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.