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MOLLY HAD EXPECTED the rain to let up by midday, but if anything, it had only gotten heavier, and now the wind had picked up as well. She stood before the sliding door that opened onto the deck, watching the expanse of tall grasses between the house and the beach ripple and sway under the onslaught. Whitecaps studded the bay. The sky grew darker by the minute.
Well, she couldn’t complain. They’d had twenty-six days of near perfect weather. Molly smiled. When had she started thinking of this vacation in terms of “they”? And had Quinn slipped into the same mindset?
Probably. The past two weeks since his birthday had been far different from those first strained days. They now shared the house in a natural, relaxed way. By unspoken agreement they had the run of each other’s space, with no locked doors between them.
Most meals were joint ventures. One beach blanket served the two of them. Together they dined in the local seafood restaurants, perused the gift and antiques stores, and occasionally, when the docile bay seemed too boring, they crossed the Cape for the pugnacious waves of the Atlantic. Quinn had even rented a bike to accompany Molly on two-wheeled tours of the surrounding area.
They’d gone out to the movies a couple of nights to take in the latest crop of summer action flicks. And when Molly had discovered Quinn had never bowled, she’d dragged him whining and moping to the nearest alley. He’d made no secret of the fact he considered bowling a lowbrow pseudosport for bored housewives and middle-aged guys with prodigious beer guts and no discernible athletic skills—which made his initiation all the more humbling.
Molly had assured him her score of 202 was a fluke—her average was a mere 187. She’d almost regretted taking him when he refused to leave until he’d elevated his score into the three digits. They’d returned a few times and he’d shown rapid improvement. He now talked of perfecting his technique through books and videos, and investing in the best-quality ball, bag, and shoes.
Most evenings, however, they stayed in, playing poker, watching movies, or simply listening to music and talking. Sometimes Molly accompanied the old records on her trumpet, at Quinn’s urging. This gave him the opening to launch into off-color observations regarding female horn players until she was laughing too hard to continue.
One recent evening she’d employed her feminine wiles and most of a blender of slushy, sneakily strong margaritas to persuade him to dance with her. It might have been the tequila, but Quinn did the old rock tunes justice with sexy, loose-jointed moves and a surprisingly sound sense of rhythm.
Molly couldn’t kid herself: They weren’t just friends. Their relationship had passed the point of simple friendship when they came close to doing the wild thing on Quinn’s kitchen counter. She hadn’t allowed things to get that out of hand since.
She meant what she’d told Quinn. Yes, she understood his concerns regarding his career, but she had no intention of sneaking around, and she especially had no intention of sneaking around behind her ex-fiancé’s back, of all people. The usurious rent he’d charged her had been a painful and expensive lesson. But not a wasted one. Phil Owen was now officially out of her life. She refused to allow him even unwitting control over any aspect of it. And that included being forced to treat the act of love like some sordid little secret.
And Quinn still insisted on secrecy even though he now had even more reason to despise Phil. He’d told Molly that he’d believed Phil’s explanation for letting him go, that the merger with Glacken and Ross had created circumstances beyond his control. However, after Molly’s bombshell revelation about the prenuptial agreement, Quinn began to examine the events leading up to his firing.
The day after his birthday he’d made a few discreet phone calls and gotten the inside scoop: The guy brought in to replace him was a close relative of Phil’s. Quinn’s job should have been secure, merger or no merger. After that it wasn’t hard to deduce that free use of the beach house had been a placating gesture in case Quinn ever managed to discover he’d lost his job to nepotism.
Quinn freely acknowledged that this latest disclosure only bolstered his disgust of his former boss. Nevertheless, Phil was still a Force to Be Reckoned With. In light of a recent day trip Molly had made to Nantucket, Quinn’s worries were probably moot, but she wouldn’t share that with him just yet. Call her selfish, but she needed to know where she stood with him. If she didn’t mean enough to him that he’d risk Phil’s wrath, perhaps theirs was meant to be only a shallow and sexless summer fling. And in five days they’d go their separate ways.
