Quinn, by design

CHAPTER THREE

Niall debated lettingthe phone, linked to the loudspeaker, go through to his answering service. Debated long enough for Lucy’s crisp, business-like voice to echo in the rafters, stating she was outside the workroom and expected him to open the door.

“You’ve changed the locks.”

“Good morning, Lucy.” She was wearing a gauzy, creamy blouse with some sort of ruffle at the throat. Very nineteenth century, probably perfectly suited to the hushed quiet of McTavish’s antiques showroom, unlike his own dusty jeans and work shirt.

She frowned. “Shouldn’t I have a set for the purposes of resumption in case of default?”

“Cam changed the locks and kept a set of keys after the insurance company asked for increased security.” Niall counted to ten in his head. A generous assessment would put her motormouth down to nerves. He could afford to be generous. “If you can’t find them, I’ll get another set made. I won’t be giving you grounds for eviction.”

“Sorry. That was a genuine question.” She pushed a hand through her hair, and for a heartbeat, he held his breath waiting for today’s loose chignon to unravel. “I’m having trouble getting my tone right.”

“With everyone, or just me?” Niall was interested she’d make the confession.

“Mostly you,” she admitted. “Given I can’t kick you out for not paying rent, I guess I don’t have many options for eviction.”

“Read the basics of commercial leases.” He leaned against the doorjamb, blocking her view of his workshop. “If I damage the property, if I fail to uphold my end of the bargain, you’ve got grounds.”

“I didn’t expect to become a landlord.” She rose on her toes, trying to peer over his shoulder. “What’s your end of the bargain?”

“Some insurance, utilities, minor repairs, and I’m responsible for cleaning and general maintenance.”

“Can I visit whenever I like?” Her heels hit the ground, and she met Niall’s gaze, her eyes not as red-rimmed as yesterday. Although she was back to wearing makeup. Deftly applied, it provided camouflage.

“As my landlord, it’s appropriate to make an appointment and give me a reason.” Niall continued to block her view.

“Did Grandpa make appointments?” Her voice held a winsome curiosity.

“Cam called in whenever he wanted a chat. He came as a friend and mentor, not as a landlord. Occasionally, he checked if any repairs were needed.”

“I called in to discuss Grandpa’s will.” She dangled a brown paper bag in front of his face. “And I brought sandwiches.”

“I pegged you for polite.” Niall registered the pink blush on her cheeks. Was she embarrassed by the compliment or yesterday’s behaviour? “You didn’t need to bring food.”

“If I’d been properly channelling my gran, I’d have brought cake.”

“Liùsaidh,” he murmured, stepping back.

“Yes.” Her chin jutted out, ready for a fight. “I’m named for her.”

“I didn’t know.” Niall decided the old-fashioned Scottish name suited her.

He’d looked up its meaning when he’d first heard it—warrior. Lucy was a warrior. He hadn’t figured out what she was fighting for yet, to hoard her family’s wealth or something else.

“Cam always called you Lucy. Come in.”

“It surprised both of them to discover Mum named me after her.” She crossed the threshold and halted. “To say Mum rebelled against everything they stood for would be an understatement.”

Niall stored away the personal details she revealed. Cam had been protective of both his daughter and granddaughter. “Whereas you took to preserving old furniture with a vengeance.”

“I don’t see any reason to apologise for appreciating beautifully made and preserved antiques.” Having made a visual assessment of the workshop, she started moving down the left side of the shed.

“You say ‘preserved’ as if that’s a calling in itself. Art isn’t something created a hundred or more years ago.” Niall and Cam had debated the topic endlessly, more for the lively conversation than because they disagreed.

“That’s not what I’m saying, although my personal preference is for late-nineteenth, early-twentieth-century art and furniture.” She stopped in front of the stack of individual frames he’d finished this morning. “This space is different to when I was a child.”

“Is that the last time you were here?”

“Chaos.” She ignored his question. “That’s my overriding memory. Furniture in pieces, dust everywhere. Although I realise now that’s because Grandpa wasn’t able to spend as much time here as he wanted.” She ran a finger along a bench and held it up. “You’re neat and clean, Mr. Quinn. The lighting’s better, you’ve installed ventilation, the fire security has been updated, everything seems to have a place, and the equipment looks newer and more sophisticated.” She’d identified in minutes all the key changes made since he’d moved in.

