anything you wanted to talk about for Evan’s party?”

Linda laughed as if Annabel was the wittiest person she’d ever met. “Oh, no. I just want to invite you to our annual Christmas Party. Four o’clock Christmas Day, by then the kids are all—”

“Oh, gosh, Linda, that’s a bad day for me.”

“But it’s Christmas. You shouldn’t be working, you should be spending time surrounded by loved ones. That’s what the season is about.”

“Sorry, Linda. I really am.”

“Annabel, I worry about you, all closeted up with your business. We’re family. You need to be with us, celebrating.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m happy as a clam. On the half shell. With shallot vinaigrette and a touch of hot pepper.”

Linda chuckled. “No way I can convince you? I just hate thinking of you sitting there by yourself on such a wonderful day.”

“Trust me, sitting here by myself is what I love most about Christmas.”

Linda sighed, for once not sounding like a sitcom laugh track. “Well, if you change your mind, please come. We send you our blessings of the season.”

“Thanks.” Annabel hung up the phone. Blessings of the season? What blessings? That she was so maniacally busy she could barely see straight? Not that she’d at all prefer the alternative.

“I’m going home.” Stefanie appeared in the doorway, leaned against the jamb and yawned.

“See you tomorrow, bright and early. Ted’s taking the Moynahans as usual, right?”

“Yes. He had a final this morning, he can do tomorrow.”

“Good. Get some rest, you look exhausted.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Just tired. Good night.”

Annabel waved her out the door and settled down to read the newspaper’s business section, looking for any possible—

Phone. Scowling, she picked it up. It was probably—

“Bob here.”

Yep. “Hi, Bob.”

“Did I call at a bad time?”

“You know me, I’m always busy.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“What’s up?” She kept her voice brisk.

“Well…how’ve you been?”

“Did you want something?”

“I was wondering, if you’d like to—”

“Bob…” She rested her head on her hand.

“Meet me for coffee, that’s it.”

“No.”

“I just want to—”

“We’ve been through this. And through this. And when we were done going through this, we went through this some more.”

“I’m not trying to come on to you. I’m calling as a friend. I have this—”

“I’m sorry.” She hung up the phone, slightly sick over her behavior. She’d tried niceness. Then firmness. Now it seemed out-and-out bitchiness might be the only thing he’d respond to.

Back to the business section. Nothing interesting in the news, nothing triggering any new ideas. She stuffed the paper into the blue recycling bag and went online to the Metro Milwaukee Association of Commerce site to check for new events she should attend to maximize networking. The one next week she knew about…nothing else looked—

Knock at her door. Grimacing, she stalked into the hallway and down the steps to the back. A short, sweet-faced middle-aged woman smiled up at her. “Hello, Annabel.”

Annabel blinked. “Hi.”

“I’m Kathy. Your neighbor across the street.”

Duh. “Kathy, I’m so sorry. I was thinking…that is I was working, and my brain was…” She made a helpless gesture.

“I understand. I’m asking for donations for the cancer society. And to see if you could spare some time to—”

“Anything but time.” Annabel ushered Kathy in. “I’ll get my checkbook.”

“Thank you. Are you coming to the Christmas Eve block party?” Kathy’s smile turned pitying when she registered Annabel’s blank look. “The invitations went around last month.”

“Oh. No. I’m…busy that day, sorry.”

“Too bad. It’s a nice way to meet neighbors.”

True, if she had any desire to meet her neighbors, that would be a nice way. “I’m sure.”

She signed the check, handed it over to Kathy’s profuse thanks, and ushered her out the door when Kathy showed signs of wanting to linger and chat. Back in her office, Annabel grabbed a small stack of résumés from students at MATC. If the Dinner and a Show program went well, she should be in a position to hire more help. More help doing the work in people’s kitchens meant more of Annabel’s time freed up to generate new business. Things might be going well, but they could be going—

Doorbell. Back door again. She groaned and went to answer, hoping for a nice package or letter dropped at her door that she could pick up and bring inside without having to interact with anyone.

No package. A bunch of kids, probably from the neighborhood. Who—oh, no—started to sing, the worst, most off-key rendition of “Frosty the Snowman” ever heard by man or beast. The first verse was pretty cute, but when they showed signs of gearing up for verse two, she thanked them firmly and shut the door.

Apparently privacy in her own home was too much to ask.

Back into her office, a few e-mails, some correspondence…she was getting hungry. The very fact of life that made her business possible—that bodies needed regular feeding—could often be an inconvenient interruption.

An hour and a half later, papers spread out on her kitchen table, she’d eaten the rest of a decent beef-cabbage soup and the other half of a grilled chicken sandwich taken home the night before from Carter’s, her usual dinner spot. She’d also worked up a few ideas for their diabetic menu choices, and had an inspiration for a carb-free burger with artichoke bottoms instead of a bun for their Atkins selections. Substitute a portobello mushroom for the beef, and add it to their vegetarian menu.

Good work. After she cleaned up, she’d surf the net to see if anything new struck her for a Valentine’s Day special that would bring in more business after the big holiday rush subsided. And she needed to figure out how to lure more traffic to the Web site. Oh, and tomorrow she had a dinner party to cook for in the evening over on the East Side; she’d need to remind herself to get the fish in the morning from Empire Seafood.

Dishes done, she stepped into her clogs, grabbed the full garbage bag and hauled it outside to the receptacle behind the house. Started back in, then remembered she’d forgotten to check her mail, not that it was anything but catalogs at this time of year.

She walked briskly down the driveway in fog so thick it felt like a clammy attempt at a drizzle, with streetlights illuminating the mist like spools of glow-in-the dark cotton candy. The eerie silence on the street was broken only by her steps—impossibly loud, as if the sound waves were trapped, bouncing between the stone houses on the block like the ball in video Ping-Pong.

The temperature was supposed to drop radically tonight, possible snow predicted in the next few days. Oh, how not lovely. But that was Wisconsin in December. She pushed impatiently at her rapidly dampening hair and climbed three steps to her front door, heavy stained wood with an overly large brass knocker.

A breeze blew up suddenly, cold and damp. A glance over her shoulder showed the swirling fog lifting slightly, exposing the street. She crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed them, elbow to shoulder. Creepy night. She started to lean toward her mailbox, when a black flash of movement reflected off the knocker. Annabel whirled around and scanned behind her.

Nothing.

Strange. She reached again for her mail—yes, catalogs, catalogs and more catalogs—when a sound…or was it just a feeling?…made her freeze again. Was someone watching her? She had the distinct impression of a presence nearby, of eyes on her. Her own eyes flicked over to the knocker, searching again for the brief reflected movement.

Still nothing. Then a noise. Annabel whirled around again. A footstep?

Annabel.

She gasped and put her hand to her hammering heart. God, for a second she even thought she heard her name whispered out there in the darkness. Was she losing it? The fog was creepy, but come on. Who the hell was going to be loitering around her house, whispering her name, a ghost? A squirrel or a cat, or someone’s pet had made a noise and her imagination cut loose, that was all. Sheesh, get a grip.

She put the catalogs under her arm when she spotted something definitely not good. Her door stood open, just a crack, but open.

Steady. Her heart pounded harder; she swallowed with difficulty. Stefanie had been fairly spacey the past few weeks; she might have forgotten to close it.

The wood felt cool and slightly damp under her fingertips as she pushed it open and went inside. In the living room, she paused, ears straining. No noise. Nothing looked disturbed. She went through the house, approaching each room with caution.

Nothing.

Okay, she was satisfied no one had been here who wasn’t supposed to be. Stefanie must have left the door open. The spooky weather had set off Annabel’s fear.

