A Convenient Proposal

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.