A Small-Town Homecoming (16 page)

“Tell me about it.” Tess blew a kiss at the Stepford cop as she pulled out of the appropriate pick-up spot and joined the orderly line of appropriate family vehicles waiting to proceed at the appropriate snail’s pace to the exit. “I’ve got better things to do on a Friday afternoon.”

“Like what?”

“Like getting ready for Friday night.”

“What’s wrong?” the kid asked with sweetly innocent concern. “Having problems with your cable hookup?”

“Ha. Ha.” Tess spared her a miserly grin. “Score one for the whippersnapper.”

Rosie sighed again and fiddled with the strap on her bag. “Is my dad going to be home in time for dinner?”

“Don’t count on it. The delivery they were expecting this morning got pushed back to this afternoon, and the crew is working overtime to get everything stored and secured before the weekend hits. Why?”

Rosie heaved another martyr’s sigh. “Nothing.”

“Hey. I’m a girl. I know when ‘nothing’ means noth
ing and when it means everything.” Tess downshifted to ease around a corner. “Talk to me, kid.”

Rosie’s shrug was sharp and unhappy. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Try me.”

Rosie chewed on her lower lip and stared out the windshield. Tess figured she was weighing her desire to get what she wanted against her need to punish Tess for existing.

Desire won out. “I’m invited to a party tonight,” she said. “A birthday party.”

“Get out.” Tess braked for a signal and stared at her. “You’ve got friends?”

“Ha. Ha. Score one for the forty-year-old with the bags under her eyes.”

“Thirty-one. And amazingly wrinkle-free.”

“Must be the lighting.”

Enjoying the conversation more than she’d expected she might, Tess made her turn through the intersection. “About this party…”

“Alana’s mother told her she had to invite all the girls in the class.” Rosie began to shred a different portion of her lip. “Dad hasn’t taken me shopping to buy the present yet.”

“Men.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you wearing?” Tess asked.

Rosie glanced at her dingy white T-shirt and khaki cargo pants. “What do you mean?”

“To the party.” Tess checked Rosie’s mouth to see whether she’d drawn blood. “Every girl in your class is going to be there, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“So, this is an opportunity to make a major fashion statement. In an entirely not-the-usual-school-clothes way.”

“What’s wrong with what I have on?” Rosie pointed at the baggy pants and worn athletic shoes. “All I have to pack is some pajamas and another shirt for tomorrow.”

“An overnight?” Tess shuddered at the thought of a class full of young girls camped in one house through the endless hours of a slumber party. Alana’s mother must be a saint. Or on some really powerful drugs. “Triple the fashion play.”

“Triple?”

“There’s the arrival outfit. The pajama scene. And the morning after. Three chances to make a statement.”

“I don’t want to make a statement.” Rosie slumped in her seat. “I probably can’t go, anyway.”

“I don’t see why not. You got the invitation, right? And it’s not like you’ve got anything else to do tonight except wait around for your dad to get home.”

Another jerky, dismissive shrug.

“Besides,” Tess said, “every woman wants to make a statement. And if you’re wearing the coolest clothes in the room, you don’t have to open your mouth to do it.”

No response. Misery hung in the car’s air-conditioned atmosphere, a miasma of heartache and despair.

And memories.

With a sad and resigned sigh of her own, Tess checked her watch before pulling her car’s phone set from her purse and hooking it to her ear. “Quinn, it’s me. Yeah, I made the pickup, no problem. Just wanted to let you know I’m going to run a few errands…With Rosie, right. And it’s going to cost you.” Tess wiggled her eyebrows at the kid. “Seems there’s a birthday party in
the works…Yeah, that’s what I figured. No problem. I’ll take care of it. Just promise you’ll pay me back.”

Tess handed Rosie the phone. “He wants to talk to you.”

She listened in while Rosie gave her dad a surly dose of grief and guilt and then cut in when she figured Quinn had suffered enough. “Remind him he said he’d pay me back,” she said. “And tell him it’s going to be expensive.”

The kid’s face brightened as she relayed the message, and Tess’s initial plan began to sprout multileveled additions and extravagant decor.

“He wants to know how much,” Rosie said.

“Enough to feel the pinch, but not enough to dip into your college savings.” Tess changed direction and headed toward the mall—it was the simplest solution to spending money on a tight schedule. “I’m not that irresponsible.”

Rosie extended the phone toward her. “Your turn.”

