Gray Quinn's Baby

‘Wh…wh…?’ How long had she been asleep? Five minutes? Less? ‘Yes?’ Magenta realised she was sitting bolt-upright and practically saluting.

‘Aren’t you out of bed yet?’

Quinn’s deep, sexy voice lacked all vestige of charm. ‘Of course I am,’ she huffed, getting tangled up in the phone cord as she rolled out of bed.

‘Good, because I’m at the office, and you should be too.’

She stumbled over the cord.

‘Magenta, what’s happening there?’

‘Nothing. Why?’ she demanded, untangling herself.

‘I can hear a lot of banging about.’

‘That would be the front door closing,’ she covered for herself, stretching the curly phone-cord to its limit as she peered through the open bathroom door. ‘Just getting the milk in.’

Quinn hummed. ‘Forget breakfast and get in here, will you? A national newspaper has announced that its first colour supplement will be launched in the New Year, and—’

‘And we’re going to be in it!’ she exclaimed excitedly.

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Fantastic!’ It was fantastic. And would be even more so if Quinn could only bring himself to trust her with the smallest detail, rather than expecting her to type up the minutes of his latest meeting. But first things first; the sooner she got herself back to the office, the sooner she was back in the game. ‘I’m just putting the phone down for a second,’ she said, knowing the phone cord wouldn’t stretch far enough. ‘Hang on.’

Rushing into the bathroom, Magenta looked in vain for the shower. She would have to take a quick bath—a cold bath, as it turned out. Too late now to notice the switch on the wall and realise she’d have had to turn it on some hours earlier if she wanted the luxury of hot water.

‘Fantastic?’ Quinn bellowed as she picked up the phone again. ‘Is that all you have to say about it? I can’t believe you’re awake yet, Magenta. This is a national first and I want a big, visual splash for Style Design in that first supplement— Magenta? Are you still there?’

Barely. She had stepped into the frigid water and made a big splash of her own. Down, up and that would have to do it. Teeth chattering, she reached for a small, scratchy towel.

No fluffy bath-sheet warming gently on a heated towel-rail.

No bath sheet, full-stop.

Lodging the phone between her shoulder and chin, she jumped about to keep warm as she flung open the single wardrobe door. Now here was a thing—a disposable paper dress in a black-and-white op-art pattern. Paper clothes would be put to good use in clinics in the future, though not in this flamboyant design. She smiled wryly. Goodness knew how, but dresses like these were making it to the fashion pages of the sixties, judging by the magazines she’d seen in the office. This particular company’s bold claim was that they were not only at the cutting edge of fashion, but were ready to supply disposable clothes for space flight and settlements on future moon-colonies.

How high would Quinn take her?

Thoughts like that definitely belonged in the realms of fantasy, Magenta decided as Quinn uttered a phrase that was bang up-to-date in whichever era he lived.

She settled for a safe wool dress, deciding to keep the outrageous paper mini-dress for the Christmas party. Why shouldn’t she break out that one time and surprise Quinn? Tradition demanded everyone let rip during the holiday celebrations, and surely that had been no different in the sixties? And wasn’t she incredibly comfortable around paper these days? She would just have to hope Quinn would see the irony in her choice of outfit. But that was for later. The sleek wool dress she chose for now was in an attractive shade of coral and had a wide, form-enhancing belt, which Magenta buckled securely. She looked the part and was determined to work the role fate had given her to the very best of her ability.

What else could she do? she reasoned as she soared upwards in the office lift. At least she’d get to see Quinn again—and, in spite of his manner towards her last night, she felt the customary buzz of anticipation as she walked into the office. She was already looking for him, practically scenting the air like a doe on heat searching for the buck. Yes, Quinn was a bad-boy, but would she seriously want to change her dream lover into a weed?

CHAPTER EIGHT

THIS sixties version of the office where she worked was more like a stark, bare stage than the technology-crammed work setting Magenta was accustomed to, with its anonymous banks of twenty-first century computers and purposefully androgynous personnel. Here in the sixties everyone dressed to impress and showed off their assets to best advantage. Fortunately, she had adapted quickly to her new role as office manager, and found that her natural air of authority even had most of the men begrudgingly following her orders. Not Quinn, of course. The only orders Quinn followed were his own.