A New Year Marriage Proposal (Harlequin Romance) (6 page)

‘So Project Sparkle is the extra stuff—the bits on top?’ he asked.

‘Yes and no. My parents left me a lot of money,’ she said. ‘More than I can use. And I never wanted to be a celebrity child, followed around by the media just because my dad was a rock star. I don’t want to spend my life like a WAG, going to parties and having my nails done and sitting in a tanning booth and exchanging gossip. I want to make the world a better place. Be a...’ She paused. ‘Don’t you dare laugh at this,’ she warned.

He looked perfectly serious. ‘I won’t.’

‘I want to be a fairy godmother, except what I do is real. I want to put a bit of fairy dust into people’s lives.
Sparkle
.’

‘And make yourself feel good in the process.’

She frowned, shocked that he could think that of her. ‘No. It’s not about me. It’s about making a difference. Actually, everyone involved with Project Sparkle signed a confidentiality agreement—so I need to know who told you, to make sure they remember that in future.’

‘I’d rather not reveal my source,’ he said. ‘The person who let it slip didn’t mean any harm. They assumed I already knew, given that I was working on the virtual Santa. And when they realised I didn’t know about it at all and what they’d just done... I could see them panicking. So I pretended I hadn’t heard a thing.’

‘That’s nice of you,’ she said, ‘but it still leaves me with a potential leak. I guess I need to do a general reminder to everyone, then.’

‘Why do they have to sign a confidentiality agreement? Surely if you tell the press and get coverage for your projects, other people might come and donate money or time or what have you, to make the most of the project?’ he asked.

‘Or maybe the press will dig around for a story that sells more copies for them,’ she said. ‘I’ve been very lucky and I’ve had a very privileged life—but a lot of people haven’t been that lucky, and do you really think they want their personal business splashed all over the press and people making judgements?’ She shook her head. ‘My way means they get to keep their dignity. It isn’t charity and rubbing their noses in it. It’s giving them a hand up rather than a handout. Making a quiet difference to people’s lives. I’m not expecting any thanks or any publicity. Being able to make a difference is reward enough.’

‘So you’re being a do-gooder.’ His face shuttered. ‘The rich girl giving to the underprivileged.’

‘That’s insulting,’ she said. She hadn’t wanted him to laugh at her—but she hadn’t expected him to be so hostile about it. ‘What’s so wrong with wanting to do something nice for people?’

If he explained—because his aunt and uncle had been ‘nice’ to him, taking him in when his mother had dumped him on their doorstep, but always making him feel like a charity case—then Carissa would start to pity him.

No way would he let that happen. He didn’t want pity from her. Ever.

He flicked a dismissive hand. ‘Whatever.’

But then she did something that shocked him.

She flinched
.

He frowned. ‘Carissa? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

But he could hear the tremble in her voice. And he could see a flicker of fear in her face as she turned away. And her shoulders were slightly hunched as she walked away.

What had just happened?

OK, he’d been sniping at her because his past had come back to get in his way yet again—but why had she flinched like that? He hadn’t done anything. Just flapped his hand. There was something more to it this than met the eye. A lot more. And he needed to get to the bottom of it. Make things right again.

He hurried after her. ‘Carissa? Wait. Please.’ He deliberately made his voice as gentle as he could. He wanted to put his hand on her arm, but he had a feeling that she wouldn’t take it the way he meant it, as reassurance. And he really didn’t want to see her flinch like that again. ‘Carissa? I’m sorry. Please. Talk to me.’

She did at least stop and turn to face him, but her expression was filled with wariness. Someone had made her wary. But who? She’d just been talking about her privileged upbringing, and everything she’d ever told him about her parents and her grandparents made him sure that she’d been deeply loved.

So who had hurt her? Why would anyone hurt someone as sweet and kind and giving as Carissa?

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, shrugging and looking away.

‘It does,’ he said. ‘Carissa, I apologise. I know I’m in the wrong. But I think there’s something else, too—something that isn’t me.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said again.

Oh, yes, it did. It mattered hugely. And he needed to make this better. ‘Right now,’ he said, ‘I’d like to hug you. But I think that’s going to spook you, and I don’t want to do that. So instead I’d like you to talk to me. It’s up to you where we talk—if you’d rather, we can be in a public place where there are plenty of people round us and you feel safe—but I need to know what I did to make you look as scared as hell, because I never want to make you look like that again.’