Back downstairs, she relocked both doors. Then for good measure, she checked that the first-floor windows were locked, too.

Good. Back to normal. Weirdness dispelled. Maybe to add warmth, she’d light a fire in her kinky fireplace—the tiles around the hearth had been painted and installed by the house’s previous occupant. At first glance, innocent decoration. But a close look showed various couples enjoying various acts of…non-innocence.

Annabel loved them.

She crumpled newspaper, added kindling, and one log—why bother with more when she’d only be here briefly?

While the fire caught, she turned the heat down to sixty, turned on the outside lights and went up to her room. Changed into her bright red pajamas, brushed her teeth, washed her face, and took two cooking magazines back downstairs. So she could research while enjoying the flickering flames.

Six fairly dull articles later—how to make the perfect holiday centerpiece…what, to distract from bad food?—the breeze that started lifting the fog earlier had become a serious wind, rattling her windows and moaning through the crack under the front door. Annabel shivered. Wind was a restless, roaming, angry force and it made her want to bury herself under her blankets and pillow the way she had when she was a child. Thunder and lightning, no problem. Hail, ditto. But strong winds, no thanks. One tornado-producing storm had roared through her childhood and blown into her a healthy fear of that power.

The fire all but out, she beat a hasty childish retreat upstairs into her room. By that time, the gusts had died down a bit and another sound rose up, a clanking rattle, as if someone was dragging metal down the street.

She laughed uneasily and shook her head. So now her ghost had chains? How clichéd.

The wind picked up again, the rattling came closer, then an unearthly howl competed with the gusting blasts.

“Oh, for—” Annabel leaped to the window. This was starting to feel like the setup to a horror movie, and it was giving her the heebie-jeebies.

She yanked aside the curtain and pulled up the shade, determined to find normal and comforting explanations.

Ha. Just as she thought. The howling was Elsa, the beagle next door. Clanking chains—she scanned the street. Hmm.

Wait… Annabel squinted and pressed her forehead to the glass. Across the street, a man was jacking up his car. Ta-da. Clanking metal equaled jack being dragged around the car. Aha. Nothing like the delightful dullness of everyday explanations for her fears.

She stayed at the window and watched the man working, squatted in the street next to his flat tire. He had on a long dark dress coat, unusual in this neighborhood, where most of the men wore casual parkas.

The headlights of an oncoming car caught him; he turned his head and stood to get out of the way. Annabel registered a strong nose, nice profile, dark hair ruffling in the wind. He looked vaguely familiar.

The car passed, leaving the man in darkness again, except for the glow of the streetlight in front of Annabel’s house, no longer so shrouded by fog. She watched, waiting for the man to crouch and continue working.

Instead, he turned and looked directly up at her, as if he’d known she was standing there. Annabel gasped and instinctively lunged out of sight, then stood in the shadow of her curtain, hand pressed against her chest. He looked familiar straight on, too, but she couldn’t place him. Someone she had met at an after-hours event? She went over his features in her memory, trying to imagine him with a drink in his hand, or sitting in a lecture hall, or at a family dining table while she served dinner.

No luck. But she knew him, no question.

On impulse, she yanked down the shades, turned the lights out in her room and crept back to the window, folding back the edge of the shade just the tiniest bit so she could peek without being silhouetted by the light in her room.

He was gone.

She blinked and searched the area around his car. Nothing. Nowhere. Vanished.

Okay, the night was getting even weirder now.

Forget it. Back to bed, to Gourmet and Food & Wine. He probably gave up on the tire and went into his car to dial roadside assistance.

She’d settled back into her bed and picked up her magazine when her front doorbell rang, followed by the sharp metallic rapping of the knocker.




2


ANNABEL FROZE. Who the hell was ringing her doorbell at—she glanced at the clock—ten-seventeen on a week-night? She got out of bed and went to the window, strained to see if any sign of the caller was visible. No. He or she must be standing too close to the door; the roof obstructed Annabel’s view.

Okay. So how stupid was it for a woman living alone to answer the door at night?

Pretty stupid.

She grabbed a robe from her closet, jammed her feet into her ratty black slippers and started downstairs, unable to resist her curiosity. Was it the man fixing his tire? Maybe he needed to use her phone? Except what kind of person didn’t own a cell nowadays?

The bell rang once more, followed again by the rapping knocker. Impatient type. She hurried through her dining room, living room, then opened the door into the always chilly front entranceway. “Who is it?”

“Annabel. It’s Quinn Garrett.”

Annabel’s eyes shot wide; her mouth dropped open to emit incredulous laughter. Quinn. She should have recognized him immediately. Even if she couldn’t place him from the year he spent with her family on a high-school exchange program, she should have recognized him from the media fuss over the years. Newspaper, magazines, TV, the guy had become a household name—just not one she expected to show up on her street.

“Quinn!” She eagerly opened the door, then had to steel herself not to take a step back.

Yes, she’d seen that he grew up even more gorgeous than he’d been in high school. Lost the boyish roundness to his face, and the teenage awkwardness. But she was totally unprepared for the impact of seeing him in the flesh, totally unprepared for the intense buzz of chemistry—on her end anyway. Holy cheezits. She’d had a crush on him all those years ago, but the physical reaction was extremely different now that she knew what all those fluttery feelings meant.

“Annabel.” His voice was even more resonant coming to her live and in person, his eyes dark and intense; she could barely keep her gaze on his.

“Hi,” she said oh-so-brilliantly, sounding breathless and starstruck—not at all a coincidence, since she was both. “Quinn,” she added even more brilliantly.

His lips curved in a smile. “You grew up.”

“Oh. Yes.” She winced. Maybe try saying something intelligent? “So did you.”

Good job.

“I guess that makes two of us.” He grinned suddenly, a full white-toothed grin, which made him so sexy she feared hyperventilation. “I was planning to show up at a more reasonable hour, but when I saw you at your window, I thought I might as well say hello now.”

“Can I help?” She gestured out at his car, probably a rental—Lexus?

“Just a flat. All fixed.”

“Very good.” She moved aside in the doorway. “Come in.”

“Are you sure? You were on your way to bed.” He glanced at her robe, making her so not happy she’d grabbed the thick flowery one that had pills all over it. She’d much rather be wearing silk. Or even better, clothes. She felt vulnerable and strange like this, even though he’d seen her in her pajamas dozens of times. But then that was years ago; she’d been thirteen and hardly the stuff of male fantasy. More like an annoying little sister.

She did not want him to see her as an annoying little sister now.

He took off his coat and the white, probably cashmere, scarf, and, oh, my God, he was wearing a tux. Even homely looked good in a tux; gorgeous should be outlawed.

“I was at a party in Brookfield—I’m a little over-dressed.”

“I’m a little underdressed.”

“So we even out.” He stood, hands on his hips pushing back his jacket, clearly at ease in her living room, while she had to remind herself not to fidget.

“Have a seat.” She indicated the couch behind him. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water would be nice.”

“That’s all? I have cider, wine, beer, cognac…”

He held up a hand to stop her list. “Water is really what I want.”

“Water coming up.” She padded into the kitchen, feeling round and unappealing, wondering if it would be weird to go upstairs and throw on some clothes. Maybe a thong and a push-up bra? Or, okay, jeans and a nice tight sweater, too. But if she did that, he’d know she was uncomfortable around him this way, which would make things even more uncomfortable.

She ran the water until it was good and cold, filled a glass, poured Dove dark chocolate pieces, dried apricots and plain-roasted almonds into small brass bowls and put them on a wooden tray. Water might be what he wanted, but the professional hostess in her had to offer more.

