A Convenient Proposal

By mid-afternoon the coal scuttle was empty and the last of the logs was on the fire; it was time to visit the potting shed once more.

Candy pulled on her boots and bright warm ski-jacket and trudged round to the back of the cottage with her head down against the wind, which was driving the snow before it in fierce gusts, and after the routine fight with the aged door of the potting shed she had stepped into the relative sanctuary of its dank dryness.

After filling the coal scuttle and lugging it back to the cottage she returned with the sack for the wood, but it was as she reached for the first log that she heard it. The faintest cry, almost a squeak. Mice? Rats? She froze, her heart thudding. Mice she could tolerate, but rats? Their teeth were a little too large and sharp for comfort. Still, if she didn’t bother them they probably wouldn’t bother her.

She was actually bending to reach for the log again when the sound came once more. It wasn’t a squeak, she told herself silently. It was a miaow, a faint mew. There must be a cat in here, but how had it got in and when, and where was it from? She tried, ‘Puss, puss, puss,’ but to no avail.

Was it hurt or just sheltering from the cold? After some five minutes, when she was getting more and more chilled, she was just on the point of leaving to fetch a saucer of warm milk when a third mew brought her on all fours to peer along the back of the potting shed behind the six-foot pile of stacked logs. And then she saw them. It looked as though there was the smallest hole in one corner, where a couple of bricks had crumbled away, but it had been enough for the mother cat to creep in to give birth to her kittens. And they were tiny, minute, they couldn’t be more than a few days old at most, and the she-cat wasn’t moving.

Don’t let it be dead. Oh, please, don’t let it be dead. Candy stared in horror at the pathetic little scene and then, as one of the three kittens squirmed a little and made the mewing sound again, she looked at the great pile of wood apprehensively. If she attempted to move it, it might fall on the little family and squash them, but she couldn’t just leave them here to die either.

How long had it been since the mother cat had had food or water? It could be hours or days; she had no way of knowing.

Quinn. He was a vet. He would know what to do. She was halfway back to the cottage in the next breath, and once inside she opened the cupboard and looked for his number. She knew it was there; she had looked for it on her first morning in England whilst assuring herself she would never, ever use it. It was halfway down the list of emergency numbers—‘Quinn Ellington, Veterinary Surgeon.’

She dialled the number with shaking hands, finding she was more upset than she had realised. But there was something so pitiable about the mother cat’s valiant attempt to find shelter and safety for her kittens and the way she was lying curled round the minute little scraps to keep them warm.

It was Marion who answered the telephone, and Candy cut through all the social niceties when she said urgently, ‘This is Candy, Xavier’s niece. I have to speak to Quinn; it’s an emergency.’

‘Candy?’ When she heard Quinn’s deep voice after a brief pause she found, ridiculously, that she had to fight for control against the tears welling up in her throat.

‘Oh, Quinn. There’s a cat in my potting shed and it’s not moving and I can’t reach it and it’s had kittens—’

‘Whoa, whoa.’ The interruption was firm but gentle. ‘Slowly, nice and slowly. Start at the beginning.’

And so she did, and after she had related it all there was another brief pause before he said, ‘It sounds like time is of the essence, so I’d better not wait until evening surgery is finished. Jamie and Bob will have to split my patients between them; it can’t be helped. It’ll take me a few minutes to fill them in on a couple of the more complicated cases and then I’ll get going. I’ll be with you in ten…fifteen minutes. All right?’

‘The…the lane is full of snow. I don’t know if you’ll be able to—’

‘No problem,’ he interrupted her abruptly, but she didn’t mind. ‘The four-by-four will take care of it. Goodbye for now.’ And the phone went dead.

For the next fifteen minutes Candy darted between the front gate and the potting shed some three or four times, but the female cat hadn’t moved or opened its eyes, and by the time Quinn’s Landrover Discovery eased its way into the pull in she was convinced it was dead.

She all but leapt on Quinn at the garden gate, actually taking his sleeve and hurrying him along the path until his quizzical gaze made her realise what she was doing.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She dropped her hand from his jacket as though it was red-hot, flushing hotly. But she had never been so pleased to see anyone in her life.

