It was the first time a man had kissed her in three years.

It should have sent Carissa running straight for cover.

And he looked as shocked as she felt.

Swept off her feet.

This is magical. The words echoed through her head. The way his mouth had made her lips tingle. The Christmas tree lights and the scent of hot chocolate. The Christmassy music playing.

Yes, this was magical.

Unable to help herself, she reached up to lay the flat of her palm against his cheek.

“Quinn,” she whispered, and he dipped his head again. Brushed his mouth against hers all over again. And she was shaking so much that she had to hold on to him to stop herself falling over on the ice. She felt as if she were spinning in an endless pirouette, faster and faster and totally out of control.

This had to stop.

And yet she didn’t want it to stop.

A New Year Marriage Proposal
Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KATE HARDY lives in Norwich, in the east of England, with her husband, two young children, one bouncy spaniel, and too many books to count! When she’s not busy writing romance or researching local history she helps out at her children’s schools. She also loves cooking—spot the recipes sneaked into her books! (They’re also on her website, along with extracts and stories behind the books.) Writing for Mills & Boon has been a dream come true for Kate—something she wanted to do ever since she was twelve. She also writes for Medical Romance™.

Kate’s always delighted to hear from readers, so do drop in to her website at www.katehardy.com.

For Chris and Chloe—

who inspired the song between them and

who always make my Christmas special.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘GO AWAY,’ QUINN O’NEILL muttered as the doorbell rang. Right now was the worst possible time for an interruption; he was running a test on the new system, and if it fell over then he’d prefer to see it happen, to save him having to wade through thousands of lines of coding to find out exactly where the problem was. Whoever was at the door wasn’t expected, hadn’t been invited, and definitely wasn’t wanted right now. And who would ring someone’s doorbell at a quarter to eight in the morning anyway?

The bell rang again.

Oh, for pity’s sake. It wasn’t as if he could pause the test. If he cancelled it, that would be an hour and a half wasted. ‘Give up and go away,’ he said, scowling.

It rang again.

Whoever was at the front door clearly wasn’t going to go away, so he didn’t really have any choice. He’d have to answer the door, get rid of whoever it was as quickly as he could, and just hope that the system didn’t fall over before he got back to it.

His first thought as he opened the door was that she looked like a lawyer or someone in high finance. She wore a little black suit—expensively cut—teamed with a crisp white shirt, soft burgundy leather gloves and a matching cashmere scarf as concessions to the chilly November morning, and killer high heels, with her blonde hair pulled back severely in a French pleat. Make-up that was barely there. Glasses that made her look academic and just a little bit intimidating. Lawyer, then.

‘Yes?’ he drawled.

She extended one hand, and he noticed then that she was carrying a large cylindrical tin and a plant as well as a briefcase. Leather. Expensive. Definitely something in law or the City.

‘Mr O’Neill, welcome to Grove End Mews.’ Her accent was totally plummy. Wealthy background, he guessed. Then again, given how much he’d just paid for his new house in Belgravia, it was pretty obvious that all his neighbours would be from wealthy backgrounds. Assuming she was his neighbour. But why else would she be welcoming him to the area?

As if his thoughts were written all over his face, she introduced herself. ‘Carissa Wylde, chair of the residents’ association.’

‘Clarissa?’

‘Carissa,’ she corrected chirpily. ‘No L.’

Clearly a lot of people made that mistake, then.

She gave him a sweet smile. ‘I hope you’ve moved in OK. I brought you these from the Residents’ Association to welcome you to the mews.’

Oh, no. He really didn’t have time for this sort of nonsense. A residents’ association was for busybodies with too much time on their hands, and he wanted no part of it. And wasn’t that sort of thing normally chaired by someone on the far side of fifty, not someone who looked under thirty? ‘It’s very nice of you to call,’ he said, not meaning a word of it, ‘but I don’t want to join any residents’ association, thank you.’ Before she could protest, he added, ‘For the record, it doesn’t worry me who parks where or what colour people want to paint their front doors. I’m not going to complain.’

‘The Residents’ Association isn’t about that sort of thing.’ Her smile didn’t exactly falter, but it did become slightly more fixed. ‘It’s about mutual support and making life easier.’

For him, making life easier meant Carissa Wylde going away and leaving him in peace. Preferably right now.

Before Quinn had the chance to say so, she added, ‘So you know where to go if you need work done on your house, that sort of thing.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean a cartel?’

‘No,’ she said crisply, ‘but these are all listed houses, and the building regulations people are just a little bit picky about who they’ll allow to work on them.’

‘So why don’t I just ask the building regulations people for a list if I need someone?’

‘Because my list,’ she said softly, ‘comes with personal recommendations. So you know the contractors are child-and pet-friendly, clear up after themselves, do the job properly—and you’re not going to get unwanted flashes of saggy bottoms.’

‘Oh.’ He felt slightly small.

‘Welcome to Grove End Mews, Mr O’Neill,’ she said again, then handed him the plant, the tin and an envelope that he guessed contained a ‘welcome to your new home’ card, then turned to go.

OK, she’d come at a bad time—but there was no way she could’ve known that. Most people would’ve assumed that he was busy unpacking and would welcome an interruption to give him a break, given that he’d moved in the day before. He glanced at the tin. It looked as if she’d brought him home-made cake. Still slightly warm, from the feel of the tin. She’d been kind. Welcomed him to the neighbourhood. And he’d just been really rude. Obnoxious, even. Not a good start. He raked his hand through his hair. ‘Ms Wylde—wait.’

She turned back and looked at him. ‘Yes?’

‘Thank you for the plant. And the, um, cake.’ At least, he assumed it was cake. Maybe she’d brought him cookies.

She shrugged. ‘It’s a tad more difficult to buy a welcome gift for a man. It’s unlikely you’ll even own a vase, so I thought a plant would be a safer bet than flowers—and by the way that’s a dracaena, so you can get away with neglecting it a bit.’

Just as well. He didn’t really do plants. He didn’t do anything that needed looking after. Pets, plants and kids were all a total no-no in Quinn’s world.

‘Thank you,’ he said again, feeling weirdly at a loss. How had she managed to do that?

‘My pleasure.’ The smile was back. ‘See you later, Mr O’Neill.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He glanced at the front of the envelope. Quinn O’Neill was written in bold black script. He stared at her. ‘How did you know my name?’

She shrugged. ‘I have a good spy network.’

Obviously the surprise showed in his face because she tipped her head back and laughed. And Quinn was suddenly very aware of the curve of her throat. Pure, clean lines. And the temptation to lean over and touch his mouth to her throat heated his skin and shocked him in equal measure. He hadn’t had such a physical reaction like that to anyone for longer than he could remember.

‘I was friends with Maddie and Jack, who lived here before you,’ she explained. ‘They told me your name.’

‘Of course.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I should have worked that out for myself.’ Spy network, indeed. Of course that hadn’t been a crack about what he did for a living. Because she wouldn’t have a clue what he did...would she?

‘Moving house is one of the most stressful life events and I’ve obviously caught you at a bad moment. I’m sorry. I’ll let you get on,’ she said. ‘I’m at number seven if you need anything or want an introduction to people.’

