A Lover's Dream (7 page)

“Never had any reason to be.”

“I'm sure.”

“I don't think I am. Besides, I couldn't blame the guy.”

“Why?”

Quest grinned at her bewilderment and casually studied his own menu. “You'd have to be seeing yourself through a man's eye to understand that, Michaela.”

Mick's breath caught in her throat over the obvious compliment.

Quest heard her reaction. “You have no idea what I mean?”

Mick looked down at the table. “I've never had time to worry about my looks.”

“Well, when you look like this what's there to worry over!” Quest bellowed playfully.

Mick laughed to cover her embarrassment and was thankful when the waiter returned with their drinks. The last thing she needed this night was to let Quest charm her into another mind-numbing kiss or something more delicious. Houston Ramsey's certainty that one or more of his nephews played a part in a possible murder bothered Mick more than she cared to admit. Her curiosity was piqued as highly as her determination to prove Quest had nothing to do with it.

Once the waiter left with their dinner orders, Mick pulled the straw from her peach daiquiri and settled back to enjoy her drink. “Thank you for dinner, Quest. You Ramseys sure know how to treat people right.”

The muscle flexed in Quest's jaw. “So I've heard,” he muttered. “So tell me how you became a writer,” he requested.

Mick looked out over the candlelit dining room. “By way of investigative reporting.”

“Yeah, I've read a few of your articles in the file your publisher sent,” Quest shared.

“Mmm-hmm, I could really throw myself into that job. I guess I had the personality for it.”

“Why'd you quit?” Quest asked, taking a sip of his Hennessey.

Mick's expression tightened at the memory. “I quit when my editor drained the last of my ability to cooperate with his stupid editorial
suggestions
by asking me to sensationalize my story on three homeless kids who lost their shelter to fire.”

“How'd he expect you to do that with such a story?”

“That's what I asked him,” Mick replied flatly. “And it was either quit or jump across his desk and strangle him when he told me to put a spin on it that the
kids were helped by the system, put into a fabulous home, blah, blah, blah.”

Quest appeared even more confused. “Seems it would've been more sensational to show the kids as they truly were.”

“According to my former editor, we'd done too many
downer
stories on the subject. Readers needed to see that the system did work, sometimes.”

“Hmph,” Quest grunted, rubbing his fingers across his wavy hair. “Sounds like someone was paying for a little positive press.”

“Indeed,” Mick confirmed with a finger pointed in his direction, “the publisher had friends who were complaining about all the flack the city council and social service offices were getting from the public over such cases.”

Quest took another sip of his drink. “So what'd you do?”

Mick shrugged. “Told him to take his job and shove it, covered the story freelance, and sold it
my
way to another paper. Then I followed up with a book that brought needed exposure to certain corrupt officials and a wave of support to those kids.”

“What happened?” Quest asked, thouroughly engrossed by the story.

“They're living with a loving adoptive family. The two oldest are preparing for college next year and the youngest is working on her reelection campaign for the student council.”

Quest threw back his head and laughed. Michaela likened the sound to a hearty, good-natured roar and she couldn't help but laugh as well.

“That was my first book,” she told him.

“Ah, so you haven't always covered us high-profile types, huh?”

“Nah, all that just sort of happened. I was always far more interested in the lesser knowns,” she confided,
smoothing her hands across her bare arms. “The ones who really don't have anyone to root for or fight for them.”

“Like you?”

“I guess,” Mick conceded, her brows rising slightly as she debated her response. “Of course, not having anyone to root or fight for me made me fight for myself, and it made me stronger and I'm glad.”

Quest believed her. Still, rooting and fighting for herself were things he didn't like to think about her doing—not alone, anyway. “I guess you think us high-profile types are pretty pathetic?” he asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Actually it's pretty sad, but refreshingly realistic too.”

“How?”

“To see people with so much, be so rocked by the conflicts within their own families. Most people think the rich are problem-free.”

“Hmph,” Quest retorted and drained what was left of his drink.

“Why
hmph
?” Mick questioned.

Quest only shook his head.

“Hey,” she called softly, leaning forward to knock on the polished cherry-wood table they shared. “I've just told you a lot more than I tell most people. You can feel free to reciprocate. It won't end up in a book, I assure you.”

Leaning forward, Quest clasped his hands on the table. “My family is strong and close-knit. Sometimes
too
close-knit. We love each other a lot, so sometimes it's hard to see that in protecting one another we may be doing more harm than good.”

Mick shook her head. “Protecting one another from what?”

