When Quinn looked at her with intense, consuming heat in his vivid eyes, she let the words slip free on a husky whisper.

‘I love you.’

It was as if a dam had burst. Hiccupping sobs sounded and tears streamed while she said it more firmly. ‘You really have no idea how much I love you.’

For a moment Quinn froze, and then his gruff voice demanded, ‘Say it again.’

‘I love you.’ Somehow she managed to smile. It was weak and tremulous, but it was the best she could do. ‘I can’t breathe properly when you’re not there.’

Trish Wylie tried various careers before eventually fulfilling her dream of writing. Years spent working in the music industry, in promotions, and teaching little kids about ponies gave her plenty of opportunity to study life and the people around her. Which, in Trish’s opinion, is a pretty good study course for writing! Living in Ireland, Trish balances her time between writing and horses. If you get to spend your days doing things you love, then she thinks that’s not doing too badly. You can contact Trish at www.trishwylie.com

Praise for Trish Wylie

‘Trish Wylie’s HER ONE AND ONLY VALENTINE

has excellent characters—particularly the larger-than-life

hero. It also has charm and wit to spare.’

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews

Trish also writes for Modern Heat ™

‘Charming, romantic and fabulous,

HIS MISTRESS, HIS TERMS is another novel

by Ms Wylie with keeper stamped all over it.’

—Cataromance.com

Dear Reader

In the summer of 2007 I fell in love. Not with a tall, dark and handsome, but with a city. In the dying light of a summer day I looked out through the windows of an airport shuttle and there it was—New York. It took my breath away. And the further I got into the heart of the city the harder I fell.

Suddenly I understood why there are as many Irish in NYC as there are on the entire island of Ireland! If I was to choose a place to live over there then it would definitely be Brooklyn Heights. Not that I could afford it. But that’s the beauty of fiction—you can live anywhere in the world and price is no object! Another beauty is you can then add a completely gorgeous hero to the mix. And I do think this is Quinn’s story. He takes a bigger journey in this book than I did to get to New York from Ireland. The bigger they are the harder they fall, they say. But this one fought and fought and fought. Bless him.

Personally, I plan on keeping my eyes peeled on my next New York trip. Well…you never know, do you? A girl can dream…

Hs & Ks

Trish

MANHATTAN BOSS, DIAMOND PROPOSAL

BY

TRISH WYLIE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Marilyn, the kind of reader

who makes me remember why I write,

even on the days words are hard to find…

And for John—the best tour guide in New York City.

PROLOGUE

‘HE’S NOT COMING.’

‘What do you mean he’s not coming?’

Clare O’Connor turned away from the floor-length mirror, her chin lifting so she could search his eyes. Not that she knew him well enough to be able to read anything there. Tall, dark and brooding she’d named him after their first meeting. And despite the fact she’d since had glimpses of a wicked sense of humour, when he chose to use it, she still thought her initial impression was on the money.

She shook her head. ‘What do you mean he’s not coming? Did something happen to him?’

A muscle jumped in his jaw. And it was the first indication she had that he was telling the truth. She shook her head again, nervous laughter escaping her parted lips. No way. There was no way Jamie had done this to her. Not now.

‘I’m sorry, Clare.’

When one long arm lifted towards her she stepped back, the world tilting a little beneath her feet. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s gone.’

‘Gone?’

Gone where? Why? What had happened? This kind of thing didn’t happen in real life! She tried to form a coherent thought rather than parroting everything she was told. Why now? Why not yesterday or the day before that or the day before that? When there’d been time to cancel everything and let everyone know. Why let her follow him all the way across the Atlantic if—?

‘He didn’t have the guts to face you.’

Clare laughed a little more manically. ‘So he sent you to tell me?’ Of all the people Jamie knew he had felt this guy was the one to send? It was almost funny. ‘No phone call? No note? Is this a joke?’

‘No joke. He’s gone and he’s not coming back.’

The determined tone to his voice made the edges of her vision go dark. When she felt herself swaying, two large hands grasped her elbows to steady her while she blinked furiously.

‘You need to sit down.’

Clare yanked her arms free, her gaze focusing on a smudge of dirt on his jacket before sliding over the dark material and noticing several other smudges along the way. But she wasn’t interested in how they’d got there, she just needed to think. She needed to—

When her chin jerked towards the door and her eyes widened with horror, his husky voice sounded above her head. ‘I’ll go.’

Dear God. All the people beyond that door, waiting for her—how was she supposed to face them? But she couldn’t let him go out there and do her dirty work for her. Not that the offer wasn’t tempting, but they were waiting for her. And some of them had flown thousands of miles—for her. So it was her responsibility to tell them…

Swallowing down a wave of nausea, she reached for his arm. ‘Wait. Just give me a second here.’

Taking several deep breaths of cool air, she tightened her fingers around his forearm, as if the part of her that was drowning naturally sought out something solid to keep her from going under.

From somewhere she found the strength to keep her voice calm. ‘Did he leave with her?’

‘Clare—’

She flexed her fingers as she looked up. ‘Did he? I want to know.’

‘How long have you known?’

Up until he’d asked that question she’d never really known for sure. But she had her answer now, didn’t she? So much for telling herself it was paranoia…

Letting go of his arm, she nodded firmly while biting down on her lower lip to stop it from trembling. If the price of naïveté was the death of the starry-eyed dreamer then the job was done. And she was about to receive her punishment on a grand scale, wasn’t she?

‘I’ll tell them. It’s because of me they’re out there in the first place.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘Yes, I do.’ An inward breath caught on a hint of a sob so she closed her eyes and willed it away, promising it: later. Later when no one could see. ‘Jamie might not care about them but I do. They’ll hear it from me.’

When she opened her eyes and glanced up, she saw what looked like respect in his eyes. And for some unfathomable reason she felt laughter bubbling up in her chest again—hysteria, probably. Possibly a hint of irony that it took something so completely degrading to earn respect from the man who had never approved of her in the first place.

When she lifted the front of her long skirt in both hands, he stepped back and opened the door for her, towering over her as she took a deep breath and hovered in the gap.

‘I’m here if you need me.’

She smiled at him through shimmering eyes and then stepped forwards, her gaze focused on the flower-decked arch at the top of the room instead of the sea of faces turning her way.

It was the most humiliating day of her life.

‘I’m afraid there won’t be a wedding today…’

CHAPTER ONE

‘I’LL CALL YOU.’

‘Do.’

