He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the comforting weight of another body pressed like this against him, the gentle heat of a woman’s skin against his. Right now, he thought it had to be the best feeling in the world.
Well, the second best, anyway.
“I hope you like overcooked meat and cold potatoes,” Tess said.
“My favorites.”
“Good. That’s what I made for dinner.”
He stroked his hand down her spine. A long, elegant sweep. The womanly flare of hip, the incredible curves beyond. “I’m sure it’s great.”
“Mmm.” She leaned up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Like the sex.”
He froze. He hadn’t thought of what they’d shared as sex. He’d been making love to her. Clumsily, perhaps, as eager and impatient as a schoolboy, but with as much affection as he could safely convey.
Anything more would have spelled disaster, for both of them.
He skimmed his fingers up into her hair. “Sex happens to be another of my favorites.”
She sighed and snuggled closer. “I hate to move from this particular spot, but I should be a better hostess and not keep you waiting for your meal.”
“No complaints about the hostess so far.” He moved his hand from her waist to her breast. “I wouldn’t mind skipping dinner and going straight to the dessert course.”
“Tempting.” She rose on one elbow. “I find you very tempting, Quinn.”
“Same goes.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be interested in an affair.”
He should have expected the up-front talk. He should have been grateful she was the one doing the asking-any man in his place would have been thrilled. But her suggestion-and his reaction to it-annoyed him. “I’d be willing to consider it,” he said.
She stilled, and he hoped he hadn’t offended her.
“It’s hard for you, isn’t it?” she asked a few moments later. “With Rosie, I mean.”
Rosie. He hadn’t given her a thought during the past hour. And now that she was suddenly there again, between them, he wanted to share her with Tess.
His daughter had been full of Tess on the drive to the party. Where Tess had taken her shopping, what Tess had said about her hair, how Tess had dropped hints about her wardrobe, why Tess had suggested the charm bracelet for Alana’s gift.
He wanted to ask Tess whether she thought Rosie would like a similar bracelet for a Christmas present. He wanted to know if she liked his daughter. If she thought she might find a way to someday, somehow, care for Rosie.
If there was going to be two women in his life, it would be damn difficult to keep them separate. He didn’t want his daughter to be just another item to consider when discussing the logistics of a love affair. But if they were going to have an affair-and he desperately wanted to-the subject of Rosie was bound to come up.
He sighed with a mix of confusion and guilt. “Single fatherhood does tend to complicate things. Not that I’ve had all that many offers for an affair lately.”
“We can figure something out, I suppose.” Tess stood and righted her lamp on a bedside table. “If you want to.”
“Tess.” He sat up, extended a hand and waited until she placed hers into it. And then he tugged her down on the bed, cupped her chin and pressed a sweet, gentle kiss to her mouth. “I want you. More than ever.”
Her fingers circled his wrist. “Same goes.”
SHORTLY AFTER six the following morning, Quinn awoke in Tess’s bed, his empty stomach complaining loudly. He stole a few minutes to stare at his lover, enjoying the sweep of her dark lashes over her curvy cheeks and the swell of her plump lower lip. In sleep, her features softened and relaxed, she looked younger, nearly delicate.
More beautiful than ever, and he hadn’t thought that was possible.
His stomach rumbled again, and he eased from the bed, stepped into his jeans, slipped from her room and wandered through her house in search of the kitchen.
He’d made it as far as her bathroom last night, where they’d stumbled, laughing, to make love in her deep, cast-iron tub. And she’d escaped from his arms temporarily to tend to the remains of her dinner and carry crackers and cheese back to the bed for a midnight picnic on the sheets. But he’d been focused completely on her, and he hadn’t noticed his surroundings.
Now, in the soft light of an early summer morning, her choices of paint and pattern hammered at his senses. A riot of jewel-bright colors burst from the French impressionist prints on her walls to flood her rooms with light and life. Flowers burst from vases and scented the rooms, and piles of fat pillows beckoned with promises of comfortable seating on curvy sofas and chairs. Sassy, whimsical touches-the orange glass crab crouching on a stack of books, the sad-eyed iron hound guarding a doorway-kept things casual.
Her personality enveloped him, and he stood silently and let it soak in like the sunshine beyond her windows.
He’d missed out on a good dinner, he discovered when he walked into her sunflower-yellow kitchen, saw the scraped pots and pans and caught a whiff of the lingering odors. And it appeared he’d miss out on breakfast, too, he discovered after checking her refrigerator and pantry.
He supposed he could run to the store for some cereal. His turn to do the cooking. He could bring her one of those candy-flavored coffees she drank by the gallon.
And he could detour past Tidewaters, check out the site. Especially since he’d be making a late start on the job this morning.
If he got lucky, he wouldn’t be starting the morning’s chores until the afternoon.
QUINN NOTICED the jagged tear in the southern stretch of fencing at the job site before he’d completed his turn into the street.
And he smelled the leak before he spied the ugly edges of the cut lines. The stink of it hung in the air, heavy and sour, making his gut clench even before he’d spied the ominous stain spread over the damp ground. Hydraulic fluid. Gallons of it, he imagined, emptying from the tool carrier’s tubes. And exactly how much this latest criminal assault on his equipment would cost in dollars and delays, he couldn’t begin to imagine.
Rage roared through him, obliterating the spiraling despair before it could swamp him and take him down. He muttered a vicious curse as he tugged his phone from his pocket and hit an automatic-dial button. “Tess. Get down here.”
She agreed and disconnected without asking any questions, and he was grateful she’d chosen not to press him for more information.
He squatted on his heels and stared at the ground beneath the tool carrier, careful to keep a safe distance from the edge of the spill. Whoever had done this had known exactly what to do, precisely how to deliver the most damage with the least effort. Quick, neat, efficient. Disable a vital piece of equipment. Tear up the site. Tie up the project for weeks-maybe months-during the cleanup. A cleanup that could cost hundreds of thousands, maybe millions of dollars. Guarantee headlines that could turn public opinion against Tidewaters before it opened.
Rising, he stared at the shifting ripples of the bay. And then he stooped to grab a fist-size stone and pitched it with all his might and all his frustration and all his fury into the gunmetal-gray water.