All the single mom wants for Christmas...

London ER doctor Matthew Chase is shocked that his new role has become a job share with Dr. Amanda Wakehurst—the last woman he expected to see again.

Matthew is also unaware he’s the father of her little boy, until Tristan is critically injured. Yet Matthew is there to support Amanda in her hour of need, and he proves how much he wants to be Tristan’s dad. Dare she hope he still wants her, too? Being together as a family this Christmas would be her ultimate gift...

Dear Reader,

There isn’t a pixel of Christmas magic I don’t fall for. I love it all. The lights, the crisp air (if you’re in the Northern Hemisphere!), the anticipation, the giddy pleasure of buying gifts. The only thing that’s better is falling in love at Christmas!

I loved writing about Amanda and Matthew—I wanted him to be a Matt, but he kept coming out as a Matthew, so who was I to argue? Amanda, who is so fiery and determined to put things right despite her wild-child past, and Matthew, whose heart is enormous but he’s the last one to realise it.

Thank goodness they have the extra pixie dust of mince pies, gingerbread and tinsel to help remind them that love is the magic ingredient in seeing what really matters in life. The people in our lives.

Happy reading, everyone! And make sure you get in touch if you have any questions. You can reach me on Twitter @annieoneilbooks or on Facebook—Annie O’Neil Books.

All the best!

Annie O’xo

Her Knight Under the Mistletoe

Annie O’Neil

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Books by Annie O’Neil

Mills & Boon Medical Romance

Italian Royals

Tempted by the Bridesmaid

Claiming His Pregnant Princess

Paddington Children’s Hospital

Healing the Sheikh’s Heart

Hot Latin Docs

Santiago’s Convenient Fiancée

Christmas Eve Magic

The Nightshift Before Christmas

The Monticello Baby Miracles

One Night, Twin Consequences

One Night...with Her Boss

London’s Most Eligible Doctor

Her Hot Highland Doc

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

Praise for Annie O’Neil

‘This is a beautifully written story that will pull you in from page one and keep you up late, turning the pages.’

—Goodreads on Doctor...to Duchess?

Annie O’Neil won the 2016 RoNA Rose Award for her book Doctor...to Duchess?

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Praise

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

MATTHEW KNEW HE was making a poor job of hiding his frustration. Maybe he should have succumbed to the frivolities of the season and worn one of those ridiculous holiday jumpers to counterbalance his grim expression and biting tone.

When no answer to his earlier question was forthcoming he repeated, “You said the job was mine.”

From the look on Dr. Menzies’s face he might as well have said Santa wasn’t real.

Ho-ho-ho. Merry Un-Christmas.

His mentor shifted uncomfortably in his chair, ultimately breaking eye contact to throw a look over Matthew’s shoulder toward the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The usual buzz and whirr of the inner city A&E unit was still humming along, as if the rug hadn’t just been yanked out from under his feet. Both his and Dr. Menzies’s feet, from the looks of things. The hospital’s Director of Medicine and Surgery seemed to be taking as little pleasure in the change of events as he was. Or perhaps Dr. Menzies was monitoring the progress of the Christmas decorations going up to mark the advent of the holiday season.

Tinsel, wreaths, super-sized glittering baubles and a surplus of mistletoe... The hospital’s volunteer “Yule Squad” was in turbo drive. Perhaps their powers extended to the weather. The day was cold enough for snow. But the only cloud in the sky had followed Matthew indoors and was hanging directly over his head.

Matthew remained motionless. One of his trademarks when his stress levels hit the roof. It was the only way to ensure that whoever was on the receiving end of his million-miles-away stare was none the wiser.

“As you know, Dr. Chase, these things are often more...” Dr. Menzies searched for the right word “...fluid than initially presented.”

“Fluid.”

Statement, not a question. How could the A&E job he’d been promised suddenly not be his?

“We know you have been incredibly generous—”

Matthew cut him off with a growl and a hand-swipe. He hadn’t donated money for the new wing to buy himself the position.

“I’ve earned this job. The Support our Soldiers unit has nothing to do with me.”

“On the contrary, Matthew, it has everything to do with you. You founded the ruddy charity. Think of the lives that have already been saved by your clinic in Sussex. And if you don’t mind me saying—”

“I do.” Matthew stopped him.

He knew the statistics better than anyone. Veteran suicide had outstripped soldiers dying in combat years ago. Over in the US more than a dozen soldiers were taking their lives a day. A day! He wasn’t about to let the UK match those statistics. Not on his watch.

He knew the toll one of those deaths had taken on a person firsthand.

“With respect, Donald, it doesn’t matter how many times the board ask me to run the unit. I am not your guy. I’m better out there.” He pointed to the A&E and hoped his solid stance would draw a line under the issue.

The anonymity of the A&E was what he was after. Proximity to the SoS unit was merely...useful.

His eye snagged on a couple of orderlies wrestling with a Christmas tree, attempting to set it up haphazardly in a corner of the waiting room. He scowled. Christmas seemed to come round sooner and sooner each year. Bah, humbug, to it. And to the carolers who were virtually blocking the entrance. And to New Year’s as well, while he was at it.

Every day was the beginning of a new year. Just not one highlighted up on the calendar with pictures of adorable rabbits or firemen.

“Dr. Chase, I think there were concerns regarding—”

“Don’t you dare tell me this has anything to do with—” Matthew cut in, then stopped himself.