Quinn opened his office door and looked up from the file he’d been reading, not entirely sure if it was the tail-end of the conversation or the sight of his personal assistant being hugged so tightly by some guy he’d never set eyes on before that brought a frown to his face. He should be aware of everything that happened in his own offices after all, shouldn’t he? And he had the distinct niggling feeling he was being left out of the loop somehow—something he never, ever let happen.

Leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, he watched with narrowed eyes until the stranger cut her loose.

‘New boyfriend?’

The familiar lustrous sparkle of emerald eyes locked with his as the main door closed behind her mystery man. ‘And when exactly do I have time for a boyfriend?’

‘You know what they say about all work and no play.’

With a shake of her head, Clare bent to retrieve a sheet of paper off her desk. So Quinn allowed his gaze to make a cursory slide over her tailored cream blouse and simple linen trousers, watching the subtle grace of her movement. If he’d been a romantic of any kind he’d have said Clare moved like a ballerina. She certainly had a ballerina’s body: fine-boned and slender—a few more curves maybe, not that she ever dressed to flaunt them or that Quinn had ever looked closely enough to confirm their presence.

But since Quinn Cassidy had graduated with honours from the school of hard knocks he was somewhat lacking in anything remotely resembling romance. So if forced to use a word to describe the way she moved it would quite simply be feminine.

One of the things he’d liked right from the start was the fact she never felt the need to do anything to bring that femininity to a man’s attention. It was also one of the many reasons she’d survived so long working as his PA. The one before her had barely had time to take off her jacket before she’d started leaning her cleavage towards him. It had been like sharing an office with a barracuda.

He shuddered inwardly at the memory.

‘Speaking of work—’ she calmly handed him a sheet of paper when he nudged off the doorjamb and took a step forwards ‘—here’s a list of all the places you have to be today and when. Try and make a few of the appointments on time if you can—for a wee change.’

When she accompanied the words with a sideways tilt of her head and a small smirk that crinkled the bridge of her nose, Quinn couldn’t help smiling, even though technically he was being told off. In fairness he didn’t think his timekeeping had ever been bad, but in the year since Clare had come to work for him she’d been determined he should be at everything at least ten minutes early. He reckoned, however, that if he was early for every single meeting, and had to twiddle his thumbs while he waited for people to turn up, it would add up to a whole heap of wasted time in the long term.

So he rebelled regularly on principle.

He glanced over the neatly typed list before lifting his chin in time to watch Clare perch on the edge of her desk, a thoughtful expression on her face while she swung her feet back and forth. So he waited…

Eventually she spoke in the softly lilting Irish accent she hadn’t lost since she’d come to New York. ‘On the subject of play—it’s been a while since I had to make a trip to Tiffany’s…’

Quinn cocked a brow. ‘And?’

She shrugged one shoulder. ‘I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t falling behind. Up till recently I’d been considering keeping a stock of those wee blue boxes here to save me some time.’

He watched as out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of an errant pen lying on the edge of the desk, giving it a brief frown before she dropped it into a nearby container with a satisfied smile. It never ceased to amaze him, the amount of pleasure she derived from the simplest of things.

‘You’re just missing your trips to Tiffany’s.’ He shook his head and looked her straight in the eye. ‘I can’t run all over Manhattan breaking hearts just so you can while away a few more hours down at your favourite store, now, can I?’

‘Never stopped you before.’ She thrust out her bottom lip and batted long lashes at him comically.

True. But he wasn’t about to get drawn into another debate about his love life when he was suddenly much more interested in hers. ‘So who was the Wall Street type?’

‘Why?’

‘Maybe I need to ask him what his intentions are towards my favourite employee…’

‘So you get to vet all my boyfriends now, do you?’

Quinn folded his arms across his chest, allowing the corner of the sheet of paper to swing casually between his thumb and forefinger. ‘You said he wasn’t your boyfriend.’

Another shrug. ‘He’s not.’

She lifted her delicate chin and rose off the desk to walk round to her swivel chair, swinging forwards before informing him ‘He’s a client.’

Quinn knew what she was getting at, even if it apparently meant her part-time hobby had morphed into something bigger when he wasn’t looking. ‘This matchmaking game of yours is a business now, is it?’

‘Maybe.’ She drummed her neat fingernails on the sheaf of papers in front of her. ‘Problem?’

Two could play at that game—she should know that by now—and her poker face wasn’t worth squat, so Quinn continued looking her straight in the eye. ‘Maybe.’

‘Because it’s during working hours or because you still think the whole thing is a great big joke? I’m not falling behind with my work, am I?’

The thought had never crossed his mind. Thanks to Clare, his working life ran like a well-oiled machine. Not that he hadn’t managed to get things done before, but with her around everything was definitely less stressful than it had been before. There’d once been a time when he’d thrived on the adrenaline of being under pressure, but he’d outgrown those days. And, frankly, the matchmaking thing was starting to grate on him.

‘I’d have thought you of all people would understand the danger of matching starry-eyed people with someone who might break their heart.’

It was a sucker punch, considering her history. But he knew Clare pretty well. If dozens of people came back to cry on her shoulder in a few months’ time she’d feel responsible, and she’d silently tear herself up about it. She was digging her own grave. Quinn simply felt it was his responsibility to take the shovel out of her hand.

‘C’mon, if they’re so desperate they can’t find a date without your help, then—’

Disbelief formed in her eyes. ‘Is it so very difficult for you to believe that some people might simply be sick to death of trawling the usual singles scene? Not everyone has the—’ she made speech marks with crooked fingers ‘—success you have with women…’

Quinn ignored the jibe. ‘I s’pose that means I should expect to find long lines of Ugly Bettys and guys who still live with their mothers arriving in here every five minutes from here on in?’

If she thought for a single second he was going to be happy about that she could think again. He hadn’t batted an eyelid when she’d matched up friends of mutual friends outside of work, but the line had to be drawn somewhere. And he was about to tell her as much when she pushed the chair back from her desk and walked to the filing cabinets.

‘Don’t worry, Quinn. If word keeps spreading as fast as it has these last few months, then pretty soon I’ll be making enough money to be able to afford my own office. And then it won’t be your problem any more, will it?’

‘You’re quitting on me now?’

The thought of the endurance test involved with breaking in another PA made him frown harder. Prior to Clare he’d gone through six in almost as many months.

‘If you needed a raise all you had to do was say so…’

Clare continued searching the drawer. ‘It’s got nothing to do with getting a raise. It’s a chance to build something on my own. And if I can help make a few people happy along the way, then all the better.’