Her bravado told Niall she’d been anxious about coming here today, about him, but also about her memories. Chaos disturbed her. Being disturbed was on a continuum, from being troubled, to being unnerved, to being petrified. He guessed her instinctive discomfort with chaos had come before she’d entered her granda’s workshop as a child.

Continuing her inspection, she halted in front of a large tool board mounted on the wall. It housed an old plane, a tenon saw, and ancient chisels, worn down from constant sharpening. “Antique hand tools?”

“Some of those are Cam’s.” Niall crossed his arms and watched her.

“Are?” She swivelled to face him, her expression uncertain.

“Cam let me use them. But they’re yours, if you want them?” Niall’s da’s tools shared the same board, and he counted them among his greatest treasures.

“I’ll think about it.” She gripped her pearls and blew out a breath to steady herself before re-starting her inspection. “If I remember correctly, there’s a small kitchenette in the passageway between here and the warehouse storage.” She found it without difficulty. “I don’t remember this impressive security door.”

“It’s new. Like the keys and other improvements. To get the insurance coverage I needed, I had to make a few changes.”

“You or Grandpa?” The light of battle was back in her eyes, reminding Niall of Cam.

“This was one of the few battles I won with Cam. We split costs. Did you win many battles with him?” Niall had decided his brother was right. He’d fight back, until he gained enough facts to work out if he’d made a misstep with Cam.

She was opening a cupboard but turned to look at him over her shoulder. “He was very strategic. He’d usually made the move before you guessed the enemy was on your left flank.”

“Then you understand my dilemma.” Niall let Cam’s strategic rebellions sit unspoken between them. In some ways, the habit of playing his cards close to his chest explained any late changes to Cam’s will.

“Royal Doulton Art Deco and Minton Pink Cockatrice.” She held up his two dinner plates as if to make a point. “Do you have more than one piece of any design?”

“Not yet.” Niall appreciated her knowledge of crockery—pieces he chose for their beauty as well as their job-lot prices. “Don’t I get any points for recognising quality?”

“A few. Preservation is far superior to destruction.”

“Are we talking about my frames again?” Niall was starting to enjoy the way her mind worked.

She unwrapped the sandwiches. Solid slabs of a country loaf. “I went for cheese and tomato again. Pickles for me, none for you.”

“That works. What’s in the will, Lucy?”

“It seems I misspoke on Sunday.”

“I knew it.” The knot of guilt he’d carried in his gut since their last meeting started to unravel and snagged on a word. “‘Misspoke’?”

“He’s left funds to establish the Liùsaidh and Cameron McTavish Foundation.” She glanced around, then carried the plates across to a battered table beneath the window. Sun streaked through, magnifying each chip, scar and paint scrap on the table, a contrast to the smooth lines of his inland rosewood Boornaree fruit bowl.

“What foundation?” He took the chair she left free.

“A two-year scholarship for promising young woodworkers. In year one, the successful recipient is employed by McTavish’s to learn the antiques trade. Year two is a full-time mentorship with you.”

“Feck.” He took a large bite of his sandwich and started chewing.

“Do you subscribe to the thirty-two chews on average to break down food?” She stretched out a finger to stroke the edge of his crimson-toned bowl.

“Who makes that stuff up?” he muttered. When she opened her mouth to answer, he held up a hand. “That was rhetorical. Tell me the rest.”

“In the first year, you get cash-in-kind to the value of twelve months rent on this property, so you can establish yourself or prepare yourself, or whatever else you have to do to take on the mentorship in year two.” Her nervousness hid a deeper emotion.

“I’m presuming the foundation is an absolute. My involvement is voluntary?” What the hell had Cam hooked him into?

She pursed her lips. Pretty lips, but they twisted in disbelief. “I assumed Grandpa discussed the project with you.”