He couldn’t go there. Not yet anyway. Maybe never. But at this time of year, with all of the Christmas lights, the opulently decorated trees and hordes of shoppers wrestling their gifts home everywhere he walked, it was hard not to have his nuclear family spring to mind.

Nuclear explosion, more like. Implosion? Whatever...

Either way, what was left of his family had fallen apart years ago, and a stack of plum puddings that reached to the moon and back wouldn’t come close to bringing them back together.

As hard as it was, Matthew uncurled his hands from the fists they were forming. Frustration—not fury—had balled them into tight knots of steel and sinew. Okay, flesh and bone—but right now the walls around him were officially being warned. One of them would be getting a new hole if the hospital board didn’t change their minds.

Dr. Menzies waved away his interruption. “There were concerns regarding your history of signing up for repeat tours...”

“What about it? I was doing my duty.”

Avoiding his life, more like.

“Matthew, I know if you say you’re going to do a job, you’ll do it. I have absolute confidence in your ability. But—”

“But what? I’m used to working with mortars pounding around my medical tent. You think I can’t handle an A&E in the center of London?”

Dr. Menzies gave his chin a scrub. “It’s actually nothing to do with that. It’s more a question of...commitment. Whether you’ll want to go and work for SoS—”

“I already told you. I am one hundred percent behind the soldiers’ PTSD unit. I just don’t want to work there. It’s not my forté. Trauma is.”

Physical trauma he could deal with. Emotional...? Not so much. Besides, who would want a daily reminder of the brother he hadn’t saved? The brother he had sworn to look after.

“Dr. Chase, you know I’ll fight your corner until my knuckles bleed, but in this case they’re bleeding and the decision has been made. The board has been clear. A monthlong job share with the other top applicant is the working plan at this point. A decision will be made as to who gets the post in the New Year. It’s nothing to do with your ability. Just the usual politics.”

“Politics.”

The word hung between them like a noose.

Unbelievable. He’d put in the hours, the graft, the blood and the sweat. Maybe not the tears, but if he was going to come back to London for good this job and this hospital were the only reasons why.

Again his gaze drifted to the busy A&E. His pulse elevated just looking at the packed waiting room. He’d far rather be out there doing a fourteen-hour shift than standing in here talking about a job share.

Maybe “they” had a point. The management post he was trying to snag involved a lot of paperwork. And even more politics.

Something in him softened. This couldn’t be easy for Dr. Menzies. He narrowed his gaze, acutely aware that his mentor had aged considerably since they’d last worked together some ten years ago. Right before his first deployment.

Matthew looked him in the eye. “Since when are we back to Dr. Chase?”

The question had the desired effect. The tension in the room went down a few notches and the atmosphere became not exactly friendly, but closer to how they’d been way back in the good ol’ days at the teaching hospital. When learning had been learning, work had been work, and when your boss offered you a job you got it. Not had it swung in front of you like a carrot, only to have it given to another rabbit.

“So...is this how I should look forward to things working here at Bankside? Fluidly?”

To his credit, Dr. Menzies chuckled. The man had been more of a mentor to Matthew than his father ever had. A sting of remorse shot through him. Not that he could blame his father. Grief did strange things to a person. Especially when your one living son had done the single solitary thing he’d begged him never to do. Joined the military.

“Now, Matthew, let’s not get carried away, shall we?”

“Why not?” He leaned against the doorframe of his mentor’s office, having never bothered sitting down. “Yesterday I was under the impression I’d be taking over the A&E unit in a few days’ time and today it’s a job share. I don’t know if I need my ears cleaned, but let’s see if I can remember correctly.” He tapped his chin in a faux display of trying to remember the moment. “Matthew,” he mimicked, expertly but not unkindly, “having you as Director of A&E would be like—”

“Butter on bread,” Dr. Menzies finished for him with a shake of the head. “Look. I’m sorry, Matthew, but this one is out of my hands. You know I’d have you running the A&E this very second if I could, but...” He hesitated and looked away as he spoke on. “If we’re going to carry this simile on further let’s just say the candidate they have in mind would be the...er...marmalade.”

“The marmalade? I’m the butter and this other mysterious candidate is the bloody marmalade?”

Matthew squared up to his boss—grateful there was a desk between them. Never in his life would he dream of laying a finger on him—or anyone, for that matter—but this was news. He wasn’t here to quibble over butter vs. tangy toast toppings.

He might as well have stayed in Iraq if he’d wanted things to be straightforward. Wake up. Survive. Sleep. Repeat.

He’d come back to London to work. Help patients. Make sure the SoS wing opened. Maybe process a few of his own demons while he was at it. But mostly to work. When he worked there wasn’t a thought in his head other than doing the best he could for the patient he was with.

Dr. Menzies rose from his chair and walked round and perched on the edge of his desk. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. What either of us wanted,” he hastily corrected himself, “but this other candidate has got a helluva lot of experience.”

“I have a helluva lot of experience.”

He silently ticked off the countless years of medical school, the military training, working in combat conditions. Turning his father’s plastics factory into an award-winning center for prosthetics. Getting a knighthood for turning the bulk of the profits into a charity for soldiers trying to reintegrate themselves into society. What more did the world expect him to give before he’d proved himself?

“Who is he?”

“Actually...Matthew...he’s a she.”

* * *

“Job share?” Amanda’s cheeks, pink from the icy walk to the hospital, turned hot and her eyes widened as the A&E department’s PA raised her hands in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger gesture.

“From the look on your face, I am guessing our beloved Dr. Menzies didn’t make that clear? Hot tea? It’s freezing out there. Or gingerbread?”

