A Lover's Dream (19 page)

Instead of remaining home after she and Quest parted ways, Mick prepared for another trip. This time, to a private park in Newport, Rhode Island, where she often traveled to enjoy a few days of fishing, hiking, or just quiet thinking time. She knew it was all a cowardly act, but she couldn't handle Driggers's questions, mostly because she had no answers. Letting go of Quest was the very last thing she ever wanted. Of course, she better than anyone was well aware that one could rarely have what one wanted.

Mick squatted near the straw basket she'd carried to the lake. Setting aside her fishing poles, she opened the basket to check her supplies. She was placing the cap back on a can of bait when she heard boots crunching upon the dirt and brush in the distance. She waited, her exotic amber eyes widening just briefly when Quest came into view.

“County,” Mick breathed, standing to wipe her hands across the seat of her jeans.

Quest placed his fishing gear to the ground. “She and Driggers asked me to come check on you, since you won't talk to anybody else,” he explained, fixing
her with a challenging stare while folding his arms across the front of his oatmeal heather polo shirt.

Mick spread her hands about her. “As you can see, I'm fine.”

Quest offered no response, though he couldn't help but treat himself to the sight of her looking sexy and deliciously rugged in the faded jeans and snug-fitting navy blue and olive-green flannel shirt. Slowly, his gray stare narrowed toward the lake. “That your boat?” he asked, his lips curved into a half smile as he surveyed the twenty-foot Bowrider in the calm lake.

“It's mine,” Mick confirmed, her expression grim. “I was looking forward to being alone.”

Quest smile and looked down, accepting the dig. “I know, but you wouldn't want to be breaking your promise to me now, would you?”

Mick only tilted her head and watched him curiously.

“The fishing trip we were supposed to take back at the cabin,” he reminded her. “You weren't up for it,” he added softly.

Michaela blinked, feeling her cheeks burn as memories of that time filled her mind. Without another word, she collected her gear and headed for the dock. Quest followed.

The lake was calm and crystal clear with a spectacular view from any direction. Quest and Mick did not speak as they baited hooks and cast their lures. They celebrated one another's catches, but that was the only interaction they shared. Hours passed, morning turned into late afternoon. The two headed back to shore and came to an unspoken decision that Quest would follow her back to the cottage she'd rented. Inside, their unspoken communication continued. They cleaned the fish in the shed a short distance from the cottage, then took their catch inside.

Mick told Quest where he could settle in, before she headed upstairs for a shower. She pampered herself
beneath the water's heavy spray and indulged in the fragrant gels and shampoos she'd packed. She would not allow herself to think of Quest and why he wouldn't accept that it was over. But, of course, she already knew why. It was the same reason that she'd been so surprised and so very happy to see him that morning. It was why she was so happy to have him there now. She loved him.

Later, Mick stood at the top of the short, navy-blue-carpeted stairway and inhaled. The unmistakable smells of fish and fresh vegetables filled the air. The lulling tones of classical instrumentals softly intruded into the otherwise silent atmosphere. After a moment, Mick shook herself to reality, hoping to dismiss the déjà vu that washed over her as she recalled a similar scene the evening after she and Quest first made love.

He was there in the kitchen, placing the last of the golden fish on a heavy blue and white ceramic platter. Mick saw the table was set with condiments for the fish, a bottle of white wine chilling in the center of the table.

“Dig in,” Quest called, seeing her standing there.

Mick offered no hesitation in obeying the request. Dinner was a silent event.

 

Mick dozed lightly from her spot on the armchair before the fire. After they ate, Quest had insisted on cleaning the kitchen himself. No hefty task, since he cleaned as he cooked, which made the chore far less cumbersome. Now he too enjoyed the fire, relaxing on the sofa that flanked Mick's chair. His long legs extended before him as he rested his feet against the coffee table.

“You know I love you, Michaela,” he said, his deep voice sounding solemn.

“I know. I love you too,” she replied, once her heart had ceased its lurching.

Quest grimaced. “So you say.”

