Gray Quinn's Baby (15 page)

‘D
AMN
the woman!' Gray Quinn's face was thunderous as he hammered on Magenta's office door with his fist. ‘Magenta! Answer me! Magenta, are you in there? Are you all right?'

The silence was deafening. Straightening up, he braced his shoulder.

Within micro-seconds of him preparing to take action, the door opened and a wan face peered out.

‘What the hell are you playing at?' he said, pushing past her. ‘Have you been here all night?' He heard the door close behind him and wheeled around. ‘You look awful. We've all been worried to death about you—me in particular.'

‘Why you in particular?'

Her voice was like a feeble reed, which only added to his suspicions. ‘We had a meeting at nine o' clock sharp. Remember that?'

Raking her hair, she looked at him in bemusement. ‘Oh, I'm sorry,' she said as reality dawned.

‘You don't show for the meeting,' he rapped out. ‘And then I hear you're locked in here.'

‘But Tess keeps a spare key.'

‘Tess had a dental appointment this morning. So why the locked door, Magenta?'

‘I felt safer.'

‘Safer?'

She didn't answer. Rather than acting like the sharp
executive, with the smart line in repartee to match the sassy copy she wrote for her ad campaigns, Magenta was staring at him as if he was an apparition—as if she didn't know what day it was. Even odder to him was her bemused acceptance—he'd expected the woman he'd met and flirted with yesterday to be furious to learn the biker she'd dismissed, and possibly even flirted back with the day before, and her new boss had turned out to be one and the same. He gave the office a thorough scan. ‘Have you been drinking?'

‘I have not!' she exclaimed indignantly. ‘I've been working.'

‘Commendable.' There were no bottles, but he saw the work laid out on the desk. She had been working and now she looked ready to pass out. ‘Lucky for you I have the bike here.'

‘The bike…'

Her eyes slowly cleared, but she was still looking at him as if she didn't know what century it was, let alone what day. ‘I'll take you home,' he explained in clear terms. ‘You can shower, eat, dress and get back here with your brain in gear. Okay with you?'

‘Do I have an option?' Colour was coming back into her cheeks.

‘No. Just grab your coat.'

‘I can't ride a bike dressed like this.' She stared down at her crumpled dress.

‘Are your workout clothes still in the gym?'

‘In the basement? Yes.'

‘Then change into gym clothes. I'll wait.'

She started to say something, but he was already out of the door. Magenta might be a first-class creative, but if she proved to be unreliable there was no place for her in his organisation. There was just something nagging at the back of his mind that said he shouldn't let her go yet.

And if he did, Quinn reflected dryly, it would be the first time he had fired someone for working too hard.

 

He liked the feeling of Magenta clinging on tight with her head pressed hard against his back, but as they rode through London he could sense her tension. He was in a hurry to see her restored to her fighting best; he had no intention of buying a company and losing its chief asset in the same day, he told himself firmly as he took a short cut through the market district. It wasn't usual for him to take quite such a personal interest in his staff, but Magenta had touched something inside him. The fact that she had worked until she'd quite literally dropped played on his mind. Seeing one of the all-night open-air booths was still serving, he stopped the bike. ‘Hot dog—ketchup, mustard?'

‘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.

‘Dinner tonight,' he said as she packed up her briefcase. ‘That wasn't a question, Magenta,' he added when she looked at him with surprise. ‘If we're going to take this company where it needs to go, you and I have to embark on a crash course of familiarisation so we can do more than work together. We have to be able to read each other's minds.'

‘Talking of which,' she said, a faint smile creeping onto her lips as she busied herself sorting documents, ‘is the theme I suggested for the party okay with you—or do you think it too predictable?'

‘Sixties?'

‘Medallions, flares and lots of chest hair?' She looked at him now, looked him long, hard and straight in the eyes.

‘I think I can come up with something.'

‘I'm sure you can.'

But it wouldn't wait until the party, Quinn thought as Magenta left the room.

