California Man - The Author's Cut Edition (4 page)

"More than okay. Like I said, I'm looking forward to the company."

"More like looking forward to the distraction. If I was any kind of friend, I'd probably stay away and leave you to your decision-making agony. But I'm selfish enough to want a couple of days away from this rat race, so I'll see you in a few weeks."

He hung up the phone, retrieved his dinner from the oven, and carried it outside to the sundeck. As on most nights since arriving on the island, he would watch the sun go down as he ate.
I may not be any closer to a decision,
he mused,
but I've seen some damn fine sunsets. And Paul's use of the word agony was definitely overkill.

Three hours later, he nursed a cold coffee, thinking about life, his life, without the day-to-day demands of the business he'd spent years building. Nothing came clear. Even though he knew on a base level what he needed and wanted in his life—ambition, enthusiasm, desire. Passion. All the things he'd felt in the early days of Action Sports, before the excitement was wallpapered over with spreadsheets, financial statements, and sales statistics.

I want fire in my belly again.

He swigged his cold coffee and ran the back of his hand over his mouth. The trick was to kindle that fire.

A bright star caught his eye, and he stared at its crystal brilliance. It looked cold up there, studded into the night's black curtain, but he knew it wasn't. It was white-hot, radiant with energy generated from its own deep center.

He wanted to be that star.

* * *

"Your books are in, Mrs. Duncan, but I haven't unpacked them yet. It'll take only a minute." Emily smiled at her gray-haired customer and headed for the back of her store.

"Okay, dear. I'll browse for a minute or two."

It took Emily only a couple of minutes to split open the boxes and pull out the new titles.

"Here we are. All six of them. Will there be anything else today?" Emily was back at the cash register ringing up the sale.

"Yes. I think I'll take this new
Persona Magazine.
She's a pretty thing, isn't she?" Mrs. Duncan pointed to the dark-haired woman on the cover. "Who is she?"

Emily looked at the face.

"Gina Manzoni. A new actress, from Italy, I think. I agree with you though. She is pretty. Beautiful really." Emily made a mental note to read the article on her.

The door had barely closed behind Mrs. Duncan, when she heard laughter coming through the open door from the muffin shop. Grace giggling in response to a male voice. She smiled, thinking how welcome the sound of laughter was on rainy days like today. She decided to treat herself and picked up the book she was currently reading—only five pages to go.

"Must be a good book."

The deep male tones startled her.

"Oh!..." Her gaze lifted, her heart sunk. It was the man from yesterday in the park.

"I'm sorry, did I frighten you?" His dark blue eyes were apologetic.

"No. I, uh, was... just... uh—" Emily felt the familiar burn on her cheeks. No doubt now a brilliant, unidentifiable shade of rose.

"I didn't mean to sneak up on you, but the door between the two stores was open, and I thought I'd come in and pick up that book on Salt Spring. The history I mentioned?" He jogged her memory.

"Yes. Yes... Of course. There are a couple of good ones. I'll get them for you." Books. Safe ground. She could deal with books.

He looked around. "Nice store. But then I've never met a bookstore I didn't like." He smiled at her.

She should smile back, instead her face, even under the heat of her blush, froze.

Oh, god!
Whatever was scudding around in her chest, it couldn't be her heart. Hearts didn't crash around and bump into things. She took a deep breath to calm herself. This was her store and the man was a customer. But she wished he wouldn't follow her down the aisle. She reached for two books with shaky hands. "One of these might interest you."

She turned toward him and stared directly at his chest. Emily stood five feet five inches. She'd never considered herself small—until now. He must be at least ten inches taller than her. She stuffed the two books into his hands and hurried back to her counter, needing a barrier against the sizzling male energy he exuded. Panic bubbled in her chest, tightening her breathing.

* * *

Quinn ambled to the cash register, looking at the books but thinking about the nervous bookseller. Her eyes were as beautiful as he remembered, and as fearful. Good thing she didn't run one of his stores. His jock customers would eat her alive. He doubted if she could survive the assertiveness training his new employees underwent before they could be hired permanently.

