Page 19 of Quinn, By Design

“Billy’s an environmental activist on the north coast. Closer to Liam than me. Always was,” Niall replied matter-of-factly, wanting to make Billy Kelly’s past a non-issue. Because she’d just admitted her past had been an issue for people sitting in judgment. “Happily married. No kids, but Kate’s pregnancy has given Chrissy and Billy a hurry on.” Her shoulders dropped a fraction, a laying down of weapons. Niall continued. “The women beside you during the funeral ... are they school friends?”

“Friends? Yes. From school? No.” Subject closed. “Did you invite me here early just to feed me?”

“I invited you for a planning meeting.” Niall leaned back against the bench, mimicking her position, his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles, enjoying the moment. “Combining it with morning tea is in the nature of a time and motion exercise.”

“You don’t need to feed me every time we meet.”

Niall changed direction. “Want to know how Cam and I met?”

She leaned toward him, greedy for stories of Cam. She could ignore hunger but not the tiniest facts about her granda.

“At an auction. I can’t remember who suggested a coffee, but I found myself telling him about the frames and Leopold’s.” Niall had found himself explaining his plan to create unique frames for the upmarket art dealer as a short-term, money-making venture while he established his bespoke furniture business. “Cam invited himself to the workshop I rented at the time. Then he offered me his workshop.”

“The workshop with a warehouse and living quarters in a mid-city-ring industrial suburb.”

“We’ve already had that fight.” Niall ignored her raised eyebrow. She’d eaten, so mission accomplished, but her scepticism suggested he’d need a new trick the next time he wanted to feed her. “That was probably the last time we attended one together. We attended a few pre-auction openings together, when the online catalogue didn’t give me the information about frames I wanted. I only restored furniture he owned. Furniture he’d owned for a long time.” He let that sink in. “Buying with restoration in mind pits us against a different group of competitors. Prices rise and fall based on demand, including who’s generating the demand. You might want to handle this discreetly.”

“So we identify some stock, and I return to purchase alone.”

“If possible, we identify enough suitable stock to cover fourteen days, and you ask one of your lesser-known staff to return and purchase.” Niall lifted her hand and checked the time. Her skin was as silken as he’d imagined. The compulsion to turn her wrist over and rest his lips against the softer skin there was strong enough to blindside him. He was spending too long alone in his cave. “Time to move.”

“What role are you playing?” Her gaze assessed his tweed jacket and tie as he unwound and stood.

“Junior assistant, friend, confidant, whatever role we find we need me to play.” Niall gestured to his clothes. “I’m not here as a carpenter.”

“It’s an estate auction preview, not a celebrity party.” She shot to her feet and headed for the property, muttering over her shoulder, “No need to dress fancy.”

I’m attending with a McTavish, and antiques royalty has standards to maintain. “This is the fanciest I do.”

Niall let her sign in, standing back, playing the role of a not-very-interested companion. They were the first to arrive, as he’d planned, and the only viewers for the first fifteen minutes. He glanced into each of the three bedrooms, but the interest lay elsewhere—in the dining room, library and music room.

Despite the sophisticated marketing, he noticed signs the elderly owners had fallen on hard times in recent years, both financially and personally. Pieces hadn’t been repaired—burns from teapots or hot dishes not treated. He ignored the beautiful grandfather clock with its walnut casing in the library. The timepiece needed an expert clockmaker. While the harp in the music room needed someone with a musician’s skill. But he noted Lucy touched both as they passed. A gentle touch, a finger held a hairsbreadth from a surface. And she struggled to restrict herself to wooden furniture. Touch was her way of interpreting her world.

What would it feel like to have her hands on me?Niall swallowed a groan.

A few steps into the living room, she halted, her body stiffening. “Hello, Tomas.”

“Lucy.” Tomas stepped close enough to Lucy for Niall to visualise his over-powering cologne landing as sticky fingers on her shirt. When Tomas puckered thick lips and blew kisses in the direction of both her cheeks, Niall saw another transgression. Lucy was uncomfortable. “Sorry I couldn’t make Cameron’s funeral,” Tomas trilled. “He’s such a loss to the industry.”

“Darling”—Niall stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist, pulling her rigid body back against his chest—“introduce me.”

“Tomas Bechet,” she said. “Bechet’s Fine Furniture, a colleague of my grandfather’s.”

“I’m Niall, a close friend of Lucy’s.” He exaggerated his Irish lilt, but her body remained stiff. “I asked her to show me how she spends her day.” He winked at Tomas and ignored the man’s proffered hand, instead reasserting possession by rocking Lucy gently from side to side, until her muscles softened. “Really to spend my day with her.”

“Nice to meet you.” Tomas’s smile died. “We can catch up another time, Lucy.”

Stepping away from the doorway, Niall drew her with him until his back was against the wall and her back against his chest. “Smile as if you’re having a wonderful time.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

“Sexual harassment is the legal term. Unforgivable to my mind. But, you’re upset, and I’m taking preventative action to confuse the half-dozen people in this room who are looking our way about whether we’re here for the auction or some nooky.” He nibbled at the spot where her neck and shoulder joined. The scent of rose was stronger here—old-fashioned, like a full-blown damask. Her skin was silkier, her shiver of reaction telling him she wasn’t immune to his touch.

“They won’t be confused if I toss you over my shoulder and sit on you,” she muttered, angling her elbow into his abdomen.

“I might enjoy that.”

“Whisht! We’re not having a personal relationship.”

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