by Helen Brooks
'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.
He was disturbing. Disturbing and intimidating and aggressively male, and he made her feel uncomfortable and on edge and a hundred other things besides, none of which were welcome.
He, on the other hand, clearly had no problem at all in viewing her in the same way he would a chum at the rugby club or something similar!
But this was her problem, not his. The innate honesty that was an integral part of Candy's make-up forced her to face the truth. He had offered the olive branch and in the circumstances she could do little else than receive it with both hands. The man had rushed to her rescue—or more precisely to the cat and kittens' rescue—and hadn't put a foot wrong from the first time she had met him, if she analysed it. It had been her that had been prickly and difficult. All he had done was to make the cottage comfortable for her, stock up her cupboards and generally behave like the proverbial good neighbour!
Candy took a deep breath, smiled sweetly and said, 'I'd be pleased to count you as one of my friends, Quinn.'
'Great.' He stood looking down at her with glittering black eyes. 'And do friends run to a couple of slices of buttered toast, maybe?'
'Oh, I'm sorry.' She belatedly realised it was now well past teatime. 'I can do better than toast, if you like? Spaghetti bolognese, or perhaps you'd prefer pork chops?'
'Spaghetti, definitely.'
He grinned at her, and she valiantly ignored what it did to her nerve-endings.
Quinn perched on one of the stools at the tiny breakfast bar while Candy prepared the bolognese sauce, and once she had added a pinch of grated nutmeg and the cinnamon and oregano to the minced beef, onions, tomatoes and tomato purée, all simmering gently in their wine and stock base, he poured them another glass of wine.
'My spaghetti bolognese comes out of a jar.'
His eyes smiled at her as he spoke, and she was extremely pleased at the casual smile she managed in return. 'Xavier's old housekeeper, Mrs Martella, was Italian, and when I was growing up she used to teach me all kinds of dishes. She was a fantastic cook, but she'd never allow a tin or jar of anything in her kitchen; she was fanatical about it I do cheat sometimes, but I have to admit Mrs Martella's way tastes better.'
'It certainly smells delicious.'
Candy popped the lid on the pan and took a sip of her drink as she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. 'So you're not one of these men who's a wow in the kitchen?' she asked carefully, telling herself she was just making conversation rather than trying to find out more about him.
'I can just about boil an egg,' he admitted ruefully. 'My father is the same. I used to think it was because my mother is the sort of old-fashioned housewife who won't let a man into the kitchen, but when I went to university I discovered I had a natural gift for causing havoc anywhere near a stove. I drop things, I burn things, and I can never get everything to finish cooking at the same time.'
Did he know how attractive that air of little-boy-lost was when combined with his particular brand of dark, vigorous maleness? Candy thought suspiciously. She took another sip of her wine and waved an arm towards the fire. 'This will take about thirty-five or forty minutes now, so we might as well be comfortable,' she said quietly, making sure that once she was across the other side of the room she made for one of the chairs and left the sofa to Quinn.
However, he chose to drop down on the floor, sitting at the side of the flickering fire close to his sleeping feline patients, one knee drawn up and the other leg straight, his back resting against the wall next to the mantelpiece. It was a casual pose, the pose of a man totally at ease with himself and his surroundings, and perversely Candy felt irritated as she glanced his way from her vantage point of the chair opposite.
How could he be so completely relaxed? So unaware of this—this electricity in the air? she asked herself testily. But she clearly didn't do a thing for him. And that was good—very, very, good, she assured herself silently. It was. It was certainly the only way any contact between them could work.
'So, if you can't cook how do you manage most days?' she asked, after a few moments when his disturbing presence had got her to the point of speaking or screaming. 'Microwave? Ready meals?'
'Mostly.' His head had been back and his eyes shut, which had accentuated his brooding quality of toughness tenfold, but now he glanced at her and nodded. 'And Marion has taken me under her wing, which helps. Homemade fruit cakes, scones, pot roasts, egg custards—I get the lot, bless her. She fusses a bit, but she's got a heart of gold.'
'I'm surprised she hasn't had a try at matchmaking,' Candy said with a wry smile. 'Isn't that what mumsy women do in her position?'
'Don't,' Quinn grimaced. 'I've already had the virtues of her daughter held up before me on more than one occasion, and she apparently has a younger sister in town who's fancy-free too.'
'Oh, dear.' She eyed him over the top of her glass. 'And you didn't avail yourself of either lady?'
He shrugged. 'I prefer to arrange my own dates.' It was dismissive, and stated this particular line in conversation was finished, but Candy suddenly felt stubborn.
'You might have met the woman of your dreams.'
'I doubt it.' This time his tone was even more cryptic.
'How do you know until you give them a try? There might be a Mrs Ellington hiding out there,' she said with a light smile.
'No way. Marriage is not on my agenda,' he said shortly.
