Читать книгу A Convenient Proposal - HELEN BROOKS, Helen Brooks - Страница 7

WHEN Candy awoke the next morning it was to a hushed, silent world that was all ethereal whiteness and silver skies. And it was beautiful. It was so, so beautiful.

She stood at the bedroom window as wonder touched her soul and her fingers itched for her canvas and paints for the first time in months. Over a year, in fact.

She skipped her usual morning shower, padding downstairs and finding the suitcase that contained leggings and a thick jumper before hoisting her hair into a high ponytail on top of her head. She didn’t even bother to wash her face.

After a hasty breakfast of toast and coffee she unzipped the case holding her paints and other equipment—ignoring the rest piled in one corner where Quinn had left them, which were demanding attention—and after reorganising the layout of the sitting room to give her maximum light she set to work on the images that had burnt themselves on her mind first thing that morning.

At four o’clock, as the light began to fade rapidly, she emerged from the frenzy which had gripped her all day and realized the cottage was freezing and she was starving hungry.

Once the fire was blazing she cooked herself the rest of the steak and finished off the bottle of wine before selecting a book from Essie’s bookcase and curling up on the sofa until ten o’clock. A hot bath, a mug of cocoa and she was in bed at half past and dead to the world a minute later.

It was another five days before empty cupboards drove her out to get supplies, but at least she had phoned Essie and Xavier and unpacked by then. And she had the makings of a terrific picture too, she told herself, as she persuaded the reluctant Fiesta up the snow-packed lane and out on to the main road towards the town a few miles away.

She had to pass Quinn’s veterinary practice on the way into town but she didn’t glance at it, not even for a moment.

He hadn’t phoned.

And that was fine, perfect, wonderful. Sure it was. It meant he had listened to what she had said and received the message loud and clear. And she wasn’t going to acknowledge the little voice at the back of her mind that kept nagging as to the reason for the bitterness evident in his voice and face either. His past was his own affair, as was hers.

Had Essie told Quinn anything about her? It was another thought which had been popping up fairly frequently over the last five days.

She hoped not. Not that she had anything to be ashamed of, she told herself militantly; it was just her business, that was all. Her grandmother being the town’s tramp, which had caused her mother, Natalie, to be raped by one of her grandmother’s unsavoury ‘friends’ when her mother had been a child of fourteen wasn’t exactly the normal family background people expected. Her poor mother… She thought of the photograph Xavier had given her when she was a young girl which was all she had to remind her she had ever had a mother.

Her mother had died giving birth to her. She had found that very hard to come to terms with, in spite of Xavier’s gentleness and tenderness when he had told her. And Natalie had been just fifteen years old. Although the tragedy had jolted her grandmother out of her life of dissipation until she died, eight years later, the damage had been done, but Xavier had fought their reputation every inch of the way.

Of course, once he had made his first million nothing had ever been said openly any more. Candy’s soft mouth twisted cynically. But in her home town there had still been men who knew the family history and thought they were on to a good thing with her. Not that she had ever told Xavier; he would have knocked them into next week. He had virtually brought her up and she was to all intents and purposes a daughter in her uncle’s eyes.

Her background was one of the reasons why she had thought Harper was so wonderful; he had respected her, he had treated her as though she was a piece of precious Meissen porcelain.

She forced her mind away from Harper. How could she have been so naive, so trusting, so utterly pathetic and dumb? No, it didn’t matter now. She breathed deeply, willing the sick feeling that always accompanied his name to die. Harper was gone, killed in a mass of twisted metal that had borne no resemblance to the car it had been once it had finished rolling down the mountainside.

She was now on the borders of the small Sussex town, and on entering the main street a minute or two later she spied a parking slot to one side of the ancient cobbled marketplace and took it quickly, before she lost the chance.

It was a tight squeeze between a large four-by-four on one side and a badly parked BMW on the other, which was probably why it was still vacant when everywhere else was packed. However, Xavier had taught her to drive in the acres of ground surrounding his lovely home in Vancouver when she’d barely been out of pigtails, and he had coached her so well she could virtually park on a postage stamp.

