Before I Melt Away

“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.”