CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ten o’clock on Wednesdaynight and Lucy had sought refuge in flannel pyjamas, thick green and pink-striped woollen socks, and her gran’s quilted dressing gown. She glanced in the hall mirror before she opened the door and saw what she already knew. She was pale and a bit haggard around the mouth. Period pain did that to a lot of women. It was nothing to be embarrassed about, but neither did she feel like a temptress. She and Niall had only been lovers for ten days.
“Hi.” She forced a smile.
“Is something wrong?” His eyes were dark grey tonight, deep pools of patience. His scent settled her nauseous stomach.
“Come in.” She pulled the door wider and stepped back. She was new to real intimacy with a lover and unsure of herself. “We can talk in the kitchen. Bottom of the hall on the right.”
“I know where the kitchen is, Lucy.” His jaw jutted forward in reproach. “I don’t spend all my visits in your bed.”
“Sorry. I know you don’t.” She offered an apology when she hadn’t intended to offend. “You make tea and toast and serve me breakfast in bed.”
“Do you want tea and toast now?”
“I want to sit down.” She brushed past him to enter the kitchen first, taking a seat. “Do you want a drink? Tea, beer, Grandpa’s whiskey?”
“I don’t want the politeness you serve your customers.”
“I should have called.” She held her hair off her forehead, searching for the right words.
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 was such a 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.
“I’ll leave you two to chat.” Lucy released his arm, patted his butt, and was gone.
Niall sipped his beer, noticing Peter watched Lucy’s disappearing form.
“Cameron was proud of her, but he would have been prouder still that she pulled this off so close to his death.” Peter’s gaze swivelled back to catch Niall’s. “Don’t you agree?”
“Any granda would be proud of his granddaughter.” Niall made his brogue a little thicker.
“But I’m talking about Cameron and his granddaughter in particular.” Peter’s look grew speculative. “Lucy said you knew him well and are responsible for the exceptional restoration of an eighteenth-century Serpentine Fireplace Mantel I bought earlier this year.”
“It was a piece that rewarded effort.” Niall’s shoulders slumped as he absorbed the body blow. He’d felt like shite before tonight’s shindig, and Lucy had introduced him to a wealthy antiques collector as a furniture restorer.
“I have a few more that would reward your effort,” Peter murmured.
“I’m not free to take on new work at the moment.” Niall stared into his beer, no longer thirsty. He should have said “I’m working on an exhibition.”
“Lucy was positive you had time for one or two pieces.” The man’s insistence raised the hairs on the back of Niall’s neck. “In fact, I got the impression she was canvassing for work on your behalf.”
Niall glanced across the room. Lucy appeared engrossed in conversation, then turned her head as if aware of his stare. Her tentative smile proved Peter’s claim. She’d sold his time and his skills without asking him.
“One.” He turned back to Peter. Was this what it felt like to be a kept man? Cam wouldn’t have expected him to be at Lucy’s beck and call, but the old man must have known Niall would never walk away from an obligation.
“It might take longer than you hope before you get the recognition you deserve.”
And it might never happen.
Did you factor that in, Cam, when you decided to order people to suit your bidding?
He returned his beer to a passing waiter.
Is that what Lucy wants? Me doing her bidding?
Like Cam, she hadn’t warned him about plans involving him—a gut punch.
Steady, boyo, you haven’t told her about your exhibition.
“Here.” Peter slid an embossed card from his wallet, turned it over, and wrote an address on it. “I can be free any evening this week.”
“A banker.” Niall hoped he kept the hellishness out of his voice.
“For my sins. A family tradition I was expected to follow. Pity my father didn’t own McTavish’s.” Peter’s smile was a mix of banker calculation and hopeless romantic.
“Tomorrow night. About seven.” Niall didn’t want to like the man. “One piece.”
“Ah! But I get to pick the piece.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got a warehouse full?” Niall joked, because the thought Lucy had wanted to tie him up in restoration work indefinitely was too bleak to contemplate.
“Enough to provide a steady wage to the right person for months. My word carries weight. I could be a useful referee in your role in the McTavish Foundation.” Peter waved to someone across the room. “Until tomorrow night.”
Lucy had manoeuvred to set him up with a steady wage and a banker, spruiking Niall’s restoration skills. Praise the saints and all the little fishes.
Turning his back on the room, he pretended the Norman Lindsay etching of a female nude had his full attention, when he couldn’t see a thing. Lucy loved antiques. She’d made no secret of her preference from their first meeting. He should have pushed back when she’d asked him to restore pieces for her. Told her his plans for the next few months were set and might even benefit the foundation.
