After Hours. Sandra Field
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To truth and to emotion—a devastating combination for a woman used to hiding herself from both. How was she going to convince him that she didn’t want to date him? Normally she had no trouble getting rid of men who forced their attentions on her.
As she cudgeled her brains, he forestalled her. “If you’re too busy at work to have dinner through the week, I can wait until next weekend.”
Marcia bit her lip and started to walk back the way they’d come. “Quentin, I don’t want to see you again. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but that’s the way it is.”
“Why not?”
She said childishly, “Because. Just because! Okay?”
“No, dammit, it’s not okay! I know you’re attracted to me, and I’m willing to bet you don’t lose your cool with anyone else the way you have with me. My painting made you cry, your whole body responds when I touch you, and the more I see of you the more I figure Lucy doesn’t have a clue what makes you tick.” He drew a harsh breath. “Plus she told me how much you wanted the painting of the three little girls—the one Troy bought for you.”
Spacing her words, Marcia seethed, “I can want a painting. That doesn’t mean I have to have dinner with the artist. You’re not a stupid man and that’s not a very complicated message. So why aren’t you getting it?”
“Because I don’t want to,” he said tightly. Although his features were inscrutable, Quentin was beginning to feel scared; any time he’d visualized finding the perfect woman she’d been as delighted to discover him as he her.
If Marcia had used her common sense she would have changed the subject. “I don’t understand you—why are you pushing me so hard?” she cried.
“If I told you, you’d laugh in my face.”
“Then please just drop it, Quentin.”
“I can’t!” He took a deep breath, trying to think. “I’m going to be seeing a fair bit of Troy and Lucy over the summer, so I’m bound to see you again. Unless you avoid them for the next two months, of course.”
“I’ll make sure when I go and see them that you’re not included,” she snapped.
“So you’re not indifferent to me... If you were, you wouldn’t care if I was there or not.”
“I don’t like being harassed.”
His steps slowed. “That’s an ugly word.”
“Then don’t do it.”
Her jaw was set mutinously. The pale sweep of her cheekbones made him ache somewhere deep inside. He said desperately, “Marcia, I don’t think I’ve ever begged a woman to spend time with me... I guess I’ve never had to. So if I’m not doing this well it’s because I haven’t had any practise. I’m begging you now. You’re important to me in ways I don’t understand but that I know to be real. Give me a chance—that’s all I ask.”
To her infinite relief she saw they’d reached the driveway to her building. It took all her courage to look up at him, and the torment in his face almost weakened her resolve. “There’s no point—please believe me.” She tried to smile. “I’m sorry.”
She was right, she knew she was; she was being sensible and rational. She had never thought of herself as an overly adept judge of male character, but she was certain that any relationship with Quentin wouldn’t be shallow. Better to end whatever was between them now rather than later.
So why was she filled with the same bitter regret that his painting had called up in her? And why did she feel as though she’d just trampled on a whole field of daffodils?
She stalked into the building and up the stairs, and before she unlocked her door forced a bright smile on her face.
The next two hours were purgatory. But finally Evelyn and Henry stood up and everyone else followed their lead.
Quentin pushed back his chair, trying to stretch the tension from his shoulders. Troy had trounced him royally at chess because his mind had been anywhere but on the game. His thoughts had been going round and round in circles that had ended up exactly nowhere. He should have kept his cool with Marcia. Kept things light and on the surface. Instead he’d kissed her before she was ready, and badgered her as if his sole intention had been to push her away.
For a man she’d said wasn’t stupid, he’d sure blown it. Nor did he have any idea what he was going to do next. According to Marcia, there wasn’t any next.
He was the last one to go out the door. Marcia shrank away from him, and he saw that there were faint blue shadows under her eyes. Filled with a passionate compunction, and another emotion that he wasn’t quite ready to label fear, he said roughly, “If you change your mind, get in touch with me. You can always reach me through Lucy and Troy.”
“Yes... yes, of course,” she said, already starting to close the door.
She couldn’t wait to be rid of him—that was the message. Quentin headed for the elevator where the rest of them were waiting, somehow made appropriate small talk until Troy dropped him off at the hotel and then headed for the bar. There were times in life when only a double rum would do.
CHAPTER THREE
THE following Sunday Marcia had lunch with Lucy. When they were settled in an alcove in the salad bar that was Lucy’s favorite and they’d made their choices from the menu, Lucy took a sip of her wine and said with sisterly frankness, “You don’t look so hot, Marcia.”
Marcia knew that she didn’t, and she knew why. Opting for part of the truth, because she certainly wasn’t going to talk about Quentin, she said, “Last Tuesday I was. called into the director’s office and informed that due to budget restraints the junior staff are being required to take a week’s holiday without pay. As soon as possible. So as of Friday afternoon I’ve been on vacation.”
Lucy went right to the heart of the matter. “What does that do to your research?”
“The particular drugs I’ve been working with aren’t available either—all of a sudden they’re too expensive. So almost three months’ work could go down the drain.” Marcia grimaced in frustration. “It’s driving me crazy.”
“How secure is your job?” Lucy asked bluntly.
Marcia twirled the stem of her glass, not looking at her sister. “I might lose it,” she said, and heard the telltale quiver in her voice.
Lucy reached a hand across the tablecloth. “Oh, Marcie...”
Marcia bit her lip. “It’s crazy—there are lots of people much worse off than I am. But I really love my job.” She took a big swallow of her wine. “They’re supposed to make an announcement within two or three weeks.”
Lucy said gently, “Your whole life revolves around your research.”
“Stop it, Lucy, or I’ll be blubbering all over you,” Marcia said with a watery grin. “Have some bread.”
“‘Blubbering’, as you put it, can be a perfectly fine response.”
“Not in a crowded restaurant.”
Lucy slathered butter on a slab of crunchy French bread. “I suppose you’re right. So what will you do with yourself all week?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Not for anything would she reveal to her sister that the thought of seven more days with absolutely nothing to do filled her with panic.
“I’ve got an idea! You can go to Quentin’s cottage in the Gatineau Hills.”
“Don’t be silly,” Marcia said sharply, her nerves shrilling like a burglar alarm at the sound of his name.
“He won’t be there—it’s perfect. He left for New York today. One of his works got vandalized in a gallery in SoHo,