Quinn, by design

CHAPTER FOUR

Put yourself in her position. Niall scowled at the timber stacked against one side of his storeroom a few days later. You’re getting a year rent free—obligation free—to make money at will. He tossed a piece of jarrah over his shoulder and headed back to his workbench.

For an intelligent woman, Lucy McTavish was blind. You could drive a pantechnicon through the inconsistencies in her position. She’d worked out he was making frames because he was in debt. Yet she saw no problem in asking him to work for her for free.

So why the hell did I agree?

He set the piece of wood on his workbench.

Because Cam had rated Lucy’s peace of mind above money, the business, the house he’d built to remind him of his Scottish origins, or any foundation that might preserve his name. Niall barely managed his own cash flow, so he couldn’t imagine what was involved with Cam’s empire. Except, Cam hadn’t intended his final bequest to Niall to tip Lucy into a panic about debt.

Saying no wasn’t an option.

A bit of work for her shouldn’t impact his plans.

The foundation, on the other hand, was both dare and gift to Niall. A dare to silence potential critics by delivering a successful exhibition, and an extra year rent free as a reward. Cam’s trust, even more than his generosity, made Niall want to accept the dare. The lure of a year able to focus on his work stopped his head and his heart. The idea of teaching appealed to him, and the crafty old man had teased that confession out of him in one of their many conversations.

A foundation? Niall chuckled.

People should remember Cameron McTavish. He was a great and good man. Cam hadn’t told Lucy about Niall’s exhibition, a secret Niall would keep. The show would be over before he needed to sign anything for the mentorship.

Niall ran his hand over the timber. A half-forgotten time ago, a friend had described a mirror he’d seen in an antiques shop. The frame was shaped like a musical note. It had cost a motza. Twenty-four hours later, when his friend had decided “to hang the expense,” the mirror had been sold. His friend had never seen anything like it again. Niall planned to use the smooth-grained, reddish-brown jarrah for a mirror with a frame like a misshapen treble clef tipped on its side.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Speak of the devil, although her voice didn’t conjure images of horns and a tail, but rather memories of a smart, attractive woman, who’d triggered a wish for her to stroke him with the same delight she stroked his creations. “Hello, Lucy.”

“What’s your decision?” Her phone manners needed work.

“You forgot to say ‘Hello, Niall, how are you?’ and whether your question is about the foundation or the auction.”

“Is that Candy Dulfer?” She could distinguish the wail of the alto-saxophone through the phone.

“You know Candy Dulfer?”

“Hello, Niall. How are you? You sound as astonished as the Thomas-Rhett-look-a-like music teacher at my music camp when he discovered I knew the Dutch musician.” She chuckled. “I studied her like a demon with the precocious hope the teacher would single me out for attention.”

“When was this camp?” If Lucy had been a minor, did Niall need to find the teacher and demand an apology?

“Shortly after I moved here. A Gran brainwave, marketed as building girls’ self-esteem without any psycho-babble. Gran was sneaky like that. The teacher introduced us to talented and successful female musicians as a way to teach us to believe in ourselves.”

“Did it work?” Niall hadn’t met Cam’s wife, but tough love fitted with Cam’s stories.

“I gained respect for the women, myself and the hot teacher. His eyes never strayed to places, and in ways that made me feel uncomfortable, unlike ...” She stumbled to a halt.

Niall heard her shallow breathing above the music, imagined her mouth pressed close to her phone. “Finish the thought, Liùsaidh.”

“I didn’t like some of Mum’s friends.” She offered the skimpiest, most uninformative confession he’d heard since his brother had danced around the story of their father’s death leaving debts large enough to threaten their mother’s home.

Niall was sickened by what she’d left unsaid. She’d been a child when she’d joined Cam’s household. “Do you play an instrument?”

“I used to sing in the shower.” She was giving him another piece of the puzzle. He’d always liked puzzles. “That fact’s not for general consumption,” she added. “And you haven’t answered my question.”

“There’s a park around the corner from the auction venue.” He made an instant decision. “Meet me there at ten-thirty.”

“Why am I meeting you at ten-thirty for an auction preview that starts at eleven?”

