Her Knight Under The Mistletoe

She gave herself a sharp shake. Playboy or not, if he was the one threatening to take the job she rightfully deserved she was going to have play her A-game.

This was her job. She hadn’t sat through countless interviews and buttoned herself into this ridiculous suit heaven knew how many times just to let it go without a fight.

“You two have met?” Dr. Menzies stepped between the pair of them, throwing anxious looks first at Amanda and then at Matthew.

Amanda realized that both she and Matthew had slowly been advancing on each other—as natural predators would. Cheetah vs panther? Or tiger vs lion? She’d like to think of herself as the lioness in this scenario. Ready with a killer hairdo and a roar that would knock anyone for six if they were brave enough to stick around and listen.

“Not formally,” Amanda answered, quirking an eyebrow in Matthew’s direction but turning on a hundred-watt smile and reaching out a hand to Dr. Menzies. “You must be Donald Menzies?”

CHAPTER TWO

IT TOOK ALL of the power in Matthew’s charm arsenal to hold back a full-bodied guffaw at the Ice Queen’s response.

Not formally?

True, he’d never learnt her name. Nor had he bothered to give her his.

But the night had been formal, all right. One of a score of similar black tie affairs he’d attended two years ago, nearly three, all aimed at making the Support our Soldiers House in Sussex a reality.

After his father had died, and his mother had high-tailed it to Australia, turning the place into a rehab facility had meant the faux-Georgian mansion would be good for something. Living in it certainly wasn’t.

“We met at...” He paused, drumming his fingers along his chin, feigning having to think about it.

He knew damn well where he’d met her, and how long it had taken before he had been holding her in his arms without a stitch of clothing between them. He also knew that every woman since hadn’t so much as shone a light on her. Not that there had been many. One night with the Ice Queen had changed his standards.

“A charity event, wasn’t it?” she prompted drily, tucking a stray strand of blond hair behind her ear before switching that diamond-bright smile back to Dr. Menzies. “Excellent places to meet like-minded people.”

“For Support our Soldiers?” Dr. Menzies asked, then continued apologetically, “Of course you would already know that Matthew founded the charity if you were at one of his events.”

Matthew was certain he was the only one reading the flutter of blinks masking Amanda’s hazel eyes as the reaction of a woman caught off guard and quickly rebuilding her house of cards.

“It’s an excellent charity,” she answered smoothly. “And I have quite a few ideas about how the SoS wing here and the A&E team could really benefit by being in the same facility.”

Matthew stifled another chuckle before a stark blaze of understanding wiped the smile from his face. Amanda was the other candidate for the Medical Directorship.

He’d been primed for gloves off and no holds barred—but, seeing as it was the mystery woman who’d all but set him on fire that night, this month of enforced co-working could be...fun.

His mind raced to remember if the doctors’ sleeping quarters had locks on the doors.

“When was the event?” Dr. Menzies asked. “Something recent? I’m surprised neither of you made the Bankside Hospital connection.”

She looked to him as if she couldn’t quite remember, but Matthew could tell by the accelerated pulse thrumming at the base of her throat that she could bullseye the date as easily as he could.

“Hmm... No. It wasn’t recent.”

Matthew directed his gaze directly toward Amanda. He took some “thinking” time to rake his gaze along the snug fit of her suit. She was a bit curvier than the last time he’d seen her. The extra swish of hip and the ripe flush of her décolletage were...distracting.

“I’d say it was about two...maybe three years ago?”

The smallest flash of darkness crossed Amanda’s composed, almost aristocratic expression. Only someone looking for a chink in her china doll veneer would have noticed.

“Yes. Something like that,” she acquiesced coolly.

“Weren’t you still in the military then?” Dr. Menzies directed his question to Matthew, either completely unaware of or intentionally ignoring the growing tension in the room.

“I’d recently hung up my boots.”

It had actually been a year since he’d come back. His father’s liver failure had yanked him back to the life he’d been trying to forget. At least he’d been there as his father had ultimately lost his halfhearted battle to survive. More than he could say for his mother, who hadn’t even bothered to send a card.

