Gray Quinn's Baby (9 page)

‘It is pretty,' Magenta agreed and she definitely wanted all the protection she could get.

‘You could try these hip-huggers to go with it. Or some matching bikini-pants in the same flesh-coloured lace?'

‘They're very flimsy.'

‘That's the idea.'

‘I'll take them.' She just wanted to get out of the shop now. The girl's close scrutiny was beginning to make her feel uncomfortable.

‘Which one?' The girl was holding up a pair of knickers in each hand.

‘Both.'

‘You're sure they're not too flimsy for you? I do have some heavy-gauge serge in the back.'

Was it so obvious that Magenta's twenty-first-century lifestyle meant her choice of underwear depended on what washed well on a short cycle and lasted longest?

M
AGENTA
braved her freezing bathroom to take a bath and then dressed carefully. When the doorbell rang, her heart went crazy. If this was a dream she was certainly taking her time waking up, she thought as she hurried downstairs.

And now she didn't want to wake up. Quinn looked amazing. Standing on her doorstep wearing a heavy overcoat over his suit, and with a long, silk scarf slung casually around his neck, he was unreasonably handsome—like a hero stepping out of a dream. In full sixties hero-about-town rig, he really was something else.

‘Ready to go?'

‘I am,' she confirmed, trying not to notice the silver-grey Aston Martin DB5 parked behind Quinn on the road. She'd half expected to see a motorbike parked at the kerb.

It didn't do to mix up dreams with reality, Magenta resolved, still gazing at Quinn's fabulous car. ‘I can't believe it's in such immaculate condition,' she murmured, hardly realising she was speaking out loud.

Quinn looked at her curiously. ‘Do you mean the car? Why wouldn't it be?'

Of course, it must be brand new; she had almost betrayed herself. ‘I love it. You're a very lucky man.'

‘And the harder I work the luckier I get,' Quinn said dryly. ‘Have you forgotten something, Magenta?' he added. ‘Your earrings?'

It wasn't as if
she
felt naked without earrings, but as she touched her earlobes Magenta remembered that no self-respecting sixties woman would be seen without them—whether they were colossal hoops or feathers trimmed with bells, not to mention the all-important chandelier for the woman who considered herself a cut above the rest. ‘I'll be right back,' she said. ‘Come in out of the cold while you wait. Close the door.' She flung this over her shoulder as she raced upstairs.

Neat pearl-drops in place, she returned to the hallway.

‘Perfect,' Quinn approved, looking her up and down.

His assessment was a bit intrusive for a business meeting, Magenta thought, but she'd let it pass. Quinn escorted her to the car and, opening the door for her, saw her settled inside.

‘Where are we going?' she asked with interest as he took control of the high-powered machine.

‘I haven't decided yet. What kind of food do you like?'

‘Anything, pretty much.' She was curious to see if Antonio's was open. The restaurant was situated in this direction and was one she knew. Antonio's was famous for injecting the serious up-market restaurant quarter in London with Italian sunshine and some much-needed
joie de vivre
. It had been in the same family since the late fifties, being one of the first to bring spectacular ice cream and the art of curling spaghetti around a fork to London. So it should be a bustling concern in the sixties, Magenta reasoned, peering expectantly out of the window. ‘But this isn't the way to Antonio's,' she said with concern as Quinn took a turning that led to a leafy and exclusive London suburb. ‘Antonio's?'

‘Sorry, I was just thinking about an Italian restaurant I used to go to round here. So…' She tried for light, and predictably ended up with an anxious wobble in her voice. ‘Have you decided where you're taking me yet?'

‘I thought I'd show you my etchings.
Joke
,' Quinn said
dryly when he heard Magenta's sharp intake of breath. ‘I thought we'd go to my house.'

‘Your house?' Her mouth dried. ‘Should I be worried?'

‘Do you want to be?' Quinn threw her a glance.

‘Of course not,' she said, crossing her legs.

‘Good—but reserve judgement. Remember, you haven't tasted my food yet.'

‘You're going to cook for me?'

‘Is that a problem?'

‘No.'
Just a surprise
. Genghis Khan in a pinny was quite a thought.

What was she getting into? Magenta wondered as Quinn swung into the drive of a grand, porticoed house. Was this where he usually brought his business associates for a chat? She'd had him down as a very private man who would never mix business with his private life.