She pushed a plate of decorated ginger biscuits—stars, bells, Santas and something she couldn’t identify—across her desk and rolled her eyes.

“My mum’s on a mission this year to be the Christmas biscuit champion of her WI group. The weird one is a submarine. My dad.” She offered as a means of explanation.

Amanda accepted a star-shaped biscuit with a smile, her eyes flicking to the PA’s nameplate: Deena Stokes. She looked no-nonsense enough, even with her nails decorated like Christmas tree baubles. She also looked as if this wasn’t the first time she had delivered unwelcome news to someone who should already have been in the loop.

Her dry tone intimated a certain world-weariness with her boss and his lack of communication, but her body language spoke volumes, too. She was the gatekeeper to the director’s domain—and right now the drawbridge wasn’t anywhere near close to landing on the other side of the moat. So it was suck it up and take a biscuit or...

“Your mum’s in with a good shot if these are anything to go by.”

Amanda lifted the half-eaten cookie as evidence, though with her nerves jangling round her like elves on hyperdrive even the finest pastries in the universe would taste like cardboard.

She looked toward the closed office door and tilted her head back to Deena. “I’ve not met with him yet. I’ve only had meetings with the board.”

Amanda shook her head in disbelief and finished her biscuit. You had to laugh, didn’t you? Just when she’d thought she’d had all her ducks lined up in a row...

“I’d been under the impression this meeting was just a formality. That the job was already mine.”

Deena quirked an inquisitive eyebrow.

Humph! Looked as if someone knew better than to assume anything.

Rookie error. Amanda silently chastised herself for going soft in her time off from “the big leagues.” If you could call raising a child and taking every locum shift in every inner city A&E on offer time off.

She shrugged away the thought. She had her Auntie Flo. And an entire floor of Flo’s big old tumbledown four-story house right in the center of one of London’s smartest neighborhoods. It might look like the hands of time had not moved since the first Wakehurst had set the grandfather clock up in the central entryway back in 1749, and it still lacked central heating, but it was more than most single mothers had. A lot more.

She parted her lips, about to ask how deep a salary cut she’d be taking, then thought better of it. The job was round the corner from her house, in a department that brought her to life in a way no other area of medicine did. And right before Christmas beggars couldn’t really be choosers. Just thinking of putting herself up for more overnight locum shifts made her tired.

Deena flicked her pen in the direction of Dr. Menzies’s office. “He’s just finishing up with an appointment. If you’d like to take a seat, he shouldn’t be long.”

“The other candidate?”

The PA gave a shrug, but with enough leeway for interpretation that Amanda knew that was precisely who was inside.

Amanda watched as Deena’s eyes traveled from the door to some mistletoe hanging above her desk.

Hmm...

From what she’d heard, Dr. Menzies was old enough to be Deena’s father, so... Her job share partner must be good-looking. She cleared her throat and sniffed. Didn’t matter. She was immune to romance. Whoever was in that office was the competition, and nothing was going to stand in the way of providing for her son.

Amanda’s gaze shifted toward the door. She tipped her head to the side, wishing she possessed some sort of lopsided superhero power to see through hard wood. There was the muffled flow of voices. Both male.

Most likely the old boys’ club. She could picture it perfectly. A promise of the top job made over cigars and tumblers of whiskey in an exclusive members’ club, no doubt. She could almost hear the tinkle of ice cubes against heavy crystal as they toasted the new Divisional Medical Director in front of a roaring fire.

She shuddered at the thought. It was how her father always did business...

So much for stuffing herself into this stupid form-fitting suit and tippy-toeing across the square in these ridiculous high heels. She should have just worn scrubs and her favorite running shoes, because from the looks of things she was going back to locum shifts at whatever trauma center would take her. The regular hours of this job would have been a godsend, but...

As per usual, it seemed that heaven was putting a hold on doling out any brownie points she might have earned up to this point.

Both women started at the eruption of a huge chorus of laughter coming from Dr. Menzies’ office.

Just as she’d suspected: Old Boys’ Club.

Her fingers tightened round the straps of her handbag. If she was going to go down she was going to go down fighting.

Having Tristan had necessitated dropping out of “the game” for a while. For the first three months Amanda’s entire life had revolved around diapers, breastfeeding and laundry. Once Tristan had got the knack of sleeping through the night she’d started picking up shifts here and there, without bothering to take part in the “let’s meet for a drink” charade. Why should she when her number one priority was her son?

Work. Parenting. That was all she had time for. Before that it had just been work. And before that...

She screwed her eyes tight and pressed her fingers to them, as if it would squish the memories away. Before that nothing.

She gave herself a quick shake and pasted on her smile. Another laugh sounded from the room, chased up with more rapid-fire male conversation she couldn’t make out through the thick door.

Suddenly exhausted at the idea of going through the mockery of this “interview,” Amanda was sorely tempted to lean in, scratch her name out in Deena’s appointment book and scarper when the door handle turned and the door opened. Two men emerged, shaking hands, clapping each other on the shoulder as if in congratulations of some sort of excellent deal made.

She didn’t stand a chance in—

“Hell.”

Amanda’s fingers flew to her mouth. She was shocked the word had escaped her lips. Her lungs ached for air as an atom bomb of emotion detonated in her chest. And just as abruptly everything stopped. The roar of blood between her ears. The blurred vision. Her heartbeat.