But their differences went beyond his fixation on secrecy. She was terrified of repeating her previous disastrous mistake. No, Quinn and Phil weren’t clones, but the similarities were undeniable. Quinn argued that they were also superficial, and the more she got to know him, the more she had to agree. Still, hadn’t Phil been Mr. Right not so long ago? In the words of the old adage, fool me twice, shame on me.
She’d lost her head with Quinn once. Since then, she’d been on her guard, determined to avoid a repeat performance. Thus their displays of affection were tame by most couples’ standards. Such as the little gifts they exchanged, sometimes silly, sometimes sentimental, anything that caught their fancy or reminded one of the other. From him, a tiny, antique enamel charm on a neck chain, inscribed with the image of a swan. From her, a plush stuffed crab, souvenir of Cape Cod, in honor of his zodiac sign.
Molly gave Quinn long, pampering back rubs. He brushed her hair until she moaned in pure hedonistic bliss. They necked on the beach, more playful than passionate. In the house they freely touched and kissed and cuddled, but she always reined in the action well before the point of no return. It wasn’t easy. Quinn employed an impressive array of seduction skills in an effort to tip the scales. He still wanted to make love to her, but on his own terms, as a strictly clandestine liaison. She tried not to let on how much sheer grit it took to resist him.
Her gaze was focused on the distant horizon, now murky and indistinct, when a dark figure appeared out of nowhere and rapped sharply on the glass of the sliding door.
Molly jumped with a shriek. In the next heartbeat she recognized the man standing on the deck in the downpour. Quinn pointed to the door latch. “Open up.”
She unlocked it and tried to pull it open, but this was one of the doors that didn’t want to budge. Quinn added his brawn to the effort and the door jerked about two feet along its track, squealing in protest. He stepped inside and muscled it closed.
In the gloom of the rain-hued afternoon his smiling eyes seem to glow like gray-green gems in his tanned face—those heavy-lidded gigolo eyes that no longer seemed so incongruous now that she’d experienced the sensual side of this man she’d once thought of in such one-dimensional terms.
“You’re drenched,” she said.
He glanced at the puddle gathering on the tile floor at his feet. His black polo shirt and olive-drab chinos clung to his body. He swept his fingers through his sodden hair and it stood up in black spikes.
He looked too delicious to resist, and Molly didn’t even try. She stretched on tiptoes for what she intended as a quick kiss, but for some reason the feel of his lips, rain wet and chilly, the light rasp of afternoon whiskers, roused something within her, something with a mind of its own. She kissed him greedily, making little yummy noises. A low, feral sound rumbled up his throat as he began to respond.
Abruptly she switched gears and licked his lips with ravenous cat laps, the rain and Quinn both sweet on her tongue. After a bark of surprise, he made a grab for her, but she was ready with an evasive maneuver, laughing, getting in a few more haphazard swipes of her tongue before he caught her.
Quinn clamped his arms around Molly, pressing her to his soaking wet clothes. A wicked chuckle bubbled against her mouth as he took charge of the kiss. She wriggled and squirmed in a futile attempt to escape, but he only held her tighter. At last he released her and she staggered back a step, laughing breathlessly, her lips buzzing.
“There!” he said with a triumphant grin. “Don’t mess with me, sister!”
“You got me wet.”
“Really?” he asked, a study in male impudence.
I’m getting there, she could have answered, but offered only an exasperated smirk.
His intense gaze homed in on her torso. She followed his line of sight, almost expecting to see twin gray-green laser beams. Her pale blue T-shirt, now thoroughly wet and practically transparent, was plastered to her breasts. Her nipples rose in dusky points.
Of course, he’d seen her buck naked, but there was nothing like a teasing glimpse to light a guy’s fire. What strange and curious creatures men were, she thought. But lovable, by and large. And a surprising number of them smelled good and moved heavy objects without complaint. Even the debacle with Phil hadn’t soured Molly on the male of the species.
She plucked the shirt from her skin. When she released it, it clung once more. She asked, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to come in out of the rain?”
