A New Year Marriage Proposal

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.