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A New Year Marriage Proposal
Kate Hardy
Will Christmas work its magic? When reclusive Quinn O’Neill’s new neighbor Carissa Wylde asks for his help with a Christmas charity project, he can’t resist her vivacious energy. And soon he’s caught up in the work…and the beautiful, fun-loving woman behind it! Like Quinn, Carissa carries hurt and pain beneath her smiles and holiday cheer. On an ice rink, surrounded by twinkling lights, he’ll start to kiss it all better. There’s plenty of festive magic…but now he’s got the toughest challenge of all: proving this romance is not just for Christmas but for a lifetime….
It was the first time a man had kissed her in three years.
It should have sent Carissa running straight for cover.
And he looked as shocked as she felt.
Swept off her feet.
This is magical. The words echoed through her head. The way his mouth had made her lips tingle. The Christmas tree lights and the scent of hot chocolate. The Christmassy music playing.
Yes, this was magical.
Unable to help herself, she reached up to lay the flat of her palm against his cheek.
“Quinn,” she whispered, and he dipped his head again. Brushed his mouth against hers all over again. And she was shaking so much that she had to hold on to him to stop herself falling over on the ice. She felt as if she were spinning in an endless pirouette, faster and faster and totally out of control.
This had to stop.
And yet she didn’t want it to stop.
A New Year Marriage Proposal
Kate Hardy
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KATE HARDY lives in Norwich, in the east of England, with her husband, two young children, one bouncy spaniel, and too many books to count! When she’s not busy writing romance or researching local history she helps out at her children’s schools. She also loves cooking—spot the recipes sneaked into her books! (They’re also on her website, along with extracts and stories behind the books.) Writing for Mills & Boon has been a dream come true for Kate—something she wanted to do ever since she was twelve. She also writes for Medical Romance
.
Kate’s always delighted to hear from readers, so do drop in to her website at www.katehardy.com (http://www.katehardy.com).
For Chris and Chloe—
who inspired the song between them and
who always make my Christmas special.
Contents
Cover (#u1ac4b889-869b-5412-b086-59fd3182800b)
Introduction (#u212721e9-8b0e-52b4-bd33-c90629d61864)
Title Page (#u997575db-60f3-5086-9782-8cce90e361a3)
About the Author (#ue1fc5cf4-e8ed-5ea4-8105-a01897c552a0)
Dedication (#u6de56615-ae67-59a2-a67d-a058c489c5a2)
Contents (#ubdfdcabb-62e5-5b31-afee-156790c5fe3a)
CHAPTER ONE (#ue1da66fa-5759-558e-b0c2-e5cefe7d12c3)
CHAPTER TWO (#u531b3697-b6c0-59e3-934b-1c810b9a18b8)
CHAPTER THREE (#u908dc01d-bfd5-5894-aa61-7d0016468ffa)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_836dd52a-03f6-50a0-b516-a0cdf131a6af)
‘GO AWAY,’ QUINN O’NEILL muttered as the doorbell rang. Right now was the worst possible time for an interruption; he was running a test on the new system, and if it fell over then he’d prefer to see it happen, to save him having to wade through thousands of lines of coding to find out exactly where the problem was. Whoever was at the door wasn’t expected, hadn’t been invited, and definitely wasn’t wanted right now. And who would ring someone’s doorbell at a quarter to eight in the morning anyway?
The bell rang again.
Oh, for pity’s sake. It wasn’t as if he could pause the test. If he cancelled it, that would be an hour and a half wasted. ‘Give up and go away,’ he said, scowling.
It rang again.
Whoever was at the front door clearly wasn’t going to go away, so he didn’t really have any choice. He’d have to answer the door, get rid of whoever it was as quickly as he could, and just hope that the system didn’t fall over before he got back to it.