Instead, he’d let his empathy for Cam’s death dictate his actions. When he’d lost his da, he became truly helpless. He’d wanted to help Lucy, and if restoring a few pieces of furniture distracted her for even a few minutes a day from Cam’s loss, then he’d been happy to give her an escape. He hadn’t needed to talk about his own work.
Now, he was trapped in wanting to give her more.
Anna’s perfume gave him a second’s warning. An arm came around his waist, a head rested on his shoulder. “My darlin’ boyo. Why the glum face?”
“Anna.” He draped his arm across her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
She turned into his arms, her penetrating look skewering him. “Rescuing you. If that’s what you want?”
“I love you, Anna Turner.” He made himself smile. “But you’re about a decade too late.”
“You’re cancelling the exhibition, aren’t you?” She gripped the lapels of his only decent jacket, disappointment clear in her downturned mouth, her frustration a fraction of his own.
“Postponing, due to circumstances beyond my control.” He mocked himself. When she opened her mouth to argue, he pressed two fingers to her lips. “Not here. Not tonight. And I still don’t know how you found your way here.”
“Lucy invited Hunter. Neither of us is sure why.” She rested her hand against his cheek, and he accepted her sisterly comfort. “Hunter’s intrigued, so here we are.”
“Maybe we should look for them.” He turned her to face the room. Lucy’s interest in the successful property developer was another unwelcome guest at the feast.
“They’re consenting adults,” she responded with a tart snap.
“I’m not worried about Lucy and Hunter.” Or not much. Hunter represented the world Lucy rightly inhabited, and she’d been slumming it with Niall. He scanned the room and couldn’t see either. “I always forget you refuse to be jealous.”
“If I spent my time worrying about what Hunter was doing when I wasn’t with him, and vice versa, it wouldn’t say much about trust.” Her reply was a rapier sharp reminder he was keeping secrets from Lucy.
“The show is wrapping up. I don’t have the stomach for any more introductions,” he growled.
“Do you remember why you agreed to appear in my billboard campaign?” she asked with deceptive sweetness.
“You asked me.”
“I did. And the other reason?” She steered him toward a large sideboard. They were just another couple admiring the merchandise. Except there was purpose in Anna’s abrupt change of topic. Experience had taught him to surrender to the inevitable when she started an interrogation.
“Liam had lost himself in work, trying to pay off Da’s debts. He didn’t tell me about them, wouldn’t talk to me at all. I thought he’d lost himself, full stop. Was afraid money was all that mattered to him.” Niall had been helpless to bridge the rift. “I wanted to do something to shock him into noticing me.”
“He was unhappy. You’re unhappy now and just as stubborn as he was. By the way, we’re heading for that delicate little hall table near the redhead.” Anna would skewer him if he stepped away from her side. “It’s okay to accept help.”
“I accept help,” he muttered, uncomfortable with her assessment.
“Tell that to someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do. You and Liam both tend to manage disasters by yourself. You get it from your father, I suspect.”
“You never met him.” He glared at the unknown redhead. She startled and scurried away.
“I didn’t have to meet him to know he was a white knight sort of fellow. Fighting valiantly for just causes, coming to the rescue of a damsel in distress. Us damsels are more inclined to rescue ourselves these days.” She stopped and turned to him. “We want to share, not be sheltered. You wanted to share Liam’s load. And you were not a happy camper being left out.” She was brutally loving. “Now, you need to go after that redhead and play nice. Tell her I stabbed you with a pin or something.”
The situations weren’t the same. Cam, not Lucy, had created the debt. He dredged up a smile. “Introduce myself, you mean?”
“You don’t need a stomach for introductions. You need a backbone and a little charm. Practise for when you do finally get your exhibition.” She sauntered away.
“On my current trajectory, it’ll be posthumous.” He was talking to himself.
––––––––
Irritation was an itchbetween his shoulder blades. Even the elegance of Lucy’s bedroom mocked him tonight. Having sex in a queen bed on high thread-count sheets, nestled in a goose feather eiderdown would heighten anyone’s pleasure. For weeks, he’d slid over her, she’d slipped under him, hairy bare skin had brushed silky bare skin while rolling across luxurious bedlinen, each texture a delicious torment. All he could offer was a double bed, cotton percale and a hand-me-down quilt. Their bedding spelt out the contrast in their lifestyles. Lucy’s cash flow problems were temporary; McTavish assets would always buy more than basic comfort.
