Elizabeth bit her lip. “Surely she must have had some feelings for you.”
Now that he'd started, he figured he might as well tell all. “She was planning to take up with an old lover of hers after the wedding. Conveniently, my work schedule gave her lots of free time.”
Liz looked at Quentin—all six feet two inches of pure male sprawled on a bottle-green sofa. She couldn't imagine wanting anything—or anybody—else if she had him.
What a horrible blow to his pride it must have been. How humiliating, too, to know that others had known—or at least suspected—even when he hadn't.
“A workaholic bore, she said.” He grinned unexpectedly. “Not too far off the mark—” he cast her a sidelong look “—even if some people insist on seeing me as a playboy.”
Liz felt herself flush. She could hardly explain her view was due both to finding him very attractive and needing a defense against that attraction.
“Now you know the details.”
“Yes.” She felt ashamed at her nosiness, but something compelled her to ask, “How is what we're doing any different? It seems to me that, by the terms of our, ah, agreement, I get to use you for your money.”
“Nothing wrong with that if both parties are up-front about it.” He regarded her levelly. “Let's just say that, after Vanessa, I've started to think that it's not such a bad deal… if the ground rules are established at the beginning.”
“Rather cynical, wouldn't you say?”
He shrugged. “Look, even if the romance-love thing exists, a lot of us aren't that lucky. A sizable chunk of the world would probably be better off approaching the whole thing like a business deal.”
“I see.” So that's where his brilliant idea of having a baby together had come from. It was all part-and-parcel of his post-Vanessa philosophy about love and marriage. It had just taken him time to realize she'd presented him with exactly the sort of proposition that he'd come to see as ideal. Except for speeding up the baby stage, it all fit very nicely.
“By the way,” he said quietly, bringing her back from her thoughts, “you were wrong when you said you're no different than Vanessa.” He paused. “You won't have any lovers on the side. That's part of the deal.”
His steely look nearly took her breath away. Even though she knew it wasn't possessive in the way a man normally felt for a woman, it made her quivery inside.
Eight
They were settled on the Esplanade next to the Charles River in Boston on Monday evening waiting for the Boston Pops to play at their annual Fourth of July concert.
A rectangular red-checked sheet that Muriel had found was set out beneath them. With some help from Muriel in retrieving things, Liz had prepared tarragon chicken salad sandwiches on French baguettes, mesclun and tomato salad with vinaigrette, and apple cobbler for dessert.
Quentin had good-naturedly teased her about the pretentiousness of the mesclun in her salad, and she'd retaliated by poking fun at the age of the Chardonnay that he'd picked out.
Ever since her discovery a couple of nights ago about the deep-seated roots of Quentin's cynicism about women, Liz had been troubled about having bitten off more than she could chew. On the other hand, she figured things were in some ways simpler than she'd thought. There was little chance that Quentin would fall in love and want to marry someone and regret the “deal” he'd entered into with her.
Even if he did, she decided she'd cross that river when she came to it. After all, she and Quentin had yet to agree whether he would try to father her baby. Tonight she was going to enjoy this concert.
A slight breeze teased her hair, but otherwise the evening was balmy and clear. She tugged down the hem of her knee-length, blue cotton dress. “It's wonderful out here.”
He looked up at her from behind wire-rimmed sunglasses. He was sprawled on the blanket, his hands behind his head, looking up at the dark evening sky. He radiated relaxation in navy T-shirt and gray khakis. “Haven't you ever come to listen to the Pops on the Fourth?”
She shook her head. “Actually, never. When Dad and I moved to Carlyle, he'd send me back to spend summers with Aunt Kathleen on the Jersey shore. After that, I'd always have the types of summer jobs that got busy on holidays.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, you know, baby-sitting, serving ice cream, working at the bike rental shop.”
His eyebrows rose. “You worked behind the counter at an ice-cream parlor?”
“Candy-cane-striped apron and all.”
His lips quirked. “I can't picture it.”
“In college, I was known for the homemade variety,” she informed him, pretending to look down her nose.
His smile widened. “Do tell.”
He reached for her hand on the blanket and began drawing small circles on the back of her palm, sending a delicious tingle through her. “It's not that complicated to make ice cream. You just mix eggs, sugar, milk and cream. The hardest part is getting the right consistency.”
“You learned to cook—”
“Aunt Kathleen. Dad's okay, but I took over most of the cooking by my teens.”
He was silent for a moment, his fingers stilling on her hand, and she could feel his gaze through the sunglasses. “You and your father are close.” He made it a statement, not a question.
“Yes, but it's a complicated relationship.”
He angled his head even as his hand crept up and began stroking her arm. “Is there any other type?” he drawled.
She smiled, momentarily forgetting about that wicked hand. “I tried to be the son that never arrived.”
“Ahh.” Quentin thought back to what he knew about Patrick Donovan. Big Irishman, owned a small construction company before retiring. They'd had a few business dealings, enough for Quentin to know the man was a shrewd operator.
Liz scanned the crowd, which had thickened in the last half hour. “The silly thing is that my father loved having a daughter.” She put her arms behind her and braced herself on her hands, lifting her face to the small breeze. “I was all pink frills and baby dolls. The little girl he needed to protect.”
She gazed back down at him. “The only problem was that I felt too protected. I wanted Dad to see me as independent, capable.”
Ah, Quentin thought, so that's what made Elizabeth Donovan click. Fascinating. He sat up and removed his sunglasses. “Kind of hard to ask a guy who's lost his wife not to be protective of his little girl.”
She sighed and nodded, looking away. “Yes. I've come to understand that.”