A Convenient Proposal. HELEN BROOKS

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