Carly spent the evening reviewing the file on the six Napa Valley guests who would arrive at her winery in three weeks. She memorized their names and relationships to one another. Gerald Thompson and his wife Hailey led the enterprise, Gerald being the oldest, probably in his mid-sixties. The picture of he and his wife showed that for all his conservative talk, he’d taken a trophy bride about three years prior. Hailey couldn’t have been much past thirty-five.
Scott Dillon and his wife Amanda were the youngest of the group and according to the file Scott had inherited from old money and purchased a winery on Gerald’s advice. He followed Gerald’s lead in everything, including investments. The last pair, Paul and Eve Frazier, were in their early thirties. He appeared to be from money while her winery had been in her family for over a hundred years.
Carly had a quick impression from the photos in the file that both Gerald Thompson and Eve Frazier seemed either withdrawn or discontent, maybe both.
She knew people. She’d given tours for years. If this was the group that would arrive at her winery, she didn’t have a good feeling about them as a cohesive unit. Gerald in particular had the look of a caged bear.
Beyond that, she studied their likes and dislikes and began making some notes about possible activities. Golf and shopping were a given, but she thought a Jeep tour to the Rim, always a surprise to those who had never been to Sedona, might bring a little life to the weekend.
At least she had almost three weeks to put things together. She’d also need to think about hiring a housekeeper, chef and wait-staff for time spent at the winery house.
* * * * * * * * *
The next evening, Quint took Carly to the Oak Creek Grill for dinner. He sat across from her and swigged his amber ale.
“So,” he drawled, his gaze locked onto hers, “It’s strange to have slept with you but to not even know your favorite color.”
Carly wished he hadn’t brought up that particular subject. Her mind went right back to her bed and the memory of his magnificent body poised over her. She despised this weakness she had for him, this constant pressing desire to put her hands on him, on his bulked-up arms and well-formed pecs, on his muscular thighs.
Oh, his thighs.
“I’m partial to olive green,” she said, sipping her own ale and trying yet again to just calm the hell down.
He had asked her out earlier that afternoon and afterward she had spent a ridiculous amount of time sorting through her closet. In the end, she had chosen to wear a simple light blue t-shirt and jeans even though she felt certain he’d be in Armani. She’d been right but she was still glad she’d worn her casual clothes. The last thing she wanted to do was give him the smallest idea that she thought of him in any other way than as his
business associate.
The trouble was, when he’d picked her up at her house, he’d looked her up and down and she knew he hadn’t even seen her clothes. He’d stripped her naked in his mind so that what she wore had nothing whatsoever to do with what was on his mind. Such ironies.
“Olive green,” he said. He nodded and took another swig. He smiled. He watched her even when he drank. She wished his gaze wasn’t so intense. Maybe then her breasts would stop pushing against the inside of her bra and begging for his hands. She hoped he didn’t notice.
“Yep, green,” she reiterated.
What a conversation.
“What’s your favorite thing to do in the whole world?” he asked. He touched the tip of his bottle to his lips and her gaze followed.
Kissing you,
popped into her head.
Hold up, Carly.
Try again.
“My favorite thing,” she mused, letting her gaze drift away from him. That helped. His lips were seductive and his blue eyes hypnotic. “Standing on the edge of the Rim at sunrise, with the sun at my back and watching the whole canyon light up.”
He set his bottle on the table. “Sounds beautiful.”
She looked back at him. “It is.”
“I have no doubt.” He watched her and smiled. He lifted his bottle once more and drank deep. He signaled to the waitress for two more.
Two more? Was that part of his plan? She knew this about Quint—he always had a plan.
“Now how about you,” she said. “Favorite color and favorite thing to do.”
He leaned forward but lowered his voice as he said, “Favorite thing? In your bed, my body stretched out on top of you.”
She gasped and laughed. “That just can’t be true.”
He shook his head. “Well, you’re wrong. Right now your bed tops the charts. That night was out of this world and I want to do it again with you. A lot.”
Yep.
A man with a plan.
