Her Knight Under the Mistletoe

by Annie O'Neil

  Carefully, she eased him underneath his duvet, enjoying the contrast of his blond hair against the blue cotton. The same color as...sigh... Matthew’s eyes.

  She tugged her own wayward sprawl of hair away from her face and grimaced into the darkness of the hallway. It was no surprise she hadn’t been able to sleep. Too many thoughts. Too many memories.

  “Oh, is that you still up, Amanda, darling?”

  Amanda started at the sound of her aunt’s voice.

  “Yes! Sorry.” She clasped her hands together over her pounding heart and laughed. “You frightened me. I was a million miles away. Are you back already from the art exhibition?”

  “It’s past midnight, love.”

  “Oh! Goodness. I hadn’t realized.”

  “Was Tristan keeping you up?” Her aunt took her elbow and steered them both toward the stairwell that led up to her aunt’s studio. Her “garret,” as she called it.

  “No, not at all. Good as gold. As ever.”

  “Is it just one of those nights, or is there something in particular that is rendering a glass of milk and honey useless?”

  Amanda smiled. Her aunt must have noticed the empty bottles of milk she’d set outside the front door for the milkman to collect in the morning. It was her go-to insomnia cure, but tonight... Useless.

  “It’s the new job,” she admitted, squinting her eyes against the glow of the floor lamp her aunt had turned on.

  “Sit,” her aunt instructed, pointing Amanda toward a cushiony armchair that was just perfect for curling up in, legs and all. “Speak.”

  She grinned at her auntie, her heart filling with gratitude that at least one member of her family wasn’t obsessed with social climbing. Living with Lady Florence Wakehurst, her father’s sister, was akin to living with a whirling dervish. A whirling dervish who, like a rainbow or a break in the clouds, provided moments of genuine clarity and peace. She was like a lady Buddha, bohemian artist and businesswoman all wrapped into one. And she was the one person who hadn’t judged her when she’d turned up pregnant and alone.

  “They want it to be a job share.”

  Her aunt’s gaze sharpened. “Oh?”

  Amanda nodded. “Well. Not exactly. But sort of.”

  “Amanda, darling, you’re being obtuse.”

  Amanda snorted at her aunt’s dry expression. “They want me to work together with someone for the next month or so until they figure out which one of us they want. Although the director kept saying the situation was ‘fluid.’ Whatever that means.”

  “Not exactly standard practice, but it doesn’t sound completely mad. They want to sample before they buy. Not to worry. You’re an excellent doctor, darling. And a wonderful manager. Who’s the competition? Surely you’ll wipe the floor with them.”

  Amanda traced her finger along the curlicue design in the ancient chair’s upholstery. Something Auntie Flo had inherited from a great-great-grandmother, from the threadbare looks of things.

  “I could do it. I’ll just never be around. And what’s the point in earning all that money only to beg more favors I don’t deserve from you or pay someone else to spend time with Tristan?” She lifted her hands into the air and let them fall into her lap. “I mean, that kind of defeats the whole point of having a son, doesn’t it?”

  “It depends upon who you ask, dear.” Her aunt gave a wicked giggle then held up her index finger. “First point—I love my grandnephew, so spending time with him is hardly a chore, and hiring someone to give your decrepit Auntie periodic relief would only widen his social skills. There’s also the nursery round the corner. Secondly, I know I’m completely ancient, but in my day we were all shipped off to boarding school before we could form complete sentences and not allowed to return until we could drop thrilling bon mots into teatime conversations. Or, in my case, make a perfect dry martini.”

  “Is that what happened to you and Dad?”

  Amanda faltered a little on the final word. A part of her knew her father had been trying to do the right thing by withdrawing her trust fund when she’d gone off the rails. But rejecting her lock, stock and barrel because she’d had a son out of wedlock... Now, that was something she’d thought only happened “back in the day.”