Manoeuvring completed, she cut the engine, carefully wriggled out of the door and turned to look about her—straight into a pair of dark approving black eyes.

‘Very nice.’ Quinn indicated the Fiesta with a wave of his hand as he grinned at her. ‘Do all Canadian women drive like you?’

Candy had frozen. He was standing inches from her and he was even bigger and darker than she remembered, and undeniably drop-dead gorgeous, from the top of his raven head to the soles of his muddy boots. And he was muddy. Filthy, in fact.

‘Hallo, Quinn.’ It was late, but better than nothing.

‘Hallo, Candy.’ It was very serious, but his eyes were smiling. And then, as a number of dogs in the big four-by-four began to bark and yap at the sound of his voice, he shouted, ‘Quiet, the lot of you,’ and it worked like magic.

‘This is yours?’ Candy asked in surprise.

‘My working vehicle,’ he said easily. ‘The farmers would think I’d lost it if I turned up in the Aston Martin.’

‘Yes, yes, I suppose they would.’ Keep talking, act naturally, forget the fact you aren’t wearing any make-up and your hair needs washing. ‘And the dogs…?’

‘All mine.’ There was a warmth in his voice as he glanced at the furry heads and bright eyes staring interestedly out of the back of the big vehicle. ‘I’ve had them about eight months now, five in all.’

‘Five?’ she queried brightly, ignoring her pounding heart.

‘Bit of story attached to them, I guess. There used to be an old lady in the town who had a little sanctuary for strays, and when she died unexpectedly these five were the ones who weren’t taken when we appealed for owners for the inmates. So…’

‘You took them when time ran out?’ Candy said quietly. She didn’t like the story, or, more to the point, she didn’t like what it did to her. She didn’t want to think of Quinn as the sort of man who would care for the vulnerable and helpless. She didn’t want to think of Quinn at all!

He shrugged. ‘I was ready for some company, that’s all, and they’re a good bunch on the whole, although the little Jack Russell throws his weight about a bit.’

She stared at him. He was playing it down but he loved those dogs; she could see it in his face and hear it in his voice. Candy’s own voice was remote and somewhat toneless when she said, ‘Well, I must be going. Nice to see you again.’

‘Likewise.’ His voice was cool now, and outdid hers in tonelessness.

She nodded at him, furious with herself that he made her want to take to her heels and run like the wind on the one hand and on the other… She wanted to remain here, talking to him like this and finding out more and more about him for the rest of the day. Which was plain stupid. Worse, downright dangerous. He was too good-looking, too charismatic, too…everything to mess with. Just like Harper.

She was conscious of his eyes on the back of her neck as she walked towards the first of the row of shops at the side of the marketplace, but she didn’t look back, and when she came out of the greengrocer’s some five minutes later the four-by-four was gone and in its place was an inoffensive little Mini.

The sky suddenly seemed greyer, and she was conscious of the icy wind cutting through her ski-jacket as she stood staring over the marketplace. And then she turned, very sharply, as though she was throwing something off, and made for the next shop, her shoulders straight and her head high.

It snowed again that night, and by morning the wind was working up to a blizzard, but inside the cottage all was warm and snug. Candy had learnt to bank down the fire each night to keep the downstairs of the cottage warm for morning, and when she first rose emptied the previous day’s ashes into the big tin bucket she had found hidden under the sink before she poked the fire into a blaze again and put fresh coal and logs on the burgeoning flames.

By mid-afternoon the coal scuttle was empty and the last of the logs was on the fire; it was time to visit the potting shed once more.

Candy pulled on her boots and bright warm ski-jacket and trudged round to the back of the cottage with her head down against the wind, which was driving the snow before it in fierce gusts, and after the routine fight with the aged door of the potting shed she had stepped into the relative sanctuary of its dank dryness.

