Page 16 of Quinn, By Design

CHAPTER FOUR

Put yourself in herposition. Niall scowled at the timber stacked against one side of his storeroom a few days later. You’re getting a year rent free—obligation free—to make money at will. He tossed a piece of jarrah over his shoulder and headed back to his workbench.

For an intelligent woman, Lucy McTavish was blind. You could drive a pantechnicon through the inconsistencies in her position. She’d worked out he was making frames because he was in debt. Yet she saw no problem in asking him to work for her for free.

So why the hell did I agree?

He set the piece of wood on his workbench.

Because Cam had rated Lucy’s peace of mind above money, the business, the house he’d built to remind him of his Scottish origins, or any foundation that might preserve his name. Niall barely managed his own cash flow, so he couldn’t imagine what was involved with Cam’s empire. Except, Cam hadn’t intended his final bequest to Niall to tip Lucy into a panic about debt.

Saying no wasn’t an option.

A bit of work for her shouldn’t impact his plans.

The foundation, on the other hand, was both dare and gift to Niall. A dare to silence potential critics by delivering a successful exhibition, and an extra year rent free as a reward. Cam’s trust, even more than his generosity, made Niall want to accept the dare. The lure of a year able to focus on his work stopped his head and his heart. The idea of teaching appealed to him, and the crafty old man had teased that confession out of him in one of their many conversations.

A foundation? Niall chuckled.

People should remember Cameron McTavish. He was a great and good man. Cam hadn’t told Lucy about Niall’s exhibition, a secret Niall would keep. The show would be over before he needed to sign anything for the mentorship.

Niall ran his hand over the timber. A half-forgotten time ago, a friend had described a mirror he’d seen in an antiques shop. The frame was shaped like a musical note. It had cost a motza. Twenty-four hours later, when his friend had decided “to hang the expense,” the mirror had been sold. His friend had never seen anything like it again. Niall planned to use the smooth-grained, reddish-brown jarrah for a mirror with a frame like a misshapen treble clef tipped on its side.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Speak of the devil, although her voice didn’t conjure images of horns and a tail, but rather memories of a smart, attractive woman, who’d triggered a wish for her to stroke him with the same delight she stroked his creations. “Hello, Lucy.”

“What’s your decision?” Her phone manners needed work.

“You forgot to say ‘Hello, Niall, how are you?’ and whether your question is about the foundation or the auction.”

“Is that Candy Dulfer?” She could distinguish the wail of the alto-saxophone through the phone.

“You know Candy Dulfer?”

“Hello, Niall. How are you? You sound as astonished as the Thomas-Rhett-look-a-like music teacher at my music camp when he discovered I knew the Dutch musician.” She chuckled. “I studied her like a demon with the precocious hope the teacher would single me out for attention.”

“When was this camp?” If Lucy had been a minor, did Niall need to find the teacher and demand an apology?

“Shortly after I moved here. A Gran brainwave, marketed as building girls’ self-esteem without any psycho-babble. Gran was sneaky like that. The teacher introduced us to talented and successful female musicians as a way to teach us to believe in ourselves.”

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