Nature’s way of allowing the rest of her body to process seeing the one man who had proved to her that life was still worth living. The one man who had changed everything.

Matthew Chase.

Her tongue instinctively swiped at her lips. Even from a distance she could taste him as if it was yesterday.

One part sweet to one part salty. Vintage champagne and top-of-the-line caviar, if she remembered correctly. And she had an excellent memory. Besides, her parents never threw a party that swung anywhere close to below the top line.

The third part of his taste...the spice...that had been pure, unchecked desire.

Dark hair and bright blue eyes were a personal weakness for her, and on that early spring night she had wanted more than anything to succumb. To slide her fingers into the dark silky hair just threatening to turn into curls around his shirt collar. To spend unchecked minutes gazing into his sapphire-bright eyes, trying to divine what stories might lie in the kaleidoscope of blue that lay within them.

To feel anything. She’d been numb for so long she’d hardly known what to do with herself.

Matthew Chase had been the first person to remind her of the spark buried so deep in her heart she’d all but forgotten it had ever existed.

Amanda could feel Deena’s curious gaze on her now. And Dr. Menzies’s. But she still couldn’t move. She was a deer caught in the headlights of the one powerhouse of energy and seduction she had never expected to lay eyes on again.

Matthew’s scent—aura, more like—was another thing altogether. And when he took a step toward her there was a swirl of... How on earth did he smell like a Nordic woodsman peeling a blood orange in the center of London? In a hospital, no less?

It was all she could do to keep her knees doing their job.

The heat blazing from his bright blue eyes struck her like bolts of lightning. This meeting was obviously as unexpected to him as it was to her.

A one-night stand.

That was all it was ever meant to have been.

It was all it had been for him.

But...

If she closed her eyes Amanda knew flashes of that night would come back to her so vividly it would be like living it all over again.

He’d seen her first. She’d known that because she’d felt his gaze on her from across the room as intensely as she was feeling it now. He hadn’t just looked. His gaze had felt...tactile. As if he had already been undressing her. And when their eyes had met...

Fireworks.

One of those hits of recognition some people waited a lifetime for and never had. She had known that having it that night was a lifeline. A sign from above—or wherever signs come from—that she shouldn’t give up. Not just yet.

She cleared her throat as Matthew closed the distance between them with another long-legged step. The whorls of heat in her chest turned into protective bars of steel. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—know about what had also happened that night.

She’d overheard enough of his cocktail party chitchat to know he was a tried and true bachelor. A determined playboy, if his one-liners were anything to go by. A committed army doctor if the newspaper headlines were to be believed. Or had he recently been decommissioned? Given himself over to the finer things in life?

She gave herself a sharp shake. Playboy or not, if he was the one threatening to take the job she rightfully deserved she was going to have play her A-game.

This was her job. She hadn’t sat through countless interviews and buttoned herself into this ridiculous suit heaven knew how many times just to let it go without a fight.

“You two have met?” Dr. Menzies stepped between the pair of them, throwing anxious looks first at Amanda and then at Matthew.

Amanda realized that both she and Matthew had slowly been advancing on each other—as natural predators would. Cheetah vs panther? Or tiger vs lion? She’d like to think of herself as the lioness in this scenario. Ready with a killer hairdo and a roar that would knock anyone for six if they were brave enough to stick around and listen.

“Not formally,” Amanda answered, quirking an eyebrow in Matthew’s direction but turning on a hundred-watt smile and reaching out a hand to Dr. Menzies. “You must be Donald Menzies?”

CHAPTER TWO

IT TOOK ALL of the power in Matthew’s charm arsenal to hold back a full-bodied guffaw at the Ice Queen’s response.

Not formally?

True, he’d never learnt her name. Nor had he bothered to give her his.

But the night had been formal, all right. One of a score of similar black tie affairs he’d attended two years ago, nearly three, all aimed at making the Support our Soldiers House in Sussex a reality.

After his father had died, and his mother had high-tailed it to Australia, turning the place into a rehab facility had meant the faux-Georgian mansion would be good for something. Living in it certainly wasn’t.

“We met at...” He paused, drumming his fingers along his chin, feigning having to think about it.

He knew damn well where he’d met her, and how long it had taken before he had been holding her in his arms without a stitch of clothing between them. He also knew that every woman since hadn’t so much as shone a light on her. Not that there had been many. One night with the Ice Queen had changed his standards.

“A charity event, wasn’t it?” she prompted drily, tucking a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear before switching that diamond-bright smile back to Dr. Menzies. “Excellent places to meet like-minded people.”

“For Support our Soldiers?” Dr. Menzies asked, then continued apologetically, “Of course you would already know that Matthew founded the charity if you were at one of his events.”

Matthew was certain he was the only one reading the flutter of blinks masking Amanda’s hazel eyes as the reaction of a woman caught off guard and quickly rebuilding her house of cards.

“It’s an excellent charity,” she answered smoothly. “And I have quite a few ideas about how the SoS wing here and the A&E team could really benefit by being in the same facility.”

Matthew stifled another chuckle before a stark blaze of understanding wiped the smile from his face. Amanda was the other candidate for the Medical Directorship.

He’d been primed for gloves off and no holds barred—but, seeing as it was the mystery woman who’d all but set him on fire that night, this month of enforced co-working could be...fun.

His mind raced to remember if the doctors’ sleeping quarters had locks on the doors.

“When was the event?” Dr. Menzies asked. “Something recent? I’m surprised neither of you made the Bankside Hospital connection.”