The sheer bleakness of it all had forced him to make a choice. Not that the empty mansion and multi-million-pound business his father had left behind had filled the emptiness in his heart. Not by a long shot. But seeing all that misspent energy had turned Matthew’s grief into a white-hot drive to have at least one good thing come from Charlie’s death.

When he’d set out to create SoS he’d foolishly believed it would be the gesture he needed to pay his penance for not having been there for Charlie when he’d hung that damn rope over the beam in the attic.

The night he’d met Amanda he’d been about to close the whole SoS rehab unit down. Nothing, it seemed, could fill the void his brother had left behind. But she’d exploded his vision of the world into smithereens and he’d been trying to put it back together ever since.

Being with her had been the medicine he’d needed. It had given him hope. Proved he still had the ability to make a human connection. It had been a vital reminder that if it was possible for him to feel passion and loss and the sweet magic of meeting a kindred spirit, there was hope for the soldiers the new unit would help.

Not that he’d tell her she’d been nothing less than an angel that night. Not in a million years.

Turning to Dr. Menzies, Matthew went on to explain, “As you know, R&R didn’t suit me so well, and my father’s company needed a new direction. That’s when I decided to see if we could bring SoS to London. That whole night was a bit of a blur, actually. So many new faces...”

He took his time raking the length of her again, with a look in his eye he knew wasn’t altogether innocent.

High heels. Killer set of legs. Waist trim and belted, blossoming up into that inviting décolletage his fingers were itching to trace. She shifted under his gaze. Good. The ol’ Chase charm was still working, then.

The glint in her hazel eyes was all but daring him to betray her confidence. What was it she’d said when he’d murmured into her ear that he had to know her name?

Cinderella!

That was what she’d told him her name was as she kicked off first one then her second kitten heel.

“I disappear at midnight if the Prince isn’t charming.”

Again, a smile teased at the corners of his lips, but holding her in suspense was far more fun than confessing that she’d all but branded herself into his mind’s eye and ruined casual flings for him forever.

“So you two know each other from that event? Were you one of the donor angels, Amanda?” Dr. Menzies prompted.

Amanda. So that was her name.

She was angelic, all right... But he didn’t want her on top of a Christmas tree to be admired from afar... If she were his woman he’d keep her close and warm.

“No. No...” Matthew shook his head, watching the fury build in her eyes. “I’m afraid I can’t quite place you.”

He dragged his top teeth across his lower lip, pleased to see twin streaks of red bloom on her cheeks.

Of course it was a total lie.

The image came to him as vividly as if she’d been taking a luxurious postcoital stretch on the massive bed they’d shared only an hour ago. Peaches and cream skin. The softest he’d ever touched. Blond hair fanned out like a halo on the pillow.

What they’d done that night hadn’t been anything close to angelic. Heavenly, perhaps. But no angel would have sanctioned the charged sexual atmosphere that had lasted until well after the party had ended down in the hotel ballroom.

“Well, if it was an SoS event you definitely would have been there. And if Amanda says she was there too...”

Matthew looked across at the perplexed Dr. Menzies, almost startled to see him there.

Of course he’d been there. He wasn’t just the founder of SoS—he was its reluctant poster boy. If he didn’t turn up at the ten-grand-a-head soirées, pockets didn’t open. Tickets didn’t sell. And if stuffing himself into a penguin suit and making chitchat all night made sure soldiers got the help they needed—it was the least he could do.

When a person was willing to give up their life for their country the payback needed to be genuine. Especially if they felt there wasn’t anything for them when they came back home.

“I’m surprised you’re a contender for this job,” Amanda said.

Matthew shrugged and offered her a half smile. “And why would you think that?”

“Wouldn’t your energies be better placed on the new wing?”

“On the contrary.” He heard his smooth tones, but knew that heat singed every word coming out of his mouth. “I think you’ll find there are medical professionals far better suited to that sort of work than myself. Like at the Sussex facility—we make sure we put in proper staff so that it ticks along quite happily without me.”

Amanda’s lips parted as if she were about to say something else, then she clearly thought better of it. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn’t about SoS. It looked personal.

