So get a grip, she admonished herself tartly. He’d never done a single thing to encourage the way she felt about him. Was—heaven be praised—totally unaware of the deep-rooted emotions she had where he was concerned. So deep-rooted that she’d never once actually noticed any other man, not in that way, had never been tempted to follow the example of her friends at university and indulge in casual affairs.
Instead of mooning over what could never be she should be down there, trying, in her own quiet way, to offer him kindness and understanding over the next few days, hopefully doing something to help ease the anguish of his broken heart.
Stoically ignoring the pain in her own heart, she lifted her chin, straightened her spine and hurried downstairs.
‘Of course I’m going to help prepare lunch,’ James stated unequivocally the next morning. ‘I don’t expect to be waited on hand and foot. Besides…’ one dark brow arched humorously ‘…neither of us has fixed a full-scale Christmas lunch before; the results could be fun.’
Mattie bit down on her lower lip. Hard. Did he have to look so rivetingly gorgeous? Did her wretched insides have to go into spasm whenever he was around?
Dressed this morning in hip-hugging, narrow grey trousers and a casual black cashmere sweater that displayed a breadth of shoulder that just invited a girl to snuggle into, he was six-two of male perfection. Top that by the austerity of hard-boned features, and silvery-grey eyes made sultry by heavy lids and lashes that were as thick and black as his hair and you got an endlessly fascinating combination.
Stop it! she growled inside her head. Think of something else. Anything.
‘If you’re afraid of a repeat performance of last night’s supper, don’t be,’ she said as lightly as she could. It had been a complete disaster. ‘The quiche was soggy, the salad still had bugs in it and the mince pies were about as edible as lumps of tarmac.’
She was wearing one of Mrs Flax’s cotton overalls and it swamped her. Pulling her reading glasses out of a capacious side pocket, she fixed them on her nose. Looking as she did, like someone kitted out for the frump-of-the-year show, was some sort of protection. It served to drive home the fact, emphasise it, that in his book she would never be worth a second glance.
Reputedly ruthless in business, he had always been kind to her—when he’d got around to noticing her. But that was all. Absolutely all. Sometimes she thought he actually found her amusing and at others he didn’t seem to see her, looking through her, rather than at her.
Pulling in a deep breath, she rallied, explaining soberly, ‘Fact is, I panicked. Did everything wrong. Because Mrs Flax does all the cooking I’ve never had to learn. But that doesn’t mean I can’t. It has to be entirely a matter of logic and planning. So I sat up last night and made lists, read cookery books, assembled—’ Aware that his gorgeous eyes were sending dancing silver glints in her direction, she broke off, adding tartly, ‘I’ve got the whole operation planned, down to the last frozen sprout.’
The exercise had left her with bags under her eyes but had at least taken her mind off the fact that he was sleeping under the same roof. Or not sleeping, lying awake, mourning his lost love. ‘And I’m sure you could spend the morning more profitably with Dad. I know he’s eager to discuss the funding of the hotel complex project in Spain—or was it Italy?’
‘Spain,’ he said. ‘And that can wait.’ She looked so earnest, her hair scraped back from her plain little face, her owly glasses slipping down to the end of her neat little nose, her golden eyes serious. She was bringing her impressive thought processes to bear on the problem in hand.
Bravo Mattie!
‘Nevertheless, I’m going to help you. If nothing else, I can peel potatoes, supply you with coffee, mop your fevered brow. I promise you, I shall enjoy it. Enjoy your company.’
And that was the truth. It didn’t surprise him in the least. Mattie was always comfortable to be around. And watching her grapple with alien practicalities—the way her quirky brows would pull together with a frown of concentration, the pink tip of her tongue peep from the corners of her mouth, just as it had done when she had been trying to master the mysteries of her word processor—would amuse him, would take his mind off—off other things.
‘If that’s what you really want.’ Mattie pretended to consult the lengthy list she’d left on the butcher’s block table. He wouldn’t enjoy it. He would know that the makings of a huge Christmas lunch that Mrs Flax had left in the deep freeze would have stayed right there if he hadn’t invited himself here. He was doing what he would see as his duty.
She would not let herself believe that he really did enjoy being with her. She wasn’t into self-delusion. But James, in this warmer, noticing mood was dangerous stuff.
And went on being dangerous to her equilibrium right through the holiday, his easy charm taking her breath away, making her sometimes believe in that old chestnut that if you wanted something badly enough it came to you. Only occasionally did he seem to withdraw into darkness, his eyes deeply thoughtful, brooding, she was sure of it, on his lost love. Not that Fiona’s name had been mentioned, not once.
This morning, the day James was due to leave, her father had taken himself off for a walk, complaining that he’d eaten far too much. ‘You did us proud, Mattie,’ he’d said, sounding astonished. And then, as if inner enlightenment had been granted, ‘But then, James was around to see you didn’t go dishing up any more disasters!’