“No.” Niall listened to the silence between them. Silence could carry a thousand and one nuances. “What’s the real problem? Do you resent my involvement? Or do you still think I conned him?” Niall asked because her answer mattered for whatever truce they reached.

“I was blindsided the other day. And angry because Grandpa became frail enough for people to take advantage of.” She fingered her pearls again.

With sudden insight, he realised the habit was a tell. She was defensive because she didn’t know what the hell Cam was playing at any more than he did.

Her voice was lower but crystal clear. “I don’t think you took advantage of him. I’m sorry I accused you of theft.”

“Apology accepted.” Niall tasted the bewilderment lurking beneath her apology. “What’s the deal after year one?” He took another bite of sandwich while he waited for her answer.

“If you agree to be the mentor, then you get rent reductions for the following four years, eighty percent off the commercial rent for year two, then sixty, then forty. By year five, you’ll receive a twenty percent annual deduction on the commercial rent as payment for mentoring the scholarship holder.”

“And if I don’t want to be the mentor?” Niall had thought Cam’s questions about his time in Ireland had been idle conversation to distract Cam from his illness. Niall had rabbited on about the sheer joy of being challenged daily by a master cabinetmaker to dig deeper, to be more than he was.

“Grandpa named you as one of the two-person panel selecting the scholarship winner each year. Being the selector is separate to being the mentor. If you choose not to be the mentor, Grandpa asked that you nominate someone to take your place.” She sounded indifferent to his decision, but her body had stilled, straining for his answer.

“Who’s the other person?” Niall didn’t have the reputation to mentor anyone. The idea was preposterous. And yet? Cam had faith he could do it.

“Me.”

“I feel outnumbered here.” The middle of Niall’s back started to itch.

“Because I favour antiques and you’re relentlessly modern?” Her gaze skittered to the picture frames lined up against the wall.

“Something like that. I’m assuming I have some time to think this over.” Think, rather than flail about like a beached whale with a concept Cam had never raised with him.

“The foundation needs to be in place when your initial agreement with Grandpa ends—four months.” She lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, having issued her ultimatum. “I’ll get Grandpa’s lawyer to send you the details.”

“Please.” Why hadn’t she asked Henry Dawson to set up a formal meeting? “You didn’t need to bring lunch to apologise. Henry could have explained the foundation,” he said. She wrinkled her nose, revealing she had another motive. “Spit it out.”

“Leopold’s offers their artists a new service. Unique frames made from recycled antique timbers.” She pointed. “Like those. Not to my taste, but there’s creativity in the design and execution.”

“I’m betting Leopold’s was thrilled to get your assessment.”

“Why did you ask Grandpa to source the timber?” She waited several beats. “Ashamed of what you do?”

“This is a short-term project for me.” Shame had driven the search for a project to earn quick cash to repay Liam, but Niall hadn’t learned how to make a second-class product. The profits from Leopold’s frames were paid directly to his brother’s bank account. Niall had set himself a repayment target before his nephew or niece was born.

Part payment for his share of their father’s debts, a down payment in regaining his self-respect. Quinns always paid their way.

“So, you’re calling the business Frames by Niall. That’s not as creative as the actual frames—”

“Well, feck.” Taking a leaf out of his romance author sister-in-law’s playbook on pseudonyms, Niall didn’t use the name Quinn for anything except his own creations.

“—but you’re fetching premium prices.”

“That’s what counts then.” He put his half-eaten sandwich back on the plate, her criticism of his mercenary intent stinging.

“It’s interesting.” She’d dabbed at the pickle at the side of her mouth with one of the serviettes she’d brought to go with today’s sandwich. Pity, when he’d prefer to see her pink tongue take a swipe at them. “My grandpa invested quite a bit in you. You could also say you’re my co-beneficiary. I’ve checked your website. Niall Quinn—Quinn’s bespoke furniture. You’re just starting to get a name.”

“Next you’ll be telling me I’ve won prizes.” Niall bared his teeth, feeling like a caged hound. He hadn’t received any awards for his work since his return from Ireland.

“I assume that’s why he selected you as a mentor.” She looked down her nose at him, royalty dealing with a slow-thinking peasant. “Grandpa bought old frames on your behalf. I didn’t really connect the dots until I remembered Leopold’s.”