Quinn’s big body seemed to fill the potting shed, and after he had squatted down on his heels and peered behind the assembled logs his face became grim. ‘We’ve got to get them out of here, but you’re right; it’s too risky to try and move this lot unless we absolutely have to. If I can get round the back of the shed I might just be able to reach in the hole where she came in and pull them out one by one that way.’

Candy stared at him doubtfully. The potting shed was in a nice sheltered position, tucked away behind the cottage, but it was completely surrounded on three sides by bushes and vegetation. Whatever way you looked at this it seemed like mission impossible. ‘You’d never manage it,’ she said mournfully. ‘It’s not possible.’

He turned from his contemplation of the cat and kittens and then rose to his feet. ‘Those last three words are not in my vocabulary,’ he said shortly, ‘and I’m surprised they’re in yours.’

Candy was stung. ‘What does that mean?’

‘You’re a gutsy lady, and gutsy ladies don’t give up before they’ve even started.’

Gutsy? What did that mean? What had Essie told him? Candy didn’t stop to think before she voiced her thoughts, and none too gently. ‘What do you know about me?’ she asked sharply. ‘What has Essie said?’

‘Essie?’ Quinn looked genuinely surprised. ‘Essie hasn’t said anything beyond the fact that you wanted a break for a few months? Why, what should she have said?’

‘Nothing.’ In spite of the zero temperatures outside Candy was hot now. Her and her big mouth. But it was him—he seemed to bring out the worst in her.

Quinn continued to hold her wary gaze for a moment more before he said, his voice even, but with an edge that spoke of irritation, ‘I merely meant that to take the decision to uproot yourself and come to pastures new after the sort of accident you’ve been recovering from took some guts. Okay? Nothing more, nothing less. If you’ve a whole host of skeletons in your particular cupboard I couldn’t care less, Candy.’

Well, that put her in her place, didn’t it?

‘But what I do care about is trying to get this cat and her kittens in a position where I can make an examination, and as quickly as possible. Clear?’

‘Perfectly.’ She glared at him.

‘Right. Now, I’m going to go round the back and see what I can do and I want you to remain here and keep an eye on them. If you see my hand come through give a yell and we’ll go from there, with you directing me. Do you understand?’

‘Of course I understand,’ she shot back tightly. ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘No one said you were, Candy.’ He was employing the same tone with her as he would with a difficult animal, she just knew it, and she couldn’t remember when something had rankled more. Impossible man! Impossible, insufferable, annoying…

She stood to one side as he made to pass her, and then when he paused in front of her she raised her gaze to his face. He was close, very close. There was barely room for one let alone two in the potting shed, and Quinn was a big man.

He was studying her with an air of quizzical amusement that turned his face into hard angles and planes and made him twice as attractive. She felt her heart give one mighty flip and despised herself for it, but his flagrant masculinity was something that her hormones just didn’t seem able to ignore. In fact she doubted if any female would be able to ignore Quinn Ellington.

‘What?’ she asked aggressively.

‘I should have known when I saw that wonderful hair that you’d be a fireball,’ he said musingly.

Wonderful hair? He thought she had wonderful hair? She found she couldn’t dwell on that, with him so close and those devastating thickly lashed eyes looking into hers. ‘I’m not,’ she said weakly. ‘Not really. It’s just that…’

‘What?’ He folded his arms over his chest and her senses screamed.

‘You always seem to press the wrong button,’ she managed fairly stiffly.

‘Is that so?’ He didn’t seem too put out by the accusation as his dark glittering gaze moved over her upturned face and rich red hair, in which the melted snow hung in small crystal droplets, and his words were added confirmation of this. He smiled slowly before opening the door and stepping outside, throwing over his shoulder, ‘It’s better than not hitting any buttons at all.’

Arrogant swine. She stood staring at the empty doorway for a moment or two as she heard him making his way round to the back of the potting shed, and then, remembering his instructions, she knelt down and peered along the grimy, dusty floor.

There was a great deal of muttered cursing in the next few minutes, along with scrabbling and the sound of breaking twigs and branches, but eventually Candy saw a large hand inch cautiously into the small hole. ‘You’re there! I can see your fingers,’ she called quickly.

‘Right. Before I do anything else bring that sack round you were going to use for the logs,’ came the muffled response. ‘And the light’s failing fast. Have you got a torch?’

