Calculated Risk (13 page)

“It’s a viable idea.” His voice rose
defensively. “That show worked. It’s still being used. If you take
Rob out of his normal element and show him that you’re no
Pollyanna, it will destroy his fantasy image he has of
you.”

Quintin took a deep breath and pressed
home his final point. “I want to get this over and done with. I
want to get my son focused on all the right things a
seventeen-year-old boy should be interested in. And then I can
focus on all the things a thirty-six-year-old man should be
interested in.”

He pulled Stevie around, his fingers
combing back the wet auburn curls. “Do you know how long this week
was for me? How totally inadequate just talking to you is when I so
desperately need to see you, touch you, taste you.” His mouth
swooped down to claim its prey. Her lips felt just as he
remembered: soft, warm, compelling.

His hands traveled over her shoulders
and down her back, pressing into the base of her spine to mold her
body against his. “I need to hold you like this every day, every
night. Just touching you brings me life.” Quintin whispered the
admission into the soap-scented curve of her neck. “Without you I
feel so damn empty, so unfillable.”

Stevie’s hand moved inside his jacket;
her fingertips encountered his rapidly beating heart. “It’s been
terrible for me too,” came her confession. “You are all I think
about—day and night.”

He pounced on her words. “Please,
Stevie.” He stared bleakly at her. “Do this and we can be
together.”

“All …all right, Quintin.” She
swallowed her own aversion. “I’ll set something up for
tonight.”

Chapter 7

Quintin’s leather-booted foot pushed
open the left side of the double front doors. He backed into the
brightly lit entry foyer juggling two briefcases, a cylinder
containing blueprints and the evening paper. Everything but the
paper clattered to the marble floor. He viewed the fallen chaos
with discouraging eyes; how well it represented the last
twenty-four hours.

The steady tempo of a basketball
bouncing against wooden steps heralded Rob’s arrival long before
his cheery “Hi, Dad” was issued. “Mrs. Crawford’s holding what’s
left of a great pot roast for you if you haven’t had dinner.” One
glance at the cluttered floor and his father’s face effectively
curtailed any further noise from the basketball. “Rough day, huh?”
Rob offered a smile. “I want to ask you…”

A wave of tenderness washed over
Quintin. He found he had to blink hard. This was his flesh and
blood. A son who would make any father proud.

He found it easy to conjure up the
past. He recalled powdering and diapering Rob’s bottom, worrying
about which ointment would ease the discomfort of a rash that never
seemed to go away. He remembered the little airplane games he would
play to try to get his baby son to eat new foods and the countless
baskets of clothes he had laundered when assorted strained fruits
and vegetables were spittingly rejected.

Quintin’s thumb ached under a phantom
bite from a nine-month-old baby who cried and drooled into
teething. He could hear Rob’s delighted laughter at being taken to
the park and could see all the mud puddles that had been trampled
through over the years.

There were some awful moments too:
Robbie falling from his first two-wheeler and bloodying both knees;
the black eye from his first fistfight and the five stitches that
were needed when he had been hit in the head with a foul ball at
the baseball game. Quintin’s most vivid recollection was the trip
to the emergency room when Rob was a ‘terrible two’ and had managed
to swallow acorns that had dropped into his playpen. He had been
scared to death that his son would die.

Scared to
death
. Quintin’s stomach twisted into
another knot; nausea burned in his throat. That’s what was in store
for his baby boy tonight. All day he had wondered about the
validity of his “scared straight” idea. Maybe Stevie had been
right: Perhaps his latest stroke of brilliant parental psychology
was stupid. Maybe he would call her and –“

“Earth to Dad, earth to Dad!” Robbie
waved a hand in front of his father’s rather glazed expression.
“Hey, Dad, did you hear me? Is it all right if I spend this weekend
over at Jack’s? He checked it out with his folks. We’re going to
study for the SAT’s and –“

Quintin shook his head. “Wait a
minute.” A large hand clamped on Rob’s shoulder. “Did you ask to
spend this weekend at Jack’s?” At the affirmative nod, he tried to
sound casual. “I…I thought for sure you and Stevie would be out on
the town again tonight.”

