The Christmas Child

‘Over lunch, like civilised people. Choose something light if you haven’t much appetite. I’m going for the lasagne.’

Civilised? Well, she supposed she could manage that. Just. She opted for an open prawn sandwich and drank a glass of the red wine he’d ordered while they waited. Her stomach closed up entirely when she saw the sheer size and bulk of her supposedly simple sandwich.

Gulping down more wine, she nibbled at a prawn. One down, five thousand more to go. How could he attack his loaded plate with such gusto? Easy. His stomach wasn’t full of jitterbugging butterflies; his heart wasn’t racked with painful contractions; he was completely unaffected.

She laid down her fork. ‘I warn you, James, if, as I suspect, you want to get engaged in such a hurry to pay Fiona back, then you can forget it as far as I’m concerned. Find someone else to play games with.’

‘Right.’ He laid his fork down on his almost empty plate and leaned back, his eyes pinning her to her seat. ‘I don’t recall mentioning an engagement. What would be the point when we could be married within three weeks? And let’s leave Fiona out of it.’

‘We can’t do that.’ He was everything she’d ever wanted, but she wouldn’t let herself be used. She wouldn’t let herself in for that much pain. Living with him as his wife, knowing that every time he made love to her he would be pretending she was Fiona.

Her voice thick in her throat, she reminded him, ‘You called being in love a “condition” and said you didn’t think it existed. You’ve been dating gorgeous women for almost as long as I can remember, but it took Fiona to make you want to settle down and marry. You must love her.’ Instinctively her voice lowered, softened with compassion; she didn’t want to rub his nose in his hurt but it had to be done. ‘I can imagine your pain when she rejected you, but jumping into marriage with someone else won’t make it go away.’

She wanted to reach out and take his hand, comfort him, but he looked so formidably detached she didn’t quite dare. She drained her wineglass recklessly. ‘When you got over the Fiona thing and came to your senses, you’d find yourself saddled with a wife you couldn’t love. And I wouldn’t want to go through life knowing I was a poor second best.’

‘You’re not cut out to be an agony aunt, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’ With difficulty he controlled his annoyance. She was thinking along the lines of a normal marriage, and that wasn’t what he had in mind at all. And if she’d stop talking about Fiona for five seconds he’d put her in the picture.

He refilled her wineglass, sat back, and told her as much as her harping on about his broken engagement had made necessary. ‘I took a look at my lifestyle and decided I needed a wife. Fiona was eminently suitable, beautiful to look at—’ no need to mention her inventiveness in bed, that was his business ‘—a highly accomplished hostess. Essential, because, as you know, along with my home I inherited Mrs Briggs from my father. She’s getting near retirement and is fine as far as the day-to-day running of the household goes, but ask her to organise a dinner party for half a dozen visiting businessmen who we’re pitching a project to—plus their wives—and she’s completely at sea. Well, you must have some idea what I’m talking about. So marriage seemed to be the answer. But it didn’t work out. So, OK, the experience has probably soured me, put me off the man/woman bit, which is why, Mattie, what I’m proposing is what is loosely termed a marriage of convenience. In name only, that goes without saying.’

She was sure the smile he gave her was meant to be reassuring but the ache inside her intensified and the tiny spark of hope finally flickered out. Loving this man, she’d harboured the small but unquenchable hope that if she agreed to marry him then he might, in time, grow to love her. Regardless of the highly probable self-destructive outcome.

Stupid!

Rapidly gathering her considerable mental resources, she gave him a cool smile. ‘You could hire someone—a good catering company, for instance—to organise sophisticated dinner parties at the drop of a hat. And I’m sure you could get one or other of the lovely young things you seem to attract like bees to a honeypot to act as hostess. You don’t need a wife.’

‘A wife would act as a deterrent, Mattie,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘Keep the swarms away from the honeypot. I’m no longer interested,’ he added tiredly.

That figured, she thought, melting. He was still in love with Fiona and her rejection had hit him hard. Doubly hard, since it had to be a first. And he did look weary. There were shadows beneath his eyes and taut lines at the sides of his mouth. She wanted to take his hurt away, and knew she couldn’t.