Again, she gave him one of those sweet smiles, and Quinn was stunned to realise that it had completely scrambled his brains, because all he could manage in reply was, ‘Uh-huh.’ And then he watched her walk swiftly down the paved street outside the mews, her heels clicking on the stone slabs. The way her bottom swayed as she walked put him in a daze.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He never let himself get distracted from his work. Well, except for when he’d dated Tabitha, and he’d been twenty-one and naïve back then. He hadn’t been enough for her—and he’d vowed then not to repeat that mistake and to keep his heart intact in future. He knew it had given him a reputation of being a bit choosy and not letting people close—but it was easier that way. And he made it clear from the outset that his relationships were fun and strictly short term, so nobody got hurt.

So why, now, was he letting a complete stranger distract him?

‘Get real. Even if she’s single—and, looking like that, I doubt it very much—you are most definitely not getting involved. You just don’t have time for this,’ he told himself sharply, closed the door and headed back to his computer. And hoped the system hadn’t fallen over...

* * *

Carissa was already at her desk at Hinchcliffe and Turnbull by the time her PA walked in with a large mug of coffee, made just the way Carissa liked it. Carissa looked up and smiled. ‘Morning, Mindy.’

‘Sorry I’m late. The bus got held up,’ Mindy said. ‘I’ll stay late tonight to make up the time.’

Carissa smiled and shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. You’re almost never late, and you work through your lunch break when you shouldn’t as it is. Thanks for the coffee.’

‘Thank you for the brownies,’ Mindy said, referring to the parcel that Carissa had left on her desk. ‘Have I told you lately that you’re the best boss in the world?’

Carissa laughed. ‘Don’t let Sara hear you say that. We’re supposed to be the joint best, given that we job-share.’

‘Sara doesn’t make me cake,’ Mindy said. ‘But OK, I won’t tell her. Your ten o’clock appointment just phoned to say he’s running fifteen minutes late, so I’ll ring your eleven o’clock to see if he can wait a little.’

‘Great,’ Carissa said. ‘If not, then I’ll try and wrap up the ten o’clock as near on time as I can, if you can stall Mr Eleven o’Clock for a few minutes with some of your fantastic coffee.’

‘But not with the brownies,’ Mindy said, laughing as she headed for the door. ‘Because they’re mine—all mine!’

Carissa leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee. Weird how she couldn’t concentrate today. Normally by now she’d have lists written and she’d be knee-deep in something to do with contract law. But today her mind kept returning to her new neighbour.

Quinn O’Neill.

Maddie hadn’t known much about him, other than his name and the fact he was single. She thought he might be something to do with computers. Something very well paid, if he could afford a three-bedroom house in Grove End Mews.

Yet Quinn definitely didn’t look like the kind of man who wore a suit and tie to the office. This morning he’d been wearing faded jeans, a T-shirt that was equally faded with half the print of the band’s logo worn away, and canvas shoes without socks.

Not that you’d wear your best clothes when you were unpacking boxes, but even so. There was something that didn’t quite add up. Scruffiness didn’t tend to go with the kind of money you needed to buy a mews house in Belgravia. The rest of her male neighbours were all clean-shaven and had immaculate hair. Quinn O’Neill had had two-day-old stubble and hair that made him look as if he’d just got out of bed.

And she wished she hadn’t thought about that. Because now she was imagining him just climbing out of her bed. Naked. Wearing only that stubble and a very wicked smile.

What on earth was she doing? She knew better than that. Since Justin, she’d avoided all relationships, not trusting herself to get it right next time and pick one of the good guys. Why on earth was she indulging in ridiculous fantasies about a man she’d only just met and knew practically nothing about? A man, furthermore, who’d made it very clear that he wasn’t interested in overtures of friendship from anyone in Grove End Mews and wanted to be left alone?

She managed to concentrate on her file for the next ten minutes.

But then Quinn O’Neill’s face was back in her mind’s eye. Dark eyes lit with mischief. A mouth promising rich rewards for giving in to temptation. And hair that looked as if it had just been mussed by a lover.

Oh, for pity’s sake. Why couldn’t she get him out of her head?

She needed a reality check. Like now. To stop her making the same mistakes all over again. Yes, her instincts were to trust him; but then again her instincts had been wrong when it had come to Justin. What was to say that she’d learned her lesson? It wasn’t a risk she wanted to take.

She pulled her computer keyboard towards her, flicked into the internet, and typed his name into the search engine.

The most interesting page was a fairly recent one from the Celebrity Life! website. Carissa didn’t usually read gossip magazines, not enjoying their exaggeration and the speculation with a slightly nasty edge; but the headline had grabbed her attention:‘Smart Is the New Sexy.’

According to the article, Quinn was a real-life ‘Q’, developing gadgets and computer systems for the government.

Which suddenly made him a lot more interesting to Carissa. He might just turn out to be the missing piece she needed. Not just for the extra-special Santa she was planning for the ward opening next month, but for several other projects as well. That would put him very safely on the not-mixing-business-with-pleasure list, so she could think about him strictly in terms of business in future and not let herself wonder what his mouth would feel like against hers.

And if he was freelance—as the article hinted—then he might be open to persuasion to help her.

But what would persuade Quinn O’Neill to work on Project Sparkle?

She could afford to pay him the going rate, but she wanted people on her team who cared about more than just money or status. Particularly as Project Sparkle was something that she tried to keep out of the media. She needed someone with a good heart.

Did Quinn O’Neill have a good heart?

The article couldn’t tell her that. And, actually, it didn’t say that much about what he did in his job; the journalist hinted that it was forbidden by the Official Secrets Act. But maybe Quinn was just a little bit vain, because after all he had posed for photographs. In some of them, he was wearing a very expensively cut suit, a crisp white shirt and an understated silk tie. More James Bond than Sherlock Holmes, she thought; but if Quinn was good at solving problems then the headline did perhaps have a point.

‘Mindy,’ Carissa asked, when her PA came in with the post, ‘would you agree with this headline?’

Mindy took the magazine and studied the pages. ‘Yum,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ Then she looked at Carissa. ‘Why?’

‘No reason,’ Carissa said. ‘Just idle curiosity.’

‘I’ve worked with you for five years,’ Mindy reminded her. ‘You haven’t dated for the last three. For you to ask me if I think a guy is sexy means—’

‘I don’t date because I’m busy with my work,’ Carissa cut in.

They both knew that wasn’t the real reason Carissa didn’t date. And they both knew that Carissa would absolutely not discuss it. Mindy was one of the three people who knew exactly what scars Justin had left—and the subject was permanently closed.

‘He’s asked you out?’ Mindy asked.

‘That’s ridiculous. No. He’s moved in, three doors down,’ Carissa responded. ‘I was thinking, I could use some of his skills.’

Mindy skimmed through the article and raised her eyebrows. ‘For Project Sparkle, you mean?’ she asked, lowering her voice.

‘And for the opening of the Wylde Ward. But I need an idea of what might persuade him to help me. Besides money, obviously.’

‘Make him some of your brownies,’ Mindy said promptly. ‘Give them to him when they’re just out of the oven.’

‘I already did that, this morning,’ Carissa said. ‘As a moving-in present.’

‘Bad, bad idea.’ Mindy rolled her eyes. ‘You should have given him a shop-bought cake if you really had to give the guy some cake. Your brownies are special, and not to be wasted. They’re your secret weapon—and you don’t use your secret weapon on day one. You wait until the appropriate time to use it.’

Carissa couldn’t help laughing. ‘He might not even like chocolate.’