After filling the coal scuttle and lugging it back to the cottage she returned with the sack for the wood, but it was as she reached for the first log that she heard it. The faintest cry, almost a squeak. Mice? Rats? She froze, her heart thudding. Mice she could tolerate, but rats? Their teeth were a little too large and sharp for comfort. Still, if she didn’t bother them they probably wouldn’t bother her.

She was actually bending to reach for the log again when the sound came once more. It wasn’t a squeak, she told herself silently. It was a miaow, a faint mew. There must be a cat in here, but how had it got in and when, and where was it from? She tried, ‘Puss, puss, puss,’ but to no avail.

Was it hurt or just sheltering from the cold? After some five minutes, when she was getting more and more chilled, she was just on the point of leaving to fetch a saucer of warm milk when a third mew brought her on all fours to peer along the back of the potting shed behind the six-foot pile of stacked logs. And then she saw them. It looked as though there was the smallest hole in one corner, where a couple of bricks had crumbled away, but it had been enough for the mother cat to creep in to give birth to her kittens. And they were tiny, minute, they couldn’t be more than a few days old at most, and the she-cat wasn’t moving.

Don’t let it be dead. Oh, please, don’t let it be dead. Candy stared in horror at the pathetic little scene and then, as one of the three kittens squirmed a little and made the mewing sound again, she looked at the great pile of wood apprehensively. If she attempted to move it, it might fall on the little family and squash them, but she couldn’t just leave them here to die either.

How long had it been since the mother cat had had food or water? It could be hours or days; she had no way of knowing.

Quinn. He was a vet. He would know what to do. She was halfway back to the cottage in the next breath, and once inside she opened the cupboard and looked for his number. She knew it was there; she had looked for it on her first morning in England whilst assuring herself she would never, ever use it. It was halfway down the list of emergency numbers—‘Quinn Ellington, Veterinary Surgeon.’

She dialled the number with shaking hands, finding she was more upset than she had realised. But there was something so pitiable about the mother cat’s valiant attempt to find shelter and safety for her kittens and the way she was lying curled round the minute little scraps to keep them warm.

It was Marion who answered the telephone, and Candy cut through all the social niceties when she said urgently, ‘This is Candy, Xavier’s niece. I have to speak to Quinn; it’s an emergency.’

‘Candy?’ When she heard Quinn’s deep voice after a brief pause she found, ridiculously, that she had to fight for control against the tears welling up in her throat.

‘Oh, Quinn. There’s a cat in my potting shed and it’s not moving and I can’t reach it and it’s had kittens—’

‘Whoa, whoa.’ The interruption was firm but gentle. ‘Slowly, nice and slowly. Start at the beginning.’

And so she did, and after she had related it all there was another brief pause before he said, ‘It sounds like time is of the essence, so I’d better not wait until evening surgery is finished. Jamie and Bob will have to split my patients between them; it can’t be helped. It’ll take me a few minutes to fill them in on a couple of the more complicated cases and then I’ll get going. I’ll be with you in ten…fifteen minutes. All right?’

‘The…the lane is full of snow. I don’t know if you’ll be able to—’

‘No problem,’ he interrupted her abruptly, but she didn’t mind. ‘The four-by-four will take care of it. Goodbye for now.’ And the phone went dead.

For the next fifteen minutes Candy darted between the front gate and the potting shed some three or four times, but the female cat hadn’t moved or opened its eyes, and by the time Quinn’s Landrover Discovery eased its way into the pull in she was convinced it was dead.

She all but leapt on Quinn at the garden gate, actually taking his sleeve and hurrying him along the path until his quizzical gaze made her realise what she was doing.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She dropped her hand from his jacket as though it was red-hot, flushing hotly. But she had never been so pleased to see anyone in her life.

Quinn’s big body seemed to fill the potting shed, and after he had squatted down on his heels and peered behind the assembled logs his face became grim. ‘We’ve got to get them out of here, but you’re right; it’s too risky to try and move this lot unless we absolutely have to. If I can get round the back of the shed I might just be able to reach in the hole where she came in and pull them out one by one that way.’