“I thought that’s what I just did.”
“What were you doing out there?”
“Bringing all the lawn furniture into the house. I already did the first floor.” At her quizzical look, he said, “Hurricane’s on the way, Molly.”
“No!”
“Didn’t you hear it on the news?”
“TV’s been off all day. Aren’t we supposed to evacuate or something? Run like heck away from the coast?”
“It’s not going to be that bad,” he said. “We should be fine if we just batten down the hatches.”
“What can I do?”
“Well, there was this public health warning. If you’re wearing a wet T-shirt, it has to come off. Immediately.”
“Nice try.”
“Suit yourself, but don’t blame me if you catch, uh, hurricane fever.”
“Aren’t we supposed to, like, nail wood over the windows or something?” she asked.
“Ideally, but if you think I’m going to jump in my car and hunt for a lumberyard and bust my butt to secure a house whose owner is letting it fall apart anyway, think again.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“Actually, I have some duct tape in my car. We’ll tape all the windows and doors so at least if one breaks, it won’t shatter all over.” He nodded toward her deck. “Speaking of which, I’ve got to bring all your stuff inside or it could come flying through the glass later. Why don’t you put some water in pots, pitchers, whatever you can find, in case the water supply becomes contaminated. And see if you can scare up some candles—we could lose power.”
“Good idea. Ooh, this is exciting!”
Quinn smiled at her enthusiasm and pulled the sliding door open. Wind-driven rain pelted him. He adopted a W. C. Fields twang, fresh in Molly’s mind from last night’s Fields movie marathon. “’Tain’t a fit night out for man nor beast! I’m going out to milk the elk, dear.”
While he moved her picnic table, chairs, and grill inside, Molly changed into a tie-dyed halter top and green sweat shorts with a rolled-up hem. She filled all available vessels with water and ransacked the closets, earning only a smelly citronella candle and a flashlight with dead batteries for her efforts.
Quinn had piled up the lawn furniture in a corner of the living room. He started pulling off his sodden clothes on his way downstairs and returned a few minutes later in dry shorts and a T-shirt Molly had bought for him at the local army-navy store, in hopes of weaning him away from his stuffy “vacation uniform.” The shirt was gray with a design that harkened back to the World War II navy construction battalions, the Seabees: a cartoon bumblebee wearing a fierce expression and a navy cap, holding tools and firing a weapon.
Quinn had retrieved the duct tape from his car, as well as a hefty, macho-looking flashlight that worked. In addition, he’d located a nearly full box of four dozen white utility candles under his kitchen sink.
Meanwhile Molly had cleared a space in the living room and thrown a thick quilt and a couple of sofa cushions on the floor as a sort of cozy nest from which to observe Mother Nature’s shenanigans. Their view was impeded only by the crisscrossing strips of duct tape Quinn now placed on the glass of the sliding door. Within minutes all the glass in the house was similarly adorned.
“There.” He tossed the leftover tape onto a lamp table. “We’ve done what we can.”
“Join me.” Molly patted the quilt next to her. Sitting cross-legged, facing the sliding door and the rapidly escalating storm, she twisted a corkscrew into a bottle of burgundy and worked the cork out. She poured wine into two juice glasses.
Quinn kicked off his deck shoes and settled next to her on the quilt. He accepted a glass. “I should’ve known you’d find a way to turn a hurricane into high entertainment.”
“You know, we should turn off all the lights, get a better view.”
As if on command, the lights flickered for a few moments. Molly giggled. She waved her arms imperiously. “Forces of darkness, hear my command!”
The lights blinked out and Molly shot her fist in the air. “Yes! I have the power.”
Quinn set aside his glass and came to his feet. He offered Molly his hand. “If the high priestess of the dark forces isn’t above lighting a few candles, I could use some help.”
In short order they had a dozen lit utility candles arranged around the room, using coffee mugs and small plates for candleholders. Outside it was now nearly as dark as night. The bay at high tide had risen above the level of the clifflike dunes, whipped into powerful waves, threatening the homes directly on the beach.
