On the First Night of Christmas... (2 page)

He didn’t usually bother with apologies. Especially to women. Because he’d discovered from experience they didn’t count for much. But these were extenuating circumstances. He needed to get her out of the car before that glimpse of cleavage melted the rest of his brain cells and he did something really daft. Like hitting on a crazy lady.

‘That’s it? That’s the best you can do?’ She twisted in her seat—all the better to glare at him, he suspected—but the movement made her breasts press against the confines of her coat and threaten to spill out. His mouth went dry.

‘I’m going to have to spend an hour on the tube,’ she ranted. ‘Then get hypothermia walking across the park. And you can’t come up with a better—’

‘Look, Pollyanna,’ he interrupted, the heat tying his gut in knots as he breathed in a lungful of her scent. Cinnamon and cloves and orange. ‘I’ve offered you money and you don’t want it,’ he ranted right back when she remained silent. ‘I apologised and you don’t want that, either. Short of sawing off my right arm and gift-wrapping it I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do to make amends.’

Her mouth closed and her delicately arched eyebrows launched up her forehead into the soft brown curls that haloed around her head.

That had certainly shut her up. Although he wasn’t quite sure what he’d said that had put the shell-shocked look on her face. The unusual colour of her eyes had darkened to a vivid turquoise and all the pigment had leached out of her cheeks.

She covered her mouth with her fingers. ‘Jace the Ace.’

The words were muffled, but distinctive enough to make him tense. ‘How do you know my name?’ he asked, although no one had called him by that particular nickname for fourteen years. Not since he’d been kicked out of school when he was seventeen. The minute the thought registered, another more disturbing one hit him—and the insistent throbbing in his groin increased.

Damn it. That had to be it. What other explanation was there for his instant response to her?

She hadn’t replied, so he forced himself to ask the obvious next question.

‘Have I slept with you?’

He doesn’t remember me. Thank you, God.

Cassie tried to speak, but her tongue was too numb to form coherent words. Not all that surprising given that the punch of recognition had hit her squarely in the solar plexus and expelled all the air from her lungs. She shook her head. ‘No,’ she whispered.

‘I
definitely
didn’t sleep with you?’ he asked as the unflinching emerald gaze that had broken a thousand female hearts at Hillsdown Road Secondary School searched her face.

She nodded.

His shoulders relaxed and she heard him mutter, ‘Good to know.’

No wonder she hadn’t recognised him straight away. The Jacob Ryan she remembered had been a boy. A tall, troubled and heart-stop-pingly handsome boy, who at seventeen had been the perfect mix of dashing and dangerous to a girl of thirteen with an overactive imagination and hyperactive hormones.

They hadn’t slept together. In fact, they’d never even kissed. She’d been four years younger than him, and when you were at school that might as well have been a fifty-year age difference. But she’d had a wealth of immature romantic fantasies about him—like every other girl in her year—which were now playing havoc with her heartbeat.

She shifted in her seat, feeling disorientated and a little light-headed, the damp velvet of her coat like a straightjacket.

Her stomach muscles clenched and released. Exactly as they always had all those years ago, if she’d spied him brooding in the dinner hall, or at the bus shelter busy ignoring all the girls giggling around him … Or during what had come to be known in the annals of Cassie’s teenage years as The Ultimate Humiliation. The excruciating moment when she’d disturbed him and head girl Jenny Kelty snogging on the back stairwell.

Cassie’s nipples tightened painfully, the impossibly erotic picture they’d made entwined on the dimly lit staircase still astonishingly fresh.

She’d been anchored to the spot, her thigh muscles dissolving as she gawped. His hand had been under Jenny’s blouse, his stroking fingers visible beneath the billowing white cotton. Cassie had watched transfixed, her teeth digging into her lip, as his other hand had skimmed to Jenny’s waist then moulded her bottom, grinding her against him. Then he’d raised his head and nipped at Jenny’s bottom lip. And Cassie had felt her own lip tingle.

As Jenny had groaned and writhed, warmth had flooded through Cassie’s system and her strangled gasp had slipped out without warning.

Jace Ryan’s sure steady gaze had locked on her face. She’d been trapped, like a deer about to be mown down by a juggernaut. Frozen in terror as reaction skidded up her spine.

But instead of looking angry at the interruption, he had curved his sensual lips into a confidential grin. As if they shared a secret joke that only they understood.

