Isabel Sharpe - Before I Melt Away

“Why the sadness?”

Annabel started. He hadn’t even glanced at her, she was sure. He was standing now, staring into the fireplace where her lone log still glowed orange underneath. Freaky how he did that. More than once when she’d been in thirteen-year-old hormone hell, he’d understood what she was feeling more than her parents had. Or so it seemed to her at the time.

“I was thinking Mom and Dad would have really liked to know you now.”

“Maybe they do.”

She shot him a startled look, then laughed. “I suppose that’s possible.”

He picked up a tiny framed print from her mantel, Three Spirits Mad With Joy, by Warwick Goble, a whimsical favorite of hers left to her by her mom. “I used to think the dead should be allowed to come back one day a year, to see the people who miss them.”

“You don’t anymore?”

He turned, cocking his head in a silent question.

“You said used to think.”

“Oh.” He put the picture down. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it in a while.”

“Who would you want to come back?”

“Sally.” He spoke without hesitation.

Annabel clenched her teeth against irrational jealousy. She hadn’t read about him getting married or being attached, but then Quinn Garrett was adamant about keeping his personal life away from the press. “I’m sorry. Someone special?”

“Very.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Guinea pig.”

Annabel burst out laughing. “Be serious.”

“I am serious. I had her when I was a boy. She listened to everything I said, never thought I was odd. It was always clear what she wanted from me.” He chuckled, reminding Annabel how seldom he laughed out loud.

“She sounds wonderful. Who else would you want to come back? I hope your parents are still in this world.”

“Mom is.” He moved back to the couch to grab his coat. Even in high school he’d been reluctant to discuss his life or his parents. All she knew was that they lived in Hartland, Maine—sister city to Hartland, Wisconsin, where Annabel had grown up, and that his father had worked at a tannery while mom stayed home.

“I should go.”

“You should?” She stood up, absurdly disappointed, and followed him into the chilly front entranceway.

“I’ve taken up too much of your evening already.”

She stopped herself from offering him the rest of it, wanting to ask Will I see you again? but hating the clingy-woman line. “Thank you for stopping by.”

“I’ll see you again.”

She couldn’t help the wide smile. “I’d like that.”

“I would, too.” He leaned forward and for one crazy second, she thought he was going to kiss her and her entire being went on hold. Then he stopped several inches away and she had to use everything in her power not to look disappointed.

“I’m counting on you to show me some fun while I’m here, Annabel.” His eyes were warm, bottomless, and he smelled like expensive male heaven.

Oh, yes. “How long will you be here?”

“As long as it takes.”

“To negotiate the acquisition?”

He lifted one eyebrow briefly, then leaned the rest of the way toward her and kissed her…

On the cheek, oh crap.

“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.