Quinn said he didn’t think it would advance as far as their house, but Molly wasn’t so sure. And even without flood damage, the place was taking a beating. If it was dilapidated before, what was it going to be like after this?
The sliding door rattled in its frame, battered by wind-whipped rain and debris. Drafts found every chink, making candle flames shiver and dance. Quinn and Molly didn’t speak. They reclined on the cushions, snugly cocooned against the elements, sipping wine and listening to the wailing gales.
The glass had become a mirror, showing the two of them in indolent repose, gilded by candlelight, superimposed on the backdrop of nature’s violence. A study in contrasts, Molly thought, staring at her reflection, watching herself lift the juice glass to her lips. She watched Quinn watching her, his gaze on her profile. He tipped the bottle and refilled her glass and his own.
She supposed she should ask him if he was hungry. It was around dinnertime, but she didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to move, couldn’t bear to break the spell that lulled them like a narcotic.
She couldn’t have said how much time passed in this fashion... one hour, two. Their lives outside that one small room ceased to exist. They were castaways on a deserted island, surrounded by an impenetrable blockade of howling wind and rain. Held captive by the forces of darkness. Her mouth quirked at the thought.
Quinn caught her eye in the glass, curious, no doubt, about what had prompted her smile but unwilling to shatter the trance by asking. Their gazes locked and held for several minutes, and it seemed natural and right, as if nothing else existed that was worthy of their attention.
At last he broke eye contact to set down his juice glass. Something pumped hard within Molly’s body, a burst of anticipation, almost painful. His movements were deceptively unhurried as he took the glass from her hands and placed it next to his.
And then he turned back to her, as she’d known he would, to claim her mouth, his lips wine sweet and urgent. His fingers threaded into her hair and he half covered her. His weight, his heat, the pressure of his body, maddened her.
Their lips clung as if made for this. Their limbs twined as if made for this. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, his back, not tenderly but with a bone-deep craving. His tongue stroked her, slid deep to taste her, and she arched into him with a strangled whimper, needing this and so much more.
He caressed the bare skin of her back revealed by her halter top. When his thumb traced the sensitive outside curve of her breast at the edge of the cloth, she wrenched her mouth from his, feeling lightheaded, needing air.
Quinn’s eyes were even more arresting by candlelight, dangerously intense as he stared down at her. His fingertips lightly stroked up the edge of her halter top from her waist to her shoulder and around her neck. He tugged on the drawstring tie, and automatically she grabbed his wrist. The wind screamed in her ear, the rain drummed the glass, almost but not quite drowning out the warning voice in her head.
“So shy,” he murmured, searching her eyes. “I’ve seen you before. You weren’t shy then.”
She tried to bluff but knew the instant he saw through it to the yearning she couldn’t hope to conceal. He captured her wrists in one hand and reached around her neck to untie the drawstring. Then his fingers slid under her waist to loosen the bow there, leaving the halter top in place but completely unfastened.
He released her wrists. “Take this off.”
Molly bit back a spontaneous giggle. Quinn smiled a question.
“Take this off,” the sheik commands. “Dance for me.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday,” she said, and pulled the cloth away. The air felt cool on her bare torso, but there was nothing cool in Quinn’s gaze.
He lounged on his side next to her, propped on an elbow. His breath drifted over her bare flesh, exciting every nerve ending. His fingers lightly skimmed her belly. They lingered at her navel, just peeking over the top of her sweat shorts, igniting little sparks that made her stomach quiver.
He trailed his fingertips around one breast. Molly felt the nipple pucker. She watched, breathless, as his head slowly lowered and his mouth closed over it. Gasping, she clung to him. Sanity fled under the heat, the suction, the lithe strength of his tongue.
She saw the two of them in the glass, his dark head at her breast, her fingers tangled in his hair. She saw something close to pain on her own face, the wild wanting she’d managed to tame for so long straining at the leash.
He raised his head. She read it in his eyes even before he said, “It’s time.”