  “Our parents were raised in a terrifically strict Edwardian household. Children were seen and not heard.” Her aunt gave her long strand of pearls a tug, then swirled the tips of her fingers along her temples as if her head ached at the memory. “Not really seen that much, if the truth be told. Tristan knows you love him. Whatever time you have with him when you get your career up and running again will be enough.”

  Amanda tried to return her aunt’s gentle smile, but just couldn’t make herself. This wasn’t the only job in the world, but it certainly was the one she knew would engage her and keep her ever-active mind focused. Maybe her father was right. She always leapt before she looked...and this time there were consequences.

  She drummed her fingers along her chin. “If only there was a way to convince him he didn’t really want the job.”

  “The competition...?” her aunt intoned playfully.

  For an instant a crystal-clear image of Matthew swept all her other thoughts away. His pitch-black hair. Blue eyes that could light up a room. Or at least increase her blood temperature a degree or two. Enough alpha male pounding through his system to see him into battle and back again. Little wonder he’d become a soldier. The man was potent. If he’d been in war zones it was understandable that he had that odd, faraway look in his eyes. And not that surprising she was attracted to him.

  A sting of pain shot through her. Had she used him to make up for what had happened to John? Ugh. If only this chair would swallow her up and let her start the day over again she would never set foot in Bankside.

  “You did meet the other person today?” her aunt pressed.

  “He’s no one really.”

  Lies. Lying. Liar. He was... He was every single thing she thought she’d want in a man. And every single thing she couldn’t have.

  “Aha!” Her aunt cackled, pressing herself up and putting on the kettle she kept in the corner of the studio. “It looks to me as if my little darling niece is on the knife’s edge of a dilemma. Come on, luvvie.” She crooked her index finger and wiggled it back and forth. “Tell Auntie Florence all about it.”

  After a day of holding it all in, Amanda suddenly let the wash of emotions burst through her. “The ‘competition’ is Tristan’s father.”

  “Ah.” To her credit her aunt didn’t flinch, gasp or shriek with dismay. “And I’m guessing the good doctor still has no idea he has a little version of himself running around London town.”

  Amanda shook her head, then dropped her forehead into her hands. What a mess!

  “So,” her aunt continued, pouring boiling water into an ancient china teapot, “now that I’m a bit more in the picture, it appears to me that it’s not so much that you don’t want it to be a job share—it’s that you don’t want it to be a job share with him.”

  “That’s just it!” Amanda wailed. “He’s...he’s...perfect!”

  And he had been. It had been as if they’d worked together from the day each of them had been handed a stethoscope and pointed toward a busy emergency ward. They’d seemed to have a sixth sense about each other. An ability to know where the other was at all times. If they needed help. If they didn’t.

  Exactly the same as the moment they had caught one another’s eye at the benefit all those years ago. As if it had been predestined that they would be together.

  Fate.

  “Bad luck, darling.”

  Or bad luck.

  Amanda sighed. “Maybe not. It’s just life.” He was probably laughing about their three-years-ago dalliance right now.

  No. That wasn’t fair. He didn’t strike her as cruel. Nor
was he someone who would bow out of the job without proving his worth.

  “In my experience, love, there’s nothing a good cup of tea can’t fix.” Her aunt cradled the delicate cup in a saucer and handed it across to her niece. “Chamomile. To help you get some sleep. In the morning a solution will no doubt present itself.”

  Amanda thanked her and blew across the steaming surface of the tea, watching it ripple as her breath hit it. A storm in a teacup. Fingers crossed that wouldn’t translate to working with Matthew. That was one storm she could do without.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  STILL SCRUBBING THE sleep out of her eyes, Amanda pulled the changing room door open on the ever-busy A&E, only to find herself face to chest with...oh...surprise, surprise... Matthew Chase.

  He’d been just about every-bloody-where she’d turned over the past week. The only place she didn’t seem to run into him was the ladies’ room. It was a shame hiding out in a cubicle wasn’t a way to turn the tables in her favor. Besides, from everything she’d seen Matthew was every bit as capable of running the A&E as she was.