Okay, so he could understand her feeling the need to stand on her own two feet. That part he got. But he’d been pretty sure the arrangement they had had been working for both of them. Why rock the boat?

Stepping over to the desk, he turned on his heel and sat down on the exact same spot Clare had, schooling his features and deliberately keeping his voice nonchalant.

‘You’ve obviously been thinking about this for a while. So how come I’m only hearing about it now?’

‘Maybe because you’ve never asked…’

‘I’m asking now.’

It couldn’t possibly be taking so long to find whatever it was she was looking for. Not with her hyperefficient filing system. Half the time he only had to think about information he needed and the next thing he knew, it was in front of him. She was avoiding looking at him, wasn’t she?

‘O’Connor—’

‘You know, if you’d bothered reading the schedule I just gave you you’d see you have a meeting in less than twenty minutes…’

Nice try. Setting the schedule down, Quinn pushed upright and took the two strides necessary to bring him close enough to place his hands on her slight shoulders, firmly turning her to face him. When her long lashes lifted, her eyes searching each of his in turn, he did the same back before smiling lazily.

‘Working for me proved too tough in the end, did it? If you recall, I warned you at the start I was no walk in the park.’

Clare’s full mouth quirked at the edges—they both knew she dealt with him just fine, even on the days every other person on the planet would have avoided him.

‘Well, I won’t say there aren’t days I have to bite my tongue pretty hard. But it’s got nothing to do with the work—it’s something I need to do for me. If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.’ Her smile grew. ‘That’s how the song goes, right?’

Quinn fought off another frown. ‘So how much notice are you giving me?’

‘Oh, I’m not handing in my notice just yet.’

But it was coming, wasn’t it? She was serious. And her job had long since exceeded the usual remit of personal assistant. She was his girl Friday—co-ordinating the Clubs, making sure staffing levels were sufficient, putting together promotions, booking live acts, filling in when someone was sick even if it meant working for fifteen hours straight…

Everyone who worked for him had even taken to calling her ‘Friday’, and she always smiled when they did, so Quinn had assumed she was happy in the role she’d taken on. The thought that she wasn’t happy irritated him no end. He should have known if she wasn’t.

And how exactly was he supposed to list all she did for him in a Help Wanted ad if she did quit?

Realising his hands had slid downwards, his thumbs smoothing up and down on her upper arms while he thought, Quinn released her and stepped back. ‘You’d miss all the craziness here, you know.’

Her voice softened. ‘I will. I’ve loved it here.’

Despite the fact she’d just allayed one fear, it was the fact she hadn’t used ‘I would’ or ‘I might’ but ‘I will’, that got to him most.

But he hid behind humour. ‘I’d better think about making a trip to Tiffany’s on my own to get one of those blue boxes for you, then, hadn’t I?’

The smile lit up her face, making the room immediately brighter than it already was, with the summer sun filtering in between the Manhattan high-rises to stream through the large windows lining one wall.

‘You should probably know I have a wish list…’

‘And I’ll just bet there’s a diamond or two on it.’

She nodded firmly. ‘Diamonds are a girl’s best friend, they say. But don’t go overboard.’ She patted his upper arm. ‘I haven’t had to suffer my way through the usual broken heart required to get a blue box from you.’

Files in hand, she walked back to her desk, silently dismissing him even before she lifted an arm to check her wristwatch. ‘Twelve minutes now—and counting.’

He stepped over to retrieve the schedule, and his gaze fell on the bright daisies she had in a vase on her desk. Like a trail of breadcrumbs, they were everywhere she spent any time—the simple flowers almost a reflection of her bright personality. Anywhere he saw daisies they reminded him of Clare.

When he didn’t move she looked up at him with an amused smile. ‘What now?’

‘I can’t stand in my own reception area for five minutes if I feel like it?’

‘No—you can’t. I have work to do. And my boss will give me hell if it isn’t done.’

Another frown appeared on his face while he went into his office to retrieve the jacket he’d left lying over a chair, remaining in place until he stopped at the glass doors etched with his company’s name.

‘We’re still going to Giovanni’s later, right?’

Clare’s head lifted and there was a brief moment of hesitation while she studied his face, confusion crossing her luminous eyes.

‘Of course we are. Why?’

‘Want me to come back for you?’

‘No-o. I think I can manage to make it back to Brooklyn on my own—always have before.’ She dropped her head towards one shoulder, still examining his face. ‘Did you get out of some poor woman’s bed on the wrong side this morning? You’re being weird.’

‘That’s what I get for trying to be thoughtful? No wonder I don’t do it that often…’

Clare lifted her arms and tapped the face of her watch with her forefinger, silently mouthing the words, Ten minutes…

‘You see, now—that I won’t miss when you’re gone.’

She smiled a smile that lifted the frown off his face. ‘I’m not leaving the country, Quinn. You’ll still see me. And we’ll always have Giovanni’s on a Wednesday night—it’s set in stone now.’

When he stayed in the open doorway for another thirty seconds she laughed softly, the shake of her head dislodging a strand of bright auburn hair from the loose knot tied at the nape of her neck. ‘Would you go away? I have just as much to do as you do. And I’ll have even more to do if I have to answer phone calls all day from people wondering why you’re late—which you already are cos there’s no way you’re making it to that meeting in eight minutes.’

‘Wanna bet?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Five bucks says you don’t.’

‘Aw, c’mon—it’s hardly worth my while stepping through this door for five measly bucks.’

‘If you don’t step through that door it’ll cost you that much in cab fare to the nearest hospital.’

He fought off a chuckle of laughter at the empty threat. ‘Loser picks up the tab for dinner.’

‘You’re on. Now, go away. Shoo.’ She waved the back of her hand at him.

Reaching for his cellphone as he headed for the elevators, Quinn realized he’d miss their daily wagers. He liked things the way they were. Why did he have to have his life knocked off balance again? Hadn’t he spent half of it on an uneven enough keel already? And it wasn’t that he didn’t understand her need to build something, but the dumb matchmaking thing wasn’t the way to go. Not for Clare. Not in his opinion.

‘Mitch—Quinn Cassidy—I’m on a tight schedule today, can you meet me halfway?’

See—sometimes in order to win a bet a guy had to bend the rules a little—play dirty if necessary. Occasionally he even had to get creative. And Quinn liked to think he was a fairly creative kind of guy when the need arose. Plenty of women had benefited from that creativity and none of them had ever complained…

He’d find a way to make Clare see sense about the matchmaking—he just needed the right opening, and it was for her own good after all. She’d thank him in the long run.

