California Man - The Author's Cut Edition (18 page)

It was the following Wednesday afternoon, and as she stood with Quinn's arms around her on the foredeck of the ferry taking them back to Salt Spring Island, she brimmed with happiness and precious new memories of Quinn and the town she'd grown up in. From now on they would be inexorably linked. The weather had obliged, and Victoria, dressed as always in Olde England ambience, was vivid with flowers and sunshine.

Until visiting it with Quinn she'd seen it only as home. Now it was a romantic city filled with charm and priceless remembrances. Sighing deeply, she leaned her head back against his shoulder and pulled his arms tight around her. In minutes they would be docking.

Quinn tightened his grip on her. He heard her sigh and asked, "Glad to be getting home?"

"I'm always happy to see the island, but that wasn't what was in my mind. I was pasting pictures in my album."

"You didn't take any pictures."

"Oh, yes, I did. Hundreds of them. And they're all right up here." She touched her head.

He smiled into her hair. "Did you take one at Beaver Lake?"

She turned in his arms and her grin was infectious. "That one goes in a separate album. One with three X's on the cover."

"That good, huh?"

"That good." She reached a hand up to caress the dark curls at his nape.

She wondered if he'd planned it. She would never know, and it didn't matter. What mattered was that he'd made the most incredible love to her—there, at the lake, where her panic and fears had taken root that night so long ago. Thinking about their lovemaking, she dropped her eyes. They'd acted like a pair of teenagers, laughing at their own clumsy efforts to find a comfortable position in the Rover. Emily felt a growing heat when she thought about it. Quinn had been ingenious—and outrageous! When she teased him about it afterward, telling him he must have done a lot of love-parking in his time, he'd laughed. Part of coming of age in California, he'd said, practically a rite of passage even for late starters like him. Emily believed him.

The slight bump of the ferry against the dock reminded them it was time to get back in the car. Reluctantly, Emily left his arms.

"We're home," she said without thinking.

She didn't notice Quinn's happy nod.

He dropped her off at her place and carried her bag inside. "What time is the dress rehearsal?"

"Eight o'clock."

He pulled her close. "Shall I pick you up?"

"No. I'll meet you there. I'll probably go early. I want to see one of the sets they finished yesterday. Besides, there's no reason for you to drive all the way here to get me. The hall is only minutes from where you're staying." She stood on tiptoe and brushed a kiss across his lips. "I'll see you there. Okay?"

"Okay." Not content with her gentle kiss, Quinn crushed her to him and deepened it. His voice was husky when he lifted his head. "Four whole hours without you. I'm not sure I can stand it." He gave her a last hug and a sexily suggestive smile and was gone.

Emily stood in the open doorway and watched him go.
Seventeen more days,
she said to herself.
I have him for seventeen more days.
When the thought of his leaving brought down a dark curtain of depression, she fought it.
The cup is half full,
she told herself,
not half empty.
Fixing on happier thoughts, she headed over to Lynn's to pick up Bailly.

* * *

"Why so worried, Emmi? It wasn't that bad." Quinn went to the bar and poured them both a glass of wine. He'd insisted she come to his place after the dress rehearsal. By the look on her face she should be drinking straight scotch, not sipping white wine.

"Not bad! It was a disaster! We open in three days. They'll never get that set right by then. It's all wrong. I knew I should have done it myself. This whole mess is my fault."

He handed her the glass of wine. "It'll be okay. You'll work it out. You have to admit it was kind of funny." He struggled to keep his lips from twitching.

She eyed him, ominously. "If you laugh, you're a dead man."

He raised a hand and nodded, fixing what he hoped was an appropriately concerned expression on his face.

She wasn't appeased. "Your eyes are still laughing," she accused.

"They'll fix it," he said. "They've got time. By Saturday there's no way that balloon will come down."

