Christmas Child

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.’