What were friends for?

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU KNOW, I THINK I’LL have dessert.’ Quinn patted his washboard-flat stomach as he came back to the table, smiling wickedly in Clare’s direction.

‘You cheated.’

‘You said I’d be late—I wasn’t—I won.’

Clare couldn’t hold back the laughter that had been brewing inside her all evening, thanks to his ridiculous level of gloating. But then he’d always been able to draw laughter out of her, even when he was being so completely shameless.

‘I need someone else to hang out with twelve hours a day.’ She glanced around to see if any of their friends, seated round the table, would take up her offer. ‘Anyone?’

‘Nah, I’m irreplaceable.’ Turning his chair with one large hand, he sat down, forearms resting on the carved wooden back while he dangled the neck of his beer bottle between long fingers with his palm facing upwards.

‘She tell you she quit her job today?’ The bottle swayed back and forth while startlingly blue eyes examined each of their faces in turn; a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth.

‘Don’t listen to him.’

Erin smiled. ‘Oh, honey, we never do.’

There was group laughter before Quinn continued in the rumbling, husky-edged voice that made most women smile dumbly at him. ‘Yup, she’s dumping me to go help the sad and the lonely.’

‘Leaving you sad and lonely?’

Clare laughed softly when Evan took her side with his usual deadpan expression. ‘He’d never admit it out loud but he’d miss me, you know…’

‘Rob and Casey got engaged.’ Madison smiled an impishly dimpled smile when Clare’s face lit up. ‘That’s three now, isn’t it?’

‘Four.’ Clare almost sighed with the deep sense of satisfaction it gave her. ‘And I’ve had ten referrals in as many days.’

‘You’re charging the new fee you talked about?’

She nodded. ‘And I talked to a website designer yesterday. He reckons we can have a site put together in a month or so—soon as I’m ready.’

‘Make sure there’s a disclaimer somewhere.’ Quinn rumbled in a flat tone.

Clare scowled at him. ‘Just because you don’t believe in love in the twenty-first century doesn’t mean other people don’t.’

His dark brows quirked just the once, his gaze absent-mindedly sweeping the room. ‘Never said I don’t believe in it.’

Clare snorted in disbelief. ‘Since when?’

Attention slid back to her and he held her questioning gaze with a silent intensity that sent an unfamiliar shiver up her spine.

‘So if I’m not married by thirty-four it automatically means I don’t believe in it, does it?’

‘You only believe in it for other people…’

And, come on, he couldn’t even say the word out loud, could he? Not that she doubted he felt it for family and friends, but when it came to Quinn and women…well…they probably cited him in the dictionary under ‘love ’em and leave ’em’.

Without breaking his gaze, he lifted a hand to signal a waitress—as if he had some kind of inner radar that told him where she was without him having to look. Or more likely because he knew waitresses in restaurants had a habit of watching him wherever he went. They were women after all,

‘I could throw that one right back at you.’

It was just as well he was sitting out of smacking distance, because he knew why she wasn’t as starry-eyed about love as she’d once been. Not that she didn’t believe she might love again one day. She’d just be more sensible about it next time. It was why the method she used for matchmaking made such sense to her. Didn’t mean his words didn’t sting, though…

And now he was putting her back up. ‘If you believe in it, then how come you have such a problem with me doing what I do?’

Quinn broke the visual deadlock to order dessert with a smile that made the young waitress blush, and then attempted to drum up support. ‘C’mon, guys—tell her I’m right. People will blame her when they don’t end up riding off into the sunset on a white horse.’

Clare dipped her head towards one shoulder, a strand of hair whispering against her cheek while she blinked innocently. ‘Aren’t you always right? I thought that was the general impression you liked people to have.’

There was chuckling around the table, but Quinn’s expression remained calm, inky-black lashes brushing lazily against his tanned skin. ‘I’m right about this.’

‘You’re a cynic.’

‘I’m a realist.’

‘You don’t have a romantic bone in your body.’

A dangerously sexy smile made its way onto his mouth, light dancing in his eyes. ‘I have a few dozen women you can call who’d disagree with that.’

Clare rolled her eyes while the male contingent at the table laughed louder and the women groaned. ‘Whatever miracle it is you pull with women it has nothing to do with romance—it’s got more to do with your availability.’

‘I keep telling you I’m available, but do you take advantage of me? Oh no…’

It was impossible not to react. And since it was either gape or laugh, she went with the latter. Quinn could say the most outrageous things, smile that wicked smile of his, and he always got away with it. He was that guy a girl’s mother warned her about: the devil in disguise.

Clare could hardly be blamed for having had the odd moment of weakness when she’d wondered what it would be like to flirt a little with someone like him. Thankfully, with age came the wisdom of experience. And she’d been burned by a devil in disguise once already, hadn’t she?

She smiled sweetly. ‘You see, I would, but I hate queues.’

‘I’d let you jump the line, seeing we’re friends…’

‘Gee, thanks.’

‘You believe in love at first sight now as well, I s’pose?’ Erin leaned her elbows on the chequered tablecloth and challenged Quinn.

‘Nope.’ He shook his head and lifted his hand to draw a mouthful of liquid from the moisture-beaded bottle. ‘Lust at first sight? That’s a different story.’

He clinked his bottle with Evan’s in a display of male bonding that made Clare roll her eyes again.

‘And we wonder why you three are still single.’

Quinn’s face remained impassive. ‘I still maintain you can’t use the ‘finding soulmates’ tag line on business cards. It’s false advertising…’

‘Soulmates exist—you ask anyone.’ She reached for her wine glass while Erin and Rachel agreed with her.

Quinn nodded. ‘Yep, right up there with chubby cherubs carrying bows and arrows. They had a real problem with one of them stopping traffic on East Thirtieth a while back—it was on CNN…’

Morgan almost choked on a mouthful of beer.

Taking a sip of wine and swirling the remaining liquid in her glass while she formulated a reply, Clare waited until Quinn had thanked the waitress for his slice of pie.

And then, despite deeply resenting the fact that she felt the need to justify her fledgling business, she kept her tone purposefully determined. ‘Soulmates are simply people who are the right fit for each other. That means finding someone with common goals and needs, someone who wants what you want out of life and is prepared to stick with you for the long haul, even when things get tough—’

‘You go, girl!’

Madison winked while Clare kept her gaze fixed on Quinn, watching him stare back with a blank expression so she couldn’t tell what he thought of her mission statement.