She tried not to act like Quinn's country cousin as he showed her round his house. Magenta's father lived in some style, but nothing close to this. The music room on the first floor, with its full-sized harp and selection of valuable period instruments, was like something out of a palace. Quinn was a connoisseur as well as a warrior in business. The thought of how that combination might translate in the bedroom made her senses roar. When Quinn slipped her coat from her shoulders and his fingers brushed her neck, she betrayed herself by shivering.

‘Are you cold?'

She stared into Quinn's amused gaze. They both knew the opposite was the case. Why was she feeling so embarrassed and unsure of herself? Sexual attraction between a man and a woman wasn't unheard of, was it? Whatever their respective positions in life and whatever the era.

To the sex-starved it was
. She moved a sensible distance away from him.

Shrugging off his overcoat, Quinn left her for a moment
and when he returned it was with two glasses of amber liquid that glowed seductively in the cleverly designed lighting.

‘What is it?' Magenta said as Quinn handed her the glass.

‘Single malt.'

She laughed and lightened up. ‘You remembered. Do you know many women who drink whisky, Quinn?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Not at all—I just wondered if you liked non-conformists.'

‘You're not a non-conformist, Magenta.'

‘How can you tell?'

‘Because non-conformists all look the same.'

‘Like hippies?'

‘Exactly.'

Now they were laughing together, and against the odds she was beginning to relax in Quinn's company. She really liked him—too much. She couldn't afford to let her guard down and expect to survive the experience unscathed.

‘Shall we get down to business?' she suggested, putting her glass on the table.

Quinn's lips pressed down with amusement as he put his glass next to hers. ‘I'm ready if you are.'

This was business?

Quinn dragged her into his arms and his kisses were a brushing, teasing, honeyed reminder. ‘I shouldn't…'

‘You should. You must.'

Quinn's dark eyes glinted with humour and then he deepened the kiss. The chance to experience everything she had ever dreamed about with Quinn—a man who exuded power, raw and unrepentant—was now a very real possibility. She had always been awkward with men before, concerned she'd get it wrong, but the way Quinn was kissing her, binding every part of her to him, left very little to chance.

Best of all, Magenta reasoned, nothing could go wrong in a dream—there were no consequences. She was free of
inhibition and embarrassment. Her twenty-first-century world of metro-males and smooth-cheeked mummy's boys had never seemed further away as Quinn persuaded her this was one sixties experience she shouldn't miss out on.

Now his tongue was teasing her lips apart, leaving her in no doubt as he plundered her mouth what he would like to do to her and how very good he'd be at doing it…

She exclaimed with shock when he pulled away.

‘Do I frighten you?'

‘
You
frighten
me
?' The awkward laugh was back again; she was more frightened of her own feelings than Quinn.

Quinn hummed. ‘You play it tough,' he said. ‘But I'm not so sure.'

‘You mentioned supper?' She was out of her depth and sinking fast. Quinn was compelling, and had drawn her to him like a magnet, but his insight had left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. For all she knew, Quinn had caveman morals wrapped in an Ivy League veneer. He certainly promised pleasure with no price to pay, but life was always more complicated than that. Was it possible dreams were more straightforward?

 

‘Omelette good for you?'

Quinn had changed into jeans and a shirt, which made him look dangerously user-friendly as he led the way into his kitchen. ‘Yes. Perfect, thank you.'

She found it bizarre that they were talking about food while she was still shimmering from the effect of Quinn's kisses.

Quinn appeared unaffected. ‘Cheese? Plain? Herbs? That's the selection I have on offer tonight.'

She inhaled swiftly when he levelled a keen gaze on her face. ‘Cheese would be good.' Why must she always feel as if Quinn knew everything she was thinking? Did she need to be so sensitive? Quinn was a hot-blooded man and it was she
who was out of sync here. She wasn't embracing the sixties vibe; free love, free from commitment, was the norm.

‘Would you like your omelette well done, or a little soft and liquid inside?'

She swallowed convulsively. Must that deep, sexy voice make everything sound like an invitation? ‘Moist and not too well-done, please.'