In the end, she agreed to go back to his place. She didn’t say a word on the way back to Grove End Mews, but once he’d made her a mug of coffee and rustled up a packet of biscuits, he was careful to sit on a chair rather than next to her on the sofa. Giving her enough space to feel safe.

‘Talk to me, Carissa,’ he said, as gently as he could.

CHAPTER FIVE

C
ARISSA
KNEW
SHE
should’ve made an excuse. She should’ve said something to put him off the scent.

Except Quinn O’Neill wasn’t the kind of man who gave up easily—or at all. He’d pushed her into telling him about Project Sparkle, and now he was pushing her into telling him about the thing she never, but never, talked about.

The thing that made her feel ashamed.

Grubby.

Pathetic
.

She didn’t even talk about it to the three people who actually knew about it, so telling someone she hardly knew was next to impossible. The words caught in her throat.

But Quinn simply waited for her to speak.

Not the kind of aggressive silence that pushed you into filling it; this was an accepting silence. One that said it was OK to pause and collect her thoughts. That he didn’t mind waiting. That it was going to be just fine.

She couldn’t look him in the eye—she was too ashamed—and it was much easier just to stare into the mug of coffee she held in her cupped hands. But finally Carissa began to talk.

‘It was three years ago. I was twenty-four. I met Justin at a party—a friend of a friend. He was in the City. Charming. Witty. Handsome. A high flyer.’

And with a temper he’d kept hidden from her for months. Or maybe she’d just let herself ignore the signs, not wanting to see them or believe the truth.

Still staring into her coffee cup, she said, ‘We’d dated for six months when we moved in together. To his place. It was probably still too soon and I should’ve been more sensible, but I thought...’ She closed her eyes and whispered, ‘I thought he loved me. He said he loved me.’

‘And you’re used to being loved.’

There wasn’t an edge to Quinn’s voice. No judgement. Just understanding.

She nodded. ‘My family’s close. My parents were brilliant. My grandparents, my aunts and uncles, my cousins. There’s never been any big falling-out in my family. Sure, they disagree about things and sometimes they shout, but normally everyone just talks things through. There’s never been any door-slamming or tantrums or not talking to people for months.’

‘And Justin was a door-slammer?’

She swallowed. ‘Sort of.’

Quinn was fast. He picked up what she wasn’t saying. ‘You had to tell people that you walked into a door.’ Again, there was no judgement in his voice. Just softness. Security.

Which made it easy to answer him. To admit the truth. ‘Yes.’ Though there was more to it than that. She swallowed hard. ‘The first time. He was...’ She paused, choosing her words precisely. ‘More careful after that.’ She grimaced. ‘It was my own fault. I knew I should tread on eggshells around him if he’d had a bad day at work.’

‘No,’ Quinn said. ‘You talk when you’ve had a bad day at work. You push yourself hard at the gym, or your eat your way through a whole tub of ice cream, or you play music too loud, or you play a mindless shoot-’em-up arcade game. Whatever it takes to unload the stress. But you don’t hit people.
Ever
.’

But Justin had. After that first time it had been where the bruises wouldn’t show.

‘Did you call the police?’ Quinn asked.

She shook her head wearily. ‘What was the point? It would’ve been his word against mine.’

‘Not if you had bruises.’

That was half the problem. ‘It wasn’t always physical.’ And Justin’s words had chipped away at her confidence until she’d started to believe that she deserved the way he treated her. That it was her fault. That she provoked him into behaving that way.

‘Carissa,’ Quinn said softly. ‘Please tell me you had someone to talk to.’

‘I was so ashamed,’ she said. ‘I was supposed to have this perfect life—I was close to qualifying as a solicitor, with a dream career ahead of me. I was living in a fabulous flat in a posh part of the city with a rich, successful boyfriend who adored me. I had nothing to worry about in the world.’

Nothing except how to avoid the arguments. How to stop Justin’s temper flaring.

‘You picked the wrong guy,’ Quinn said. ‘It happens. And when it happens it’s OK to say you got it wrong and walk away.’

‘I was going to leave him,’ she said. ‘And I was going to tell him after I’d done it. Which I know is cowardly.’

‘No, it was sensible,’ Quinn said, ‘because otherwise you would’ve given him the chance to bully you out of it.’

