CHAPTER TWELVE
“Hi.” Lucy pulled herfront door wide, welcoming Hunter with a smile. “I love a guest who’s punctual. To be honest, I love anyone who’s punctual.”
“Something we have in common.” He joined her in the wide, tiled hallway, and visibly inhaled. “The roses remind me of my aunt’s.”
“These are from my gran’s gardens.” Lucy fingered a yellow petal and bent forward to catch the delicate fragrance. “Roses in the hall was a tradition for her.”
“My aunt’s hall isn’t as elegant as this one.” His survey was interested, his intent friendly. She knew in her entrails his assessment wasn’t always so well-disposed. “Her sideboard and mirror don’t store hundreds of years of perfumed memories, but the welcome’s the same.”
“Thanks for coming to the house.”
“Hopetoun Cottage?” He made the name a question.
“My grandparents’ tribute to their Scottish forebears.” Lucy gestured down the hall. “Straight ahead, the last door on the right.” She rubbed clammy hands down the sides of her straight skirt. If she didn’t fight her fear, it would swallow her. “I hope you don’t mind a meeting in the kitchen.”
He paused beside her at the kitchen door. The large, airy room had been renovated in her early teens, making the space surprisingly modern in a house filled with antiques. She and Gran had chosen the appliances together and walked the layout they wanted before bringing in an architect. Huge wide-ledged windows filled with pots of parsley, basil, and thyme overlooked the garden. Fridge, stove, sink and benchtops were within easy reach of one another. The only concessions to the family business were a country sideboard, a large table, and six chairs. Lately she’d been thinking a different kind of table—a long golden-hued, hand-crafted table—might be a better fit for the life she wanted to create.
For all the years she’d lived in this house, the kitchen had been the centre of family gatherings, intimate chats and boisterous lunches. What did Hunter see?
What deductions is he making about me? About my invitation—my second invitation—the gala and now, a few days later, this more private request?
“You spend a lot of time here,” he concluded.
“Not as much as I used to.” She shrugged, then answered the speculation in his gaze. “I’ve been skipping meals, getting takeaway, eating at Niall’s. When Grandpa first died, I wandered for miles, rather than come home. I’ve developed a love-hate relationship with the place. Whisht, that’s the first time I’ve admitted how complicated my feelings about my home have become. Please, sit down. Did you train with the Spanish Inquisition in a previous life?”
“Success in business is about sixty percent reading people and the rest managing money.” He shucked his overcoat, draping it over the back of a chair before taking a seat. “But you’d know that, having been raised by Cameron McTavish.”
“Grandpa was interested in people.” Her grandpa’s trick had been to match a stranger with the perfect vase or table or chair or lamp for them.
“Whereas I’m not.” He wasn’t offended.
“You’re alert to attack,” she replied. Hunter Thompson’s wariness was matched by a ruthless determination to protect his own—a modern-day warrior.
“I was a builder’s labourer before I was anything else. Dangerous places—building sites.”
“And now you turn anything you touch into gold.” Lucy’s move was audacious, but procrastinating with a busy man wouldn’t win his advice. “Tea?”
“I’d prefer coffee. Black. Or water if you don’t have coffee.”
“I can do coffee. Grandpa developed a taste for it in the last few years.” She turned on a commercial-sized coffee machine and rested her hips against the bench while waiting for it to heat. “We also entertained a lot at home, until recently.”
“Why did you ask me here, Lucy?” His hands rested on the table, palms down. Long-fingered, tanned, neatly manicured, his hands had almost as many nicks and scars as Niall’s, although none of Hunter’s were recent. The hands of a capable, controlled man.
Turning back to fiddle with the machine, she sorted words, trying to find a reasonable explanation. “I said I had a business proposition.” Which wasn’t strictly true.
“My business interests don’t include antiques.”
“You didn’t need to come here to tell me that.” She’d at least piqued his interest. She set a cup under the nozzle, listened for the kerchunk to signal the fresh beans had been ground, and watched the trickle of black gold drip into the cup. “Sugar?” She set it in front of him.
“Please.”