“Well, goodness me. I didn’t realize you were attached to the cause, Amanda?”

Dr. Menzies was beginning to look a bit desperate in his efforts to keep the conversation rolling as neither Amanda nor Matthew seemed willing participants.

“I’m not. My parents were hosting the event. I’m afraid I didn’t add much to the evening’s luster.”

Matthew suppressed a wicked smile. Of course she had.

Twenty minutes in, one glass of champagne down, and all he’d had eyes for was the blond in the periwinkle-blue gown who looked as if a blowtorch wouldn’t melt her. She hadn’t just been cool, she’d been entirely uninterested. As if she’d handed her heart in at the coat check along with her handbag.

No. That wasn’t it, exactly.

She’d looked as if she was hoping against all hope to forget about something. A longing he’d all but put a patent on since Charlie had died. Nine years and about three days before, to be exact. Not that he’d been chalking up each day since then on the walls of a memory that refused to release its stranglehold on him.

As Dr. Menzies began another halfhearted icebreaker about the weather Matthew allowed himself another slow head-to-toe scan of the Ice Queen’s petite form. Her curves were shown off to maximum effect in the body-hugging power suit, forcing him to relive that night once more.

There was no forgetting the moment she’d slid the length of him, her body glowing with exertion, and ultimately thrown back her head to moan with pleasure as the two of them had joined together in a heated mutual climax. They had been a perfect match.

And now she was the competition. Wasn’t life funny? And not in the ha-ha kind of way.

“Oh, I love this time of year. I’m always waiting with bated breath for predictions of a white Christmas.”

Amanda was replying enthusiastically to Dr. Menzies stumbling comment—something about hoping the weather hadn’t been too cold for her to get to the hospital.

He tuned in when the conversation turned medical.

“Ice and snow present so many different types of injuries in the A&E than in summer. Seasonal challenges. They can catch a person off guard.”

She threw the final part of her comment in his direction. It was an unusual take on the holiday season he hadn’t thought of. ’Tis the season to be allergic to holly...

She was no pushover. Nor was she going to let him take the job out from under her nose. She was meeting him hit for hit. Strike for strike.

Good. He loved a challenge. Especially when it had once come in a five-foot-three package of curves and bare skin and a fabric so diaphanous he hadn’t had to do much imagining to guess what lay beneath the billows of material following in her cool-as-a-cucumber wake as they’d left everyone else at the ball to their tuxedos and champagne banter.

She’d been anything but icy when he’d run his fingers underneath the length of the barely-there straps criss-crossing her back. Not right off the bat, of course. When one was the guest of honor at a charity event it paid to be discreet. He’d waited until the music had changed and a slow number had come on. Music more evocative of what they might be doing in bed than the feelings they would need to accompany it.

From the moment he’d crossed the room and taken her hand in his he’d known they would end up in bed together. And when all that had remained of the most erotic evening he’d ever spent with a woman was a soft indent in the pillow next to his, he’d deemed it the perfect one-night stand. He had thought there couldn’t be a single woman on earth who could beat the combination of smoldering heat and pure, naked desire the pair of them had shared. A part of him had been almost sad he wasn’t going to get to know her. “Sorry—manners,” Dr. Menzies spluttered, shifting position so that the three of them stood in a circle. “Amanda Wakehurst...” his mentor made a courtier’s bow in his direction “...I’d like you to meet Dr. Matthew Chase. Or—” He shot a nervous glance at Matthew and lowered his voice. “Do you want me to use the Sir?”

“Definitely not.” Matthew gave a sharp shake of his head.

He still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced he should have been given the honor. But, seeing as he’d fought wars in her name, he hadn’t exactly wanted to refuse the Queen her generosity in giving him a knighthood.

“Matthew Chase.”

He put out his hand and took Amanda’s, pleased to feel her pulse quicken at his touch. For added impact he folded his other hand round hers, so that for all intents and purposes he was holding her hand captive.

“It is a pleasure to meet you. Formally.”

“I would like to say the pleasure is all mine, but I think we both know that isn’t strictly true.”