She looked to him as if she couldn’t quite remember, but Matthew could tell by the accelerated pulse thrumming at the base of her throat that she could bullseye the date as easily as he could.

“Hmm... No. It wasn’t recent.”

Matthew directed his gaze directly toward Amanda. He took some “thinking” time to rake his gaze along the snug fit of her suit. She was a bit curvier than the last time he’d seen her. The extra swish of hip and the ripe flush of her décolletage were...distracting.

“I’d say it was about two...maybe three years ago?”

The smallest flash of darkness crossed Amanda’s composed, almost aristocratic expression. Only someone looking for a chink in her china doll veneer would have noticed.

“Yes. Something like that,” she acquiesced coolly.

“Weren’t you still in the military then?” Dr. Menzies directed his question to Matthew, either completely unaware of or intentionally ignoring the growing tension in the room.

“I’d recently hung up my boots.”

It had actually been a year since he’d come back. His father’s liver failure had yanked him back to the life he’d been trying to forget. At least he’d been there as his father had ultimately lost his halfhearted battle to survive. More than he could say for his mother, who hadn’t even bothered to send a card.

The sheer bleakness of it all had forced him to make a choice. Not that the empty mansion and multi-million-pound business his father had left behind had filled the emptiness in his heart. Not by a long shot. But seeing all that misspent energy had turned Matthew’s grief into a white-hot drive to have at least one good thing come from Charlie’s death.

When he’d set out to create SoS he’d foolishly believed it would be the gesture he needed to pay his penance for not having been there for Charlie when he’d hung that damn rope over the beam in the attic.

The night he’d met Amanda he’d been about to close the whole SoS rehab unit down. Nothing, it seemed, could fill the void his brother had left behind. But she’d exploded his vision of the world into smithereens and he’d been trying to put it back together ever since.

Being with her had been the medicine he’d needed. It had given him hope. Proved he still had the ability to make a human connection. It had been a vital reminder that if it was possible for him to feel passion and loss and the sweet magic of meeting a kindred spirit, there was hope for the soldiers the new unit would help.

Not that he’d tell her she’d been nothing less than an angel that night. Not in a million years.

Turning to Dr. Menzies, Matthew went on to explain, “As you know, R&R didn’t suit me so well, and my father’s company needed a new direction. That’s when I decided to see if we could bring SoS to London. That whole night was a bit of a blur, actually. So many new faces...”

He took his time raking the length of her again, with a look in his eye he knew wasn’t altogether innocent.

High heels. Killer set of legs. Waist trim and belted, blossoming up into that inviting décolletage his fingers were itching to trace. She shifted under his gaze. Good. The ol’ Chase charm was still working, then.

The glint in her hazel eyes was all but daring him to betray her confidence. What was it she’d said when he’d murmured into her ear that he had to know her name?

Cinderella!

That was what she’d told him her name was as she kicked off first one then her second kitten heel.

“I disappear at midnight if the Prince isn’t charming.”

Again, a smile teased at the corners of his lips, but holding her in suspense was far more fun than confessing that she’d all but branded herself into his mind’s eye and ruined casual flings for him forever.

“So you two know each other from that event? Were you one of the donor angels, Amanda?” Dr. Menzies prompted.

Amanda. So that was her name.

She was angelic, all right... But he didn’t want her on top of a Christmas tree to be admired from afar... If she were his woman he’d keep her close and warm.

“No. No...” Matthew shook his head, watching the fury build in her eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t quite place you.”

He dragged his top teeth across his lower lip, pleased to see twin streaks of red bloom on her cheeks.

Of course it was a total lie.

The image came to him as vividly as if she’d been taking a luxurious postcoital stretch on the massive bed they’d shared only an hour ago. Peaches and cream skin. The softest he’d ever touched. Blond hair fanned out like a halo on the pillow.

What they’d done that night hadn’t been anything close to angelic. Heavenly, perhaps. But no angel would have sanctioned the charged sexual atmosphere that had lasted until well after the party had ended down in the hotel ballroom.

“Well, if it was an SoS event you definitely would have been there. And if Amanda says she was there too...”

Matthew looked across at the perplexed Dr. Menzies, almost startled to see him there.

Of course he’d been there. He wasn’t just the founder of SoS—he was its reluctant poster boy. If he didn’t turn up at the ten-grand-a-head soirées, pockets didn’t open. Tickets didn’t sell. And if stuffing himself into a penguin suit and making chitchat all night made sure soldiers got the help they needed—it was the least he could do.

When a person was willing to give up their life for their country the payback needed to be genuine. Especially if they felt there wasn’t anything for them when they came back home.

“I’m surprised you’re a contender for this job,” Amanda said.

Matthew shrugged and offered her a half smile. “And why would you think that?”

“Wouldn’t your energies be better placed on the new wing?”

“On the contrary.” He heard his smooth tones, but knew that heat singed every word coming out of his mouth. “I think you’ll find there are medical professionals far better suited to that sort of work than myself. Like at the Sussex facility—we make sure we put in proper staff so that it ticks along quite happily without me.”

Amanda’s lips parted as if she were about to say something else, then she clearly thought better of it. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t about SoS. It looked personal.

“Well, goodness me. I didn’t realize you were attached to the cause, Amanda?”

Dr. Menzies was beginning to look a bit desperate in his efforts to keep the conversation rolling as neither Amanda nor Matthew seemed willing participants.

“I’m not. My parents were hosting the event. I’m afraid I didn’t add much to the evening’s luster.”