“Why did you ask Peter to offer me work?”
“Because you cancelled the frames you were making for the florist.” She turned her back, lifting her hair off her neck. “Can you undo my zipper, please?”
Her scent was sweeter at the nape, more vanilla than rose. He leaned into her smell and couldn’t resist brushing his lips across the exposed skin to taste her. With her scent enveloping him, and his mouth on her body, he wished life was as simple as her answer. He guided the zipper down her spine before anchoring his hands at her waist. “Can you check with me next time?”
She spun to face him, her eyes concerned. “Did I do the wrong thing?”
Yes, he wanted to shout, but the word wouldn’t come. “Just check. Please.”
“He asked me about our restorer. Not for the first time. And you want to repay your brother as quickly as possible.” Her words of explanation tumbled over each other, an apology when she wasn’t sure how she’d sinned.
“Yeah, I do.” He’d loosened his tie on the drive home from her gala, now he discarded it. “But I’ve got that covered.”
“You could have said no.” She pulled the dress off her shoulders and stepped out of it. Her pretty bra and pants had sprigs of green leaves embroidered on them. She looked as vulnerable as she had when she’d first shown up on his doorstep, and like then, he couldn’t fault her conclusions.
“Bradley implied no wasn’t an option.” Niall unbuttoned his shirt, his heart hammering in his chest when she slipped off her stilettos, then set her foot on a stool and bent to unclip the suspenders she was wearing.
“That was naughty of him.” She glanced up, one silk stocking halfway down her calf, and his mouth watered. “I said I’d introduce you.”
“And that I had time free.” Praise the saints. He must be mad to be belabouring the point when she smelled like heaven, looked like every fantasy he’d ever had, and was within reach. Tonight he’d take the time they hadn’t had in the last fortnight to draw out their pleasure.
“I might have.” Her brow wrinkled in thought. “Although, I’m more likely to have said you were finishing a contract and might consider the right offer.”
“He mentioned being in a position to promote the foundation.” And I’m worse than a dog with a bone.
She chuckled. “He’s hoping our mentee gets hooked on antiques in year one and abandons all other dreams.”
“I’m meeting Bradley tomorrow night.” He’d misunderstood and over-reacted, and he was an ungrateful bastard when she’d thought she was doing him a good turn. She hadn’t pledged his time—the banker had finessed him.
She shook out her second stocking and laid it over a chair. “Would you like to help me get rid of the rest of these clothes?”
“If you help me first.”
“Did I thank you for coming tonight?” She unbuckled his belt, sliding her hand inside his trousers to cup his balls.
“I think you’re about to.” He tilted her chin to kiss her. Her soft lips moved against his, her mouth opened in welcome, and the angst of the evening faded. He couldn’t parse all the elements in her kisses: sweetness, hunger, caring. She was strong, but her vulnerability called to him. She made him feel as if together they were whole. “This is lovely. You’re lovely.”
––––––––
Much later, she curledaround him, her cheek resting against Niall’s heart. By inches, by cup of tea, sandwich, shared meal, shared conversation, exchanged smile, she’d become the keeper of his heart.
“Your deal with Peter has nothing to do with me.” Her leg rested across his thighs. “You decide your rate, and Peter pays you.”
“Uh-huh.” He stroked her back, liking the clean lines of her, the straight spine, the still too prominent shoulder blades, and he’d worry about juggling Peter with her bookcases tomorrow.
“Hold off on my bookcases,” she said sleepily. “They can wait.”
No, they can’t. He’d given his word and wasn’t about to add a new debt to his growing list. Fourteen Mondays he’d promised her, six left.
“And in the spirit of checking first”—she yawned and tucked herself under his shoulder—“I do have some other contacts if, and only if, you decide you want more work.”
She thought his biggest problem was the debt to his brother and had seen a way to help him pay it back sooner. His fault for not sharing all the interlocking pieces of his financial plan, including the exhibition. Initially, he hadn’t told her about it, because he didn’t expect to fall for her, to become so caught up in helping her, being with her, that it threatened his goals.
Then he hadn’t told her, because she’d feel guilty for taking him away from his work. And while Cam had backed him into a corner with the bequest, she was innocent. He wouldn’t tell her now, because she’d blame herself for him cancelling it. She wasn’t responsible for his decisions. He was a grown man. A “consenting adult,” as Anna would have it.
Tonight, he’d consented his way right out of his exhibition.