Page 23 of Quinn, By Design

“A time-honoured way to show you care.” Niall nodded. “What are you looking for in a mate?”

“Interesting word—mate. One minute we’re talking about my grandparents and the next you’re back to sex.” She rolled her eyes.

“To hear Cam tell it, it was a mighty passion. Lots of lusty sighs, passionate glances and tackling each other onto any reasonably comfortable surface.”

“I got the edited version for my school project.”

“I’m asking about your life, Lucy.” The inconvenient desire she’d stirred in him when she’d been in his arms made him reckless. “Everyone should have at least one passionate affair in their life.”

She tilted her head and narrowed her gaze. “Are you offering?”

Well, feck! The rush of blood from his head to his groin made him dizzy. Having already noted her courage, he was a fool to offer her a challenge, although he was sorely tempted. “At the risk of repeating myself, you control this.”

* * *

Lucy was at the workshopon the dot of eight the following Monday, because in her experience, tradespeople started early. When she drew close enough to press the buzzer, the spine-chilling beauty of k.d.lang singing the last chords of “Hallelujah” wafted out a part-opened window. He’d sound-proofed the workshop. Another improvement since her childhood. An insurance request? Given what Lucy was learning about Niall Quinn, consideration for the neighbours probably figured as well.

He was that kind of thinker. Observing details, observing reactions—a different kind of “treat thy neighbour as you’d have them treat you” to Grandpa and Gran. Gran had fed her, bought her clothes that fitted, and read her to sleep with stories Lucy could read herself. Nothing overwhelming, just small acts of service building daily into a pattern of love. There was a different element to Niall’s practical she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

Compared to any man she’d met, there was a different element to his sexual challenge as well.You control this.He couldn’t have any idea how enticing those words were to a woman who’d spent the first decade of her life with no control over anything, except her dreams. An affair with him would be discreet and harmless.

Lucy pants-on-fire McTavish.

An affair with Niall Quinn would be incendiary. Nuzzling his way up her throat, he’d started a fire inside her, a conflagration still blazing when he’d held her hand to inspect one piece of furniture after another. Like being close to a woodstove—the radiant heat was immediate, but the promise of bone-deep warmth over time kept you close. He’d purely smouldered when she’d asked if he was offering an affair. She’d waited for the bushes flanking the path outside the deceased estate house to spontaneously combust.

This morning he pulled open the door within seconds of her pressing the buzzer. She sensed impatience in him, as if she’d interrupted some task, then his expression cleared. Leaning forward, he sniffed the air. “Well, feck! Same scent, so it must be Liùsaidh McTavish beneath those overalls, old sweater and”—his gaze dropped to her boots—“are those steel-capped?” He patted his chest. “Be still, my beating heart.”

“Are you quoting the poet Dryden or the musician Sting?” Her stomach dropped to those steel-capped boots hearing her full name roll off his tongue.

“Whoever you’d like me to quote.”

“The boots are because this is a work site.” She inhaled wood smoke and exhaled the jittery nerves making her question her reception. Discreet, incendiary and laced with affection—a short affair might work for both of them. “I’ve done basic occupational health and safety courses.”

“I’m impressed.” He drew her inside, and his welcome scrambled her good sense. “Why?”

“About five years ago, Grandpa organised to do some renovations at the house. I needed to do walk-throughs, keep an eye on things.”

“Given your dislike of chaos and dust, you must have had a pretty strong motivation.” He spun on his heel and headed toward the table under the window: their lunch spot on her first visit to his workshop.

“Gran insisted on supervising,” she explained. Niall’s friendship with her grandpa, and the stories Niall had to trade, neutralised her usual caution talking about family.

He glanced over his shoulder, his smile understanding. “And you supervised your gran.”

“Grandpa installed an elevator, modified a bathroom, and built a balcony from the main bedroom overlooking the garden.” To protect her gran, Lucy had studied in forensic detail what was safe and unsafe behaviour for an invalid in a home converted to a building site.

“Cam told me his wife was ill for some years before she died.” Niall Quinn’s discretion equalled his kindness.

Her grandpa had never sugar-coated hard truths. “Gran was physically frail, then was diagnosed with dementia.”

“Dementia’s an ugly and terrifying word.” His lilt almost disappeared under the weight of his compassion. “And unspeakably cruel to lose the love of your life twice, mentally and then physically.”

“She lost the capacity to comfort others. Gran would have hated that.” Lucy had hated the loss of dignity on her gran’s behalf. “She was good at comforting others. In a practical way. If a family was rocked off-centre by a tragedy, she’d be the first with a casserole.”

An act of service had killed her grandmother. Her cat had meowed at a closed window. In her rush to open it, Gran had fallen, hit her head on a footstool, and broken her neck. In the video clip lodged in Lucy’s mental library, the cat’s complaint had sounded a fraction of a second before her gran’s cry. Heart pounding, Lucy had sprinted down the hall, skidding to a halt in time to see her gran roll off the footstool. Too late to be useful. Soon enough for endless what-ifs.

“You know where the kitchen is. Help yourself to tea whenever you want it.” His abrupt change of topic startled her out of memories carrying the force of a stun gun.

“Do you want a cup?” She remembered her manners.

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