Before I Melt Away. Isabel Sharpe

shower. Fifteen minutes later, washed, dried, lotioned and deodorized, she stood in front of her closet, awash in an unfamiliar emotion: indecision.

      There was only one outfit she knew she wasn’t going to wear, and that was the one she’d just picked up off the floor and tossed back onto her bed. But what? Sexy? Businesslike? Formal? Casual?

      No jeans at the Pfister, Milwaukee’s grand old hotel. And she was sick of won’t-show-or-hold-stains pants and shirts for work at clients’ homes. But the all-business suits she wore to networking events…so cold, so…not seductive. Not that she wanted to be blatant about it. But hell, she was single, he was single; consenting adults could create many hot, appetizing scenarios if all the ingredients came together properly. She’d certainly love to taste what he was made of. And while she wouldn’t go as far as throwing herself at him, looking female wouldn’t hurt.

      She settled on a red suit with a knee-length skirt and plunging V-collar jacket, nipped in at the waist. Under it a black stretch camisole with built-in bra. Silver earrings, a silver chain, plain stockings and high black pumps, which always felt confining and wobbly after so much time in clogs and slippers.

      There. Not too conservative, not too sexy. And it was breakfast, after all, not dancing by moonlight.

      Oh, but that was a nice thought, too.

      Makeup next—not too much on her still-sleepy face or risk looking like a professional escort, ahem. Mascara, blush, red lipstick blotted down to a respectable level of brightness, under-eye concealer. Was it her imagination or did she need more of that every year as she neared thirty? A wrinkled-nose look at her nails. No way could she keep polish on with all the chopping and scrubbing she did in her job. Ah, well. She was more than the sum total of her manicure.

      Glance in the mirror—okay, who was she kidding, a long, careful study—and she was ready. To have breakfast with Quinn. Oh my, yes.

      In her unsexy minivan, she drove Route 41 to I 94, past the Brewers Stadium, past the sour-mash-and-hops smell of the Miller brewery, then off the highway and in among the buildings and asphalt of downtown, over on Wisconsin Avenue to Jefferson, circling the nineteenth-century, green-awninged Pfister and into the hotel’s garage.

      Her heels made important-sounding click-clacks down the ramp, then tap-tapped into the elevator to the first floor and went quiet on the lobby carpet into the café.

      She mentioned Quinn’s name unnecessarily to the maître-d’—unnecessarily, because within a heartbeat of being inside the restaurant, she saw him. Couldn’t help seeing him. He stuck out among the other suited men in the room, even though there was no immediately definable reason why he should, other than that he was familiar. But it went beyond that, if the glances from other diners were anything to go by, beyond even his celebrity. The man radiated…sex. No, he radiated power and authority and grace. And if you happened to find those traits sexy—and who didn’t?—then yes, you could say he radiated sex. Which she just did say. Not that she was repeating herself because she was flustered…or anything.

      He stood and watched her coming toward their table, apparently at ease with eye contact since they were out of speaking range, which made most people busy themselves with glancing at watches or fussing with silverware.

      She neared the table and said hello, beaming goofily; she couldn’t help it. He said hello back and sat only after she’d parked her butt opposite. Funny how she never noticed men’s badly fitting suits, but she sure noticed one that fit well. It didn’t just hang on him, or fight his movements. It rested and breathed with him, sat perfectly when he did. It would look so wonderful draped over a chair after he’d taken it off for the purpose of thrashing around with…okay, she had to stop that.

      “I’m glad you decided to join me.”

      “I got the impression you wouldn’t have let me refuse.”

      “True.” He gave that implied smile and picked up a menu. “If you said no, I was going to show up at your house with bagels and coffee.”

      “A man who gets what he wants.”

      He regarded her with an enigmatic expression that made her want to x-ray his brain and see what was going on inside. “I’ve been reading a biography of Napoleon. That man had a hunger for power and acquisitions that could never be satisfied.”

      “After you’re crowned emperor, what’s left?”

      “Exactly. Sometimes I get what I want. But I always want what I get. It’s enough.”

      “Admirable.” She picked up her menu, thinking he might as well call himself emperor. He’d single-handedly revolutionized the PC, the industry, and practically the world. It was a no-brainer he had enough. While she was still struggling to get her business off the ground.

      “Easy for me to say?”

      Annabel blinked up from Lighter Fare. “How do you do that?”

      “What?”

      “Read my mind.”

      He gave a slow grin. “I invented a mind reader, too, didn’t you hear? Little chip, implanted in my temple.”

      She laughed, thinking that the familiar comfort of having known him a long time ago, contrasted with grown-up sexual edginess, made their chemistry even harder to resist. “Ah, so that’s how you do it.”

      “Most people would be thinking the same thing. That it’s easy for me to say I’m satisfied, when to all appearances I have everything.”

      “Probably.” She didn’t want to go into the fact that he seemed to be able to read her mind when she couldn’t possibly be thinking what everyone else would be thinking.

      “So maybe I am perceived as the emperor now. But I was satisfied when I was working for Microsoft. And I was satisfied when my start-up company netted thirty thousand annually—when the HC-1 was considered a novelty sci-fi gimmick that would never catch on. So I’d like to think wanting what I get is a true philosophy.”

      “Very Zen of you.” She picked up her water glass and took a sip, not entirely convinced. People happy with less didn’t generally end up with so much more.

      “But I have to tell you something even more important than my life’s philosophy.”

      She put her glass down. “What’s that?”

      “You are incredibly beautiful all grown-up, Annabel.”

      All grown-up Annabel was very glad she wasn’t still holding the glass, because at his comment it would have slipped from her fingers and crashed all over the lovely table. Oh, did that sound wonderful coming from him.

      “Thank you.” Her cheeks grew warm. “You’re pretty spectacular all grown-up, too.”

      “Thank you.” He, of course, didn’t blush. His self-control was absolute. And yes, she’d love to make him lose it.

      “Can I take your order?” The matronly waitress stood at the table, bowing slightly forward, as if in the presence of royalty.

      Annabel glanced longingly at the skillet breakfast on the menu, but if she started her day with that much heavy food, she’d want to crawl in bed and stay, and she had a lot to accomplish. “I’d like the yogurt-and-fruit parfait, orange juice and tea, please.”

      “Smoked-salmon bagel, no cream cheese, grapefruit juice and coffee.” Quinn handed his menu to the waitress, who actually did bow before she swept away.

      “Tell me about your business, Annabel.” He turned those magnificent eyes back on her. It was true what people said, that when Quinn Garrett spoke to you, he made you feel no one else existed. She’d just like to know he was genuinely feeling that way with her.

      “I’m a personal chef. I do your grocery shopping, come into your home on a day you choose, cook a week’s worth of meals from menus you select, package, freeze and clean up the whole shebang.”

      “Wow.