Candy stared at him doubtfully. The potting shed was in a nice sheltered position, tucked away behind the cottage, but it was completely surrounded on three sides by bushes and vegetation. Whatever way you looked at this it seemed like mission impossible. ‘You’d never manage it,’ she said mournfully. ‘It’s not possible.’

He turned from his contemplation of the cat and kittens and then rose to his feet. ‘Those last three words are not in my vocabulary,’ he said shortly, ‘and I’m surprised they’re in yours.’

Candy was stung. ‘What does that mean?’

‘You’re a gutsy lady, and gutsy ladies don’t give up before they’ve even started.’

Gutsy? What did that mean? What had Essie told him? Candy didn’t stop to think before she voiced her thoughts, and none too gently. ‘What do you know about me?’ she asked sharply. ‘What has Essie said?’

‘Essie?’ Quinn looked genuinely surprised. ‘Essie hasn’t said anything beyond the fact that you wanted a break for a few months? Why, what should she have said?’

‘Nothing.’ In spite of the zero temperatures outside Candy was hot now. Her and her big mouth. But it was him—he seemed to bring out the worst in her.

Quinn continued to hold her wary gaze for a moment more before he said, his voice even, but with an edge that spoke of irritation, ‘I merely meant that to take the decision to uproot yourself and come to pastures new after the sort of accident you’ve been recovering from took some guts. Okay? Nothing more, nothing less. If you’ve a whole host of skeletons in your particular cupboard I couldn’t care less, Candy.’

Well, that put her in her place, didn’t it?

‘But what I do care about is trying to get this cat and her kittens in a position where I can make an examination, and as quickly as possible. Clear?’

‘Perfectly.’ She glared at him.

‘Right. Now, I’m going to go round the back and see what I can do and I want you to remain here and keep an eye on them. If you see my hand come through give a yell and we’ll go from there, with you directing me. Do you understand?’

‘Of course I understand,’ she shot back tightly. ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘No one said you were, Candy.’ He was employing the same tone with her as he would with a difficult animal, she just knew it, and she couldn’t remember when something had rankled more. Impossible man! Impossible, insufferable, annoying…

She stood to one side as he made to pass her, and then when he paused in front of her she raised her gaze to his face. He was close, very close. There was barely room for one let alone two in the potting shed, and Quinn was a big man.

He was studying her with an air of quizzical amusement that turned his face into hard angles and planes and made him twice as attractive. She felt her heart give one mighty flip and despised herself for it, but his flagrant masculinity was something that her hormones just didn’t seem able to ignore. In fact she doubted if any female would be able to ignore Quinn Ellington.

‘What?’ she asked aggressively.

‘I should have known when I saw that wonderful hair that you’d be a fireball,’ he said musingly.

Wonderful hair? He thought she had wonderful hair? She found she couldn’t dwell on that, with him so close and those devastating thickly lashed eyes looking into hers. ‘I’m not,’ she said weakly. ‘Not really. It’s just that…’

‘What?’ He folded his arms over his chest and her senses screamed.

‘You always seem to press the wrong button,’ she managed fairly stiffly.

‘Is that so?’ He didn’t seem too put out by the accusation as his dark glittering gaze moved over her upturned face and rich red hair, in which the melted snow hung in small crystal droplets, and his words were added confirmation of this. He smiled slowly before opening the door and stepping outside, throwing over his shoulder, ‘It’s better than not hitting any buttons at all.’

Arrogant swine. She stood staring at the empty doorway for a moment or two as she heard him making his way round to the back of the potting shed, and then, remembering his instructions, she knelt down and peered along the grimy, dusty floor.

There was a great deal of muttered cursing in the next few minutes, along with scrabbling and the sound of breaking twigs and branches, but eventually Candy saw a large hand inch cautiously into the small hole. ‘You’re there! I can see your fingers,’ she called quickly.

