QUADE: THE IRRESISTIBLE ONE Read online

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  QUADE: THE IRRESISTIBLE ONE

  Bronwyn Jameson

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

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  Chapter 1

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  Cameron Quade wasn't surprised to see the sleek silver coupe parked in his driveway. Irritated, yes, resigned, yes, but not surprised. Even before he identified the status symbol badge on the car's hood, he'd figured it belonged to his aunt or uncle, one or the other. They probably owned a matched pair.

  Who else knew of his impending arrival? Who else had just cause and reason for waving the Welcome Home banner? He'd been expecting Godfrey and Gillian to show up sooner or later but he'd have preferred later. Several years later seemed around about perfect.

  As the front door clicked shut behind him, Quade let the weighty luggage slide from his fingers and a weightier sigh slide from his lips. His travel-weary gaze scanned the living area of the old homestead he'd grown up in, then narrowed on a wince.

  The place had been unoccupied for twelve months yet the gleam coming off every highly polished surface was damn near blinding. Someone had been busy but his aunt Gillian wielding a duster? If he could have summoned the necessary energy, he'd have laughed out loud.

  As he wandered from room to room he did manage to summon a mild intrigue. The funky R & B tune piping from the stereo – a boy band? – didn't seem like Aunt G.'s taste, although the classic gray suit jacket looped over the hall stand did. As for the flowers – he traced a finger along the rim of a hothouse orchid – yeah, the artful arrangement on said hall stand reeked of her touch.

  But the woman in Quade's bedroom, the woman in the classic gray skirt peeling back his bedclothes, was not his father's sister.

  No way, no how.

  "Come on, come on, pick up the phone!"

  The woman's voice – low, smoky, impatient– drew his gaze away from the gray skirt and up to the cell phone clamped to her ear. She raked her other hand through her hair, one sweep from brow to crown that brought the thick dark mass into some sort of order. Temporary, he predicted, watching one curl bounce straight back up again.

  "Julia. What were you thinking? Did I not specify guy sheets? Something practical, no frills?" She wrenched at the bedding, ripping it free from the mattress. "And you chose black satin?"

  Practically hissing the last words, she flung the sheets behind her. They slithered across the highly polished floorboards to land just shy of where he stood, unnoticed, in the doorway.

  "Good grief, Julia, you might as well have left a box of condoms on the pillow while you were at it!"

  Quade's brows lifted halfway up his forehead. Black satin sheets and condoms? Not the usual homecoming gift, leastways not from his aunt and uncle. And he wasn't expecting welcome-home gifts from anyone else, especially this unknown Julia, the one copping an earful from the stranger in his bedroom.

  "Call me when you get in, okay?"

  Correction. Whose answer machine was copping an earful.

  Equal parts amusement and bemusement curled Quade's lips as the discarded phone skidded across a side table and bumped to a halt against the wall. Still the same blue paint he recalled from his childhood. He'd wanted fire-engine red but his mother had stood firm. Luckily.

  His nostalgic smile froze half-formed when the woman leaned across his bed. Holy hell. Quade tried not to stare, but he was only human. And male. And at his lowest point of resistance, completely lacking in willpower. Ten thousand miles of travel did that to a body.

  Riveted, he watched her straight skirt ride up the backs of smoothly stockinged thighs. Watched the fine gray material stretch from classic to seam-threatening across a stunning rear end.

  It was the first sight to snare Quade's total attention in those thousands of miles of travel.

  Hiking her skirt higher, she slid one knee onto the mattress and stretched even farther, and he realized, belatedly, that she was remaking his bed. No, not his childhood bed but the big old double from the guest room – the antique one with the rusty springs. And as she leaned and bent and stretched and tucked, the mattress squeaked and creaked with a sound evocative of another kind of movement, a sound that stoked Quade's warm enjoyment of the scene to hot discomfort.

  Hot discomfort as inappropriate as his continued silent observation, he decided with a wake-up-to-yourself shake of his head. He stepped out of the doorway and into the room and asked the first question that came to mind. "Why are you changing the sheets?"