Mattie resented that, she really did. She’d worked hard to bring some sort of logic to the mysteries of turning basic raw ingredients into palatable meals. She deserved some credit, she thought grumpily as she pushed the vacuum cleaner around the house with more passion than purpose and was thrusting it back into its cupboard in the kitchen when James walked in.
‘Ready to go?’ She sounded calm, sensible. Inside she was a mess. She would miss him dreadfully. She probably wouldn’t see him again for months. Only last night she’d happened, in passing the sitting-room door, to hear her father tell him that he’d travel up to the London head office in a day or two to discuss the funding for the Spanish project with him and their company accountant. So he wouldn’t be dropping by in the near future.
‘Almost.’ He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his arms folded over his chest, as if barring her exit. Mattie took one look at him—he was so beautiful, even the worn old denim jeans and ancient leather jacket couldn’t detract from the lean, powerful elegance of his tall, whippy frame—and looked swiftly away.
She really did have to stop thinking this way. She’d managed to keep her emotions off the boil for years, tucking them away, refusing to let them churn her up. She could do it again. Hell’s teeth, of course she could!
Closing the cupboard door, she turned again to face him, smoothing down the smothering folds of the unflattering borrowed overall.
‘Can I get you a coffee before you go?’ That was better—she’d subdued the painful lump in her chest that might have made speech impossible. She was back to being calm and helpful.
‘Not for me.’ He levered his hard frame away from the door, walked towards her, his silver eyes intent. ‘There’s something I want to ask you. And before you jump down my throat, I want you to consider it carefully, bring your usual unruffled intelligence into play.’
He stopped walking, left a few feet of space between them, smiling wryly as that well-known puzzled little frown appeared between her eyes. The idea had come to him suddenly, and it was a good one. He’d thought about it long and hard since it had occurred to him last night, after his discussion with Edward.
It made good, practical sense. And he knew his Mattie. Once she got used to the thought of having to uproot herself she would see that.
‘Mattie,’ he said levelly. ‘Will you marry me?’
CHAPTER TWO
SOMETHING scary had happened to her, Mattie thought wildly. A sudden rush of blood to her head, maybe? It had boiled her brain, sent her loopy, made her hear things.
James proposing? To her?
‘Mattie?’
Even through the shock of fearing herself to have suffered a mortal affliction, she was bright enough to detect a note of wry amusement when she heard one. So that was it. A joke. An unfunny joke.
Oh, how dared he? It would serve him right if she took him seriously, flung herself at him, dewy-eyed and babbling about big white wedding dresses and having his babies. All those barren, hopeless years of loving this man didn’t stop her from wanting to punish him!
But common sense eventually did just that. Pretending to take him seriously would hurt her more than it hurt him. Winding her arms around him, covering his face with kisses, would be torture.
She uprooted her feet from the floor and trudged to the sink to fill the kettle. She needed coffee, even if he didn’t. At least she was moving now, thinking clearly. She said flatly, ‘Be careful, James. Jokes like that could rebound on you. You might be taken seriously.’
‘I meant it, Matts,’ he said from right behind her.
She froze. Everything inside her turned into stone. This was not possible. How could he mean it?
Lifting his hands, he took her shoulders, turning her to face him, and that brought her to life, blood coursing madly through her veins at his touch. She shrugged his hands away. He had never touched her before, not even accidentally, and much as she might crave this small intimacy she couldn’t handle it, not right now, not if she were to find out what his agenda was.
‘Has this got something to do with Fiona dumping you?’ she asked, her brain clearing. ‘She jilts you, so you immediately get engaged to someone else, just to show her she’s not the only pebble on the beach?’
Her heart twisted painfully. Was she right? Could he be that cruel? Would he use her like that, just to get his own back on the woman he loved? Buy her a flash engagement ring, make sure the whole world knew about it, then quietly break the whole thing off when the dust of Fiona’s public jilting had settled?
‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘No slick answer for once?’ His bleak silence spurred her on to angry sarcasm. ‘Or have you suddenly fallen madly in love with me? Somehow that would take a lot of swallowing!’
James glanced at the discreet face of his Rolex. He’d meant to spend the afternoon back in his apartment, going through a raft of paperwork. This was going to take longer than he’d thought.
‘You sell yourself short, Mattie. You really should break the habit.’ The words emerged on a breath of impatience, softened by slight amusement. ‘And no,’ he went on with no inflexion whatever, ‘I have no more “fallen madly in love” with you than you have with me. In fact, I don’t think the condition actually exists.’