“What dots is it you’re connecting?” Niall studied her; under the makeup, there was genuine colour in her cheeks. If sparring with him had provided some of her colour, he’d let her play this game out.

“You need money,” she stated.

“Everyone needs money from time to time.”

“Do you accept Grandpa’s generosity prevents me from earning money from this site?” For a wealthy woman, she was fixated on money. But she wasn’t the first woman he’d met with a calculator for a heart.

“Yes.” If Cam had been alive, Niall would have roared at him for putting Niall in this position. Her granda was a man who’d understood hard work didn’t always deliver a living wage. So, what the hell was Cam playing at?

“You say you respected my grandpa, liked him, dare I say, admired what he achieved?” Now she’d shifted to wheedling, and seeing her beg for anything sickened him.

“Cameron McTavish was a fine man, who above all else wanted to see you secure.” All the lovely colour drained from her cheeks, and Niall cursed himself for being the cause. “Why does that upset you?”

“Because he and Gran already gave me security—a bed, food, clothes, an education.” She gripped her hands tightly.

She’d needed a bed! What the hell kind of childhood had she had? “From what Cam said, you don’t have much of a family. No cousins, no aunts, no uncles.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” She reached for his fruit platter, resting her hand against it. To some, a burl was a deformity on a tree. With the right touch, it became an object of beauty. Touching the wood seemed to steady her.

“No family,” he repeated his point. “He valued the family he had. He loved you. It’s normal to look after those you love.”

“I promised to keep McTavish’s in the family.” She used the shop as a shield. Or maybe as a comfort blanket.

“You’ll get no argument from me.” He held up his hands.

“I’ve got a proposition for you.” Colour crept up her cheeks, and wasn’t that fascinating?

Lucy McTavish didn’t like his frames, didn’t approve of his mismatched crockery, but body chemistry wasn’t as reliable as good sense. She’d just acknowledged an attraction. That makes two of us. Reluctant—definitely—but simmering below the surface just the same.

“A business proposition. I’ll buy you more old frames if you give me what you currently have in stock and all future pieces you produce.”

“You don’t sell frames.” Whereas despite not using the name Quinn, Niall had made peace with his need to make bespoke frames for a short time. “My current stock is promised to Leopold’s, and I build to measure.” Niall had a personal yardstick for dignity, and his integrity wasn’t for sale.

“Don’t you owe Grandpa anything?”

“I owe myself self-respect.” He kept a leash on his temper. “If I reneged on the deal with Leopold’s, I’d have no credibility in the marketplace.”

“They’re just frames.” She drove him crazy, stroking his creations as if she had some special connection to them, while badmouthing items the punters couldn’t get enough of. She also fascinated him.

“You’ve just trashed my work and my morals. What would you do if I asked you to repudiate a sale to a new customer because a regular customer asked for the piece.”

“I’d explain the piece is already sold.” Her bum polished his chair while she practised haughty disdain.

“You can see yourself out.” He pushed back from the table. Blackmail was an ugly word. “There’s not much point in making an apology only to insult me again.”

“I’ve got a serious cash flow problem,” she blurted out.

“You’ve just inherited one of the oldest, most respected antiques businesses in the city. The premises are elegant, the stock high quality ...” he stumbled to a halt.

For no reason he could name, Niall recalled Cam’s sick room. Filled with personal possessions—Cam’s favourite paintings, items of furniture, photographs of his wife—an intimate space kitted out as a well-equipped twenty-four-seven private hospital. A doctor called twice daily and nurses were on permanent call. It would have cost a fortune. Well, feck!

“Happens to the best of businesses from time to time.”

Happens to me most of the time.

“I’m sure Henry has some ideas, if not your accountant. Have you tried the bank?” He’d started to babble. Resuming his seat, he tried another bite of the sandwich. A bad idea. The bread and cheese congealed into a hard-to-swallow mass. Cam couldn’t have foreseen this, but Cam’s pipedream about a foundation with Niall in the major role had somehow tipped his granddaughter into debt.