She passed him a sugar bowl before turning to make tea. The rhythmic tinkle of the metal spoon against his ceramic cup communicated patience, a hard-won skill for a man in a hurry. Or maybe he wasn’t the man depicted in the business press? She slid onto the chair opposite and raised her gaze to meet his. “Actually, I want your advice.”
“Why me?” He leaned back, at ease with himself and her, but he’d recognise a lie.
“I have an accountant and a lawyer I trust, but this is more personal.” She’d sounded out both indirectly and done some of her own research, when she’d woken from her grief coma and seen how illogical her actions were. Like any self-respecting sleeping beauty, Niall’s kisses had woken her.
“And I’m connected to family?” He made the deduction, saving her the embarrassment of confessing. “Except, I’m not.”
“Anna took you to meet her family. That’s rare, and I’m betting you know how rare. She trusts you and trusts you around people she cares for.” There was a rock-solid decency about the Turner and Quinn twins. She attributed the same characteristics to Hunter by dint of his connection.
“Interesting conclusion.” His eyebrows rose, and she wasn’t sure if he was flattered or annoyed at the dent in his inscrutable persona. “Niall took you to meet his family. Does that make you trustworthy?”
“I’m trustworthy.” But she was shaking her head. “Kate invited me. A kindness because of Grandpa.”
“We can agree to disagree on that point.” He sipped his coffee, while she held her breath waiting for his next move. “Is that why you invited me to the gala?”
“I invited you so you could get a sense of the business, its products and clients.”
“You’d planned a second meeting before we had our first.” One eyebrow disappeared into the hank of hair sweeping across his forehead. “I’m impressed.
“You have no interest in antiques. Your reputation is mixed. Ruthless according to some, fair according to others.” Lucy ticked points off her fingers. “And then there’s Anna.” Continuing on the same path wasn’t an option, because Lucy’s actions were harming Niall.
“Anna’s got nothing to do with my business.”
“You’re dating her. I’m judging you by the company she keeps.”
A wolfish grin streaked across his face, his predator instincts diverted by the surprise attack. “Did you inherit your approach from your grandpa as well?”
“Might have.” Maybe falling for Niall and not knowing how he felt about her had heightened her awareness of others in the same situation. Hunter would protect the people Anna loved.
“Congratulations on choosing your grandpa’s business model.” He toasted her with his remaining coffee.
“Did you ever meet him?” She soaked up new stories about Cameron McTavish.
“I did some research before accepting your invitation.” He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, his inscrutable gaze assessing her. “What sort of advice are you after?”
“When I was a little girl, we were dirt poor.” She took a quick sip of tea, the hit of caffeine reinforcing her decision to use him as a circuit breaker. “Occasionally, my mum would disappear us overnight”—Lucy flashed her teeth—“that’s how she described it when we took off because she hadn’t paid the rent. There were other bills, visits from debt collectors, times when we couldn’t buy food. The upshot is I entered my teens paranoid about debt.”
I’ve said it aloud and the world hasn’t ended.
“Any debt.”
“Makes sense.” He wasn’t judging her, which made her next admission easier.
“For the last five years I’ve managed McTavish’s books. We take items on consignment, but we also buy outright, backing our judgment that we’ll sell what we’ve bought and won’t default on the overdraft. Since Grandpa’s death, my brain’s gone haywire. I’ve become obsessed with building huge cash buffers in case even the smallest bill can’t be paid.” She stared at the unmarked folder sitting at the end of the table. Evils had flown out of Pandora’s box before she’d slammed it shut. Only hope had remained.
“Sounds like you’ve identified your problem.”
“I have.” Last week she’d asked Clem for her professional assessment.
“Is it possible that Grandpa’s death catapulted me back to childhood? Made me helpless again?”
Money was the security blanket she’d craved as a child, and debt had been the out-of-control monster stalking her dreams.
“Then you’re more than halfway towards a solution.” He drained his coffee and set it aside. “You don’t need me.”
“My banker, my accountant, even my lawyer told me to make my assets work harder; that cash flow wasn’t the monumental bogeyman I was turning it into.” She pushed her empty cup around the table, huffed out a breath and tossed him a half-smile. “Pity I didn’t lock myself in a room for a month before making any decisions.”