‘There is one, but I’ve been meaning to replace the batteries…’

‘Great.’ It was caustic. ‘Then you’ll have to go to the car and get mine; the door’s not locked. It’s in the back somewhere; you’ll need it to keep an eye on things from inside.’

By the time Candy scrambled round to the back of the shed with the torch and the sack it was nearly dark and the snow was falling in ever-increasing gusts. She saw the reason for Quinn’s ill-humour when she reached him, or what she could see of him, because only the backs of his legs were visible. He was lying under a vicious hawthorn bush which had been allowed to take over that part of the garden along with some other shrubs and thicket.

‘Are you all right?’ she proffered tentatively as she pushed the sack forwards.

There was a meaningful pause before, ‘I’m not going to even answer that. This damn bush has ripped me apart.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

It shouldn’t be funny, and it wasn’t, not really, but she couldn’t help thinking that the man who had sailed out of the potting shed was slightly different from the one stuck under the hawthorn.

Once she was back in place in the potting shed and shining the torch along the floor she directed operations quite successfully.

Quinn was grunting and groaning, but he managed to get the three tiny kittens out fairly easily; it was the mother cat who proved a problem. She had stirred slightly when Quinn extricated her babies, but when he tried to ease her out by her back legs she suddenly found a burst of strength and dug her claws into the side of a log. There followed a careful tug of war before she seemed to fall comatose again, and then, with a little delicate manoeuvring, she followed her kittens.

Candy raced round to the back of the shed, shining the torch on Quinn’s legs as he slowly, very slowly, edged backwards with the sack half cradled under his arms. The hawthorn bush didn’t want to let go of its prize gracefully and there were more growls of pain and irritation before he was finally sitting upright with the sack in front of him.

‘Oh, Quinn.’ She was mortified at the sight of him. His face and his hands were ripped and bleeding and the back of his jacket, which had taken the brunt of the hawthorn’s unrelenting attack, was in shreds. ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

‘What?’ And then, as he realised what she had meant, ‘Don’t worry about a couple of scratches; let’s get this little lot inside and see what’s what. I put my case down in the potting shed; bring it in, would you?’

Once in the warm cottage, Quinn carefully put the rough sack down on the thick rug in front of the blazing fire and they gently opened it up to reveal the sorry little quartet.

Now, in the bright light, they could see the female cat was a pretty little tortoiseshell, but just skin and bones, and the only time she lifted her head to see what was going on was when Quinn removed the kittens one by one to examine them and they mewed a plaintive protest at being taken from the smell and warmth of their mother.

‘They’re only a few days old; their eyes aren’t open yet,’ Quinn muttered as he placed each of the tiny felines into the cardboard box Candy had brought her groceries home in. ‘But they all seem pretty healthy, although they’re alive with fleas. Let’s have a look at Mum.’

Candy sat back on her heels and watched Quinn as his big hands moved tenderly over the pathetic creature, his brow wrinkled as his battle-scarred bloody fingers carefully probed and prodded. The cat made no objection to his inspection, indeed it hardly seemed aware of its surroundings, apart from the several glances at the box where the kittens were still verbally making their displeasure known.

‘Well, it isn’t feline enteritis.’

His voice brought her back from her rapt contemplation of his big shoulders and broad chest under the black denim shirt he was wearing—his tattered coat having been discarded before he began his examination of the patients—and she had to blink rapidly before she could say, ‘Is feline enteritis bad?’ She had never really come into contact with many animals and didn’t have a clue as to their ailments.

‘The worst.’ Dark, glittering eyes looked up and into hers for a moment. ‘Even today, with the full range of modern antibiotics, we can do little to fight it once it’s got a hold, and if this cat is feral she could have well been suffering from it. As it is…’ He paused, then, leaning back from the limp animal, said, ‘She seems too docile to be feral. Of course she’s exhausted and starving and very young, little more than a kitten herself, but I’ve known feral cats who would fight with their last breath. It could be the confinement was hard for her and she was virtually starving before she gave birth, and once the kittens were born and she was feeding any nourishment would go to her milk, making her even weaker. I’ve got a feeling—’

He stopped abruptly, and Candy said, ‘What? What is it?’

