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Not that you’d wear your best clothes when you were unpacking boxes, but even so. There was something that didn’t quite add up. Scruffiness didn’t tend to go with the kind of money you needed to buy a mews house in Belgravia. The rest of her male neighbours were all clean-shaven and had immaculate hair. Quinn O’Neill had had two-day-old stubble and hair that made him look as if he’d just got out of bed.
And she wished she hadn’t thought about that. Because now she was imagining him just climbing out of her bed. Naked. Wearing only that stubble and a very wicked smile.
What on earth was she doing? She knew better than that. Since Justin, she’d avoided all relationships, not trusting herself to get it right next time and pick one of the good guys. Why on earth was she indulging in ridiculous fantasies about a man she’d only just met and knew practically nothing about? A man, furthermore, who’d made it very clear that he wasn’t interested in overtures of friendship from anyone in Grove End Mews and wanted to be left alone?
She managed to concentrate on her file for the next ten minutes.
But then Quinn O’Neill’s face was back in her mind’s eye. Dark eyes lit with mischief. A mouth promising rich rewards for giving in to temptation. And hair that looked as if it had just been mussed by a lover.
Oh, for pity’s sake. Why couldn’t she get him out of her head?
She needed a reality check. Like now. To stop her making the same mistakes all over again. Yes, her instincts were to trust him; but then again her instincts had been wrong when it had come to Justin. What was to say that she’d learned her lesson? It wasn’t a risk she wanted to take.
She pulled her computer keyboard towards her, flicked into the internet, and typed his name into the search engine.
The most interesting page was a fairly recent one from the Celebrity Life! website. Carissa didn’t usually read gossip magazines, not enjoying their exaggeration and the speculation with a slightly nasty edge; but the headline had grabbed her attention:‘Smart Is the New Sexy.’
According to the article, Quinn was a real-life ‘Q’, developing gadgets and computer systems for the government.
Which suddenly made him a lot more interesting to Carissa. He might just turn out to be the missing piece she needed. Not just for the extra-special Santa she was planning for the ward opening next month, but for several other projects as well. That would put him very safely on the not-mixing-business-with-pleasure list, so she could think about him strictly in terms of business in future and not let herself wonder what his mouth would feel like against hers.
And if he was freelance—as the article hinted—then he might be open to persuasion to help her.
But what would persuade Quinn O’Neill to work on Project Sparkle?
She could afford to pay him the going rate, but she wanted people on her team who cared about more than just money or status. Particularly as Project Sparkle was something that she tried to keep out of the media. She needed someone with a good heart.
Did Quinn O’Neill have a good heart?
The article couldn’t tell her that. And, actually, it didn’t say that much about what he did in his job; the journalist hinted that it was forbidden by the Official Secrets Act. But maybe Quinn was just a little bit vain, because after all he had posed for photographs. In some of them, he was wearing a very expensively cut suit, a crisp white shirt and an understated silk tie. More James Bond than Sherlock Holmes, she thought; but if Quinn was good at solving problems then the headline did perhaps have a point.
‘Mindy,’ Carissa asked, when her PA came in with the post, ‘would you agree with this headline?’
Mindy took the magazine and studied the pages. ‘Yum,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ Then she looked at Carissa. ‘Why?’
‘No reason,’ Carissa said. ‘Just idle curiosity.’
‘I’ve worked with you for five years,’ Mindy reminded her. ‘You haven’t dated for the last three. For you to ask me if I think a guy is sexy means—’
‘I don’t date because I’m busy with my work,’ Carissa cut in.
They both knew that wasn’t the real reason Carissa didn’t date. And they both knew that Carissa would absolutely not discuss it. Mindy was one of the three people who knew exactly what scars Justin had left—and the subject was permanently closed.
‘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.’
