A New Year Marriage Proposal (Harlequin Romance) (2 page)

‘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.

Was it too late to call in at number seven and return the cake tin to Carissa Wylde? Or would she be in the middle of dinner?

There was only one way to find out. Either way, he could talk to her or arrange a time to talk to her.

And this had nothing at all to do with the fact that every time he’d looked away from his computer desk that day he’d seen her laughing in his mind’s eye, the curve of her throat soft and tempting and inviting.

He washed up the tin, dried it, and walked out into the mews to ring Carissa’s doorbell. She answered the door in less than a minute—still dressed in this morning’s black suit and white shirt, though this time she’d changed the killer heels. For bunny slippers. Which should’ve made him sneer, but actually it made her endearingly cute.

‘Oh. Mr O’Neill.’

Given that he’d been a bit gruff with her this morning, it wasn’t surprising that she looked a bit wary of him now. ‘Quinn,’ he said, hoping that the offer of first-name terms was enough of an overture. ‘I’m returning your tin. Thank you for the cake.’

‘Pleasure. I hope you liked it.’

‘I did. I liked it a lot,’ he said, and her cheeks went pink with pleasure.

Which was bad, because now he was imagining her face flushed for quite a different reason. For goodness’ sake. Could his libido not keep itself under control for two minutes? And he really didn’t think that a woman like Carissa Wylde would agree to the terms he insisted on nowadays when it came to relationships—light, a bit of fun, and absolute emotional distance. Nothing serious. Nothing deep. Nothing that could end up with him getting hurt. His instincts told him that she was the sort who’d want closeness. Something that wasn’t in his skill set. Which would mean she’d get hurt—and he didn’t want to hurt her.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.

How terribly English and upper class she sounded, he thought, faintly amused—and yet she was more than a stereotype. She drew him. Intrigued him. And a cup of tea wouldn’t hurt, would it? It didn’t mean getting close. It meant being neighbourly.

‘That would be nice,’ he said. ‘If your husband doesn’t mind.’

Her face shuttered. ‘No husband. And, even if there was one, I have the right to invite a neighbour in for a cup of tea.’

Ouch. He’d clearly trodden on a sore spot. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to...’ Hmm. She was clearly a rich, successful businesswoman. Maybe a divorced one. And he didn’t have ridiculous preconceptions about a woman’s place in any case. ‘I didn’t mean to imply,’ he said, ‘that you needed a husband to validate you.’

She looked surprised, then pleased. ‘Apology accepted. Come in.’

And how different her house was from his own. The air smelled of beeswax—clearly any wood in the house was polished to within an inch of its life—and the lights were soft and welcoming rather than stark and functional. He noted fresh flowers in the hallway. And he’d just bet that her living room held cases of leather-bound books. Carissa looked like a woman who read rather than flicking endlessly through channels of repeats on satellite TV.

When she led him through to the kitchen, he wasn’t surprised to see that the work surfaces weren’t covered in clutter. But it was definitely a kitchen that was used rather than one that was all for show. An efficient one, he thought, tallying with his view of her as a successful businesswoman.

She used proper tea leaves rather than teabags—so clearly she had an eye for detail and liked things done properly—and her teapot was silver. Quinn had a nasty feeling that it was solid silver rather than silver plate. As was the tea strainer. And the sugar bowl and spoons.

Old money, then? Very different from his own background. Not that it mattered. He’d made his own way in life, and he was comfortable with who he was.

‘Milk?’ she asked.

‘Please.’

And she proceeded to pour him the perfect cup of tea. In what looked like an antique porcelain cup.

It was made even more perfect by the fact that she’d placed more brownies on a matching porcelain plate.

‘Help yourself,’ she said.

‘Thank you.’ He didn’t need a second invitation.

‘So, Mr O’Neill. Quinn.’ She smiled at him. ‘The real-life Q.’

He almost choked on his brownie. Particularly when she added, ‘“Smart Is the New Sexy.”’

He groaned, knowing exactly what she was referring to. ‘Just ignore anything you read in that magazine. Please,’ he added, looking pained. ‘I only did the interview as a favour to a friend, and her boss went a bit mad with it. I didn’t say half of what was reported. And I’m not...’ Time to shut up. Before he dug that hole any deeper.

