Page 53 of Quinn, By Design

He remained standing near the door. “If you don’t want company tonight, just say so.” He paused and seemed to come to some decision. “We’re having an affair, for feck’s sake. You can call a halt at any time. Just say the word.”

“I’m having a hard time with the arrival of my period.” She glowered at him, because after sharing sex that got better with each encounter, she’d expected more perceptiveness from him. Perceptiveness and silence.How dumb is that?

“I considered the possibility, along with various disasters at the shop. I decided you’d tell me if you were feeling unwell.” He pushed himself off the door jamb and strolled closer.

“I’m feeling miserable and uncomfortable and unattractive.” And she remembered her mum’s fear of her value to any man if she wasn’t flat on her back and able to perform.

“I’m sorry for the first two”—he sank into the seat opposite her—“but from where I’m sitting, you’re the same beautiful woman I saw yesterday. Do you always have a hard time?” The lullaby in his lilt was causing cramping muscles to loosen their death grip.

“Enough for painkillers. Enough to turn me into a werewolf,” she said. Doug had always been uncomfortable around “women’s business.” Because he only had brothers, he said. Niall was one of two boys, completely discrediting Doug’s excuse.

“That’s bad.” He reached for her hand and linked his fingers with hers. “Do hot water bottles on your tummy help? My mum liked heat. I’ve known a few other lasses who like the comfort as well as the warmth, but it’s an old-fashioned remedy.”

“Did your mum talk about having periods?” What a curious conversation to be having? She’d been too young to have the conversation with her mum. Her gran had been matter-of-fact but inclined to talk about it out of Grandpa’s earshot.

“As part of her birds and bees’ instruction.” He grinned. “She’s a demon for romances, so we got the proper way to woo a woman, along with the mechanics of reproduction and sex. Dad chipped in anything he thought she left out.”

“Mum called it ‘the curse.’ She hated when she got a period, and she cursed. That’s where I picked up some of my best swear words. I realised later she had irregular periods because of her drugs.” Lucy was just now realising there were other ways to talk about periods with men.

“Mum spoiled me for formal sex education. But I’d be keen to hear some of your curses.” He was drawing circles on her knuckles with his thumb, and the ripples spread in an ever-widening circle through her body.

“I stopped swearing for Gran. She wassucha lady.” Lucy had been flummoxed by the contrast with her mum, then discovered mother-love and grandmother-love were different but lovely. “I only half-listened to my teacher. What she was describing sounded like nothing I’d seen at home.”

“I can share a bed without making love to you.” He studied her as if she was a maze and he wanted to unlock the puzzle. Not to conquer but because he liked puzzles. “I like being with you, talking to you, holding you—if that helps in any way.”

“Come upstairs.” She stood, her hand still in his.

He spooned along her back, his body heat burning off the last edges of her pain. His hand rested gently on her belly. She fell asleep with him caressing her womb and woke to the dream of carrying a child.

* * *

Niall arrived at McTavish’sAntiques Centre toward the end of the Sunday afternoon event, his mind still on the cedar table he’d started this morning. He’d been cutting timber to the requisite sizes and mulling Anna’s latest text message—Well!?!?—when his alarm reminded him of his promise to Lucy.

He’d lectured himself on the drive over, repeating words drummed into him as a toddler. “If you can’t be gracious, don’t bother to speak or to come.”

He’d be gracious if it killed him.

McTavish’s had been turned into a bower of flowers for the spring sale. Pink and purple, yellow and white tulips stood in perfect upright vases. Ranunculus in the same colours spilled from cheerful pots, and statuesque branches of wine magnolias kept sentinel in dark corners. Huge crystal wide-necked vases took pride of place on nineteenth-century cedar tables, their aromatic lilies in shades from cream through to crimson. They provided the sweet notes riffing to the base note of beeswaxed floors.

Clever Lucy had designed a space to saturate the senses. Gleaming glassware and highly polished mirrors reflected the premium pieces from multiple angles. The soaring strings of Vivaldi from a string quartet in the corner accompanied the fizzing effervescence of popping champagne corks. The crowd moved easily through the large space, exuding the cultivated indifference of people used to doing business in any city in the world.

“You’re here.” Lucy appeared out of nowhere wearing a simple black dress, shot through with green. Her hair was loose, two combs scooping it off her face, letting her rich tresses fall to her shoulders in waves. Her gran’s pearls were twisted around her throat to make a choker. Her usual low-heeled pumps were replaced by stilettos. Elegant, and he wanted her with an intensity that frightened him. She wrapped her hand around his arm, smiling with quiet contentment.

“Looks like it’s going well.” Kidnapping was a capital offence, so he gestured to a cluster of pieces adorned with red dots, rather than steer her toward the privacy of her office. At a conservative estimate, he’d say half her inventory was sold. The place was awash with energy and serious money.

“Better than I hoped.” She pressed closer. The haunted woman who’d appeared on his doorstep bare months ago had been replaced by a vibrant, sophisticated chatelaine of a top antiques house. She twinkled at him. “I had a quiet chat with Grandpa before the start.”

“What’d he say?”

“He said, ‘Whisht, girl, what are you waiting for?’” The air around her was electric, her success generating a glow bright enough to lift even his mood. “Come with me. There’s someone I want you to meet.” A waiter hovered with a tray of drinks. “Look at me.” She fanned her face with her free hand. “Not even giving you a chance to get a drink.”

“You’re happy.” He snagged a beer.

“Very.” She quickened her steps. “I’m hoping you will be too.” She wove through clusters of people, responding to greetings, unaware of the interest she stirred. She might not want to be the centre of attention, but she was luminous. “Peter Bradley, meet Niall Quinn.”

“You’re the secret weapon Lucy’s been telling me about.” The grey-at-the-temples, handsome, blue-eyed, Armani-besuited, mid-forties man thrust out his hand.

“Secret weapon?” Niall returned the handshake. Bradley’s grip was firm, not the tussle of wills he’d expect from a rival.

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