“Now what?” Tess asked Quinn. “Oh. Yeah. That’s right.” She glanced at the kid—the primary stumbling block to an affair, the complication who was about to be disposed of for an entire evening. Tess’s attitude toward her upcoming errands improved dramatically. “No, I—Look,” she told Quinn, her face heating, “we’ll discuss the details later. Got to go.”

Tess fumbled as she slipped the phone back into her tote, her pulse stuttering as she considered Quinn’s suggestion.

“What’s the matter?” Rosie asked.

“Nothing.”

“Your face is all red.” The kid’s eyes narrowed in a suspicious squint. “Looks like that ‘nothing’ means something.”

“Here we are.” Tess pulled into the compact parking
area beside her favorite salon, effectively changing the subject. “Hop out.”

“This isn’t a place to buy a present.”

“No, but it’s a place to get ready for a Friday night.” A Friday night with a single father who had realized he was going to be free for the evening. A single man who had asked her out to dinner.

A gorgeous man whose low, husky-voiced invitation had included a few suggestions for what would probably follow the meal.

T
ESS USHERED
Rosie through the pink-trimmed doors of Shear Delight and led her to one of the styling stations. “Hey, Jana,” she said, resting a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “I brought you a new customer. This is Rosie Quinn. Any chance you can squeeze her in?”

Jana swept the floor and smiled as she gave Rosie a discreet once-over. “Are we doing a trim or a style?”

“I’m thinking a few layers.” Tess circled Rosie, imagining the sweep and fall of that thick black hair once it had been freed from its plain elastic band. “Maybe some bangs to frame her face, bring out her eyes.”

“They’re beautiful eyes.” Jana’s smile widened as she gestured toward the chair. “What do you think, pretty Rosie? Should we make you even prettier?”

Two bright pink spots flared on the kid’s cheeks. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to get my hair cut.”

“If you’re worried about your dad, don’t be,” said Tess. “I’ll call him and take care of it.”

Jana opened a magazine on her work counter and flipped to a page filled with girlish styles. “What do you think?”

“I like this one.” Rosie pointed to a photo of a young girl whose hair was caught up with loose braids.

“That would be great for the party,” Tess agreed.

“A party?” Jana fastened the drape around Rosie’s neck and gently removed the elastic. “Then we’ll have to do something extra special.”

Rosie stared at her reflection, digging into her lower lip as if it were an entrée. “Would it look just like the picture?”

Tess pulled out her phone. “Quinn? We need you to make a fashion decision. Bangs and layers or just—Yeah, okay. Right.”

She dropped her phone back into her tote. “Anything you want, kid.”

Rosie’s shy smile spread until it brightened the room. “I want to look like the picture in the magazine.”

“You heard the lady,” Tess said with a wide smile of her own. “Give her the works.”

B
Y THE TIME
Quinn limped through his apartment door at exactly eight minutes after seven o’clock, his system was buzzing on caffeine, painkillers, temper and nerves. An idiot inspector had him considering a new career, he’d twisted his knee tripping over a pipe, Tess had him wondering whether he’d be able to pay this month’s rent, Rosie was probably planning on a weeklong silent treatment and his cravings for a cold beer and hot tobacco threatened to send him to his aching, creaking knees. “Rosie?”

“In here,” Tess called.

He headed down the short hall and turned toward Rosie’s room. Tess hadn’t sounded upset the last time they’d spoken—good. Or bad, if the source of that cheery greeting had been a shopping spree he’d still be paying off when Christmas hit. “Rosie, I’m—”

He froze in the doorway, and all his aches and resentments and frustrations and despair drained through the
soles of his mud-caked boots. Tess knelt on Rosie’s floor, her back to him, laying expertly folded pajamas into an open suitcase. The pajamas were neon-pink, dotted with bright palm trees and goofy flamingos, and new. Beside her lay a pair of fat, pink, pig-shaped slippers, also new.

And then his daughter stepped forward. With her hair pinned up in some sort of fancy twist and soft black wisps framing her big dark eyes, and her face alight with hope and blushing with shyness, the worst of Quinn’s day completely evaporated.

“Rosie,” he said. The word came out like a croak, and he had to pause, struggling to swallow to get the next words out. “You’re a picture.”

“Isn’t she, though?” Tess stretched toward Rosie’s bed and lifted another folded outfit off the spread. “My stylist says her bone structure is classic. She’s going to be a beauty, Quinn. You’re going to have to keep a club handy to beat back the boys when she’s ready to date. And doesn’t that outfit show off her coloring?”