‘Then that would make him totally wrong for Project Sparkle in any case,’ Mindy retorted.

‘I guess.’ Carissa shook herself. ‘Right. To work. And thanks, Mindy.’

‘Any time. Oh, and your eleven o’clock agreed to move his slot back by fifteen minutes. You’re good to go.’

‘You,’ Carissa said, ‘are wonderful.’

‘Just keep bringing the brownies,’ Mindy said with a grin.

* * *

When Quinn’s stomach rumbled, he remembered that he hadn’t actually had time for breakfast yet. He couldn’t be bothered to go down to the kitchen to grab some cereal but he did have the tin of cake that Carissa Wylde had given him.

And there was nobody there to complain that cake wasn’t a breakfast food. Nobody to count the carbs and sigh and look pained. Nobody to stop him doing what he wanted because her needs had to come first, second and third.

He opened the tin.

The cake smelled good. Really good.

He picked up a square. Still warm, too. Crisp edges against his fingertips, and yet there was enough give when he held it for him to know that the inside would be deliciously squidgy.

He took a bite.

Heaven in a cube.

Had Carissa made the brownies herself? If so, he was going to find out what he could trade her for more of those brownies, fresh out of the oven. Maybe she had a temperamental laptop that needed coaxing back to life every so often. Something that wouldn’t take him long to fix—just long enough for her to be grateful and make him some brownies. He made a mental note to float that one by her, and then finished off the rest of the tin.

The brownies kept him going all day, until he’d finished the testing and was satisfied that the system did exactly what he’d designed it to do. A quick call to let his client know that all was well and he’d install everything at their office first thing tomorrow, and he was done.

Which left unpacking.

Not that he had huge amounts of boxes. He kept as much as he could digitally. Lots of clutter meant lots of dust. And he’d never seen the point in the knick-knacks his aunt displayed on her mantelpiece and in her china cabinet. If it wasn’t functional, Quinn wasn’t interested. Minimalism suited him much better.

He’d already done the important stuff yesterday—his office and his bed. The rest of it could wait.

He glanced at his watch.

Half past seven.

Was it too late to call in at number seven and return the cake tin to Carissa Wylde? Or would she be in the middle of dinner?

There was only one way to find out. Either way, he could talk to her or arrange a time to talk to her.

And this had nothing at all to do with the fact that every time he’d looked away from his computer desk that day he’d seen her laughing in his mind’s eye, the curve of her throat soft and tempting and inviting.

He washed up the tin, dried it, and walked out into the mews to ring Carissa’s doorbell. She answered the door in less than a minute—still dressed in this morning’s black suit and white shirt, though this time she’d changed the killer heels. For bunny slippers. Which should’ve made him sneer, but actually it made her endearingly cute.

‘Oh. Mr O’Neill.’

Given that he’d been a bit gruff with her this morning, it wasn’t surprising that she looked a bit wary of him now. ‘Quinn,’ he said, hoping that the offer of first-name terms was enough of an overture. ‘I’m returning your tin. Thank you for the cake.’

‘Pleasure. I hope you liked it.’

‘I did. I liked it a lot,’ he said, and her cheeks went pink with pleasure.

Which was bad, because now he was imagining her face flushed for quite a different reason. For goodness’ sake. Could his libido not keep itself under control for two minutes? And he really didn’t think that a woman like Carissa Wylde would agree to the terms he insisted on nowadays when it came to relationships—light, a bit of fun, and absolute emotional distance. Nothing serious. Nothing deep. Nothing that could end up with him getting hurt. His instincts told him that she was the sort who’d want closeness. Something that wasn’t in his skill set. Which would mean she’d get hurt—and he didn’t want to hurt her.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.

How terribly English and upper class she sounded, he thought, faintly amused—and yet she was more than a stereotype. She drew him. Intrigued him. And a cup of tea wouldn’t hurt, would it? It didn’t mean getting close. It meant being neighbourly.

‘That would be nice,’ he said. ‘If your husband doesn’t mind.’

Her face shuttered. ‘No husband. And, even if there was one, I have the right to invite a neighbour in for a cup of tea.’

Ouch. He’d clearly trodden on a sore spot. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to...’ Hmm. She was clearly a rich, successful businesswoman. Maybe a divorced one. And he didn’t have ridiculous preconceptions about a woman’s place in any case. ‘I didn’t mean to imply,’ he said, ‘that you needed a husband to validate you.’

She looked surprised, then pleased. ‘Apology accepted. Come in.’

And how different her house was from his own. The air smelled of beeswax—clearly any wood in the house was polished to within an inch of its life—and the lights were soft and welcoming rather than stark and functional. He noted fresh flowers in the hallway. And he’d just bet that her living room held cases of leather-bound books. Carissa looked like a woman who read rather than flicking endlessly through channels of repeats on satellite TV.

When she led him through to the kitchen, he wasn’t surprised to see that the work surfaces weren’t covered in clutter. But it was definitely a kitchen that was used rather than one that was all for show. An efficient one, he thought, tallying with his view of her as a successful businesswoman.

She used proper tea leaves rather than teabags—so clearly she had an eye for detail and liked things done properly—and her teapot was silver. Quinn had a nasty feeling that it was solid silver rather than silver plate. As was the tea strainer. And the sugar bowl and spoons.

Old money, then? Very different from his own background. Not that it mattered. He’d made his own way in life, and he was comfortable with who he was.

‘Milk?’ she asked.

‘Please.’

And she proceeded to pour him the perfect cup of tea. In what looked like an antique porcelain cup.

It was made even more perfect by the fact that she’d placed more brownies on a matching porcelain plate.

‘Help yourself,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’ He didn’t need a second invitation.

‘So, Mr O’Neill. Quinn.’ She smiled at him. ‘The real-life Q.’

He almost choked on his brownie. Particularly when she added, ‘“Smart Is the New Sexy.”’

He groaned, knowing exactly what she was referring to. ‘Just ignore anything you read in that magazine. Please,’ he added, looking pained. ‘I only did the interview as a favour to a friend, and her boss went a bit mad with it. I didn’t say half of what was reported. And I’m not...’ Time to shut up. Before he dug that hole any deeper.

‘The looks bit I can judge for myself,’ she said, and a prickle of awareness ran up his spine.

He was definitely attracted to her.

Was she saying that she was attracted to him?

She had no husband. He had no wife.

There was no reason why they couldn’t...

Apart from the fact that he didn’t do closeness. And he had a feeling that would be a deal-breaker for her.

‘The rest of it...is it true?’ she asked. ‘You develop gadgets?’

‘A lot of what I do,’ he said carefully, ‘is bound by the Official Secrets Act.’

‘So basically, if you tell me what you really do, you’ll have to kill me.’

She was so irrepressible that he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. So you can keep things confidential.’

Where was this going? he wondered, but inclined his head.

‘Strong and silent.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘But what I really want to know is if you can build systems.’

‘What kind of systems?’

‘Computer systems. Clever ones.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘At ridiculously short notice.’

Yes, yes and yes. ‘Why?’

‘Because, Mr O’Neill, I have a proposition for you.’

He had a sudden vision of her in a pretty dress with her hair loose, laughing up at him and offering a kiss...

No. If he had any kind of relationship at all with Carissa Wylde, it would be very simple, very defined, and with built-in barriers. Neighbours or strictly business. Nothing closer. ‘A business proposition,’ he clarified.

