Before I Melt Away. Isabel Sharpe
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Underwear: black lace micro-bikini. Matching push-up bra. Sheer black thigh-high stockings.
Makeup: eyeliner, mascara, concealer, blush, the barest smear of deep rosy apricot color on her lips.
Before she put the skirt and top on, she stole to the mirror to check herself out. Would he see her this way tonight? Dressed only in black lace and nylon? Would he want to?
Oh, she hoped so. She very, very much hoped so. She looked good, her body slender, firm and strong. And suddenly she felt good, the way she looked, the way she wanted to appear—calm, confident and sexual.
A chuckle escaped her. He’d said to dress her mood. Well, this was pretty much it.
As if he’d heard her thoughts, someone she assumed was Quinn chose that exact moment to ring her front doorbell.
Annabel started and glanced at her clock.
Midnight. On the dot.
4
SO.
Annabel let out a two-second burst of nervous laughter. Quinn Garrett was waiting outside on her front steps and all she had on were bare coverings of lace and nylon.
She glanced at the apricot sweater and black skirt lying on the cherry rocking chair in her room, and again at herself in the mirror. Hadn’t he said to surprise him? Hadn’t she just said she looked and felt strong and confident?
Yes, but there was a difference between feeling strong and confident alone in her bedroom and answering the door to someone she didn’t know that well wearing only underwear.
The bell rang again; Annabel snatched up the sweater and dragged it on, stepped into the skirt and ran downstairs zipping it up behind her. She’d certainly like him to see her in sexy underwear—and less—but maybe before the first date even began was pushing it. Second date? She’d have to see. Assuming he was interested in her, and not just acting on orders from her brother, John. Though she couldn’t imagine this man acting on orders from anyone but himself.
She ran through the still-dark living room, flipped on the outside light, yanked open the outer door and padded into the foyer, the brick-colored tile chilling her stockinged feet as she opened the front door to Quinn.
“Hello.” She smiled breathlessly. He was stunning in his long black wool coat and white silk scarf. Elegant like Pierce Brosnan, primal like Russell Crowe, his breath emerging white and steady in the icy air. “Sorry to make you wait, you caught me half-dressed.”
“What a shame.”
She wasn’t sure how to take that, and his faintly amused expression didn’t help at all, so she stepped back and gestured him inside. “Come in.”
He preceded her into her unlit living room. For a guilty moment she lingered behind him, enjoying his tall, black, broad-shouldered presence. She’d brought a few men home in her time, but none of them had filled the place the way this one did. Was his aura really that powerful or was her fascination simply feeding it? Or both?
The tall, black, broad-shouldered shape turned, making Annabel aware that gawking at him in the darkness was a tad on the weird side.
“Sorry for the mole atmosphere.” She hurried to turn on the floor lamp beside the couch. “I had to rush after I got home—oh, and thank you so much for the flowers.”
“You’re welcome.”
She turned on another lamp, feeling as if she should say something more, maybe something about the smell-the-roses note, but given how it had hit her the wrong way, she couldn’t risk sounding snarky. “They’re beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like them.” He put his hands on his hips, pushing back the edges of his coat, and studied her, again giving her the feeling he was dissecting her brain, understanding everything she wasn’t saying about the note. How did he do that?
“I want you to enjoy them.”
“Oh, I will.” Annabel smiled agreeably. He was so hard to read. He wanted her to enjoy them, yes, but they symbolized more than that. An implicit criticism of her lifestyle and ambition. Something her father would have done, only not so subtly.
His eyes traveled over her outfit; his lips hinted at a smile without giving one.
“So your clothes are telling me you’re in the mood to do just about anything.”
She nodded, wondering what he’d have done if she’d opened the door in black lace. Though from what she could see of his dark trousers and what looked like a suit jacket, he was feeling too formal to jump her.
Darn.
“Yes, I’m up for anything.”
“Have you eaten?”
“No. Have you?”
He shook his head, reached into his coat pocket and produced a small package wrapped in tissue and a plastic bag. “I found this at an antique shop downtown today.”
She nodded politely, confused by the non sequitur, and watched him unwrap an exquisite miniature dresser, barely five inches high, that looked as if it belonged in an extremely fancy dollhouse, the kind she had been in awe of as a child, not that she’d played with dolls that much, but just to have something so lovely in her room.
“It’s beautiful.” She approached and touched the tiny thing reverently. Tortoiseshell, it looked like, with ornate brass overlay. Three drawers, complete with tiny handles and miniature brass keyholes. Stunning and no doubt valuable. “Are you a collector?”
“It’s for you.”
Annabel jerked her head up to meet his dark eyes; her mouth opened, then shut. The combination of surprise and the shock of attraction left her brainpower nearly blacking out. “But…I mean you’ve already…the flowers…”
“It’s a game.”
She glanced down at the tiny piece of furniture. “A game.”
“It came with three keys, one for each drawer.” He rummaged in the plastic bag and came up with a miniature Ziploc bag containing three of the tiniest brass keys she’d ever seen. “Would you like to play?”
“How?”
“Pick a key. Each drawer has an idea for how we spend the evening. Whichever your key opens, that’s what we do.”
She laughed, surprised Quinn Garrett had a whimsical side. She would have thought he was so tightly controlled, he’d never leave their plans up to the roll of a dice—or in this case the turn of a key. The guys she dated were generally uncomplicated, what-you-see-is-what-you-get. Quinn seemed anything but. “What are my choices?”
“Do you have to know?”
“Yes.” She lifted her chin. “I’m a control freak. I have to know.”
He appeared to be thinking that over, but she’d bet it wasn’t exactly news. “You never give up control?”
“Never.”
“Hmm.” He emptied the tiny keys from the bag into his large palm, where they looked even tinier. “Then we have a problem.”
“Why’s that?”
He lifted his head. “I don’t either.”
Annabel stared up at his impassive face, trying to get a handle on what had suddenly flared between them, other than the obvious chemistry. For some reason she got an immediate picture of herself straddling him, making him beg for the release only she could give him.
Mmm, twisted. Let him mind-read that.
Quinn did smile then, a slow spreading of those fabulous lips, though not far, as if the mechanism were rusted. “A challenge for both of us.”
Heat