Instead she told him briskly, ‘I can understand why you feel that way at the moment. But, believe me, it won’t last. Women throw themselves at you, and eventually you’ll be tempted. You’re a sexy man, James Carter.’

He blinked at her and swallowed hard. Tried not to smile. She almost sounded as if she knew what she was talking about. What did she know about the lusts of the flesh? Zilch.

‘Mattie, if we marry, I promise you I won’t play around. You have my word on that.’ It couldn’t have been an easier promise to make. Sexual relationships were more trouble than they were worth. A jaded opinion, granted, but one he would firmly stick with.

His word. Once given, he never went back on it, she knew that. So if they married she wouldn’t have to wonder where he was and who he was with if he didn’t come home at night. Not that she had the slightest intention of accepting his proposal.

It was unthinkable.

Slurping more wine, she pointed out, ‘You haven’t thought this out. You’re going to want children.’

He poured the last of the wine into her empty glass. She wanted chapter and verse, so he’d give it to her. He was beginning to enjoy this verbal fencing match. ‘I was ten years old when I realised that I was just a nuisance as far as my parents were concerned. I demanded things of them they were unable to give. Time, consideration, thought. Love. I was sent away to school and it was a case of out of sight, out of mind. During the holidays there was the hired help to see that I was adequately fed. If I had worries, problems, triumphs—whatever—my parents didn’t want to know. So no, I don’t want children. I wouldn’t be sure I could commit myself as thoroughly as a child deserves. My parents couldn’t bring themselves to be interested in their offspring and the laws of nature mean I’ve inherited their genes.’ He sketched a shrug. ‘I wouldn’t want to risk it.’

‘Oh!’ It was all Mattie could say. She wanted to throttle his parents but she couldn’t because they were both dead. Killed years ago when the light aircraft they had been in had crashed into an Italian Alp. And she wanted to tell him that she would love any child of his like the most precious thing on earth, but she couldn’t. Wanted to tell him that she could give him all the love and devotion his heartless parents had denied him. If he wanted it. But he didn’t.

So she couldn’t do that, either. She said, her voice very soft, ‘I never knew that. About your unhappy childhood.’ It went a long way towards explaining his aura of detachment, the untouchable quality that made him seem so in control of the events and people that surrounded him. ‘You and your parents always seemed to get along together.’

‘When we were together, which wasn’t often, we were polite,’ he conceded. ‘I adapted as a child and learned not to wear my heart on my sleeve.’ His dark brows drew together as he glanced at his watch. ‘However, this isn’t about me, I’m merely explaining why I don’t have any desire to father children.’

‘And Fiona was happy with that?’ He didn’t like her talking about his ex-fiancée. Well, he wouldn’t, would he? But the wine had made her reckless, reckless enough to make an astute guess. ‘I don’t suppose she wanted to spoil her fabulous figure, or get baby dribble on her best Lacroix!’ She batted back incipient tears. He hadn’t asked if she wanted children, if she would be happy in such a sterile relationship. In fact, he wasn’t considering her feelings at all. He probably thought she didn’t have any.

‘What would I get out of your proposed arrangement—except the stress of having to arrange dinner parties?’ she demanded gruffly, beginning to regret her unprecedented intake of alcohol. Any minute now she would start to get over-emotional, blurt out things that would reveal her true feelings for him. Already there was a lump the size of a small house in her throat.

‘Mattie—’ he leaned closer, his forearms on the table, his eyes warmer now. ‘—believe me, I’ve given this a whole lot of thought. It would be a satisfactory arrangement for both of us. Forget the social entertaining side of it—you’re bright enough to get the hang of it, do anything you want to do. We get along well together, always have. I’ve enormous respect for your intelligence, your capacity for hard work. You’re no raver, you won’t play games or take me for a sucker—you’ve too much integrity. You’re comfortable to be around. You’re very soothing company. We’d make a good team. As for what you would gain from such an arrangement—’ he smiled expansively, dazzling her, making her breath shudder in her lungs ‘—you get my name, my protection, my assurance that the demands of your work will always come before your duty as my wife—I know how much it means to you. You get a good home in one of the more sought-after areas of London.’