At last he allowed his lips to move into a full and natural smile. “Would this have anything to do with the fact you’re the ‘she’ who is the other contender for Medical Director?”

“You mean your job share until the better woman wins?” Amanda extracted her hand as swiftly as she could. “That’s right. Consider it an Advent Calendar Countdown,” she tacked on brightly. “Seeing as it’s the holidays.”

Matthew returned her tight smile with one of his own before she tugged her fingers away from his. One moment longer with those warm fingers of his surrounding hers and she’d be betraying her over-the-top reaction to his touch.

An accelerated pulse. The rush of heat to her cheeks. The whorls of heat swirling lazily in her belly, only to rocket straight down to a more sensual part of her body she’d really rather not be thinking about when she was meant to be at her businesslike best.

This wasn’t a ball and he was not her Prince Charming. No matter how alive he made her feel. And if this was someone’s idea of an early Christmas present she sure hoped he came with a return receipt.

She rocked back on her heels, hoping it looked as if she was giving Matthew a cool appraisal. In truth she was buying herself composure time.

How on earth was she going to share a job with her son’s father?

More specifically, how was she going to put out the picture of her son she’d already had framed in readiness for her new desk and not have Matthew recognize those blue eyes looking back at him?

His name might be Tristan, but for all intents and purposes he was a mini-Matthew. Except for the blond hair. But even that was growing darker...just like his father’s.

Her head was spinning from the madness of the moment. Matthew was supposed to have disappeared off to Sussex, or Syria, or wherever it was wanderlust playboys went when they grew bored with altruism. Not show up at her job interview!

She could hear Dr. Menzies repeating something about nothing being set in stone, that it was just an idea that the board were floating at this juncture and that with two equally talented contenders...

Ugh! It was all getting a little blurry.

“Amanda?” Dr. Menzies lightly rested a hand on her elbow and it took all her power not to jerk it back. She’d been so deep in thought she’d all but forgotten that the two men and—yes—Deena too were staring at her. “You’re looking a little pale. Would you like to sit down for a minute?”

“No.” She shook her head solidly, forcing herself to blank out the curious expression on Matthew’s face. “Absolutely not. Just not used to...to all this heating.”

“Oh?” Dr. Menzies forehead crinkled in concern.

Stop talking, you idiot!

“It’s the suit. Wool. Layers.”

She tugged at her lapels, undid a button, then wafted her green silk blouse away from her chest, making a little whoo! noise as if she’d somehow ended up on a tropical island.

“Central heating.” She gave a little laugh. “Our house—my aunt’s house,” she swiftly corrected, “still doesn’t have it. Wood burners, a geriatric range and the permanent threat of chilblains.”

“People still get those? Where on earth do you live?” Deena asked with undisguised disbelief. “Not in London?”

Amanda couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “As incongruous as it sounds, our backwards heating system is in fact the product of London in its Georgian heyday.”

“Let me guess... You’re a Wakehurst so...” Matthew crossed his arms and gave her another one of those disarmingly tactile full-body scans. “You live in Bedford Square.”

Her eyes shot wide open. How did he—? What sort of game was he playing?

Or maybe it was just the age-old tag of being a Wakehurst. The Wakehurst name went hand in hand with central London—with stylish properties with little blue plaques indicating the people of note who had lived there—more Wakehursts—and a seemingly endless stream of fashionable soirées. Her family were the type whose titles opened doors. Nice ones.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek. It had been a long time since she’d used her full title. Lady Amanda Wakehurst.

“I’ve seen one of your aunt’s exhibits in the British Museum,” Matthew explained by way of disclosure.

“Auntie Florence?” She crinkled her forehead in confusion. Her aunt did portraiture, mostly. Some in a contemporary style, some more traditional. And usually for private collectors.

“I believe it was a collection of eighteenth-century African pottery.”

“Oh...” Amanda’s reeling mind quickly put together different pieces of the puzzle. “You mean my Great-Aunt Tilda. Yes, she traveled rather...extensively.”