She prayed Niall would forgive her blundering demand to restore additional pieces. She’d stolen his time. Her grand idea of extra restoration work for Peter was another kind of theft, because she was arrogantly making Niall’s choices for him. She stifled a groan. His father’s debts were real, whereas she’d worked out hers were childhood nightmares that should have lost their power to dictate her actions.
“I’m not your financial adviser, but I’m prepared to consider hypotheticals.” From Hunter, that was capitulation.
“I can do hypotheticals.” Lifting her chair, she carried it around to his side of the table, bringing the folder with her. “Let’s say someone has taken out a loan for a few hundred thousand dollars for two years with repayments of roughly fifteen thousand a month.”
To his credit, he didn’t blink. “What’d you spend the money on?”
“Most of it is sitting in the business bank account.” I’m an idiot. Or an orphan paralysed by loss. “Twelve months operating costs, staff salaries and benefits, quarterly utilities, an allocation for buying new product, marketing—”
His hand covered hers on the table. “You don’t need me to tell you anything.”
“I need someone”—she paused—“knowledgeable, and not in a relationship with me, to remind me of what I spent years learning. I could have taken a smaller loan, brought the spring gala forward, and the normal cash flow would have serviced that loan.”
“What are you going to do about it?” He leaned back in his chair.
“Renegotiate the loan.” And beg Niall’s forgiveness.
* * *
Niall had waited untilthe last possible moment to ring the influential gallery owner. Hoping for a miracle? He pocketed his phone and buried his head in his hands, the woman’s final words ringing in his ears.
“Don’t expect another chance in this city.”
She was pissed off, and with reason. She’d have to shuffle other exhibitions, change timelines, and it would cost her. More in time and effort than actual money. He’d given her enough notice to cancel the bulk of her promotional activity and agreed to pay any existing out-of-pocket expenses.
“You’re a fool.” Her anger-laden description lay curdling in his belly. “Wasting the best chance you’re likely to get.”
Decisions had consequences. Well, feck, I know that. He raised his head, elbows on his knees, and scanned his workroom.
He called Lucy, infusing his voice with regret and good humour. “Something’s come up. I can’t make it tonight.” He was no kind of company tonight.
“Of course.” Her ready acceptance sparked a different kind of unease. But his mind was a blank. Words dried in his mouth.
The wind-tossed path meandering along the headland above Watsons Bay suited his mood. Stars were pinpricks in a dark-sky-quilt above an even darker sea. No moon, but the lamps lighting his path danced shadows all around him, and white tops coated the waves. His head was packed with shadows tonight.
He’d thought he had plenty of time to make his mark.
Nest eggs were for old men.
In his early twenties, he’d never bothered about making money, because he was too intent on learning his craft. He’d accepted food and board on more than one occasion to work alongside someone with a new skill to offer. He’d given pieces to fellow artisans, who’d admired them but lacked the funds to pay even for his labour.
After meeting his ex-fiancée, Sinead, in Dublin, he’d started to put money aside. Not enough, so when he’d let a friend have a piece at cost, Sinead had gone ballistic. His art had held him in a mad lover’s chokehold, she’d claimed, her contempt wild and mean. He was earning peanuts when she had a right to a little luxury. He’d walked away from everything he’d built in Ireland, a fire-sale of belongings. In a desperate act of “you can’t hurt me,” he’d flown his tools back to Australia first-class freight.
And found a different failure confronting him at home. If he’d had any kind of forethought, he’d have had a bit put by—for Sinead, to pay Liam, to be able to say “thanks, but no thanks” to Cam.
A pub loomed out of the darkness. Music spilled through the door. The smell of fried potatoes mixed with the salt spray, a quintessential Australian scent, beckoned. Through the picture windows, he could see the happy crowd, chatting or dancing or sneaking kisses in corners. Turning his back on the wind, he retraced his path to his vehicle.
If he’d been any kind of provider, he’d be able to access the money to bankroll Lucy until she’d regained her confidence. Folding forward onto his arms across the steering wheel, he shifted through possibilities. One skill he’d mastered was starting with nothing. He could do it again.
