On the First Night of Christmas...

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.

Jace spotted the flash of white cotton and the pulse of heat tugged low in his abdomen.

Something about the plain, simple underwear only made the sight more erotic. For a small woman, she certainly had a lot of leg. Slim and well toned, the soft skin of her thighs and calves flushed a delightful shade of pink, making the bright white of her panties all the more striking.

What made his lust a little weird, though, was that he’d remembered her. When those big blue eyes had lifted to his face a moment ago, the flashback had been so strong, he’d known instantly it wasn’t a mistake. Or a trick of his libido.

She was the kid who had once disturbed him and one of his girlfriends on the back stairwell at school. He couldn’t remember the girlfriend’s name, couldn’t even picture her face. All he really remembered about her was that she’d been more than willing and she hadn’t had much of a sense of humour, which was why he’d dropped her like a stone after she’d shouted at the child watching them and scared her off.

But he could see Cassie Fitzgerald clearly enough. He’d been kicked out of school two days later, and the memory had quickly become buried amid all the crap he’d had to deal with when he’d been expelled.

But the image of her heart-shaped face came back to him now with surprising clarity.

She’d been young, way too young for him and not conventionally pretty. Those bewitching eyes had been too large for her face and her wide lips at the time had seemed too full. He hadn’t fancied her, not in the least. She had been a baby. But something about the way she’d been watching him had struck a chord. Those big eyes of hers had grown huge in her face, and he’d felt as if she could see right into his soul, but, unlike everyone else, she hadn’t been judging him. He’d smiled, because she’d looked so shocked, and it had been funny, but also because, for a second, he’d forgotten to feel jaded and angry and resentful, forgotten even his burning quest to get Miss No-Name’s bra off and instead had felt like a kid again himself.

Unfortunately, as Cassie Fitzgerald disappeared into the lounge and the flash of white cotton disappeared with her, she wasn’t making him feel like a kid any more. Not now that little girl had grown up—and into her unusual beauty.

Squeezing the damp fabric of her leggings in his fist, he lifted them to his nose, breathed in the sultry, Christmassy scent of cinnamon and oranges, only slightly masked by the earthy smell of rain-water, that had got to him in the car—and realised he was in serious trouble.

The impromptu decision to invite her to his suite had seemed like a good idea at the time. He had an hour to kill before he had to turn up at Helen’s soirée and convince her once and for all to leave him alone, and he didn’t want to think about what a pain in the backside that was going to be. Cassie would provide a welcome distraction. Plus getting her coat cleaned had solved the mystery of what it was she did or did not have on under it.

But he hadn’t expected her to be quite this distracting. Her skittishness as soon as they’d arrived at the hotel had intrigued him. And the way she’d defended him in the lift had surprised the hell out of him—and reminded him of that kid on the stairwell. But what was distracting him a whole lot more was the sight of her lush, curvaceous figure in that dress, which was roughly the size of a place mat, and the resulting shot of arousal currently pounding like a sore tooth in his groin.

Not only was he going to find it next to impossible to keep his hands off her for the forty minutes the receptionist had said it would take to clean her clothing.

He was fast losing the will to even try.

Which was annoying. Mindless, meaningless sex had lost its appeal a long time ago—and he didn’t seduce women he’d only just met any more.

Only problem was, right now, he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.

Cassie stood by the wall of panelled glass, spellbound as she gazed out over the wraparound roof terrace and the dark expanse of Hyde Park below, the fairground lights of the Winter Wonderland shimmering playfully in the distance. She sipped from the glass of Merlot she’d poured herself to ease her dry throat, then placed it on a smooth walnut coffee table. She must be careful not to drink it all. Not only was it still barely six o’clock, but she’d forgotten to ask her host how long her clothes would take—so she didn’t know how long she would be required to keep her wits about her. She’d always been a very cheap drunk. And on the evidence of her recent knicker meltdown, dulling her wits with alcohol could well lead to more candy man fantasies. Which was the last thing she needed if she didn’t want to make this more awkward than it already was. Better to stay sober and sensible.

Swivelling round, she took in the full grandeur of Jace Ryan’s hotel suite. Then released a staggered breath. This was the penthouse suite—the lofty view of Hyde Park nothing short of spectacular. The lounge area alone was considerably larger than her entire flat. She set aside her apprehension about spending time in his company as curiosity about him burned. How had the angry youth from a ‘bad home’ who’d been summarily expelled from their bogstandard comprehensive fourteen short years ago ended up affording the best suite in one of London’s best hotels? Had he robbed a bank or something?