Quest shrugged. “Everybody else.”

“Strangers?”

“Yeah, them too.”

 

After dinner, Quest took Mick back to her hotel. Both realized the evening was best ended after the meal. The drive back into the city was easy and silent. When they stepped into her suite, Quest checked the rooms, which only further endeared him to Mick.

“Thanks,” she said once he returned to the living room.

Quest merely nodded, closing the distance between them with a few long strides. He reached for her hand and stood there toying with her fingers while his head was bowed.

Mick studied him closely, loving the flawless dark of his skin and the long sleek line of his brows. She knew if he kissed her then, she would seriously consider letting him stay the night. It was far too soon for that. Still, she couldn't let the evening end without telling him what she had learned.

“Quest,” she whispered, covering his hand with her other while tugging him toward the sofa.

Quest's soft expression turned hard when he noticed the look on her face. “What?” he probed, curving his hand around her neck and using his thumb to nudge her chin. “Tell me,” he urged when she reluctantly met his gaze.

“I had a meeting with your uncle and aunt today,” she shared, feeling his hand weaken around her neck.

“Houston and Daphne.”

Mick closed her eyes and nodded.

“What did they tell you?”

The question triggered Mick's curiosity. “They told me about a young woman and her suicide,” she continued slowly.

Quest's hand left Mick's neck to settle in his lap. Then he grimaced and began to massage the
horseshoe brand on his left arm. “They want the book,” he surmised.

“Very much.”

“Will you do it?”

“I don't know,” Mick confided slowly, her gaze faltering. She didn't notice Quest's gaze narrowing as he stood.

“The story appeals to all the reasons why I became a writer,” she continued. “I just don't know.”

“Why don't you know?” Quest slowly inquired, turning to face her.

Mick trailed her fingers along the V-neck of her dress. “I get the feeling that it's about revenge for Houston. He's certain the girl's death was foul play, told me I could prove that it was.” She shrugged and shook her head. “I didn't like the vibe I got from him.”

“Yeah, Uncle Hous sets a lot of people on edge,” Quest agreed, massaging his jaw as he grinned. “He's always held a special dislike for me and Quay. I never got why,” he said, his eyes focusing somewhere in the distance as he spoke. “Besides, the girl was his daughter's best friend.”

Mick was silent as she absorbed the information.

“I better go,” Quest decided, leaning down to pull Mick up from the sofa. “You've got a lot to think about, so I'll leave you to it.”

Mick tried to mask her disappointment. She wanted him to stay. Sadly, she realized nothing could be salvaged from the evening after it had taken such a downturn. Silently, she saw Quest to the door and tried not to appear skeptical when he told her he'd call.

 

Daphne Ramsey added more cream to her coffee and propped her chin in her palm. “Do you think Ms.
Sellars will take the job?” she asked, watching the dark liquid turn a creamy shade of beige.

“She has firm principles,” Houston noted, crossing his long legs at the ankles while enjoying the violin concerto that filled the private dining room. “I sense that about her and this is the sort of story she'd thrive on. I don't think she'll be able to resist the power of it.”

Just then, the Ramsey's houseman, Tony Flores, was opening the front door. “Good evening, son,” he greeted.

“Hey, T,” Quest replied, obviously in no mood for small talk. “They in?”

“Yes, they're taking dessert in the private dining room,” Tony informed him slowly. He sensed the edginess of the younger man's mood, but felt no need to question him. He nodded and stepped aside. Had he known how on edge Quest was, he might have reconsidered.

Quest was on his way to the dining room located on the back corner of the stately Mediterranean-styled home. Without bothering to knock, he headed right past the brass-trimmed glass doors.

Houston's brown eyes widened briefly at the sight of his nephew, yet he masked the look quickly. “Quest,” he greeted casually.

“Evening, Uncle Hous, Aunt Daph.”

Houston and Daphne nodded simultaneously in response.

“Pretty late, isn't it, Quest?” Houston noted, brushing a crumb from his red dinner jacket.

“Well, I would've preferred to meet you both for lunch, but from what I hear you were tied up today around that time.”

Houston couldn't resist catching his wife's eye, and Quest noticed.

“Yeah, she told me,” he confirmed.

Clearly, Houston was disconcerted. Though Michaela Sellars had said she would talk with the twins, he thought she'd simply been using that to determine how serious he was to have the story written. He was usually quite good at judging people, and he had completely misjudged her.

“She's not as predictable as you thought, huh?”