“Here you go.” She smiled too brightly and headed toward him, feeling even rounder and less appealing when she saw how amazing he looked sitting on her couch, bow tie untied, collar button undone, arm up along the back of the sofa. GQ much? Of course, he’d probably been on their cover, probably more than once. It was so hard to reconcile the kid she’d known with this…well, look up male in the dictionary and find his picture.

He reached for the glass and lifted a dark brow at the tray of food. “With trimmings?”

“I am unable to serve only water to my guests. It’s become genetically impossible.” She perched on a chair across the narrow room. If she were dressed to match his trappings, she’d have no problem sitting next to him on the couch. Leaning close. Closer. Closest. Straddling him and…okay, enough.

“I remember being extremely well fed at your house. Your mom was a great cook. I’m sorry to hear she and your dad died.”

“Thanks.” Annabel’s voice dropped low in her throat. “I miss them.”

“They were great people. Your whole family. That year was really special for me.”

“Us, too.” She smiled, then almost wished she hadn’t when he caught her eyes and held on, and the tension stretched to nearly unbearable.

Not to beat around the bush or anything, but she wanted to sleep with him. Like crazy. The breakup with Bob weeks ago had left her alone, but satisfied. Usually it was six to eight months before she wanted to start in again. But one glimpse of this man had her libido rising like a chocolate Chambord soufflé.

“So, your brother John tells me you need rescuing.”

Annabel’s smile traded itself for a dropped jaw. “Excuse me? Rescuing?”

“He said you don’t know how to have fun anymore.”

“Huh?”

He cocked his head back to one side and shot her an amused look from under his lids. “Don’t. Know. How. To. Have. Fun.”

The overenunciation of each word of course brought her attention to his lips, which were full and all male and magnificent and why didn’t he just strip naked now and pleasure her until she screamed?

Because that would be fine. Really.

“Tell my brother John that I know how to have fun.”

He moved casually, adjusting his position on the couch, but his eyes were on her like a frog watching the bug soon to be glued to its tongue.

And oh, what a lovely image that was.

“How do you have fun?”

A flush rose to Annabel’s cheeks. She so wanted to answer that question in a very provocative and enticing way. But not while she was wearing bright red flannel pajamas and a robe that made her look like Mrs. Claus first thing in the morning. Besides, women must try to get into Quinn Garrett’s pants all day long. Inspiring all that lust probably got tedious. Not to mention that she’d been sort of a sister to him all those years ago, which might still be how he thought of her.

Bummer. Major bummer.

“When I want to have fun, I go out.”

“Where?”

“To restaurants, movies, clubs…” Okay, not clubs; noise and smoke were not her thing, but it sounded good.

“With whom?”

Whoever I’m boinking at the moment. “Dates.”

“When was the last time?”

“Is this an interrogation? Should I move the lamp so it shines in my eyes?”

“No.” He leaned on the sofa arm, index finger resting against his temple, fingers curled next to his mouth.

Bond. James Bond. Double-oh—

“When was the last time you went out and had fun?”

“Well, that was…” Annabel frowned. No fair. She broke up with Bob officially a month ago, and she hadn’t seen much of him for a week or two before that since she’d been so busy. “Probably not as long ago as it sounds.”

“That’s what I thought.” He drained his glass, put it carefully back on the coaster on her cherry coffee table and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. Immediately she wanted to copycat lean-forward, too. Even though he was sitting across the room, the gesture brought him closer enough—brought those killer eyes closer enough—that it felt intimate.

Damn the pilly robe.

“So what are you doing in Milwaukee?” With any luck he wouldn’t notice that she’d changed the sub—

“Changing the subject?”

Damn. “Okay, you got me.”

He started a smile, didn’t let it get far. “I’m here as decoration, mostly. We’re hoping to buy the old Herrn brewery and start manufacturing HC-3s here in Milwaukee. Other people do the talking, the negotiating, I show up and act like I’m important.”

“I imagine you are.”

“You always had a good imagination.”

She chuckled, foolishly pleased he referred to their history, that he’d bothered to remember her. Or was doing a damn good job faking it. “We could use that kind of industry here. You’ll be doing the city a lot of good.”

“That’s the idea. I have a soft spot for Milwaukee, for obvious reasons.”

Annabel smiled graciously as his comment warranted, but she was thinking he probably didn’t have a soft spot anywhere.

How depraved was she to meet an old friend unexpectedly and want nothing more than to see him naked? “What brought you to this neighborhood tonight? You said you were at a party in Brookfield?”

“Spur-of-the-moment decision driving back. I wanted to see where you lived. Then my tire went, practically at your door and you know the rest.”

“It was funny, with the wind, dog howling next door, your jack clanking on the street—I thought I was being haunted.”

He narrowed his eyes for a fleeting second, then got up abruptly, approached her fireplace and crouched to examine the tiles. “Excuse me, but I have to see if these are what I think.”

“They are.” She laughed, a little nervously, willing the heat to stay out of her cheeks. How many people had she shown those pictures off to? Now she wanted to blush? “An artist used to live here, who apparently had a rather liberal view of life. But I like them. They’re not obvious unless you look closely. You’re the first person who spotted them on his own.”

“Am I?” His eyebrows went up, but she had the feeling he wasn’t surprised. She shouldn’t be, either. Even in high school, nothing had escaped his notice. Of course, that fact would have made no impression on her at thirteen, except that her parents kept commenting on what a remarkable boy he was. A remarkable boy who’d grown into a remarkable man. Damn shame Mom and Dad weren’t here to see it. Her mom especially had doted on Quinn, and missed him when he went back home, though she’d loved that he kept in touch for several years, especially at Christmas.

“Why the sadness?”

Annabel started. He hadn’t even glanced at her, she was sure. He was standing now, staring into the fireplace where her lone log still glowed orange underneath. Freaky how he did that. More than once when she’d been in thirteen-year-old hormone hell, he’d understood what she was feeling more than her parents had. Or so it seemed to her at the time.

“I was thinking Mom and Dad would have really liked to know you now.”

“Maybe they do.”

She shot him a startled look, then laughed. “I suppose that’s possible.”

He picked up a tiny framed print from her mantel, Three Spirits Mad With Joy, by Warwick Goble, a whimsical favorite of hers left to her by her mom. “I used to think the dead should be allowed to come back one day a year, to see the people who miss them.”

“You don’t anymore?”

He turned, cocking his head in a silent question.

“You said used to think.”

“Oh.” He put the picture down. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it in a while.”

“Who would you want to come back?”

“Sally.” He spoke without hesitation.

Annabel clenched her teeth against irrational jealousy. She hadn’t read about him getting married or being attached, but then Quinn Garrett was adamant about keeping his personal life away from the press. “I’m sorry. Someone special?”

“Very.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Guinea pig.”

Annabel burst out laughing. “Be serious.”

“I am serious. I had her when I was a boy. She listened to everything I said, never thought I was odd. It was always clear what she wanted from me.” He chuckled, reminding Annabel how seldom he laughed out loud.

“She sounds wonderful. Who else would you want to come back? I hope your parents are still in this world.”

“Mom is.” He moved back to the couch to grab his coat. Even in high school he’d been reluctant to discuss his life or his parents. All she knew was that they lived in Hartland, Maine—sister city to Hartland, Wisconsin, where Annabel had grown up, and that his father had worked at a tannery while mom stayed home.

“I should go.”

“You should?” She stood up, absurdly disappointed, and followed him into the chilly front entranceway.

“I’ve taken up too much of your evening already.”