‘Right, we’re all set.’ The man in question strolled into the room and dumped his key card on the coffee table next to her glass of wine. Even in the tailored trousers and linen shirt, he could easily be a bank robber, Cassie thought. He certainly had that confident, dangerous edge that made him seem capable of anything.

He delved into the bar and came up with a bottle of imported Italian beer. ‘Do you need a top-up?’ he asked, nodding towards her glass as he twisted off the bottle cap.

He’d rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing forearms roped with muscle as he took a long slug of the beer.

‘No, thanks,’ she said. A couple of sips would definitely have to be her limit. ‘Do you know how long the dry-cleaning will take?’

He shrugged. ‘About forty minutes,’ he said, sinking into one of the leather sofas. ‘Take a seat.’ He signalled the cushions next to him with his bottle, then kicked off his loafers and propped his stockinged feet on the table. ‘You might as well get comfortable.’

Not likely, given that the sight of him lounging on his sofa was making her pulse pound like a timpani drum. He looked like a male supermodel, for goodness’ sake, with those long, leanly muscled legs displayed in perfectly creased trousers, the rugged shadow of stubble on his chin, and his dark hair sexily mussed.

Forget candy man … Jace Ryan was an entire sweetshop.

She sat gingerly on the sofa opposite him, not about to risk getting too close to all that industrial-strength testosterone. Swooning would not be good.

Her tunic rose up her thighs and she hastily shifted onto her bottom, tucking her legs up under her to hide any hint of plain white cotton from view. If he looked like a supermodel, she looked like a banner ad for dull and boring.

She tore her eyes away from the intensity of his gaze, which seemed to have zeroed in on her face.

‘How did you do it?’ she asked, struggling to think of a safe topic for small talk.

‘Do what?’

The puzzled reply had her realising the gaucheness of the question. ‘I just wondered how you …’ She trailed off, wishing she’d never asked. Was he embarrassed by his past? She doubted it. Sitting in the midst of the luxury he’d earned, he looked perfectly at home. Even so, she didn’t want to pry.

‘How did I manage to afford all this?’ he prompted.

She debated trying to pretend she’d been asking something else, but had to give up on the idea. She couldn’t think of an alternative interpretation. And even if she could, the steady, knowing look in his eyes suggested he already knew exactly what she’d been referring to.

She nodded, and took one more sip of wine, strictly for Dutch courage purposes.

He tilted his head to one side, as if considering his answer. ‘I discovered I had a talent for design.’ He paused for less than a heartbeat, but she heard the hesitation. ‘Or rather my parole officer discovered I had a talent for design.’

‘Your parole officer?’ she asked, startled. He had robbed a bank.

‘Relax.’ He grinned, the light in his eyes twinkling again. ‘It’s all right. I’m not an ex-con.’

‘I didn’t think you were,’ she lied.

‘He was a young-offenders liaison officer. The school pressed charges. After they expelled me.’

‘But that’s ridiculous. The drawings were hilarious.’ She could still remember the reason he’d been expelled. And the pinpoint accuracy of the staff caricatures he’d graffiti’d all over the back wall of the new gym in DayGlo spray paint.

‘Gates never did have a sense of humour.’ Jace shrugged. ‘And it worked out fine for me.’ Again she heard the slight hesitation. ‘I got to move into a bedsit and onto an art foundation course—thanks to the officer assigned to my case, who actually believed I could be rehabilitated.’

‘But you didn’t need rehabilitating. You just needed someone to believe in you.’

His lips quirked in an indulgent smile. ‘You really are Pollyanna, aren’t you?’

‘It’s not that, it’s just …’ What? ‘You didn’t deserve to be treated so harshly. It was only a bit of fun.’

He placed his bottle on the table. ‘It was criminal damage. And it wasn’t the first time. So of course I deserved it.’ The smile stayed in place, as if it didn’t matter in the slightest. ‘But that’s more than enough about me.’ He took his feet off the table, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘Let’s talk about you. You’re much more interesting.’

‘Me?’ She pressed her hand to her chest. Was he kidding? ‘Believe me, I’m not as interesting as you.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He lifted his beer, held it poised at his mouth and studied her with an intensity that made her breath catch. ‘So is Cassie short for Cassandra?’ He took a swig and her eyes dipped involuntarily to the sensual line of his lips. He lowered the bottle. ‘Apollo’s paramour,’ he murmured. ‘Gifted with the power of prophecy but forever cursed not to be believed.’

Cassie trembled, the rough cadence of his voice sending little shivers of excitement over her skin. She gave a breathless laugh, her gaze darting back to his face. ‘If only it were that exciting.’