Houston's expression seemed hard as granite. “It's late, Quest.”

“The book is dead, Houston. Accept it.”

“Accept it!” Houston blared.

“Sweetie,” Daphne called in a hushed tone, when her husband bolted from the chair. She was thoroughly ignored.

“Who the hell do you think you're talkin' to, boy? In spite of what you and your twin believe, Quest and Quaysar do
not
run this family.”

“I agree,” Quest stated simply, easing one hand inside the pockets of his mocha trousers, “but those who do run it—your own brothers and sisters, Houston—feel the same as we do.”

“Please,” Houston spat, with a flip wave of his hand. “This mess has been covered up for too long. You, your brother, and all your spoiled, egotistical cousins have only piled one stain after another on this family. It's time for it to end.”

Quest was already heading toward the dining room door. “Leave this alone, Houston, and stay away from Michaela Sellars.”

“She's a smart woman. Determined, too, and she has a craving to see justice done, I believe,” Houston predicted, folding his arms across his chest. “She'll uncover the messes you all have done your best to cover all these years.”

“I said stay away from her!” Quest roared, the full
bass of his voice vibrating in the silence when he turned. His eyes had darkened to pitch-black. He whipped open the dining room door with such force, the glass panes vibrated and threatened to shatter.

Tony was sprinting down the hall in response to Quest's roar. Everyone watched in silence as the angry young man stormed from the house.

“Thank you,” Mick told the front desk clerk while trying to hide her disappointment. She'd stopped to inquire of any messages being left for her. There were none. Of course, she felt she'd already known there wouldn't be. After all, she'd been faithfully checking the answering service to her room. Still, she wanted to be sure.

What for, girl? What you're hoping for was over before it began.

Mick tried to deny that she was
hoping
for anything. It was simply a matter of manners. If a person said he was going to call, then he should. Besides, Quest Ramsey had struck her as the type of man who knew how to mind his manners.

Sure, but he's also a man
, Mick acknowledged.
And a man who says he'll call almost always doesn't.

Mick shook her head and swallowed past the lump in her throat. Who was she kidding? Her job, her honesty, and her strength had always been her downfall when a relationship was the issue. As for dating companions, she was usually extremely busy. Moreover, she hated what she'd labeled “love's aftertaste”—when the newness wore off and the true light of the person
shone through.
That
was what she hated most. Perhaps County was right, maybe she did want all the happiness and none of the drama. Naïve? Yes. But she felt drama was a waste of time. Would it be a waste of time if he were truly the right man? Mick had no answer to that.

It was best to quit while she was ahead, she decided with a nod. She didn't know Quest Ramsey nearly well enough to know if he was the right man or not. After the other night, she should just leave well enough alone.

But he's so gorgeous, Mick, and he kisses like a dream, and kisses like that could only promise more naughty delights elsewhere.

“Stop it,” Mick hissed to the voice inside her head. She was so disoriented that her path to the dining room was about to be redirected to the bar. Bad idea, but Mick felt a tiny drink was in order.

“Miss?” the host called, having spotted her from his podium. “Can I be of assistance?” he asked, noticing Mick's confused state.

Mick put her most refreshing smile in place. “Yes,” she said, smoothing both hands across the waistband of her casual flare-legged pants. “I'd like a table,” she decided.

“No problem, ma'am,” the maitre d' replied with a smile as he selected a menu from some place beneath the host's podium. “If you'd just follow—”

“Hold off on that, man.”

Mick felt a hand settle to her waist just as she turned to see who had interrupted the maitre d'. Quaysar Ramsey smiled down at her, then winked.

“The lady will dine with me,” he coolly decided.

The maitre d' nodded. “Right this way, miss. Mr. Ramsey,” he added with a genuine smile.

“You're known here, I see,” Mick said, as she and Quaysar followed behind.

Quay shrugged. “Everywhere,” he said.

“What are you doing here, Quay?” Mick asked, once they'd shared a laugh.

“Just wrapped up a meeting over drinks in the bar,” he explained, pulling her elbow with a light squeeze. “I was on my way out when I saw you.”

“Well, shouldn't you be getting back to the office?” Mick questioned.

“I've always heard you should never drink on an empty stomach.”

Mick rolled her eyes up at him. “Uh, excuse me, but haven't you already done that?”

Quaysar pretended to be worried. “Damn, you're right,” he whispered, pressing one hand to his abdomen. “I'd better eat somethin' quick then. Move, woman!” he ordered in a brisk, playful tone that sent Mick into peals of laughter.