Matthew suppressed a wicked smile. Of course she had.

Twenty minutes in, one glass of champagne down, and all he’d had eyes for was the blond in the periwinkle-blue gown who looked as if a blowtorch wouldn’t melt her. She hadn’t just been cool, she’d been entirely uninterested. As if she’d handed her heart in at the coat check along with her handbag.

No. That wasn’t it, exactly.

She’d looked as if she was hoping against all hope to forget about something. A longing he’d all but put a patent on since Charlie had died. Nine years and about three days before, to be exact. Not that he’d been chalking up each day since then on the walls of a memory that refused to release its stranglehold on him.

As Dr. Menzies began another halfhearted icebreaker about the weather Matthew allowed himself another slow head-to-toe scan of the Ice Queen’s petite form. Her curves were shown off to maximum effect in the body-hugging power suit, forcing him to relive that night once more.

There was no forgetting the moment she’d slid the length of him, her body glowing with exertion, and ultimately thrown back her head to moan with pleasure as the two of them had joined together in a heated mutual climax. They had been a perfect match.

And now she was the competition. Wasn’t life funny? And not in the ha-ha kind of way.

“Oh, I love this time of year. I’m always waiting with bated breath for predictions of a white Christmas.”

Amanda was replying enthusiastically to Dr. Menzies stumbling comment—something about hoping the weather hadn’t been too cold for her to get to the hospital.

He tuned in when the conversation turned medical.

“Ice and snow present so many different types of injuries in the A&E than in summer. Seasonal challenges. They can catch a person off guard.”

She threw the final part of her comment in his direction. It was an unusual take on the holiday season he hadn’t thought of. ’Tis the season to be allergic to holly...

She was no pushover. Nor was she going to let him take the job out from under her nose. She was meeting him hit for hit. Strike for strike.

Good. He loved a challenge. Especially when it had once come in a five-foot-three package of curves and bare skin and a fabric so diaphanous he hadn’t had to do much imagining to guess what lay beneath the billows of material following in her cool-as-a-cucumber wake as they’d left everyone else at the ball to their tuxedos and champagne banter.

She’d been anything but icy when he’d run his fingers underneath the length of the barely-there straps criss-crossing her back. Not right off the bat, of course. When one was the guest of honor at a charity event it paid to be discreet. He’d waited until the music had changed and a slow number had come on. Music more evocative of what they might be doing in bed than the feelings they would need to accompany it.

From the moment he’d crossed the room and taken her hand in his he’d known they would end up in bed together. And when all that had remained of the most erotic evening he’d ever spent with a woman was a soft indent in the pillow next to his, he’d deemed it the perfect one-night stand. He had thought there couldn’t be a single woman on earth who could beat the combination of smoldering heat and pure, naked desire the pair of them had shared. A part of him had been almost sad he wasn’t going to get to know her. “Sorry—manners,” Dr. Menzies spluttered, shifting position so that the three of them stood in a circle. “Amanda Wakehurst...” his mentor made a courtier’s bow in his direction “...I’d like you to meet Dr. Matthew Chase. Or—” He shot a nervous glance at Matthew and lowered his voice. “Do you want me to use the Sir?”

“Definitely not.” Matthew gave a sharp shake of his head.

He still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced he should have been given the honor. But, seeing as he’d fought wars in her name, he hadn’t exactly wanted to refuse the Queen her generosity in giving him a knighthood.

“Matthew Chase.”

He put out his hand and took Amanda’s, pleased to feel her pulse quicken at his touch. For added impact he folded his other hand round hers, so that for all intents and purposes he was holding her hand captive.

“It is a pleasure to meet you. Formally.”

“I would like to say the pleasure is all mine, but I think we both know that isn’t strictly true.”

At last he allowed his lips to move into a full and natural smile. “Would this have anything to do with the fact you’re the ‘she’ who is the other contender for Medical Director?”

“You mean your job share until the better woman wins?” Amanda extracted her hand as swiftly as she could. “That’s right. Consider it an Advent Calendar Countdown,” she tacked on brightly. “Seeing as it’s the holidays.”

Matthew returned her tight smile with one of his own before she tugged her fingers away from his. One moment longer with those warm fingers of his surrounding hers and she’d be betraying her over-the-top reaction to his touch.

An accelerated pulse. The rush of heat to her cheeks. The whorls of heat swirling lazily in her belly, only to rocket straight down to a more sensual part of her body she’d really rather not be thinking about when she was meant to be at her businesslike best.

This wasn’t a ball and he was not her Prince Charming. No matter how alive he made her feel. And if this was someone’s idea of an early Christmas present she sure hoped he came with a return receipt.

She rocked back on her heels, hoping it looked as if she was giving Matthew a cool appraisal. In truth she was buying herself composure time.

How on earth was she going to share a job with her son’s father?

More specifically, how was she going to put out the picture of her son she’d already had framed in readiness for her new desk and not have Matthew recognize those blue eyes looking back at him?

His name might be Tristan, but for all intents and purposes he was a mini-Matthew. Except for the blond hair. But even that was growing darker...just like his father’s.

Her head was spinning from the madness of the moment. Matthew was supposed to have disappeared off to Sussex, or Syria, or wherever it was wanderlust playboys went when they grew bored with altruism. Not show up at her job interview!

She could hear Dr. Menzies repeating something about nothing being set in stone, that it was just an idea that the board were floating at this juncture and that with two equally talented contenders...