Mick's head rose and her eyes opened. “You doubt me?” she asked.

Quest didn't take his eyes from the fire. “I don't doubt you meant to say the words. I question if you know
what
the words mean.”

“Quest—”

“Love doesn't run when things get rocky, Michaela,” he said, still reclining on the sofa with his hands hidden in the pockets of the forest-green sweats he wore. “Love fights to stay,” he continued. “It doesn't give a damn about who does or doesn't approve.” He paused to yawn. “If you knew what love was, you'd know that.”

Mick's breathing came in shuddery gasps, her eyes pooling with tears. Quest's words had been as hurtful as a slap. Yet, reluctantly, she acknowledged that he was most likely right. Sitting up straight in her chair, she smoothed her hands across her legs left bare by the short hemline of her denim dress. “If I don't know what love is, Quest, maybe it's because I never had it in my life. Not until I was grown anyway,” she said, the words just a tad shaky as she spoke. “By then, I had Driggers and County…but having no real family when I was a child—it does something to you. It deadens something inside you.” She pinned him with a sharp glare then. “But you aren't dead inside, Quest. That part of your heart was nourished by a family. Whatever they've done in the past, it isn't right to turn away from them,” she said, unable to stop thoughts of her mother's rejection from entering her mind. “It isn't right,” she whispered.

Quest massaged his eyes and muffled a curse when he saw how his words had upset her. Leaving the sofa, he went to kneel before her chair.

“Shh,” he urged, his gray eyes focused as he brushed away the tears that streamed over her face. “Shh,” he continued, kissing her cheeks and the tiny mole at the corner of her mouth. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, before burying his handsome dark face in the crook of her neck. “I'm sorry,” he repeated, pulling her into a gently rocking embrace.

 

The next morning, Mick woke with a jerk realizing she was secure in her bed in the cottage's upstairs suite. She squeezed her eyes closed, trying to recall if the previous night, the bittersweet scene before the fire, had all been a dream. She rested on a very firm pillow. Upon lifting her head, she discovered that it was Quest's thigh. He was fully dressed and sat playing in her hair while he waited for her to awaken.

He kissed her mouth when she looked up at him. “I'll tell County and Driggers you're doing just fine,” he said against the top of her head.

“You're leaving?” Mick whispered, while pushing herself up to sit facing him.

Quest followed the path of his fingers toying with her curls. “Yeah, I think I should.”

“You're angry,” Mick guessed.

“Not a bit,” he said, his hand curving around her neck.

Mick focused on the cotton bed linens. “You're giving up,” she figured.

“Never,” he swore, giving her a slight tug.

“But—”

“I'm going back to Seattle,” he informed her. “You need time to think. You can't do that with me here.”

“Then why'd you come in the first place?” Mick pouted, hating the whine in her voice. She couldn't help it, she wanted him to stay.

Quest's entrancing gray stare focused on the mole
at the corner of Mick's heart-shaped mouth. “I wanted to give you more to think about,” he whispered just before his lips melded with hers.

“Mmm.” The sound came out weak and tortured. Instantly, Mick moved onto his lap, snuggling the center of herself against the part of his body she wanted him to share.

Quest groaned, as affected by the closeness as she was. He kept the sheets bunched at her hips while cradling the fullness of her bottom in his massive palms. A surge of arrogance swelled within him when she cried his name upon feeling his thrusting power stiffen beneath the zipper of his jeans.

“Please stay,” she begged, unashamed, her hands moving to bring him closer as they disappeared past the vintage A Tribe Called Quest sweatshirt he wore.

He delighted himself in her body only a minute longer and then eased away. “Love, if I don't leave now, I'll never go.”

Michaela declined to tell him again that she didn't want him to leave. His mind was clearly made up.

“How long will you be here?” he asked, retrieving his bag and jacket from the armchair near the door.

Mick shrugged, tucking the sheet beneath her arms. “Only a few days more.”

“When can I see you?”

“You can see me now.”

