Gray Quinn's Baby

‘What?’ She stared at him with that same bemused expression in her eyes.

‘When did you last eat? Never mind,’ he said, swinging his leg over the bike. ‘Stay here, or come with. Either way, I’m getting you something hot to put inside your stomach.’

She ate like a ravenous child, dripping ketchup down her fingers. She stared at the mess and frowned—it took her back to childhood, maybe. He grabbed a hank of paper tissues and wiped her hands. ‘Better?’ Dipping his head, he stared into troubled eyes.

She had enough smarts to refocus fast. ‘I haven’t made the best of starts, have I?’ she suggested wryly.

‘Drink your tea.’

She did so, blowing on it with attractive full, red lips before gulping it down with relish. ‘Sorry. I hadn’t realised how hungry I was.’

His lips curved. When he was heavily into a project, eating was the last thing on his mind. ‘Work will do that to you.’

‘So you’re the same?’ she guessed.

Her eyes were a clear, deep blue and she was staring at him keenly. ‘I’m a little obsessive,’ he admitted. ‘Come on—let’s get you home.’

He got another jolt when he walked into Magenta’s house to find it furnished like a sixties stage-set. ‘Nice place you have here…’ He recognised an Eero Aarnio Bubble Chair, and an iconic Egg Pod swinging seat with a blood-red lining. Did she always live like this, in a fantasy world that mirrored each new campaign she was working on? He hoped not. He’d seen the notes on his desk regarding Magenta’s next big campaign. It featured a safari theme. There was hardly room to swing a small cat in here, let alone a big one.

His mood changed, darkened. Was business Magenta’s life? Was that all there was? A sense of isolation overwhelmed him—a sense of déjà vu. He had thought of little else apart from work on his drive to the top. They weren’t so different.

‘Is this the kitchen?’ He pressed open a door. ‘You go and change while I make some coffee. Do you want something more to eat?’

‘No!’ She laughed.

He was pleased to see it.

‘You?’ she said.

He felt a jolt when their eyes met. ‘Maybe…’ He was hungry.

‘There are eggs in the fridge.’

‘That’s good for me. Go.’

He got busy in her neat, attractive kitchen, finding the eggs, a bowl, some cheese and plenty of seasoning. He thought about Magenta as he whisked the eggs. She concerned him on several levels. Her friend Tess had been at pains to tell him how hard she worked. She’d been holding everything together single-handed for months now, apparently, fending off her father’s creditors whilst still managing to energise her team and come up with a host of brilliant ideas. She’d drawn him in.

‘You’re back,’ he said, feeling a bolt of something warm and steady when she walked into the room. She was slender but womanly, tall, but not too tall. She was beautiful, quirky and under-appreciated—at least by a man. It was strange where his senses took him—sixth sense, his mother had called it. ‘Omelette good for you?’ he said on a lighter note.

‘You are joking?’ she protested with a laugh.

‘Well, I’ve made an extra one. You should eat more.’

‘I have eaten.’ She held up her squeaky-clean hands to remind him.

‘Eat,’ he said, taking in the dark circles beneath her eyes.

She perched at the breakfast bar, crossing her silk-clad legs one over the other—slender legs, sexy heels, sheer stockings. He could see the outline of her suspender button beneath the fine wool skirt. ‘So you’re not coming back with me?’ he enquired.

‘I’ve called a cab. I hope you’re not offended. It’s just that it’s hard to arrive on a motorcycle ready for a meeting—apart from the fact that bike-riding sends my heart-rate soaring, I didn’t want to be late this time.’

She smiled faintly and he smiled too. ‘Good thinking. You should look after yourself better, Magenta,’ he said, noticing how in spite of all her protests she was wolfing down the omelette.

‘Are you like this with all your employees, Quinn?’

‘If you mean do I cook for them? No. Do I want them in peak condition producing their best work for me? That would be yes.’

‘And that will be my taxi,’ she said, forking up the last mouthful on her plate as the door-bell rang. ‘And that was a delicious omelette. Thank you, Quinn.’

‘See you back at the office.’

‘You can count on it,’ she said.

Magenta Steele was the consummate professional as well as a good-looking woman—though she was elusive, Quinn thought as he brought their meeting to a close. He could pin her down in business—having heard her pitch, he could be fairly certain they’d win an industry award for her sixties campaign, for example—but when it came to knowing what made Magenta the woman tick, that was a whole different ball-game.