“Because you’re right.” Niall stared at the open rafters. Because he’d committed to giving her fourteen days of his time. His life would be easier if he helped her select the pieces for restoration. “We need to get to know each other better.”

“I said ‘See if we can work together.’”

“Same difference.” Niall paused, then asked his far-too-personal question. “What song do you sing for your granda?”

“There’s an Alter Bridge song. One line is on permanent rotation in my head—‘I feel you in the wind.’” Her voice dropped lower. “I hear Grandpa in a breeze, a zephyr, a gale. Even a puff of wind reminds me of his deep-bellied laugh.”

“Cam would like that.” Niall’s knees threatened to buckle. She’d captured the old man’s spirit in a few simple words. “I’ve looked at the papers on the foundation. My brother’s a lawyer. He’s looked at them too. I’ll help with the initial stages, help you select the first scholarship holder.”

“I can hear a but.”

“I’ve not done any formal teaching before. A few friends have asked for pointers or sent family members to me to get a feel for the trade.” Niall confessed one of his reservations. Fair exchange for her sharing her image of her granda. “A furniture maker with an established reputation would bring more cachet to Cam’s memory.”

The phone gave them the pretence of being anonymous, rather than intimate. He and Lucy barely knew each other. Niall sure as hell wouldn’t have asked about her singing in the shower or admitted his reservations about being a mentor if they’d been in the same room. But he’d just handed her some of his private misgivings.

“Grandpa chose you.”

Her tone told Niall that Cam’s vote counted, even if she thought it was a mad or bad idea. “Yeah.”

“See you at ten-thirty on Wednesday.”

The tickle of anticipation at spending time with her was new.

––––––––

Niall found her ona bench in the small suburban park, home to old fig trees and new children’s playgrounds. Her head rested against the hard, wooden slats, and her eyes were closed, making it impossible to miss the dark smudges under them. Sleep was still eluding her, which explained why she’d nodded off on a park bench.

Lowering himself to sit beside her, he listened to her shallow breathing, ready to fend off any passer-by who strayed too close and disturbed her. A perfect day for a picnic and a nap in the park; one of those halcyon late-winter days when the wind was soft and the heat in the air promised spring. A lone kookaburra nestled in a nearby paperbark tree startled him with its raucous laugh.

Opening her eyes, she turned her head in Niall’s direction. The caught-in-the-headlights look she’d worn when they’d first met was fading.

“Punctual as well as polite.” Niall met her dazed gaze. “I mean you, not the kookaburra. His timing’s off.”

“To be punctual is to be polite.” Her words carried the weight of a dictum she tried to live by.

“Was there ever a time when you weren’t?”

“I can remember being regularly late for primary school.”

“Just school?” Niall lifted the bag he’d been carrying, passed her a plastic food container, then lifted out a thermos, two insulated mugs and a small jar containing milk.

She pushed herself upright. “Everything.”

“Did you fret?” Niall poured a mug of tea and passed it to her. “Help yourself to milk. I have a theory people are born punctual or not. If you’re a punctual child, but the adults in your life aren’t, it can make you a bit edgy.” As a family, the Quinns were very punctual.

“I felt conspicuous.”

“Ah.” He took the food container from her, flipped the lid and wound back the foil packaging. “You don’t like to be the centre of attention.” He held the container under her nose. “Sniff.”

“I beg your”—she closed her eyes and sighed—“fruit and rum.”

“Kate may have overdone the rum. Although Mum subscribes to the view you can’t have too much rum in Christmas cakes.”

“It’s a bit early for Christmas.” She accepted a generous slice on a paper serviette, her rare smile rivalling the sun for warmth. “Who’s Kate?”

“My brother Liam’s wife. She’s pregnant. Thinks she might be too pregnant later in the year to make cakes, so is starting early. This is a test. She wants feedback.” Placing his slice between them, he poured his cup of tea and set the carry bag on the ground. “Moaning and hmming doesn’t count as feedback.”

“It’s delicious.”

He took a bite, savouring the rich flavour. “It’s pretty good, but I might encourage her to keep practising.”

“More than one slice and you probably shouldn’t drive.” She eyed the remaining crumbs. “It’s a shame to waste any.”