His first thought as he opened the door was that she looked like a lawyer or someone in high finance. She wore a little black suit—expensively cut—teamed with a crisp white shirt, soft burgundy leather gloves and a matching cashmere scarf as concessions to the chilly November morning, and killer high heels, with her blonde hair pulled back severely in a French pleat. Make-up that was barely there. Glasses that made her look academic and just a little bit intimidating. Lawyer, then.
‘Yes?’ he drawled.
She extended one hand, and he noticed then that she was carrying a large cylindrical tin and a plant as well as a briefcase. Leather. Expensive. Definitely something in law or the City.
‘Mr O’Neill, welcome to Grove End Mews.’ Her accent was totally plummy. Wealthy background, he guessed. Then again, given how much he’d just paid for his new house in Belgravia, it was pretty obvious that all his neighbours would be from wealthy backgrounds. Assuming she was his neighbour. But why else would she be welcoming him to the area?
As if his thoughts were written all over his face, she introduced herself. ‘Carissa Wylde, chair of the residents’ association.’
‘Clarissa?’
‘Carissa,’ she corrected chirpily. ‘No L.’
Clearly a lot of people made that mistake, then.
She gave him a sweet smile. ‘I hope you’ve moved in OK. I brought you these from the Residents’ Association to welcome you to the mews.’
Oh, no. He really didn’t have time for this sort of nonsense. A residents’ association was for busybodies with too much time on their hands, and he wanted no part of it. And wasn’t that sort of thing normally chaired by someone on the far side of fifty, not someone who looked under thirty? ‘It’s very nice of you to call,’ he said, not meaning a word of it, ‘but I don’t want to join any residents’ association, thank you.’ Before she could protest, he added, ‘For the record, it doesn’t worry me who parks where or what colour people want to paint their front doors. I’m not going to complain.’
‘The Residents’ Association isn’t about that sort of thing.’ Her smile didn’t exactly falter, but it did become slightly more fixed. ‘It’s about mutual support and making life easier.’
For him, making life easier meant Carissa Wylde going away and leaving him in peace. Preferably right now.
Before Quinn had the chance to say so, she added, ‘So you know where to go if you need work done on your house, that sort of thing.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean a cartel?’
‘No,’ she said crisply, ‘but these are all listed houses, and the building regulations people are just a little bit picky about who they’ll allow to work on them.’
‘So why don’t I just ask the building regulations people for a list if I need someone?’
‘Because my list,’ she said softly, ‘comes with personal recommendations. So you know the contractors are child-and pet-friendly, clear up after themselves, do the job properly—and you’re not going to get unwanted flashes of saggy bottoms.’
‘Oh.’ He felt slightly small.
‘Welcome to Grove End Mews, Mr O’Neill,’ she said again, then handed him the plant, the tin and an envelope that he guessed contained a ‘welcome to your new home’ card, then turned to go.
OK, she’d come at a bad time—but there was no way she could’ve known that. Most people would’ve assumed that he was busy unpacking and would welcome an interruption to give him a break, given that he’d moved in the day before. He glanced at the tin. It looked as if she’d brought him home-made cake. Still slightly warm, from the feel of the tin. She’d been kind. Welcomed him to the neighbourhood. And he’d just been really rude. Obnoxious, even. Not a good start. He raked his hand through his hair. ‘Ms Wylde—wait.’
She turned back and looked at him. ‘Yes?’
‘Thank you for the plant. And the, um, cake.’ At least, he assumed it was cake. Maybe she’d brought him cookies.
She shrugged. ‘It’s a tad more difficult to buy a welcome gift for a man. It’s unlikely you’ll even own a vase, so I thought a plant would be a safer bet than flowers—and by the way that’s a dracaena, so you can get away with neglecting it a bit.’
Just as well. He didn’t really do plants. He didn’t do anything that needed looking after. Pets, plants and kids were all a total no-no in Quinn’s world.
‘Thank you,’ he said again, feeling weirdly at a loss. How had she managed to do that?
‘My pleasure.’ The smile was back. ‘See you later, Mr O’Neill.’