  She whipped around in a flurry of fast-moving limbs that put her off the mattress and onto her feet in one second flat. Or, more accurately, onto one foot and one shoe in one second flat. Her other shoe had sailed free midflurry and now lay on its side, stranded halfway between the bed and the discarded sheets. She faced him with one hand splayed hard against her pink-sweatered chest, with her eyes round and startled.

  Eyes, he noticed, almost as intensely dark as her hair. Both contrasted starkly with her pale complexion, although her softly rounded face was in perfect harmony with her body.

  "I haven't the foggiest who Julia is or why she's been choosing my bed linen," he continued softly, toeing the heap of satin out of the way as he came further into the room, "but I have nothing against her taste."

  Her gaze whipped to the phone and back again, and he knew that she knew exactly what he'd overheard, but she offered no explanation, no comment, other than an accusatory, "You're not supposed to be here for another hour. Why are you early?"

  She looked annoyed, sounded put out, and there was something about the combination that seemed oddly familiar. Quade tried to place her as he dealt with her objection. "We had a decent tailwind across the Pacific and got into Sydney ahead of schedule. Plus I'd allowed for fog over the mountains but it was surprisingly clear for August. I made good time."

  Her attention slid past him, toward the doorway. "You're alone?"

  "Should I have brought someone?"

  When she didn't reply he lifted a brow, waited.

  "We didn't know if you were bringing your fiancée," she conceded. "We decided to play it safe."

  Hence the double bed. Hence the black satin and condoms. At least that made some sort of sense, or it would have done if he still had a fiancée to share his bed. As for the rest…

  "We?" he asked.

  "Julia and I. Julia is my sister. She's been helping me out." Or not helping, if her disgusted glare at the abandoned sheets was any indication.

  Again, he felt that inkling of familiarity. Nothing solid, but… Gaze fixed on her face, he came a little closer. "Now we have Julia sorted, that leaves you."

  "You don't recognize me?"

  "Should I?"

  "I'm Chantal Goodwin." She lifted her chin as if daring him to disagree.

  He almost did. Hell, he almost laughed out loud in startled disbelief. While at university Chantal Goodwin had clerked in the law firm where he'd worked. Hell, he all but got her the gig but he didn't recall ever seeing that spectacular rear end. He did, however, recall her being a spectacular pain in the rear end.

  "It was a long time ago," she said stiffly. "I dare say I've changed a bit."

  A bit? Now there was a classic understatement. "You had braces on your teeth."

  "That's right."

  "And you've rounded out some."

  "Nice way of saying I've put on weight?"

  "Nice way of saying you've improved with age."

  She blinked as if unsure how to deal with the compliment, and he noticed her lashes, long and dark and natural. If she wore any makeup, he couldn't tell. And in the sudden stillness, the total silence, he reali
zed that the music had stopped. And that a nice warm hum of interest stirred his blood.

  "So, Chantal Goodwin," he said softly, "what are you doing in my bedroom?"

  "I'm an associate in your uncle's law firm."

  "Well, that explains you being in my bedroom."

  She had the good grace to flush, prettily, he thought. "I also happen to live just across the way—"

  "In the old Heaslip place?"

  "Yes."

  "So, you're making my bed as a neighborly gesture? Kind of a welcome-home gift?"

  That pretty hint of color intensified as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. When the other turned out to be the shoeless one, she listed badly to the left. Quade steadied her with a hand beneath her elbow, taking her weight and enjoying the notion that he'd thrown her off balance almost as much as he was enjoying her pink-sweatered, softly flushing, female-scented proximity.

  Clearing her throat, she pointed beyond his right shoulder. "Before I fall flat on my face, would you mind fetching my shoe?"

  Quade retrieved it; she thanked him with a smile. It was no more than a brief curve of her wide unpainted mouth but it softened her eyes. Not quite black, he noticed, but the deep opaque brown of coffee … without the cream. That was reserved for her skin, skin that looked as velvety smooth as those orchids in his hallway.