“I won’t tell a soul you used your napkin as a funnel.” He enjoyed her dilemma about the crumbs, like the smear of pickle and the sesame seeds on her plate. She wasted nothing. Most people he knew who shared her attitude had gone without at some stage in their lives.

“You’re encouraging bad habits.” But she followed his lead.

“You’re allowed to lick your fingers at picnics.”

She rolled her eyes and licked sticky fingers.

Lust hit with the suddenness of whiplash. “How old were you when you moved in with your grandparents?”

“Ten.”

He swallowed, taking the empty cup from her. “Both parents dead?”

“I’ve never met my father.” Her eyes held the bravado of a child who’d been mocked in the playground.

“You were christened McTavish?”

“Mum wouldn’t have entered a church if you’d paid her.” She outed her mother as the heathen daughter of Scottish Presbyterians.

“How did your mum die?” Niall tucked the items back in his bag, letting the ordinariness of his actions drain the question of any insult.

She crossed her arms over her chest, defensive but not hiding. “What makes you ask?”

“Cam never talked about how she died. He was very protective of you and your mum.” Niall had put it down to being an old-style gentleman. Given Cam’s silence on Niall’s real work, he wasn’t so sure anymore. Lucy had a feminised version of Cam’s wide, intelligent brow and determined chin, although her upturned nose was her own. Her skin was lovely, not flawless, but a warm cream. Niall’s fingers itched to explore whether it would feel as silky smooth as it looked. At the funeral, she’d looked fragile enough to break. Having a purpose was giving her new energy. He leaned forward, more vanilla and rose teased his senses.

Will I taste rum if I kiss her?

His brain told him kissing his landlord would be a mistake, though it wouldn’t be the first time in his life he’d made a mistake. “There was a kid at my primary school. His mum died young.”

“How did his mum die?” She stared straight ahead.

“An accidental drug overdose.” Niall sensed her tremble and understood Lucy’s mother hadn’t intended to die the night she did. “A stronger batch than she was used to.”

She turned and met Niall’s gaze, resignation in the set of her jaw. “Finish your story.”

“Billy was watchful, like you. When he thought no one was looking, he licked the plate. Like you’d like to.” He paused. “He was part of our after-school gang.”

“I know the rest of this story.” She left the words “like mine” unspoken, but the bitterness was as sharp as burnt coffee. “You don’t know where he is now, because you just lost track of him, or he lost track of you.”

“Billy’s an environmental activist on the north coast. Closer to Liam than me. Always was,” Niall replied matter-of-factly, wanting to make Billy Kelly’s past a non-issue. Because she’d just admitted her past had been an issue for people sitting in judgment. “Happily married. No kids, but Kate’s pregnancy has given Chrissy and Billy a hurry on.” Her shoulders dropped a fraction, a laying down of weapons. Niall continued. “The women beside you during the funeral ... are they school friends?”

“Friends? Yes. From school? No.” Subject closed. “Did you invite me here early just to feed me?”

“I invited you for a planning meeting.” Niall leaned back against the bench, mimicking her position, his legs stretched in front of him, crossed at the ankles, enjoying the moment. “Combining it with morning tea is in the nature of a time and motion exercise.”

“You don’t need to feed me every time we meet.”

Niall changed direction. “Want to know how Cam and I met?”

She leaned toward him, greedy for stories of Cam. She could ignore hunger but not the tiniest facts about her granda.

“At an auction. I can’t remember who suggested a coffee, but I found myself telling him about the frames and Leopold’s.” Niall had found himself explaining his plan to create unique frames for the upmarket art dealer as a short-term, money-making venture while he established his bespoke furniture business. “Cam invited himself to the workshop I rented at the time. Then he offered me his workshop.”

“The workshop with a warehouse and living quarters in a mid-city-ring industrial suburb.”

“We’ve already had that fight.” Niall ignored her raised eyebrow. She’d eaten, so mission accomplished, but her scepticism suggested he’d need a new trick the next time he wanted to feed her. “That was probably the last time we attended one together. We attended a few pre-auction openings together, when the online catalogue didn’t give me the information about frames I wanted. I only restored furniture he owned. Furniture he’d owned for a long time.” He let that sink in. “Buying with restoration in mind pits us against a different group of competitors. Prices rise and fall based on demand, including who’s generating the demand. You might want to handle this discreetly.”