 

‘You're impossible,' Tess told Magenta when she heard Magenta had booked a table for supper with Quinn for six o' clock that evening. ‘What sort of dating time is that? And why a steak house? Haven't you heard of sexy venues and subdued lighting?'

‘Not when I'm holding a business meeting—this isn't a date. Quinn and I have important things to discuss.'

‘Like what? Your place or mine?'

‘Like where we're going with the business. I'm only pleased that he's involving me.'

‘Magenta, are you blind? First off, you're the heart of Steele Design—you're the major reason people come to us for ideas. Quinn is never going to get rid of you. And, secondly, perhaps most important of all, Quinn is one hot-looking man.'

‘And my employer. I never mix business with pleasure.'

‘Never say never—and by the way, you with serious frown lines sprouting like weeds on your face, you're coming with me.'

Shaking her head in bemusement, Magenta allowed Tess to drag her out of the office. It was their lunch hour and she had been neglecting her friends recently.
Calm down—go with the flow for once
, she told herself firmly.

‘A hairdresser's?' Magenta said, gazing up at what seemed to be a vaguely familiar door.

‘Bed-head to beauty queen,' Tess promised, chivvying her inside. ‘I bring you my friend,' she told the young man with floppy hair. ‘You'd better look after her, Justin. I hold you personally responsible for the safe return of this woman. She must look refreshed and years younger by the time you've finished with her—like she's never done a day's work in her life.'

‘Miracles take a little longer,' Justin opined, studying Magenta critically.

‘If I'm a lost cause…' Magenta was already leaving.

‘Lost, you may be,' Justin declaimed in stentorian tones. ‘But now I have found you all will be well again.'

‘Oh, well, that's okay then,' Magenta said uncertainly, noticing Tess was blocking her only escape route to the door.

‘And see she gets her nails done, will you?' Tess added in an aside. ‘Something Jackie Kennedy—French manicure, perhaps? She might look like she works down a coal mine, but she's actually a creative.'

‘I know the type,' Justin assured her in a theatrical whisper.

‘Just make sure she's ready to play her role in a very
important sixties party tomorrow night. Oh, and she's got a date tonight, so make it sexy.'

‘Got it.'

‘You've gone too far this time,' Magenta complained, but Tess was already pulling faces at her from the wrong side of the door.

 

Magenta caught sight of her reflection in one of the many mirrors on the way out of the salon. Justin had given her a new look all right. Her hair was long, sleek and shiny, as opposed to the notorious bed-head frizz-top, as diagnosed by Tess.

Trust a friend to tell you the truth, Magenta thought wryly, brushing her long fringe out of her eyes. Justin had modelled her on one of his favourite sixties icons, he had explained, a model called Jean Shrimpton who had already appeared on the cover of
Vogue
at the age of eighteen. ‘But I'm twenty-eight,' Magenta had protested.

‘And don't look a day over forty,' Justin had told her reassuringly. ‘That's how you will continue to look unless you allow me to work a little magic.'

It was when Justin talked about magic that the dream started coming back to her—bits and pieces to begin with, and then rushing in on her like a tidal wave she couldn't escape. Not that it had anything to do with real magic; she knew that. Dreams were the work of an over-active mind. All she had to do was slow down a bit and she'd sleep soundly at night again.

Slowing down meant walking through the park instead of powering along the pavements, but slowing down allowed more thoughts to crowd in. There had been a pregnancy, she remembered—yes, a pregnancy in a dream, but the baby had seemed very real to her. It still did…

Silent tears crept down her icy cheeks.

She wanted a baby.

Having a baby had never crossed her mind before. She
hadn't realised there was anything missing in her life. She hadn't had time to realise anything was missing; work took up every minute. Slowing to a halt in front of a park bench, she sank down onto the cold wooden slats. Stretching out her legs in front of her, she gazed across the placid surface of the boating lake. She'd made a baby with Quinn? Well, that should have brought a smile to her face.