‘You make me sound like a stray dog that needs to be taken in!’ she spluttered, glad to stop puzzling over the compliments that had come over as not being complimentary at all and made her sound inexpressively dull.

James smothered a sigh. ‘You’re nearer the truth than you imagine. Your father might not have told you yet, but he’s all set to sell up and move to an apartment in town. Taking Mrs Flax. And he’s already making substantial noises about handing his shares in the business over to you, going into full retirement. If we marry, you have a home to go to and the business stays in the family.’

She was smart enough to see the sound common sense of that, but she was looking more poleaxed than ever. He tugged in a slow breath and asked gently, ‘What do you see as the problems from your side? Face it, Matts, you’re twenty-five years old and as far as I’m aware you’ve never been in a relationship. If your ambitions had run along the lines of a husband and family you’d have done something about it before now. Got out more, shown an interest in what you wore. Done the things a woman does—you know, hairstyles and make-up. That being said, where’s the harm in two people who like and respect each other teaming up and forming a successful partnership?’

Mattie stared at him, her eyes wide and unfocussed. She felt as if the bottom had dropped right out of her life and suddenly marriage to James seemed a rock she could cling to. Forget his astute reasoning behind his desire to control her father’s fifty-per-cent holding in the company, forget that he didn’t love her, and never could. She could handle that; she’d had plenty of practice over the last decade.

What she couldn’t handle was this sense of betrayal. She had believed that her father, at least, saw her worth, valued her. But he hadn’t bothered to consult her over his decision to sell the family home, hand over his business shares.

It really hurt.

Early on in her life she’d realised she was a disappointment to her mother. Straight, lank hair, plain little face, skinny body. Nothing her mother could do made her pretty—she’d told her so often enough. When her beautiful baby brother had been born her mother had as good as forgotten she’d existed. And when he’d died from meningitis she had gone to pieces, had never recovered, shutting both her daughter and her husband out until, eventually, she’d left them.

But she, Mattie, had discovered how to make her father proud of her. Good grades at school. Not only good, the best. She’d learned to keep her head down, keep at her studies, make the best get better.

But he couldn’t have been proud of her, rated her very highly. If he’d thought anything of her he would have discussed such life-changing decisions with her first. Wouldn’t he?

She stood up unsteadily, the sight of her barely touched meal, the dregs of wine in her glass, making her feel slightly nauseous.

‘I’ll marry you, James. Just let me know the date and venue and I’ll be there.’

CHAPTER THREE

MATTIE stuck her hands in the pockets of her jacket—quilted amber silk; Armani, no less—and shivered. More from apprehension than the darkly bitter January evening air.

What would her father think of the way she was dolled up?

She shot an aggravated glance up at the monitor over the windy platform. His train was late. After a week in London, on some unspecified business or other, he’d phoned last night and asked her, in Mrs Flax’s absence, to meet his train.

The drive into Lewes had been a nightmare. She loathed driving at night; it made her more than nervous. Oncoming headlights always blinded her and when she scrabbled around for her own dip switch she usually managed to activate her wipers instead or, even worse, indicate a turn she had no intention of making.

To add to her jitters she’d been agonising over what her father would make of her new image. Someone unsuccessfully trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear? Pitiful, perhaps? Tarty? Oh, heaven forbid! Or simply and shamingly hilarious?

Not that her father’s reaction would trouble her overmuch, of course, but it would give her a good indication of what James would think.

And all of it was Dawn’s fault!

She’d arrived in the middle of last week, pounding on the front door as if the Mafia were after her. ‘I’ve taken a few days off to help you out, Matts. We’ve got to get you sorted! Ten days until the wedding and I bet you haven’t given a single thought to what you’re going to wear! Where’s your father?’

‘In town for a week.’

‘Good. That’s where we’re heading and if he’s away we won’t have to waste time explaining what we’re doing—or, knowing you, asking for his permission! All you have to do is grab your credit cards and lock the doors.’