She worked at reminding herself just what kind of man Quint was, that he’d told her flat out he meant to get her winery and she had to believe he meant what he said.
She finished her first beer and as soon as the waitress brought the second, she started in, hoping to dull some of these powerful sensations.
He just kept smiling.
She decided to change the subject since they’d drifted into unhelpful territory. “I thought you’d want to know that I’ve started working the Napa file. I’ve sketched out a loose itinerary.”
“That’s good to hear,” he said, but he reached across the table and took her hand in his. She tried to pull away but he held on tight. When she tugged again, he brought his other hand forward and stroked her fingers. His gaze held a challenge.
“You are so bossy,” she cried.
He shrugged.
“So you’re not going to let go of my hand.”
He shook his head.
She sighed. She had no intention of engaging in a wrestling match in the middle of a restaurant so she relented.
He smiled a little more then said, “Now about that night we were together, what was your favorite thing we did. I really want to know.”
So much for changing the subject.
“Quint, we shouldn’t even be talking about this.”
“I disagree, but I’ll make you a deal. You answer my question and I won’t bring it up again, at least not tonight. However, if you don’t answer my question, I’m going to tell you everything about that night that got me going and I think I should warn you that I could talk for hours on this subject, in precise detail and I don’t care who hears.”
She laughed. “You’re a little on the hopeless side, you know.”
“Won’t argue with you there,” he said, chuckling, but at least he released her hand. “So, tell me Carly, what was your favorite thing about that night?”
Carly’s mind skittered through everything they did, all the way to the end. She smiled because she knew her answer would surprise him. “Waking up with your arms around me and hearing you snore.”
He seemed taken aback. “There are too many things wrong with that statement. First-of-all, I do not snore.”
“Oh, it’s not one of those rumbling, meat-grinder snores. It’s very soft, comforting in a way.”
He screwed up his face into an expression of disgust. He drank deep again. “Secondly, you know damn well I wasn’t referring to a ‘sleeping’ situation.”
“I stand by my answer.” She leaned forward and in a very quiet voice, added, “You bowled me over in every possible way that night, from seeing you in the Jeep bay to having you on me, in me, over me in about a dozen different configurations, to waking up with your arms around me like this.” She overlaid her chest with her arm. “But I’ll still call it my favorite thing because in it’s way, it was a very fitting ending to a beautiful night—which never needs to happen again, by the way.” She lifted her chin.
His eyes grew half-lidded. “Oh, it’s happening again. Just try to stop it.”
“I intend to,” she returned, although she had about as much confidence in her ability to thwart his seductions as fog surviving a hot sun. But he didn’t have to know that and she would fight him as long as she could. “My turn. Favorite color?”
“Any shade of gray, silver to almost black.”
She nodded. “Now, besides sharing my bed, what do you like to do?”
He narrowed his eyes, something he did often, and said, “I guess that would have to be riding any of my three motorcycles, first thing in the morning, when the sun crests the McDowell Mountains, when there aren’t a million cars on the road. Yeah, that comes in a nice second to your bed.”
He always seemed to find a way to bring the subject back to sex.
* * * * * * * * *
After a fine meal of cedar plank salmon and ‘Smoking Gun’ pizza, Quint drove Carly home and walked her to her front door. He had been waiting for this moment after a long dinner comprised of a hundred or so sex-laden hints.
He wanted her but it was still too soon even though he knew,
he knew,
that with just a little push, she’d ask him in. His instincts, however, told him she wasn’t ready. She still had a wary expression in her brown eyes when she looked at him and not quite enough hunger.
The trouble was, he ached for her. He had been hard as a rock all through dinner just because he sat across from her. He couldn’t remember ever being this worked up.
Right now, though, he meant to savor this time he had with her and to see what he could do to build up a fine head of steam in her gorgeous body.
Moonlight streamed over the porch at an angle to illuminate her face. She avoided looking at him. She pulled the screen door wide, turned her back on him and fiddled with her keys. She dropped her keys and retrieved them. She couldn’t seem to find the lock.