‘Of course.’

Which should be a relief. But instead it tied him up in knots, which he really hadn’t expected. He didn’t want to get involved with anyone. He liked his life the way it was.

But clearly his mouth wasn’t listening to his head, because he found himself saying, ‘Tell me more.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘I WANT YOU to build me a virtual Santa,’ Carissa said. ‘It’s for the opening of a new children’s ward.’

‘A virtual Santa.’ Now Quinn understood: obviously she worked in PR. That would explain the expensive clothes—and the glasses. To make her look serious rather than fluffy. Image was everything in PR. And the fact that she could even consider commissioning something without having to ask the price first meant that she didn’t have to defer to anyone on her budget; so she was the owner or director of the company and the client trusted her judgement absolutely. ‘Why can’t you have a real Santa?’

‘I intend to,’ she said. ‘But I need the virtual one first.’

‘Why? Surely a real Santa would come with a sack of gifts?’

A tiny pleat appeared between her eyebrows. ‘He will. But the virtual one will chat to them first. A life-sized one—I guess a holographic thing will probably be too difficult to do at short notice, but we could have a life-sized screen. Santa will get them to say what they really want for Christmas. In the meantime, people behind the scenes can buy the gifts, wrap them and label them, and then the real Santa walks in with all the gifts on his sleigh, and he delivers their perfect Christmas present.’

Quinn could see exactly how the system could work. It wouldn’t take very much effort at all to build the system she wanted. And suddenly everything was all right again: he could treat this as a business project.

‘OK. Does it have to be life-sized? Because a screen that big is going to be really costly,’ he warned. She might be able to persuade various businesses to donate or loan some equipment, but not for something as specialised as that.

She thought about it. ‘Some of the children might be too sick to leave their beds. I guess something portable would be better for them—so basically we’re taking Santa to them. And if everyone uses the same system then nobody will feel left out or different.’

‘So you could use a laptop or tablet, say.’ He thought about it. ‘That’d be very doable. And it would save you money if you could use something you already have.’

‘And I was thinking maybe we could use the barcodes on an appointment letter or the children’s medical notes, so Santa knows the children’s names even as they look at the screen,’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘No chance. You’ll fall foul of all the data protection laws. You’d have to get permission from the health authority to use their data—and, believe me, you’d have to jump through hoops to get that permission—and then you’d also need written permission from every single parent or guardian. It’s not going to happen. You need a different way of doing it.’

‘So what would you suggest?’ she asked.

‘Give me until tomorrow to think about it,’ he said, ‘and I’ll come up with a plan. How are you organising the gifts?’

‘Santa will pass the information to a team who’ll source the gifts, buy them, get them wrapped and couriered over to the hospital. Timing’s going to be a bit tight, but it’s doable,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about that bit. I’ve already got an arrangement with a couple of large toy shops and department stores.’

‘They’re donating the gifts?’

‘No. We’re picking up the costs. They’ve just agreed to supply what we want and give us priority treatment.’

Quinn had the distinct feeling that this was personal as well as business. Maybe Carissa knew a child who’d been in hospital at Christmas. Someone who’d been close to her.

‘It’s the virtual Santa that’s important,’ she added.

‘And you have someone lined up to play him?’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘One last thing.’

‘Yes?’

There was a hint of anxiety in her eyes. ‘This has to be totally confidential.’

He didn’t get it. ‘Isn’t the whole point of PR to get media coverage?’

‘For the opening of the children’s ward, yes. For the person behind Santa, no.’

Maybe it wasn’t personal for her, then. Maybe it was personal for her client—and Carissa was the kind of PR professional who’d go the extra mile to make sure that her clients got exactly what they wanted.

‘Got it. OK. Let’s have an update meeting tomorrow at my place,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you timings, costs and a workable solution.’

‘That,’ she said, ‘sounds perfect.’

‘What time do you want to meet?’

‘Seven?’ she suggested. ‘If that works for you.’

‘It works.’ He finished his tea and stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea and brownies, Ms Wylde.’

‘Carissa,’ she corrected. ‘Thank you for taking on the project. I’ll make sure your invoice is processed promptly.’

‘You haven’t asked my hourly rate yet,’ he said.

‘I’m sure it will be in line with the market rate.’

Meaning that she’d make him feel guilty and he’d cut his rate if it was too high. He was about to agree, but his mouth went freelance on him again. ‘Make me some more of that cake and we’ll call tonight’s meeting a freebie.’

‘Deal,’ she said.

And when he shook her hand, his palm actually tingled.

Not good.

This was business. And she was his neighbour. And you most definitely didn’t mix any of those things with anything else, not if you wanted a quiet life where you could just get on with your work without your heart being tied up in knots all the time.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, and left before he did anything stupid. Like turning her hand over and kissing her wrist. Letting his mouth linger on her pulse point. And asking her for a date.

* * *

What Carissa had learned about Quinn O’Neill: he was bright. He liked chocolate. He had a good heart. And he was definitely smart as well as sexy.

But she’d just involved him in the project she’d been working on for years. Something she couldn’t afford to go wrong, because it was way too important to her. In her experience, getting involved meant getting out of her depth. Getting hurt. She’d only just managed to paper over the cracks post-Justin; the glue still needed time to dry, time to help her form a shell to keep her heart safe. So having any kind of involvement with Quinn other than a business relationship—even if he was smart, sexy and sensitive—would be a very bad idea.

‘He’s off limits,’ she told herself. Out loud, just to make sure she’d got the message.

But she still couldn’t quite get him out of her head.

She worked through her lunch hour the next day so she’d be home in time to make brownies before the meeting. And at precisely seven she rang Quinn’s doorbell.

‘Punctual. Good. Come in.’ He glanced at the cake tin. ‘Last night’s fee?’

‘Last night’s fee,’ she confirmed.

‘Good. Thank you.’ He took the tin from her. ‘Coffee?’

‘Thanks. Milk, no sugar,’ she said.

‘Come up.’

The layout of Quinn’s house was very similar to her own; she remembered it from visiting Maddie and Jack. Like her, he had a table in the kitchen where he could eat—or work maybe. He gestured to her to sit down, and switched on the kettle.

Like her, she noticed, he had no clutter on the worktops. But it didn’t feel like a cook’s kitchen. Though maybe she was being unfair. He’d only moved in two days before. He’d barely had time to unpack—and she’d noticed a few cardboard boxes by the door to the living room. It made her flush with guilt; he’d hardly even moved in, and she’d already inveigled him into working extra hours on her project, fitting it around whatever work he already had on, knowing that freelancers rarely said no because they couldn’t afford to pass up a project in case it left them with a gap in their schedule—and their finances.

Before she could apologise for being pushy, Quinn put a mug of coffee in front of her. He opened the lid of the cake tin but didn’t put the brownies on a plate. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘Right. I’ve been thinking about how your system could work.’

Guilt flooded over her. ‘I’m sorry for dumping extra work on you,’ she said in a rush.

He scoffed. ‘What you wanted isn’t rocket science. Well, it might’ve been if you’d insisted on a life-size virtual Santa. This is easy and it took me about five minutes to work it all out. What you need is a simple video link. We’ll avoid microphone noise by getting Santa to wear a wire—and the person at the children’s ward who takes the tablet round to the kids also needs to wear a wire.’

