Isabel Sharpe - Before I Melt Away

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.

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