* * *

“Yes to all three. Thebank’s happy to give me a mortgage or a loan.” Lucy hadn’t intended to admit her cash flow problem. Frames by Niall was his dirty little secret. She’d planned to embarrass him into letting her sell his frames and pocket a share of the profit. He’d gone all noble and pointed out his integrity mattered to him as much as hers did to her. “But I need to service it.”

“And you hate being in debt as much as you hate chaos.”

His insight silenced Lucy before his gaze settled on her. He was a brooding, creative genius if the photographs she’d seen of his prize-winning furniture were any guide. Not her preferred style, but they showcased the wood, and as Grandpa had taught her, the material was the true magic—wood or stone or glass. And the craftsmen and women were alchemists. Grandpa had wanted Niall Quinn to succeed. And was prepared to harness his legacy to Quinn’s future success.

“What was your first plan?” His turn to cross-examine her.

“Selling the workshop,” Lucy admitted. It was only fair to tell him he had no long-term future here. In three to four years, she might be able to nudge him out of the property by upping the rent.

He whistled, long and low. “That’s quite some cash flow problem you’ve got.”

“The foundation and you were the only surprise large bequests, but Grandpa supported a few charities. He expected them to receive the money straight away.”

I don’t have the time now for my childhood demons to rematerialise.

Still, Lucy’s nightmares had returned, shaking her belief in the professional businesswoman she’d become. Debt had been the big bogeyman for the first years of her life. She was being cautious, not crazy, worrying about cash flows and money in the bank. A buffer, that’s what she needed. Her panicked brain told her to keep cash reserves for six months’ operating costs at a minimum—a year would be better. Time to see if she had a problem, and if so, fix it before there were irreversible consequences.

“You knew about the other bequests,” he said slowly, working his way through the puzzle. “So you’d decided to sell before you found the copy of my agreement yesterday. Then Henry told you about the will. That’s one house of cards to come tumbling down.”

“Selling would have given me a buffer.”

“If you made any mistakes,” he guessed. “You’re worried about stuffing up McTavish’s?”

Quinn’s perception rivalled that of any man Lucy had ever met.

“We keep having to draw boundaries about what is my and what is your business.” She had no intention of detailing the crippling costs of the hospital-in-the-home room she’d established to make sure Cameron McTavish had twenty-four-hour professional care. Grandpa had told her he didn’t need that level of care, but the shadows from her mum’s death lingered. Lucy doubted she’d survive another interrogation from police and medical authorities if someone else died on her watch.

“So, we’re agreed. You don’t tell me why you need cash, and I don’t tell you why I need it.” He reached out a hand and covered hers where it sat on the table, her index finger lightly pressed up against his bowl. “Is it just wood you need to touch, or do glass and stone and clay affect you the same way?”

Lucy withdrew her hand and missed the warmth of his touch. “I’m sorry. I’m not always aware I’m doing it.”

“Wood’s made to be touched. I spend a bit of time stroking it myself.”

“Wood’s my favourite,” she confessed, his gentle quizzing about materials and art easing her past the embarrassment of admitting she was scared rigid about even the tiniest whisper of debt. “Put me in front of Donatello’s David, and I’d have to sit on my hands.”

“Donatello’s naked bronze David is magnificent.” He gave a slow smile. “Nice to know you’re not one of the put-a-fig-leaf-on-a-man’s-genitalia brigade.”

“I’d got over the sight of a naked body before I was weaned.” Lucy surprised both of them. Grandpa and Gran weren’t prudes, but they didn’t frolic naked around the house either. Niall’s smile had distracted her enough to hand him a secret.

“Take it,” he said, tipping the fruit onto the table.

“I couldn’t.” Because she’d come intending to make him feel he owed her.

“I didn’t send flowers for Cam’s death. The occasion should be marked.” He made his gift impossible to refuse.

“It’s a Quinn? I didn’t realise.” She blew out a breath, feeling tears threaten. “He sat here, didn’t he? Chatting about your work. What did he say about this bowl?”

“He liked it.”