‘Uh-huh.’ He glanced at the front of the envelope. Quinn O’Neill was written in bold black script. He stared at her. ‘How did you know my name?’
She shrugged. ‘I have a good spy network.’
Obviously the surprise showed in his face because she tipped her head back and laughed. And Quinn was suddenly very aware of the curve of her throat. Pure, clean lines. And the temptation to lean over and touch his mouth to her throat heated his skin and shocked him in equal measure. He hadn’t had such a physical reaction like that to anyone for longer than he could remember.
‘I was friends with Maddie and Jack, who lived here before you,’ she explained. ‘They told me your name.’
‘Of course.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘I should have worked that out for myself.’ Spy network, indeed. Of course that hadn’t been a crack about what he did for a living. Because she wouldn’t have a clue what he did...would she?
‘Moving house is one of the most stressful life events and I’ve obviously caught you at a bad moment. I’m sorry. I’ll let you get on,’ she said. ‘I’m at number seven if you need anything or want an introduction to people.’
Again, she gave him one of those sweet smiles, and Quinn was stunned to realise that it had completely scrambled his brains, because all he could manage in reply was, ‘Uh-huh.’ And then he watched her walk swiftly down the paved street outside the mews, her heels clicking on the stone slabs. The way her bottom swayed as she walked put him in a daze.
What the hell was wrong with him?
He never let himself get distracted from his work. Well, except for when he’d dated Tabitha, and he’d been twenty-one and naïve back then. He hadn’t been enough for her—and he’d vowed then not to repeat that mistake and to keep his heart intact in future. He knew it had given him a reputation of being a bit choosy and not letting people close—but it was easier that way. And he made it clear from the outset that his relationships were fun and strictly short term, so nobody got hurt.
So why, now, was he letting a complete stranger distract him?
‘Get real. Even if she’s single—and, looking like that, I doubt it very much—you are most definitely not getting involved. You just don’t have time for this,’ he told himself sharply, closed the door and headed back to his computer. And hoped the system hadn’t fallen over...
* * *
Carissa was already at her desk at Hinchcliffe and Turnbull by the time her PA walked in with a large mug of coffee, made just the way Carissa liked it. Carissa looked up and smiled. ‘Morning, Mindy.’
‘Sorry I’m late. The bus got held up,’ Mindy said. ‘I’ll stay late tonight to make up the time.’
Carissa smiled and shook her head. ‘No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. You’re almost never late, and you work through your lunch break when you shouldn’t as it is. Thanks for the coffee.’
‘Thank you for the brownies,’ Mindy said, referring to the parcel that Carissa had left on her desk. ‘Have I told you lately that you’re the best boss in the world?’
Carissa laughed. ‘Don’t let Sara hear you say that. We’re supposed to be the joint best, given that we job-share.’
‘Sara doesn’t make me cake,’ Mindy said. ‘But OK, I won’t tell her. Your ten o’clock appointment just phoned to say he’s running fifteen minutes late, so I’ll ring your eleven o’clock to see if he can wait a little.’
‘Great,’ Carissa said. ‘If not, then I’ll try and wrap up the ten o’clock as near on time as I can, if you can stall Mr Eleven o’Clock for a few minutes with some of your fantastic coffee.’
‘But not with the brownies,’ Mindy said, laughing as she headed for the door. ‘Because they’re mine—all mine!’
Carissa leaned back in her chair and sipped her coffee. Weird how she couldn’t concentrate today. Normally by now she’d have lists written and she’d be knee-deep in something to do with contract law. But today her mind kept returning to her new neighbour.
Quinn O’Neill.
Maddie hadn’t known much about him, other than his name and the fact he was single. She thought he might be something to do with computers. Something very well paid, if he could afford a three-bedroom house in Grove End Mews.
Yet Quinn definitely didn’t look like the kind of man who wore a suit and tie to the office. This morning he’d been wearing faded jeans, a T-shirt that was equally faded with half the print of the band’s logo worn away, and canvas shoes without socks.
