Millionaire's Christmas Miracle. Mary Anne Wilson
of her eyes.
“Mr. Gallagher—” she started, but he stopped her.
“It’s Quint, and let me earn my money.” Before she could evade him, he picked her up. She was as light as a feather, but a feather wouldn’t have twisted the minute he held it, or gasped with shock as he caught it high in his arms.
“Put me down,” she was saying, but he was busy trying to absorb the way the fascination he’d had with her from the start was transforming into a basic need to keep this contact.
“Not in here,” he said.
She felt soft and warm and smelled like burnt gingerbread and flowers. Her hair tickled his face as she wiggled around, pressed one hand to his chest and looked him right in the eyes, her face inches from his own. “You do not have to do this.”
He did, but he couldn’t explain to her why he did. He couldn’t explain it to himself. “Oh yes I do,” he said, carrying her across the room to the door. “It’s for the good of LynTech.”
“Oh, come on,” she muttered, finally stilling in his arms.
“Oh, yes, if you cut your foot, you’ll go on disability and lose time, and the company will lose your work time, and you can see that we’ll all be headed down the road to ruin.”
She stared at him as they went out into the main room, then suddenly that smile came back. “You’re ridiculous, you know?”
“I’ve been called worse than that,” he said. There was carpet underfoot now, but he kept going with her, taking her over to the tree before he even considered letting her go. And when he let her down, he had to quite literally keep himself from reaching out to brush at the hair clinging to her cheeks as she stood to face him.
“You’ve earned your big bucks,” she said, her face slightly flushed, probably from all the excitement.
He was going to ask her out for drinks or coffee or something. Anything to prolong this evening. “We’ve got our stories straight, right?”
“What?”
“You’re pulling a Watergate. You need to blame someone else for all of this, and Charlie is an excellent scapegoat.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, Watergate? Sure, of course. Boy, that’s pretty ancient history, isn’t it?”
Ancient history? It had happened during his college years. He looked at her then, really looked at her, beyond that incredible sensuality that rocked him, beyond the voice and the eyes. She was young. It hadn’t even hit him before. He’d been too busy “going with the flow” and with everything else. “Very ancient,” he murmured, then found himself saying, “How old are you?”
He hadn’t meant to ask that bluntly, but it was out there and he waited. “How old are you?” she countered without batting an eye.
“Let’s put it this way, I was there when ancient history was made.” He tried to joke, but it seemed flat in his own ears.
She smiled again. “Well, if you were there for the Civil War, I want to know if Scarlett and Rhett ever got back together?”
Her smile was melting his reason—big-time. “I never met the lady, but rumor has it that she kept Tara and lost that Butler fellow.”
“Too bad. I heard he was pretty cool.”
If you’re in this world at the same time, age doesn’t matter, Mike had said, and looking at Amy right then just solidified that for him. Besides, he wasn’t looking to “settle down” or anything like that. Drinks, talk, a bit of fun, a diversion. Time out of time. If Mike were here, he’d call this decision a miracle. Quint just called it a good idea. “And I bet he got paid big bucks, too.”
She laughed then, really laughed, and the sound floated around him and seemed to seep into his being. God, it felt wonderful. He wanted to ask her out right then, but he felt almost as uncertain as a teenager as to how to go about it. He was out of practice with this dating thing. But she seemed like such a perfect person to start practicing with.
“I bet he did,” Amy said, then sighed. “Thanks for everything, including the lesson in excuses. Now, I need to get going.”
It was now or never. “It’s getting late, but I wanted to ask you something,” he said quickly, before she could just take off.
Amy had barely recovered from him carrying her, from that sense of being supported and surrounded. She hadn’t realized until the moment Quint picked her up that she sorely missed that sort of contact. The strength of a man, the scent of a man. She pushed the thought away. That was a foolish path to take. That was part of the past, not here and now. “What?”
“Would you like to go somewhere and recover?” he asked in his low, rough drawl. “We can have drinks or food, or both, and work on your defense some more.”
He couldn’t be asking her out. No, he wasn’t. She probably looked like she needed a stiff drink. She knew she felt as if she could use one. “I don’t think so.”
“Listen, I’ll be honest with you. I’m no good at small talk or playing games. I never have been.” His hazel eyes narrowed on her. “I’ll just say this right out. I’m attracted to you, and I’d like to get to know you better.”
She stared at him, her heart starting to beat faster, and she pressed her hand to it, a futile action that made no difference to her heartbeat. She touched her tongue to her cold lips. “No, thanks. I’m sorry.”
He glanced down to her hand pressed to her chest, and everything changed when he shook his head. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I had no idea that you were married. I’m more out of practice than I thought.”
Married. Oh, God. She could feel her stomach tense, and sickness rise in the back of her throat. He was looking at her wedding band, the simple gold ring that Rob had given her three years ago. The ring she’d never taken off since he’d put it there. She lowered her hand, pushing it behind her back and clenching her hand so tightly that the ring pressed into her fingers.
Quint was watching her, waiting, and she didn’t have a clue what to say or do. She could let him just believe she was married and he’d leave. It seemed like such a simple solution to stop whatever was going on. But she couldn’t lie.
She took a partial step back. The words were there, but she found them as hard to say now as she had right after Rob had died. Touching her tongue to her lips, she swallowed hard and made herself say them. “I’m…I’m a widow.”
The look that came to everyone’s eyes when they found out about Rob’s death was there in his. Pity, sympathy. She hated it, but she could deal with it. What she couldn’t deal with was Quint being so close, so close that when he spoke again, she could have sworn that she felt his breath brush her cold cheeks.
“Boy, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she said, her voice vaguely tight now. “It’s getting late.” As she spoke, she turned to get more space between them, but that simple act backfired when her foot tangled with the silver slingback heels she’d left by the tree when she’d had to crawl inside to get Charlie.
Quint had her by her upper arm, gently easing her back, and she was facing him, inches separating them, and there was no way she could ignore him. Trying to ignore him at that moment would be about as easy as walking on water for her. So she stood very still, tried not to inhale too deeply and tried very hard to think realistically to explain her scattered emotions right then.
She was lonely. She’d been lonely for what seemed forever—or at least since the car accident that had taken Rob’s life. And she wasn’t having a good evening. Quint just happened to be here, and he was a man. A man who happened to make her remember more of what she’d lost than she’d remembered until now.
“Are you okay?” he was asking.
She