‘That would be me. And they’re going to see if I’m wearing a microphone or headset. I guess you can hide Santa’s in his hat or beard, but...’ She grimaced. ‘I don’t want them to see mine.’

‘They’re not going to see anything,’ he said. ‘When I say wearing a wire, I don’t mean a physical wire—it’s not like the kind of thing you saw on cop shows twenty years ago, where someone had a microphone taped to his chest and attached to a recording device worn round his waist. I mean having an app on the tablet and doing the “wire” through software. The audio quality’s better than an old-fashioned wire or a headset.’

She blinked. ‘You can do that?’

‘It’s not new technology,’ he informed her. ‘And it’s not as if we need to miniaturise anything or hide it in something tiny in a way that means it’ll get past any detection equipment.’

Which sounded as if he did that sort of thing all the time.

‘You’re carrying a tablet so the kids can see Santa and talk to him. The app runs unobtrusively in the background.’

‘I feel a bit stupid,’ she admitted.

‘Unless you work in the area, how are you meant to know the technology exists?’ he asked.

Carissa mentally added ‘kind’ to Quinn’s list of attributes. And tried very hard not to think about ‘Smart Is the New Sexy’. Justin had been sexy, too. Smart. And he’d been the biggest mistake of her life. She couldn’t risk getting things wrong like that again.

‘So. The app broadcasts the audio—not just to Santa, but through headphones to the support team. You tell us the patient’s name just before you take the tablet over to the child, so Santa can get the name right and do the “magic” bit by greeting the kid by name.

‘The team picks up what the child wants as a gift and organises it with your supplier on another line—they’ll be able to hear you clearly, but you won’t be able to hear anyone except Santa on the tablet. And your team will work on collaborative software with a database so they all know who’s ordered what and from where—that way, nothing gets missed or duplicated.’

‘And you have this collaborative software?’ she asked.

‘Yes, and I can tweak it to suit your needs. I can train your team on it so they’ll be perfect within about half an hour.’

She looked at him. ‘I don’t know what to say. Except I’m impressed.’

‘It’s really not rocket science,’ he said again. ‘It’s just putting a couple of systems together.’

‘Have you actually worked in rocket science, then?’ The question came out before she could stop it.

Quinn wrinkled his nose, and Carissa had to tell herself not to notice how cute it made him look. ‘I can’t answer that,’ he said.

She blew out a breath. ‘OK. Timings and costings?’

‘When’s the opening day?’

‘Four weeks tomorrow.’ The anniversary of her parents’ plane crash. So she’d have something good to look forward to on that day, to take the sting out of it. And it had felt fitting to do something in their memory on that day.

‘You can have the software to play with at any time in the next week. And I’ll give you the paperwork tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘Do you need virtual reindeer?’

‘No. I have real ones.’

‘OK. Then we’re done.’ He paused. ‘Unless you want to stay for dinner.’

Dinner with Quinn O’Neill.

Of course he didn’t mean candlelight, roses and vintage champagne. Or somewhere under the stars on a roof garden. Particularly in November. Just why were these ridiculous ideas seeping into her head? The man was a neighbour. A work colleague, of sorts. Not a potential date. And she didn’t do dates anyway. This was a business meeting and it was about the time that most people ate in the evening. They both had to eat, so they might as well eat together. It didn’t mean anything deeper than that.

He was waving a piece of paper at her. A menu.

‘Takeaway pizza?’ she asked.

‘Works for me.’

Now she had a better idea why his kitchen hadn’t had a cook’s vibe about it. She’d just bet his fridge was bare, too, except for milk and maybe some cheese. She had a feeling that Quinn O’Neill was the kind of man who forgot to eat when he was busy, or lived on takeaway food and didn’t notice what he was eating—it was fuel, and nothing more than that.

‘Pizza,’ she said.

He gave her a pointed look. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t eat carbs. Not when you make brownies as good as those.’

‘No. Of course I eat carbs. But...takeaway pizza. The stuff with a thick crust. Ick.’ She liked the thin, crispy type. She grimaced and shook her head. ‘Look, I have fresh tuna and some stir-fry veg in my fridge. Why don’t we have dinner at mine?’

‘Healthy food. Fish and vegetables.’ He looked slightly disgusted.

She hid a smile. Just as she’d thought: he lived on junk. She could offer a compromise there. ‘And polenta fries.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘Are they as good as your brownies?’

‘According to my best friend, yes.’

‘Done,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring wine.’

‘Are you quite sure you don’t want a wheatgrass shot?’

‘I’m going to pretend,’ he said, ‘that you’re teasing, because I have a nasty feeling you might actually be serious—and there’s no way I’m drinking a glass of green gloop.’

‘I was teasing. Though I could source it.’

He grimaced and shook his head. ‘No need. How long does it take to make polenta fries?’

‘About forty minutes.’

‘Which gives me time to go and find some wine.’

Of course he wouldn’t have wine, especially if his fridge was practically bare. Plus he’d only just moved in. ‘You really don’t have to bring wine,’ she said.

‘I do. And pudding,’ he said. ‘Because you’re not getting these brownies back. This is business, so we’ll both bring something to the table.’

Business. She was glad he’d said that. Because it stopped her fantasising about something truly stupid. Such as what it would be like to have a proper date with Quinn O’Neill. She wasn’t ready for dating again. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be ready. But business she could do.

‘OK. Deal. See you in thirty minutes or so,’ she said.

* * *

Quinn hit pure gold in the wine shop: they had a deli section, with a display of French macarons in pretty colours.

Pistachio, vanilla, coffee. And then some more unusual flavours: violet and blueberry, white chocolate and pomegranate, crème brûlée, salted caramel. The perfect gift for a foodie like Carissa, he thought.

He bought a boxful, plus a bottle of flinty Chablis.

Back at the mews, he rang Carissa’s doorbell.

She answered the door wearing a cotton apron covered in hearts over her skirt and shirt; it made her look younger and much more approachable than she’d seemed the first time he’d met her.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Dinner’s almost ready.’

He handed her the bottle and the box. ‘The box needs to go in the fridge,’ he said. ‘The wine’s already chilled.’

‘Thank you—though you really didn’t need to bring anything. Come up.’

He closed the door behind them and followed her up the stairs to her kitchen. She’d laid her kitchen table, he noticed, with a white damask tablecloth, solid silver cutlery, very elegant fine glassware and a white porcelain vase containing deep purple spray carnations.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he asked.

‘Given that you waved a pizza menu at me, can you actually cook?’ she teased.

‘I make great toasted sandwiches, I’ll have you know,’ he protested.

She just laughed, and again he had a vision of the way she’d laughed on his doorstep, tipping her head back.

Down, boy, he told his libido sharply.

All the same, he couldn’t take his eyes off her as she stood by the hob, stirring vegetables in a wok. Did she have the faintest clue how gorgeous she was?

The radio was playing a song he really loathed: ‘Santa, Bring My Baby Home for Christmas.’ A super-sweet Christmas song that always meant the festive season was on its way. Quinn’s least favourite time of year. Funny, he’d expected Carissa to listen to opera or highbrow stuff, not a singalong pop station. Which just went to show that you shouldn’t assume things about people.

‘That song’s so terrible,’ he said, rolling his eyes. ‘Talk about cheesy. And sugary.’

‘Rather a mix of metaphors,’ she said drily.

