A Small-Town Homecoming (10 page)

The corners of Quinn’s mouth lifted in the semblance of a grin. “Yeah. Stands for John Jameson.”

“I never knew,” Tess said.

“You never asked.”

Tess gave him one of her sly, catlike smiles. “Guess it’s time to start filling in the blanks.”

Geneva hid a smile of her own at their teasing, feeling much less weary than she’d felt a short while ago.

T
ESS PASSED THROUGH
the side porte cochere door Quinn opened for her and stepped onto a landing enveloped in ocean-scented fog. The damp air brushed over her skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps behind. She shivered as she thrust her arms through her sweater and pulled it tightly across her middle. “I am
so
ready for summer.”

He didn’t respond, and she knew he was simply standing there, staring at her in that intense, motionless way of his. Wishing he’d quit the unsettling habit or telling herself to ignore those gorgeous, black-lashed, deep-set blue eyes of his wouldn’t reduce their effect on her nerves.

She glanced over her shoulder to find his tall, lean form framed by the massive door and backlit in the amber glow of twin carriage-house sconces. His gaze was as piercing as ever, but there was something new in his somber expression tonight. Something searching, something uncertain. It might have been the feeble lighting or the mist, but she thought she detected something…softer.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked. “Did you forget something?”

“No.”

She paused, expecting some kind of explanation, but he continued to study her, as if by merely looking he
could penetrate her pores and strip bare all her secrets. She shrugged off her fanciful thoughts and walked down the steps, headed toward her car.

“You could have had me fired,” he said.

“Maybe.” She reached for the handle and then turned to face him. She wanted to push back, to knock him off balance and make him feel as uneasy as he made her. “Probably.”

He stepped down to the drive. “Why didn’t you?”

“You’re not worth the trouble.”

He shifted closer, shaking his head. “I’m going to be more trouble if you keep me on the job.”

“Is that a threat?”

His gaze roamed over her face, lingering on her mouth before raising to her eyes. His pupils expanded in the semidarkness until his eyes seemed as black as the pavement beyond the porch lights. “It wasn’t intended as one.”

“Well, then.” She let out the breath she’d been holding and sucked in chilled air, but the tiny tremor that followed wasn’t caused by the cold.

“It was a statement of fact,” he said.

He’d moved again, and he was standing much closer. Too close. The arches of the porte cochere cast sharp shadows over his features, outlining his angular cheeks and lining the deep grooves around his mouth.

She tossed her head back, shaking her bangs out of her eyes before angling her face toward his. “I like a man who’s honest about his bad intentions.”

One side of his mouth tugged to the side in something that wasn’t quite a grin. Something dangerous, something potent. “If I ever have any of those, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

“It’s a deal.”

He lifted a hand to her sweater and ran his fingertips from button to button, along the opening. His knuckles skimmed over her breast, and her nipples tightened and tingled.

“All right then,” he said. And then he grew very still, as only he could do, and looked at her in that way that made everything in her aware of everything about him. Of his height, and his breadth, and his strength, and his ridiculous, impossible appeal.

His thumb moved over the soft sweater wool, back and forth, in a soft caress, and her pulse pounded in her ears.
Kiss me kiss me kiss me…

His lashes lowered again, and her lips parted on a silent gasp.

“Good night,” he said.

“Right.” She reached behind her, grabbing for the car’s handle with trembling fingers. “See you around.”

He disappeared beyond the bend, and she collapsed in her seat and pulled her door closed. A minute later, the deep vibrations of a big truck’s engine rumbled through the dark, and then the ghostly glare of headlights swept through the fog.

“Damn, that was a close call.” She turned her key in the ignition and pressed the heat and fan buttons. Warm air flooded the compartment, and she closed her eyes and slumped in her seat to wait for her sanity to return. “Too close.”

Too bad it hadn’t been closer. Closer would have been damn good.

Q
UINN COASTED
down the winding bluff road, braking around the tight, shadowed corners, keeping his eyes on
the road and his thoughts on the week ahead. He could do without Ned for a few days, but he’d need to take on more help before the end of the month. He’d check on the fencing around the site and ask Reed about the possibility of having a patrol car pass by a couple of times a night.