“So we identify some stock, and I return to purchase alone.”

“If possible, we identify enough suitable stock to cover fourteen days, and you ask one of your lesser-known staff to return and purchase.” Niall lifted her hand and checked the time. Her skin was as silken as he’d imagined. The compulsion to turn her wrist over and rest his lips against the softer skin there was strong enough to blindside him. He was spending too long alone in his cave. “Time to move.”

“What role are you playing?” Her gaze assessed his tweed jacket and tie as he unwound and stood.

“Junior assistant, friend, confidant, whatever role we find we need me to play.” Niall gestured to his clothes. “I’m not here as a carpenter.”

“It’s an estate auction preview, not a celebrity party.” She shot to her feet and headed for the property, muttering over her shoulder, “No need to dress fancy.”

I’m attending with a McTavish, and antiques royalty has standards to maintain. “This is the fanciest I do.”

Niall let her sign in, standing back, playing the role of a not-very-interested companion. They were the first to arrive, as he’d planned, and the only viewers for the first fifteen minutes. He glanced into each of the three bedrooms, but the interest lay elsewhere—in the dining room, library and music room.

Despite the sophisticated marketing, he noticed signs the elderly owners had fallen on hard times in recent years, both financially and personally. Pieces hadn’t been repaired—burns from teapots or hot dishes not treated. He ignored the beautiful grandfather clock with its walnut casing in the library. The timepiece needed an expert clockmaker. While the harp in the music room needed someone with a musician’s skill. But he noted Lucy touched both as they passed. A gentle touch, a finger held a hairsbreadth from a surface. And she struggled to restrict herself to wooden furniture. Touch was her way of interpreting her world.

What would it feel like to have her hands on me? Niall swallowed a groan.

A few steps into the living room, she halted, her body stiffening. “Hello, Tomas.”

“Lucy.” Tomas stepped close enough to Lucy for Niall to visualise his over-powering cologne landing as sticky fingers on her shirt. When Tomas puckered thick lips and blew kisses in the direction of both her cheeks, Niall saw another transgression. Lucy was uncomfortable. “Sorry I couldn’t make Cameron’s funeral,” Tomas trilled. “He’s such a loss to the industry.”

“Darling”—Niall stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms loosely around her waist, pulling her rigid body back against his chest—“introduce me.”

“Tomas Bechet,” she said. “Bechet’s Fine Furniture, a colleague of my grandfather’s.”

“I’m Niall, a close friend of Lucy’s.” He exaggerated his Irish lilt, but her body remained stiff. “I asked her to show me how she spends her day.” He winked at Tomas and ignored the man’s proffered hand, instead reasserting possession by rocking Lucy gently from side to side, until her muscles softened. “Really to spend my day with her.”

“Nice to meet you.” Tomas’s smile died. “We can catch up another time, Lucy.”

Stepping away from the doorway, Niall drew her with him until his back was against the wall and her back against his chest. “Smile as if you’re having a wonderful time.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed.

“Sexual harassment is the legal term. Unforgivable to my mind. But, you’re upset, and I’m taking preventative action to confuse the half-dozen people in this room who are looking our way about whether we’re here for the auction or some nooky.” He nibbled at the spot where her neck and shoulder joined. The scent of rose was stronger here—old-fashioned, like a full-blown damask. Her skin was silkier, her shiver of reaction telling him she wasn’t immune to his touch.

“They won’t be confused if I toss you over my shoulder and sit on you,” she muttered, angling her elbow into his abdomen.

“I might enjoy that.”

“Whisht! We’re not having a personal relationship.”

“Whisht means you’re pretty pissed off, so I’ll apologise in any language you care to name. Later.” Niall planted a kiss beneath her ear, finding this stretch of skin velvet soft, the taste reminiscent of rose-flavoured Turkish delight. Hours wouldn’t be long enough to savour the taste of her. The temptation to nibble his way along her jaw to her pretty lips told him he was in serious trouble. “And we’ve got a personal relationship. We’ve had three meals together, and we’ve shared intimate details about our families and our cash flow.” He released her, and she pivoted on her heel.

“You know what I mean.” She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and tugged him close. She was hard to read; although he’d guess surprised rather than offended.