She persisted. ‘What I do is put a person looking for commitment with someone who feels the same way they do about life. That’s all. Whether or not it works is up to them. I’m the middle man in a business deal, if you want to put it in terms you’ll understand.’

Quinn’s eyes narrowed a barely perceptible amount. ‘And now who’s the cynic?’

She set her glass down on the table and leaned forwards. ‘If I was a cynic would I even bother in the first place? People need other people, Quinn; it’s a fact of life.’

‘And meeting the right guy’s not easy—you ask any girl in New York.’

Erin’s words raised a small smile from Clare. ‘No, it’s not. But men in the city find it just as tough as the women, especially when they both have busy careers.’

Quinn set his bottle lightly on the table, lifting a fork. ‘You don’t feel the need to go out and date any, though, do you? Hardly a good ad for your business: the matchmaker who can’t find a match…I think this is your way of avoiding getting back in the game when everybody at this table thinks it’s about time you did.’

Clare gritted her teeth. He could be so annoying when he put his mind to it.

‘Clare will date when she’s ready to—won’t you, hon?’ Madison smiled a smile that managed to translate as sympathy into Clare’s eyes.

But Clare didn’t need any help when it came to dealing with Quinn. She’d been doing it long enough not to be fazed. ‘It’s not that I’m not ready, it’s—’

‘Jamie wasn’t a good example of American guys, O’Connor—you need to get back out there.’

The words drew her gaze swiftly back to his face, and her answer was laced with rising anger. ‘And how am I supposed to find the time to date anyone when I spend so much time with you?’

It stunned the table into an uneasy silence; all eyes focused on Quinn as he frowned in response. ‘So I’m your cover now, am I?’

She opened her mouth, but he’d already shrugged and returned his attention to his plate, digging forcefully with the edge of his fork. ‘Funny how it hasn’t stopped me finding time to date in the last year.’

Now, there was the understatement of the century! Without looking round the table to confirm it, Clare felt five pairs of eyes focusing on her. Waiting…

She damped her lips before answering. ‘So long as the relationship doesn’t last more than five or six weeks, right?’

The eyes focused on Quinn, who shrugged again. ‘You know by then if there’s any point wasting your time or theirs.’

‘And you’re too busy to waste any time, right?’ Which kind of proved her point.

‘Still made the time to begin with, didn’t I?’

Okay, he had her on that one. But before she could get herself out of the hole she’d apparently just dug for herself, he added, ‘Maybe I should just save myself some of that precious time by getting you to find my ‘soulmate’ for me. Then I can settle down to producing another generation of heartbreakers and you can stop using me as a stand-in husband.’

Clare inhaled sharply, her lips moving to form the name for him that had immediately jumped into the front of her brain.

But Erin was already jumping to her defence. ‘That was uncalled-for, Quinn.’

‘Yet apparently overdue.’ The fork clattered onto the side of his plate before he leaned back, lifting his arms and arching his back in a lazy stretch. ‘Can’t fix a problem if I don’t know it exists in the first place, can I?’

He said it calmly, but Clare knew he wasn’t happy. So she made an attempt at humour to defuse the situation before it got out of hand. ‘And why bother finding a wife when I fill eight out of ten criteria for the job every day, right?’ She added a small smile so he’d know she was kidding. ‘Maybe I’m your cover?’

The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Okay, then, since we’re in such an unhealthy relationship—you find my mythical soulmate and I’ll not only get out of your way, I’ll get off your case about the matchmaking too.’

Evan’s deep voice broke the sudden stunned silence with words that would seal her fate: ‘She’ll never in a million years find someone for you to settle down with.’

And that did it—Clare had had enough of her fledgling business being the butt of the guys’ jokes. So it was a knee-jerk reaction.

‘Wanna bet?’ She folded her arms across her breasts and lifted a brow at Evan. But when Evan held his hands up in surrender, she looked back at Quinn. To find him smiling the merest hint of a smile back at her, as if he’d just won some kind of victory.

So she lifted her chin higher, to let him know he hadn’t won a darn thing. ‘Well?’

‘You win, you can do matchmaker nights at the clubs and I’ll split the door with you.’

What? Her heart raced at the very idea, a world of possibilities growing so fast in her mind that she skimmed over the fact that the offer had been made so quickly. Almost as if he’d planned what to wager before the bet had been made. But she wasn’t blinded enough by the business potential not to ask the obvious. ‘And if I lose?’

Quinn cocked his head. ‘Having doubts about your capabilities already, O’Connor?’

‘Simply making the terms clear in front of witnesses. And if you’re trying to claim you’ve only been playing the field all these years because you haven’t met the right girl, then I guarantee you—I’ll find you a girl who can last way longer than six weeks…’

‘Wanna bet?’ The smile grew.

Which only egged her on even more. ‘I think we’ve already established that.’

Though she couldn’t help silently admitting her unknown forfeit was scaring her a little. She’d call the whole thing off if her payoff wasn’t so huge, and if he just didn’t have that look in his eyes that said he had her right where he wanted her…

‘I’m starting a pool—who’s in?’ There were several mumbled answers to Morgan’s question.

None of which Clare caught because she was too busy silently squaring off with Quinn, neither of them breaking the locked gazes that signalled a familiar battle of wills. Well, she was no push-over these days, so if he thought she was backing down now they’d gone this far in front of an audience he was sorely mistaken.

‘If you lose…’

She held her breath.

‘It’s a blind forfeit.’

Meaning he could chose anything he wanted when it was done? Anything? He had to be kidding! She could end up cleaning his house for months, or wearing clown shoes to work, or—well, the list was endless, wasn’t it?

He continued looking at her with hooded eyes, thick lashes blinking lazily and silent confidence oozing from every pore of his rangy body. And then he smiled.

Damping her dry lips, she looked round at the familiar faces, searching each one for a hint of any sign they’d see what was happening as a joke and let it slide so she could get out of trouble.

No such luck.

‘You could just admit I’m right about this business idea of yours and let it go. Keep it as a hobby if you must. That’d give you more time for dating, right?’

With a deep breath she stepped over the edge of what felt distinctly like a precipice. ‘No limit on the number of dates. And once you hit the six weeks without a Tiffany’s box I automatically win.’

‘Fine, but if I say it’s not working with one we move on. I’ll give you…’ his gaze rose to a point on the ceiling, locking with hers again when he had an answer ‘…three months to find Little Miss Perfect.’

‘Six.’

‘Four.’

‘Five.’

‘Four from the first date…’

It was the best she was going to get and she knew it. ‘Done.’