  "As I was saying—" She paused to slip her foot into the shoe. "Godfrey and Gillian wanted your place habitable before you arrived and because I live so near, I was … I volunteered."

  Ah. His uncle – her boss – had volunteered her for the job. The Chantal Goodwin he remembered would have just loved that! "You cleaned my house?"

  "Actually I employed a cleaning service. But the linen's all packed away and I didn't like going through your father's things. That's why I asked Julia to buy the sheets."

  "Does Julia work for Godfrey, too?"

  "Good grief, no." She shook her head as if to clear it of that staggering notion. "I was running short on time so she was helping me."

  "By buying sheets…?"

  "Exactly. Anyway, these ones—" she indicated the sheets on the half-made bed behind her "—are mine and because I had to go fetch them, I'm running late."

  "For?"

  "Work. Clients. Appointments." With quick hands she resumed her bed making. "Julia also shopped for groceries. I'm sure you'll find there's enough to get by on. I took the liberty of having your phone connected, and the power, of course."

  Quade folded his arms and watched her tuck the plain white sheets into ruthless hospital corners. "Leave it," he said, feeling unaccountably irritated by her seamless switch to business mode.

  She straightened. "Are you sure?"

  "You think I can't make my own bed?"

  Unexpectedly her mouth curved into a grin. "Well, yes, actually. I've never met a man yet who could make a bed worth sleeping in."

  Her wry amusement lasted as long as it took their gazes to meet and hold, as long as it took for images of rustling sheets and naked skin and hot elevated breathing to singe the air between them.

  "I—" She looked away, off toward the wide bay window and the wild gardens beyond, then drew a breath that hitched in the middle. "I have to go. I'm running so late."

  She started to turn, on the verge of fleeing, Quade thought. With a hand on her shoulder, he stopped her and felt her still. He picked up her discarded phone and pressed it into her hand.

  Slowly, finger by finger, he wrapped her hand around the instrument. No rings, he noted, with a disturbing jab of satisfaction, just neatly filed nails, unpolished, businesslike. But he felt them tremble, and she retrieved her hand quick smart and took a small step backward. A reluctant step, he knew. Chantal Goodwin didn't like stepping back from anything.

  "One thing before you go." He waited for her to turn, to meet his gaze. "You've done a first-rate job here considering you're not a professional housemaid."

  An almost-smile touched her lips. "Thank you … I think."

  "So, what's in it for you?"

  "Like I told you, it was convenient for me to help out, living so near."

  "And this—" he waved his hand expansively to indicate the whole buffed and sparkling house "—has to be worth a whole truckload of brownie points."

  One dark brow arched expressively. "You think?"

  "Yeah, I think."

  "Then I'd best go see what I can negotiate."

  This time he let her go although he stood unmoving, listening to the sharp click-clack of her sensible heels all the way down the long hallway, around his dumped luggage, and out the front door. Not fleeing, but hurrying off to work, to collect those brownie points.

  To further her career. He should have figured that one out without any clues.

  Funny how he hadn't recognized her, although in fairness to himself, she hadn't merely changed, she had metamorphosed. Even funnier was the way he'd responded. Hell, he'd been practically flirting with her, circling and sniffing the air. And it wasn't even spring yet.

  Scowling darkly, he put it down to sleep deprivation and the complex mix of emotions associated with his homecoming. Combine that with the unexpectedness of finding her in his bedroom, leaning over his bed, and no wonder he'd forgotten himself for a minute or ten.

  The next time they met he'd be better prepared.

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  Chantal didn't slow down until a passing highway patrol officer flashed his headlights in warning, but even after she eased her pressure on the accelerator her heart and blood and mind kept racing – not because of her near brush with a speeding fine, but because of her brush with Cameron Quade.

