Sweet Stuff Page 17

  Quinn started off down the beach right along the water’s edge, enjoying the feel of the cool, wet sand under his feet. The nights were cooler, but the days were still climbing to a pretty blistering average temperature. He enjoyed the chilled feeling he got while running on the cold wet sand, knowing it would be too hot to walk on barefooted, much less run on, by midafternoon.

  The high tide was ebbing as the sun rose slowly above the horizon. New day. The day. There wasn’t anything else his two characters could teach him, say to him, or persuade him to do. He had to pick. Would the murders be the story, and their past history already defined? Or would the murders be their past history, and their coming together define what happened next?

  He’d settled into a particularly punishing pace, when out of nowhere, something clipped him hard on his right hip, sending him careening left, across the remaining narrow strip of sand, and into the water. He managed to catch himself before he went face-first into the surf, but not before getting soaked by an incoming, late-breaking wave. It was only as he shook the water from his hair and wiped his face that he spied Riley, about ten yards down the beach, running toward him.

  Them, actually. Just above the safety of the waterline, Brutus had planted his massive, muscular butt in the sand, and was presently drooling all over an impressively large hunk of driftwood clenched in his mighty jaw.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry!” Riley called, out of breath from the run. She stopped at the water’s edge in front of him, and tried to say something else, but ended up putting her hands on her thighs as she bent over to catch her breath.

  “I’m starting to sense there’s a pattern where water and Brutus are involved,” Quinn said as he strolled from the waves swirling around his calves and walked toward them. As soon as his bare feet hit dry sand, Brutus dropped the driftwood right on top of them, then looked up expectantly, tongue lolling.

  Wincing, Quinn bent down and hefted the log off his toes, then turned to loft it into the surf, only to have Riley spring into action, and grab his arm at the last second. “No, wait! Don’t throw it in the water.” Her voice was almost back to full strength.

  Quinn turned to face her. The moment he’d realized who was running down the beach, his heart had literally leaped in his chest. Leaped. He felt foolish. And giddy.

  Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling, and her blond curls danced about her head in a happy halo. Her lips were moving as she said something, but he was too busy corralling every ounce of his control to keep from hauling her into his arms, right up against his drenched frame, and kissing her until she lost her breath all over again.

  “He’s afraid of the water,” she was saying when he finally conquered the beast of temptation.

  “What? Wasn’t he the one who went for a swim last time?”

  “That was different. He didn’t exactly go in willingly.”

  “But he stayed in there and paddled around like a champ.”

  “That was the channel. No waves.”

  “Oh.” Quinn said, as if that made perfect sense.

  Tired of waiting, Brutus leaned in and head-butted Quinn on the thigh, then looked up at him again, eyes shining in anticipation.

  Quinn staggered a step, leveling a look at Brutus. “Patience, buddy.”

  Riley chuckled. “If this were a cartoon, there would be little hearts and birds floating over his head right now.”

  “I’d hate to see what he does to his enemies.” Quinn flexed the sting out of his toes. He took a few steps farther up the beach, then turned to look down the shoreline. Brutus scooted around on his butt and followed Quinn’s every move. “Don’t get up on my account,” Quinn told him, then cocked his arm back and did his best to launch the log as far down the beach as he could, which was maybe twenty or twenty-five yards away. It was a big log.

  As he’d done in Quinn’s backyard, Brutus watched the sailing hunk of tree without moving so much as a muscle, but Quinn noted he was tense and on full alert. As soon as the log hit the sand, Quinn expected him to explode like a coiled spring of action. Not so much. Brutus eased up off his haunches and sauntered down the beach at a slow trot toward his quarry.

  Smiling, Quinn shook his head, then turned as Riley came to stand next to him.

  “He follows his own drummer,” was all she said.

  “I can respect that.”