She stopped herself from offering him the rest of it, wanting to ask Will I see you again? but hating the clingy-woman line. “Thank you for stopping by.”

“I’ll see you again.”

She couldn’t help the wide smile. “I’d like that.”

“I would, too.” He leaned forward and for one crazy second, she thought he was going to kiss her and her entire being went on hold. Then he stopped several inches away and she had to use everything in her power not to look disappointed.

“I’m counting on you to show me some fun while I’m here, Annabel.” His eyes were warm, bottomless, and he smelled like expensive male heaven.

Oh, yes. “How long will you be here?”

“As long as it takes.”

“To negotiate the acquisition?”

He lifted one eyebrow briefly, then leaned the rest of the way toward her and kissed her…

On the cheek, oh crap.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” He let himself out and strode down her front walk toward his car.

Annabel shut the door slowly, not wanting him to turn and catch her mooning after him but reluctant to cut herself off from the sight of him. Her heart was pounding, cheeks flushed, body buzzing with excitement in spite of her disappointment. She’d see him again. When she wasn’t wearing pajamas.

Across the street, she heard his car door open, close, the engine start up and drive slowly away.

She’d be wearing nothing like pajamas. Nothing to remind him of the year when she’d been practically his little sister. Then maybe his next kiss goodbye wouldn’t be aimed at her cheek.

And maybe, just maybe, it would last all night.



THE PHONE RANG. Annabel’s eyes shot open.

Early. Very early. Her body could tell. Who was calling? Had something happened? She’d been dreaming—a curtain around her bed, some menace approaching, about to yank it back…

She reached for the phone, glancing at the clock. Six o’clock. If Ted was trying to worm out of cooking for the Moynahans today, she’d kill him.

“Annabel.”

The adrenaline that had kicked in at her abrupt awakening doubled. No, tripled.

“Quinn.” She pitched her voice higher than usual so he wouldn’t hear the sleep still in it.

“I woke you.”

Annabel rolled her eyes. She couldn’t get anything past the man. “It’s okay.”

“Have breakfast with me.”

“I can’t.” The words came to her lips before she’d even thought them through.

A low chuckle on the line. “Let’s try that again. Have breakfast with me, Annabel.”

This time the request, or rather command, sneaked past her Automatic Self-Denial System—was it the sexy way he said her name?—and she found she really wanted to. But she had so much to—

“Café at the Pfister. At seven.”

She smiled and fell back onto the bed, one hand holding the phone to her ear, the other pushing her hair back. Could she? A quick shower, dressing for him in actual clothes, a quick fifteen-minute drive downtown, breakfast for an hour or so, back here ready to go by eight-thirty or nine—not that much past her usual time. And it might be her only chance to see Quinn again; the man was doubtless booked solid while he was here. Everyone must want a piece of him.

Okay, she was convinced.

“That sounds fine.”

“See you then.”

He signed off and she threw back the covers, bounded from the bed and shed her pajamas on the way to the shower. Fifteen minutes later, washed, dried, lotioned and deodorized, she stood in front of her closet, awash in an unfamiliar emotion: indecision.

There was only one outfit she knew she wasn’t going to wear, and that was the one she’d just picked up off the floor and tossed back onto her bed. But what? Sexy? Businesslike? Formal? Casual?

No jeans at the Pfister, Milwaukee’s grand old hotel. And she was sick of won’t-show-or-hold-stains pants and shirts for work at clients’ homes. But the all-business suits she wore to networking events…so cold, so…not seductive. Not that she wanted to be blatant about it. But hell, she was single, he was single; consenting adults could create many hot, appetizing scenarios if all the ingredients came together properly. She’d certainly love to taste what he was made of. And while she wouldn’t go as far as throwing herself at him, looking female wouldn’t hurt.

She settled on a red suit with a knee-length skirt and plunging V-collar jacket, nipped in at the waist. Under it a black stretch camisole with built-in bra. Silver earrings, a silver chain, plain stockings and high black pumps, which always felt confining and wobbly after so much time in clogs and slippers.

There. Not too conservative, not too sexy. And it was breakfast, after all, not dancing by moonlight.

Oh, but that was a nice thought, too.

Makeup next—not too much on her still-sleepy face or risk looking like a professional escort, ahem. Mascara, blush, red lipstick blotted down to a respectable level of brightness, under-eye concealer. Was it her imagination or did she need more of that every year as she neared thirty? A wrinkled-nose look at her nails. No way could she keep polish on with all the chopping and scrubbing she did in her job. Ah, well. She was more than the sum total of her manicure.

Glance in the mirror—okay, who was she kidding, a long, careful study—and she was ready. To have breakfast with Quinn. Oh my, yes.

In her unsexy minivan, she drove Route 41 to I 94, past the Brewers Stadium, past the sour-mash-and-hops smell of the Miller brewery, then off the highway and in among the buildings and asphalt of downtown, over on Wisconsin Avenue to Jefferson, circling the nineteenth-century, green-awninged Pfister and into the hotel’s garage.

Her heels made important-sounding click-clacks down the ramp, then tap-tapped into the elevator to the first floor and went quiet on the lobby carpet into the café.

She mentioned Quinn’s name unnecessarily to the maître-d’—unnecessarily, because within a heartbeat of being inside the restaurant, she saw him. Couldn’t help seeing him. He stuck out among the other suited men in the room, even though there was no immediately definable reason why he should, other than that he was familiar. But it went beyond that, if the glances from other diners were anything to go by, beyond even his celebrity. The man radiated…sex. No, he radiated power and authority and grace. And if you happened to find those traits sexy—and who didn’t?—then yes, you could say he radiated sex. Which she just did say. Not that she was repeating herself because she was flustered…or anything.

He stood and watched her coming toward their table, apparently at ease with eye contact since they were out of speaking range, which made most people busy themselves with glancing at watches or fussing with silverware.

She neared the table and said hello, beaming goofily; she couldn’t help it. He said hello back and sat only after she’d parked her butt opposite. Funny how she never noticed men’s badly fitting suits, but she sure noticed one that fit well. It didn’t just hang on him, or fight his movements. It rested and breathed with him, sat perfectly when he did. It would look so wonderful draped over a chair after he’d taken it off for the purpose of thrashing around with…okay, she had to stop that.

“I’m glad you decided to join me.”

“I got the impression you wouldn’t have let me refuse.”

“True.” He gave that implied smile and picked up a menu. “If you said no, I was going to show up at your house with bagels and coffee.”

“A man who gets what he wants.”

He regarded her with an enigmatic expression that made her want to x-ray his brain and see what was going on inside. “I’ve been reading a biography of Napoleon. That man had a hunger for power and acquisitions that could never be satisfied.”

“After you’re crowned emperor, what’s left?”

“Exactly. Sometimes I get what I want. But I always want what I get. It’s enough.”

“Admirable.” She picked up her menu, thinking he might as well call himself emperor. He’d single-handedly revolutionized the PC, the industry, and practically the world. It was a no-brainer he had enough. While she was still struggling to get her business off the ground.

“Easy for me to say?”

Annabel blinked up from Lighter Fare. “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Read my mind.”

He gave a slow grin. “I invented a mind reader, too, didn’t you hear? Little chip, implanted in my temple.”

She laughed, thinking that the familiar comfort of having known him a long time ago, contrasted with grown-up sexual edginess, made their chemistry even harder to resist. “Ah, so that’s how you do it.”

“Most people would be thinking the same thing. That it’s easy for me to say I’m satisfied, when to all appearances I have everything.”

“Probably.” She didn’t want to go into the fact that he seemed to be able to read her mind when she couldn’t possibly be thinking what everyone else would be thinking.