  With time weren't teenage crushes supposed to fade? In this case, obviously not. Right now she felt as warm and flustered as when she'd first met the object of her teenage infatuation. He had fascinated her for years before that, what with all the retold stories – from her parents via Godfrey and Gillian – of his glorious achievements at the posh boarding school he'd been sent to after his mother died, then at law school, and finally his appointment to a top international law firm.

  He'd done everything she aspired to, and everything her parents expected of her. Oh, yes, she'd heard a lot about Cameron Quade even before she met him, and she'd worshiped from afar. Up close he was worth all of the worshiping. Her skin grew even warmer remembering the moment when she'd turned and found him in that doorway. The perfect bone structure, the strongly chiseled mouth, the brooding green eyes and thickly tousled hair.

  So long and lean and hard. So unknowingly sexy, so irresistibly male. So exactly how a man should look.

  Chantal tugged at the neckline of her sweater and blew out a long breath as she recalled the way he'd looked right back at her. Like she was there in his bedroom for another purpose entirely. What was that all about?

  Back in the Barker Cowan days he'd never looked at her with anything but annoyance or dismissal or – on one painfully embarrassing occasion that even now caused her to wince– with blood-freezing disdain.

  And didn't he have a fiancée back in Dallas or Denver or wherever he'd been living the past six years? Kristin, if memory served her correctly. He'd brought her home for his father's funeral and she'd looked exactly like the kind of woman Cameron Quade would choose as a mate. Tall, stunning, self-assured – the direct antithesis of untall, unstunning, self-dubious Chantal.

  She must have misinterpreted that look. Perhaps he'd been even more exhausted than he looked. After all, he hadn't even recognized her. As for Chantal herself … well, her wits had been completely blown away by his sudden appearance. Not to mention what he'd overheard.

  Good grief Julia, you might as well have left a box of condoms on the pillow while you were at it!

  Had she laughed it off or explained that she usually didn't go around tossing phones at walls? Oh, no. She'd just stood there staring at him like some tongue-tied teenager … some lopsided tongue-tied teenager.

  In her mind's eye she saw one low-heeled black court shoe
spiral through the air in stark slow-motion replay. She groaned out loud.

  Way to make an impression, Ms. Calm Efficient Lawyer!

  Especially when making an impression was the whole point of the exercise. Godfrey had asked her to help him out, to check that the cleaners did their job and maybe stock the fridge, but she'd wanted Merindee prepared within an inch of perfection.

  To impress the boss's nephew, to impress her boss.

  She'd intended to be finished and long gone before said nephew arrived, but then she hadn't counted on the whole bed and sheets debacle … for which Julia had to wear some culpability, she decided, frowning darkly at her cell phone. She punched Last Number Redial and waited nine rings – she counted them – for her sister to pick up.

  "Hello?" Julia sounded breathless.

  "Were you outside? You better not have run—"

  "Relax, sis. You know I'm beyond running anywhere."

  In the background Chantal heard a deeper voice, followed by a muffled shush. Her frown deepened. "Shouldn't Zane be at work?"

  "Oh, he has been." Julia sounded suspiciously smug. "We're working on our honeymoon plans."

  Chantal rolled her eyes. "Good grief. You're six months pregnant. Shouldn't you be working on your nursery?"

  Julia laughed, as she did so often these days. "It's been finished for weeks. Where are you, by the way?"

  "On my way to work." In fact, she was just passing the Welcome sign at the eastern edge of the Cliffton city limits. "And, thanks to you, I'm running way late."

  "Thanks to me?"

  "You didn't hear the message I left earlier?"

  "Sorry, we've been busy." Julia laughed huskily then added in cavalier fashion, "Well, whatever the prob, I'm sure you'll deal with it."

  "The prob is those black sheets you bought."

  "Oh, no, they're midnight-blue. They look black but in the light they have this deep blue shimmer. Very classy but sexy, too, don't you think?"

  Chantal didn't think about sexy sheets, at least not consciously. Before Zane Julia hadn't, either, and Chantal was still adjusting to this new mouthy version of her formerly meek and mild sister.