My Darling Melissa by Linda Lael Miller

off the part about forbidding me,” she said calmly.
    Quinn chuckled ruefully. “My life was so simple before you came along. I didn’t have to pick and choose my words, or rack my brains figuring out what devilment you might be up to—or sleep alone.”
    Melissa glanced toward his desk and took another draught of the wine. “And you didn’t have the means to—how did you put it—’expand your holdings.’”
    There was a terrible silence, then Quinn asked, in a low and bitter voice, “What’s the matter, Melissa? Were you enjoying my presence a little bit? Maybe thinking that you might not have made such a terrible mistake after all?”
    Melissa set her wine glass aside and rose slowly to her feet. Her leather gloves, bought to protect her hands while sheshucked oysters, slipped, forgotten, to the floor. “I didn’t make a mistake,” she said coldly, “and neither did you. We both knew exactly what we wanted.”
    A look of sad frustration moved in Quinn’s handsome face. “Melissa—”
    “You wanted collateral, and I wanted a chance to prove that I can make my own way in the world.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m very tired, and I’m due at the cannery early tomorrow morning, so I believe I’ll have my supper and retire. Good night, Mr. Rafferty.”
    “Good night,” Quinn responded, his voice as rough as gravel, and he returned to his ledgers and his plans.
    Quinn ate a light meal at his desk, served by the disapproving Mrs. Wright, and the clock on the mantelpiece was just striking eight when there was a knock at the front door.
    Admitted by the housekeeper, Mitch entered the study with his hat in his hand and a baleful, sympathetic expression on his face. “Having trouble, old friend?” he asked, glancing at the ledgers before he took a chair near the fire.
    The word “trouble” brought Melissa immediately to mind, but Quinn realized soon enough that his friend hadn’t been referring to her or to the attending situation. It had more to do with the account books. “You’re not thinking that I’m having financial problems, are you?” he ventured.
    He was getting tired of people making him feel like a social-climbing pauper when he owned a thriving timber operation, numerous stocks and bonds, and half interest in the new hotel being built at the end of Simpson Street.
    Mitch cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed, and looked down at his boots for a moment. “This morning your wife asked me for money,” he said miserably. “She was wearing a dress that looked like it came out of a rag bag and trying to get into your railroad car.”
    Quinn let out a long breath and sat back in his swivel chair. The nape of his neck ached savagely. “She asked you for money,” he marveled, glaring up at the ceiling.
    “She said she had some, but it was locked up inside the car.”
    Nodding wearily, Quinn opened the top desk drawer on the right and took out a cash box. “How much?”
    “Sixty-five dollars. It isn’t that I’m worried about the money, Quinn—”
    “I know.” Quinn counted out three twenties and a five and handed them to Mitch. “Stop worrying,” he said. “I’m still solvent.”
    Mitch tucked the currency into his wallet without counting it. “I hope you’re not just saying that to preserve your pride or something. I’m your friend, and if you’re in trouble, I want to help you.”
    “I’m in a lot of trouble,” Quinn admitted wryly, “but it doesn’t have much to do with money. Want a drink?”
    Mitch nodded and went to the liquor cabinet to help himself. “How about you?” he asked, holding up a bottle.
    Quinn shook his head. “I’ve had more hooch since I met that woman than in all the rest of my life combined. She’s driving me crazy.”
    Mitch grinned as he poured himself a shot of Scotch and returned to his chair. “Here’s to true love,” he said, lifting his glass as he sat down.
    Quinn gave him a look, then cupped his hands behind his head and