Before I Melt Away

“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.”