When he could, he ran the course himself, but the growth of the business allowed less and less time for it. He'd always been gratified when people broke through barriers, those mental and emotional blocks that kept them from living up to their potential. More than once he'd been told the course had helped in their personal lives as well.

He put both books on the counter and looked directly at Emily. He wanted to see those gray eyes again, but her head was stubbornly downcast. This frightened woman interested him. Captivated him would be more accurate.

"These will be fine. I'll take both of them." He took his wallet from his back pocket. "Do you carry magazines?"

Emily lifted her eyes briefly and nodded toward the front of the store. Then, wonder of wonders, she found her lost voice. "The new
Sports Illustrated
and
Cycle West
are in." Well, it sounded like her voice if you ignored the minor croak.

He looked at her, surprised. "What makes you think those are the magazines I want?"

"Aren't they?" Emily handed him his change.

"Yes, but how did
you
know that?"

"I, uh, didn't. I... guessed."

"Good guess." He made no move to the magazine rack. "Emily?" He spoke her name softly.

She didn't answer, couldn't answer.

"Emily?" he repeated.

"Will there be anything else?" she asked, sticking doggedly to business and wishing him gone so she could breathe again.

He didn't go. Instead, he reached across the counter and lifted her chin with two fingers so their eyes would meet. His voice was low when he said, "Why are you so nervous? Is it me? Do
I
make you nervous?"

Emily saw the sincerity in his dark blue eyes. But she couldn't totally account for her reaction to him. It was crazy—much worse than normal—and normal could be bad, very bad. She also couldn't lie to those stark blue eyes. She struggled to steady herself.

"It's not... just you. I'm always a bit like this. Sometimes it's worse than others. I sort of—" She stopped, and he pulled his hand back from her chin.

Now only his eyes held her. "Go on. You sort of what?"

"Panic. I kind of panic at times. It passes."
What am I doing,
she moaned to herself,
telling a stranger something so stupid? Why should he care for heaven's sake?

"And I make you feel that way—panicky?"

"A little," she lied. Little didn't cover it by half.

"Why?"

When her lashes fluttered down, and she started to lower her head, he stopped her. "Look at me. And tell me, why do I make you panic?"

"I... don't know. Maybe because you're so alive... so vital." She had no idea where those words came from. They sounded stupid—but true. It was his vitality that scared her. "It's nothing, really," she added quickly.

* * *

"Nothing. I don't think so." Quinn considered her strange comment. He didn't know what to make of it or her, but he was curious. And maybe more than a little fascinated.

She wasn't beautiful. Until you looked into those killer gray eyes. Her long brown hair was thick, straight, unadorned and tied back loosely with a piece of blue leather. And apparently she was addicted to outsized sweaters that hung almost to her knees. He suspected she was self-conscious about her body.

He knew he was studying her too intensely when she visibly squirmed.

"Is there anything else?" she asked, making busy work out of restacking some bookmarkers near the cash register.

"Yes. I want to see you again." He didn't know who was more surprised by his words, him or her.

Emily, appearing shell shocked, stared at him, then swallowed, visibly. If she had anything to say, she didn't find it behind her flushed face or in her trembling hands.

"How about a bike ride?" he asked. "You can show me your island. Tomorrow? Your store's closed Sunday and Monday. It says so on the door."

"I... can't," she stammered.

"Why not?"

"I, uh, don't ride bikes." She made more busywork with papers on the counter.

"You never rode a bike when you were a kid?" He gave her a sideways glance and cocked an eyebrow.

"That was a, uh, long time ago."

"It's not something you forget. It'll come back."

"I don't have a bike." Her hands never stopped moving on the counter.

"I do. Two of them. One for me and one for you. It's settled then? I'll pick you up at eleven. Okay?"

Her hands stilled abruptly and she looked at him in consternation. "Why are you doing this? Why would you want to go biking with me?"

"I want to, and I always try to get what I want. Don't you?"

She didn't answer.