He continued somewhat reluctantly, ‘I’ve got an idea she might have been a domestic pet who got thrown out when the owners realised she was going to have kittens.’

‘Oh, no, surely not?’ Candy was horrified. ‘People wouldn’t be so cruel.’

‘You would be surprised.’ It was very grim. ‘And, like I said, she really is very young.’

‘She’s not going to die?’ Candy asked urgently.

‘Not if I can help it.’ His eyes were narrowed as he glanced down at the supine animal. ‘No, not if I can help it.’

All his interest and energy was centred on the cat and her kittens, so how come she was vitally conscious of every movement, every muscle, every expression of his? Candy asked herself desperately. She didn’t want to be; in fact if she never felt a spark of interest for any man ever again it would suit her down to the ground, so how come Quinn Ellington had got under her skin as he had? Mind you, she had read somewhere ages ago that women were naturally drawn to doctors and consultants and veterinaries—men who were powerful in their own field, strong, decisive, but with the compassionate, protective side their vocations demanded—so it was probably just that. And with his striking good looks and physical build… Yes, it was that—it wasn’t Quinn as a man, a person.

‘…help me?’

‘Sorry?’ She flushed hotly as she realised Quinn had been speaking and she hadn’t heard a word.

‘I said I’m going to give her a couple of injections and then try getting some food down her. Normally I’d sedate her slightly and put her straight on a drip, but it might make her anxious and it’ll be difficult with the kittens. Once I’m satisfied she can travel I’ll take her back to the surgery and leave you in peace.’

‘Oh, no, no.’ And, at his raised eyebrows, ‘I mean, I can look after her here. If you think it’s possible, of course.’

‘I’m not sure. It depends how she responds in the next hour or so,’ Quinn said quietly. ‘And even if she responds well a cat and kittens is quite a commitment on time and energy. I don’t like to see kittens leave Mum until they are about eight weeks old, so you’re talking a couple of months of hard work, and then there’s the task of finding them all homes—including the female.’

‘I know, I know.’ She hadn’t, but somehow it was suddenly terribly important that she take care of the little family and help them. She couldn’t have explained it, even to herself, but she needed to do it. To bring good out of a bad situation. And added to that she had to admit that this solitude wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

She didn’t want human companionship—definitely not, she told herself vehemently—but animals were different.

The cat took no notice when the needle went in, and soon she was ensconced with the kittens in Essie’s oval wicker washing basket on top of Quinn’s big thick quilted coat—‘It’s only an old one I use for work, so they might as well have it,’ he’d offered. Quinn made up some of the highly nutritious cat food for feeding mothers and special powdered milk for kittens which he’d had the foresight to bring with him, and managed to get a few spoonfuls of food down her.

Candy fed the kittens, one by one, with the small feeding bottle Quinn had brought, and she had never enjoyed herself so much in all her life. Their tiny, ravishingly beautiful faces and tightly shut eyes were enthralling, and the way they slurped at the bottle was indicative of how hungry they were.

‘I think you found them just in time.’ Quinn had moved from the other side of the blanket to sit beside her on the rug as she fed the last of the three, his body inclined towards her—which forced Candy to acknowledge her own awareness of him.

She continued to concentrate very hard on the tiny mite in her hands, but he was bent close enough for her to scent his male warmth and it was difficult. Much more difficult than she would have liked.

‘They’re so sweet.’ She had to swallow twice before she could speak, and he obviously noticed and jumped to the conclusion that she was anxious about the cat and her kittens, which she was, she was, she reiterated silently, but that wasn’t why she was dry-mouthed and trembly.

‘It’s easy to say, but try not to worry and think the worst.’ The kitten she was holding had had its fill and he gently took it from her, placing it with the others before turning to her again. ‘It’s so far, so good,’ he said quietly, ‘okay? And for all Mum’s fragility it looks like she’s not going to give in, probably because of those little tykes.’

They both looked down at the three tiny kittens, who had squirmed into position and were lying snuggled against their mother.