“You mean sex?” Niall forced himself to keep his hands at his sides because they’d just leapt over a metaphorical hedgerow at a full gallop, and he risked losing his balance. “Having and wanting are two separate things.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Keep that foot on the ground, Liùsaidh,” he crooned. “I’m fair fascinated at the people in your past if your first reaction to a friendly conversation is to knee me in the balls.”

“I’m not having sex with you,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Not yet, and not while I’m working all the hours in the day and then some.” Niall was tempted. It had been a long drought, and he and Lucy weren’t considering deep and meaningful, just a friendly frolic.

“I have some say in this.” She wasn’t afraid of him, whereas in Tomas’s company she’d been frozen.

“You control this.” Niall brushed his lips across hers, his reward for exorcising Tomas Bechet’s malign influence. “I’ll apologise again if you tell me why Mr. Over-cologned Bechet upset you?”

* * *

You control this.

The fight went out of Lucy. He meant that. There was nothing possessive or over-familiar or uncomfortable in his kiss or his touch.

Holy hell!

Those three words made him unlike any man she’d ever met. Sparring with him punched holes in the black fog of grief surrounding her. Which had to be the reason her body had exploded like a Roman Candle shooting stars in all directions at his touch. As if her hormones had heard the starting gun fired, and she’d won the race. The prize was Niall Quinn, cocked and loaded. She closed her eyes on a groan. Then opened them to find she hadn’t disgraced herself by leaping on him.

Judging from the calm patience in Niall’s expression, she hadn’t spoken her thoughts aloud either. Her heart hammered in her ribcage, her hands were clammy, and her wits had abandoned her.

“Lucy?” His lilt made her stomach do a double-back flip with pike.

Stop your dreamin’, her Mum used to say when she’d close her eyes seemingly for no reason, except to find a place where she was safe.

She recalled Niall’s question about Tomas. Had simple concern prompted his actions? She’d already discovered he was kind. For a second, she let herself rest against the warm bulwark of his body.

He paid attention to what wasn’t said, which was how he’d worked out how Lucy’s mum died. And lived. But he hadn’t sought to benefit from the knowledge. At school, she’d battered away sly innuendos about sleeping rough. Clementine and Kelly knew she’d had to hide from some of her mum’s visitors; they didn’t know it was Lucy’s job to wake her mum every morning. The three of them had shared a room and friendship at the care home. Lucy missed their regular catch-ups. Kelly was making lightning visits interstate for work, and Clem was busy falling in love—a surprise to them all.

“Lucy?”

“Tomas uses dubious lighting in his shop and dodgy provenance for his products. He thinks his irresistible charm allows him to charge preposterous prices.”

“He’s a businessman and an extortionist?” He slipped his fingers through hers and turned her back to face the room. “Let’s call the garda.”

“I doubt we’d find actual evidence. He’s too cagey for that, but we don’t like the way he does business.” Lucy stilled at hearing her use of “we.” There was no “we” anymore.

“We still talk about my da. Telling stories is a way to remember him, but also to deal with his passing. I’m sure that’s why wakes are so important.” He understood the ebb and flow of grief. That made him easy to be around, easier still to find attractive.

“Wakes began to stop people from selling the dead for body parts. Literally someone stayed awake to protect the grave from grave robbers.” Lucy cast him a sideways look. “I find those sorts of facts fascinating.”

“Will you be my partner the next time I play trivia?” He steered her across the room. “You still haven’t explained why Tomas makes you freeze. Another piece of trivia, fight, flight or freeze in the face of danger. Maybe I should have phrased my question differently. What about him frightens you?”

“‘Frightens?’” Lucy repeated, stopping.

“Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe he reminds you of someone.”

“No.” She recalled the man leaving her mum’s bedroom on the night her mother died. Larger than Tomas, but he’d worn the same scent or the base note was the same. Her heart raced as she made the connection. “His scent. I hadn’t realised. A friend of Mum’s.” Her free hand reached for her pearls.

“I’m sorry to remind you.” He leaned closer, a shield from prying eyes. A hint of his sandalwood scent wrapped around her. This time Lucy welcomed the reassurance.

“Poor Tomas. I’ve maligned him for no good reason.”