'How can you say that until you've tried it?' she argued quietly, not really knowing why she was pursuing this but unable to stop.
'I can say it because I have tried it, Candy,' he said grimly, rising to his feet and placing the half-full glass of wine on the mantelpiece as he spoke. 'And it looks like Mum is ready for some more food. I'll see to her while you check the dinner, shall I?'
He had padded across to the breakfast bar for the cat food in the next moment, but Candy sat quite still for a full five seconds more. He had put her in her place and he'd had every right to do so; she'd been unforgivably nosy and she knew it. But married! He had been married?
Ridiculous, but she felt as bad as if someone had just bopped her right on the chin.
CHAPTER THREE
Contrary to what Candy had thought in the first embarrassing and highly charged minutes after Quinn's revelation, the rest of the evening went relatively smoothly.
The spaghetti bolognese was wonderful, and Quinn was highly appreciative; they fed the kittens again and the mother cat ate more food and drank a saucer full of creamy milk—and Quinn kept the co
nversation light and easy. Her work, his work; the advantages and pitfalls of small-town life; art and books… All safe, fairly innocuous subjects. He was amusing and funny and entertaining and the time just flew, and when—at just gone eleven—he decided that the cat and her kittens could stay with Candy for the night at least, she was amazed that it was so late.
When she opened the front door for him to leave they saw it had stopped snowing and the white glistening world outside the cottage was breathtakingly silent. The moon was shedding a thin hollow light into the darkness, turning the frost lying like crystals on the snow to a carpet of diamond dust. It was cold, bitterly cold, and as Quinn stepped out into the garden Candy shivered.
'Don't catch cold.' He took her hand as he spoke, leaning forward and brushing her cheek with the lightest of gossamer kisses as he said, 'Thanks for the dinner, Candy; I haven't enjoyed myself so much in ages.'
It was a social kiss, the kiss of a friend, and despite her pounding heart she said steadily, 'Thank you for coming to our rescue,' and ignored what the smell and feel of him had done to her nerve-endings.
'My pleasure.' Quinn didn't want a relationship, and he knew the tall, slim redhead in front of him wanted one even less. So why, knowing that, was he finding it difficult to leave? he asked himself silently. Why did he want to take her in his arms properly and kiss her until they both went up in flames and he was back in the cottage and up the stairs and in her bed? 'I'll call you in the morning and see how they are.' He indicated towards the wicker basket behind Candy with an inclination of his head.
'I think they are going to be fine.'
That accent of hers, the soft, slow, easy drawl, was incredibly sexy. She was incredibly sexy. All glowing tumbled hair and big bright wide eyes. But he wasn't in the market for sexy redheads, or not this one anyway. Candy was Xavier's niece and Essie had cast him in the role of protector, which was fair enough. And he would fulfil that role to the best of his ability. No problem.
'I think so too, but that presents its own set of problems,' Quinn said steadily. 'For a start the cat might have got lost and have an anxious owner looking for it And, like I said, a cat and kittens are expensive both in terms of time and money.'
'Do you think that? That she might have an owner who is looking for her?' Candy asked anxiously.
'Would that be so bad?'
'Yes.' It was immediate, and although he had sensed that would be her answer he inwardly groaned. She'd fallen in love with the little family. She was too tender-hearted and compassionate by half, the sort of person the world delighted in kicking in the teeth.
Immediately the thought hit he didn't like it. He knew nothing about Candy Grey and furthermore he didn't want to know anything, besides which he, of all people, knew that the female sex were experts in projecting the image they wanted you to see. She might be as hardboiled as they come under that marshmallow softness.
Although he knew that wasn't the case.
Again he refuted his gut instinct and said instead, his ebony eyes unreadable and his voice cool, 'You have to face the fact there might be an owner out there who wants her back, Candy. And what are you going to do with a cat and three kittens anyway?'
'Look after them, love them.'
Hell. He nodded abruptly. 'Well, we'll see. Don't worry about it for now, and, like I said, I'll give you a call in the morning.'
'All right.'
It was disconsolate, and again he had to resist the impulse to take her into his arms. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, but as his heart began to hammer in his ribcage it was a warning to leave.
'Goodnight, Candy.'
This time he turned and made his way towards the gate through the snow, which was inches thick, and it wasn't until he was seated in the Landrover Discovery that he glanced back towards the lighted doorway. She was still standing there, the light behind her silhouetting her slim shape in the bright red sweater and black leggings she was wearing.
He started the engine, raised a hand briefly and backed the big vehicle carefully past Candy's car and out into the lane. And then he drove away without looking towards the cottage again.
As the vehicle ploughed up the narrow track Quinn found his thoughts were going round and round in his head. He didn't like the emotions that had besieged him throughout the night. For the last three years he had kept both his thoughts and his feelings under firm control and that was the way it was going to stay, he told himself grimly as his eyes hardened.
