Page 14 of Quinn, By Design

“Yes to all three. Thebank’s happy to give me a mortgage or a loan.” Lucy hadn’t intended to admit her cash flow problem. Frames by Niall was his dirty little secret. She’d planned to embarrass him into letting her sell his frames and pocket a share of the profit. He’d gone all noble and pointed out his integrity mattered to him as much as hers did to her. “But I need to service it.”

“And you hate being in debt as much as you hate chaos.”

His insight silenced Lucy before his gaze settled on her. He was a brooding, creative genius if the photographs she’d seen of his prize-winning furniture were any guide. Not her preferred style, but they showcased the wood, and as Grandpa had taught her, the material was the true magic—wood or stone or glass. And the craftsmen and women were alchemists. Grandpa had wanted Niall Quinn to succeed. And was prepared to harness his legacy to Quinn’s future success.

“What was your first plan?” His turn to cross-examine her.

“Selling the workshop,” Lucy admitted. It was only fair to tell him he had no long-term future here. In three to four years, she might be able to nudge him out of the property by upping the rent.

He whistled, long and low. “That’s quite some cash flow problem you’ve got.”

“The foundation and you were the only surprise large bequests, but Grandpa supported a few charities. He expected them to receive the money straight away.”

I don’t have the time now for my childhood demons to rematerialise.

Still, Lucy’s nightmares had returned, shaking her belief in the professional businesswoman she’d become. Debt had been the big bogeyman for the first years of her life. She was being cautious, not crazy, worrying about cash flows and money in the bank. A buffer, that’s what she needed. Her panicked brain told her to keep cash reserves for six months’ operating costs at a minimum—a year would be better. Time to see if she had a problem, and if so, fix it before there were irreversible consequences.

“You knew about the other bequests,” he said slowly, working his way through the puzzle. “So you’d decided to sell before you found the copy of my agreement yesterday. Then Henry told you about the will. That’s one house of cards to come tumbling down.”

“Selling would have given me a buffer.”

“If you made any mistakes,” he guessed. “You’re worried about stuffing up McTavish’s?”

Quinn’s perception rivalled that of any man Lucy had ever met.

“We keep having to draw boundaries about what ismyand what isyourbusiness.” She had no intention of detailing the crippling costs of the hospital-in-the-home room she’d established to make sure Cameron McTavish had twenty-four-hour professional care. Grandpa had told her he didn’t need that level of care, but the shadows from her mum’s death lingered. Lucy doubted she’d survive another interrogation from police and medical authorities if someone else died on her watch.

“So, we’re agreed. You don’t tell me why you need cash, and I don’t tell you why I need it.” He reached out a hand and covered hers where it sat on the table, her index finger lightly pressed up against his bowl. “Is it just wood you need to touch, or do glass and stone and clay affect you the same way?”

Lucy withdrew her hand and missed the warmth of his touch. “I’m sorry. I’m not always aware I’m doing it.”

“Wood’s made to be touched. I spend a bit of time stroking it myself.”

“Wood’s my favourite,” she confessed, his gentle quizzing about materials and art easing her past the embarrassment of admitting she was scared rigid about even the tiniest whisper of debt. “Put me in front of Donatello’s David, and I’d have to sit on my hands.”

“Donatello’s naked bronze David is magnificent.” He gave a slow smile. “Nice to know you’re not one of the put-a-fig-leaf-on-a-man’s-genitalia brigade.”

“I’d got over the sight of a naked body before I was weaned.” Lucy surprised both of them. Grandpa and Gran weren’t prudes, but they didn’t frolic naked around the house either. Niall’s smile had distracted her enough to hand him a secret.

“Take it,” he said, tipping the fruit onto the table.

“I couldn’t.” Because she’d come intending to make him feel he owed her.

“I didn’t send flowers for Cam’s death. The occasion should be marked.” He made his gift impossible to refuse.

“It’s a Quinn? I didn’t realise.” She blew out a breath, feeling tears threaten. “He sat here, didn’t he? Chatting about your work. What did he say about this bowl?”

“He liked it.”

“Grandpa was never so mealy mouthed. If he hated something, you knew it. Hate wasn’t about taste. It was about whether or not the craftsman valued what he or she did. I bet he loved this.” Fate should have given her grandparents a few more years, given Lucy a few more years with them. “Thank you.”

“You didn’t seriously think you’d make money selling my frames, did you?” He flopped back in his seat and crossed his arms. Impressive muscles rippled beneath his shirt.

Brute strength does not turn me on.

“I considered it.” Lucy had considered a gazillion options because debt conjured memories of skipping meals, sleeping in her mum’s old car and using service station restrooms for showers.

“Like me, you worked out it would cost you too much to sell them yourself. You’d need a website or another outlet. You’d have to invest in marketing. Leopold’s saves me all that work and money. Plan A was selling the workshop. Plan B, which I imagine took you about thirty seconds to discard, was financing a loan by selling my frames. By the way, I’ve developed a sideline with a florist.” He lobbed the florist idea like a chunk of raw meat thrown to a hungry lion.

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