“So maybe I am perceived as the emperor now. But I was satisfied when I was working for Microsoft. And I was satisfied when my start-up company netted thirty thousand annually—when the HC-1 was considered a novelty sci-fi gimmick that would never catch on. So I’d like to think wanting what I get is a true philosophy.”

“Very Zen of you.” She picked up her water glass and took a sip, not entirely convinced. People happy with less didn’t generally end up with so much more.

“But I have to tell you something even more important than my life’s philosophy.”

She put her glass down. “What’s that?”

“You are incredibly beautiful all grown-up, Annabel.”

All grown-up Annabel was very glad she wasn’t still holding the glass, because at his comment it would have slipped from her fingers and crashed all over the lovely table. Oh, did that sound wonderful coming from him.

“Thank you.” Her cheeks grew warm. “You’re pretty spectacular all grown-up, too.”

“Thank you.” He, of course, didn’t blush. His self-control was absolute. And yes, she’d love to make him lose it.

“Can I take your order?” The matronly waitress stood at the table, bowing slightly forward, as if in the presence of royalty.

Annabel glanced longingly at the skillet breakfast on the menu, but if she started her day with that much heavy food, she’d want to crawl in bed and stay, and she had a lot to accomplish. “I’d like the yogurt-and-fruit parfait, orange juice and tea, please.”

“Smoked-salmon bagel, no cream cheese, grapefruit juice and coffee.” Quinn handed his menu to the waitress, who actually did bow before she swept away.

“Tell me about your business, Annabel.” He turned those magnificent eyes back on her. It was true what people said, that when Quinn Garrett spoke to you, he made you feel no one else existed. She’d just like to know he was genuinely feeling that way with her.

“I’m a personal chef. I do your grocery shopping, come into your home on a day you choose, cook a week’s worth of meals from menus you select, package, freeze and clean up the whole shebang.”

“Wow. Where do I sign up?”

She smiled, and let the eye contact go a little too long, just for the cheap thrill. “I will also come into your home, cook, serve and clean up your dinner party—sit-down or buffet.”

“Maybe I’ll hire you while I’m here. My place has a fairly decent kitchen.”

Her heart leaped, for professional reasons this time. Quinn would no doubt be entertaining high-powered Milwaukee elite. She could make some valuable contacts. “You’re not at the hotel?”

He shook his head. “I’ve rented a furnished apartment.”

“So you’re staying on for a while?”

“It looks that way.”

She was so pleased she actually laughed. “Oh, that’s great.”

The waitress arrived with juice, leaving Annabel’s gushing enthusiasm hanging in the silence between them.

Fawn on, little sister.

Quinn nodded his thanks to the waitress, then fixed Annabel with his dark brown eyes again. “I want to see a lot of you while I’m here.”

Oh, my. It was on the tip of her tongue to say You can see all of me, but she thought that was a little grossly eager. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” He sat back as if satisfied the deal had been cemented.

Annabel gave herself a figurative smack out of fantasyland. See a lot of her? Hello? Do we have lots of time to be lollygagging around with People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive?

“Though actually, I’m pretty crazy busy at this time of year. People want to party, so the holidays are my most profitable time.”

“We’ll work it out.”

Absolute confidence. Annabel leaned back to give the waitress room to set down breakfast. That’s what made people like Quinn—and Napoleon—succeed. She was confident her business would do well, but not absolutely confident. She needed to ratchet that up a few notches, get herself in a position of more security so she could—

“I assume your nights are free.”

The spoonful of yogurt made it only halfway to Annabel’s mouth. “My nights?”

“Yes.” He glanced up calmly from his bagel, on which he was arranging salmon, tomato slices and capers, a combination she’d already filed away in her mental recipe holder. “How much sleep do you need?”

“I…not much. Five or six hours.”

“Then we’ll have nights together.”

Stay away, blush, stay the hell away. Did he mean…what did he mean? Did his—

He reached across the table, laid his finger against her lips, shushing her, even though she hadn’t said anything.

“Don’t think. Don’t wonder. Just agree.”

Her mouth opened. Then shut. She hadn’t a clue what to say.

“Annabel.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“What time will you be home tomorrow night?”

“Um…midnight.” He didn’t move his finger while she answered, and the sensation of her lips moving over his skin started her heating up.

“I’ll be at your house at midnight. Wear whatever mood you’re in.”

Her head started spinning. She was barely able to grasp any of this. Wear her mood? “What do you mean?”

“Surprise me, Annabel.”

“Oh.” She still whispered, unable to produce tone, breathing high and fast, color blooming in her cheeks. “Yes. Okay.”

“Good.” His voice dropped; he moved his finger gently back and forth on her mouth, as if he were a hypnotist, luring her into a trance. “I think I’ll be able to surprise you, too.”




3


To: John Brightman

From: Quinn Garrett

Date: December 19

Subject: Annabel

John, I looked up your sister. It was great to see her, we had breakfast yesterday morning. She does seem very work focused, but aside from that, she’s obviously healthy and sane, so I wouldn’t worry too much. I’ll see if I can drag her away for some fun while I’m here. Maybe something more sophisticated than stealing her Barbie’s underwear and outfitting her hamsters in it.

I’m hoping she’s forgotten that incident.

Quinn

To: Quinn Garrett

From: John Brightman

Date: December 19

Subject: Re: Annabel

Ralph, the panty-wearing hamster! As I recall Annabel was not amused. Didn’t she stop speaking to us for two days? I’d forgotten she even had Barbie, I’m not sure she ever really played with it. But bring the panty episode up when you see her next. If she doesn’t laugh now, I really will worry.

Thanks for the report. If business keeps you there over Christmas, see if you can tempt her into some celebration. You remember what a big deal Christmas was to my parents. I hate thinking of her holed up alone in her house every year.

(For some reason, she accuses me of being a mother hen. Can you, ahem, imagine why she’d think such a thing?)

John



QUINN PULLED his car close to the curb opposite Annabel’s house, lifted the vase of red, pink, white and yellow roses from the seat next to him, and emerged into the cold air, the smell of coming snow mingling with the delicate floral scent.

He’d called earlier to make sure Annabel would be out when he delivered the flowers. He wanted the chance to speak with her assistant, Stefanie, in person, get a better sense of what Annabel was about, how others perceived her, before he went too far with John’s “rescue” idea. After all, John lived on the other side of the country. How much could he really know about Annabel’s life and what she needed? On the other hand, he was her brother, and from what Quinn could tell, they were fairly close siblings.

Either way, he wanted to find out as much about her as possible. And if that made him sound slightly obsessed, so be it. The depth of his fascination defied logic.

She reminded him of her father, a big, no-nonsense, military man with a larger-than-life personality, impossible to please, measuring out compliments and love to his children in sparing doses so as not to spoil them. At thirteen, Annabel had had a tempestuous relationship with him, two kindred spirits butting heads, though she’d had plenty of her mother’s softer side, too. Now, if John were to be believed, it seemed her father’s genes had won out.

There were other feelings, too, beyond fascination. Feelings that had invaded him in force when she opened the door the other night and he got his first close-up look at his memorized brown-eyed, brunette, apple-cheeked adolescent image of her grown taller, softened and filled out here, slimmed and carved in there. An instant recognition, a year’s worth of good memories and brotherly affection had swarmed him. Add to that, entirely in the present, a wave of sexual attraction so strong he could barely keep from making a move on her right there.

