Page 20 of Quinn, By Design

“Whisht means you’re pretty pissed off, so I’ll apologise in any language you care to name. Later.” Niall planted a kiss beneath her ear, finding this stretch of skin velvet soft, the taste reminiscent of rose-flavoured Turkish delight. Hours wouldn’t be long enough to savour the taste of her. The temptation to nibble his way along her jaw to her pretty lips told him he was in serious trouble. “And we’ve got a personal relationship. We’ve had three meals together, and we’ve shared intimate details about our families and our cash flow.” He released her, and she pivoted on her heel.

“You know what I mean.” She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and tugged him close. She was hard to read; although he’d guess surprised rather than offended.

“You mean sex?” Niall forced himself to keep his hands at his sides because they’d just leapt over a metaphorical hedgerow at a full gallop, and he risked losing his balance. “Having and wanting are two separate things.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Keep that foot on the ground, Liùsaidh,” he crooned. “I’m fair fascinated at the people in your past if your first reaction to a friendly conversation is to knee me in the balls.”

“I’m not having sex with you,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Not yet, and not while I’m working all the hours in the day and then some.” Niall was tempted. It had been a long drought, and he and Lucy weren’t considering deep and meaningful, just a friendly frolic.

“I have some say in this.” She wasn’t afraid of him, whereas in Tomas’s company she’d been frozen.

“You control this.” Niall brushed his lips across hers, his reward for exorcising Tomas Bechet’s malign influence. “I’ll apologise again if you tell me why Mr. Over-cologned Bechet upset you?”

* * *

You control this.

The fight went out of Lucy. He meant that. There was nothing possessive or over-familiar or uncomfortable in his kiss or his touch.

Holy hell!

Those three words made him unlike any man she’d ever met. Sparring with him punched holes in the black fog of grief surrounding her. Which had to be the reason her body had exploded like a Roman Candle shooting stars in all directions at his touch. As if her hormones had heard the starting gun fired, and she’d won the race. The prize was Niall Quinn, cocked and loaded. She closed her eyes on a groan. Then opened them to find she hadn’t disgraced herself by leaping on him.

Judging from the calm patience in Niall’s expression, she hadn’t spoken her thoughts aloud either. Her heart hammered in her ribcage, her hands were clammy, and her wits had abandoned her.

“Lucy?” His lilt made her stomach do a double-back flip with pike.

Stop your dreamin’, her Mum used to say when she’d close her eyes seemingly for no reason, except to find a place where she was safe.

She recalled Niall’s question about Tomas. Had simple concern prompted his actions? She’d already discovered he was kind. For a second, she let herself rest against the warm bulwark of his body.

He paid attention to what wasn’t said, which was how he’d worked out how Lucy’s mum died. And lived. But he hadn’t sought to benefit from the knowledge. At school, she’d battered away sly innuendos about sleeping rough. Clementine and Kelly knew she’d had to hide from some of her mum’s visitors; they didn’t know it was Lucy’s job to wake her mum every morning. The three of them had shared a room and friendship at the care home. Lucy missed their regular catch-ups. Kelly was making lightning visits interstate for work, and Clem was busy falling in love—a surprise to them all.

“Lucy?”

“Tomas uses dubious lighting in his shop and dodgy provenance for his products. He thinks his irresistible charm allows him to charge preposterous prices.”

“He’s a businessman and an extortionist?” He slipped his fingers through hers and turned her back to face the room. “Let’s call the garda.”

“I doubt we’d find actual evidence. He’s too cagey for that, but we don’t like the way he does business.” Lucy stilled at hearing her use of “we.” There was no “we” anymore.

“We still talk about my da. Telling stories is a way to remember him, but also to deal with his passing. I’m sure that’s why wakes are so important.” He understood the ebb and flow of grief. That made him easy to be around, easier still to find attractive.

“Wakes began to stop people from selling the dead for body parts. Literally someone stayed awake to protect the grave from grave robbers.” Lucy cast him a sideways look. “I find those sorts of facts fascinating.”

“Will you be my partner the next time I play trivia?” He steered her across the room. “You still haven’t explained why Tomas makes you freeze. Another piece of trivia, fight, flight or freeze in the face of danger. Maybe I should have phrased my question differently. What about him frightens you?”

“‘Frightens?’” Lucy repeated, stopping.

“Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he reminds you of someone.”

“No.” She recalled the man leaving her mum’s bedroom on the night her mother died. Larger than Tomas, but he’d worn the same scent or the base note was the same. Her heart raced as she made the connection. “His scent. I hadn’t realised. A friend of Mum’s.” Her free hand reached for her pearls.

“I’m sorry to remind you.” He leaned closer, a shield from prying eyes. A hint of his sandalwood scent wrapped around her. This time Lucy welcomed the reassurance.

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