Page 33 of Quinn, By Design

Niall hadn’t planned on her being good company. Tonight, she was disconcerted enough to need to be with another human being. Rattled enough to make a move on him, surprising both of them. Sending her home would be cold-blooded. The blood in his head had drained to his groin when she’d slid her leg up his thigh. Nothing cold about it.

A test for him or herself? She was still here, so he must have passed.

She’ll need a distraction.

Establishing a foundation as a distraction was a bit extreme even for Cam. Damn the old man for tying Niall in knots through his will.

“Soon”—a piss-poor answer to her questions the other night. She was entitled to soon. Although their definitions of soon were very different. She wanted decisions made yesterday and set in concrete. She was owed, given her childhood. He was still feeling his way.

Cam hadn’t explicitly linked the exhibition to the foundation Although success would give Niall street cred and make him a viable choice as a mentor.

But each time he yielded to a diversion from Lucy McTavish, his plans slipped further behind. With two months until the exhibition, the gallery was pressing for photos of his major pieces. He had a month max before they moved into full-on publicity. Advertising on his site needed to start at the same time.

Niall pictured the almost-finished rocking chair he’d thrown a drop sheet over when Lucy arrived tonight.

He’d hidden it when she’d called in last week as well.

Damned if I know why I haven’t told her.

Then he spotted Lucy making her way from the parked car to his porch. His gut told him she needed company. Turning her away came a close second to kicking a puppy. If he was honest, and he tried to be, he wasn’t helping her because he owed Cam. Or only because he owed Cam. He liked her fierceness, her survival against the odds. They’d moved from guns drawn at fifty paces, to sharing meals and conversation, to a tentative friendship. The bells and whistles of attraction were a complication because the McTavish heiress was in a different league to a struggling woodworker.

“Are we going to the kitchen?” She stopped beside him in the dark of the porch, her delicate scent a torment. She’d come from work—a black skirt, silk stockings he’d sensed through the thick denim of his jeans and a charcoal sweater with a high neck. The severity was broken by the luminous quality of the pearls and the luxurious textures of cashmere, tweed and silk. He had to admire her love of natural fibres.

“I have a living room of sorts.” Pushing open the front door, Niall flicked light switches and took the first door on the right. “See.” He lifted a pile of craft magazines off the lounge and set them on a side table. Then he turned on the heater and sound system. “The room should be warm soon.” As he expected, Leonard Cohen filled the room—mournful bloody sod that Niall was. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“I’ll help.” She followed him through to the kitchen, and he fought to keep from hauling her back into his arms to finish what they’d started in the loading bay.

“Are you sure beer’s okay?” He stared into his fridge, aware a beer could be downed in fifteen minutes. Not enough time for her to settle. “I’ve got a curry if you’re hungry.”

“If it’s not too much trouble.” She was worried about outstaying her welcome.

“A zap in the microwave, and hey, presto, we have gourmet vindaloo.”

She giggled.That was better. He shoved the freezer containers into the microwave, set the timer and passed her a beer.

“Tell me about your friends from the funeral.” A cack-handed way to go back to the beginning, but he was convinced her distress tonight was rooted in her past. “Do you want a glass?”

“What sort of glass?” She was suspicious of his glassware. He held up old Vegemite jars. Her reaction was swift. “You have got to be kidding.”

“They were free.” And he usually reserved them for a drop of Jameson’s with his twin.

“After you consumed the Vegemite! I’ll pass. To answer your question, their names are Clementine and Kelly.”

“Clementine sounds like a Mississippi Delta goddess.” Niall conjured an image of the two women at the funeral, both about Lucy’s age. One a curly-haired compact brunette, the other taller, with a straight, neat bob. Each of them had hugged Lucy long and hard. Lucy had hugged them back; the longest physical contact Lucy had had at the ceremony. “What do they do?” He framed his questions to coax more than a yes or no. The microwave pinged, and he gave the contents a stir.

“Kelly’s a teacher-librarian, works in public education. Whereabouts of mother unknown. Clem’s a social worker and an orphan.”

“And?” He took two mid-twentieth century Villaroy and Boch bowls from his cupboard and set them on the benchtop ready to serve. “Orphans don’t automatically become social workers. Take yourself, for example. There must be something to connect those two dots?”

“Clem had a few bad foster experiences and decided she wanted to make a difference.”

“Did you? Have a few bad foster experiences, I mean?” The microwave pinged again, and he took out the curry. “Cam said they had trouble finding you.” She’d been ten. A mere baby. He’d bet his prized Huon table she’d had to grow up fast.

* * *

“Mum hadn’t had anycontact with Grandpa and Gran for years before she died,” Lucy said, Niall’s earlier empathy for his brother’s friend giving her the courage to answer. “They didn’t know I existed, and she didn’t expect to die. But you worked that out.”

“I did?” He swung to face her, his gaze searching.

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