had sent a jolt through his system as though he’d grabbed a live wire; he’d simultaneously wanted to look his fill and throw her down on the carpet and kiss her senseless. Then Lucy had given her the baby, and, as though the carpet had moved beneath his feet, he’d seen her holding his child, their child, the fruit of their love.
You’re nuts, he told himself astringently. She hasn’t even agreed to have lunch with you and you’re already into fatherhood? He said, “Marcia, I brought you these. They were selling them at the market.”
Marcia looked up. He was clutching a large, inartistic bouquet of mixed flowers—oranges clashing with pinks, purple next to magenta. His gaze locked with hers and she found herself quite unable to look away. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Lucy can show you where to find a vase.”
“Left my suit back at the hotel,” he added.
He looked extremely handsome in soft-fitting gray cords and a dark blue sweater. “I see,” Marcia said inanely.
Quentin handed the bouquet to Lucy and stepped closer to Marcia. “He’s going to pull your hair out by the roots... Let go, Chris.” Then she felt the warmth of a man’s fingers against her nape and felt his breath stir her hair. Every nerve in her body sprang to jangling life. Her shoulders rigid, her breathing caught in her throat, she heard Chris mumble a protest; his little fist tightened on her hair and she winced.
“Easy, Chris...there we go.”
With infinite gentleness Quentin had loosened the baby’s hold. As he eased the child out of her arms his forearm brushed her breast. The shock ran through her body; he must have felt it. She flashed a desperate glance around and saw that Troy and Lucy were watching her with considerable interest. I will not blush. I will not, she told herself. She said in a strangled voice, “I’ve got to keep an eye on the dinner. I’ll be right back.”
Troy started setting up their portable playpen, Quentin swung baby Chris high over his head so that he gurgled with laughter, and Lucy followed Marcia into the kitchen. “Is Mother coming? Yummy—something smells delicious.”
Glad to talk about anything other than Quentin, Marcia said, “She’s bringing a man,” and relayed the gist of the phone call. Before she’d finished Catherine arrived and sauntered into the kitchen, and she had to go through her story again.
Dr. Catherine Barnes was petite like Marcia, elegant like their mother, and did research in pancreatic cancer. “I’m on holiday for three whole weeks,” she crowed. “I’m looking after Lydia’s dogs next week, so I’ll get lots of exercise and fresh air. You look like you could do with some sun, Marcia, you’re much too pale.”
Cat was a fitness freak who could always be counted on to say it like it was. “Thanks,” Marcia said drily. “But it does happen to have been raining for the last four days—or hadn’t you noticed? Would you pass around the crab dip, Cat? And I’ll get Troy to pour drinks.”
Lucy had jammed the flowers in Marcia’s largest vase. “Where’ll I put them?”
Quentin was standing in the kitchen doorway, minus Chris. “I’ll put them in the middle of the table,” he said.
Marcia had placed an attractive arrangement of silk flowers that matched her china as a centerpiece. She watched Quentin plunk it on the sideboard and put the motley bouquet in its place. He was exactly the kind of man she disliked—making decisions without consulting her, taking over as though he owned the place. As he came back in the kitchen she said frostily, “The only thing missing from that bouquet is skunk cabbage.”
“Better luck next time.”
“Next time? You don’t look the type to enjoy city life. I can’t imagine you’re going to stay in Ottawa for long.”
“I wasn’t going to—but I’ve changed my plans,” he said. “A friend of mine who’s away owns a place in the Gatineau Hills, so I’m going to stay there for a while. You and I still have to have lunch—or had you forgotten?”
“You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Ramsey.”
“Confidence gets results, Dr. Barnes.”
“Up until now confidence might have gotten you results,” she said sweetly.
“Are you suggesting I should change tactics?”
“I’m suggesting you abandon the project.”
“I don’t think so. You’re an interesting challenge.”
Her nostrils flared. “Now you’re being insulting.”
He stepped closer and said softly, “You liked it when I touched you.”
Gritting her teeth, Marcia thought about icebergs and glaciers and Scotch on the rocks, and her cheeks stayed only as pink as the heat of the stove warranted. “You took me by surprise, that’s all. A man of your experience should be more adept at distinguishing between a woman who’s startled and a woman who’s ready to fall at your feet.”
Quentin was by now thoroughly enjoying himself. “Dear me... a woman has never once thrown herself at my feet. Does that make me a failure as a man? Although it does sound rather a deranged thing to—Oh, thanks, Troy. I’ll have a beer.”
Had Troy been listening? Appalled, Marcia said stiffly, “You’ll have to excuse me... Oh, there’s the buzzer—that must be Mother.”
Evelyn Barnes looked very attractive in her rose-pink dress with her gray hair softly curling round her ears. Her usual escorts were tall, patrician-featured men, who considered themselves essential to the running of the country; Henry Woods was short, stout, bald and unassuming, with a pair of the kindest brown eyes Marcia had ever seen. She warmed to him immediately. She made introductions all around, Troy passed the drinks, and Marcia set a place for Quentin at the table, seating him where the flowers would screen him from her view.
Two and a half hours later Marcia was plugging in the coffee-machine in the kitchen. She was pleased with the success of her dinner party. Quentin and Henry bad proved to be witty and entertaining, Cat had thrown off her normal reserve and the baby had filled any gaps in the conversation. As for herself, she’d managed to avoid anything but minimal contact with Quentin. He couldn’t move out to the Gatineau Hills fast enough for her.
She reached in the refrigerator for the cream. But the container was almost empty and she’d forgotten to buy a new one. She went back in the living room. Troy and Quentin were getting out the chess pieces while Evelyn was giving Chris his bottle. “I’ll have to run to the corner store—I’m out of cream,” Marcia said. “Won’t be a minute.”
Quentin got to his feet. “I’ll come with you. I need to walk off some of that excellent dinner.”
She couldn’t very well tell him to get lost. Evelyn wouldn’t approve of that. So Marcia got her purse, pulled on shiny black boots and her raincoat and went out into the hall with him. His belted trenchcoat gave him the air of a particularly rakish spy.
“Let’s take the stairs,” Quentin said. “I shouldn’t have had a second helping of that chocolate dessert—deadly.”
“It was only Belgian chocolate, whipping cream and butter,” Marcia said, wide-eyed. “Oh, and six eggs too.”
“It