Payroll was coming up again. And his call to the city inspector to visit the site and sign off on the rough plumbing had gone unanswered—time to step up the pressure on the building department. Better phone the mill yard while he was at it, double-check the delivery schedule for the framing material. And find some time to talk with Tess about the specs for those glue-lam beams.

Tess.
His fingers tightened on the wheel as his thoughts detoured into forbidden paths and blurred with the mist around him. Bits of the conversation beneath Geneva’s porch, that distorted slice of time before he’d made his escape. Those pulsing, electrifying moments when Tess’s head had tilted back, her lids drifting low over her whiskey eyes, her lips moist and begging, her breath a warm zephyr on his face, her flower-garden scent battering his self-control.

Control.
The one thing he wouldn’t let her wrest from him, no matter how hard she tried. No matter how much he was tempted to surrender. If he took her up on her offer, it would be on his terms, not hers.

He’d been fighting this craving for weeks. Watching her, testing himself. Reasoning things through. She wasn’t a chemical; she wasn’t a drug. She wasn’t anything addictive—she wasn’t as insidious or dangerous as that. She wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle if he chose to try. He could walk away if he decided to. He’d done it before several times. The choice was up to him.

And he’d decided, by the time he’d descended from
the bluff and reached level ground, that he was tired of fighting something that wasn’t a real threat, something that was bound to feel better than booze and more satisfying than tobacco. Why should he deprive himself—and Tess—of something that good? Sure, adding another layer to a complicated relationship might not be the best idea in the world. But she wanted this, too.

Is that an invitation?

Do you have to ask?

He slowed to a stop at an intersection near the marina and glanced at the headlights slung low across his rearview mirror. The headlights of a sassy red roadster. He’d known, before he pulled through Geneva’s gate, that she’d follow him here. He’d seen the heat and the bafflement in her dark eyes, and he’d understood she couldn’t leave things the way he’d left them. Unfinished, untidy. She liked things organized and beautifully arranged, and he liked that about her.

There were a great many things he liked about her, in spite of the pinprick twinges that came with admitting that fact. He knew he’d be safer if he continued viewing her as an irritant or an adversary, instead of…however it was he was beginning to think of her. He’d have to finish those thoughts, the sooner the better. And if they led to bad intentions, well, he’d have to let her know about those, just as he’d promised.

For now, he’d prefer to deal with whatever it was that was arcing between them tonight. He turned along the waterfront, pulled to a stop to unlock the gate, and then jounced about twenty yards into the Tidewaters site.

He stepped out of his truck and closed the door, waiting for the timed lights to switch off and plunge him into the uncertain darkness of the fog-draped, moonlit
night. Waited for the low growl of Tess’s roadster to click to a stop, for her to stretch one of her long legs to the ground as she exited. She’d worn a pair of those black, high-heeled shoes tonight, the ones with the lethal-looking points at the toes and the sexy curves along the heels. She’d wobble a bit as she crossed the gravel-lined yard, making her way toward him, but it wouldn’t trip her up. She never lost her footing, no matter how tough the terrain.

Maybe he’d kiss her for the first time here, where they were on equal ground. Maybe he’d put his hands on her, sliding his fingers beneath the soft wool of her sweater and the thin straps of her pretty dress to skim them along her warm, womanly skin, with the silent bay as their slick, inky backdrop. Whenever he thought of her, the image was done up in tones of gray and black. Plenty of black, like the sweep of her hair and the suits she wore and the thin frames of the designs hanging on her office walls. Of the shadowy emotions she summoned from deep inside him.

Maybe she’d put her hands on him—those narrow, soft-looking palms, those long fingers with their slick, painted nails. He was getting hard thinking about it.

And chilled, standing here, anxious for her to get out of her car. He tucked his hands in his pockets and stared at the neon dots of streetlights reflected on her sloping windshield like a glittering constellation. Maybe she was thinking of what they’d say to each other before he pulled her into his arms. And what they’d say after he let her go.

He wasn’t going to find out. The roadster roared away from the curb, raced down the street and swerved around the corner, heading into the heart of town.

She’d left him standing in the cold night air, waiting for her to make a move, thinking about kissing her.