“Yes,” he said, though he hadn’t been able to pry his gaze from his daughter’s face.

Tess continued to babble about the opinions of a bunch of women at some beauty parlor, but Quinn could only stare at Rosie, afraid to move, afraid to speak. He was in for it now, he thought as her eyes brimmed with tears. First, he’d been late and now he was obviously not offering the right kind of praise. And he’d wanted to, damn it. He’d wanted to say exactly what Rosie needed to hear. There she stood, looking like something out of a dream, and he desperately wanted to be whatever she needed him to be.

She rushed toward him and threw her arms around
his waist and pressed one side of her face against his shirt. His arms came up, and his big, clumsy hands flexed and trembled and then settled on her thin shoulders. He glanced at Tess, awkward with panic, and then his vision blurred, and he curled around his daughter and hid his face against her soft hair. She smelled of shampoo and flowers and the stuff women smell of when they’d been hanging around each other. “Rosie,” he whispered.

“Looks like I’m finished here,” Tess said, and then she slipped from the room and quietly shut the door behind her.

F
IFTEEN MINUTES LATER
, Tess paced before the tall window in Quinn’s front room, chewing on her thumb. Nasty habit, but she figured she could cut herself some slack after the afternoon she’d had. Her leisurely weekend-prep program—maintenance trim, soothing pedicure, lingerie sale browsing—had turned into a frenzied preteen makeover. Fun but exhausting. And a bit nerve-racking, considering the preteen involved wasn’t her own.

She’d already decided that if Quinn complained about the afternoon’s expenses, she’d offer to lump that discussion in with their next battle over specs. It was about time to toss him a negotiation point. Or two.

“Time to go,” she said as Quinn and his daughter entered the room. “It’s okay to be fashionably late, but if you don’t get started soon you’ll edge into the rude zone. Got the present?”

“Wait’ll you see it, Dad.” Rosie dashed down the hall.

“Don’t forget to sign the card,” Tess called after her. “And write a little note, off to the side, not just your name.”

Quinn slid his hands into his pockets and stood where he was, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Well.” Tess cleared her throat and gestured toward the table. “There’s the invitation. You’ll need it for the address.”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. The shopping part—not the kid.”

“I hope she behaved.”

“She behaved the way she’s supposed to. Like a ten-year-old girl with a lot of problems.” Tess shrugged. “They’re not my problems. I’m not the one who has to live with her.”

“Tess.” Rosie raced back into the room holding a big card and a small package. “I don’t know how to attach the card to the box.”

“With tape. Stick it to the bottom of the box.”

“Just a second.” The kid took off toward her room again.

“Where would you like to go to dinner?” Quinn asked.

Tess swept back her bangs, hiding her nerves. “I may have exaggerated my responsibility with your budget. The college savings are still intact, but you can’t afford dinner.”

“Can I afford a pizza?”

“How about I whip up something quick and easy at my place?”

“Okay,” he said, his gaze smoldering. “I’m easy. Whipping sounds good.”

T
ESS CURSED
the tremor in her hand as she lit the single taper in the middle of her intimate table setting. She never got nervous fixing dinner for a man—and she definitely didn’t get nervous merely thinking about it.

Maybe it wasn’t the dinner, she thought as she waved
the match to extinguish the flame. Maybe it was what she knew would come after the main course.

She pressed a hand to her stomach to soothe the flutters of anticipation—and nerves, damn it. What was it about Quinn that cut through her composure and set her knees knocking?

After she’d had her way with him, she’d put him in his place and keep him there. She’d been too understanding lately. Too cooperative. Too sympathetic over his problems with his daughter and his worries about his crew. Too eager to compromise and avoid any unpleasantness between them that might add to his troubles. Just look at the fabulous dinner she’d tossed together so he could relax and unwind at her home instead of having to take her out on the town.

And what a dinner it would be. She returned to her kitchen to stir her soup and sniffed the rich aroma of caramelized onions and herbs. Perfect. And peeked at the marinated pork tenderloin roasting in the oven before lowering the temperature to warm. Excellent. And admired the spiral pattern of the potato gratin cooling on the rack. Gorgeous. Simple food, basics she’d found in her refrigerator, done up in style.

Too bad she was too nervous to consider eating a bite.