“Grandpa was never so mealy mouthed. If he hated something, you knew it. Hate wasn’t about taste. It was about whether or not the craftsman valued what he or she did. I bet he loved this.” Fate should have given her grandparents a few more years, given Lucy a few more years with them. “Thank you.”

“You didn’t seriously think you’d make money selling my frames, did you?” He flopped back in his seat and crossed his arms. Impressive muscles rippled beneath his shirt.

Brute strength does not turn me on.

“I considered it.” Lucy had considered a gazillion options because debt conjured memories of skipping meals, sleeping in her mum’s old car and using service station restrooms for showers.

“Like me, you worked out it would cost you too much to sell them yourself. You’d need a website or another outlet. You’d have to invest in marketing. Leopold’s saves me all that work and money. Plan A was selling the workshop. Plan B, which I imagine took you about thirty seconds to discard, was financing a loan by selling my frames. By the way, I’ve developed a sideline with a florist.” He lobbed the florist idea like a chunk of raw meat thrown to a hungry lion.

“I didn’t think of that.” But there must be other possibilities involving frames if Lucy gave it some thought.

“Why piss me off by suggesting it?”

“It was worth a try.” Lucy deserved the scepticism evident in his raised eyebrow.

“What’s Plan C?” He was inexorable.

“Your current agreement includes a clause whereby Grandpa can nominate pieces for you to restore.” Her heart started pounding. Lucy hadn’t intended to lay her cards so openly on the table.

He winced. “How many?”

“We can negotiate as we go along.” Relief he wasn’t showing her the door anymore made her giddy.

“I’d prefer a time period.”

“Like three pieces a month?” She was being provocative because the time needed for restoration would depend on the piece.

“Like a day a week of my time,” he corrected her, “for the remaining term of my initial agreement with Cam. I’ll give you fourteen eight-hour days.”

“So, the number of pieces will depend on their size and the condition they’re in.” Hope was a rare green shoot for Lucy in recent months, too bright a promise to question his motives.

“That’s the first genuine smile I’ve seen you give.” His voice was gruff, and he tugged her hand away when she pressed it to her mouth. “Cam wanted you to be happy.”

“I know.” Her grandpa had rescued her when she’d given up hope of being found. “I’ll need money to buy pieces.”

“You could hock your jewels?” Mischief quirked the corner of his mouth.

Lucy fingered the perfect pearls hanging in a double strand around her neck, almost sure he was joking. “These were Gran’s. Grandpa bought them for her. I couldn’t sell them.”

“Do you have a float to get us started?”

“I’ll ask the bank to fast-track a loan.”

Lucy would have time to see the manager again this afternoon. Straight after the psychologist she hadn’t seen in a decade. Because after meeting the bank manager the first time, she’d had a mini meltdown—gone home, curled into a ball under the blankets and closed her eyes, as if that would make her problems go away? Ridiculous behaviour for a woman who prided herself on her business acumen. Her attitude to debt was more phobia than rational assessment of her situation. Knowing that didn’t make a blind bit of difference.

“Think about picking up more frames for me at the next auction as well.”

“How did that work with Grandpa?” she asked, the glint in his eye telling her this was more teasing. She missed her grandpa’s teasing. “Did you look through the catalogues and suggest stuff? Visit the auction rooms in advance?”

“Both.”

“There’s an estate auction next week. With no money, I wasn’t planning to attend.”

“Cam didn’t always buy.” He knew her grandpa’s habits.

“He liked to look almost as much as he liked to buy.” Lucy loved—had loved—that about him. He could admire without needing to possess, the opposite of her mum, who’d craved the shiny and new. “You should come with me?” The invitation was out before she realised. She backpedalled. “See if we can work together?”

“I haven’t made a decision on the foundation yet.”

“The foundation is a done deal. Whether you accept Grandpa’s challenge is up to you.” She held her breath, hoping he’d accept her dare to attend the auction.

“Are you sure you can bear to be seen in public with such a Philistine?”

“If you know the word, you aren’t one.”

The workshop comforted her in a way it never had during her grandpa’s day—not that Niall Quinn’s presence had anything to do with that. He was a link to her grandpa. That made him an ally of sorts, and an orphan didn’t readily discard an ally.