This time he had more than nothing. Liam’s debt was almost paid. He could help select the first scholarship winner for Cam’s foundation, finish the work he’d agreed to do for Peter and Lucy. He’d surrender the workshop at the end of his original contract with Cam, and Lucy could sell it. He’d explain the situation, ask for the year to sell what he had in storage, to make more, to actively promote his work, to make himself a viable mentor.
Ask Lucy to give him—them—time.
* * *
Lucy tucked her phoneback in her pocket. Niall had sounded ... “off” in the call, despondent. Hearing the uncharacteristic defeat in his voice scraped at her conscience. She needed her girlfriends, and Kelly was finally back in town.
Thirty minutes later, Lucy walked into a bistro she hadn’t been in for months and was directed to a table tucked in a corner. “Thanks.” Two women rose at her approach. She hugged one first then the other.
“I’ve been back in town ten days.” Kelly Manners dropped back onto her chair. “We were waiting for you to call.”
“Although the clock was ticking down on that.” Clementine Gonzales believed in tough love. “One week more was our limit, and that was only because you like to brood your way to a solution.”
“Thank you for the feedback.” Lucy gave their usual reply when Clem had skewered one of them with her insight, and settled into the cosy-as-Ugg-boots-on-a-winter’s-night comfort of a girls’ night out.
“I’m sorry I missed the sale night.” Kelly held up her hands. “Arabella fell off a ladder I told her she should never have been climbing. I couldn’t leave her.”
“Is she okay now?” Lucy asked. Arabella Manners was family to Kelly; she’d provided a home for the sixteen-year-old runaway. At eighteen, Kelly had taken Arabella’s surname.
“She has titanium for a spine, she tells me.” Kelly sighed.
“I’d believe that.” Clementine snorted, filling a third flute with their favourite prosecco.
“She dodged a bullet.” Kelly shook her head. “Was backing away fast from a dirty big spider, so only fell three steps. On to concrete.”
“Only.” Lucy winced at the memory of her gran’s fall. Arabella Manners was younger and fitter than her gran had been, but accidents were called accidents for a reason. Niall had helped her see that.
“I called the shop the next day”—Kelly continued—“but you were out. Looks like it was a huge success.”
“It was,” Clementine added. “Jamie and I were early enough for me to pick up a stunning Maud Bowden art deco vase for his mother’s birthday.”
“You didn’t stay long.” Lucy didn’t mean to sound accusatory. “I wanted to introduce you to Niall—Niall Quinn.”
“The man who’s been locking you in a workshop on your one free day a week?” Clem was asking a question.
“He knew Grandpa. He talks about Grandpa. In some ways, he’s a bit like Grandpa.” That realisation surprised her. “I needed the link.”
“What ways?”
“He’s patient, a bit eccentric.” Lucy thought of his mismatched crockery, his insistence on changing seating positions all the time. “Generous, gifted, modest, protective.” She hadn’t realised she’d collected so many words to describe him.
“Wow! You left out the important one. Hot?” Kelly fanned her face.
“On a scale of one to ten,” Clem added.
“Eleven and rising.” Lucy grinned.
“Now you’re being mean—you know I’m not seeing anyone,” Kelly teased.
“That’s because you’re a workaholic,” Lucy pushed back.
“We’ve all been guilty of that.” Clem stopped smiling.
Someone turned up the background music, the only downside they’d discovered for this bistro. Cyndi Lauper’s girl-power anthem “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” boomed through the speakers.
“Hey, they’re playing our song.” Kelly’s head swivelled toward the bar. The owner’s wife’s hand was still on the volume button. “Remember when we made that pact.”
“It was after you went to that horrible town with the creepy cop.” Lucy had returned to the care home at the same time, after the boy had tried to molest her at the foster home.
“We’re not talking about that tonight.” Kelly had been sixteen when she’d fled that particular disaster. “Besides, that’s ultimately how I met Arabella.”
“And Arabella is wonderful.”
“It was before Gran and Grandpa found me,” Lucy said. “And now they’re gone.”
“I was the lucky ring-in from the third bed in the room. And Arabella and your gran made sure we hooked up again.” Clementine stared into her drink. “No children. That was our pact. Because how would we know what to do, how would we be able to mother a child? A lot’s happened since then.”
