Calculated Risk (7 page)

Chapter 4

“I don’t think the TSA allows that
anymore.” Stevie gave the headline a cursory glance before taking
both newspapers and tossing them in the direction of the foyer’s
console table. “How long have you been sitting on my
doorstep?”

“I don’t know.” Quintin shrugged; his
broad shoulders only succeeded in further bunching the tuxedo
jacket. “An hour, maybe two.”

She wrapped his icy, red chapped hands
around her coffee-hot, stoneware mug. “Why didn’t you just go
home?”

“I couldn’t.” His words were issued
between greedy gulps of the steaming brew. “I owe you an
apology.”

The hazel eyes that studied Quintin’s
proud features mirrored Stevie’s own ambivalent feelings. Half of
her wanted to accept the man’s apology and then politely show him
the door. The other half was being bombarded by a jumble of
emotions, not the least of which was curiosity mixed with a
perfectly silly but rather delicious feminine awareness.

Noting her prolonged hesitation,
Quintin cleared his throat and held up one hand in a gesture of
surrender. “No more confrontations – just communication. You’re not
what I thought.”

She made her decision and
waved him into the house’s warm interior. “You mean I’m not
whom
you thought. The
sins of the father.” Stevie watched his knuckles whiten around the
now empty mug.

He focused on the abstract metal
sculpture that accented the hallway’s white stucco wall. “I owe you
an explanation as well as an apology.” A muscle flexed in his lean
cheek. “Perhaps that will make you understand why I’ve been acting
so … so…”

“Insane,” came her softly voiced
encouragement.

His grin was lopsided. “I was going to
say intolerant and rude.”

Stevie pretended to ponder his
addendum. “You’re right –“ her lashes lowered demurely “—that is a
much more accurate description.” She locked her arm through his.
“Come along, Quintin Ward, an apology and an explanation are better
delivered on a full stomach. You look like a man who could easily
devour three slices of cinnamon French toast.”

“Four,” he corrected, and held out the
empty mug, “plus more coffee.”

Her low vibrant laugh eliminated the
last vestiges of tension and wariness between them. Once in the
kitchen, Stevie repossessed the flower-strewn mug. She made a
clucking noise, a peremptory finger tapped the newsprint stains on
his hands. “The powder room is the second door on the right;
washcloth and towels are in the linen closet.”

Quintin smiled his thanks and ambled
down the hall.

Under cover of the open refrigerator
door, Stevie watched him walk away. The man said he’d felt
uncomfortable in a tuxedo, but he certainly did the elegant garment
just as much justice as he did his jeans! She fell victim to a
totally foreign assault of giddiness that somehow had the strange
effect of recharging and revitalizing her psyche.

She had never needed a man to define
her, but Stevie readily acknowledged that there was an intangible
something about Quintin Ward that excited her – mentally,
emotionally, and physically. With a sharp shake of her head, she
scolded herself for allowing these feelings to penetrate her
reserve. Maybe her woman space had been too private for too long,
so that she was grasping at anything and any man.

After all, Quintin was only
interested in her because of his son. She was a liability rather
than an asset; she was trouble rather than a blessing.
Let’s face it, kiddo, you are indigestion and the
heartbreak of psoriasis rather than some enchanted evening!
She exhaled an unladylike snort and reached for
the milk, eggs, and bread and hastily got down to the business of
making breakfast.

From the doorway, inquisitive masculine
eyes quietly observed the domestic scene. Spatula in hand, his
hostess seemed totally preoccupied with the contents on the
electric griddle. Quintin discovered he was engrossed not only with
his problems but with Stephanie Brandt.

A self-condemning expression etched his
features. When he was young, he had acquired the macho habit of
measuring women in inches and facial beauty. It was an adolescent
error that had ultimately changed the direction of his
life.

He had long outgrown his desire for a
Barbie doll, seeking instead a mentally and emotionally
put-together woman, one who knows where she’s been and where she’s
going and what to do when she gets there.