Which he’d done anyway. Because she’d been stupid. She hadn’t taken quite enough care. ‘I must’ve let something slip, because he came home early from work that day and caught me packing.’ She dragged in a breath. ‘He, um, didn’t want me to leave.’

Quinn said nothing.

‘The trust fund was going to come through in a couple more months. When I turned twenty-five.’

Quinn still said nothing.

‘Justin was in a mess at work—he’d brokered a deal that went wrong. He’d covered it up, but he knew he was going to lose his job if he couldn’t pay back the money he’d lost. I was a lawyer, so I should’ve been able to find a way to break my trust fund and help him out.’

‘From what you’ve said about your family, I don’t think they would’ve agreed. Except,’ Quinn said, ‘to save you from being hurt any more.’

They hadn’t known about it. She’d been too ashamed to tell them. She still hadn’t told them. Only her best friend, her friend who shared her job and her PA knew. She’d sworn them to silence. Begged them not to tell anyone.

‘He broke my arm,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t let me go to hospital that night. But I went the next morning on my way to work.’

She heard his hiss of indrawn breath. ‘You were in pain with a broken arm
all night
?’

She hadn’t had much choice. Saying a single word about it would only have made Justin angry again. ‘I took some paracetamol.’ Not that it had done much to touch the pain. She’d lain awake all night, wondering how her life had gone so wrong and how on earth she was ever going to escape the nightmare. At the darkest point of the night she’d even considered that taking a few more paracetamol might be the only way out. But then the first grey light of dawn had filtered through the curtains and she’d known that way wasn’t for her.

‘Right now,’ Quinn said softly, ‘I really want to beat your ex to a pulp. Except violence doesn’t solve anything, so I won’t do that.’ He paused. ‘And I also want to hold you close. Except I don’t want to scare you.’

She looked at him then. ‘You don’t despise me?’

‘Of course not.’ He frowned. ‘Why would I despise you, Carissa?’

Did he really want her to spell it out? ‘For being weak.’

He shook his head. ‘You were used to being loved. Treasured. When Justin hurt you, you were probably so shocked that you couldn’t think straight. So, no, you weren’t weak. And, no, I don’t despise you.’

She had to gulp in air to stop herself from weeping. Because she couldn’t believe that he didn’t despise her. Not when she despised herself so much.

‘Carissa,’ he said softly.

And there was no judgement, no censure in his tone. Just gentleness and acceptance.

She dragged in another shaky breath. ‘Then in that case I think, yes, please, I’d like you to hold me.’

Immediately, Quinn took the coffee from her hands with gentle fingers and set the mug on the low table. Then he scooped her up, took her seat and settled her on his lap with his arms wrapped round her—not so loosely that she felt he was just humouring her, and not so tightly that she felt panicky and trapped. Just warm and strong and supportive. He didn’t say a single word, just held her.

It would be so easy to let herself cry into his broad shoulder.

But she’d promised herself she’d never cry again. Not over Justin. Not over the past.

He stroked her hair, and the tenderness of the gesture nearly made her crack.

‘Please tell me you left him,’ Quinn said softly.

‘I didn’t go back,’ she said. ‘I left everything at his flat. The nurse... She knew something was wrong. I wouldn’t tell her what had happened, but she made me call my best friend from the hospital. Erica came and she made me tell her everything. And she said I was never, ever, ever going to have him anywhere near me again.’

‘You took out an injunction against him?’

‘I...’ She blew out a breath. ‘Erica wanted me to. You can get an
ex parte
injunction without the other party being given notice, pending a full hearing. We both knew that. But...’ she swallowed ‘...I was so ashamed. And I didn’t want my parents’ names dragged through the mud. I didn’t want the press getting hold of the injunction and spreading the story, talking about Pete Wylde’s daughter being battered. I didn’t want people associating that sort of thing with Mum and Dad.’

‘But can’t you make injunctions private, so the papers can’t report it?’

‘Not back then you couldn’t.’ She grimaced. ‘Justin could’ve denied it and pushed it through to trial. And I had no proof.’

‘You had a broken arm,’ Quinn pointed out.

‘Which I could have got from a fall. Justin’s articulate. And charming. He could’ve talked the magistrate round. Because, after all, I’m a pop star’s daughter. I’m spoiled, used to getting my own way. High maintenance. What’s to say that I didn’t threaten to throw myself down the stairs if he didn’t do what I wanted—and then, after he called my bluff and I did it and broke my own arm, I claimed he’d pushed me, just to get my own back?’