There was a flurry of activity as their friends sought out a pen, and Morgan used the back of a napkin to place their bets. And in the meantime Quinn had Clare’s undivided attention while he slowly made his way round to her, hunkering down and examining her eyes before extending one large hand, his husky-edged voice low and disturbingly intimate.

‘Shake on it, then.’

Clare turned in her seat and looked at his outstretched hand, her pulse fluttering. She damped her lips again, and took another deep breath, before lifting her palm and setting it into his. Her voice was equally low when she looked up into his eyes.

‘Cheat this time and you’re a dead man.’

A larger smile slid skilfully into place a split second before his incredible eyes darkened a shade, and long fingers curled until her smaller hand was engulfed in the heat of his. But instead of shaking it up and down to seal the deal he simply held on, rubbing his thumb almost unconsciously across the ridges of her knuckles. Then his voice dropped enough to merit her leaning closer to hear him, and the combined scent of clean laundry and pure Quinn overwhelmed her,

‘Don’t have to. Cos either way I win—don’t I?’

CHAPTER THREE

QUINN SINCERELY DOUBTED he’d be asked as many questions if he applied to join the CIA. Who knew proving his point was going to involve so much darn paperwork? It was a deep and abiding hatred of paperwork that had merited a PA in the first place…

Swinging his office chair back and forth while he read through the rest of Clare’s questionnaire, he wondered why she couldn’t just have answered the majority of them herself. Because if working together and spending time together socially wasn’t enough, then the fact she’d lived in the basement apartment of his Brooklyn Heights brownstone for the last eleven months should have given her more than enough information.

She knew him as well as anyone he hadn’t grown up with ever had; it was a proximity thing.

Lifting the folder off his desk, he challenged gravity by leaning further back in his chair, twirling his pen in and out of his fingers and laughing out loud when he discovered: How important is sex in a relationship?

It even came with a rating system. Unfortunately he didn’t think the rating went high enough for most men.

‘It’s not supposed to be funny.’

Rocking the chair forwards, he swung round to face the door where Clare was standing with her arms folded. In fairness he thought she’d done well to stay away for as long as she had. He’d had the questionnaire for a whole ten minutes already.

‘Aw, c’mon, O’Connor. Not only is it funny, you gotta admit some of it’s pretty darn pointless too.’

‘Like what, exactly?’

With a challenging cock of his head he wet his thumb and forefinger and loudly flicked back two pages, looking down to quote. ‘“Do you feel it’s important that the man earns more money than the woman”?’

When he looked up Clare was scowling. ‘Some people think that’s important—you’d be surprised how many men feel emasculated if the woman earns more than they do.’

He nodded sagely. ‘You know the pathetic rating on all your male clients just went up a couple dozen notches right there, don’t you?’

‘Spoken by the man who sends a gift from Tiffany’s as a goodbye. Money is hardly an issue for you, is it?’

‘I never felt like less of a man when I didn’t have any. Money’s not what makes a man a man. Women who think that aren’t interested in who he really is.’ He looked down and flicked over another page. ‘And another one of my personal favourites: “Do you feel pets can act as a substitute family?”’ Lifting his chin, he added, ‘Shouldn’t you ask about dressing them up in dumb outfits and carrying them around in matching bags?’

‘Not everyone wants children.’

‘Why don’t you just ask that, then?’

Swiftly unfolding her arms, she marched across the room and reached for the edge of the questionnaire. ‘It’s on page five. I knew you weren’t taking this seriously. You’ve no notion of finding the right girl.’

Quinn held the questionnaire out of her reach behind his head, fighting off the need to chuckle. ‘I’m taking this very seriously. You just might want to think about tailoring the questions differently for men and women—no self-respecting guy is gonna read this without tossing it in the nearest wastepaper basket.’

Clare stood to her full five-seven, the look of consternation written all over her face making him feel the need to laugh again. But somehow he doubted she’d appreciate it, so he cleared his throat.

‘I’m just giving you my professional opinion. You do questionnaires for the clubs’ clientele all the time and none of them are ever this bad.’

‘They have to be the same questions so I can put like-minded people together.’

‘What happened to opposites attracting?’

‘The things that matter have to match.’ She folded her arms again. ‘You can back out of this any time you want you know—just say the word and we can go back to the way we were before.’

Nice try. But it was attempting to get back to the way they were that had given him the dumb idea in the first place. It was the very opening he’d been looking for. There was no way he was letting her out of this one. And she was no more likely to find him a soulmate through a questionnaire than he was to start dressing pets in clothes. Not that he had time for pets right this minute but there was a dog somewhere in his future—a large dog—one docile enough to make a loyal friend for kids to climb all over.

He lowered his arm and flicked through the pages to see if he could find a question that asked about pets and kids. Every kid should have a dog, he felt—and, not having had one when he was a kid, Quinn had no intention of his own kids missing out. And, yes, he would be ticking the kids question on page five—he came from a large family—there had just better be a box that said ‘some day’.

‘If you’re going to treat this like a big joke it’ll never work. You have to give it a chance.’

‘I already told you I’m taking it seriously.’

When she didn’t say anything he looked up, momentarily caught off-guard by the cloud in her usually bright eyes. ‘What?’

Clare pursed her lips and let them go with a hint of a pop, shifting her weight before her brows lowered and she finally asked, ‘You’re genuinely interested in meeting someone you can make an actual commitment to?’

What was that supposed to mean? He had a suspicion he wasn’t going to like the way she was thinking. ‘You don’t think I’m capable of making an actual commitment?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

It was what she’d meant, though. And he’d been right. He didn’t like what she thought one little bit. ‘I’m financially secure, own my own home—in one of the highest-priced real estate areas outside of Manhattan, I might add—and I’ve already done more than my share of playing the field. Why wouldn’t I want to make a commitment at some point?’

And now she was frowning in confusion, as if none of that had ever occurred to her before.

Quinn happened to think he was an all-round pretty great guy if you discounted his earlier years. The vast majority of women seemed to agree. And surely the very fact he’d resisted the kind of trouble that could have led him into a rapid downward spiral in his teens was testimony to his determination to make a better life for himself—and anyone who might end up sharing it.

Okay, so he wasn’t a saint. Who was? But what had he done to rate so low in Clare’s opinion?

Clenching his jaw, he turned his chair back to the long desk lining one wall, tossing the questionnaire down. ‘I’ll throw this your way before I go. And then we’ll see if there’s anyone out there prepared to take on this bad boy.’