These days he responded more to style
and honesty; he was stimulated by a self-assured presence and a
direct personality. And Quintin Ward was intensely aware that the
woman who was making him breakfast had all of those
virtues.

His first view of Stephanie Brandt had
been in anger, and he had found nothing attractive about her
features. Now Quintin’s gaze tracked the early morning sun that
slanted through the kitchen’s east window to capture Stevie’s
silhouette in a soft, hazy beam of light.

The copper waves that teased her
shoulders were laced with veins of gold that alloyed them with the
bronze piping on her ivory sleep shirt. Her irises were shards of a
prism that became a barometer of her mood. Quintin had witnessed
their transformation from a soft amber-brown to glittering green.
He now found himself wondering what color they would be when she
was sexually aroused.

A more intimate moment instantly came
to mind as Quintin recalled the scene in his study. The remembered
pressure from her soft, full lips and the taunting tip of her
tongue percolated his blood. He could feel his body harden.
Shifting in discomfort, he diligently tried to terminate his
masculine awareness but found that impossible, watching the sinuous
ripple of knee-length silk over her tall, lush female
form.

Stevie’s peripheral vision caught the
movement of a shadow against the earth-toned tile. Her head turned.
“Perfect timing.” She flashed a companionable smile. “Grab the
coffee pot and follow me.” She led Quintin into the adjoining
dining room, where the large rectangular glass table was set for an
intimate banquet for two.

“You didn’t have to go to all this
trouble.” He glanced guiltily around the formal furnishings. The
room was a glitter of glass, silver foil wallpaper and chrome wall
etchings that were softened by peach carpeting, matching
upholstered chairs, lacy hanging ferns, and indoor palm trees. “The
kitchen counter would have been fine.” He quickly set the steaming
coffee-filled decanter on a protective table pad and pulled out her
chair.

“Nonsense,” she cheerfully dismissed
his concern. “I thought you might appreciate a more relaxed
atmosphere in which to –“

“Eat humble pie,” came his wry
summation.

Stevie made a fussy pretense of shaking
out her napkin and placing it on her lap. “Your apology has already
been accepted—“ one tawny eyebrow arched in silent verification
“—otherwise you wouldn’t be sitting in that chair.” An inscrutable
expression masked her face. “However, I have a hunch a large slice
of humility wouldn’t hurt you any, Mr. Ward.”

“Touché!” His tone was lighter. “Can we
drop the formalities?’ He moved his hand to cover hers; his thumb
made a sweep along the inside of her wrist. “I’d much prefer
talking to Stevie than Miss Brandt.”

“And I’d prefer listening to Quintin.”
She was surprised to discover how cold and bereft her skin felt
when he took his hand away. “Eat,” Stevie ordered then smiled. She
lifted the carafe, filled the oversize mugs with coffee and pulled
the cream and sugar containers within easy reach.

“Delicious.” His mouth may have been
savoring the butter-drenched grilled French toast, but his gaze was
absorbed in studying the lady on his left. “You have freckles!”
Quintin’s outspoken pronouncement caught them both off guard, and
the room was filled with shared laughter.

“You’ve discovered my best-kept
secret.” Her lips puckered in an affected moue. “I usually keep
these girlish sprinkles hidden by cosmetic wizardry,” she related.
“Freckles are hardly equated with a tough, professional image.”
Hesitating for a moment she added, “Or that of a siren.”

He choked down a mouthful of coffee.
“Ouch!” Quintin fumbled with the buttons on his dress shirt. “I
really raked you over the coals, didn’t I?”

Stevie nodded and continued to eat her
breakfast.

“I suppose you’d like that explanation
now?”

She studied the buttery squiggles her
fork was drawing against the platinum-banded white china plate. “I
am trusting you with my freckle secret.” Stevie’s low voice issued
a sincere invitation.