‘Right. Before I do anything else bring that sack round you were going to use for the logs,’ came the muffled response. ‘And the light’s failing fast. Have you got a torch?’

‘There is one, but I’ve been meaning to replace the batteries…’

‘Great.’ It was caustic. ‘Then you’ll have to go to the car and get mine; the door’s not locked. It’s in the back somewhere; you’ll need it to keep an eye on things from inside.’

By the time Candy scrambled round to the back of the shed with the torch and the sack it was nearly dark and the snow was falling in ever-increasing gusts. She saw the reason for Quinn’s ill-humour when she reached him, or what she could see of him, because only the backs of his legs were visible. He was lying under a vicious hawthorn bush which had been allowed to take over that part of the garden along with some other shrubs and thicket.

‘Are you all right?’ she proffered tentatively as she pushed the sack forwards.

There was a meaningful pause before, ‘I’m not going to even answer that. This damn bush has ripped me apart.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

It shouldn’t be funny, and it wasn’t, not really, but she couldn’t help thinking that the man who had sailed out of the potting shed was slightly different from the one stuck under the hawthorn.

Once she was back in place in the potting shed and shining the torch along the floor she directed operations quite successfully.

Quinn was grunting and groaning, but he managed to get the three tiny kittens out fairly easily; it was the mother cat who proved a problem. She had stirred slightly when Quinn extricated her babies, but when he tried to ease her out by her back legs she suddenly found a burst of strength and dug her claws into the side of a log. There followed a careful tug of war before she seemed to fall comatose again, and then, with a little delicate manoeuvring, she followed her kittens.

Candy raced round to the back of the shed, shining the torch on Quinn’s legs as he slowly, very slowly, edged backwards with the sack half cradled under his arms. The hawthorn bush didn’t want to let go of its prize gracefully and there were more growls of pain and irritation before he was finally sitting upright with the sack in front of him.

‘Oh, Quinn.’ She was mortified at the sight of him. His face and his hands were ripped and bleeding and the back of his jacket, which had taken the brunt of the hawthorn’s unrelenting attack, was in shreds. ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

‘What?’ And then, as he realised what she had meant, ‘Don’t worry about a couple of scratches; let’s get this little lot inside and see what’s what. I put my case down in the potting shed; bring it in, would you?’

Once in the warm cottage, Quinn carefully put the rough sack down on the thick rug in front of the blazing fire and they gently opened it up to reveal the sorry little quartet.

Now, in the bright light, they could see the female cat was a pretty little tortoiseshell, but just skin and bones, and the only time she lifted her head to see what was going on was when Quinn removed the kittens one by one to examine them and they mewed a plaintive protest at being taken from the smell and warmth of their mother.

‘They’re only a few days old; their eyes aren’t open yet,’ Quinn muttered as he placed each of the tiny felines into the cardboard box Candy had brought her groceries home in. ‘But they all seem pretty healthy, although they’re alive with fleas. Let’s have a look at Mum.’

Candy sat back on her heels and watched Quinn as his big hands moved tenderly over the pathetic creature, his brow wrinkled as his battle-scarred bloody fingers carefully probed and prodded. The cat made no objection to his inspection, indeed it hardly seemed aware of its surroundings, apart from the several glances at the box where the kittens were still verbally making their displeasure known.

‘Well, it isn’t feline enteritis.’

His voice brought her back from her rapt contemplation of his big shoulders and broad chest under the black denim shirt he was wearing—his tattered coat having been discarded before he began his examination of the patients—and she had to blink rapidly before she could say, ‘Is feline enteritis bad?’ She had never really come into contact with many animals and didn’t have a clue as to their ailments.

