A New Year Marriage Proposal

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_a8e5435e-48b4-5bbc-8e0c-36f962ee8b42)

‘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 thing will probably be too difficult to do at short notice, but we could have a life-sized screen. Santa will get them to say what they really want for Christmas. In the meantime, people behind the scenes can buy the gifts, wrap them and label them, and then the real Santa walks in with all the gifts on his sleigh, and he delivers their perfect Christmas present.’

Quinn could see exactly how the system could work. It wouldn’t take very much effort at all to build the system she wanted. And suddenly everything was all right again: he could treat this as a business project.

‘OK. Does it have to be life-sized? Because a screen that big is going to be really costly,’ he warned. She might be able to persuade various businesses to donate or loan some equipment, but not for something as specialised as that.

She thought about it. ‘Some of the children might be too sick to leave their beds. I guess something portable would be better for them—so basically we’re taking Santa to them. And if everyone uses the same system then nobody will feel left out or different.’

‘So you could use a laptop or tablet, say.’ He thought about it. ‘That’d be very doable. And it would save you money if you could use something you already have.’

‘And I was thinking maybe we could use the barcodes on an appointment letter or the children’s medical notes, so Santa knows the children’s names even as they look at the screen,’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘No chance. You’ll fall foul of all the data protection laws. You’d have to get permission from the health authority to use their data—and, believe me, you’d have to jump through hoops to get that permission—and then you’d also need written permission from every single parent or guardian. It’s not going to happen. You need a different way of doing it.’

‘So what would you suggest?’ she asked.

‘Give me until tomorrow to think about it,’ he said, ‘and I’ll come up with a plan. How are you organising the gifts?’

‘Santa will pass the information to a team who’ll source the gifts, buy them, get them wrapped and couriered over to the hospital. Timing’s going to be a bit tight, but it’s doable,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about that bit. I’ve already got an arrangement with a couple of large toy shops and department stores.’

‘They’re donating the gifts?’

‘No. We’re picking up the costs. They’ve just agreed to supply what we want and give us priority treatment.’

Quinn had the distinct feeling that this was personal as well as business. Maybe Carissa knew a child who’d been in hospital at Christmas. Someone who’d been close to her.

‘It’s the virtual Santa that’s important,’ she added.

‘And you have someone lined up to play him?’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘One last thing.’

‘Yes?’

There was a hint of anxiety in her eyes. ‘This has to be totally confidential.’

He didn’t get it. ‘Isn’t the whole point of PR to get media coverage?’

‘For the opening of the children’s ward, yes. For the person behind Santa, no.’

Maybe it wasn’t personal for her, then. Maybe it was personal for her client—and Carissa was the kind of PR professional who’d go the extra mile to make sure that her clients got exactly what they wanted.

‘Got it. OK. Let’s have an update meeting tomorrow at my place,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you timings, costs and a workable solution.’

‘That,’ she said, ‘sounds perfect.’

‘What time do you want to meet?’

‘Seven?’ she suggested. ‘If that works for you.’

‘It works.’ He finished his tea and stood up. ‘Thank you for the tea and brownies, Ms Wylde.’

‘Carissa,’ she corrected. ‘Thank you for taking on the project. I’ll make sure your invoice is processed promptly.’

‘You haven’t asked my hourly rate yet,’ he said.

‘I’m sure it will be in line with the market rate.’

Meaning that she’d make him feel guilty and he’d cut his rate if it was too high. He was about to agree, but his mouth went freelance on him again. ‘Make me some more of that cake and we’ll call tonight’s meeting a freebie.’

‘Deal,’ she said.

And when he shook her hand, his palm actually tingled.

Not good.

This was business. And she was his neighbour. And you most definitely didn’t mix any of those things with anything else, not if you wanted a quiet life where you could just get on with your work without your heart being tied up in knots all the time.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, and left before he did anything stupid. Like turning her hand over and kissing her wrist. Letting his mouth linger on her pulse point. And asking her for a date.

* * *

What Carissa had learned about Quinn O’Neill: he was bright. He liked chocolate. He had a good heart. And he was definitely smart as well as sexy.

But she’d just involved him in the project she’d been working on for years. Something she couldn’t afford to go wrong, because it was way too important to her. In her experience, getting involved meant getting out of her depth. Getting hurt. She’d only just managed to paper over the cracks post-Justin; the glue still needed time to dry, time to help her form a shell to keep her heart safe. So having any kind of involvement with Quinn other than a business relationship—even if he was smart, sexy and sensitive—would be a very bad idea.

‘He’s off limits,’ she told herself. Out loud, just to make sure she’d got the message.

But she still couldn’t quite get him out of her head.

She worked through her lunch hour the next day so she’d be home in time to make brownies before the meeting. And at precisely seven she rang Quinn’s doorbell.

‘Punctual. Good. Come in.’ He glanced at the cake tin. ‘Last night’s fee?’

‘Last night’s fee,’ she confirmed.

‘Good. Thank you.’ He took the tin from her. ‘Coffee?’

‘Thanks. Milk, no sugar,’ she said.