"It isn't only that it came down. It didn't even look like a balloon when it was up. And they won't fix it—I'll fix it." Emily ran a determined hand through her long hair. "The woman, Christine, is supposed to be up in the sky in a bright red balloon. That's what the play is about, her overcoming fear and embracing life. The balloon represents her fear. By going up in it, she takes the necessary risk and discovers that she's had the courage all along. The bloody balloon is part of the motif.
Critical.
The way they've done it, it looks as if she's in a tent—a tent that collapses in the middle of the final scene." Emily took a drink of her wine. "There's my heroine saying her final stirring words wrapped in a shroud of cheap purple nylon. It isn't even the right color! The script says red, not purple."

Quinn sat across from her on the love seat, sorry to see her so upset and disappointed, but with no idea how to comfort her.

As she sat staring morosely into her glass, he saw her lips crease into an unwilling smile. He watched it grow.

"It was kind of funny, wasn't it?" she asked.

Not wanting to be a dead man, he stayed silent. But it was fun watching her pull back from her disappointment.

"And the look on my Christine's face. It would have done a horror queen proud. You'd have thought the building was falling in on her instead of a few yards of nylon. And the way she thrashed around... 'Get me out of here, get me out of here.'" She mimicked the unlucky actress before breaking into full-throated laughter. When she finally stopped, she glanced at Quinn. "Tell me, do you think this ruins my chances for a New York opening?" She laughed again.

This time he joined her. "It'll all work out. You'll see. Until the balloon took a dive, the play was great. So if you're aiming for a New York opening, you're a shoo-in."

Emily stared at him, pleased with his praise and the confidence he had in her. Whatever would she do when he was gone? She had to let him know how she felt but didn't know how to do it without giving him the burden of her love. That she would not do.

She gave him a level gaze and looked for the right words. "You're an exceptional man, Mr. Quinn Ramsay. Did you know that? Today, the time in Victoria. I'll always remember it. I'm going to keep it—and you—here." She touched her heart. "Always." She smiled then. "You're my very own red balloon."

When he started to get up from the love seat and move toward her, she raised a hand to stop him. "No. Don't come closer. If you do, I won't be able to string three coherent sentences together, and it's important I say what I'm going to say."

She paused, looking inside to find the right words, knowing she needed only three. Three short words she'd never say. "What I said... about your being my red balloon. It's true. Being with you, making love with you has changed my life. I want you to know that. I'm never going to be the same. Who knows maybe, just maybe, that shy, fearful Emily is gone forever." She found a smile. "I'll always be grateful to you for that. And when you leave, when you go back to your
real
life, I'm going to remember you with... very special affection."

Quinn was beside her now, blue eyes dark and strangely sad. "Affection? That's what you feel for me?"

Under the intensity of his gaze, she dropped her eyes, swallowed hard. "Of course. What more could there be?"

"And when I leave? Go back to my
real
life? What will you feel then?"

"I'll be sad. And I'll... miss you."

Quinn got up and walked to the open patio doors. He took a deep pull of cool night air in an effort to ease the pressure building in his chest.
Affection.
The word stung and wasn't the word he wanted to hear.
Because she responded to you in bed doesn't mean she loves you, doesn't mean she wants to plan her life around you.

He turned to look at her and saw the uneasy expression on her face. He knew, despite her brave words, shy Emily wasn't gone. She'd broken the physical barrier, but the emotional one held strong.
Time and patience
, he reminded himself, walking back to her. He had to believe he had enough of both to bring this woman to his heart with the same passion she'd come to his bed, because he sure as hell wasn't giving up. He stood over her a moment before bending to take her hands. She raised her eyes to meet his.

"Come here," he ordered, pulling her against his chest. He kissed her softly in a way he'd never kissed her before. When she pulled back and gave him a wondering gaze, he said, "That was a thank you kiss. For allowing me to be your red balloon." He kissed her again. "But it isn't me changing your life." For a moment, he held her away from him so he could see her eyes. "It's you who made the decision, you who took the risk. As for my part..." He grinned. "All I did was rise to the occasion. Which I'm prepared to do right now if you think the time is right."

She relaxed in his arms. "Any time is the right time—with you."

