Page 57 of Quinn, By Design

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.

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