He’d gone home that night and lain in bed, unable to sleep thanks to the fantasies his mind would not stop inventing. And the thought had come to him with the calm certainty that thoughts often came to him—as if he could predict his own future, or as if he’d already lived his life and was simply remembering—that he would experience the explosive passion of their coming together in more than just fantasy. Soon.

He climbed the steps to her front door, rang the bell and waited, glancing around at the attractive rows of bungalows and stone houses that varied by differing roof and trim colors. A nice middle-class family neighborhood. Interesting that she hadn’t chosen to live in a trendy downtown area, or in the more sophisticated neighborhoods north of the city where her cousin lived. Money had not been a problem in her childhood, as it had been chronically in his.

So what did she hunger for? Fame? Recognition? Approval? Money entirely her own? What drove her? Her father’s barely concealed disdain for women aspiring to or attaining high places? Quinn would find out. It was no accident that he’d mentioned the biography of Napoleon at breakfast the previous morning. He’d sensed that same chronic restlessness in her, a restlessness that would doom her to a lifelong search, unless she learned to find peace in the here and now. Maybe that peace was what John wanted for his sister.

The arched wooden door opened slowly to reveal a thin, pale young woman with fine, shoulder-length blond hair, who looked as if she hadn’t slept in a week. He’d expected Stefanie to be a carbon copy of Annabel, at least in energy and spirit.

“Stefanie?”

“Yes.” She extended a small, cool hand that felt as if it might break in his grasp. “Hello, Mr. Garrett.”

“Quinn, please.”

“Quinn. It’s nice to meet you. What beautiful roses. Come on in.”

He followed her into the familiar living room, tastefully if sparsely decorated in muted colors, lacking life and energy without its owner there, caught bundled in pajamas and an old robe by an unexpected nocturnal visitor. He’d sensed Annabel’s discomfort, her longing to be as sleekly and confidently put together as she’d been the next morning at breakfast. Little did she know how that first rumpled sight of her had fueled his dreams that night.

“Would you like to put the roses in Annabel’s office?” Stefanie glanced at him, then away. There was something furtive about her, something self-protective; he couldn’t quite grasp what it was yet. Was she uneasy around him? Anxious about letting him in without Annabel here? Or simply nervous by nature?

“That would be fine.”

She led him through the dining room and around the corner, into a room astoundingly devoid of color and personality. How could someone as colorful as Annabel—he’d seen her only in red so far—surround herself with so much bland professionalism?

He put the flowers on her neatly organized desk and stepped back next to Stefanie to consider them. The effect of the brilliant splash in the dull room was nearly violent. “I guess you can’t miss them.”

Stefanie laughed. “I offered to decorate for the holidays, but she refused.”

“Really.”

Stefanie shrugged, obviously unwilling to offer up the opinion of her boss he was after.

“Why do you think that is?”

“Oh. Well, she’s so busy. And the holidays are always so busy. And I guess…she’s…” Stephanie’s frantic gestures subsided as she seemed to run out of possible explanations. Or politically correct ones.

“Busy?”

“Yes.” Stefanie laughed abruptly. “Things might be going well, but they could be going better.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is that what she says?”

“It’s her motto, she had me tape it to my computer.” Stefanie turned to walk into a room across the tiny hall. “Here.”

Quinn followed and nodded at the black-lettered sign adorning one of Holocorp’s HC-2s. More, more, better, better…as he feared. “I take it that wouldn’t have been your decorating choice?”

“Oh, I don’t mind. It’s a good motto. She certainly puts it into practice. I swear she never takes a day off. Never even an hour. When I leave every day I get the feeling she’s not even close to winding down. She’s amazing.”

Not quite the word he’d use. He pointed to the tiny tree on Stefanie’s desk, lights blinking on and off, tiny plastic presents under the green fake-needled branches. “Nice touch.”

Stefanie blushed, bringing welcome color into her pretty face. “Silly, I suppose, but I need something to remind me of Christmas. I love this time of year.”

She emphasized “I” just enough to send the message that Annabel didn’t. “Bob Cratchit working for Scrooge?”

“Oh, no, she’s not bad. I like her a lot—she’s a great person.” Stefanie stooped to turn up a space heater blasting away in the already-warm room, and put her hand protectively on her abdomen. “Sorry, but I can’t stay warm in this house.”

“Why don’t you ask Annabel to turn up the heat?”

“She teases me all the time how cold is good for me. I finally just bought a heater.”

Quinn frowned. First rule of good management, whenever you can, keep your employees happy in whatever ways you can. The little things mattered. “I see.”

“I don’t want you to think it’s a problem.” Stefanie stared at him anxiously. “It’s definitely not a problem.”

Quinn forced a smile. It was a problem. One so easily resolved. “How long have you been working for Annabel?”

“Since she started Chefs Tonight, a year or so ago.”

“What did you do before that?”

“Oh, well, I was a hostess at a couple of restaurants, a waitress. Seems I’m always involved with food in some way. But I like working here.”

“You don’t get lonely stuck in a back room all day?”

“No, Annabel’s here a lot, and she has really sweet neighbors on both sides, Kathy across the street—she runs a day care—and Chris to the north, we have lunch sometimes. This is a great block. The kids are out playing all summer long and after school, it’s very cheerful.”

“So Annabel is close to her neighbors.”

“Oh. Well, not exactly. But I’ve gotten to know them and they’re great people. See, Annabel is so busy she doesn’t really have time for friends. There’s her brother, John, who you know, I guess, and then once in a while there’s a new guy who calls for a while until she breaks it off…she always breaks it off.” Stefanie rolled her eyes. “Trail of broken hearts around the city. Maybe you’ll have better luck.”

Quinn chuckled, filing the information away. Was Annabel so driven she couldn’t fall in love? Too blind to see the opportunities? Or did she deliberately choose men who couldn’t touch her and interfere with her work? “I’m an old friend of the family.”

“Oh. I’m sorry! I didn’t mean… I mean, I know she knew you before, but then the roses today…I thought…” She winced and put her finger to her head as if it were the barrel of a gun. “Shut up, Stefanie.”

“A natural assumption.” He was definitely in luck—Stefanie was a talker. “What did Annabel do before this?”

“She had another business. With…a friend.” Stefanie’s expression closed down. She put her hand again to her abdomen, rubbed briefly and stifled a yawn.

“Something went wrong.” He spoke gently, to encourage her confidence.

“Oh, well, they wanted different things, I guess. Tanya has a shop in Hartland, Tanya’s Good Taste. Candy and all kinds of gourmet foods. She’s doing really well. But I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this. You should probably ask Annabel.” Stefanie moved around to sit heavily at her desk, as if her legs wouldn’t hold her up anymore.

“Okay.” Quinn’s instinct sharpened. He walked to the back window, gazed out at the tiny backyard, the two-car garage easily taking up half. Then he turned his head so he could speak softly and Stefanie could still hear him. His next move was unorthodox, but he needed to see her reaction. “When are you due?”

An enormous gasp came from behind the desk. “Oh, my gosh. How did you know?”

He turned and smiled. “Congratulations.”

“Did Annabel tell you? Does she know?” A worried frown creased her forehead, and she clutched her stomach as if the idea of Annabel finding out made her violently ill.

He shook his head. As he suspected. “If you haven’t told her, she probably doesn’t know.”

“I haven’t told her.” She stared at her hands, fidgeting in her lap. “See, I’m due July Fourth, and with Memorial Day and the holiday, that’s a busy time for us, and I’m not sure…I mean I’m afraid…”

Quinn’s lips tightened. “She can’t fire you.”