Would she disappoint in the sexual-performance stakes? Quinn was highly sexed, while she wasn't exactly a well-oiled machine. In fact, she was probably starting out at a lower point than a virgin—she knew what to expect and how badly she could disappoint.

‘Are you frightened of all men or just me, Magenta?'

‘I'm not frightened of anyone,' she protested. ‘If I was frightened of you, I wouldn't be here.'

‘But you don't think much of men, do you?' Quinn observed as he reached inside the cupboard for a bowl and a whisk.

‘That depends on the man in question.'

‘Tell you what we're going to do.' He swung around to face her. ‘I'm going to make supper, and while I do that we'll talk through your plans for the Christmas party and anything else connected to the business. Then I'm going to make love to you. Does that sound reasonable?'

Her intake of breath was swift and noisy. ‘You are one arrogant son of a bitch.'

‘Guilty as charged,' Quinn acknowledged calmly.

‘I'll eat, we'll talk business and then I'm going home.'

‘Whatever you like.'

Couldn't he show a bit more disappointment? She was more mixed up than the egg was about to be, Magenta felt as Quinn reached inside his large and very stylish refrigerator. It must have come over from America with him; this was a time when many people still stored their perishables in a meat safe in
the cellar. ‘What?' she said defensively when he started to laugh.

‘You're as bad as me, Magenta Steele.'

No one was that bad, Magenta mused, taking in the hard-muscled package that was Gray Quinn. ‘Explain.'

‘You do nothing by chance.' Reaching inside a drawer, he found a pan and tossed it, catching it niftily by the handle. ‘You plan carefully and you do your homework. You've proved yourself to be an effective team leader in a short space of time. You know where to locate the rich veins of business and how to mine them. You're wasted behind a desk, Magenta.'

‘You've noticed,' she said dryly.

‘I notice everything,' Quinn assured her, breaking eggs in a bowl. ‘I brought you here because I know you'll be good for the business and I want to talk to you about that.'

She should be pleased. But female vanity, however fragile—and, boy, was hers fragile—demanded more. But Quinn wasn't going to give her anything more. Sex and business was for him the perfect combination—with an omelette on the side.

‘Your team will sit in on the next board meeting. If there is an untapped resource in-house, I'm going to use it.'

She struck while the iron was hot. ‘So you're going to take down the partition?' she enquired. When Quinn gave her a warning glance, she added, ‘As you said yourself, sharing ideas in an ad agency is paramount.'

‘Anything else?'

Magenta listed everything she thought might give the girls an even playing-field at work—including banning sexist comments.

‘You are turning into quite a force to be reckoned with.'

His thoughts on that were unreadable. Would he crush her, or would he give Magenta and her team a chance?

Quinn pushed a bowl of salad towards her with the instruction to add dressing and give it a toss. She did as he asked
and then sat down across the polished-steel breakfast bar from him.

Quinn's gaze remained steady on her face. ‘You sure don't go for gentle change.'

‘Gentle might not be enough.'

‘You want things fast and now.'

Intensity had drawn their heads closer to the point where she could see the flecks of amber fire in Quinn's eyes. It was warning enough, and she started to draw back, but Quinn caught hold of her wrist, stopping her. ‘Don't back off now, Magenta.' His voice dropped low. ‘You know there's nothing more you love than a challenge.'

Just when she thought she was safe, Quinn reminded her there was another tension between them, and one that had nothing to do with business. Part of her longed to go along with this, to soften and invite as Quinn expected her to. Fortunately, that part was firmly under control.

‘You're blushing,' Quinn observed.

Yes, because he had no inhibitions and she had plenty.

The breath hitched in her throat when Quinn ran one firm fingertip very slowly down her heated cheek until it came to rest on the swell of her bottom lip. ‘Why are you blushing, Magenta?'

‘No reason,' she said, pulling back. ‘The heat of the kitchen, probably. I'm impressed you can cook,' she added, moving out of range.

‘The men you know don't get hungry?'

‘I don't know many men.'

‘I taught myself how to cook.'

‘That's good.'

‘More like necessity.'

She relaxed a little. ‘I didn't mean to offend you. It's just, you don't look the type.'

‘To cook? What type of man doesn't like to eat, Magenta?'

‘Most men have someone to cook for them.'
Yes, even in the twenty-first century
, Magenta thought wryly.