‘The worst.’ Dark, glittering eyes looked up and into hers for a moment. ‘Even today, with the full range of modern antibiotics, we can do little to fight it once it’s got a hold, and if this cat is feral she could have well been suffering from it. As it is…’ He paused, then, leaning back from the limp animal, said, ‘She seems too docile to be feral. Of course she’s exhausted and starving and very young, little more than a kitten herself, but I’ve known feral cats who would fight with their last breath. It could be the confinement was hard for her and she was virtually starving before she gave birth, and once the kittens were born and she was feeding any nourishment would go to her milk, making her even weaker. I’ve got a feeling—’

He stopped abruptly, and Candy said, ‘What? What is it?’

He continued somewhat reluctantly, ‘I’ve got an idea she might have been a domestic pet who got thrown out when the owners realised she was going to have kittens.’

‘Oh, no, surely not?’ Candy was horrified. ‘People wouldn’t be so cruel.’

‘You would be surprised.’ It was very grim. ‘And, like I said, she really is very young.’

‘She’s not going to die?’ Candy asked urgently.

‘Not if I can help it.’ His eyes were narrowed as he glanced down at the supine animal. ‘No, not if I can help it.’

All his interest and energy was centred on the cat and her kittens, so how come she was vitally conscious of every movement, every muscle, every expression of his? Candy asked herself desperately. She didn’t want to be; in fact if she never felt a spark of interest for any man ever again it would suit her down to the ground, so how come Quinn Ellington had got under her skin as he had? Mind you, she had read somewhere ages ago that women were naturally drawn to doctors and consultants and veterinaries—men who were powerful in their own field, strong, decisive, but with the compassionate, protective side their vocations demanded—so it was probably just that. And with his striking good looks and physical build… Yes, it was that—it wasn’t Quinn as a man, a person.

‘…help me?’

‘Sorry?’ She flushed hotly as she realised Quinn had been speaking and she hadn’t heard a word.

‘I said I’m going to give her a couple of injections and then try getting some food down her. Normally I’d sedate her slightly and put her straight on a drip, but it might make her anxious and it’ll be difficult with the kittens. Once I’m satisfied she can travel I’ll take her back to the surgery and leave you in peace.’

‘Oh, no, no.’ And, at his raised eyebrows, ‘I mean, I can look after her here. If you think it’s possible, of course.’

‘I’m not sure. It depends how she responds in the next hour or so,’ Quinn said quietly. ‘And even if she responds well a cat and kittens is quite a commitment on time and energy. I don’t like to see kittens leave Mum until they are about eight weeks old, so you’re talking a couple of months of hard work, and then there’s the task of finding them all homes—including the female.’

‘I know, I know.’ She hadn’t, but somehow it was suddenly terribly important that she take care of the little family and help them. She couldn’t have explained it, even to herself, but she needed to do it. To bring good out of a bad situation. And added to that she had to admit that this solitude wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

She didn’t want human companionship—definitely not, she told herself vehemently—but animals were different.

The cat took no notice when the needle went in, and soon she was ensconced with the kittens in Essie’s oval wicker washing basket on top of Quinn’s big thick quilted coat—‘It’s only an old one I use for work, so they might as well have it,’ he’d offered. Quinn made up some of the highly nutritious cat food for feeding mothers and special powdered milk for kittens which he’d had the foresight to bring with him, and managed to get a few spoonfuls of food down her.

Candy fed the kittens, one by one, with the small feeding bottle Quinn had brought, and she had never enjoyed herself so much in all her life. Their tiny, ravishingly beautiful faces and tightly shut eyes were enthralling, and the way they slurped at the bottle was indicative of how hungry they were.

‘I think you found them just in time.’ Quinn had moved from the other side of the blanket to sit beside her on the rug as she fed the last of the three, his body inclined towards her—which forced Candy to acknowledge her own awareness of him.

She continued to concentrate very hard on the tiny mite in her hands, but he was bent close enough for her to scent his male warmth and it was difficult. Much more difficult than she would have liked.

‘They’re so sweet.’ She had to swallow twice before she could speak, and he obviously noticed and jumped to the conclusion that she was anxious about the cat and her kittens, which she was, she was, she reiterated silently, but that wasn’t why she was dry-mouthed and trembly.