‘Mum’s been fed, babies have been fed, and that’s all we can do at the moment, but I’ll try her with a little more food in half an hour or so. At least with the kittens feeding as they have it means the pressure is off her at the moment, although these dry preparations can’t compete with Mum’s milk, of course.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ She suddenly felt as gauche and inadequate as a schoolgirl. The roaring fire, the sleeping family in the wicker basket, the howling of the wind outside and the warmth and cosiness of Essie’s little haven—it was too intimate. Far, far too intimate.

Candy rose with an abruptness that startled them both, and because she couldn’t think of anything else to say she found herself babbling, ‘You must be longing for a drink after all your hard work? What would you like? There’s tea or coffee or chocolate, or maybe you’d prefer a glass of wine?’

‘A glass of wine would be great,’ Quinn said gravely, as though girls reacted to him like cats on a hot tin roof every day. ‘As long as you’re having one too?’

Oh, yes, she was having one, Candy thought somewhat feverishly. If ever she needed a glass of wine it was right now.

Quinn opened the wine, after she had managed to break the cork in the bottle, and he did it expertly, of course, Candy thought resentfully, as she fetched two large crystal glasses out of the cupboard. But then he would do everything expertly; he was that sort of a man. A continuation along that line was beyond her—he was too close, too big, too male to let her imagination have free rein.

‘Thank you.’ She took the glass of deep, rich red liquid with a tight little smile as she eyed him warily. He was still smeared with blood, and some of those scratches looked nasty; she couldn’t let him just slowly fester, could she? ‘Look, you need a bath to clean those scratches. Why don’t you take your wine up with you while I keep an eye on the invalids?’ she said as brightly as she could manage. ‘You’ll see the clean towels on the shelf at the side of the washbasin.’

‘Really? Are you sure?’

His surprise was a reproach. He didn’t think she was that mean, did he? Candy asked herself silently. She had called him out just before his evening surgery and then forced him to battle with a foe that was all teeth and claws, and she was talking about the hawthorn bush, here, not the felines! She could hardly deny him a bath, especially when he seemed agreeable to hanging about and seeing if the cat could recover enough to stay here rather than being carted off to the clinical surroundings of the veterinary practice.

‘Of course.’ Her tone was airy, as though she offered hundreds of men the same privilege.

‘Thank you.’ His voice was soft and low and kind of smoky, and it made Candy shiver. And regret the offer. Quinn Ellington naked in her bathroom… What was she doing playing with fire?

He was downstairs again in twenty minutes, barefoot, his black hair still damp and his denim shirt open at the neck and showing a smidgen of soft, silky body hair. He was one sexy customer. She busied herself with the cat food and only turned at the last moment to say, ‘Do you think she might eat it herself this time? She had a drop of milk while you were upstairs.’

‘Did she? That’s good, very good.’ He was all professionalism as he squatted on his heels at the side of the basket, and Candy berated herself for her carnal thoughts. But his black jeans were blatantly tight across the hips, she comforted herself in the next moment, and she couldn’t help having eyes, could she?

The cat roused herself enough to take an interest in the food Candy offered this time, managing half a saucer before she sank back into the folds of Quinn’s coat, the kittens squeaking and mewing at the movement.

‘I think we’re winning.’

You might be, but I’m beginning to wonder, Candy thought ruefully, as Quinn slanted a satisfied smile at her. There were good-looking men and there were sexy men, and then there was Quinn Ellington.

‘Mind if I take a look?’ He had risen to his feet and sauntered over to her easel, standing under the window. As was normal when she’d finished for the day she had thrown a cover over the painting, and now Candy hesitated before shrugging slowly.

‘I won’t if you’d rather I didn’t.’ His hand had stayed on the cover and he sounded quite unperturbed. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to make some excuse, but somehow, and she didn’t know why, Candy found herself saying, ‘I don’t mind, but don’t expect Rembrandt.’

‘I rarely expect anything from anyone,’ Quinn said dryly.

‘Oh.’ She didn’t know quite how to take that, but there had been a darkness in the words that hadn’t been there in their earlier conversation.

She joined him at the easel, removing the cover herself and watching his face as she did so. As Quinn let his narrowed eyes wander over the painting she could read nothing in his dark countenance to suggest what he was thinking. And then he said, his eyes still on the silver crystal-bright scene, ‘This is quite exquisite, Candy. Outstanding, in fact. I had no idea…’