Before I Melt Away. Isabel Sharpe

you to this neighborhood tonight? You said you were at a party in Brookfield?”

      “Spur-of-the-moment decision driving back. I wanted to see where you lived. Then my tire went, practically at your door and you know the rest.”

      “It was funny, with the wind, dog howling next door, your jack clanking on the street—I thought I was being haunted.”

      He narrowed his eyes for a fleeting second, then got up abruptly, approached her fireplace and crouched to examine the tiles. “Excuse me, but I have to see if these are what I think.”

      “They are.” She laughed, a little nervously, willing the heat to stay out of her cheeks. How many people had she shown those pictures off to? Now she wanted to blush? “An artist used to live here, who apparently had a rather liberal view of life. But I like them. They’re not obvious unless you look closely. You’re the first person who spotted them on his own.”

      “Am I?” His eyebrows went up, but she had the feeling he wasn’t surprised. She shouldn’t be, either. Even in high school, nothing had escaped his notice. Of course, that fact would have made no impression on her at thirteen, except that her parents kept commenting on what a remarkable boy he was. A remarkable boy who’d grown into a remarkable man. Damn shame Mom and Dad weren’t here to see it. Her mom especially had doted on Quinn, and missed him when he went back home, though she’d loved that he kept in touch for several years, especially at Christmas.

      “Why the sadness?”

      Annabel started. He hadn’t even glanced at her, she was sure. He was standing now, staring into the fireplace where her lone log still glowed orange underneath. Freaky how he did that. More than once when she’d been in thirteen-year-old hormone hell, he’d understood what she was feeling more than her parents had. Or so it seemed to her at the time.

      “I was thinking Mom and Dad would have really liked to know you now.”

      “Maybe they do.”

      She shot him a startled look, then laughed. “I suppose that’s possible.”

      He picked up a tiny framed print from her mantel, Three Spirits Mad With Joy, by Warwick Goble, a whimsical favorite of hers left to her by her mom. “I used to think the dead should be allowed to come back one day a year, to see the people who miss them.”

      “You don’t anymore?”

      He turned, cocking his head in a silent question.

      “You said used to think.”

      “Oh.” He put the picture down. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it in a while.”

      “Who would you want to come back?”

      “Sally.” He spoke without hesitation.

      Annabel clenched her teeth against irrational jealousy. She hadn’t read about him getting married or being attached, but then Quinn Garrett was adamant about keeping his personal life away from the press. “I’m sorry. Someone special?”

      “Very.”

      “Girlfriend?”

      “Guinea pig.”

      Annabel burst out laughing. “Be serious.”

      “I am serious. I had her when I was a boy. She listened to everything I said, never thought I was odd. It was always clear what she wanted from me.” He chuckled, reminding Annabel how seldom he laughed out loud.

      “She sounds wonderful. Who else would you want to come back? I hope your parents are still in this world.”

      “Mom is.” He moved back to the couch to grab his coat. Even in high school he’d been reluctant to discuss his life or his parents. All she knew was that they lived in Hartland, Maine—sister city to Hartland, Wisconsin, where Annabel had grown up, and that his father had worked at a tannery while mom stayed home.

      “I should go.”

      “You should?” She stood up, absurdly disappointed, and followed him into the chilly front entranceway.

      “I’ve taken up too much of your evening already.”

      She stopped herself from offering him the rest of it, wanting to ask Will I see you again? but hating the clingy-woman line. “Thank you for stopping by.”

      “I’ll see you again.”

      She couldn’t help the wide smile. “I’d like that.”

      “I would, too.” He leaned forward and for one crazy second, she thought he was going to kiss her and her entire being went on hold. Then he stopped several inches away and she had to use everything in her power not to look disappointed.

      “I’m counting on you to show me some fun while I’m here, Annabel.” His eyes were warm, bottomless, and he smelled like expensive male heaven.

      Oh, yes. “How long will you be here?”

      “As long as it takes.”

      “To negotiate the acquisition?”

      He lifted one eyebrow briefly, then leaned the rest of the way toward her and kissed her…

      On the cheek, oh crap.

      “I’ll call you tomorrow.” He let himself out and strode down her front walk toward his car.

      Annabel shut the door slowly, not wanting him to turn and catch her mooning after him but reluctant to cut herself off from the sight of him. Her heart was pounding, cheeks flushed, body buzzing with excitement in spite of her disappointment. She’d see him again. When she wasn’t wearing pajamas.

      Across the street, she heard his car door open, close, the engine start up and drive slowly away.

      She’d be wearing nothing like pajamas. Nothing to remind him of the year when she’d been practically his little sister. Then maybe his next kiss goodbye wouldn’t be aimed at her cheek.

      And maybe, just maybe, it would last all night.

      THE PHONE RANG. Annabel’s eyes shot open.

      Early. Very early. Her body could tell. Who was calling? Had something happened? She’d been dreaming—a curtain around her bed, some menace approaching, about to yank it back…

      She reached for the phone, glancing at the clock. Six o’clock. If Ted was trying to worm out of cooking for the Moynahans today, she’d kill him.

      “Annabel.”

      The adrenaline that had kicked in at her abrupt awakening doubled. No, tripled.

      “Quinn.” She pitched her voice higher than usual so he wouldn’t hear the sleep still in it.

      “I woke you.”

      Annabel rolled her eyes. She couldn’t get anything past the man. “It’s okay.”

      “Have breakfast with me.”

      “I can’t.” The words came to her lips before she’d even thought them through.

      A low chuckle on the line. “Let’s try that again. Have breakfast with me, Annabel.”

      This time the request, or rather command, sneaked past her Automatic Self-Denial System—was it the sexy way he said her name?—and she found she really wanted to. But she had so much to—

      “Café at the Pfister. At seven.”

      She smiled and fell back onto the bed, one hand holding the phone to her ear, the other pushing her hair back. Could she? A quick shower, dressing for him in actual clothes, a quick fifteen-minute drive downtown, breakfast for an hour or so, back here ready to go by eight-thirty or nine—not that much past her usual time. And it might be her only chance to see Quinn again; the man was doubtless booked solid while he was here. Everyone must want a piece of him.

      Okay, she was convinced.

      “That