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She stiffened instantly, her hands flattening across his chest, ready to push. “I suppose you hired a private investigator to check me out.”
“Not hardly.” His smile widened. “He could only supply me with a lot of useless facts and little about you as a person.”
“Which, of course, you know.” There was something defensive about the hint of scorn in her voice, but her hands had eased their pressure against his chest.
But it was the lingering doubt in her eyes that made Quint patient. “Do you need to be told how warm and caring you are? Not to mention intelligent and proud, not afraid of hard work. Or the deep sense of family loyalty you have.” Again Dallas avoided his eyes, and again he tipped up her chin to force the contact. “And it goes without saying that you’re beautiful and have the most kissable lips.”
To prove it, he covered them with a warm and fiercely tender kiss. Victory came when she leaned into it, a wanting and needing in her response that echoed his own feelings.
Quint knew then he could take her beyond where she wanted to go. Yet there was a risk of later regret, and it wasn’t one he wanted to run. He eased the pressure and shifted his interest to the curve of her cheek and along the side of her temple.
She sagged against him, her head dipping to rest again on his chest, a hand balling int
o a fist near her chin. “You don’t know me, Quint,” she murmured. “You only think you do. I’m not—”
“Perfect, I suppose,” he guessed. “I’ve never met anyone who was.” His arms circled her in a loose, undemanding embrace. “At first I had a hard time dealing with your pessimism until I realized that your thinking wasn’t really negative. It’s just your nature to analyze every aspect of a situation and identify its weaknesses. It’s your method of problem solving. Your biggest fault isn’t that you think too much. Most of the time, you do what your head tells you, not your heart.”
“That isn’t wrong,” Dallas insisted.
He idly rubbed his chin over the silken strands of her hair. “Not always,” Quint agreed. “But a good many years ago my dad gave me some advice. He said if you ever find yourself in a situation where everything seems fine, yet your gut tells you differently, listen to your instincts and forget what your head is saying. That’s what you need to do, Dallas, trust your feelings.”
He felt the negative, denying movement of her head. In a rare loss of patience, Quint dug his fingers into her shoulders and held her away from him. The roughness of his action showed in her look of shocked surprise.
“Right now, Dallas. Be honest with me and with yourself.” The rawness of need was in his demand. “Tell me what your heart is saying. Not your head, but your heart.”
Wordless, she looked at him, a thousand uncertainties in her gaze. The gnawing ache in his chest grew with the lengthening silence
“Good God, Dallas.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Nobody knows what will happen tomorrow. My father’s death taught me that. Right now—tonight—may be all we ever have. Are you going to deny us that and wait instead until you can get your head to line up with your heart?”
She closed her eyes, making a tight line of her lashes. He dug his fingers into her flesh, but the truth was inescapable: an answer unwillingly given was no answer at all.
Exerting iron control, Quint uncurled his fingers, spreading them wide, and took a step back from her. But there was a certain hardness in his voice when he said, “Let me know when you’ve made up your mind.”
The slight emphasis on the last word was designed to cut, and it did. Her wince was small, but it was there.
Quint pivoted away from her and went back inside, shedding his windbreaker at the door and jamming it onto the wall hook. There was no lingering, no glancing back for any signs of regret from Dallas. He walked straight from the door to the living room.
In the recliner, Empty snorted and stirred, awakened by the sharp sound of Quint’s strides. “What time is it?” he mumbled, throwing a dazed and sleepy look around the room.
“A little after nine.” Quint’s pace slackened only slightly as he continued across the room.
“Making an early night of it, are you?” Empty surmised.
“Might as well.” But fatigue had nothing to do with the decision. Pain and anger and a dozen other emotions roiled too close to the surface. Quint didn’t trust himself to see Dallas again that night.
“Think I will, too.” Empty lowered the footrest. “Where’s Dallas?”
“Out on the porch.” Quint’s answer was curt, but it left no mark on Empty.
His mind was on other things as he pushed out of the chair and noted Quint’s disappearance into the hallway with an absent glance in that direction. The stiffness in his joints gave him a hobbling gait when he crossed to the living room’s front door. His gnarled fingers closed around the knob and swung the door open, letting in the soft, steady sound of falling rain.
It was a moment before his eyes adjusted to the shadowed darkness of the porch and located Dallas standing near the rail. “Quint and me are calling it a night. You’ll need to lock up when you come in.”
“I will.”
The low-voiced answer reached him. As Empty gave the door a closing push, he caught the reflection of multicolored lights on a windowpane and pulled it open again. “Don’t forget to unplug the tree lights, too,” he added.
Her response was muffled, yet it had an affirmative ring that satisfied Empty. This time he closed the door tight and shuffled off to his bedroom.
