Before I Melt Away. Isabel Sharpe

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Not to beat around the bush or anything, but she wanted to sleep with him. Like crazy. The breakup with Bob weeks ago had left her alone, but satisfied. Usually it was six to eight months before she wanted to start in again. But one glimpse of this man had her libido rising like a chocolate Chambord soufflé.

      “So, your brother John tells me you need rescuing.”

      Annabel’s smile traded itself for a dropped jaw. “Excuse me? Rescuing?”

      “He said you don’t know how to have fun anymore.”

      “Huh?”

      He cocked his head back to one side and shot her an amused look from under his lids. “Don’t. Know. How. To. Have. Fun.”

      The overenunciation of each word of course brought her attention to his lips, which were full and all male and magnificent and why didn’t he just strip naked now and pleasure her until she screamed?

      Because that would be fine. Really.

      “Tell my brother John that I know how to have fun.”

      He moved casually, adjusting his position on the couch, but his eyes were on her like a frog watching the bug soon to be glued to its tongue.

      And oh, what a lovely image that was.

      “How do you have fun?”

      A flush rose to Annabel’s cheeks. She so wanted to answer that question in a very provocative and enticing way. But not while she was wearing bright red flannel pajamas and a robe that made her look like Mrs. Claus first thing in the morning. Besides, women must try to get into Quinn Garrett’s pants all day long. Inspiring all that lust probably got tedious. Not to mention that she’d been sort of a sister to him all those years ago, which might still be how he thought of her.

      Bummer. Major bummer.

      “When I want to have fun, I go out.”

      “Where?”

      “To restaurants, movies, clubs…” Okay, not clubs; noise and smoke were not her thing, but it sounded good.

      “With whom?”

      Whoever I’m boinking at the moment. “Dates.”

      “When was the last time?”

      “Is this an interrogation? Should I move the lamp so it shines in my eyes?”

      “No.” He leaned on the sofa arm, index finger resting against his temple, fingers curled next to his mouth.

      Bond. James Bond. Double-oh—

      “When was the last time you went out and had fun?”

      “Well, that was…” Annabel frowned. No fair. She broke up with Bob officially a month ago, and she hadn’t seen much of him for a week or two before that since she’d been so busy. “Probably not as long ago as it sounds.”

      “That’s what I thought.” He drained his glass, put it carefully back on the coaster on her cherry coffee table and leaned forward, forearms on his knees. Immediately she wanted to copycat lean-forward, too. Even though he was sitting across the room, the gesture brought him closer enough—brought those killer eyes closer enough—that it felt intimate.

      Damn the pilly robe.

      “So what are you doing in Milwaukee?” With any luck he wouldn’t notice that she’d changed the sub—

      “Changing the subject?”

      Damn. “Okay, you got me.”

      He started a smile, didn’t let it get far. “I’m here as decoration, mostly. We’re hoping to buy the old Herrn brewery and start manufacturing HC-3s here in Milwaukee. Other people do the talking, the negotiating, I show up and act like I’m important.”

      “I imagine you are.”

      “You always had a good imagination.”

      She chuckled, foolishly pleased he referred to their history, that he’d bothered to remember her. Or was doing a damn good job faking it. “We could use that kind of industry here. You’ll be doing the city a lot of good.”

      “That’s the idea. I have a soft spot for Milwaukee, for obvious reasons.”

      Annabel smiled graciously as his comment warranted, but she was thinking he probably didn’t have a soft spot anywhere.

      How depraved was she to meet an old friend unexpectedly and want nothing more than to see him naked? “What brought you to this neighborhood tonight? You said you were at a party in Brookfield?”

      “Spur-of-the-moment decision driving back. I wanted to see where you lived. Then my tire went, practically at your door and you know the rest.”

      “It was funny, with the wind, dog howling next door, your jack clanking on the street—I thought I was being haunted.”

      He narrowed his eyes for a fleeting second, then got up abruptly, approached her fireplace and crouched to examine the tiles. “Excuse me, but I have to see if these are what I think.”

      “They are.” She laughed, a little nervously, willing the heat to stay out of her cheeks. How many people had she shown those pictures off to? Now she wanted to blush? “An artist used to live here, who apparently had a rather liberal view of life. But I like them. They’re not obvious unless you look closely. You’re the first person who spotted them on his own.”

      “Am I?” His eyebrows went up, but she had the feeling he wasn’t surprised. She shouldn’t be, either. Even in high school, nothing had escaped his notice. Of course, that fact would have made no impression on her at thirteen, except that her parents kept commenting on what a remarkable boy he was. A remarkable boy who’d grown into a remarkable man. Damn shame Mom and Dad weren’t here to see it. Her mom especially had doted on Quinn, and missed him when he went back home, though she’d loved that he kept in touch for several years, especially at Christmas.

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