  She looked him up and down, which did absolutely nothing to support his struggle to keep his hands to himself. “I’m really sorry. You’re all wet. Again. I swear, I didn’t see you, then suddenly Brutus took off. He never runs, so I had no idea ... but I should have known, I guess. The last time he took off, it was to run to you.” She looked up at him and smiled. “Just another Quinn Brannigan fan, I guess. A really big fan,” she added, as Brutus trotted back toward them, tree chunk clenched in his jaw.

  “As long as he doesn’t start his own fan club, with more just like him, I think I can handle it.”

  Riley laughed. “When I came around the bend and saw you running, I called out and tried to warn you, but with the wind and the waves, I was too far away. I tried to catch up, but you were running like ... well, like the hounds of hell were on your heels.”

  “If I’d only known,” he said, and they laughed.

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I’m sorry I made you run.”

  “That’s okay, clearly I could stand to do more of it.” She grinned, and her already wind-pink cheeks pinkened a bit deeper.

  It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d have thought would be a turn-on, but with her, the blush did amazing things to his circulation, too ... just a bit farther south.

  Brutus dropped the log on Quinn’s feet, again. Quinn tried not to flinch as he bent down and scooped up the log again. “You’re a menace,” he told the dog. “Here you go.”

  “He’ll want you to do that all day if you let him,” Riley warned.

  Quinn launched the log anyway. “How exactly do you not let him do whatever it is he wants?”

  “Just rub his head, scratch his ears, and tell him you’re all done. He’ll understand. He’s just a pussycat, really.”

  “Right. I can see that about him.” Quinn started to walk toward the dog as Brutus got closer to the driftwood, and Riley fell into place beside him.

  “I’m sorry we interrupted your run. You looked very ... dedicated. Let me get Brutus and we’ll leave you to get back to it.”

  He wasn’t going to tell her that running in clothes soaked in salt water and sand was probably not the best idea if he wanted to keep his skin intact. “That’s okay, I don’t mind. I was just ... running from frustration, really.”

  “Was it helping?”

  He chuckled. “No, but at least it felt more productive then sitting and staring at my computer screen.”

  “Oh. Are you having problems with the book?” She waved her hand in front of them. “That’s none of my business. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Dead cat.” He winked at her when her gaze flew to his, and they chuckled. “To answer your question, no, I’m not having problems coming up with the story, I’m having too much success coming up with a story. That’s the problem.”

  “Too much story is a problem?”

  They caught up with Brutus, but rather than plop the log in the sand again, he kept it and fell into step in front of them, leading their procession down the beach. Quinn kept walking ... and so did Riley. He decided, sandy wet clothes or not, it was a much better way to spend the morning.

  “Too many stories is the problem.”

  “Huh. I guess I never thought of that. I always pictured writers bent over their keyboards, struggling to come up with the perfect line, the perfect way to set the next scene. I guess it never occurred to me you might have too many ideas and have to figure out which one fits the story best.”

  “Well, you’re right. That’s generally not the problem. You have it more accurately with your first assessment.” He slowed his steps and shifted his g
aze to her. “In this case, I actually have two story ideas for the same characters and I’m struggling to figure out which one to tell. Both are good, both compelling, and I don’t know which one better serves them. And me.”

  “Can’t you give one story to a new set of characters? And write both?”

  “I don’t work that way, but I did consider it. In this case, however, they simply are these people with these stories. No one else’s. There are two different universes I can have them inhabit, either one of which they’d rock, but they can’t inhabit both, and the universes can’t collide, not as I have them, in my head. They compel me in a way no two characters ever have before, at least not before I’ve even begun. They’re important to me now that I’ve spent so much time with them in my head.”

  He chuckled. “It sounds a little crazy, or a lot crazy. Normally I have a general feel, then dive in and get to know my protagonists as I go. But I know these two better already than I do most characters at the end of five hundred pages. They are fully fleshed out, developed people who feel as real to me as any characters I’ve ever devised. I can’t let them down by giving them any less than a rocking, compelling, engaging, and fulfilling story that lives up to the epic potential they have.”