  Didn’t mean she had to like it.

  “Hello, Amanda. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “Mmm...” She did her best to hide the rush of goose pimples rippling across her skin by a crafty crossing her arms over her chest maneuver. As if she could fool a man like him. He’d probably invented all the tricks in the book. “I could say the same, but I suspect we are both operating with the same ulterior motives.”

  Matthew feigned shock. “Moi? I think you will find my intentions are purely chivalrous. Lending a hand in a busy A&E department—”

  She waved a hand in front of his face. “Save it for the board. I’m not the one you need to be impressing.” She pointed out to the full waiting room. “They are.”

  Matthew didn’t turn to look. He had, after all, just walked through the crowd. Instead he stood his ground, filling the doorway like a sexy grizzly bear minus the hirsute thing. And the claws. The smile was winning enough. And dangerous enough.

  Don’t go there. He’s off-limits and you are the Ice Queen. Just keep it on a loop. I am the Ice Queen. I am the Ice Queen.

  He took a step back to allow her to pass.

  See? Powerful.

  “I think the board will see sense soon enough. Realize this is a one-woman job. Now, if you’ll excuse me? I have patients to see.”

  She used her fingertips to press his chest, so that he’d take a couple more steps back. It was more of a survival move than a genuine desire to launch herself into the fray, but standing there in that swirl of Matthew’s signature aroma... Mmm, this morning it came with a dash of pine needles and nutmeg. Christmassy.

  How did he manage to look so...awake? Bright blue eyes twinkling, hair a bit...well...rakish suited him, so the mussed-up look didn’t matter so much. But—sweet honey buckets—the man just oozed vitality. It was all she could do to sweep past with a supercilious air of you-don’t-affect-me-at-all.

  “See you out there, Cinders.”

  The word lodged in her spine like an ice pick.

  Cinderella.

  That was what she’d so flippantly called herself that night. The only thing was, there were no glass slippers hidden in her house after that unforgettable evening. Just one perfect little boy.

  “Does that make you the pumpkin or one of the mice coachmen?” she asked coolly.

  “I thought that would’ve been obvious.”

  Matthew’s voice deepened as he turned his sexy vibes up to high. As if he had to.

  “Mmm... Not so obvious from where I’m standing.”

  Amanda raised her eyebrows and impatiently tapped her fingers along her forearm, not a little pleased to note that her ability to lie to his face was improving. Maybe she was growing immune to him.

  He leant in close and growled in her ear, “I’m the big bad wolf.”

  As he swept past her a shot of heat jetted straight to her erogenous zones so powerfully it was as if she’d just rolled off him and was enjoying the afterglow of a mind-blowing orgasm.

  Okay. Not so immune.

  But until she figured out a way to let him know he was Tristan’s father she was going to have to keep her game face on.

  * * *

  “Dr. Chase!”

  Matthew looked up from his patient notes to see Dr. Menzies entering the doctors’ lounge. “All right, guv? What can I do you for?”

  The older gentleman walked to the kettle, lifted it, then raised his eyebrows to ask the age-old question. “Cuppa?”

  Matthew nodded, the wheels in his mind beginning to turn and whirr at high speed. Cups of tea usually came with bad news.

  “I’ll take the tea, but you’d better be the one to tell me whether or not I’m sweet enough.”

  Dr. Menzies laughed. “No need for sugar today, Matthew.” He walked to the sink to fill the kettle.

  “But...?”

  He heard the tap stop and his mentor sigh. Felt the air thicken as the director gathered his thoughts. Matthew was no mind reader, but he wasn’t blind. He’d seen Amanda bewitch and delight the A&E crew, doctor by doctor, nurse by nurse, from reception straight on through to top administration. It was obvious she was a natural manager and an excellent doctor.

  That and Matthew hadn’t been deaf to the near constant barrage of questions as to why he wasn’t simply helming the SoS unit—seeing as he was the man who had set it up.