Quaysar continued to tease and laugh boisterously as he escorted Mick. They stopped at the booth that was always reserved for members of Ramsey Group. Of course, Quay's infectious laughter and bellowing voice drew every female's eye. Some were polite enough to look away when they noticed the woman at his side. Others weren't so gracious. They stared at the man with blatant, helpless desire filling their gazes. Even those with dates practically drooled when Quay approached their tables to shake hands with the men they knew.

Michaela was in heaven as she watched Quay making his rounds from her seat at the booth. He was so good-natured, she thought. She honestly couldn't see him brooding over anything. Probably because he was still single, which drove home the fact that she should keep her status the same.

“This is great,” Quay was saying when he returned to the booth and took his seat, “us meeting like this since our dinner date was canceled.”

“Mmm, yes, and I don't believe you gave me an actual reason as to why you had to cancel?” Mick inquired, her tone laced with playful suspicion.

Quay shrugged. “Because Q told me to.”

Mick went cold, and the fact had nothing to do with the white double-strapped tank top she wore. “What did you say?” she whispered when she finally found her voice.

Quay grinned. “He told me to,” he repeated, his right dimple appearing while his dark eyes crinkled adoringly.

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

Mick shook her head slowly as though she were trying to form a response in her mind. At last, she looked up at Quaysar. A befuddled expression marred her lovely face.

Quay chuckled and leaned back on his side of the booth. “Mick, you're beautiful. You gotta know that. That face,” he said as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing, “that hair…and that mouth. Hell, you make a man stop dead in his tracks, girl. My brother ain't no different.”

Mick was still silent, her thoughts going back to the knee-weakening kisses.

“Course I've been known to only judge by what's on the outside—the face, the body, just the package,” Quay admitted. “But with Quest, he sees that and more. He'd never admit it, but a twin can sense those things,” he shared proudly.

Mick pressed her lips together and then raised her brows in doubt. “I think whatever he was feeling is probably over and done with now,” she confided, although she'd loved hearing everything Quay said.

“Over and done with?” he asked.

“We haven't spoken in several days,” she told him. “He said he'd call. You know what that usually means.”

Quay uttered a muffled curse. “What's that fool broodin' over now?”

Mick's nails grazed the gooseflesh covering her arms. “I had a meeting with your aunt Daphne and uncle Houston. They wanted to discuss the book. I told Quest about it. He asked if I'd write it. I couldn't tell him yes or no.”

Quay brushed his thumb across the curve of his lower lip. “So Hous is for the book?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Damn, that old man hasn't let go of all that after all these years.”

“Quay?” Mick called, confused by the statement.

Quaysar grunted and jerked out of the suit coat covering his massive torso. “A girl—Sera Black. She died many years ago, we were all on our way out of high school. She died at a party we threw. Hous always blamed us. Sera was best friends with his daughter.”

“Dena?” Mick supplied, remembering what Quest had told her about his uncle's children.

Quay appeared somewhat preoccupied then, but soon shook his head to clear whatever had gotten him distracted.

“What if I invited you to a great jazz club?” he proposed, smoothly changing subjects.

Mick grinned while shaking her head. “And here I thought Chicago had the best jazz clubs in the world.”

“Ah, but this jazz club is
more
than a club.”

“
More
than a club,” Mick replied, setting her elbows against the table, “in what way?”

“Well, aside from our house band, we've got the deejays who relieve them between sets.”

Mick's brows rose. “Deejays
and
a jazz band? Well, that
is
more.”

Quay shrugged, obviously pleased. “Yeah, the guys are real impressive. They spin old-school R-and-B
and hip-hop. It sets the dance floor on fire and people say Double Q is the best place to go and work up an appetite before dinner or work off the calories afterward.”

“Double Q?” Mick inquired of the name.

“Quest is my partner. A silent partner,” Quay shared with a roll of his eyes. “
Too
silent for me.”

“Mmm, you want him more involved?”

“Exactly.”

Mick fixed him with a doubtful look. “Your brother doesn't seem to be the club type,” she noted.

“He's not,” Quay acknowledged firmly with clear disapproval gleaming in his dark eyes. “The fool's more interested in stuffy business meetings. And, for you, that's a good thing.”

Mick sat straighter. “For me?”

“Hell yeah, now you can come out and have fun and not have to worry about running into my stick-in-the-mud brother.”

“It does sound like fun,” Mick admitted, thinking how long it'd been since she'd had a chance to work up a dancing sweat.