“Oh, I know. But…well, I don’t know how she’ll manage. She once said she was glad I wasn’t planning to have children. I mean that’s what I told her in the interview and it was true then, but this happened by accident and Frank and I found we really want this baby, so here I am. And if I want to ask for maternity leave…well, it’s a mess.” She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t even be telling you all this.”

“It won’t go further than me. But you need to tell Annabel.”

“I know, I know.” Stefanie lifted one hand and let it drop hopelessly in her lap. “I just dread it.”

“Tell you what.” He approached her desk and leaned his hands on its edge. “Wait until after the first of the year.”

She lifted her head. “Why then?”

He winked. “I have a few reasons, fairly personal.”

“Oh.” An enormous grin lit up her tired face. “So maybe I wasn’t so wrong about the roses?”

“Possibly not.” He smiled. He liked Stefanie. And she’d told him enough to confirm what John had said, and convince him that Annabel could use a little nudge in a calmer direction. “Tell me something, Stefanie.”

“Yes?”

“Does Annabel have anything important scheduled tomorrow, anything she can’t miss?”

Stefanie chuckled and flipped a page of the calendar on her desk, drew her finger down the neatly made entries. “She would undoubtedly disagree, but from what I can see, no, nothing. Ted’s doing the Henkels, no parties for once.”

“Excellent.”

“So…” Stefanie looked up slyly. “Is it fair to assume Ms. Brightman won’t be in the office tomorrow?”

“I think that’s a very fair assumption.”

“Good.”

“You approve?”

“Definitely.” Stefanie leaned toward him over her desk and glanced into the hall as if she was afraid someone would overhear her next words. “Call me crazy, call me hormonal, call me whatever you want…but I think this time Annabel’s met her match.”



ANNABEL BOLTED from her garage to the back door, racing the icy winds whipping down her driveway, which not only wanted to remove any and all moisture from her exposed skin, but also made her breath jump back down her throat and huddle there for warmth. The cold front had arrived right on schedule; the windchill must be down in negative Fahrenheit territory.

Brrr.

She fumbled with her keys, reluctantly snatching one sheepskin mitten from her hand so her fingers could select the proper one more easily. Hurry, hurry. Eleven-thirty—she only had half an hour to shower and dress, to wear whatever mood she was in.

What mood was she in? Right now, jittery and frantic. She felt in her bones that Quinn would be precisely on time.

But jittery and frantic would not make an attractive presentation.

At all.

She jammed the key in the lock, twisted, turned and burst through the door. Leaped up the back stairs and smacked her keys onto the tiny phone nook cut into the wall, then dashed into her office, already shrugging out of her parka, to hang—

What was this?

She flicked on the light, pushed her thoroughly blown hair off her face and stared. The most amazing assortment of roses. Yellow, pink, white, red, oh, my goodness. Hand to her chest, she moved toward the card, daring it to be signed by who she so wanted it to be signed by.

Not a grateful client. Not a family member wishing her well. Not a friend sending joys of the season. Not that any of those had ever happened.

But, please, one sexually amazing corporate giant? Maybe a little smitten with her? Enchanted at the very least? Maybe saying as much? Or how he could not wait to see her tonight?

Maybe?

She plucked the envelope from the plastic-pronged holder and pulled out the card, parka still dangling off one arm. Black ink. Strong masculine handwriting.

To Annabel. So you can stop and smell them. Quinn.

Huh?

Damn and scowling disappointment. So you can stop and smell them? For crying out loud, he sounded like her brother.

What was with men, particularly high-powered men? They couldn’t handle women who wanted to get places. Just like her father, who made her mom give up a promising career as a lawyer to be his full-time wife. Bet Quinn never told his male colleagues to take it easy. Bet he was never concerned about their mental health or their personal development. But oh, no! Women shouldn’t hurt their delicate little selves shooting for anything like the big time.

God forbid. After all, what would men have to lord over them if women made success look as good as they did?

She jerked the second half of her coat off and hung it in the closet at the back of the room. Whether they liked it or not, she’d been born to take her place among the leaders. When other girls had been playing dress-up or planning trips to the shopping mall, she’d been playing Risk, plotting to take over the world. While other girls had batted their eyes and played stupid, sat on the sidelines and cheered, Annabel had excelled at her studies with pride, taken the field and played ferociously.

The closet door swung under the force of her shove, hit the jamb with a satisfying thud, then bounced back open slightly. She took a deep breath and turned to face the flowers again. They were beautiful. And unless she wanted to “wear her mood” and show up dressed for heavy combat, she’d better calm down.

Granted, maybe, possibly, yes, okay, she had a teeny-weeny chip on her shoulder. Her father had made it clear that women weren’t ever going to take the place of men on the battlefield of life, and that those who tried somehow betrayed their gender. He’d encouraged her brother, applauded his achievements, and while Annabel was his special little girl and always would be, she got the sense that when John had chosen teaching instead of big business, he’d left a hole Dad never bothered hoping Annabel could fill. Certainly not with something as girly as food service.

Was that what drove her? Partly, sure, that—and her own Dad-inherited need to do things in a big way. But the drive certainly fueled her irritation at the message on the flowers, which Quinn had bought to be supportive and thoughtful, so she should chill the heck out and…she glanced at her watch…yikes! Get dressed!

She took the stairs two at a time, launched herself into her room and came to a stop in front of the closet. All day she’d been distracted by thoughts of this date—what would they do? what would she wear? where would they go? would they…mmm…or not?—and finally decided to take Quinn at his word, wait to see what mood she was in and dress accordingly.

Now she wished she’d planned ahead, her usual strategy.

So…

Would they be going out? Staying in? There wasn’t much open now. Milwaukee was hardly the city that never slept. If they went out, she’d need something warm to combat the icy temperatures. But if they stayed in…she could get away with next-to-nothing.

Gulp.

Could she open the door to him in next-to-nothing?

Her stomach growled. She was starving, so she hoped the evening involved food, though if they stayed here, she had almost nothing to offer him, which meant—

Okay, Annabel, focus. Clothes first, the evening would decide itself.

She scanned the contents of her closet and glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes. Ack!

Pants? A Dress? Skirt?

Deep breath. Calm down. If she dressed her mood now, she’d have to wear something so full of static she’d crackle if anyone went near her.

First she needed to decide her mood. Something besides frazzled. She took more deep breaths, then deeper ones, closed her eyes, imagined seeing Quinn—how would she feel? Not quite daring. Not quite demure. Available, but not easy. Calm, confident, in control.

She opened her eyes and approached her closet again. She slid a hand between a black rayon blouse and white silk and encountered something exquisitely soft. Cashmere. Annabel drew the top out and smiled. Apricot-colored cashmere, wide neck, nearly off the shoulder, fairly tight fit.

Pair it with a slit-to-heaven, knee-length black wool skirt. Seductive without being obviously so, good to go out, good to stay in.

Yes.

She shed her sensible slim-fitting black gabardine pants and acrylic knit sweater, her skin and nerves enjoying the air and freedom. Stepped out of her Victoria’s Secret cotton panties, unhooked and pulled off her underwire bra, raced to the shower to soap off the kitchen smells, and came back into her room, too nervous to glance at the clock. Calm? Did she say she wanted to be calm?

Focus.

Underwear: black lace micro-bikini. Matching push-up bra. Sheer black thigh-high stockings.

Makeup: eyeliner, mascara, concealer, blush, the barest smear of deep rosy apricot color on her lips.

Before she put the skirt and top on, she stole to the mirror to check herself out. Would he see her this way tonight? Dressed only in black lace and nylon? Would he want to?

Oh, she hoped so. She very, very much hoped so. She looked good, her body slender, firm and strong. And suddenly she felt good, the way she looked, the way she wanted to appear—calm, confident and sexual.