She’d grinned back, opened her mouth to say something, anything.

Then Jenny had spotted her standing there like an idiot and screeched, ‘What are you smiling at, you silly cow? Get lost.’

Hot humiliation had blazed through her entire body and she’d scrambled back down the stairs so fast she’d nearly broken her neck. The pounding of blood in her ears far too loud to hear the words Jace shouted after her as she ran.

He turned back to her now, tapped his thumb on the steering wheel. ‘So what’s your name?’

‘Cassie Fitzgerald.’

His forehead furrowed. ‘I don’t remember anyone called—’

‘That’s a relief,’ she interrupted, praying his memory loss lasted a lifetime. ‘That chartreuse blazer was not a good look for me.’

He chuckled. The low rumble of amusement did funny things to her thigh muscles. ‘Look, why don’t we start over?’ he said, his eyes darkening as his gaze rose to the top of her head, then settled back on her face. ‘I’ve got a suite at The Chesterton. Why don’t you come back with me? We can get your coat dry-cleaned.’ Reaching forward, he tucked a curl behind her ear. ‘It’s the least I can do for an old school chum.’

They hadn’t been chums. Not even close.

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ she murmured, trying not to pander to the thrum of awareness that pulsed against her cheek where his finger had touched.

Jace Ryan had been dangerous to a woman’s peace of mind at seventeen. He was probably deadly now.

He sent her a conspiratorial wink. ‘Good is overrated.’

Cassie’s pulse sped up, then slowed to a sluggish crawl—and she completely forgot about not pandering to the thrum. ‘Is bad better, then?’

He smiled, the penetrating green gaze sweeping over her—and the thrum went haywire.

‘In my experience—’ his eyes met hers ‘—bad is not only better, it’s also a lot more fun.’ He glanced over his shoulder to check the traffic. ‘So how about it?’ he asked as the car pulled away from the kerb. ‘You want to come back to the hotel and we can raid the mini-bar together while I get your coat cleaned?’

‘Okay,’ she replied, before she had a chance to think better of it. ‘If you’re sure it’s not too much bother?’

He sent her an easy grin. ‘Not at all.’

Crossing her arms, Cassie pressed down on her treacherous boobs, which were still throbbing at the memory of Jace Ryan on that stairwell a million years ago, and studied his profile in the glimmer of the passing streetlights.

Maturity suited him: the light tan, the hint of five o’clock shadow, the thick waves of dark hair, the little lines at the corners of his eyes and the once angry red scar that had faded to a thin white line slashing rakishly across his left eyebrow. He’d grown into those brooding heartthrob features, his hollow cheeks defined to create a dramatic sweep of planes and angles. And from the powerful physique stretching the expertly tailored suit as he shifted gears, he’d also grown into his lanky build.

Cassie huddled in her seat as the powerful car accelerated onto Park Lane. The majestic twenty-foot spruce under Marble Arch glided past, its red and gold star-shaped lights glittering festively in the early winter dusk.

He’d asked her if he’d slept with her—which meant either he suffered from amnesia, or he’d slept with so many women in his time, he couldn’t remember the details. Recalling the never-ending string of girlfriends he’d had at Hillsdown Road, Cassie would take a wild guess it was the latter.

Jace Ryan was the sort of guy no sensible woman would ever want to have a relationship with. But as she watched him drive his flashy car with practised efficiency, sexual attraction rippled across her nerve-endings and the thrum of awareness peaked.

Jace Ryan might be a dead loss in the relationship department, but could he be the ultimate candy man? Because as coincidences went, this one was kind of hard to ignore.

She eased out an unsteady breath.

And did she have a sweet enough tooth—and enough guts—to risk taking a lick?

CHAPTER TWO

T
HAT
would be a no, then
, came the answer as Cassie peered out the windshield of Jace’s car. Evergreen garlands of holly and trailing ivy shimmered with a thousand tiny lights on the ornate stone and gold frontage of the luxury hotel.

When Jace had mentioned The Chesterton she hadn’t pictured him having a suite at this art deco palace on Park Lane. The vision of her scurrying into its rarefied elegance in her soiled coat and muddy biker boots plunged her ridiculous candy man fantasy into cold hard reality.

He had offered to get her coat cleaned. He had not offered to perk up her Christmas with prurient sexual favours. And he wasn’t likely to when she looked such a fright.