“Well, come on then,” Quay urged, leaning back in his chair and propping his index finger alongside his temple.

“I think I'll take you up on it,” Mick decided, smacking her hands to her thighs.

“Hot damn,” Quay said and waved in their waiter's direction. “Let's get some drinks over here, man.”

It was Mick's turn to wave then. “Uh, I can't.”

Quaysar appeared crestfallen, but only for a second. “Well, I can,” he decided, winking when she burst into laughter.

Mick's high spirits continued throughout lunch. Quay definitely had a comedic gene and he loved to show it off. For a while, Mick enjoyed herself and completely forgot what had her feeling so down.

 

“Yes, ma'am, there is something for you,” the concierge announced when Mick returned to the desk following her lunch with Quay.

Her spirits lifted a notch or two only to sink again when she saw that it was a package instead of a message. Yes, she thought, Quest's “I'll call you” meant what it always meant whenever a man said it.

“Stop it,” Mick ordered herself. She was determined to focus on having fun. Hell, she'd been in Seattle almost a week and she hadn't danced once.

Mick tapped her fingers along the side of the package and thought about her past week. In one week she'd become so attached to Quest Ramsey. It wasn't normal—especially not for her. She was too smart, too on top of her game, she noted, and smoothed one hand across her fitted red flared pants.
I'll be damned if I let myself fall hard and fast for a man. Any man.

 

Quest kept his back turned, deciding to maintain his position while the conversation took place outside his assistant's door. The men chatting away were discussing his brother's latest conquest, whom they'd seen him with during lunch earlier that day.

“She's a sight to behold,” one man noted.

“Chocolate and curvy,” another added.

“Can Quaysar Ramsey pick 'em or can he pick 'em?” still another man added his opinion.

Quest didn't care too much for the comments, which grew more graphic as the discussion continued. He decided not to join them, which was just as well since the conversation ended shortly. Quest finished the note he was leaving with the documents. He was walking out of the office when Quay stepped past the glass doors.

“What's up, Q?”

“'Sup?” Quest returned. “Have a good lunch?” he asked, meeting Quay in the middle of the corridor.

“Did I?” Quay continued with a sly grin. “I closed the Nichols deal and I had lunch with Mick.”

Quest's expression tightened, the muscle in his jaw performing its most wicked dance. “I thought I told you to stay away from her.”

Teasing remarks formed and died on Quay's tongue. He could see that his twin was in no mood to be further agitated. “Calm down, Q,” he urged softly.

“I told you to stay away from her, Quay,” Quest said simply, his gray stare already an unsettling onyx.

Quay felt his own temper beginning to simmer. “Stay away from her? I guess that goes for you as well?”

Quest blinked. “What the hell are you talkin' about?”

“Promising to call and not doing it. What's up? She's obviously interested and—”

“Don't do that.”

Quay shrugged. “What?”

“Don't make her out to be someone who just wants to sleep with me.”

Quay closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I didn't mean it that way,” he swore, pressing one hand across his stylish cobalt and silver tie. “I'd never talk about Mick that way. It's obvious she's got strong emotions where you're concerned. I could see it on her face when I mentioned your name. And
before
you ask me, I was only talking about you when I mentioned you being part owner in the club.”

Quest put a bit of space between himself and his twin.

“I invited her to the club tonight.”

Quest's anger resurfaced. “What?” he whispered.

“And since you're not tossing your hat in the ring, there should be no complaints over the invite, right? Good,” he said, when his brother just glared. “See ya,” he called and strolled toward the elevator.

Quest waited for the doors to close behind Quay before he moved. Grimacing, he took a seat on the edge of Jasmine's desk and massaged his jaw. Silently, he criticized himself for not calling for the past two days. She didn't deserve that. Especially not when she'd been so honest in telling him about his uncle's meeting—something she wasn't obligated to do.

But when you asked if she would write the book, she couldn't tell you she wouldn't.
He realized that no matter how infatuated he was by her, he had to protect his family.
Protect Quay
. He believed Michaela Sellars had everything he'd been praying he'd find in all the women who had filtered in and out of his life and his bed. Lovely and sweet, she had all the assets a man craved to maintain physical satisfaction, indefinitely. More than that, he was in awe of the way her mind worked. She was inquisitive, slow to judge, slow to believe, and firm in her arguments. In the short time he had known her, he'd discovered that she was more than outward lusciousness. Michaela was inner strength and he wasn't ready to let her go.