‘Quinn—’

‘Send in the monthly accounts and get Pauley on the line for me.’

In all the time she’d worked for him he’d never once dismissed her the way he just had. But he’d be damned if he’d feel guilty about it after that.

The accounts were set gently in front of him.

‘Thanks.’

‘Pauley’s on line two.’

He lifted the receiver, his hand hovering over the flashing light when she spoke, her lilting accent soft with sincerity. ‘It’s not that I think you can’t make a commitment, Quinn. I just didn’t realize you felt you were ready to. I’m sorry.’

Taking a deep breath of air-conditioned air, he set the receiver down and turned in his chair to look up at her. And the gentle smile he found there had him smiling back in a single heartbeat. But then she’d been able to do that ever since he’d got to know her better. Sanding off the edges of a rough mood with her natural softness…

He could really have done with her being around for the decade of his life when he’d been angry every hour of every day, if she had that effect on him every time.

‘We’ve never talked about any of this, that’s all. And we’re still pretty new to this friends thing, if you think about it.’

Clare nodded, her chin dropping so she could study the fingers she had laced together in front of her body before she looked at him from beneath long lashes. ‘It’s not felt that way in a long time.’

‘I know.’

There was an awkwardness lying between them that hadn’t been there in a long time either. Quinn felt the loss of their usual ease with each other, but he couldn’t see how to fix it without continuing on the path he’d already taken.

‘What happens after the questionnaire?’

Lowering his gaze, he caught sight of her mouth twitching before she lifted her chin. ‘We have a sit down interview.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘About what?’

‘Dating etiquette…’

His eyes widened. She had to be yanking his chain. ‘You think I don’t know how to behave on a date?’

‘It’s how you behave we need to discuss.’ And now she was fighting off laughter, wasn’t she? He could see it in her eyes. ‘Men and women can have very different expectations of dating.’

Quinn was at a loss for words. Now he wasn’t just commitment-phobic, he didn’t know how to treat a woman either? She probably thought he kicked kittens too.

‘A lot of men expect a first date to end with—’

He held up a palm. ‘That debate can wait.’

When her mouth opened, he pointed a long finger towards the door. ‘Work now—deep water later. I don’t pay Pauley to hang on the phone all day.’

Waiting until the door clicked shut behind her, he stared at the wood, and then ran a palm down over his face. If she thought he was discussing his sex life with her in that little sit-down interview of hers then she could think again. And if she was going to delve into his private life on any level beyond the one he’d given her access to, then she’d better be prepared for the turnabout is fair play rule. In fact she could go first. His mom had raised all the Cassidy boys to be mannerly—no matter how much they’d protested.

Actually, now he had time to think about it, getting to know her better appealed to him. There were plenty of things he’d like to know that he’d never asked because it felt as if he’d be crossing some kind of invisible chalk line. If he delved beneath the surface a little he could find out if she was hiding behind the matchmaking. And if she was?

Well. He could use that.

Not to mention the point he now had to make regarding his eligibility as potential long-term partner material, should he ever decide to settle down—which, in fairness, wasn’t going to be any time soon.

But it was a matter of pride now…

All right, so she’d never believed her questionnaires were all that amusing until she started reading Quinn’s that evening at home. It turned out knowing someone beforehand shed a whole new light on the answers—some of them so blatantly Quinn they made her laugh out loud.

But then there were the other ones…

Ones that made her wonder if she knew him anywhere near as well as she’d thought she did, or if she’d ever made as much of an effort trying to get to know him as she should have. Thanks to the questionnaire, she wanted to know everything. Everything she might have missed or misconstrued. Even if she discovered along the way that the friend she had was an illusion she’d conjured up in her head. Like an invisible friend a small child needed after they’d gone through an emotional trauma they couldn’t deal with alone.

On paper Quinn was quite the package: stupidly rich, scarily successful at everything he did, liked pets, wanted kids one day, supportive of a woman’s need for a career as well as a family. Add all that to how he looked and it was a wonder he’d managed to stay single as long as he had…

It certainly wasn’t for the lack of women trying to hunt him down.

Ever since she’d first been introduced to Quinn he’d been either in the company of or photographed with stunningly beautiful women. None of them she now knew, as his PA, lasted beyond the maximum six-week cutoff point before he backed off and Clare was told to send a little blue box. And miraculously, barring the few weeping females she’d had to lend a sympathetic ear to, Clare was unaware of any of them stalking him. But surely one of them would have been worth hanging on to?

Thing was, if he genuinely was ready to make a commitment to someone then she was going to have to take their bet more seriously.

When the phone beside her sofa rang she picked it up without checking the caller ID. ‘Hello?’

‘What you doing?’

For some completely unfathomable reason her pulse skipped at the sound of his familiar rough-edged voice. ‘Talking to you on the phone. Why?’

It wasn’t as if she could confess to committing all his questionnaire answers to memory, was it?

‘Thought I’d come down for my interview.’

Now? Clare dropped her chin, her eyes widening at the sight of the minute cotton shorts and cropped vest she’d thrown on after her shower, sans underwear. Not that she’d ever felt the need to dress up to see him, but what she was wearing wasn’t designed for anyone’s eyes—not even her own in a mirror. It was a ‘not going anywhere on a hot, humid summer’s night’ outfit.

‘Are you home?’ The slightly breathless edge to her voice made her groan inwardly.

‘Yup, I’ll bring down a bottle of something.’

‘Erm…I’m not exactly dressed for company… You need to give me a minute.’

There was a pause.

Then, ‘And now you know I need to know, right?’

The way his voice had lowered an octave did something weird to her stomach. And her lack of a reply gave him reason enough to ask the obvious: ‘You are dressed right?’

‘Stop that.’

‘Well, at least I didn’t use the tell me what you’re wearing line.’

‘You may as well have.’ Feeling confident he wouldn’t appear while he was upstairs on the phone, she curled her legs underneath her and settled back, wriggling deeper into the massive cushions as she smiled at the all-too-familiar banter. ‘Friends don’t do that kind of phone call.’

After a heartbeat of a pause he came back with another rumbling reply, adding an intimacy to the conversation that unsettled her all over again. ‘I’d consider it, with that lilting accent of yours. We could do one as part of the date training I’m apparently in need of.’

She shook her head against the edge of the sofa and sighed. ‘I give up.’

‘’Bout time too. So tell me what you’re wearing that’s such a big problem.’

When a burst of throaty laughter made its way out of her mouth she clamped a hand over it to make sure nothing else escaped.

