A New Year Marriage Proposal. Kate Hardy
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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.’
‘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