‘It’s easy to say, but try not to worry and think the worst.’ The kitten she was holding had had its fill and he gently took it from her, placing it with the others before turning to her again. ‘It’s so far, so good,’ he said quietly, ‘okay? And for all Mum’s fragility it looks like she’s not going to give in, probably because of those little tykes.’

They both looked down at the three tiny kittens, who had squirmed into position and were lying snuggled against their mother.

‘Mum’s been fed, babies have been fed, and that’s all we can do at the moment, but I’ll try her with a little more food in half an hour or so. At least with the kittens feeding as they have it means the pressure is off her at the moment, although these dry preparations can’t compete with Mum’s milk, of course.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ She suddenly felt as gauche and inadequate as a schoolgirl. The roaring fire, the sleeping family in the wicker basket, the howling of the wind outside and the warmth and cosiness of Essie’s little haven—it was too intimate. Far, far too intimate.

Candy rose with an abruptness that startled them both, and because she couldn’t think of anything else to say she found herself babbling, ‘You must be longing for a drink after all your hard work? What would you like? There’s tea or coffee or chocolate, or maybe you’d prefer a glass of wine?’

‘A glass of wine would be great,’ Quinn said gravely, as though girls reacted to him like cats on a hot tin roof every day. ‘As long as you’re having one too?’

Oh, yes, she was having one, Candy thought somewhat feverishly. If ever she needed a glass of wine it was right now.

Quinn opened the wine, after she had managed to break the cork in the bottle, and he did it expertly, of course, Candy thought resentfully, as she fetched two large crystal glasses out of the cupboard. But then he would do everything expertly; he was that sort of a man. A continuation along that line was beyond her—he was too close, too big, too male to let her imagination have free rein.

‘Thank you.’ She took the glass of deep, rich red liquid with a tight little smile as she eyed him warily. He was still smeared with blood, and some of those scratches looked nasty; she couldn’t let him just slowly fester, could she? ‘Look, you need a bath to clean those scratches. Why don’t you take your wine up with you while I keep an eye on the invalids?’ she said as brightly as she could manage. ‘You’ll see the clean towels on the shelf at the side of the washbasin.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’

His surprise was a reproach. He didn’t think she was that mean, did he? Candy asked herself silently. She had called him out just before his evening surgery and then forced him to battle with a foe that was all teeth and claws, and she was talking about the hawthorn bush, here, not the felines! She could hardly deny him a bath, especially when he seemed agreeable to hanging about and seeing if the cat could recover enough to stay here rather than being carted off to the clinical surroundings of the veterinary practice.

‘Of course.’ Her tone was airy, as though she offered hundreds of men the same privilege.

‘Thank you.’ His voice was soft and low and kind of smoky, and it made Candy shiver. And regret the offer. Quinn Ellington naked in her bathroom… What was she doing playing with fire?

He was downstairs again in twenty minutes, barefoot, his black hair still damp and his denim shirt open at the neck and showing a smidgen of soft, silky body hair. He was one sexy customer. She busied herself with the cat food and only turned at the last moment to say, ‘Do you think she might eat it herself this time? She had a drop of milk while you were upstairs.’

‘Did she? That’s good, very good.’ He was all professionalism as he squatted on his heels at the side of the basket, and Candy berated herself for her carnal thoughts. But his black jeans were blatantly tight across the hips, she comforted herself in the next moment, and she couldn’t help having eyes, could she?

The cat roused herself enough to take an interest in the food Candy offered this time, managing half a saucer before she sank back into the folds of Quinn’s coat, the kittens squeaking and mewing at the movement.

‘I think we’re winning.’

You might be, but I’m beginning to wonder, Candy thought ruefully, as Quinn slanted a satisfied smile at her. There were good-looking men and there were sexy men, and then there was Quinn Ellington.

