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.