Christopher Columbus had had nothing on her Aunt Tilda. She’d been everywhere. Admittedly on the posh side of the boat...but Amanda had always likened herself to this aunt she had never known. Restless. Always trying to find her place in the world and never quite managing it.

“It would seem so,” Matthew replied drily.

Amanda shrugged. She wasn’t going to apologize for having been born into a family whose collections were better suited to museum displays than the bric-a-brac shelf in a family lounge. He hadn’t had to grow up having to prove his worth amongst such a broad pool of high achievers. Nobel laureates. University wings bearing the family name. Heaven knew she’d spent a lifetime trying to prove herself worthy. Only to fail time and again.

Before she’d had Tristan she’d thought she might just crawl her way back into the good books via her medical career.

After she’d borne a son out of wedlock to a man she refused to name her parents had made it clear she never would be a “true” Wakehurst.

“You don’t strike me as the pottery type.”

Amanda knew it was a lame riposte, but she was clawing for purchase after being casually hip-bumped off the edge of a cliff. Matthew was so calm and in control, and all she could think about was just how throaty a groan he’d given when she’d treated first one and then the other of his nipples to hot, swift licks, chased up by tiny nips of the teeth and then kisses as she’d worked her way down that broad, steely chest of his to more...southern climes.

“How very astute.”

Matthew’s smile seemed to suggest he knew what she’d been thinking—which only made turning off the hedonistic thoughts more difficult. She might as well hand him the job on a platter. But she needed it more than he did. Needed the money to raise his son.

“I was at the museum to see an exhibition of Greek and Roman medical instruments. The only route to get there was through your aunt’s collection, so I had no choice.”

Amanda bridled. Was that his way of saying, You might have had your wicked way with me once, but never again, my sweet? Fine! She wasn’t interested in revisiting that night either. Not by a long shot. Just because being in the same room with the man was wreaking havoc with her nervous system...

Oh, pish-tosh to him! It was hardly as if her family had put the exhibit in the way of his precious ancient scalpel display on purpose.

“Aunt Tilda was the family pariah,” Amanda quipped.

Just like her. It wasn’t as if announcing her “unsuitability” as a Wakehurst would make a difference to any of the labels Matthew had already lacquered her with. Titled. Privileged.

If only he knew how far she’d fallen...

“Sounds like you admired her...spirit.” Matthew’s lips twitched into a smile as she shifted uncomfortably under his gaze.

“There’s nothing wrong with taking your own path!” Whoops. Her lips thinned as she swallowed back the rest of her retort.

The crease between Matthew’s brows deepened into a single furrow, then smoothed. “That’s not quite how we see things in the military.”

She knew how they saw things in the military. Black and white. Just like her parents. Just like John.

A hit of acid shot up her throat. Best not go there.

Dr. Menzies was watching the pair of them with the intent interest he might give the final match at Wimbledon. Deena was being even less subtle. And was a few steps behind in the conversation.

“Your auntie has things in the British Museum?”

“Yes. My great-aunt. She was...she was a unique character. I really admired all the things she achieved. Especially given she did it without the support of her family.”

She gave herself a mental high five. She’d come this far without the support of her family, and when things got tough She channeled her great-aunt for inspiration.

Amanda had found the stories about her completely thrilling. A Victorian Adventuress, she’d called herself. A complete madwoman, according to her parents. Much the same thing they called Auntie Florence, who had inherited Tilda’s house when she’d decided to become a painter, and now, of course, Amanda also bore the moniker of madwoman after her...colorful youth.

Using her trust fund to fly to Las Vegas for the weekend only to end up married to “a bit of rough” from the East End of London had definitely not been one of her better decisions.

It would have been fine if he’d loved her. But discovering her new husband’s affection had worn off precisely at the moment she told him her parents had cut her off financially had come as a blow. He hadn’t been able to find enough words in the dictionary to let her know how useless he thought she was.

When she’d spat back the same sentiments to him, the soldier in him hadn’t been able to sign up for another tour fast enough.

“Better to fight for freedom than to live with a ball and chain,” he’d said as he’d slammed the door shut, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

And she had laughed. Laughed.

When she’d been made a widow at the ripe old age of twenty-one everything had changed.