Rob gave a careless shrug. “We did have
plans. Something really special, Stevie said. But she called half
an hour ago and said tonight was off.” He gestured toward the gym
bag on the credenza. “I’m packed and set to go. Jack’s got a new
neighbor. Some kid named Tommie from Colorado with a three-D
camera. The pictures are supposed to be really something. Can I
go?”

“Sure. Sure,” came Quintin’s
absent-minded response. He reached into the pocket of his pants.
“Here –“ he handed Rob a twenty dollar bill “—why don’t you treat
for one of those tofu pizzas.”

“Hey, thanks!” He bounced the
basketball toward the door. “I won’t be home until seven on Sunday.
We’re going to watch the Super Bowl play-offs. Tommie’s got one of
those big-screen HD-TV projection systems.”

Quintin quelled his anger until the
front door closed. His long legs ate up the distance to the study;
he grabbed the receiver and punched Stevie’s number into the phone.
“How could you do this without checking with me,” he muttered,
listening to her phone ring. “Talk about nerve!” His fingers
drummed impatiently against the desk.

Her voice answered, dulcet and lyrical,
but it was only a recorded message. “Stevie? Stevie, can you hear
me?” Quintin hoped the machine was on audition. “Stevie! I’m going
to call you right back and I want some answers.” He tried again.
This time the line was busy. He tried her cell, and that was
busy.

He called the operator. After checking,
she announced in an impersonal monotone: “There is no talking on
the line. The receiver is either off the hook or the phone is out
of order. Shall I report it for you, sir?”

“No. I’ll see to it myself.”

Stevie returned to her fetal position
in the white rocking chair, finding the comfortable indentation she
had made in the peach satin cushion still warm. She had taken the
kitchen phone off the hook; the whining signal of warning wasn’t
able to penetrate the quiet haven of her bedroom.

Rocking was so soothing. The constant
gentle seesaw motion reminded her of the ocean and the lacy ruffled
tide that edged the shore. Eyes closed, Stevie steadily rocked and
rocked, hoping to attain some inner tranquility. While her life had
been drawn in black and white, over the years Stevie had
acknowledged that there were many shades of gray to contend with.
She had her own code of ethics, her own virtues, and
honor.

What Quintin wanted her to do was
wrong. She had tried to justify it all day and had failed. So she
had canceled Rob’s excursion into the chocking nether regions of
the music industry. Maybe she should have called Quintin, discussed
her feelings with him. But he had been so dogmatic, so positive
that that was the only way to go. Stevie discovered she just
couldn’t agree.

When the door chimes shattered her
solitude, Stevie rocked harder. When fists pounded against the
front door and a minute later pummeled the rear, she plugged her
fingers into her ears and continued the to-and-fro movement that
provided a modicum of comfort.

Quintin had seen it done many times by
TV detectives, and didn’t American Express say never leave home
without your card? So why, he grumbled did TV shows make breaking
and entering look so easy?

He wiggled the gold plastic between the
lock and the frame and carefully pushed sideways. He heard a snap,
smiled in delight, then swore. He was now the proud owner of two
halves of an unusable charge card and still faced a locked
door.

He leveled a frustrated kick at the
brick planter and suddenly remembered Stevie’s extra key. Was it
always hidden there or … his searching hand discovered the cool
metal shielded by duct tape.

“Stevie!”

Her roared name caused her to wince and
curl tighter into the Boston rocker. Her bedroom door was closed,
the house dark. Stevie decided to play possum and maybe Quintin
would go away.

“I knew you were here.”

Hazel eyes widened slightly as the
hallway light cast his tall, muscular figure in harsh silhouette.
Feet apart, hands on hips, he stood before her. “You’re rather
presumptuous,” she retorted. “Since both the phone and bell went
unanswered, one would assume you’d get the general message.” Her
inflection was totally devoid of any of the emotions that raged
within.

“I’m presumptuous?” came his sarcastic
rebuttal. “You’re the one who had the effrontery to overrule my
parental judgment.”