Quintin opened his mouth to speak, then
unexpectedly shoved another piece of toast into it. He turned
inward, growing quiet and uneasy. The hair shirt he had worn for
years had made him stronger and wiser. There were many things in
his life he was proud of, and suddenly these were what he wanted to
share with Stevie. Why further demean himself in her eyes by
recounting a sordid past?

Strength and silence – weren’t they the
stuff of a real man? Never cry over the past, make an arrogant
sweep of the present and march stalwartly into the future. Quintin
stared off; a brief, rueful shadow crossed his face. He wondered if
he hadn’t become one-dimensional over the years. A dogmatic man who
saw only black and white, yes and no, right and wrong. A cheap
imitation of a real man.

The image of his son loomed large in
his mind. Rob was the most important thing in his life, and maybe
talking out his fears with a stranger would help him gain a new
perspective.

Stranger – Stephanie Brandt? What was
the fine line that turned a stranger into a friend and confidante?
Was it time? Or was it –? His silent musings were interrupted by a
feminine hand that covered his clenched fish. Quintin watched as
she gently coaxed his hand to relax and then interlaced her slender
fingers with his own.

When he finally spoke, he was heartened
to hear that his voice gave no hint of his inner struggles. “The
sins of the father. That quote is very apropos in this case, or at
least I thought it was.” His mouth twisted in a humorless
smile.

“I was just eighteen months
older than Rob when I fell under the spell of an older woman,”
Quintin continued. He found he lacked the courage to meet her eyes
and focused instead on their entwined hands. “Andrea was the most
stunning, fascinating, worldly creature any boy could ever imagine.
Her makeup and clothes were right out of
Vogue
, despite the fact that she was
a secretary at the construction site I was working at during the
summer.

“She held her own amid the dust, the
concrete, the foul language and the wolf whistles. She was cool and
aloof and I was in love. This was no giggling high school girl who
teased and tormented in the backseat of a car. Andrea was a woman
who knew everything. I wanted that knowledge. I wanted
her.”

He paused to let a swallow of coffee
ease a dry throat. “She was amused with the fresh flower I put on
her desk every day, perhaps even flattered by my solicitous
attention. I still wonder whatever made her accept my invitation to
dinner. Maybe she thought she’d get a laugh and a free
meal.

“But neither of us ever laughed and the
meal was the first of many. My attraction for her was reciprocated.
I was young in years but mature in looks and attitude. Our affair
was very intense; our casual dates quickly became intimate and
Andrea quickly became pregnant.”

Quintin heard Stevie’s sharp intake of
breath and felt the corresponding increase of pressure on his hand.
“I was stunned and angry. She was eight years older and no virgin.
I wrongly assumed she was taking precautions.

“Andrea had other ideas. She knew I was
making good money and she hated working, so she hatched this
foolproof plan – never telling me until she was into her third
month.” He took a deep breath. “We got married and Rob arrived six
months later.

“Andrea was never meant to be a mother.
The baby ruined her health and destroyed her figure. He cried all
night, so she couldn’t sleep. She felt stifled and confined. Our
apartment was small to begin with and grew even smaller when a crib
and assorted baby items were added.

“I wasn’t much help. I worked days on
the construction site and went to school at night, hoping to get
ahead. An exhausted, bookworm husband was not Andrea’s idea of fun.
We fought all the time.

“She hated me. I hated her. Poor Rob
was horribly neglected. Seven months later Andrea walked out. I got
the baby, a stack of bills and divorce papers. She hasn’t seen or
ever attempted to make contact with Rob. I don’t even know if she’s
alive, and frankly I don’t care.”

Stevie hesitated a moment. “Quint, how
did you ever manage?”

“Exactly the same way other single
parents manage –“ his head rested against the chair’s peach
upholstered back “—one day at a time. My engineering studies were
put on hold. I took a job as a land surveyor and took Rob with me
on my assignments. It worked for a while, but the expenses kept
mounting. I had to get a full-time job and leave Rob with a
sitter.”