“I like this washstand.” He seemed content to forget Tomas. “I bet you’ve got a wash basin and a jug to fit the space and the period. Cam had some sheets of marble from the right period to replace the benchtop.”

Lucy followed his lead. “Sounds like the McTavish’s are doing all the heavy lifting if I buy this piece.”

“Ah, but I thought of it.” He winked, drawing her into a conspiracy of two. “And you’ve already spotted the mismatched leg. That, plus a few cosmetic repairs you might miss, are my contribution. Keep walking.” He nudged her hip.

“You could just ask me to move along,” Lucy mumbled.

He grinned, and the lines that dug around his eyes revealed genuine humour but also fatigue. Why would he be tired? She’d assumed selling frames was fixing his cash flow problem. Making them wasn’t a physically demanding job, and yet something was keeping him awake at night.

“I’m keeping up the pretence we’re interested in each other more than the items for sale.” But he was scanning this room with the same intensity he’d scanned the previous rooms they’d passed through. “Ten o’clock, what do you think of the sideboard?”

“Marquetry Demilune 1890s in the style of George III.” Lucy sucked in a breath. “It’s gorgeous. Damaged but lovely.”

“Depends on the price, but that’s possible.”

“You have a good eye,” Lucy admitted, giving serious consideration to his situation for the first time. He must be selling the frames for a motza, whereas restoring furniture took longer and wasn’t as lucrative. But the bowl he’d given her was stunning. The photos and testimonials on his website confirmed his skill. Maybe he’d decided it took too long to get rich making bespoke furniture?

Whisht, Lucy, getting rich is a long way away from clearing debts. Hard-headed when he needed to be? She could respect his decision and lament the absence of new pieces on his website.

“Stuffs up your assumption I have no finesse or class.” He nodded in the direction of the sideboard. “The wood is beautiful. Mahogany inlaid with satinwood. Don’t know the maker, but it’s special enough to have a mark.”

“Is that the sort of thing you discussed with Grandpa?” Lucy cursed another part of her mother’s legacy. Assuming every man she met acted out of self-interest was a lonely endowment.

“Cam knew if something was worth fixing, even if he didn’t always have the skill to do it.” He steered them around a large table, giving them a different angle on the sideboard.

“Like the three pieces you restored for him.” Henry’s words popped into Lucy’s head—Cameron stopped requesting.

“Cam loved them. They sat in his shed for years, but he couldn’t bear to let them go. He nearly talked my ear off while I worked on them.” He turned her to face him. “Time to look at me again as if you’re besotted.”

“Can Monday be the day you give to me?” The beginnings of a plan energised Lucy. She could get a glimpse of what Niall and her grandpa had shared. Maybe even discover why Grandpa had kept Niall Quinn and the foundation a secret from her.

“Why?” he asked, although he must have already guessed.

“The shop’s closed on Mondays, and I can visit.”

“And that’s a good thing because ...?” He ran a finger down her nose, as if they were lovers planning a tryst.

Lucy heard the patience in his question. Kind and patient, and she pushed aside her reservations at taking advantage of his decency, of demanding more work for a debt already paid. Her first loyalty had to be the continued survival of the family business. “Because you can tell me what you’re doing, so I can learn to recognise opportunities without you.”

“Recognising opportunities without me has some appeal.” He tugged on her earlobe, a friendly touch, which shouldn’t make her pulse race. Clearly, he’d be happy if he never had to visit an auction house with her again.

“You can tell me what Grandpa would say.” Lucy angled her chin higher to prove she was unaffected. “You can tell me what he told you.”

“He told me he loved you.” He brushed the back of his hand down her cheek, and Lucy shivered. He’d raised the stakes, flipped the mood to intimate.

“Men don’t sit around talking about stuff like that,” she replied, while his warm fingers did their own sweet-talking. The hands that had crafted her rosewood bowl made magic.

“It’s in the tone”—his smile stalled the breath in her throat—“in the selection of stories, the small smiles, and the loud laughs, and the frequency with which Cam returned to the topic.”

Niall Quin was dangerous. With his insights, with his perception, with his big, gorgeous body she wanted to play with—briefly, just to see what he offered, because entanglement wasn’t a safe option for her.