‘The looks bit I can judge for myself,’ she said, and a prickle of awareness ran up his spine.

He was definitely attracted to her.

Was she saying that she was attracted to him?

She had no husband. He had no wife.

There was no reason why they couldn’t...

Apart from the fact that he didn’t do closeness. And he had a feeling that would be a deal-breaker for her.

‘The rest of it...is it true?’ she asked. ‘You develop gadgets?’

‘A lot of what I do,’ he said carefully, ‘is bound by the Official Secrets Act.’

‘So basically, if you tell me what you really do, you’ll have to kill me.’

She was so irrepressible that he couldn’t help smiling. ‘Yes.’

‘Good. So you can keep things confidential.’

Where was this going? he wondered, but inclined his head.

‘Strong and silent.’ She took a sip of her tea. ‘But what I really want to know is if you can build systems.’

‘What kind of systems?’

‘Computer systems. Clever ones.’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘At ridiculously short notice.’

Yes, yes and yes. ‘Why?’

‘Because, Mr O’Neill, I have a proposition for you.’

He had a sudden vision of her in a pretty dress with her hair loose, laughing up at him and offering a kiss...

No. If he had any kind of relationship at all with Carissa Wylde, it would be very simple, very defined, and with built-in barriers. Neighbours or strictly business. Nothing closer. ‘A business proposition,’ he clarified.

‘Of course.’

Which should be a relief. But instead it tied him up in knots, which he really hadn’t expected. He didn’t
want
to get involved with anyone. He liked his life the way it was.

But clearly his mouth wasn’t listening to his head, because he found himself saying, ‘Tell me more.’

CHAPTER TWO

‘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.

‘Come up.’

The layout of Quinn’s house was very similar to her own; she remembered it from visiting Maddie and Jack. Like her, he had a table in the kitchen where he could eat—or work maybe. He gestured to her to sit down, and switched on the kettle.

Like her, she noticed, he had no clutter on the worktops. But it didn’t feel like a cook’s kitchen. Though maybe she was being unfair. He’d only moved in two days before. He’d barely had time to unpack—and she’d noticed a few cardboard boxes by the door to the living room. It made her flush with guilt; he’d hardly even moved in, and she’d already inveigled him into working extra hours on her project, fitting it around whatever work he already had on, knowing that freelancers rarely said no because they couldn’t afford to pass up a project in case it left them with a gap in their schedule—and their finances.

Before she could apologise for being pushy, Quinn put a mug of coffee in front of her. He opened the lid of the cake tin but didn’t put the brownies on a plate. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. ‘Right. I’ve been thinking about how your system could work.’

Guilt flooded over her. ‘I’m sorry for dumping extra work on you,’ she said in a rush.

He scoffed. ‘What you wanted isn’t rocket science. Well, it might’ve been if you’d insisted on a life-size virtual Santa. This is easy and it took me about five minutes to work it all out. What you need is a simple video link. We’ll avoid microphone noise by getting Santa to wear a wire—and the person at the children’s ward who takes the tablet round to the kids also needs to wear a wire.’

‘That would be me. And they’re going to see if I’m wearing a microphone or headset. I guess you can hide Santa’s in his hat or beard, but...’ She grimaced. ‘I don’t want them to see mine.’

‘They’re not going to see anything,’ he said. ‘When I say wearing a wire, I don’t mean a physical wire—it’s not like the kind of thing you saw on cop shows twenty years ago, where someone had a microphone taped to his chest and attached to a recording device worn round his waist. I mean having an app on the tablet and doing the “wire” through software. The audio quality’s better than an old-fashioned wire or a headset.’

She blinked. ‘You can do that?’

‘It’s not new technology,’ he informed her. ‘And it’s not as if we need to miniaturise anything or hide it in something tiny in a way that means it’ll get past any detection equipment.’

Which sounded as if he did that sort of thing all the time.

‘You’re carrying a tablet so the kids can see Santa and talk to him. The app runs unobtrusively in the background.’

‘I feel a bit stupid,’ she admitted.

‘Unless you work in the area, how are you meant to know the technology exists?’ he asked.