“Damn.”
A guy had to admire a woman who could give as good as she got.

A
FTER CHANNELING
his frustrations into a long bout of paperwork in his lonely office trailer and making a stop at a twenty-four-hour grocery store, Quinn quietly let himself into his apartment. Rosie sat on the sofa beside a snoring Neva, the television remote in one hand and a murderous expression on her face. “Finally,” she said.

He checked the clock on the book stand. Ten-fifteen. Over an hour past her bedtime. “Why are you still up?”

She flicked a glance at Neva. “Who’s supposed to make me go to bed?”

“It’s a school night. You know the rules.”

“It’s a work night, too. Guess you had a lot to do.”

“Sorry I’m late. How long has Neva been asleep?” He carefully shifted the bag of groceries in his arms as he moved toward the kitchen, uneasy about waking the older woman.

“Since about ten minutes after you left.” Rosie turned off the television and plunged the room into semidarkness. “I could have been doing anything. I could have walked out the door and disappeared. I could have been halfway to Oregon by now.”

“I’m glad you aren’t.” He set the bag on the kitchen counter and pulled out the milk and cheese to put in the refrigerator. Yes, he was late. Again. And disappointed to discover that Rosie still thought about going back to her mother.

What did he expect? He was hardly ever here for her. Less than usual, lately. But what could he do about it?
This Tidewaters job was their best chance to begin a solid future together. He’d have to try harder to make everything work out.

Try harder. Work harder. God, how much more could he do?

As much as he needed to do. There was no other choice.

He returned to the front room and stopped near the sofa, sliding his hands into his pockets. “I’m glad you didn’t leave,” he said again. “I’m glad you’re still here.”

Rosie shot him a nasty glance. “She doesn’t even realize you’ve walked in. We could have been murdered, both of us.” She tossed aside the remote. “Some babysitter she is.”

“She’s all we’ve got.”

Neva snorted and shifted, listing to one side. “Lucky us,” Rosie said.

Quinn leaned down to flip the switch on the table lamp and gently placed a hand on Neva’s shoulder. “Neva.”

“Mmm. Umm? What?” She licked her lips and straightened. “Oh, my. You’re back. Must have dozed off.” She yawned hugely. “What time is it?”

“Just after ten.” He extended a hand and helped her up. “Want me to walk you to your place?”

“Down the hall? Don’t be silly,” she said around another yawn. “I won’t get lost.” She waved away his thanks, but she accepted the roll of bills he pressed into her hand as he let her out the door.

“Where were you?” Rosie’s tone was more hostile than ever.

“I told you. I had a meeting. And then I stopped by the site to do some paperwork.”

“Yeah. Right.”

Quinn shoved a hand through his hair as exhaustion settled over him like a suffocating quilt. “We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

“That’s what you always say, and then we never do.” Rosie crossed her arms over her chest. “I wasn’t sure you were coming back.”

“Of course I—”

The news. She must have watched Gregorio’s version of the day’s events on TV. And suspected her father would use a late-night business meeting as a cover while he headed out to ease his latest troubles with something alcoholic.

He closed his eyes and dug deep, mucking through the dregs of whatever had propelled him through the long day, searching for patience and enough energy to get him past this final crisis. And then he settled on the sofa beside her, in the dark, longing to reach for her hand. Craving the comfort of a simple, uncomplicated, freely given touch. It had been so long, for both of them.

She was only a child, but because she was his child, she’d had to do a lot of growing up ahead of schedule. And because she was his child, and because he wanted her in his life, it was time for him to share that life with her. All of it, the good and the bad.

The dregs, if that was all he had to offer.

“I wanted a drink today,” he said, “but I dealt with it.”

He waited, but she didn’t respond. She sat very still, her pointy chin angled close to her chest, as if she were staring at the hands folded in her lap. Her little-girl profile was outlined in the dim light, and she looked too young and fragile to deal with what he had to tell her.

“There are still times I think that would be the easiest way to deal with the crap I have to put up with,” he said.
“To take a drink—just one drink—and shut it all out. And God, I want that drink so bad sometimes I don’t see how I can make it through the next minute without tasting the burn. But then I think of you, and I know you’ll be here, waiting for me, and it keeps me straight.”