A Convenient Proposal

He glanced again at the lovely face, the dusky red lips lying slightly open in a small pout, and felt his senses stir before he turned sharply, making his way through the heavy fire door into the rear of the building and walking to the end of a long corridor, into the surgery's neat, shining kitchen.

Marion was in there, her plump, good-natured face flushed and perspiring. 'The coffee's nearly ready.'

'She's asleep.' He inclined his head towards the door. 'But thanks anyway. I'll take the tray through in a minute and wake her up. And thanks for helping out too; it would happen today of all days.'

They had just dealt with the canine victim of a road accident, and due to the fact Quinn had sent his two assistant vets out on calls, and the practice nurse was off ill with flu, there had only been Marion—his very able but slightly squeamish receptionist—to assist whilst he conducted the emergency operation the dog's injuries had necessitated. But all had gone well and that was the main thing.

Marion smiled at him now, nodding at his face as she said, a touch of laughter in her voice, 'Wipe the blood off first, eh? You're liable to frighten the poor girl to death like that.'

Quinn flicked a glance at himself in the square triangle of mirror above the sink as he muttered, 'Damn it.' He wiped the blood off his cleft chin and one hard, angular cheekbone before raking back a lock of jet-black hair off his forehead with his damp hands and making an effort to smooth down the rest of his unruly locks. 'I need a haircut.'

'I've been telling you that for weeks,' said Marion with a motherly sigh. The trouble was, Quinn couldn't care less about his appearance, she thought fondly. Considering the quite shattering ruthless attractiveness of the man that seemed to make him irresistible to every female he came into contact with, he was the most modest individual she had ever met And that in itself proved to be an added fascination. The magnetism he exuded was lethal, but because he neither understood or wanted it he simply didn't acknowledge it existed. Which was typical Quinn, really. As her eighteen-year-old daughter had said when she had first set eyes on him, 'Mum, he's walking dynamite!'

'Put a few of your shortbread biscuits on, Marion,' said Quinn now, indicating the tray with a wave of his hand. 'She looks like she needs feeding up a bit.'

'For goodness' sake don't tell her that,' Marion said quickly, her face horrified. Another of Quinn's attributes— she wasn't sure if it was a virtue or not—was an alarming tendency towards directness which cut through all equivocation and flannel and went straight to the heart of any matter. It was refreshing in a world where most people were falling over backwards to present themselves in the best light possible, but it did cause problems. And yet he was the most compassionate soul she had ever met. An enigma. Marion nodded at the thought. That was Quinn all right.

Candy was still fast asleep when Quinn walked through with the tray of coffee and shortbread a few minutes later, but this time he didn't allow himself to meditate on the delicate beauty and far too slender form slumped in the chair before he gently shook her awake.

However, in the few moments before she opened her eyes he found himself reflecting that this paternal role he had told himself he would adopt might be a little…inappropriate. The photograph he had received of Essie's wedding, which had taken place under blue Caribbean skies in March, had seemed to suggest that Candy, who had been Essie's bridesmaid, was a tiny, thin little waif of a thing. Mind, she had been in the early days of recovery from the accident and still in a wheelchair, he reminded himself ruefully. He should have taken that into consideration.

Candy came out of the layers of sleep slowly, like a drowsy child, her small pink tongue moistening her lips, and again something stirred in Quinn which he found he didn't want to examine.

'Coffee?' As Candy opened eyes of dazzling blueness Quinn kept his voice low and calm, his tone reflecting the soothing quality he used with more nervy patients when he needed to reassure them all was well. 'You fell asleep waiting for me,' he said softly.

'Oh, did I?' For a moment Candy couldn't focus, and then, as a pair of ebony eyes set in a truly gorgeous dark, handsome face came into view in front of her, she shot up straight, her face flooding with colour. The movement was too violent for the recently healed vertebrae which had suffered the main extensive bruising and swelling, and she winced, a soft, 'Oh,' escaping her lips before she could restrain it.

'Are you all right?'

Quinn was all concern, but Candy had had enough fussing over the previous twelve months to last a lifetime, and her tone reflected this when she said, 'Perfectly, thank you. I was just a little startled, that's all.'

Okay, so she didn't want him asking after her health. Quinn smiled widely, not at all taken aback by her coolness. Coolness he could take; in fact coolness was a refreshing change after some of the gushing and simpering from the females round these parts.

'Slack or white?' he asked blandly.

'What?'

'The coffee.' His tone was patient now, pointedly so.

'Oh.' Candy's flus

h deepened. She was behaving badly and she didn't know why, except that this man was… Well, he wasn't what she'd expected. When Essie had spoken of her old work colleague she had never indicated he was a Pierce Brosnan lookalike…

'Well?' The glittering gaze pinned hers.

'White, please. Two sugars.'

She watched him while he poured the coffee and she had to admit he was something else. Big, lean, sexy—how could Essie not have told her? But then her uncle's wife had eyes for no one but her husband, and he for her; 'wrapped up in each other' didn't even begin to describe it.

As though he had read her thoughts, Quinn said, 'How's Essie? I hear there's a little Grey on the way?' as he raised his head and handed her the coffee.

Candy nodded stiffly. 'Just about. The baby's due in June.'

Hell, but this one was prickly. Had she always been like this or had the accident made her this way? Whatever, he was going to have his work cut out to communicate at all, let alone act as the buddy Essie had asked him to be.

And then, in confirmation of the thought, Candy said formally, 'I understand you have the key to Essie's cottage, Mr Ellington?'

What was with this Mr Ellington? 'Quinn. The name's Quinn.'