Annmarie said.
He laughed. “No. No kids.” His gaze skipped back to Lily. “No wife. Not even a dog.”
“Aunt Rosie has a dog,” Annmarie informed him. “And I have a cat named Sweetie Pie.” When he looked back at her, she added. “You could play with them or I could help you get one of your own. Which do you like better? Dogs or cats?”
Quinn stood up, and his “Oh, no!” expression at the thought of being fixed up with a pet made Lily grin.
“You’d better say no quick,” she said. “Once my daughter gets hold of an idea—”
“I get the picture.” He smiled down at Annmarie. “Thanks for the offer. But—”
“You’ll think about it.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I don’t know why grown-ups have to think about all the fun stuff. Come on, Thad, maybe we can find an octopus.”
Quinn laughed and offered Lily his hand. “Now that would be an unusual find.”
He pulled Lily up when she placed her hand within his. The detached-scientist part of her wanted to know how it was possible to feel each separate pull of his fingers against hers.
The man was not quite as tall as her brothers-in-law, both of whom were well over six feet. Unlike them, Quinn had the breadth of a linebacker. Broad shoulders had never before been alluring. Next to this man’s bulk, she didn’t feel so much small as sheltered. She reminded herself that she really did prefer men who didn’t make her feel quite so small.
She watched Annmarie and Thad scamper down the deserted beach, pausing here and there to lean over and peer into the tide pools.
“I was expecting someone older,” Quinn added, releasing her hands, ignoring that it wasn’t politically correct for employers to bring up the subject of age. “Someone with your publishing record ought to be at least fifty.”
“A scientist without a publishing record is also one without grants…and a job.” Lily met his gaze and told him the truth. “I was expecting you to be older, too.”
One of his eyebrows rose and another engaging grin lit his face. “I’m only nineteen.”
“It’s not the years, then, but the miles.” The man had an impressive record based on what she’d been able to glean from the university Web site. With his investigation of this hydrothermic vent he had the chance to establish himself as one of the top marine biologists in the Pacific.
“They do pile on.” He laughed again, a deep, rumbling purr that encouraged her to laugh with him. And she did, feeling a rapport with this man she had experienced with only three other men in her life. Her father. Her husband. Her brother-in-law, Ian. Fleetingly, she wondered, if like Ian, this was a man she could entrust with her life. Her laughter faded. She turned away that thought as her gaze fastened on her daughter. Act the act, she reminded herself. This wasn’t California. She and Annmarie were safe.
“Are you responsible for that major cleanup project in the front office?” Quinn asked, pulling her attention back to him.
The question sounded to Lily like an accusation. When she had first set foot in the facility two weeks ago, she had found the office in complete chaos. Quinn Morrison might be a brilliant marine biologist, but organized he was not. Papers and files had been piled on every available surface of the office area, and two huge file cabinets that still bore their shipping tags were empty. Ignoring the mess on that one desk he’d told her to leave alone, she had gradually read, labeled and filed everything.
“Responsible?” She shook her head. “No. I’ve settled in like you told me to and acquainted myself with the research.”
“Getting acquainted with the research is one thing. Cleaning is another.”
“I was trying to find a place to sit. And since you had those empty file cabinets—”
“If I’d wanted a janitor, I would have hired one.” The instant the words left his mouth, Quinn heard the annoyance in them and reluctantly admitted he was irritated. When he’d left a month ago, the place had looked a shambles, but at least it was his shambles. When he’d walked in a half hour ago, he’d barely recognized the office. The homey touches on one desk—pictures and a plant—were an invasion to his space.
“I’ve moved something you need—that’s why you’re upset.” Her gaze openly searched his face. “What are you looking for?”
Quinn stared at her, surprised she hadn’t taken offense. Her willingness to take responsibility for his being annoyed took away any fun that he might have had in continuing to bait her.
“There were a bunch of files on clams we collected from the vent site. I’d like to find the ones on the hemoglobin levels found in the dissected clams,” he said. He’d need those reports sooner or later, he decided, but now was as good a time as any to figure out if he’d ever lay hands on any of his data again.
“I know exactly where that is. And since I couldn’t find the electronic file, I scanned them, so they’re also in the computer.” Lily’s glance went to the children who were bent over a tide pool. “Come on, Annmarie,” she called. “Time to go.”
Quinn looked at the shoreline, noting the tide was still going out. “They can stay here if they want.”
“Says the man with no kids.” Lily grinned. “I might let them walk from the research center to Thad’s house, but leaving them alone on the beach…” She shook her head.
“Asking for trouble, huh?” Time to be agreeable, though he thought she was being a little overprotective. Then again, maybe this was the way caring mothers acted. Like he would know.
“Big-time.”
As soon as Lily saw that the kids were right behind them, she headed toward the path that led up the steep slope to the research center. The bounce in her step matched the enthusiasm in her voice. “Do you have the data for the clams harvested from the Juan de Fuca site? Since this vent isn’t as deep, any variances should be interesting.”
Quinn followed her, wondering if she’d managed to really bring enough order to the files that she really did know exactly. He would have spent a couple of hours looking for the files, much as he’d never admit that to her. “Given your previous research, I would have thought the microscopic life around the vent would be more interesting to you.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Like the barophiles? Or the autotrophs? They’re magical.”
That wasn’t the word he would have applied, but he liked the thought.
“Have you isolated any organisms yet?” she asked.
He shook his head. “We’re still in the survey stage. We’ve scheduled a week to gather samples when the summer break ends.”
“Figuring out how a living thing creates food from inorganic material,” she continued, “could keep a scientist happy for years.”
“You?”
Her smile faded. “I…left that behind.”
He still couldn’t believe that he’d managed to snag