‘You know what I mean.’ He sang along with the chorus. ‘“I wish, my baby, you were home tonight; I wish, my baby, I could hold you tight. Santa, bring my baby home for Christmas; Santa, bring my baby home to me.”’ He grimaced. ‘It’s terrible!’

‘Well, hey.’ She spread her hands. ‘Meet the original baby.’

‘What?’ He wasn’t following this conversation. At all. Or was she teasing him, the way she had about the wheatgrass shot? Did she just have a weird sense of humour?

‘My dad wrote that song,’ she said. ‘About me.’

He blinked. ‘Your dad?’

‘Uh-huh. Pete Wylde. The Wylde Boys,’ she expanded.

He was silenced momentarily. Carissa Wylde was the daughter of the late musician Pete Wylde. And Quinn hadn’t made the connection. At all.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I...um...’

‘You hate Dad’s music.’ She shrugged. ‘Each to their own taste.’

‘No, I do like some of his stuff. Just not the Christmas song. And I’m digging myself a deeper hole here.’ He blew out a breath. ‘I really don’t mean to insult you, Carissa.’

‘It’s OK. I won’t hold it against you.’

Her voice was neutral and her face was impassive, and he didn’t have a clue what she was thinking. ‘So your father actually wrote the song for you?’

‘My first Christmas,’ she said. ‘I was only a few weeks old. I was in hospital for a week with a virus that meant I couldn’t breathe very easily, and I had to be fed by a tube until I was better. The only way Dad coped with it was to bring his guitar to the hospital, sit by my bed and play me songs. That’s why he wrote “Santa, Bring My Baby Home for Christmas”.’

And now Quinn understood for the first time what the song was actually saying. Pete Wylde had wanted his tiny baby daughter home for her first Christmas, safe and well and in his arms. It wasn’t a cheesy love song at all. It had come straight from the heart.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. And not just because he’d insulted her. Because he was envious. What would it be liked to be loved and wanted so much by your family? It was something he’d never had. His mother had been quick enough to dump him on his aunt and uncle, and he’d always felt a bit like a spare part in their home. Which was probably why he was antsy about getting attached to anyone now: it was something he’d never really done.

‘You don’t need to like the song,’ she said with a smile. ‘Though plenty of people do. It makes shedloads of royalties every Christmas.’

But Quinn was pretty sure that money wasn’t what motivated Carissa Wylde. ‘And?’

‘Dad arranged to put half the royalties from the song in a trust,’ she said. ‘Which has been enough to fund the building and equipping of a new children’s ward, including an intensive care unit. All state-of-the-art equipment—and we’ll be able to keep it that way in the future.’

‘The ward that needs a virtual Santa.’ It dawned on him now. ‘You’re the client.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘So do you do PR for anyone else?’

She frowned. ‘PR?’

‘That’s what you do, isn’t it? PR?’

‘No. I’m a lawyer,’ she said.

So he’d been right first time round. ‘Oh.’

‘Sit down,’ she said, ‘or if you want you can grab the corkscrew from the drawer and open that lovely wine you brought. Third drawer on the right.’

She was letting him off the hook. And he was grateful. ‘Thank you.’ He opened the wine while she served up the tuna and the vegetables. Porcelain flatware, he noticed, and she served the vegetables in dishes rather than just sharing them out onto their plates. Carissa Wylde did things formally. Completely the opposite of how he did things, outside work. He was quite happy to eat pizza straight out of the box or Chinese food straight from the carton.

‘Well.’ She stripped off the apron, folded it and placed it on the worktop, no doubt ready to be transferred to the washing machine. Then she sat down opposite him and lifted her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to the opening of the Wylde Ward and our virtual Santa.’

‘The opening of the Wylde Ward and the virtual Santa,’ he echoed, and smiled at her. ‘It’s nice that it’s named after your dad.’

‘And my mum,’ she pointed out.

‘That’s nice,’ he said again, feeling horrendously awkward and not quite sure how to deal with this. Things had suddenly become a lot more complicated.

‘Help yourself before it gets cold.’ She indicated the food.

What he’d thought would be plain vegetables had clearly been cooked with a spice mix. A gorgeous one. And the polenta fries were to die for. ‘If you ever get bored with being a lawyer,’ he said, ‘I think you’d make a good chef.’

‘Cook,’ she corrected. ‘Maybe.’

‘Didn’t you ever think about being a musician? I mean, given what your dad did?’

She shook her head. ‘I can play the piano a bit, but I don’t have that extra spark that Dad had. And life as a musician isn’t an easy one. In the early days, he and Mum lived pretty much hand to mouth. He was so lucky that the right break came at the right time.’ She paused. ‘What about you? Do you come from a long line of inventors?’

Quinn didn’t have a clue who his father was. And the family he’d been dumped on...well. He’d just been a burden to them. The unwanted nephew. One who definitely hadn’t planned to spend his career working in their corner shop, which in turn had made him even more unwanted. ‘No.’

He’d sounded shorter than he’d meant to, because it killed the conversation dead. She just ate her tuna steak and looked faintly awkward.

In the end, he sighed. ‘Why is it I constantly feel the need to apologise around you?’

‘Because you’re being a grumpy idiot?’ she suggested.

‘You don’t pull your punches, do you?’ he asked wryly. ‘I hope I never end up in court in front of you.’

‘I’m a solicitor, not a barrister,’ she said. ‘Gramps’s chambers would’ve taken me on as a pupil but...’ she pulled a face ‘...I didn’t really want to do all the performance stuff. Wearing the robes and the wig, doing all the flashy rhetoric and showing off in front of a jury. I prefer the backroom stuff—working with the law, with words and people.’

‘So it’s in the family? Being a lawyer?’

‘On my mum’s side, yes. I think Gramps was a bit disappointed that she never became a lawyer, but she met Dad at a gig when she was a student, fell in love with him, and then I came along.’ She smiled. ‘Though I think Gramps was quite pleased when he realised I was more likely to follow in his footsteps than in Dad’s.’

Quinn had had nobody’s footsteps to follow in. He’d made his own way. ‘I guess that made it easier for you.’

‘More like it meant I had something to live up to,’ she corrected.

He’d never thought of it that way before—that privilege could also be a burden. Tabitha’s friends and family had all been privileged, and they’d taken their easy life for granted; they’d also looked down on those who’d had to work for what they had, like him. Clearly Clarissa saw things very differently.

‘I had to be the best, because I couldn’t let Gramps down,’ she continued. ‘If I fell flat on my face, it wouldn’t just be me that looked an idiot. No way would I do that to him. I wanted him to be proud of me, not embarrassed by my incompetence.’

Quinn hadn’t known Carissa for very long, but incompetence was a word he’d never associate with her. And he’d just bet that her grandparents adored her as much as her parents obviously had, because her voice was full of affection rather than fear or faint dislike. ‘Do your grandparents know what you’re doing about the ward?’

‘The ward itself, yes, of course—Gramps was really good at helping me cut through the red tape and pushing the building work through endless committees. Plus, obviously he’s one of the trustees. But I haven’t told them anything about the virtual Santa. I wanted to make sure it could work first.’

‘If you hadn’t met me, what would you have done about it?’ he asked, suddenly curious.

‘Found a programmer. Talked to his clients. Offered him a large bonus to get the job done in my timescale.’ She shrugged. ‘Standard stuff. But it’s irrelevant now, because I’ve met you.’