‘Mind if I take a look?’ He had risen to his feet and sauntered over to her easel, standing under the window. As was normal when she’d finished for the day she had thrown a cover over the painting, and now Candy hesitated before shrugging slowly.

‘I won’t if you’d rather I didn’t.’ His hand had stayed on the cover and he sounded quite unperturbed. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to make some excuse, but somehow, and she didn’t know why, Candy found herself saying, ‘I don’t mind, but don’t expect Rembrandt.’

‘I rarely expect anything from anyone,’ Quinn said dryly.

‘Oh.’ She didn’t know quite how to take that, but there had been a darkness in the words that hadn’t been there in their earlier conversation.

She joined him at the easel, removing the cover herself and watching his face as she did so. As Quinn let his narrowed eyes wander over the painting she could read nothing in his dark countenance to suggest what he was thinking. And then he said, his eyes still on the silver crystal-bright scene, ‘This is quite exquisite, Candy. Outstanding, in fact. I had no idea…’

She blushed bright pink; she couldn’t help it. The admiration and respect were so genuine she couldn’t doubt he meant every word. ‘Thank you.’

‘If this is indicative of your work you are going to be a force to be reckoned with in the art world,’ he continued quietly, still examining the picture before turning the ebony gaze on her flushed face and adding, ‘Has your agent confirmed about the exhibition in London yet?’

She hadn’t expected him to remember, and now her cheeks matched her poppy-red cashmere jumper. ‘Not yet, but he seems to think it might happen in late spring.’

Quinn nodded slowly. ‘So, something to aim for?’

It was a question, not a statement, and she stared at him for some moments. He saw too much, this man. ‘Yes.’ It was short and cryptic.

‘That wasn’t a criticism, Candy. Everyone has to have something to aim for. There was a time in my life when my career became my salvation.’ He had felt her tension slam the door shut, although he didn’t betray it, his tone easy and casual.

‘And now?’

‘Now?’ Quinn looked down at his bare feet for a moment, considering his answer as he raked back that errant lock of hair from his forehead.

He still hadn’t had a haircut, Candy thought, but he was one of the few men she had come across who could wear his hair over-long and look even more masculine if anything.

‘Now it’s my life,’ he said simply, raising his eyes to take hers, ‘and I like it that way.’

What was he saying exactly? Candy stared at him, conscious of the fact that she couldn’t very well ask him the sort of leading personal questions she would like to when she wouldn’t afford Quinn the same privilege. He obviously wasn’t going to say any more and so she nodded dismissively, her voice flat as she said, ‘That’s exactly how I feel; my career is my life. I want to succeed and that takes dedication and effort.’

‘It appears we’re kindred spirits,’ he observed with a lazy smile that made Candy’s heart beat a little faster, ‘so how about burying the hatchet and being friends as well? Ready to start again?’

‘What?’ She was honestly bewildered at the turnabout in conversation.

‘We got off on the wrong foot,’ Quinn said pleasantly, ‘and I take full blame for that. You had the idea I was going to hover over you like a guardian angel and report back to Essie and Xavier, right?’

‘I…’ It was exactly what she had thought.

‘And maybe there was an element of something like that in my thinking before I met you.’ He raised dark eyebrows. ‘But believe me, Candy, I realised my mistake very quickly. You are quite capable of looking after yourself, as you’ve made very clear.’

The dry note in his voice was very distinct, but this time Candy refused to blush.

‘It seems ridiculous that with you knowing few people at present and our mutual connections we can’t be on good terms. Agreed?’

Candy looked at him blankly as her mind raced at express speed. There were no doubt thousands, millions of men and women who managed to have perfectly platonic friendships with members of the opposite sex. And if it had been nice little Jamie in front of her—whom she’d met briefly at Essie’s wedding—she would probably be agreeing enthusiastically to what had just been voiced. But it wasn’t the freckle-faced, ginger-haired Jamie gazing down at her. It was Quinn. And Quinn was… Well, he wasn’t five-foot-eight with freckles and a snub nose.