Page 21 of Quinn, By Design

“Poor Tomas. I’ve maligned him for no good reason.”

“I like this washstand.” He seemed content to forget Tomas. “I bet you’ve got a wash basin and a jug to fit the space and the period. Cam had some sheets of marble from the right period to replace the benchtop.”

Lucy followed his lead. “Sounds like the McTavish’s are doing all the heavy lifting if I buy this piece.”

“Ah, but I thought of it.” He winked, drawing her into a conspiracy of two. “And you’ve already spotted the mismatched leg. That, plus a few cosmetic repairs you might miss, are my contribution. Keep walking.” He nudged her hip.

“You could just ask me to move along,” Lucy mumbled.

He grinned, and the lines that dug around his eyes revealed genuine humour but also fatigue.Why would he be tired? She’d assumed selling frames was fixing his cash flow problem. Making them wasn’t a physically demanding job, and yet something was keeping him awake at night.

“I’m keeping up the pretence we’re interested in each other more than the items for sale.” But he was scanning this room with the same intensity he’d scanned the previous rooms they’d passed through. “Ten o’clock, what do you think of the sideboard?”

“Marquetry Demilune 1890s in the style of George III.” Lucy sucked in a breath. “It’s gorgeous. Damaged but lovely.”

“Depends on the price, but that’s possible.”

“You have a good eye,” Lucy admitted, giving serious consideration to his situation for the first time. He must be selling the frames for a motza, whereas restoring furniture took longer and wasn’t as lucrative. But the bowl he’d given her was stunning. The photos and testimonials on his website confirmed his skill. Maybe he’d decided it took too long to get rich making bespoke furniture?

Whisht, Lucy, getting rich is a long way away from clearing debts.Hard-headed when he needed to be? She could respect his decision and lament the absence of new pieces on his website.

“Stuffs up your assumption I have no finesse or class.” He nodded in the direction of the sideboard. “The wood is beautiful. Mahogany inlaid with satinwood. Don’t know the maker, but it’s special enough to have a mark.”

“Is that the sort of thing you discussed with Grandpa?” Lucy cursed another part of her mother’s legacy. Assuming every man she met acted out of self-interest was a lonely endowment.

“Cam knew if something was worth fixing, even if he didn’t always have the skill to do it.” He steered them around a large table, giving them a different angle on the sideboard.

“Like the three pieces you restored for him.” Henry’s words popped into Lucy’s head—Cameron stopped requesting.

“Cam loved them. They sat in his shed for years, but he couldn’t bear to let them go. He nearly talked my ear off while I worked on them.” He turned her to face him. “Time to look at me again as if you’re besotted.”

“Can Monday be the day you give to me?” The beginnings of a plan energised Lucy. She could get a glimpse of what Niall and her grandpa had shared. Maybe even discover why Grandpa had kept Niall Quinn and the foundation a secret from her.

“Why?” he asked, although he must have already guessed.

“The shop’s closed on Mondays, and I can visit.”

“And that’s a good thing because ...?” He ran a finger down her nose, as if they were lovers planning a tryst.

Lucy heard the patience in his question. Kind and patient, and she pushed aside her reservations at taking advantage of his decency, of demanding more work for a debt already paid. Her first loyalty had to be the continued survival of the family business. “Because you can tell me what you’re doing, so I can learn to recognise opportunities without you.”

“Recognising opportunities without me has some appeal.” He tugged on her earlobe, a friendly touch, which shouldn’t make her pulse race. Clearly, he’d be happy if he never had to visit an auction house with her again.

“You can tell me what Grandpa would say.” Lucy angled her chin higher to prove she was unaffected. “You can tell me what he told you.”

“He told me he loved you.” He brushed the back of his hand down her cheek, and Lucy shivered. He’d raised the stakes, flipped the mood to intimate.

“Men don’t sit around talking about stuff like that,” she replied, while his warm fingers did their own sweet-talking. The hands that had crafted her rosewood bowl made magic.

“It’s in the tone”—his smile stalled the breath in her throat—“in the selection of stories, the small smiles, and the loud laughs, and the frequency with which Cam returned to the topic.”

Niall Quin was dangerous. With his insights, with his perception, with his big, gorgeous body she wanted to play with—briefly, just to see what he offered, because entanglement wasn’t a safe option for her.

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