‘How do you know I could...?’ he began, and then stopped. ‘You talked to some of my clients, didn’t you?’

‘I couldn’t possibly answer that,’ she said, making her face impassive and clearing away their empty plates.

He sighed.

‘OK. I won’t say who I spoke to, but they said that if you run a project then it’ll work the way it’s supposed to work. No compromises and no mistakes.’

He prided himself on that. ‘Yes.’

‘And that you call a spade a spade rather than a digging implement,’ she added with a grin.

‘What would you call a spade?’ he asked.

‘That rather depends on the context.’

He smiled. ‘A very lawyerly response.’

‘It’s who I am,’ she said.

‘No. You’re more than your job,’ he said. ‘You could’ve just got the rest of your dad’s band to come and play some of his most famous songs at the opening. That would’ve been enough to wow everyone. But you went the extra mile. You’re arranging a very special Santa for the kids. It’s personal—and I don’t mean just for them, I mean for you.’

‘That hospital saved my life when I was a baby. I owe them,’ she said. ‘The virus meant that I was more prone to chest infections when I was really small, and I can remember spending my fourth birthday in hospital with pneumonia, being too ill for a birthday party and balloons and cake. The staff were really kind, but I knew what I was missing. And being in hospital at Christmas is especially hard on kids. They miss out on Santa and all the parties. It’s hard on their families, too. I just want to put a bit of sparkle into their day and make a difficult Christmas that little bit better for them.’

‘Christmas isn’t always good outside hospital,’ he said, and then he could have kicked himself for letting the words slip out.

Carissa, just as he’d half expected, homed straight in to the crux of the matter. Even though she’d just brought the box of macarons over to the table and looked thrilled when she opened it, she didn’t let the pudding distract her. ‘Is that why you don’t like Christmas?’

No way was he going to discuss that subject with her. ‘I don’t like the greed and commercialism surrounding Christmas,’ he said. Which was true. Just not the whole truth.

‘So you don’t believe that the spirit of Christmas exists any more?’ she asked, putting the macarons on a plate.

‘Do you?’ he asked, throwing the question back at her because he didn’t want to admit that the spirit of Christmas had never really existed for him.

‘Yes, I do. My parents always made a big deal about Christmas, and I love this time of year. OK, the year they died was different—it’s pretty hard to enjoy Christmas when you’re fifteen years old and planning a funeral for the two people you love most in the world.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘But, other than that year, I’ve always tried to keep it the way they kept it, full of love and happiness. Just how it should be.’

The complete opposite of the Christmases he remembered. Full of misery and wishing the day was over. Knowing that he wasn’t really wanted and was in the way—he’d always had presents, yes, but they’d been on a much smaller scale than those of his cousins because he didn’t really belong. He’d been a charity case. Sometimes, as a child, he’d thought he would’ve been better off in a children’s home.

* * *

A man who hated Christmas.

It was so far removed from Carissa’s own view that it intrigued her. Why didn’t Quinn like Christmas? Had he had a tough childhood, maybe? Grown up in a family where Christmas had been a source of tension and worry?

It would explain why he didn’t like the commercialism. When money was tight, tempers tended to fray as well. She’d seen the results of that first-hand when she’d helped at the refuge. And yet the women there still tried to make Christmas good for their kids and put their own feelings aside.

She knew she really ought to let this go. Quinn had already shown himself to be a private man. This was none of her business. And she knew, too, that her best friend would call her on it. Erica would say that Carissa had gone straight into Ms Fixit mode as a way of avoiding the fact that she was attracted to Quinn, and it scared her stupid. Fixing things—like making Christmas good again for Quinn—meant that Carissa didn’t have to face up to her past.

It was probably true.

Definitely true, she thought wryly. And another way of making Quinn safe to be around.

Yet at the same time it was an irresistible challenge: to show Quinn that there was more to Christmas than just blatant commercialism and greed. And maybe if she could heal whatever hurt was in his heart, it would teach her how to heal the ache in her own heart, too.

‘What if I can prove to you that the Christmas spirit is real—that there really is magic out there?’ she asked.

‘The magic of Christmas?’ he scoffed. He didn’t believe in it.

But what she was suggesting...it meant spending time together. Getting to know each other. Part of him knew that this was just an excuse for him to spend time with her—something he ought to resist, because he was definitely attracted to her, and with his track record he knew it would end in tears. But then again, if he got to know her better, it would help their business arrangement—he might even be able to improve the Santa project. He looked her straight in the eye. ‘What if you can’t?’

She lifted her chin. ‘Then I’ll pay you double for the virtual Santa system.’

‘A wager?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘OK. Let’s make it double or quits. If you can prove it, then I’ll build your system free and help you sort out things on the day.’

‘Double or quits,’ she agreed, and held out her hand.

It was the second time they’d shaken hands on a deal. And this time the tingle in his skin was stronger. Scarily so.

But it was just adrenalin, he told himself. The excitement of the challenge. Nothing to do with her at all...

CHAPTER THREE

This evening. 7 p.m. Meet me at my place.

QUINN READ THE text and frowned. They’d already agreed on a time next week for the training session on his collaborative software. Why did Carissa want to meet him tonight?

Why? he texted back.

Magic of Christmas, proof #1, was the response.

Which told him virtually nothing.

What did Carissa think would prove the magic of Christmas to him?

As far as he was concerned, it simply didn’t exist. Christmas was the time when families were forced to spend time together, not really wanting to be there but feeling that they had to do it because it was Christmas and it was expected of them. Resentment, tension and bitterness. Add too much sugary food and a liberal dash of alcohol, and it was no wonder that the emergency departments of most hospitals were full of people who’d ended up coming to blows over the holiday season.

Through his experience with Tabitha, Quinn had learned the hard way to check the dress code before going anywhere so he didn’t feel out of place. Would Carissa’s idea of Christmas magic involve some kind of ball, maybe?

Do I wear black tie? he texted.

No. Wear something warm because there’s meant to be a frost tonight.

So he still knew next to nothing. Great.

It wasn’t even as if Carissa was a proper client—one he needed to be nice to for the sake of making a project run smoothly. He knew full well he wasn’t going to charge her for his time in setting up the virtual Santa or training her team of volunteers. Not when she was doing something so kind. Charity...but not the cold, grudging kind of charity he’d experienced growing up.

She’d actually thought about this and was trying to do something practical to help. Something that would put a bit of happiness into a difficult day. And it wasn’t as if he was going to be spending hours developing something new for her, because he’d already worked on bits of similar systems in the past. It wouldn’t take much time at all. Charging her for the work he was doing would feel wrong.

Wear something warm.Frost. Obviously they were going to be doing something outside, he thought. But he had absolutely no idea what.

It turned out to be something Quinn really loathed.

‘We’re seeing the Christmas lights being switched on?’ he guessed, as they got off the tube at Oxford Street and joined the crowd of people thronging up the stairs. ‘Oh, now you’re kidding me.’

‘Bah, humbug.’ She nudged him. ‘This is great. London by night, all lit up and magical. It’s Christmassy. Enjoy it.’

‘More like crowds of people pushing each other on the pavements, cars blasting their horns at people to make them get out of the way, and a D-list celeb waiting for people to applaud as they do the terribly difficult job of pressing a switch,’ he countered. ‘And then all the shops waiting for people to cram into them and queue up for stuff they don’t really want but feel forced to buy because it’s Christmas and people are expecting presents. Ker-ching.’