Ugh! It was all getting a little blurry.

“Amanda?” Dr. Menzies lightly rested a hand on her elbow and it took all her power not to jerk it back. She’d been so deep in thought she’d all but forgotten that the two men and—yes—Deena too were staring at her. “You’re looking a little pale. Would you like to sit down for a minute?”

“No.” She shook her head solidly, forcing herself to blank out the curious expression on Matthew’s face. “Absolutely not. Just not used to...to all this heating.”

“Oh?” Dr. Menzies forehead crinkled in concern.

Stop talking, you idiot!

“It’s the suit. Wool. Layers.”

She tugged at her lapels, undid a button, then wafted her green silk blouse away from her chest, making a little whoo! noise as if she’d somehow ended up on a tropical island.

“Central heating.” She gave a little laugh. “Our house—my aunt’s house,” she swiftly corrected, “still doesn’t have it. Wood burners, a geriatric range and the permanent threat of chilblains.”

“People still get those? Where on earth do you live?” Deena asked with undisguised disbelief. “Not in London?”

Amanda couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “As incongruous as it sounds, our backwards heating system is in fact the product of London in its Georgian heyday.”

“Let me guess... You’re a Wakehurst so...” Matthew crossed his arms and gave her another one of those disarmingly tactile full-body scans. “You live in Bedford Square.”

Her eyes shot wide open. How did he—? What sort of game was he playing?

Or maybe it was just the age-old tag of being a Wakehurst. The Wakehurst name went hand in hand with central London—with stylish properties with little blue plaques indicating the people of note who had lived there—more Wakehursts—and a seemingly endless stream of fashionable soirées. Her family were the type whose titles opened doors. Nice ones.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek. It had been a long time since she’d used her full title. Lady Amanda Wakehurst.

“I’ve seen one of your aunt’s exhibits in the British Museum,” Matthew explained by way of disclosure.

“Auntie Florence?” She crinkled her forehead in confusion. Her aunt did portraiture, mostly. Some in a contemporary style, some more traditional. And usually for private collectors.

“I believe it was a collection of eighteenth-century African pottery.”

“Oh...” Amanda’s reeling mind quickly put together different pieces of the puzzle. “You mean my Great-Aunt Tilda. Yes, she traveled rather...extensively.”

Christopher Columbus had had nothing on her Aunt Tilda. She’d been everywhere. Admittedly on the posh side of the boat...but Amanda had always likened herself to this aunt she had never known. Restless. Always trying to find her place in the world and never quite managing it.

“It would seem so,” Matthew replied drily.

Amanda shrugged. She wasn’t going to apologize for having been born into a family whose collections were better suited to museum displays than the bric-a-brac shelf in a family lounge. He hadn’t had to grow up having to prove his worth amongst such a broad pool of high achievers. Nobel laureates. University wings bearing the family name. Heaven knew she’d spent a lifetime trying to prove herself worthy. Only to fail time and again.

Before she’d had Tristan she’d thought she might just crawl her way back into the good books via her medical career.

After she’d borne a son out of wedlock to a man she refused to name her parents had made it clear she never would be a “true” Wakehurst.

“You don’t strike me as the pottery type.”

Amanda knew it was a lame riposte, but she was clawing for purchase after being casually hip-bumped off the edge of a cliff. Matthew was so calm and in control, and all she could think about was just how throaty a groan he’d given when she’d treated first one and then the other of his nipples to hot, swift licks, chased up by tiny nips of the teeth and then kisses as she’d worked her way down that broad, steely chest of his to more...southern climes.

“How very astute.”

Matthew’s smile seemed to suggest he knew what she’d been thinking—which only made turning off the hedonistic thoughts more difficult. She might as well hand him the job on a platter. But she needed it more than he did. Needed the money to raise his son.

“I was at the museum to see an exhibition of Greek and Roman medical instruments. The only route to get there was through your aunt’s collection, so I had no choice.”

Amanda bridled. Was that his way of saying, You might have had your wicked way with me once, but never again, my sweet? Fine! She wasn’t interested in revisiting that night either. Not by a long shot. Just because being in the same room with the man was wreaking havoc with her nervous system...

Oh, pish-tosh to him! It was hardly as if her family had put the exhibit in the way of his precious ancient scalpel display on purpose.

“Aunt Tilda was the family pariah,” Amanda quipped.

Just like her. It wasn’t as if announcing her “unsuitability” as a Wakehurst would make a difference to any of the labels Matthew had already lacquered her with. Titled. Privileged.

If only he knew how far she’d fallen...

“Sounds like you admired her...spirit.” Matthew’s lips twitched into a smile as she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“There’s nothing wrong with taking your own path!” Whoops. Her lips thinned as she swallowed back the rest of her retort.

The crease between Matthew’s brows deepened into a single furrow, then smoothed. “That’s not quite how we see things in the military.”

She knew how they saw things in the military. Black and white. Just like her parents. Just like John.

A hit of acid shot up her throat. Best not go there.

Dr. Menzies was watching the pair of them with the intent interest he might give the final match at Wimbledon. Deena was being even less subtle. And was a few steps behind in the conversation.

“Your auntie has things in the British Museum?”

“Yes. My great-aunt. She was...she was a unique character. I really admired all the things she achieved. Especially given she did it without the support of her family.”

She gave herself a mental high five. She’d come this far without the support of her family, and when things got tough She channeled her great-aunt for inspiration.