  “Wow.”

  “Exactly.” He laughed. “No pressure.”

  “No one else can solve the crimes in these stories but them? And the stories can have nothing in common?”

  “In my head?” He grinned. “No. I have to pick one. I feel like it’s Sophie’s Choice or something. Once I commit, that is their story. There’s no giant erase, and start over. It’s who they become. To me.”

  “Why can’t you make it a series or something?”

  “I thought about that, but that won’t work, either. The stories put them together at two different times in their lives. They can have one life, or the other, but they can’t have experienced both, not together.” He slowed his steps, paused a moment, then stopped walking altogether. “Can I ask you something? Hypothetically?”

  She turned to look up at him, then shifted so his body blocked the sun from her face. “Sure.”

  “And can I trust your discretion?”

  She frowned slightly. “Of course. Why?”

  “First, let me ask you this. And be honest. Brutally, if needed. What is it that draws you to my books? I mean, when you sit down to read, what’s the thing you hope to find, the element that makes you anticipate the story most?”

  “That’s easy, though you might not be happy about it. It’s the relationship between the two leads. Always.”

  He folded his arms. “Really?”

  She smiled and lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, as if to apologize. “Really. I know you’re a crime novelist and you do an amazing job with all the gritty, gory stuff, and I’m sure most people read your books to get their murder mystery suspense fix. But, since you’re asking me, I can only tell you that I put up with the gory, grisly stuff so I can get my relationship fix from the leads. You always have such powerful couples and they’re so unapologetic in their commitment to one another. I love that.” Her smile turned dry. “Gee, aren’t you glad I’m the one you asked?”

  “Actually, I am.” He started walking again, his mind spinning in a new direction. “You said unapologetic. What is it that couples who love each other should apologize for?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” Riley said. “That’s what makes your books so great. You totally get that. Despite all the tragedy they live with every day, they’re allowed to be happy. Most books—mystery books, anyway—have the lead detective, be it man or woman, leading some miserable or deeply conflicted life and they’re never allowed to get the girl—or guy—and live happily. Or if they are, it’s short-lived and their new love must die or dump them, so they can go back to being an even more tragic figure. I enjoy a well-told mystery, and I like trying to figure out who did it, but isn’t it bad enough that some poor soul, or souls, died and some horrible monster is on the loose, without making the lead guy who catches him miserable, too? I mean, after a while, it’s just depressing. And hopeless. Like, we caught the bad guy, so everyone can sleep a bit more easily, except of course the guy who did the catching, who is still deeply conflicted and wretched.” She shrugged again. “I guess I don’t get why it all has to be so dysfunctional and tragic, in the guise of making it more like ‘real life.’ ” She punctuated the last two words with air quotes. “Real life has joy and love and happiness, too. And fun, and humor, and ... well, you get my meaning. I love that you show the gritty, all-too-real side of what can happen in this world, what human beings are capable of perpetrating. . . but you show both ends of that spectrum. Maybe it’s the balance, or the contrast, that makes the horrible things that much more horrible. When characters love like your people do, you—meaning me, the reader—are that much more petrified something bad will happen to them, too. That would be just too tragic. So it makes my heart pound harder when you put them in jeopardy than when some sadsack detective puts his neck on the line.” She stopped walking. “I’m sorry. I’m probably sounding like a crazy stalker fan, and you just have your couples in love so they can have hot sex.” She grinned. “I like that part a lot, too.”

  Quinn grinned back. “I’m glad. So do I. To answer your other question, no, that’s not the reason why I develop my crime-fighting couples the way I do. I do it ... well, for exactly the same reason you enjoy it. I’m glad to know readers are getting that. Well, one reader anyway.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it’s a whole lot more than one reader. I think that’s why your stories have such universal appeal. I don’t know what the breakdown of your readership is by gender, but I bet you have pretty deep hooks into both groups.”

