Before I Melt Away. Isabel Sharpe
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