Quinn nodded. 'Meg likes to dress up,' he said, a trifle apologetically.
'Okay.' It was dismissive, and as Candy's gaze wandered across the room towards the easel Quinn stood up. She clearly wanted him to leave, he thought, and he was surprised and not a little disturbed that he felt put out.
'Till Saturday, then.' His voice was cool and he was already walking towards the door as he said over his shoulder, 'Thanks for the coffee.'
Candy didn't follow him immediately to the door, but by the time Quinn had reached the Discovery she was standing in the doorway and raised a hand in a brief goodbye.
Those last few minutes, as the enormity of what she had promised had washed over her, had been difficult. As the tail-lights disappeared up the lane she raised both hands to her hot cheeks. She was going out on a date with Quinn Ellington!
Well, okay, perhaps not a date in the true sense of the word, she amended silently, but nevertheless she was already regretting the impulse that had led her to say yes. She stared out over the white garden which, despite the fact that it was mid-morning, was still held firm in the grip of a hard, sparkling frost.
Oh, well, she'd done it now. Tabitha appeared at her ankles, winding sensuously round her legs and purring like a small train, causing Candy to turn and automatically check where Alfie was.
The small black pom-pom of fur was wobbling across the floor towards her, his two sisters just behind him, and suddenly Candy felt better.
She did owe Quinn; he'd been absolutely marvellous when she'd needed him, and it wasn't his fault he was so darn attractive, she told herself firmly. Okay, so she fancied him physically—she might as well face that one and bring it into the light and get it out of the way. But he was very fanciable. She would have had to be six foot under or of a different sexual persuasion not to notice that! And at least it showed she was feeling something again—there had been a time in her depression when she could have had Brad Pitt or Mel Gibson in front of her and not felt a thing.
Quinn wasn't interested in love or commitment and neither was she. He was a career man and she had decided her work was going to be her life, certainly for the
next decade or so at least But her nature didn't naturally lend itself to a solitary existence. It would be nice to meet a few people, and even nicer to have an escort…
She shut the door just as the determined Alfie reached the threshold, and then giggled as the tiny kitten stared up at her reproachfully, his little head on one side as though to say, All that effort and then you spoil it!
Whatever else, this suggestion of Quinn's seemed to indicate he wasn't interested in the lovely Philippa. Perhaps he didn't believe in mixing work and pleasure? Maybe she had a boyfriend? Or it could be—Candy stopped abruptly. Stop it, she warned herself steadily. It's nothing to do with you whether Quinn likes her or not What on earth was the matter with her, thinking like this?
She would dress up on Saturday, and make sure Quinn didn't regret asking her to masquerade as his girlfriend, but it would be her way of thanking him for all he had done and nothing else. And, who knows, it might be fun?
And then, as though someone had just queried the last statement, Candy said out loud, 'It might—it might be fun,' and went back to her painting.
CHAPTER FOUR
The years of acting as Xavier's hostess for his house parties in Canada meant Candy was not fazed by any sort of social event. She could do the necessary patter, smile sweetly when she was bored stiff and her feet were aching, and converse as easily and warmly with a shy, gauche teenager as a formidable matron of advanced years or a lecherous old goat of a husband.
For the last three or four years in Canada her success at her painting had meant her income was very healthy, and as she had continued to work from home, and had run Xavier's household for him until he had married Essie, she had bought herself an extensive and expensive wardrobe.
Saturday morning saw her selecting and discarding one dress after another in a way she hadn't done for years.
She was nervous, she realised with something of a shock. Nervous that she wouldn't be wearing the right sort of thing, that she wouldn't fit in, that Quinn would be disappointed by her.
'Oh, for goodness' sake pull yourself together, girl!' She glared at her reflection in the mirror as she stood shivering in her silk slip. The downstairs of the cottage was as warm as toast, with the fire blazing and Tabitha and the kittens stretched out in the wicker basket fast asleep, but the up—although not freezing—never got really warm.
'Right, decision time.' Her eyes narrowed and she leached for a sleeveless black crepe dress with an asymmetric lace border and thin straps, teaming it with precariously high strappy black sandals. The original little black dress. Her nose wrinkled. But she always looked good in black, it suited her colouring, and if she put her hair up and wore the matching gold earrings and necklace Essie and Xavier had bought her the Christmas before she would do.
She laid the dress and matching underwear out on the bed, pulled on jeans and a thick jumper and put all further thoughts of the evening out of her mind. She intended to work today until four o'clock, then have a bath and generally pamper and preen herself, and then… Prepare to be impressed, Quinn Ellington, she warned him silently.
Candy didn't question why she felt the need to impress him as she scurried downstairs and made herself a mug of strong black coffee before starting work. And it was just as well she didn't question herself; it might have spoilt her enjoyment in the day's painting. But at ten to eight that evening, as she heard the Aston Martin in the lane outside the cottage, her stomach was fluttering like a host of butterflies.
And the butterflies went berserk when she opened the door to Quinn. He was in black dinner jacket and tie— immaculate from the top of his raven head to the soles of his shining shoes—and he was the stuff fantasies were made of.
Candy couldn't have spoken to save her life, but she did manage a fairly natural smile as she stood aside and waved her hand for him to enter.
Although he didn't. He kissed her instead. And it was a slow kiss, a pleasurable kiss, a kiss that made her toes curl in the expensive sandals and her cheeks flush. Apart from his lips on hers he wasn't touching her, he hadn't taken her into his arms or made any attempt to move close, but then, as the kiss ended and he stepped into the cottage, he turned and lifted her chin to meet his glittering eyes. 'Canada's loss is England's gain,' he said softly. 'You look fantastic.'
'Thank you.' He had thrown her, completely and utterly thrown her, and because she wasn't thinking straight she said shakily, 'I thought… Friends? I thought we were friends?'
'We are.' This Quinn was new to her, and as unlike the dedicated caring vet or remote, cool ally of Essie as it was possible to be. He was dashingly suave, the smooth and confident Casanova and Lothario, and Candy found herself thinking that if this was the persona he adopted out of working hours he couldn't very well blame these women who made a habit of throwing themselves at him. He asked for it!
'Right.' Her stomach curled over but she couldn't help it; he was so darn handsome. 'You usually kiss your friends like that?' she asked with an amused casualness she was inordinately proud of.