She ignored his comments. ‘Look at the trees. All those lights shaped like snowflakes. It’s like a real winter wonderland. It’s beautiful, Quinn.’

She’d really bought into all the hype, hadn’t she? He rolled his eyes. ‘Think of all that electricity being wasted. Scarce resources you can’t replace.’

She scoffed. ‘Don’t try to pull the environmentalist card. There’s nothing green about someone who lives on takeaway food that comes in cartons you can’t even recycle.’

‘I guess,’ he said.

‘I admit you have a point about the crowds. That bit’s not much fun. But the lights themselves—surely you can’t hate them?’ she asked.

‘What’s the big deal about lights?’ he asked.

‘They change the atmosphere.’

He didn’t see it. At all. Lights were just lights, weren’t they? A source of illumination. Nothing special. Nothing magical.

Everyone around him oohed and ahhed as the Christmas lights stretching above the streets were switched on—including Carissa—but it did nothing to change Quinn’s mind about the misery of Christmas. A bit of sparkle and glitter was just surface dressing. And it didn’t make up for all the tension and short tempers.

As if she’d guessed how fed up he was, she said, ‘Let’s get away from the crowds.’

They went from Oxford Street down through Regent Street. There were cascades of fairy lights on the outsides of the shops—some gold, some lilac, some silver, some brilliant white—and Carissa clearly loved every bit of the displays. Quinn just wasn’t convinced. All he saw was wasted energy and a way of attracting people to spend as much of their disposable income as possible.

Carnaby Street had kooky inflatable decorations, and its famous arches were covered in fairy lights. Piccadilly Circus was as brightly lit as it always was, and the trees in Leicester Square were filled with starbursts that had Carissa cooing in pleasure. And everywhere was heaving with people.

Why on earth was he here? Quinn asked himself. He could be at home, playing a decent arcade game on his console in comfort, drinking coffee and eating pizza straight from the box. Or doing what he really loved, developing a new gadget from concept to prototype. Playing with ideas. Instead, he was trudging through the crowded streets of London with a woman he barely knew, all because she’d set him a wager. A wager that really wasn’t a wager, because he had no intention of claiming his winnings in any case. So why didn’t he just call this whole thing off?

But then they reached Covent Garden and he saw the delight in Carissa’s face.

And he knew exactly why he was here.

Even though wild horses wouldn’t make him admit it out loud.

There were fairy lights everywhere, a massive Christmas tree, and a topiary reindeer that was covered in tiny lights. Carissa’s expression was as dreamy and glowing as a small child’s seeing the magical lights for the very first time.

Quinn was here because of the magic.

Because of her.

His head really needed examining, he thought wryly. He didn’t need to get involved with anyone. He didn’t want to get involved with anyone. And yet here he was, doing something he wouldn’t have chosen to do and wasn’t enjoying—solely because she’d asked him to be here.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said softly. ‘Look at this, Quinn. Fairy lights everywhere, the street performers and the market stalls and the street musicians. I love this place. But I love it even more at this time of year. It’s really magical. Like a real Christmas grotto, life-sized.’

For a second, Quinn almost—almost—felt the magic.

But then, as they wandered through the place together, he heard a string quartet playing. Not traditional Christmas carols—oh, no. Instead, they were playing Christmas pop songs. And one Christmas pop song in particular. He nudged Carissa. ‘Do you hear that?’

‘“Santa, Bring My Baby Home to Me,”’ she sang softly.

She’d definitely lied to him about not having any musical ability. Her voice was gorgeous. And now he knew what the song was really about, he could hear the emotion in the words and it actually put a lump in his throat.

‘Whenever I hear that song, it always makes me feel close to Mum and Dad,’ she said, sounding misty-eyed.

He bit back the caustic comment he’d intended to make—OK, so it would’ve got his common sense back into place, but at the same time it would’ve burst her bubble, and he couldn’t do that to her. He only just managed to stop himself from pulling her into his arms and giving her a hug. For pity’s sake. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be about. This was a wager, not a date. He needed to remember that.

Several of the stalls inside the covered areas were selling Christmas-tree decorations. Carissa browsed through them and bought a snowflake made from tiny white and silver tiles. ‘I buy a new decoration for the tree every year,’ she said. ‘I guess it’s a family tradition.’

Another reason why Quinn didn’t want to get involved with her. Family traditions really weren’t his thing. Apart from the awful Christmases spent growing up, there had been the Christmas he’d spent with Tabitha and her family. A Christmas where they’d had all sorts of ‘family traditions’ and he’d felt even more out of place than he had with his aunt and uncle. He’d tried his best to fit in, but most of the time it had felt as if they’d been speaking a different language.

He’d thought that he’d managed to bluff his way through it, but once he’d overheard Tabitha’s older sister talking to her.

‘Don’t you think you ought to put the poor thing out of his misery, Tabs?’

How he’d hated that tone of pity. Condescension. How could she call him a ‘poor thing’?

‘Your bit of rough,’ Penelope continued. ‘You brought him home to make the parents squirm a bit and worry that you might actually be serious about him—well, he’s sweet, and he follows you round with those big puppy-dog eyes, but he’s not one of us, and you know you’d never stick it out.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Pen.’

He’d walked away at that point, not wanting to hear any more. OK, he might not be enough for Tabitha’s family, but he had been sure Tabitha had loved him. She’d just stuck up for him, hadn’t she?

How wrong he’d been. He should’ve stayed a bit longer and heard the rest of the conversation. And then he could’ve ended it before he’d totally lost his heart.

‘Quinn?’ Carissa said.

He shook himself. The last thing he wanted was for her to guess at his thoughts. ‘Sorry. I glazed over for a minute.’

‘I noticed,’ she said drily.

‘Sorry.’ Just to be on the safe side, he changed the subject. ‘There’s a stall over there selling Christmas paninis. Let’s go and get something.’

‘My shout,’ she said, ‘seeing as I dragged you out here.’

‘I think I can just about afford to buy you a panini,’ he said. And again he was cross with himself. Why was he being on the defensive with her? This was just a hot sandwich. Definitely not a big deal.

Maybe Carissa had picked up his awkward mood, because she just smiled at him. ‘In that case, thank you very much. Cranberry, Brie and bacon for me, please.’

He bought himself a more traditional turkey and stuffing sandwich, and used it as an excuse not to talk. They wandered round the bustle of Covent Garden for a bit longer, then headed back to Leicester Square and caught the tube back to Hyde Park.

‘So. Proof number one. Verdict?’ she asked on their way back to Grove End Mews.

‘I’m not convinced,’ he said, ignoring that unsettling moment in the middle of Covent Garden. ‘It’s not the magic of Christmas—it’s more like the misery of Christmas. Money, money, money.’

‘Don’t think I’m giving up,’ she warned. ‘I’m going to teach you to believe in the magic of Christmas if it’s the last thing I do.’

‘Princess Carissa, used to getting her own way?’ He knew it was nasty even as the words came out of his mouth, and winced. He was never like this with anyone else. He was known for not saying a lot and just getting on with his job. Why was he so mean and rude to Carissa Wylde? ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

‘No, you’re not. You’re in denial. Secretly,’ she said, ‘I think you really like Christmas, but you just can’t admit it because you don’t want anyone to know that you might have a soft centre.’

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