Having The Tycoon’s Baby (The Whittakers #1)(25)
Author: Anna DePalo

“Is that where starting your own business came from? Sort of a strike for independence?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.

His perceptiveness surprised her, but she merely nodded in agreement. “Some of it was that. But I was also ready to move on from the big architectural firm. I had my own ideas, and I wasn’t getting the chance to realize them.”

Why had she revealed so much to him? One minute they were talking about ice cream, the next she was baring her soul.

He raised a finger and traced a line between her brows. “Don’t look so worried.”

She tried for a game smile. It had been years since she’d taken out these feelings and examined them. It was one thing to think about these things privately, it was another to give voice to them.

As if reading her turbulent thoughts, Quentin stroked her hair and said, “It’s all right. All kids have some fears.”

She looked at him, so strong, so solid, so seemingly cool and invincible. “Really? What were yours?”

He chuckled. “I guess I opened myself up to that one. Mine was that I wasn’t sure I’d be able to fill Dad’s shoes with the company.” His gentle stroking was soothing her and she nearly purred when he started to massage her scalp. “Even us sons have our worries.”

“Hmm.”

“I remember your father had a small construction company. Sold it as I recall,” he said casually.

She blinked, trying to keep her mind focused on the conversation. “Yes, mmm, he sold it when he retired.”

To a larger conglomerate which had subsequently been sold to a holding company that Quentin had formed with some more minor business partners. Quentin realized she didn’t know about the relationship between him and the company that her father’s old business had eventually been folded into.

Knowing what he knew now, he doubted the information would be welcome to her. And, frankly, he didn’t need another strike against him. No doubt, on some level, Elizabeth questioned whether her father would have sold the company if there’d been a son around.

The concert started then—the Pops launching into a rendition of Sousa’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever”—and they lapsed into silence.

They had a new connection between them, Liz thought. Forged of newly discovered shared experiences. She hadn’t thought it would be so easy to talk to him, tell him things that she hadn’t even revealed to Allison.

She stole a look at him. They were more alike than she’d ever imagined. Although, she mused, maybe she’d always intuitively known about his power to read her like a book and that had been part of the tension between them.

There was only one word for a man who made her feel like he could glimpse her soul: Dangerous.

When they arrived at Quentin’s empty house, he carried her back from the car. She didn’t protest as much as she had in the beginning, though the tingle of awareness was there every time. It ran through her from the thousand points where their bodies touched.

He deposited her in the living room. “Coffee,” he suggested.

“Please, let me do it,” she said, grabbing her crutches, which he’d carted in with her. “You can finish unloading the car.”

He hesitated for a second, then nodded and strode out.

When his back was turned, Liz gave a little smile. Maybe it was his recent knowledge of how important her independence was to her, but he’d just stopped himself from giving orders instead of taking them.

She hummed a little as she reached the coffeepot. The crutches slowed her down a bit, but the doctor had said she might be able to get rid of them within the week.

When Quentin materialized, she let him take the coffee cups and followed him back into the living room. He sat right beside her on the couch, the arm of the sofa preventing her from shifting away even if she’d wanted to.

“I enjoyed the concert,” she said, suddenly a bit shy. “Thanks for taking me.”

“You’re welcome.” It had been hard keeping his hands off her on the lawn. Now that they were alone, his self-control slipped down another notch.

He searched his brain for suitable conversation. “I’ve always liked concerts. My mother forced all of us kids to take up an instrument. Mine was the sax.” He looked around. “Wonder where Muriel hid the damn thing.”

She chuckled. “Hall closet, second door on the right, behind your hockey trophy from high school and an old basketball.”

He should have known. “Gave you the grand tour, did she?”

“I’m afraid so.” She tried to hide a smile by taking a sip of her coffee. “It happened one day when you were at work.”

“Figures.”

Elizabeth stifled a yawn with her hand, then rubbed her eyes.

“Tired?” he asked. He moved his hand to rub the nape of her neck, which, he’d come to realize, was an erogenous zone. He looked forward to replacing his hand with his lips soon.

“Mmm.” She arched her neck to give him better access. “Quentin?”

“Yes?” Her eyes were closed and he leaned toward her, intent on trailing his lips along the curve of her long and graceful neck.

“Why do you call me Elizabeth?”

The question caught him off guard and he reversed his forward motion. Heck of a time for her to ask that. “Are you sure you want to know?”

She opened her eyes to gaze at him. “Is it really terrible?”

He pretended to contemplate that for a second. “Depends on how you look at it.” She looked irresistibly sweet sitting there on his couch. He nearly groaned aloud when she wet her lips.

“I really want to know.”

His cover was about to be blown, but there was no help for it. He took a deep breath. “Calling you Elizabeth helped me mentally keep you at a distance.” He blew out the breath. “Elizabeth is a lot more formal-sounding than Liz or Lizzie. It reminded me to keep our relationship on a strictly ‘hello-goodbye’ basis no matter how lovely you were and how attracted I was to you.”

Reading the mixture of doubt and surprise on her face, he added ruefully, “You were a threat. I was a twenty-five-year-old guy who found himself in the uncomfortable position of lusting after his little sister’s best friend, who wasn’t even out of high school.” His eyes connected with hers. “Of course I was going to cut you out.”

Her brows had drawn together in puzzlement. “I thought you didn’t like me. Matt and Noah were friendly, you were—”

“—a jerk. Purposely.”

“You weren’t impolite,” she demurred, her forehead clearing. “Just… aloof.”