He resigned himself to the loss of a full afternoon’s useful work. He’d been over-optimistic when he’d imagined he could put his reasons for marriage in front of her in two minutes flat, and it would only take another three or four for her first-class brain to accept that the reasons and terms were both workable and desirable. Far from looking receptive, her face was screwed up in what could be nothing else but suppressed fury.
‘All I ask is that you take time to listen to what I have to say. To kick off—’ The sound of Edward letting himself in through the utility adjoining the kitchen made him bite his words off. Hell! He hadn’t expected his partner back so soon. He’d scripted this as a rational, businesslike discussion, over in a few minutes, and it was rapidly turning into a farce.
His jawline grim, he narrow-eyed the older man as he walked into the room, blowing his fingers, his face ruddy from exercise in the bitingly cold air.
‘So you decided to stay for lunch after all?’ Edward hazarded. ‘Thought you’d be well on your way by now. And, Mattie, if you’re cooking, nothing for me. Getting a paunch.’
‘Actually,’ James drawled, thinking on his feet, mentally postponing that paperwork until later, much later, ‘I’m taking Matts out to lunch, as a thank you for all the hard graft she’s put in over the past few days.’ His narrowed eyes impaled her with silver command. ‘Go get your coat.’
Her instinct was to tell him not to dish out his orders in that brisk, authoritative voice, as if she were some lowly employee. Tell him to ask her nicely, and she’d think about it. But she’d controlled her emotions where James was concerned for more years than she cared to remember and she’d be a fool to give way to the need to snap and shout, indulge in a verbal stand-up fight.
He would simply turn his back on her, walk straight out, and she’d never discover what in damnation he’d been thinking about when he’d come out with that unbelievable proposal of marriage.
Besides, his eyes were positively glacial when he bit out, ‘Scoot, Mattie. We don’t have all day.’
The tone of his voice sent shivers down her spine. She had heard he was a force to be reckoned with, a man no one but an out-and-out fool would dare to cross, but in all the time she had known him she had never been afraid of him, or had the feeling that he was taking control of her life.
She went, almost tripping over her own feet, leaving the room before he could say or do anything else to add to her sense of angry confusion.
Of course she wasn’t afraid of him, she told herself as she pulled Mrs Flax’s overall over her head and searched in the hall cupboard for her serviceable waxed jacket. Afraid of what he was making her feel was more like it.
Disorientated. As if her brain had been put in a blender.
Stuffing her feet into leather boots, she tucked the bottoms of her trousers in with shaky fingers and James, dangling car keys, asked ‘Ready?’ making her jump out of her skin.
Impatient, she thought, glancing up at his tight jawline, the thin line of his mouth. And not the impatience of a man desperate to get his woman to himself. He’d been very quick to respond to her sarcastic question—of course he hadn’t fallen in love with her. Any more than she’d fallen in love with him, he’d added.
If only he knew!
‘Yes, I’m ready. And curious to know what this is all about,’ she answered steadily enough, even though her heart was jittering about like a flying beetle trying to get out of a paper bag.
‘I’ll tell you over lunch.’ And he’d throw in a bottle of wine. He wouldn’t be drinking because he’d be driving later, but she looked as if she needed something to help her relax. She’d pulled a black woolly hat on her head, her bunched-back hair making it sit at an odd angle, the unflattering colour emphasising the pallor of her face. Poor little scrap!
He’d had this idea, had carefully examined it, found it to be sound and, as always, intended to act on it. Right now. No messing about. But she hadn’t a clue what was in his head. He couldn’t blame her for looking as if the world had gone insane around her.
‘Let’s go,’ he said gently.
They drove half a mile to the village pub. Not far, the journey didn’t give her nearly enough time to get her head together. James actually did want to marry her. He’d said so, but she was having difficulty taking it in.
Years ago, before she’d learned to control a tendency to indulge in foolish daydreams, she’d imagined him proposing. Down on one knee, moonlight and roses and all that stuff, vowing he’d always loved her, had been waiting for her to grow up.
Reality was totally different from the daydreams of a teenager. Wasn’t it just!
The slack period between Christmas and the New Year celebrations meant they had the tiny, heavily beamed restaurant to themselves. The fire in the inglenook had only just been lit and the room was chilly. Mattie kept her bulky jacket on, but James plucked the woolly hat from her head as she scanned the short menu.
‘That’s better,’ he said and she glanced across the table and caught the smile that softened the sculpted hardness of his mouth. He looked in full, complacent control. Suddenly, she wanted to slap him.
She laid the menu down. ‘I’m not hungry. I just want you to tell me what’s behind your singularly unromantic proposal of marriage.’
The clipped
tone of her voice told him she was firing on all cylinders again. So right, his suggestion of marriage had confused her, but she was dealing with it. It was one of the things he admired about her—her ability to look at a problem from all angles and, eventually, to solve it, be it learning to drive or cooking a three-course meal.
‘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.’
Christmas Child Page 2