Amanda had found the stories about her completely thrilling. A Victorian Adventuress, she’d called herself. A complete madwoman, according to her parents. Much the same thing they called Auntie Florence, who had inherited Tilda’s house when she’d decided to become a painter, and now, of course, Amanda also bore the moniker of madwoman after her...colorful youth.

Using her trust fund to fly to Las Vegas for the weekend only to end up married to “a bit of rough” from the East End of London had definitely not been one of her better decisions.

It would have been fine if he’d loved her. But discovering her new husband’s affection had worn off precisely at the moment she told him her parents had cut her off financially had come as a blow. He hadn’t been able to find enough words in the dictionary to let her know how useless he thought she was.

When she’d spat back the same sentiments to him, the soldier in him hadn’t been able to sign up for another tour fast enough.

“Better to fight for freedom than to live with a ball and chain,” he’d said as he’d slammed the door shut, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

And she had laughed. Laughed.

When she’d been made a widow at the ripe old age of twenty-one everything had changed.

It had been as if each particle of joy that had lit her up inside had been switched off. Even more so when she’d gone to her parents for support. Assuming she was only after money, they’d told her it was time for her to grow up. Show some spine.

Spine?

They wanted spine? They’d see spine.

From the moment the door to her parents’ house had closed she had become consumed with a drive to prove them wrong. Prove she was worth more than a mention in the society pages. It wasn’t as if they’d offered her much loving support throughout her childhood. She knew her au pairs better than she knew them. There had never been a gala or dinner party left unattended on their watch. Couldn’t they see how lonely she’d been? How desperate for their affection?

It was only when she’d been named the youngest doctor in Britain to run her own trauma unit that she had been ushered back into the Wakehurst fold. And that was how she’d found herself at the party that night with Matthew.

And a few months later, when she’d begun to show, she’d gone straight back to being persona non grata.

Illegitimate children did that to a family whose raison d’être was ramming a wedge between the privileged and pretty much the whole of the rest of the world who weren’t lucky enough to have been born with the right surname. How her mother could never see that it was just dumb luck to be born into a life of privilege...

“So!” Matthew clapped his hands, jarring her back to the present. “Was I right? Is this chilblain-inducing home of yours in Bedford Square?”

She gave him a quick nod. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was putting a bit more emphasis on the “bed” than the “ford.” Cheeky so-and-so.

Unbidden, an image of the pair of them, completely naked and pressed together as if their lives depended upon it, burnt at the frayed edges of her reserve of cool, calm and collected.

“Good guess,” she replied as neutrally as she could. “It’s really convenient for the hospital. Just a hop, skip and a jump!”

She smiled brightly at Dr. Menzies, then turned to give Matthew a let’s-see-what-I-can-figure-out-about-you scan—before stopping herself midway because the man was just too damn sexy for words. He was six-foot-something. She’d fit easily under his chin. Not that she imagined being in a nestling hug with him or anything... One that would feel so protective, with those strong arms wrapped round her, that wall of chest assuring her that everything would be all right. Promising that her son would always be looked after... Their son.

Again she found herself lost for words as she stared into those beautiful blue eyes of his.

How am I going to tell him I am the mother of his child?

“Matthew, here, has a short journey too,” Dr. Menzies contributed, clearly oblivious to the frisson between his pair of would-be directors. “Just across the river—isn’t that right, Matthew?”

Matthew shot the doctor a difficult to discern look. One that probably said the same thing she’d felt when Matthew all but heat-detected her bedroom in Bedford Square: Back off.

She liked her privacy and it looked as if he did, too. So they had that in common.

And their son.

Amanda’s fingers swept along the outside pocket of her handbag, where she still kept the grainy black and white image of Tristan’s first scan.

After her husband’s last deployment... Well, it had been hard to believe she’d ever feel anything again. Carrying the weight of someone’s senseless death did that to a person. She’d feel the heated rage in his mother’s eyes until the day she died.

She might not want Matthew Chase to have this job, but she owed him a debt of thanks. Tristan meant the world to her. His arrival had let her see the good things in life again. The simple things. The sun coming up every day. The moon. The stars...when you could see them. Sapphire-blue eyes...

She’d never once pictured herself being a mother before that night, but now she couldn’t imagine life without her full-of-beans toddler. Which meant she’d better get her act together and start behaving as if she wanted this job. And, no, she wasn’t going to play nicely. She didn’t want to share.

She was more than capable of running the hospital’s A&E department on her own, and was prepared to prove it. Even if it meant getting a lump of coal in her Christmas stocking. From the bespoke cut of Matthew’s suit, he didn’t look as if he needed the money. But from the fire in his eyes he was no pushover.

She put out her hand again and gave Matthew’s a short, sharp shake, ignoring the spray of heat shooting up her arm as she turned her full attention to Dr. Menzies.

“I believe you and I have an appointment?”

“That we do, my dear, that we do.”

She threw a look over her shoulder as they entered the older doctor’s office and felt just the tiniest bit of smug satisfaction to see that Matthew was still watching. Hands resting on hips. Head shaking as if he’d just been diddled out of his last pound coin.

She might not want his money, but she definitely wanted this job. It would mean a regular schedule, money to pay for a proper nanny and give her sainted aunt some more time for her art, and a chance for her to rediscover the woman she had been trying to become all those years ago. A good, honest, hard-working Wakehurst.

Maybe seeing Matthew was a sign. A portent of good things yet to come. Like a job.

She dropped him a wink and swung the door closed with a light swoop of her foot. Better luck next time, pal.

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