Her stirring spoon clattered to the floor when she heard the knock on the door. He was earlier than she’d expected. Eager for the evening to start, no doubt. She paused by the little mirror in her entry, fussing with the drape of her off-the-shoulder sweater and smoothing a hand over her slit-hemmed capris before glancing down at her darling new ribboned slides. Lifting her chin and giving her reflection one of her coolest smiles, she took a deep breath and pulled open her door.

And melted into a mess of fluttering goo when she saw the huge bunch of soft blue irises in Quinn’s hand.

“I would have brought you roses,” he said, thrusting the flowers at her with a stiffly awkward arm, “but you seemed to like these.”

He’d had his hair trimmed, and there was a reddened nick near the dent on his chin where he must have cut himself shaving. His navy-blue oxford shirt was tucked into a pair of tan trousers, his scuffed dress shoes were freshly polished, and the way he looked at her made her feel as if she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

The flutters intensified, and she swallowed to ease the strange tightness in her throat. “I do. They’re beautiful, Quinn. Thank you.”

She took the fat bouquet and stepped aside as he entered, and then closed the door. “Let me get a—”

He wrapped an arm around her waist, fisted a hand in her hair, shoved her against the wall and took her mouth in a kiss that flashed through her like wildfire. The flowers tumbled to the floor at their feet as she twined her arms around his neck and plastered herself against him, punishing him with her lips and teeth and battling for control as her system rocketed toward arousal at light speed.

“I want you,” he murmured against her throat.

“I can tell,” she said on a gasp as his tongue blazed a moist trail along the base of her throat.

“Now,”
he said.

She tugged at the buttons on his shirt, and he yanked at her sweater, tugging the hem above her bra, lifting her arms above her head, imprisoning her wrists in thick manacles of cashmere while his mouth ravished hers. Holding her there, pinned to the wall, he stroked a long,
callus-roughened hand down her center to her waistband and fumbled with the zipper closing while those hot blue eyes of his locked on hers.

“Let me go,” she said.

“Not a chance.” But he tore the sweater from her hands and flung it to the floor. She kicked off her shoes and reached again for his shirt buttons, popping one loose as she struggled to slip it through its hole, abandoning her efforts when he slapped her hands aside and ripped the rest of it wide. She slid his belt through its buckle and undid the catch above his zipper while his hands streaked behind her to undo the fastening on her bra. He yanked the straps down her arms, baring her breasts, and then he lowered his head and sucked one nipple deep within his mouth.

She moaned and arched into him, grabbing fistfuls of his hair, fighting to drag breath into her burning lungs. She battled to keep her balance as he ground his hips against hers, lifting her off the floor, her back to the wall and his solid, muscular body at her front.

The scents of aftershave and flowers, roasting meat and salt-tinged skin overwhelmed her. The sounds of labored breathing and desperate whimpers and limbs crashing against the wall beat in counterpoint to her beating heart. And the contrasts of coarse hair and smooth flesh and dizzying panic began to spiral through her.

“Not here,” she said.

“Not enough.”

He bent and scooped her into his arms and strode through the front room toward the darkened hall. When he found her room at the end of it he lowered her to the bed and followed her down, sprawling over her, shov
ing one leg between hers and clamping his mouth over her breast.

She bowed up, urging him to the side, and rolled with him. Rising over him, she fought with the zipper on his pants as he reached up to take her by the arms and drag her down. Down, down to his ravening mouth, to those dark and delicious kisses, her nipples rubbing over his chest with a tingling, scorching friction as his tongue swept through her mouth and his hands kneaded her hips.

“Pants,” he murmured against her mouth.

“Off,” she said as she struggled to her side and wrestled her waistband down her hips, clumsy with haste. The faint crackle of tinfoil, the list and lurch of the mattress beneath his weight, and then he was on her again, his hands rough and shaking as he slid the last barrier of silk down her legs. His fingers found her, wet and ready for him, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and raked her fingers down his broad, quivering back as he stroked her, hard and fast and wild. Too fast, too much, too soon.

She kicked out, and her bedside lamp toppled and crashed as she angled back, squirming beneath him. His big, heavy body shifted and stretched over hers, and he settled between her legs, and those rugged, workman’s hands gathered her close.

“Quinn.”

“Yes.”

He cradled her head in his hands as he plunged inside her, and though she couldn’t see his face in the shadows, she knew he was watching her, staring intently, looking through her with his piercing gaze. She wondered if he could see what she was feeling, what she wanted from him—things she couldn’t understand. And then, as if he
knew exactly what they were, he began to move in long, deep strokes, touching her in places she hadn’t realized anyone could.