"Eleven o'clock. Here at the store. See you then." With that he picked up his books and magazines and left.

Emily stood stunned until the bell above her door tinkled its last tinkle.
Had she just made a date with the man? No. She couldn't have! And for a bike ride at that! She'd look stupid and make a fool of herself. Well, she wouldn't show up, that was all. He didn't know where she lived. So he'd be angry, so what? She'd tried to say no, hadn't she? He wouldn't listen.

She picked up the novel she'd been reading before her world turned upside down, and tossed it onto the shelf under her counter.
Who could read?
She stared out at the rain.

She wouldn't show up. That was all there was to it.

* * *

At eleven o'clock the following morning, Emily was standing under the red awning of her store. She wore jeans she fervently wished were one size bigger, an oversized blue cotton sweater, and sneakers. The town was Sunday morning quiet. It was still too early in the season for many tourists, and the threat of rain kept most Sunday strollers at home. She peered up at the sky. It was overcast, but with luck the rain would hold off. On the outside everything was fine, but inside her nerves spiked and arced like winter lightning.

She felt out of place standing at her own door, with THE DATE, as she now called it, lying ahead of her like a bed of hot coals. But tense with resolution, and exhausted by her own fear, she'd determined to go through with it, spent hours in front of her mirror giving herself pep talks and repeating
ad nauseum,
"I can do this. I can do this."

When she saw a Range Rover coming down Lower Ganges Road, she knew it was him. Rugged car, rugged man. They were perfect for each other.

I can do this. I can do this. I can—

He pulled the ATV to the curb and jumped out. Coming directly toward her, he took her by the shoulders and gave her a brief kiss on the cheek. "You came. Thank you." When she went rigid under his hands, he only smiled. "You ready for this?" He pointed to the two bikes in the back of Range Rover.

"Not really," she answered honestly. When Quinn took the bikes out of the car and propped them up, she added, "They look, uh, big." Reaching out a hand, she touched the leather seat on one bike as if it were a sleeping boa constrictor.

They were both men's bikes with a strong, solid crossbar running their length. She knew they were mountain bikes. There were hundreds of them on the island, but she'd never tried to ride one herself. But then she never did anything too physical. She suspected that Quinn Ramsay seldom did anything else.

"It'll be fun. I promise," he said.

She nodded slowly. "Right. Unlimited fun. Just what I need." Her tone was dry as continued to eye the big bikes.

He looked surprised. "Were you being sarcastic?"

She blushed and didn't answer.

"I thought we'd ride around town first. It's quiet here and flat. When you get used to the bike, we'll head out."

"Head out?"
Okay, that sounds vaguely alarming.
"Where exactly?"

"Toward the beach I went to the first day I met you, if you think you can handle it."

"I can handle it," she replied, actually sounding as if she were in her right mind.

"I never doubted it." He tilted the bike toward her. "This is your bike. I already lowered the seat, but if it's not okay, I can lower it more. Let's go over to that empty parking lot." He pointed across the road from the store. "You can give it a try and see how much you remember. Okay?"

Emily gripped the handlebars and walked the bike across the street. It felt like ten tons of twisted metal, nothing at all like the old two-wheeler she'd had when she was ten. When they reached the parking lot, she studied the bike for a moment, then without thinking about it, moved it forward and put her left foot on the pedal. She was about to swing her right foot up and over the seat, but when she estimated the height of it, she reconsidered. Instead, she tilted the bike toward her and lifted her leg carefully to the other side. Straddling the brute, she put her foot on the right pedal and pushed off. So far, so good.

Quinn sat on his bike with his arms crossed over his chest and watched her. Other than the front wheels wobbling when she made her corners she was doing fine. Then the front tire hit a rock and threw her off course. Trying to steady the bike, she forgot to brake and gained too much speed. Desperate to stop, all she could think to do was put her feet on the ground. A bad move that had her land on the crossbar—hard. Tears came to her eyes as she tried to get her breath, and she squeezed the handgrips so ferociously the blood drained from her hands.