A chuckle escaped her. He’d said to dress her mood. Well, this was pretty much it.

As if he’d heard her thoughts, someone she assumed was Quinn chose that exact moment to ring her front doorbell.

Annabel started and glanced at her clock.

Midnight. On the dot.




4


SO.

Annabel let out a two-second burst of nervous laughter. Quinn Garrett was waiting outside on her front steps and all she had on were bare coverings of lace and nylon.

She glanced at the apricot sweater and black skirt lying on the cherry rocking chair in her room, and again at herself in the mirror. Hadn’t he said to surprise him? Hadn’t she just said she looked and felt strong and confident?

Yes, but there was a difference between feeling strong and confident alone in her bedroom and answering the door to someone she didn’t know that well wearing only underwear.

The bell rang again; Annabel snatched up the sweater and dragged it on, stepped into the skirt and ran downstairs zipping it up behind her. She’d certainly like him to see her in sexy underwear—and less—but maybe before the first date even began was pushing it. Second date? She’d have to see. Assuming he was interested in her, and not just acting on orders from her brother, John. Though she couldn’t imagine this man acting on orders from anyone but himself.

She ran through the still-dark living room, flipped on the outside light, yanked open the outer door and padded into the foyer, the brick-colored tile chilling her stockinged feet as she opened the front door to Quinn.

“Hello.” She smiled breathlessly. He was stunning in his long black wool coat and white silk scarf. Elegant like Pierce Brosnan, primal like Russell Crowe, his breath emerging white and steady in the icy air. “Sorry to make you wait, you caught me half-dressed.”

“What a shame.”

She wasn’t sure how to take that, and his faintly amused expression didn’t help at all, so she stepped back and gestured him inside. “Come in.”

He preceded her into her unlit living room. For a guilty moment she lingered behind him, enjoying his tall, black, broad-shouldered presence. She’d brought a few men home in her time, but none of them had filled the place the way this one did. Was his aura really that powerful or was her fascination simply feeding it? Or both?

The tall, black, broad-shouldered shape turned, making Annabel aware that gawking at him in the darkness was a tad on the weird side.

“Sorry for the mole atmosphere.” She hurried to turn on the floor lamp beside the couch. “I had to rush after I got home—oh, and thank you so much for the flowers.”

“You’re welcome.”

She turned on another lamp, feeling as if she should say something more, maybe something about the smell-the-roses note, but given how it had hit her the wrong way, she couldn’t risk sounding snarky. “They’re beautiful.”

“I’m glad you like them.” He put his hands on his hips, pushing back the edges of his coat, and studied her, again giving her the feeling he was dissecting her brain, understanding everything she wasn’t saying about the note. How did he do that?

“I want you to enjoy them.”

“Oh, I will.” Annabel smiled agreeably. He was so hard to read. He wanted her to enjoy them, yes, but they symbolized more than that. An implicit criticism of her lifestyle and ambition. Something her father would have done, only not so subtly.

His eyes traveled over her outfit; his lips hinted at a smile without giving one.

“So your clothes are telling me you’re in the mood to do just about anything.”

She nodded, wondering what he’d have done if she’d opened the door in black lace. Though from what she could see of his dark trousers and what looked like a suit jacket, he was feeling too formal to jump her.

Darn.

“Yes, I’m up for anything.”

“Have you eaten?”

“No. Have you?”

He shook his head, reached into his coat pocket and produced a small package wrapped in tissue and a plastic bag. “I found this at an antique shop downtown today.”

She nodded politely, confused by the non sequitur, and watched him unwrap an exquisite miniature dresser, barely five inches high, that looked as if it belonged in an extremely fancy dollhouse, the kind she had been in awe of as a child, not that she’d played with dolls that much, but just to have something so lovely in her room.

“It’s beautiful.” She approached and touched the tiny thing reverently. Tortoiseshell, it looked like, with ornate brass overlay. Three drawers, complete with tiny handles and miniature brass keyholes. Stunning and no doubt valuable. “Are you a collector?”

“It’s for you.”

Annabel jerked her head up to meet his dark eyes; her mouth opened, then shut. The combination of surprise and the shock of attraction left her brainpower nearly blacking out. “But…I mean you’ve already…the flowers…”

“It’s a game.”

She glanced down at the tiny piece of furniture. “A game.”

“It came with three keys, one for each drawer.” He rummaged in the plastic bag and came up with a miniature Ziploc bag containing three of the tiniest brass keys she’d ever seen. “Would you like to play?”

“How?”

“Pick a key. Each drawer has an idea for how we spend the evening. Whichever your key opens, that’s what we do.”

She laughed, surprised Quinn Garrett had a whimsical side. She would have thought he was so tightly controlled, he’d never leave their plans up to the roll of a dice—or in this case the turn of a key. The guys she dated were generally uncomplicated, what-you-see-is-what-you-get. Quinn seemed anything but. “What are my choices?”

“Do you have to know?”

“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I’m a control freak. I have to know.”

He appeared to be thinking that over, but she’d bet it wasn’t exactly news. “You never give up control?”

“Never.”

“Hmm.” He emptied the tiny keys from the bag into his large palm, where they looked even tinier. “Then we have a problem.”

“Why’s that?”

He lifted his head. “I don’t either.”

Annabel stared up at his impassive face, trying to get a handle on what had suddenly flared between them, other than the obvious chemistry. For some reason she got an immediate picture of herself straddling him, making him beg for the release only she could give him.

Mmm, twisted. Let him mind-read that.

Quinn did smile then, a slow spreading of those fabulous lips, though not far, as if the mechanism were rusted. “A challenge for both of us.”

Heat found her face. Rather than mind reading, maybe he’d been thinking the same kind of thoughts about her that she’d been thinking about him all on his own. She liked that idea.

“So what are my choices?”

He arranged the three keys between his thumb and index finger so they stuck up like a tiny fan. “A private screening of The Thomas Crown Affair at the Rosebud Cinema.”

“Ooh. Yes?”

“A private after-hours dinner at Sanford Restaurant.”

“Mmm. And?”

“A private evening.” His voice dropped. “In your bedroom. Or in mine.”

Annabel drew in a breath so long she wasn’t sure it would ever stop. “Oh, my.”

He took a step closer. She could feel his warmth radiating across the few inches left separating them. Oh, my.

“Choose a key, Annabel.”

“I’d rather just pick an evening?”

“Which one?”

“The third.” She was whispering, nearly faint with excitement. “Definitely.”

He shook his head and held up the miniature keys. “Choose.”

Annabel bit her lip, examining the tiny strips of brass as if one of them might have “all-night sexathon” engraved on it. Then her eyes slipped upward, landed on his, and lust ran so hot through her she could barely stand it. “Quinn…”

“Which key?”

She forced her eyes back down and, with embarrassingly shaky fingers, selected the one in the middle. He seemed as cool and collected as ever, damn him, while she was practically climaxing just thinking about being with him. “This one.”

He handed her the miniature key and her embarrassingly shaky fingers got even more embarrassing as she tried to fit the metal sliver into the first lock.

“Relax.” He drew warm fingers over the skin of her shoulder exposed by her sweater’s wide neckline, slid them to the back of her neck and massaged lightly.

“Touching me is not going to make me relax.”

“No?”

“No.” She was whispering again. His fingers were strong and skillful and incredibly arousing.

The key didn’t work in the first drawer. She took a breath, pressing back against his fingers, and moved it to the second. He walked around behind her, spread his hands on her shoulders and made glorious circles of pressure with his thumbs in the middle of her back where all her tension collected.




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