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She pushed back in his arms until she could meet his gaze, gripping his upper arms and shaking him. “Lucy won’t forgive you for not telling her what her little requests for restoration are costing you.”

“They’re costing me feck all. I didn’t have a big market before I planned the exhibition. That hasn’t changed.”

“You had a dream. And everyone who loves you has a share in that dream—Liam, Kate, your mum, me, even the babe. It will kill”—she searched his face and praise the saints; she kicked him metaphorically in the balls—“it is killing you to let this go. If you care for her, don’t do this.”

“I care,” he said.

Lucy had lost the first stable home she’d ever had. Cam’s generosity to him had helped tip her into debt. Niall wasn’t blind about his choices. A successful exhibition might attract serious monied buyers and prove he was a worthy mentor for the McTavish foundation.

“She needs to feel in control of her granda’s business.” Lucy was adrift. She’d asked him to help. Whatever the cost, he wouldn’t let her down. “It’s for a short time. I can give her a short time.”

“How long before you have to make the decision to cancel the exhibition?” Anna was back to brisk efficiency.

“A few weeks.” It was sheer stupidity not to do it now.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ten o’clock on Wednesdaynight and Lucy had sought refuge in flannel pyjamas, thick green and pink-striped woollen socks, and her gran’s quilted dressing gown. She glanced in the hall mirror before she opened the door and saw what she already knew. She was pale and a bit haggard around the mouth. Period pain did that to a lot of women. It was nothing to be embarrassed about, but neither did she feel like a temptress. She and Niall had only been lovers for ten days.

“Hi.” She forced a smile.

“Is something wrong?” His eyes were dark grey tonight, deep pools of patience. His scent settled her nauseous stomach.

“Come in.” She pulled the door wider and stepped back. She was new to real intimacy with a lover and unsure of herself. “We can talk in the kitchen. Bottom of the hall on the right.”

“I know where the kitchen is, Lucy.” His jaw jutted forward in reproach. “I don’t spend all my visits in your bed.”

“Sorry. I know you don’t.” She offered an apology when she hadn’t intended to offend. “You make tea and toast and serve me breakfast in bed.”

“Do you want tea and toast now?”

“I want to sit down.” She brushed past him to enter the kitchen first, taking a seat. “Do you want a drink? Tea, beer, Grandpa’s whiskey?”

“I don’t want the politeness you serve your customers.”

“I should have called.” She held her hair off her forehead, searching for the right words.