“You mean you’ve met a wonderful man.” Lucy toasted Clem but remembered her own hesitance about entering Kate’s nursery.
“Jamie wants to have children.”
Kelly set her drink on the table. “That’s huge.”
“I’ve asked for time to think.” Clementine traced a finger through the condensation on the side of her glass.
“You’d make a wonderful mother, Clem.” Lucy touched her hand.
“Jamie says that, but how do you know? What’s different about now and then? What if I stuff it up?”
“Jamie won’t let you stuff it up,” Kelly said matter-of-factly.
“I really love him.” Clem sounded exhausted. “Have you told Niall about your childhood demons?”
“I planned to do it tonight, but he had to cancel,” Lucy admitted.
Tonight, she’d planned to share all her secrets. To tell him the rest of her story, about the muddled lessons she’d learned from her mum’s death, her irrational fear of debt, her conversation with Hunter, and the size of her ridiculous loan. She’d spent her life trying to avoid mistakes and come scarily close with Niall. She’d also planned to apologise for taking advantage of him.
“Sorry, that sounds like you two are the consolation prize.”
“I wouldn’t have said no to ‘hot,’” said Kelly, when all three of them knew Kelly’s dog, Boo, vetted all her male companions.
“Are you scared?
“A little.” Lucy dribbled the last of the sparkling wine into their glasses.
“Right back at you, sister.” Clem grimaced.
“Next bottle’s on me.” Kelly spoke into the sombre lull following Clem’s remark. “My excuse for not seeing you lately is a series of visits to interstate libraries. I’ve been asked to act in a more senior position, and it might become permanent. I’m about to become an important person in my little world. That gives me the power to banish fear.”
“Remember when we ...”
Lucy let herself think about Niall for a second, then threw herself into retellings of their childhood disasters and victories. Kelly and Clementine knew many, not all, of her secrets.
A few hours later, Clementine tucked Lucy into a cab and gave the driver Lucy’s address. At the first corner, Lucy leaned forward and said, “Wrong address,” and recited Niall’s instead.
Her friends made her believe she could choose the future she wanted. She giggled. Niall was gorgeous, all sexy beast and best friend. She’d become accustomed to his smell, to his presence, to him reaching for her in the night, to the simple intimacy of a cuddle and talking about her day and what was ahead. She wanted that tonight.
Tomorrow, when she was sober, she’d tell him the rest of her story.
She paid the cab and watched it drive away before wending—weaving—her way to Niall’s gate.
The sensor light on his veranda flashed on. She swung her head to face it. Bright enough so she raised a hand to protect her eyes.
“Hi, Lucy.”
“I had dinner with my girlfriends.” She hiccupped. “I told them you were sexy and smart, although I used more words.” She’d explain everything in the morning. Now, she wanted him to hold her in his arms.
* * *
“Looks like some party.” Niall scanned the street. “How’d you get here?”
“Cab.” She stumbled up the few steps. “Whoops.”
He extended a hand. The scent of her addled what few brains he had left. He disengaged himself. “I should take you home.”
“Wanna stay.” Her smile was naughty.
Earlier tonight, when he’d called to say he had something on, guilt had stung like a bite from a sand fly. It would have been wrong to hold on to her, when his skin was tight and his limbs heavy with a frustration he couldn’t shift. His life had been upended. He had the bare bones of a plan to move forward, but he needed time alone to shape it.
Lucy was solid and good. She wasn’t to blame for his mistakes, but for a fleeting second, he wished she hadn’t come. The loss of the exhibition was still too raw.
He hadn’t had time to parse the loss. He held tight to the joy of creation, of seeing people respond to his work, but making a living from his craft seemed to be drifting further and further from his reach.
Quinns pay their way. He didn’t want to be a feckin’ mendicant, smooching off McTavish goodwill. Without an independent income, he’d never be Lucy’s equal.
––––––––
Before dawn, Niallwoke to find her mouth on his cock and her hand cupping his balls.
“Lucy”—he placed his hand on her shoulder—“wait.” But he wasn’t sure she heard.