His lips edged into a seductive smile. ‘It’s not exciting. Cassandra’s story is tragic.’

Not from where I’m sitting.

Cassie smiled despite the tension that crackled in the air. Was he trying to melt her into a puddle of lust? Or was that just wishful thinking on her part? ‘Cassie’s short for Cassidy.’

His eyebrow rose a fraction. ‘Cassidy?’

‘As in David Cassidy,’ Cassie added, her grin spreading as his eyebrow arched upwards. ‘The seventies teen idol. Unfortunately my mum was a huge fan. And I’ve been suffering ever since.’

How fitting that her mum had given her a name as unsexy as her knickers.

‘Mind you, it could have been worse,’ she continued, amused by his obvious surprise. ‘Thank God she wasn’t a Donny Osmond fan or I would have been saddled with Ossie.’

His laugh rumbled out, low and rough and setting off the little shivers again. ‘I like Cassidy. It’s unusual. Which suits you.’

She tipped her glass up in a toast. ‘Yup, that’s me, very unusual.’ If only. ‘Unlike you. Who’s so totally run of the mill,’ she added, unable to resist fluttering her eyelashes.

Instead of looking appalled at her heavy-handed attempt at flirtation, he clinked his bottle against her glass. ‘You are unusual,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

She took another hasty sip. The rich, heady wine flowed down her throat and wrapped around her chest like a winter quilt.

She let her gaze wander over to the blue spruce expertly decorated with glass baubles and ribbon bows in the corner. Jace Ryan might be a lot more man than she felt capable of handling. But where was the harm in enjoying his company? At least for as long as it took to clean her coat.

‘How exactly am I unusual?’ she asked, knowing it wasn’t true, but happy to have him try to persuade her.

He placed his beer bottle on the coffee table and stood up. Lifting her hand from her lap, he wrapped his long fingers around it and gave a soft tug to pull her off the sofa. ‘Stand up, so we can examine the evidence.’

She did as she was told, the appreciative gleam as his gaze roamed over her shocking her into silence.

‘Your eyes are a really unusual colour. I noticed that as soon as you jumped into my car. Even though you were ruining the upholstery and calling me a jerk.’

‘I only called you a jerk because you were being a jerk,’ she pointed out in her defence.

He placed his hands on her hips. ‘Stop ruining the mood.’

‘What mood?’ she asked, standing so close to him now, she could see the gold flecks in his irises.

The buckle on his belt brushed against her tummy and the little shivers became shock waves, shuddering down to the place between her thighs.

‘The mood I’m trying to create’ he said, a lock of dark hair flopping over his brow. ‘So I can kiss you.’

Her gaze dipped to his mouth, those sensual lips that had once devoured Jenny temptingly close. ‘You want to kiss me?’ she said on a ragged breath.

He pressed his thumb to her bottom lip, the touch making it tingle. ‘I must be seriously losing my touch. Isn’t it obvious?’

‘But we’ve only just met,’ she whispered, not sure how to respond to his teasing. Did he seriously plan to kiss her? And why the heck was she arguing with him about it?

He wrapped his hand round her waist, pulled her flush against him. ‘Not true,’ he remarked, his lips only centimetres from hers. ‘We’ve known each other since school.’

‘But you don’t remember me.’

‘Sure I do.’ His warm breath feathered against her cheek. ‘You’re the little voyeur on the stairwell.’

She tensed and drew back. ‘You remember? But how?’

‘I told you, those eyes are very unusual.’ His lips curved, in that same offhand grin that had captivated her over a decade ago. And suddenly, she understood. This wasn’t a seduction. He was making fun of her.

She placed her hands on his chest, stumbled back, the sweet, heady buzz of flirtation and arousal replaced by embarrassment. ‘I should go.’

He caught her elbow as she stepped back. ‘Hey? What’s the rush all of a sudden?’

‘I just … I have to go,’ she mumbled, pulling her arm free.

‘Don’t be ridiculous—your coat isn’t back yet.’

She tugged down the hem of her tunic, feeling hideously exposed.

‘I’ll wait downstairs, in the lobby.’ It would be mortifying in her bare feet, but what could be more mortifying than simpering all over a guy who was secretly laughing at her?

She crossed the living room, holding her head up.

‘Hang on a minute. You’re being absurd. What exactly are you so upset about?’

The frustrated words stopped her dead. She swung round.

He stood by his walnut coffee table, looking like a poster boy for original sin and the humiliation coalesced in her stomach into a hot ball of resentment.