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“I’ll call you tomorrow.” He let himself out and strode down her front walk toward his car.
Annabel shut the door slowly, not wanting him to turn and catch her mooning after him but reluctant to cut herself off from the sight of him. Her heart was pounding, cheeks flushed, body buzzing with excitement in spite of her disappointment. She’d see him again. When she wasn’t wearing pajamas.
Across the street, she heard his car door open, close, the engine start up and drive slowly away.
She’d be wearing nothing like pajamas. Nothing to remind him of the year when she’d been practically his little sister. Then maybe his next kiss goodbye wouldn’t be aimed at her cheek.
And maybe, just maybe, it would last all night.
THE PHONE RANG. Annabel’s eyes shot open.
Early. Very early. Her body could tell. Who was calling? Had something happened? She’d been dreaming—a curtain around her bed, some menace approaching, about to yank it back…
She reached for the phone, glancing at the clock. Six o’clock. If Ted was trying to worm out of cooking for the Moynahans today, she’d kill him.
“Annabel.”
The adrenaline that had kicked in at her abrupt awakening doubled. No, tripled.
“Quinn.” She pitched her voice higher than usual so he wouldn’t hear the sleep still in it.
“I woke you.”
Annabel rolled her eyes. She couldn’t get anything past the man. “It’s okay.”
“Have breakfast with me.”
“I can’t.” The words came to her lips before she’d even thought them through.
A low chuckle on the line. “Let’s try that again. Have breakfast with me, Annabel.”
This time the request, or rather command, sneaked past her Automatic Self-Denial System—was it the sexy way he said her name?—and she found she really wanted to. But she had so much to—
“Café at the Pfister. At seven.”
She smiled and fell back onto the bed, one hand holding the phone to her ear, the other pushing her hair back. Could she? A quick shower, dressing for him in actual clothes, a quick fifteen-minute drive downtown, breakfast for an hour or so, back here ready to go by eight-thirty or nine—not that much past her usual time. And it might be her only chance to see Quinn again; the man was doubtless booked solid while he was here. Everyone must want a piece of him.
Okay, she was convinced.
“That sounds fine.”
“See you then.”
He signed off and she threw back the covers, bounded from the bed and shed her pajamas on the way to the shower. Fifteen minutes later, washed, dried, lotioned and deodorized, she stood in front of her closet, awash in an unfamiliar emotion: indecision.
There was only one outfit she knew she wasn’t going to wear, and that was the one she’d just picked up off the floor and tossed back onto her bed. But what? Sexy? Businesslike? Formal? Casual?
No jeans at the Pfister, Milwaukee’s grand old hotel. And she was sick of won’t-show-or-hold-stains pants and shirts for work at clients’ homes. But the all-business suits she wore to networking events…so cold, so…not seductive. Not that she wanted to be blatant about it. But hell, she was single, he was single; consenting adults could create many hot, appetizing scenarios if all the ingredients came together properly. She’d certainly love to taste what he was made of. And while she wouldn’t go as far as throwing herself at him, looking female wouldn’t hurt.
She settled on a red suit with a knee-length skirt and plunging V-collar jacket, nipped in at the waist. Under it a black stretch camisole with built-in bra. Silver earrings, a silver chain, plain stockings and high black pumps, which always felt confining and wobbly after so much time in clogs and slippers.
There. Not too conservative, not too sexy. And it was breakfast, after all, not dancing by moonlight.
Oh, but that was a nice thought, too.
Makeup next—not too much on her still-sleepy face or risk looking like a professional escort, ahem. Mascara, blush, red lipstick blotted down to a respectable level of brightness, under-eye concealer. Was it her imagination or did she need more of that every year as she neared thirty? A wrinkled-nose look at her nails. No way could she keep polish on with all the chopping and scrubbing she did in her job. Ah, well. She was more than the sum total of her manicure.
Glance in the mirror—okay, who was she kidding, a long, careful study—and she was ready. To have breakfast with Quinn. Oh my, yes.
In her unsexy minivan, she drove Route 41 to I 94, past the Brewers Stadium, past the sour-mash-and-hops smell of the Miller brewery, then off the highway and in among the buildings and asphalt of downtown, over on Wisconsin Avenue to Jefferson, circling the nineteenth-century, green-awninged Pfister and into the hotel’s garage.
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.”
“Then we’ll have nights together.”
Stay away, blush, stay the hell away. Did he mean…what did he mean? Did his—
He reached across the table, laid his finger against her lips, shushing her, even though she hadn’t said anything.
“Don’t think. Don’t wonder. Just agree.”
Her mouth opened. Then shut. She hadn’t a clue what to say.
“Annabel.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“What time will you be home tomorrow night?”
“Um…midnight.” He didn’t move his finger while she answered, and the sensation of her lips moving over his skin started her heating up.
“I’ll be at your house at midnight. Wear whatever mood you’re in.”
Her head started spinning. She was barely able to grasp any of this. Wear her mood? “What do you mean?”
“Surprise me, Annabel.”
“Oh.” She still whispered, unable to produce tone, breathing high and fast, color blooming in her cheeks. “Yes. Okay.”
“Good.” His voice dropped; he moved his finger gently back and forth on her mouth, as if he were a hypnotist, luring her into a trance. “I think I’ll be able to surprise you, too.”
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