She was everywhere at once, desperate in her need to mate. She straddled him, rocking backward and forward. No gentle touch, just a madness to possess. The physical rush shot through him. His body was responding. Even as she tugged on a condom, he was pumping into her.
“Slow down,” he repeated his plea. Tension circled higher and higher. His body teetered on the edge, ready to explode. She tended him, touching the places he’d taught her brought him pleasure. She used every secret he’d given her in tender, endless loving to trigger a sharp, blinding orgasm.
“Has anyone ever told you you could make a living as a lover,” she purred and stretched, like a cat warmed by the sun, and the word “fuck buddy” came unbidden to his mind.
“No one important.” Until you. Niall lay on his back, covering his eyes with his forearm.
She’d told him she was comfortable with her body and sex. Lucy was uninhibited, attentive to his needs, but also taking her own pleasure from him. He wanted that. Praise the saints, he wanted her to feel in control, but her throwaway line cut deep, exposing insecurities he’d thought he’d left behind.
Stupid when he’d welcomed similar attentions from her at other times.
Last night, he decided to talk to Lucy about ways and means so he could stay in her life. This morning he faced reality. Once she’d got past her temporary cash flow problems, she’d still have McTavish’s money and a lifestyle alien to him. She’d work out soon enough he was a burden.
I’m a Class A eejit to think we might have anything lasting together?
If Cam hadn’t thrown them together, they’d never have met; their social circles didn’t overlap in any area.
Each day in her workshop, in her home, with her paying his way loaded him with more obligations, more debt. He’d already decided to leave the workshop. She’d be able to sell it immediately and have the financial security she needed to find her balance.
If he refused to be the foundation’s mentor, she could choose someone else, someone with a name, with their own studio.
Hell, he could give her a list of names.
They’d never promised forever. She’d never promised forever, while he’d given more of himself each time he touched her, until now he couldn’t conceive of a world without her.
Except they lived in different worlds.
“I need to get to work.” Niall rolled out of the bed.
“Me too.” She propped herself on her elbows, tousled, impossibly beautiful, and—if he was honest—out of his reach. Falling for her was the biggest mistake of his life. She gave a half-smile. “I’ll come and say goodbye before I leave.”
Niall let himself into the workshop. Frames were propped along one wall, waiting to be picked up. His last commission, because that’s the sum he and Liam had agreed. He hadn’t told Lucy he’d made his last frames either. Peter’s bruiser of a sideboard occupied prime position on the right-hand side of the workshop. He ignored it as well, moving to the kitchenette to make tea.
He opened the fridge. Lucy always cooked more than necessary, leaving him leftovers. She filled the fruit bowl before it was empty, topped up basics in his fridge like he was some bloody beggar. Niall figured this was what a fish felt like after it had been gutted. She’d increased her contributions since they’d started sleeping together, and her charity reinforced his sense of failure. The gallery owner whispered in his ears, “No reputable gallery owner will touch you.” Desperation kicked him in the balls.
Without conscious intent, he found himself standing in his storeroom.
He studied his hands, flexing and contracting them until his knuckles burned white. They’d let him down. His hands hadn’t worked quickly or cleverly enough to keep up with his dreams. He slammed one fist into his other palm before pushing to his feet. Feck, he was a bad-tempered bastard. And it was a bit bloody late to discover that he’d sabotaged his relationship with Lucy.
To meet as equals, he needed Lucy to witness his success.
By cancelling the exhibition, he’d lost that chance.
“I can’t do this anymore!” he roared. He needed the world to stop—needed time out to think. He texted Liam: I’m refusing the bequest.
Twenty minutes later, he heard pounding. When he opened the workshop door, he realised Lucy was gone. No goodbye. Probably for the best, given his mood.
“For the love of Mary and Joseph, what the hell are you doing?” Liam pulled him tightly against his chest.
“I can’t see any other way.” Niall rested his head on his brother’s shoulder.
“What can I do?” Liam asked.
“Make it happen fast.” Niall walked back to sit at the side table.
His brother swallowed a mouthful of tea. “This is stone, motherless cold. Don’t worry. I’ll make more. Tell me what you need me to do.”