Isabel Sharpe - Before I Melt Away

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.”

“Probably.” She didn’t want to go into the fact that he seemed to be able to read her mind when she couldn’t possibly be thinking what everyone else would be thinking.

“So maybe I am perceived as the emperor now. But I was satisfied when I was working for Microsoft. And I was satisfied when my start-up company netted thirty thousand annually—when the HC-1 was considered a novelty sci-fi gimmick that would never catch on. So I’d like to think wanting what I get is a true philosophy.”

“Very Zen of you.” She picked up her water glass and took a sip, not entirely convinced. People happy with less didn’t generally end up with so much more.

“But I have to tell you something even more important than my life’s philosophy.”

She put her glass down. “What’s that?”

“You are incredibly beautiful all grown-up, Annabel.”

All grown-up Annabel was very glad she wasn’t still holding the glass, because at his comment it would have slipped from her fingers and crashed all over the lovely table. Oh, did that sound wonderful coming from him.

“Thank you.” Her cheeks grew warm. “You’re pretty spectacular all grown-up, too.”

“Thank you.” He, of course, didn’t blush. His self-control was absolute. And yes, she’d love to make him lose it.

“Can I take your order?” The matronly waitress stood at the table, bowing slightly forward, as if in the presence of royalty.

Annabel glanced longingly at the skillet breakfast on the menu, but if she started her day with that much heavy food, she’d want to crawl in bed and stay, and she had a lot to accomplish. “I’d like the yogurt-and-fruit parfait, orange juice and tea, please.”

“Smoked-salmon bagel, no cream cheese, grapefruit juice and coffee.” Quinn handed his menu to the waitress, who actually did bow before she swept away.

“Tell me about your business, Annabel.” He turned those magnificent eyes back on her. It was true what people said, that when Quinn Garrett spoke to you, he made you feel no one else existed. She’d just like to know he was genuinely feeling that way with her.

“I’m a personal chef. I do your grocery shopping, come into your home on a day you choose, cook a week’s worth of meals from menus you select, package, freeze and clean up the whole shebang.”

“Wow. Where do I sign up?”

She smiled, and let the eye contact go a little too long, just for the cheap thrill. “I will also come into your home, cook, serve and clean up your dinner party—sit-down or buffet.”

“Maybe I’ll hire you while I’m here. My place has a fairly decent kitchen.”

Her heart leaped, for professional reasons this time. Quinn would no doubt be entertaining high-powered Milwaukee elite. She could make some valuable contacts. “You’re not at the hotel?”

He shook his head. “I’ve rented a furnished apartment.”

“So you’re staying on for a while?”

“It looks that way.”

She was so pleased she actually laughed. “Oh, that’s great.”

The waitress arrived with juice, leaving Annabel’s gushing enthusiasm hanging in the silence between them.

Fawn on, little sister.

Quinn nodded his thanks to the waitress, then fixed Annabel with his dark brown eyes again. “I want to see a lot of you while I’m here.”

Oh, my. It was on the tip of her tongue to say You can see all of me, but she thought that was a little grossly eager. “I’d like that.”

“Good.” He sat back as if satisfied the deal had been cemented.

Annabel gave herself a figurative smack out of fantasyland. See a lot of her? Hello? Do we have lots of time to be lollygagging around with People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive?

“Though actually, I’m pretty crazy busy at this time of year. People want to party, so the holidays are my most profitable time.”

“We’ll work it out.”

Absolute confidence. Annabel leaned back to give the waitress room to set down breakfast. That’s what made people like Quinn—and Napoleon—succeed. She was confident her business would do well, but not absolutely confident. She needed to ratchet that up a few notches, get herself in a position of more security so she could—

“I assume your nights are free.”

The spoonful of yogurt made it only halfway to Annabel’s mouth. “My nights?”

“Yes.” He glanced up calmly from his bagel, on which he was arranging salmon, tomato slices and capers, a combination she’d already filed away in her mental recipe holder. “How much sleep do you need?”

“I…not much. Five or six hours.”