He had had enough of bowel-twisting emotion to last him a lifetime, more than enough. Never again would a woman do to him what Laura had done. He breathed deeply through his nose, refusing to allow the memories he kept behind the closed door of his mind to break out.
He was satisfied with his life. He had his own successful practice which was growing daily; he would soon need to employ another veterinary and perhaps another nurse to assist on a part-time basis. The flat above the surgery was very much a bachelor pad but more than suited his needs; he had had to change very little of the decor or furnishings Xavier had bought and sold along with the business. He dated when it suited him—casual, no-strings-attached affairs, where each party knew the score and acted accordingly. He operated on the powers of reason and logic. He had been a blind fool once but he would never make the same mistake again.
It was friendship he had offered Candy and it was friendship she had accepted, and if ever he felt it was bordering on something else… It would be dealt with, and ruthlessly.
He reached the top of the lane and nosed the four-by-four carefully into the main road, straightened his shoulders, raked back his hair and put all further thoughts of Candy Grey out of his mind.
Candy fed the cat twice more during the night, and by the time Quinn telephoned just after ten the kittens were feeding from their mother and everything in the house was hunky-dory. Almost.
If she had allowed her mind to linger on the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach it would have told her the deep-seated agitation was less to do with the fact that there might be an anxious owner waiting to claim the cat and more to do with a certain ebony-eyed vet But she didn't dwell on her misgivings over the wisdom of elevating Quinn to the position of friend beyond reassuring herself, several times, that she was perfectly in control of all the circumstances in her life at present, beyond that of the felines' ultimate home.
'Candy?' Quinn's voice was cool and calm, even remote. He was obviously in work mode, she thought, and this was a duty call because he had promised. 'How are things?'
Things? she thought a trifle feverishly, before swallowing hard and saying, with studied nonchalance, 'Absolutely fine, Quinn. The kittens are feeding well and Tabitha is eating like a horse. She's been out once, but came straight back to the kittens.'
'Tabitha?'
'The cat I couldn't just keep calling her Cat or Mother or whatever,' Candy said defensively.
'No, I guess not. Look, I've made a few enquiries, and as far as I can ascertain no one for miles around seems to be missing a tortoiseshell female, but that's not to say you're home and dry,' he added warningly.
'But it's hopeful?'
'Yes, I'd say it's hopeful,' he agreed shortly. 'I'm sending Philippa, my nurse, down later, with a few bits and pieces you'll need, so if there's any supplies for yourself you're short of…?'
'Oh, I can manage, really. I've got the car,' she said hastily.
'You won't get up the lane in that; it was pretty snowbound last night. I'll get her to bring you a loaf, milk, things like that, okay? Look, I must go; we're pretty busy today. Ring me if you're worried about the cat or kittens, won't you?'
'Yes, thank you.'
She was surprised at the flat feeling that assailed her when she put the receiver down, but put it down to anticlimax regarding her worry about what the results of Quinn's investigations might have found. But it looked as if everything was okay. She stared across at Tabitha, who stared back with great smoky-green eyes and then yawned widely, showing shar
p little white teeth. 'He's sending his nurse,' she told the watching feline. 'He's too busy to come himself.' Which was fine. Absolutely no problem. It was good of him to offer to do that, wasn't it? Very good.
Philippa arrived at midday and she was very nice, bustling in with bags of groceries before returning to the Discovery and bringing more cat food, a large bag of cat litter and a tray, a couple of pottery feeding bowls and a big thick blanket she said she'd found in the back of one of the cupboards at the practice, and several other things besides.
She was also a sweet-faced, blue-eyed blonde, with an hourglass figure, a skin like peaches and cream and the sort of wide-eyed, innocent appeal that would turn on any red-blooded male under the age of eighty.
Candy made them both a cup of coffee, listened to Philippa enthuse first about Tabitha and the kittens and then about how lucky she was to be working for such a brilliant vet and fabulous person as Quinn, and how she just adored everything about her job, and then waved her goodbye some thirty minutes later, by which time all the eager, fervent exuberance had made Candy feel as old as Methuselah.
Had she ever been as young and carefree as that girl? she asked herself as she plumped down beside the basket and stroked Tabitha, who greeted her reappearance with a satisfied purr. She didn't think so. The circumstances of her birth, her grandmother dying and Xavier becoming her sole guardian and all the family she had when she was eight had made her a solemn little girl and a wary teenager.
The only time she had blossomed had been when she'd met Harper. Suddenly her fiancé's face was there in her thoughts, and whether it was lack of sleep or all the emotional turmoil involving the cat she wasn't sure, but she found she couldn't keep the memories under lock and key as she usually could.
She had loved him so much and been so happy. She bit her lip hard and glanced down at the tiny kittens—the two little females carbon copies of their beautiful mother and the other, according to Quinn, who had determined their sex the night before, a jet-black little torn—as she sighed deeply.