“Mick…” he warned, closing the distance between them to plant a hard kiss on her mouth. “I'll call in a few days. We'll make plans. Use this time,” he encouraged.

“I will,” she promised, hating him for leaving and loving him so very much for putting what she needed above what they both wanted. But she was trying to do the same, wasn't she? He had to see that nothing was worth turning his back on his family, right? Never having a real family of her own, she believed she knew
better than he how very important they were.
They
were who he needed and she had to put that fact above what
she
wanted.

 

“Who are you?” Mick asked as she stared at the photo she'd downloaded from Harriet Forman's e-mailed message later that week. The knock on her office door went unanswered for quite sometime, before she set aside the photo. “Yeah?” she called.

Driggers stuck his head past the doorway. “How are you?” he asked.

“Fine,” she said, flopping back on her lavender office chair. Her expression tightened when Driggers simply folded his arms across the moss-colored cotton tee he sported. “Considering I'm breaking the heart of the man I love,” she admitted finally.

“Doesn't have to be that way,” Driggers said as he stepped into the room.

“Yes, it does,” Mick decided quietly.

Driggers shrugged. “Because?”

“Because he's talking about turning his back on his family for me!” she snapped, shoving back her office chair when she stood. “I can't let him do that.”

“Are you sure that—”

“I'm positive,” she interrupted, using both hands to push curls out of her eyes. “It's an intense situation, an intense family, but they're all he has.”

“He has you. At least he
thought
he did,” Driggers retorted, his gaze firm and unwavering.

Mick rolled her eyes. “Family's supposed to be forever, Drig. He can always find another woman to love.”

Driggers's smile was slow and knowing. “I guess you'd be all right with that, huh?”

Mick shoved both hands inside the front pocket of her red, hooded sweatshirt. “I've made up my mind.”

Driggers stood. “Baby, I just don't want you to wind
up alone in the world,” he said, stepping forward to pull her hands from the pockets. “You have a chance for love and a family of your own.”

Mick laid her palms flat against Driggers's chest. “I'll never be alone as long as I have you.”

“But I won't be here forever, love,” Driggers said, taking both her hands into one of his.

The tone of the statement triggered a tiny furrow in Michaela's brow. “Is this your way of telling me you've found a better job?”

Driggers chuckled. “I love you,” he said while pulling her close.

“I love you too,” Mick whispered, closing her eyes to savor the hug. She pressed a loud kiss to his bearded cheek and tightened her arms around his waist.

The phone rang, intruding on the moment. Mick kept Driggers close. “Is there something you're not saying? Seriously?” she probed.

He patted her cheek. “Answer your phone.”

Mick captured his hand in hers. “Drig, you'd tell me if something was wrong, wouldn't you?”

He kissed her forehead. “You know me. Now answer your phone,” he ordered again, before tugging on one of her curls and leaving the room.

Mick stared at Driggers, until the door closed behind his departing figure. Slowly, she turned to see to the phone call.

“Michaela Sellars?” a woman's voice inquired.

“This is she,” Mick greeted, forcing airy politeness into her voice.

“Ms. Sellars, I'm Dena Ramsey. We didn't have a chance to meet when you visited my family in Seattle.”

“Ms. Ramsey,” Mick said, already intrigued. “It's nice to be speaking with you.”

“My father, Houston Ramsey, he told me about your visit. I live in North Carolina and don't get the
chance to travel out to Seattle very often,” Dena explained.

Mick nodded. “I understand.”

“Anyway,” Dena said after clearing her throat, “you're investigating Sera's murder.”

Mick perched on the edge of her desk. “So you don't believe it was suicide?”

“Sera was my best friend. She was an only child and I had no sisters. We were very close. She wouldn't have taken her own life. I'm willing to stake
my
life on it.”

“Did she talk to you about going to the party that weekend?” Mick asked, reaching for the pad she kept next to the phone.

“Our family reunion was that week. We have one every year. It was understood she'd be my guest to all the festivities. I don't know how she wound up at that damned party.”

Mick nodded while jotting down information. “So, this party wasn't part of the reunion?”