  But how could he look a soldier in the eye and tell him he would be there for him when he hadn’t been there for his own brother?

  Matthew sighed and pushed his paperwork to the side. “Shall I put you out of your misery and just say it for you? You’re giving the job to Amanda.”

  Dr. Menzies turned around, a gentle half smile playing on his lips. The other half of his expression was, Matthew guessed, weariness at having to deal with the politics of running a hospital when medicine was really what made him tick.

  “No. That’s not it at all.” He finished making the mugs of tea, slid them on the table and pulled out a chair to join Matthew. “Dr. McBride voiced a certain...concern...yesterday.”

  “The chap who runs the A&E sometimes?”

  “Yes. Today being one of them.” Dr. Menzies nodded, his eyes glued to his mug of tea as though it held the answers to the mystery of the universe. “He was a little concerned about the...ah...the competitive nature of your relationship with Dr. Wakehurst.”

  Matthew shrugged. “It’s only natural. We’re both up for the same job.”

  “True, but what if the board decides to go with making the position a permanent job share? You are going to have to get along with her. And if they don’t... I can tell you which position they’d rather you took up.”

  A vivid flash of holding Amanda in his arms, their legs woven together as if they were one person, sharing breath and kisses, touching and holding each other’s bodies with such raw desire it would have been impossible to believe one could survive without the other, shook Matthew to his core.

  Just as quickly a surge of indignation wiped it clean. He didn’t need Amanda. Didn’t need anyone. After three tours in full-blown war zones, trying his best to understand what his brother had gone through—and failing—he could run the A&E with his eyes shut. He knew chaos as well as he knew the backs of his hands.

  “What’s this really about, Donald? Is it one of those ticking the boxes things? Does the hospital need more women in senior roles? Is that what this is about? Playing nicey-nicey? You should know better than anyone I’m not into politics. I’m into solving things. Fixing things. Like patients.”

  Without waiting for a response he closed the patient file, gathered up the rest of his paperwork and rose from his chair.

  Rapping his knuckles on the table, he continued. “Here’s the de
al. For the rest of this month I will appear, ready to work at seven a.m. on the dot, Monday to Friday, weekends if necessary, and I will work through until the next shift is properly up and running. What Dr. Wakehurst does or doesn’t do to prove herself willing to go the full mile for this job is up to her. If, at the end of the month, you decide I’m the man for the job I’ll take it. If not, I’ll walk away—no hard feelings. But in the meantime you can tell the rest of the team that a little healthy competition never hurt anyone. Because where I come from? Everyone’s not a winner. And if Dr. Wakehurst isn’t up to a bit of ribbing because early starts don’t suit, don’t hire her.”

  The sound of clapping came from the doorway. “Bravo, Dr. Chase. Fighting words if ever I heard them.”

  “Amanda,” Dr. Menzies spilt some tea out of his mug as he pushed himself up to stand. “We were just discussing—”

  She held up a hand and waved away whatever apology he was about to offer, her hazel eyes solidly locked on Matthew. “I heard. And that’s fine with me. Seven a.m. is my favorite time of day.”

  “I thought it was midnight.”

  Matthew knew there was an edge to his voice, but the more he was getting to know this woman the more he knew he’d pinned a label on her that didn’t suit at all. It was more than obvious that she was someone special. A stand-out, even. Not at all the spoiled heiress he’d pegged her to be—a woman playing the field until Daddy arranged for her to marry one of her own or bought her a clinic on London’s Harley Street, full of private practices.

  The fact that Matthew himself was newly titled made about as much impact on the blue-blood set she belonged to as nouveau riche did to the old money crowd. Nada. Not that wedding bells were what he had in mind.

  Wait a minute...

  Were they?

  No. Of course not. He didn’t do commitment. He didn’t do love. He didn’t do happy families. He did work. And he did blocking out the pain and getting through the days with the odd hour out to have a glass of whiskey with a colleague. Not that he’d even had time for one of those lately.