He rested his forehead against hers. "You're good for the ego, darlin'. Did you know that?" His hands slipped beneath her shirt, then under the waistband of her jeans. She held her breath to give him room as his hands barely found space between fabric and flesh to grasp her buttocks and pull her against him. "And you feel so good, I can't keep my hands off you."

"Who asked you to?" She nestled against him as his deft fingers undid the back of her bra. She closed her eyes when he took possession of her breasts and started to work his magic on her nipples. Her throat constricted and she swallowed, willing her rubbery legs to hold her. It didn't work. When they weakened, she clasped her hands behind his head.

"Emily?"

His voice was a soft breath in her ear.

"Hm..."

He pulled his head back to look at her. "Look at me." Her eyes were smoky with desire, her expression so transfixed he wondered if she even saw him, but he had to go on, had to prepare her.

"I want you to think about what you'd do if I asked you for more... more than affection." He continued to thumb her nipples and wondered if he was being quite fair, but he didn't want to do anything to change the rapt look on her face. "Will you do that?"

"Uh-huh," she agreed, her hands slipping under his shirt.

Her distracted answer didn't make him happy, but his own control was already frayed. And when she kissed his neck, bit him gently, he quickly decided the time for conversation was past.

Later...
Later he'd tell her that what he felt for her was more, much more, than affection. But when he woke a few hours later and reached for her. She wasn't there.

The clock said 4:12 a.m.

Instantly wide awake, he sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. She'd left a note.

Quinn. I felt uncomfortable staying over. Zach and Blanche and all. Also meant to tell you, I have to work the next couple of days. Marsha's mom is sick. (Plus there's that darn balloon.) Come by the bookstore?

Emily

Quinn stared at the note, trying to come to terms with his frustration and weird sense of abandonment.

Who cares what Zach and Blanche would think, anyway? He wanted her here. He threw his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed for his underwear. He stopped himself as he was pulling on his jeans. He was actually thinking of going after her.
Dumbass.
He headed for the kitchen instead.

So much for his plans to talk to her. An unbidden, unwelcome thought chastened him. He stood away from the fridge, milk in hand, and walked slowly to the darkened living room.

Sitting on the sofa, he rested his elbows on his knees, ignoring the milk container he dangled between them. He'd walked away from a few beds himself in his time. Without the courtesy of a note as he recalled. He wondered if the women he'd left in bed had experienced this aching sense of loneliness, this blunting of emotion, as if the shared intimacy had no meaning or significance?
No way.
He'd had genuine affection for those women. He started to drink then stopped abruptly, the milk carton frozen in the space near his lips.

Affection. That was the word Emily had used. After a wry smile, he took a drink of milk and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He understood now why she'd chosen that word. Easier to walk away from affection, but love, so much more complicated, not so much.

He put the milk carton on the coffee table and went back to bed. He had a lot of thinking to do. Seemed he had a thousand ways to get a woman into his bed, but no idea how to keep one there. He'd never realized before they were two distinct talents.
I love you, Emily Welland,
he said to himself,
and I want you to love me.

He never wanted to hear the word "affection" again.

* * *

"Hi."

Emily looked up from what she was reading to see Quinn grinning at her and holding out a brown bag.

"Lunch?" He lifted the bag.

"Did you make it, or did you press poor Blanche into duty?" She gave him a sidelong glance.

"What would you say if I told you I made it with my own two hands?"

Emily appeared to consider it. "I'd take a miss."

He laughed. "In that case, Blanche made it. How about it? We can go and sit on the same bench where I first looked into those rain-colored eyes of yours."

"Okay. But let me check with Grace first." Emily started from behind the counter.

"Not necessary." It was Grace. She was leaning in the doorway between the shops. She nodded at Quinn and smiled. "I can manage fine. Go ahead and have your lunch. By the way, Em, I talked to Marsha. She says her mom is feeling better and to tell you she'll be back in on Friday."

"Great! With tonight and all day tomorrow the balloon should be ready on time." Emily felt the pressure ease. She'd probably be working all night, but at least now there was hope she'd complete it. She stepped out from behind the counter.