But he was to blame since he crowded her, rubbing his fingers down the backs of both arms. He slid his arm around her waist and pressed himself against her. He wanted her to feel his erection. He wanted her to know the effect she had on him.
“I dropped the keys again,” she said.
“Don’t bother with them. Not yet. Just say good-night.”
She let out a breath. His hand crept up and covered her breast. He could picture the shape of her breast as he fondled the peaked tip.
“I have neighbors,” she whispered over her shoulder.
“No one can see.” He leaned close to her ear. “Does this feel good?”
She pressed into his back. “Yes,” she whispered. “But you should stop.”
He kissed her neck and licked a line up to her ear. He flicked the tip of his tongue all over her ear the way she liked it. He kneaded her breast now and he could feel her struggle to breathe. He’d been right. She was hungry for him.
One little push.
She covered the hand that worked her breast. She pressed his fingers hard and moaned.
He wanted to grind into her backside. He didn’t know how much more of this he could take, but he had to hold back.
“You should stop,” she whispered again.
He really should. “Then turn and kiss me good-night.”
“Not sure I can trust you.”
“Not giving you a choice.” He rubbed his thumb over her nipple. “Because if you don’t, I’m going to keep this up for the next hour or two.”
Her breath caught in her throat and she whirled in his arms. “One kiss,” she whispered. “Then you have to go.”
He nodded. “Just one,” he said, but he didn’t tell her how long he intended that kiss to last.
He dipped his head and covered her mouth. He sought entrance and she didn’t hesitate, not one second, but took his tongue inside.
The first minute passed, then the second. He backed her up against the front door. The screen bounced off his shoulder. He didn’t care. He wrapped his arm around her neck and cradled her. She smelled so good, like wildflowers and a whiff of ocean in the desert-like canyon country.
Was she aware she’d started moaning and that her hand worked over the muscles of his arm like she’d taken up the art of massage?
He pressed his hips against her and ground his erection between her legs. Another set of moans left her throat. He plunged into her mouth and set a steady rhythm. When her hands reached his back and she dug her nails in, he knew he had to make a choice right now—continue seducing her for his own purposes or get her the hell into bed now.
But the stakes were high. He wanted her winery and he needed her to ask for an affair. She wouldn’t do that now, not yet.
He pulled back and thumbed her lower lip.
“Some kiss,” she murmured.
“Yeah,” he drawled. Her eyes were the barest glitter since his back cut off all that seductive moonlight.
He had to let her go at least for a few more nights.
He leaned down and picked up her keys. He handed them to her. He placed one last kiss on her lips then backed away. He kept backing up until he reached his car. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh.”
Her voice sounded low and hoarse like she’d been gulping air for the past two days. He started to whistle. Whistling helped. It put his mind on something other than her low, needy voice. If he thought about how sexed up she sounded, he’d throw caution to the wind and attack her. He got into his car and drove away.
* * * * * * * * *
Carly watched him go. She ached to her toes.
But how was this in any way a good thing? From the time she’d learned he was making his home in Sedona for the month, she had been avoiding exactly this moment, when he’d start in with kissing and touching and wheedling away her resolve with the tip of his tongue.
Her thoughts turned to Jeff as they had so often of late. She knew he and Quint were similar types, powerful and driven.
She’d been in love with Jeff, but when push came to shove, he’d made it clear that his interests were foremost and he’d left her for a winsome blond in Phoenix because the woman
knew how to support her man
. The truth was, the blond came from a wealthy, well-connected Scottsdale family and Jeff had taken a VP position in his father-in-law’s company.
Three years was a long time to invest in a man. She hadn’t lied to Tina; she in no way regretted Jeff’s leaving, not when he’d proven his character so completely by his subsequent actions. But she’d always regretted that she’d never confronted him that day. Part of her had been stunned by his words, her own voice silenced. But another part had simply been afraid to offer her opinion that he was being selfish and cold. Somewhere in her mind had been an absurd hope that if she didn’t burn her bridges, he’d come back.