Jace skirted the hood of the car and took the front steps two at a time. He tossed the car keys to a doorman, whose gold-braided green livery and matching top hat weren’t doing a thing for Cassie’s anxiety levels.

What on earth had she been thinking when she’d accepted his invitation? She felt as if she were thirteen again, getting caught staring at something she shouldn’t on that stairwell.

She slid down in the deep bucket seat as the doorman approached the car. Swinging the door open with a slight bow, he sent her a courteous smile.

‘It’s a pleasure to welcome you to The Chesterton, Ms Fitzgerald.’ He held out a hand. ‘Mr Ryan has requested we collect your dry-cleaning as soon as you are settled in his suite.’

Cassie stepped out of the car, but studiously avoided letting her coat touch the poor man. Like he wanted mud all over his nice clean uniform. Jace waited at the hotel’s revolving doors, looking confident and relaxed and completely at ease in the exclusive surroundings.

She wrapped her arms round her waist as she mounted the steps towards him.

Candy man or not, Jace Ryan was way too much for her to handle. He’d probably known more about seduction when he was seventeen than she ever would. The thrum of awareness that had arched between them had been nothing more than the echo of an old crush. Which she’d grown out of years ago.

She touched his arm before he could direct her through the revolving doors into the lobby.

‘Is there a back entrance?’ she asked, dropping her hand as her fingers connected with the solid strength beneath the blue silk of his suit.

His lips twitched. ‘I wouldn’t know. Why?’

‘I’m all wet.’ Hadn’t he noticed she looked like something the cat had dragged through a puddle?

His gaze wandered over her, and the back of her neck burned. ‘Your coat took the worst of it. Just take it off.’

She slipped off the wet coat and bunched it in her hands, the blush climbing into her cheeks.

A rueful smile curved his lips and she thought he whispered, ‘Pity.’

‘Sorry?’ Was it her imagination or was there a twinkle of mischief in his eyes?

‘Nothing,’ he murmured, but the twinkle didn’t dim one bit.

The simple sapphire tunic skimmed the top of her thighs and was one of her favourites of Nessa’s designs, but the short sleeves and plunging neckline meant wearing it without a coat was a good way to get hypothermia in December. The fragile, bias-cut fabric moulded to her figure as the wind brushed against her skin and made her shiver. She clamped her teeth together to stop them chattering and jumped when his warm palm settled on the small of her back.

‘Here.’ He shrugged out of his jacket and draped the garment over her shoulders. ‘I’ll take that.’ He lifted her coat out of her arms.

She gripped the lapels of his jacket, the tailored silk dwarfing her as he placed his hand on her hip and led her through the revolving doors into the marble lobby. The fragrance of the roses, freshly cut pine boughs and cinnamon sticks arranged in giant urns by the reception desk greeted them, but did nothing to mask the scent of soap and man that clung to his jacket.

‘Wait here.’

Crossing to the desk, he handed over her coat to one of the uniformed receptionists, who took the wet garment without showing a hint of surprise, then sent Cassie an efficient smile. As if it were perfectly normal for half-dressed women to track mud over their foyer.

Cassie tried to look invisible in Jace’s jacket as he led her through an ornately furnished lounge accented by deep-seated sofas in tartan upholstery, polished mahogany occasional tables and wrought-iron planters overflowing with winter flora. A scattering of perfectly dressed people sipped afternoon tea from delicate china cups and watched her pass.

Fabulous. She felt like Cinderella arriving at the ball in her rags.

When they stepped into the lift, she eased back against the panelling, still clinging to the jacket. ‘This place is seriously posh.’

He huffed out a laugh. ‘Don’t let them intimidate you. They’re just rich, they’re not royalty. Or at least most of them aren’t.’

‘Fabulous,’ she said wryly.

He chuckled again, shoving one hand into his pocket as he stabbed the top button on the display panel. She tried not to notice the way the movement made the linen of his shirt tighten across one broad shoulder.

His gaze took a leisurely trip down to her biker boots and back again as the lift whisked through the floors. She clamped down on the sudden wish to have him like what he saw.

Been there, done that, got the battered ego to prove it.

But when his eyes lifted to her face at last, the beat of anticipation still throbbed in her ears.

‘Money doesn’t buy you class,’ he said. ‘I ought to know.’

