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'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 ea
rlier 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.
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!