Stevie’s bare feet thudded against the
carpet; she pushed herself free of the rocker. “You aren’t using
judgment, parental or otherwise,” she railed, her hands curling
into impotent fists at her sides. “Sometimes, Quintin, you show
absolutely no signs of intelligence at all.”

He bristled under the insult. “Now…wait
just one damn minute –“

“No, you wait.” Her forefinger stabbed
rudely into his sweater. “I’ve spent the last two weeks getting to
know your son. Really know him. Rob’s gentle and sensitive and kind
and caring. And what you wanted me to do tonight would have hurt
and confused him. Damn it, Quintin, I love your son.”

“You…you what?” Her words dealt him a
forceful blow. He staggered backward. The edge of the bed caught
the back of his knees, he sat down hard on the satin bedspread.
“What?…What do you mean you love my son? That’s…you…I…” Quintin
discovered that his brain had lost its connection with his vocal
cords.

Stevie’s voice was as soft as the hands
that caressed his face. “Why can’t I love your son?” Her fingertips
gently pressed along his proud cheekbones, then meandered down to
explore his strong, stubborn jaw. “Rob is you. His eyes are your
eyes. His face is your face.” Her fingernail traced his firm lips.
“His mouth is your mouth.”

She took a deep breath, hazel eyes
glittering like polished stones in the dusky light. “I could never
hurt Rob because I could never hurt you. I love your son because he
is you.” Her hands cupped his face. “And I love you so very
much.”

Quintin stood up, his arms wrapped her
in a sinewy prison, pressing her trembling body tightly against
his. “Stevie. Oh, my God…Stevie.” He rained joyful kisses over her
forehead, nose, cheeks, and chin. “Do you know how many times I’ve
dreamed of hearing you say that? His voice was low and husky.
“Terrified that you never would.”

He succumbed to the intoxicating
temptation of her lips. His mouth was at first bruising in its
possession, anxious to secure ownership of the valuable treasure
that was this woman’s love. Suddenly his kiss changed, his lips
enjoying the soft fullness of hers, his wanton tongue seeking to
explore the honeyed recesses beyond.

Stevie felt free to match his ardor.
Her fingernails fluttered in an erotic dance against his nape. Her
tongue reacted in sensual abandon to its mate and made teasing
forays of its own.

“Do you know how much I love you?” He
rasped, his lips blazing a warm trail down the center of her
throat.

Her hands moved to cup his face, her
eyes more eloquent than words. “Show me.” She whispered the
provocative challenge against his mouth. “I love the idea of waking
up in your arms.”

A pleasurable groan escaped Quintin as
his lips slanted hungrily over hers, his tongue thrusting a
primitive message of acceptance. Masculine hands sought to conquer
every inch of silk-covered skin, roaming over her shoulders and
back and moving down her supple spine.

“Oh…” A low moan came from deep in her
throat, expressing her own urgency. Her body felt on fire, her skin
burning from his heated touch.

Virile fingers quickly dispensed with
the five buttons that locked Stevie behind a wall of liquid
midnight, the navy nightshirt drifted into a silken pool around her
feet. “You are so beautiful.” His voice trembled with raw
emotion.

He buried his face in the fragrant
opulence of her hair; her perfume enveloped his senses, heightening
them like a narcotic. He swayed slightly, his arms tightening their
hold around her as they tumbled onto the bed. Quintin released her
for only the time it took to litter the carpet with a variety of
masculine clothes. Roughly, he pulled her into his arms. “You feel
so good against me.”

Stevie literally purred, finding
herself very responsive to the hands that lavished praise on her
breasts. She anxiously surveyed the rugged landscape of his
physique. Her fingers frolicked amid the dark hair that curled
thickly on his sinewy chest and followed the curly trail
lower.

His mouth pressed hot, eager kisses
across her breasts. His tongue bathed her in a warm dampness,
enjoying the taste of her skin, then moved on to tease and arouse
the shy nipples so he could suckle the taut peaks. His palm moved
across her stomach, fingers seeking the sensitive skin of her inner
thigh.