Sympathy welled and lodged in her throat, the blunt statement reminding her of the angry boy he’d once been. No one had ever found out that much about him at Hillsdown Road, his air of mystery only tantalising his army of admirers more. But one thing she did know was that he’d come from a ‘bad home’, because she’d overheard Ms Tremall, the head of the sixth form, talking about him to the headmaster, Mr Gates.

‘You’ve got more than enough class to go round now,’ she said passionately, the injustice of the teacher’s whispered comments surging back.

Like all the rest of the school staff, Tremall and Gates had condemned him because of his background and never given him the benefit of the doubt.

His eyebrow arched at her rabble-rousing tone. ‘It’s not class. It’s money,’ he said, with more than a hint of irony. ‘But I find it does the job just as well.’

The relaxed statement made her feel foolish. Who exactly did she think she was defending here? He certainly wasn’t that troubled boy any more. In fact, from his exceedingly posh digs, he was most likely a millionaire. She shook the thought off. Probably best not to go there given her already thriving inferiority complex.

The lift bell pinged and the doors slid back to reveal a marble lobby area only slightly less palatial than the one downstairs.

Here too, a tall vase filled with dark red lilies gave the carved stone and gilded plasterwork a Christmas glow. Using his key card to open a mahogany door, he stood back as she walked into a vaulted hallway that led into a suite of rooms.

Cassie came to an abrupt halt, dismayed by the deep-pile carpeting that led down the corridor into what looked like a large living room.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, lifting the jacket off her shoulders.

‘I should take off my boots.’ Mud would not look good on all that magnolia.

‘Go ahead.’ He slung the jacket over a chair. ‘I’ll call Housekeeping and get them polished while your coat’s cooking.’

‘That’s … Thanks,’ she said, embarrassed.

She hopped on one leg to unzip one of the boots, only to jerk upright when he placed his hand on her waist.

‘Hold on to my shoulder,’ he said casually enough, but as his eyes connected with hers the awareness that prickled up her spine reminded her of that dark school hallway a lifetime ago. Except this time those long, strong fingers held her, and not Jenny Kelty.

‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, her heartbeat battering her ribcage like a sledgehammer.

She touched his shoulder blade for balance, only to have her insides tilt alarmingly as the muscled sinews tensed beneath her fingers.

He kept his hand on her waist as she struggled with the boots. But once she’d yanked them off and pulled away from his touch, she realised she had another problem.

‘You might want to lose those too,’ he mentioned, apparently reading her mind as he examined the wet leggings. ‘They’re soaked.’

‘Right.’ She hesitated. The problem was, without her leggings, she’d only have the butt-skimming tunic on. She did a quick mental check. Had she put on her much-prized silk high-leg panties with the lace trim this morning, or had she opted for the usual cheap cotton passion-killers?

The instant the dilemma registered, she yanked herself back to reality.

For pity’s sake, Cass. It doesn’t matter what knickers you’re wearing.

The state of her undies had no bearing whatsoever on this situation. She was here to get her coat cleaned. Nothing more. Bending down, she wiggled out of the leggings and then shoved them under her arm.

‘You warm enough?’ he asked.

Gripping the hem of the tunic, she yanked it down, goose pimples rising on her bare thighs as her toes curled into the downy-soft carpeting.

‘Fine, thanks,’ she murmured, noticing the tiny dimple winking in one hard, chiselled cheek. That he found her predicament amusing only confirmed how ludicrous that moment of vanity had been. He wasn’t remotely interested in her. Or her knickers.

‘Make yourself comfortable in the lounge.’ He indicated the large living area as the dimple deepened. ‘While I get these sent down.’ He picked up her boots, then reached for the leggings under her arm.

She forced herself to relax so he could take them. ‘Oh—Okay.’ She cleared her throat when the words came out on a squeak. ‘Thanks, I will.’

‘Help yourself to a drink.’ To her dismay he didn’t turn, but seemed to be waiting for her to move first. ‘They’re in the cabinet under the flat-screen.’

She opened her mouth to say thanks for the millionth time, then thought better of it. He’d probably got the message loud and clear by now. Bobbing her head, she forced herself to move. But as she headed towards the lounge, her footsteps silenced by the carpet, she strained to hear him walk away. When silence reined, she couldn’t help hoping that if anything was peeping out from under her tunic, it involved crimson lace and not utilitarian white cotton.