‘You’re
not
high maintenance,’ Quinn said.

That sounded personal. Carissa looked at him, curious, but his expression was inscrutable—as if he realised that he’d just slipped up and didn’t want her to push it further.

Before she could ask, he said, ‘If you’d taken him to court, it might have scared him into getting help and stopped him doing the same thing to someone else.’

Erica had said the same thing. ‘I know.’ The guilt seeped through her even now. ‘And I’m ashamed of that, too,’ she whispered. ‘But I’m trying to make amends.’

His face was full of questions, but she wasn’t ready to answer any more. ‘Enough, Quinn,’ she said. ‘I’m tired.’

He cupped her cheek for a fleeting moment. The same way that she’d touched him at the skating rink, just before he’d kissed her. But she knew this was meant to be a gesture of comfort, not enticement.

‘If you want to stay tonight,’ he said, ‘give me a second to put clean sheets on my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch.’

He’d really do that for her?

How good it would be to lean on someone. But she’d made that mistake with Justin. She knew Quinn wasn’t like Justin—he had a good heart—but she couldn’t let herself make that mistake again. She needed to keep her independence. ‘Thank you, but I’m only three doors down,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine on my own.’

‘Can I walk you home?’

‘All three doors away?’ she asked wryly.

‘It’d make me feel better,’ he said.

She rested her forehead against his briefly, then climbed off his lap. Right now she needed to stand on her own two feet again—literally as well as metaphorically. To prove to herself that she could do it—that she wasn’t the weak, despicable mess she’d been three years ago. ‘You’re a good man, Quinn O’Neill. You have a good heart.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, and walked her home.

He waited for her to unlock her front door. ‘If you can’t sleep tonight,’ he said, ‘call me. Or come over.’

Tempting. But she wouldn’t. She’d already told him way too much. Right now she needed to be on her own. Regroup. Get her walls safely up again. ‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it.

* * *

Quinn didn’t sleep properly that night. He could still see the fear in Carissa’s face. How many times had her ex moved his hand impatiently like that as a prelude to hitting her?

That bright, sparkly exterior was designed to deflect attention away from the fact that she’d lost her ability to trust. And he was pretty sure that Project Sparkle helped her just as much as the people she made life better for—it proved to her that the world could be a good place. Yet, at the same time, it must make her doubt herself.

She had just as much baggage as he did.

Which was another reason why he really ought to stay away from her. She needed someone who could support her, not someone who was flooded with his own doubts. Well, he’d find a way of backing off without damaging her any more, and go back to what he was good at. Being on his own.

But Carissa turned up on his doorstep at half past nine the next morning with lemon drizzle cake. Still warm. Smelling tart and sweet all at the same time. Mouthwatering.

Like her.

He damped the thought down before it got out of control and got him into trouble.

‘I ran out of chocolate,’ she said. ‘I hope this is an acceptable alternative.’

Quinn wondered if she baked every time she felt low. Hadn’t he read somewhere that the scent of vanilla was meant to make you feel good?

‘Very acceptable,’ he said. ‘Come in and have a mug of coffee.’

So much for putting distance between them. Yet again his mouth had run away with him.

But something about her drew him to her. Not the vulnerability—he wasn’t arrogant enough to think that he was the answer to every woman’s prayers—but the warmth, the sweetness, the essential Carissa-ness of her.

Today she wasn’t in the suit and killer heels, and the briefcase wasn’t in evidence; given that it was after most people would be at their desks in the City, clearly it wasn’t one of her office days. He wished it had been—because in her office gear she was far less approachable and it was easier to resist her. Today she was all softness—faded jeans, a cashmere sweater, and her hair was tied loosely in a ponytail by a chiffon ribbon rather than pinned back in the formal French pleat she wore for work. It reminded him of the way she’d looked last night at the ice skating rink.

Two seconds before he’d kissed her.

And he really needed to stop remembering how that had felt.

‘Are you sure I’m not interrupting your work?’ she asked.

Actually, she was. It was the perfect excuse to get rid of her. So why on earth wasn’t he using it? ‘It’s fine,’ he said, and ushered her up to the kitchen.