  They walked down the beach in companionable silence, Brutus still leading the parade, as Quinn’s thoughts eddied and swirled.

  “So ... what was the hypothetical question?” she asked.

  He glanced up. “Oh, right. Actually, I think you already answered it.”

  “Oh.” She looked a bit deflated. “Okay.”

  “All right,” he said, grinning, “here it is, but again—”

  She made a lip-locking motion with her fingers, then threw the imaginary key away. On impulse, Quinn darted out a hand and made an air grab, as if catching the imaginary key. He curled his fingers into a fist, and smiled at her.

  She smiled, too, and her cheeks warmed again. He got all caught up in watching her pupils expand and her gaze drop to his mouth, before she looked away, back to the shoreline in front of them.

  And the question just popped out easily, without hesitation. “Would you be interested in reading a book from me that might leave out the grisly, gory, psycho killer part?”

  She stopped walking again, and turned to look up at him. “Yes.” She said it instantly and decisively.

  And it was exactly what he’d wanted her to say. “Okay,” he said. Okay, he thought. They started walking again. He expected her to pepper him with questions, but she didn’t, respecting his silence and need to think as they continued on down the beach.

  Brutus suddenly made a turn up the sand to where a cluster of trees provided a swath of shade, and plopped himself down under them.

  “I think he needs a break,” Riley said. “This is a lot of exercise for him. I know he looks big and strong, but a lot of extended motion is hard on his hips and back.”

  Quinn nodded and followed Brutus’s path up the sand. “I think there’s room here for all of us.”

  “You don’t have to wait, you can—”

  Quinn sat just in front of the shady part, so the sun beat down on the damp front of his clothes. He smiled up at Riley, then patted the sand next to him.

  “Okay.” She sat down next to him. Past the edge of her loose-fitting, knee-length, light tan khaki shorts extended the whitest legs he’d ever seen.

  “Do you want to sit in the shade?” he asked.

  “What?” She noticed where his gaze had gone. “Oh, no. I
have like 4000 level sunscreen on. The only way I’d tan is if all my freckles converged, and since that would just be oh-so-lovely, I opt for the Casper approach.”

  He looked at her. “I think you have beautiful skin. So you’re probably the smart one.”

  He knew the skin in question would turn bright pink at the compliment, and she didn’t disappoint him. Feeling utterly content and happy, he smiled and turned his gaze to the water, but not before noticing the bright pink toenail polish she sported ... and the delicate silver band circling her pinky toe.

  Just like that, his body leaped to life all over again—with a vengeance—causing him to cross his ankles and shift his weight in the sand. Sitting more upright, he plucked his damp shirt away from his skin so it hung looser.

  Riley wore a melon-pink tank top covered with an unbuttoned, short-sleeved pink, orange, and white plaid camp shirt. Her loose-fitting shorts rode low on her hips, drawing his eye when she’d walked toward him earlier. The whole outfit was perky and cheerful and suited her blond curls and ready smile. Styled more for comfort than to show off her figure, it certainly wouldn’t be deemed overtly sexy. Nor were her freckles and pale skin. Not overtly.

  Yet, something about the feminine tipped toes, and the earthiness of that tiny band of silver, combined with the comfortable way she dressed and the even more comfortable way she inhabited her lush, curvy body ... pretty much drove him mad with the need to pull her under him ... and find out what was beneath all that cotton and color.

  He dug his fingers into the sand and wondered again about Alva’s remark regarding Riley’s availability. He’d thought about that more than once the past week or so. Many more times than once. And had come to the conclusion that it ultimately didn’t matter. If she was unattached and he’d just assumed otherwise, she’d let him run with that assumption. Meaning she was okay with his believing it. Obviously, she did not want to let him to get any closer.

  He’d decided to respect that, and her, and just get the hell over it.

  But that was decidedly more challenging to do at the moment.