Читать книгу A New Year Marriage Proposal - Kate Hardy - Страница 7

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.’