Carissa mentally added ‘kind’ to Quinn’s list of attributes. And tried very hard not to think about ‘Smart Is the New Sexy’. Justin had been sexy, too. Smart. And he’d been the biggest mistake of her life. She couldn’t risk getting things wrong like that again.

‘So. The app broadcasts the audio—not just to Santa, but through headphones to the support team. You tell us the patient’s name just before you take the tablet over to the child, so Santa can get the name right and do the “magic” bit by greeting the kid by name.

‘The team picks up what the child wants as a gift and organises it with your supplier on another line—they’ll be able to hear you clearly, but you won’t be able to hear anyone except Santa on the tablet. And your team will work on collaborative software with a database so they all know who’s ordered what and from where—that way, nothing gets missed or duplicated.’

‘And you have this collaborative software?’ she asked.

‘Yes, and I can tweak it to suit your needs. I can train your team on it so they’ll be perfect within about half an hour.’

She looked at him. ‘I don’t know what to say. Except I’m impressed.’

‘It’s really not rocket science,’ he said again. ‘It’s just putting a couple of systems together.’

‘Have you actually worked in rocket science, then?’ The question came out before she could stop it.

Quinn wrinkled his nose, and Carissa had to tell herself not to notice how cute it made him look. ‘I can’t answer that,’ he said.

She blew out a breath. ‘OK. Timings and costings?’

‘When’s the opening day?’

‘Four weeks tomorrow.’ The anniversary of her parents’ plane crash. So she’d have something good to look forward to on that day, to take the sting out of it. And it had felt fitting to do something in their memory on that day.

‘You can have the software to play with at any time in the next week. And I’ll give you the paperwork tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘Do you need virtual reindeer?’

‘No. I have real ones.’

‘OK. Then we’re done.’ He paused. ‘Unless you want to stay for dinner.’

Dinner with Quinn O’Neill.

Of course he didn’t mean candlelight, roses and vintage champagne. Or somewhere under the stars on a roof garden. Particularly in November. Just why were these ridiculous ideas seeping into her head? The man was a neighbour. A work colleague, of sorts. Not a potential date. And she didn’t do dates anyway. This was a business meeting and it was about the time that most people ate in the evening. They both had to eat, so they might as well eat together. It didn’t mean anything deeper than that.

He was waving a piece of paper at her. A menu.

‘Takeaway pizza?’ she asked.

‘Works for me.’

Now she had a better idea why his kitchen hadn’t had a cook’s vibe about it. She’d just bet his fridge was bare, too, except for milk and maybe some cheese. She had a feeling that Quinn O’Neill was the kind of man who forgot to eat when he was busy, or lived on takeaway food and didn’t notice what he was eating—it was fuel, and nothing more than that.

‘Pizza,’ she said.

He gave her a pointed look. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t eat carbs. Not when you make brownies as good as those.’

‘No. Of course I eat carbs. But...takeaway pizza. The stuff with a thick crust. Ick.’ She liked the thin, crispy type. She grimaced and shook her head. ‘Look, I have fresh tuna and some stir-fry veg in my fridge. Why don’t we have dinner at mine?’

‘Healthy food. Fish and vegetables.’ He looked slightly disgusted.

She hid a smile. Just as she’d thought: he lived on junk. She could offer a compromise there. ‘And polenta fries.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘Are they as good as your brownies?’

‘According to my best friend, yes.’

‘Done,’ he said. ‘I’ll bring wine.’

‘Are you quite sure you don’t want a wheatgrass shot?’

‘I’m going to pretend,’ he said, ‘that you’re teasing, because I have a nasty feeling you might actually be serious—and there’s no way I’m drinking a glass of green gloop.’

‘I was teasing. Though I could source it.’

He grimaced and shook his head. ‘No need. How long does it take to make polenta fries?’

‘About forty minutes.’

‘Which gives me time to go and find some wine.’

Of course he wouldn’t have wine, especially if his fridge was practically bare. Plus he’d only just moved in. ‘You really don’t have to bring wine,’ she said.

‘I do. And pudding,’ he said. ‘Because you’re not getting these brownies back. This is business, so we’ll both bring something to the table.’

Business. She was glad he’d said that. Because it stopped her fantasising about something truly stupid. Such as what it would be like to have a proper date with Quinn O’Neill. She wasn’t ready for dating again. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever be ready. But business she could do.