‘C’mon…it can’t be that bad. It’s sweats two sizes too big, isn’t it?’

She frowned, blinking at a random point on the wall over her mantel. Because, actually, she didn’t think she wanted one of the most eligible bachelors in New York thinking she couldn’t wear something sexy if she felt like it. Not that she was looking for a blue box of her own at any stage.

Widening her fingers enough to speak, she felt an inner mischievous imp take over. ‘How do you know I’m not wearing something sexy I don’t want you to see?’

When there was silence on the other end of the line she contemplated jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge out of embarrassment. And then, above the sound of her heart thundering in her ears, she heard an answer so low it was practically in the territory of pillow talk. ‘Are you flirting with me? Cos if you are…’

If she was—what? She swallowed hard and summoned up the control to keep her voice calm as she risked removing her hand from her mouth. ‘You’re the one who said he wanted it to be a training call.’

Another long pause. ‘A training call before a training date is a bit of a leap, don’t you think?’

‘I didn’t start this.’

Terrific. Now she was an eight-year-old.

‘I’d argue that, but let’s just give this another try. What exactly is it you’re wearing that means I can’t come down there right this second?’

‘You don’t think I even own anything sexy, do you? When you think of me down here you automatically assume I’m dressed like a slob.’

‘Can’t say I’ve ever wondered what you were wearing down there before this phone call.’

The Brooklyn Bridge was getting more tempting by the second.

Then he made her stomach do the weird thing again by adding ‘Always gonna wonder after this though. And any inappropriate thoughts I have will be entirely your fault. You’re the girl next door—I’m never s’posed to think of you as anything but cute.’

‘I’m the girl downstairs. And for your information I’m wearing something entirely too sexy to be considered cute.’ She almost added a so there.

‘Liar.’ She could hear him smiling down the line. ‘And don’t pout. With those braids in it makes you look about sixteen.’

Clare shot upright and looked out of the French windows leading to their small garden. To find Quinn sitting on the stone steps, long legs spread wide and a bottle of wine tucked under one arm while two glasses dangled from his fingers as he grinned at her. She didn’t even need to be closer to see the sparks of devilment dancing in the blue of his eyes. The rat.

He jerked his head. ‘C’mon out. It’s cooler now.’

‘I don’t drink wine with peeping Toms.’ She smirked.

‘I’m in my own backyard looking into an apartment I own and if you’d been naked I like to think you’d have had the sense to pull the drapes.’

She dropped her chin and looked down again.

There was another rumbling chuckle of laughter. ‘I promise not to make a pass at you. We haven’t even been on a training date yet.’

‘That’s not how it works.’

‘No?’

Clare scowled at him. ‘No. It’s a discussion about dating—not a dress rehearsal.’

‘If you plan on winning this bet you might have to treat me as a special case.’ He even had the gall to waggle his dark brows at her before jerking his head again. ‘Come on.’

‘I’m staying where I am—it’s your dime.’

Quinn shrugged. ‘Okay, then.’

Clare sighed heavily while he lodged the receiver between his ear and his shoulder. Tugging the loosened cork free from the bottle, he set the glasses down before lifting them one by one to pour the deep red liquid. Then he set the bottle at the bottom of the steps before leaning forwards to place a glass by the door.

Lifting the other glass, he pointed a long finger. ‘That one’s yours.’

‘Can’t reach it from here…’

‘You’ll have to come get it, then, won’t you?’

‘I’m good, thanks.’

‘I’m not actually so desperate—’

‘Thanks for that.’ And, ridiculously, it hurt that he’d said it. ‘A little tip for you, Romeo: don’t use that line on any of the dates I send you on.’

‘I was going to say, not so desperate I have to force myself on a woman. You really think I’m slime, don’t you? When did that happen?’

Heat rising on her cheeks, she mumbled back, ‘I don’t think you’re slime.’

‘Good. Cos I was starting to wonder…’

Unable to hold his gaze for long, even from a distance, Clare frowned at the music she had playing in the background. It had been fine listening to the sultry tones when she’d been on her own, reading his questionnaire, but she really didn’t need a romantic ambience now he was there in person—especially when she was feeling so irrational with him close by. So she lifted the control, aiming it at the CD player.

‘No—leave it. I gave you that album for Christmas. Hardly likely to give you something I wouldn’t like listening to, was I?’

Clare had discovered a lot of the music she loved thanks to Quinn’s massive collection upstairs. When she’d first moved in she would hear it drifting downwards on the night air, and for weeks every morning conversation had started with ‘What were you playing last night?’

Sometimes she’d even wondered if, after a while, he’d chosen something different every night just to keep her listening. It had become a bit of a Cassidy-O’Connor game.

‘So, how’d I score on my questionnaire?’

The hand holding the controls dropped heavily to her side. He really didn’t miss a thing, did he? And there was no point trying to deny she’d been reading it when she still had it on her lap.

‘It’s not a test. Did you tell the truth all the way through it?’

‘The whole truth and nothing but; didn’t take the Fifth on a single one. Why?’

Clare shrugged, risking another look at him. ‘There was some stuff I didn’t know, that’s all.’

The familiar lazy smile crept across his mouth, and his voice dropped again. ‘Ahh, I see. Surprised you, did I?’

‘Maybe a little…’ She felt the beginnings of an answering smile twitching the edges of her mouth.

‘I did say we were still pretty new to this friendship thing.’

‘Yes, you did, but I really thought I knew you better. Now I feel like I wasn’t paying enough attention.’ When the confession slipped free of its own accord, her heart twisted a little in her chest, and her voice was lower as she followed the old adage of ‘in for a penny’. ‘And I’m sorry about that, Quinn—I really am. I should have been a better friend. You helped me out when I needed help most, when I was broke and jobless and about to become homeless. If you hadn’t been there…’

Quinn’s reply was equally low, and so gentle it made her heart ache. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing.’ She heard him take a breath. ‘I needed a PA; you needed a job. I had an empty apartment; you needed a place to live. It was good timing. And you were right to stay when you did. Don’t second-guess that—it took guts to stay.’

Great, now she had a lump in her throat. She even had to look away long enough to blink her vision back into focus. What was with her tonight? She hadn’t felt so vulnerable in a long, long while.

‘Do you miss home, O’Connor?’

‘I am home.’ Clare frowned down at her knees when she realized how the statement could be misconstrued. After all, she couldn’t keep living in Quinn’s basement for ever any more than she could keep relying on the job he’d given her. It was well past the point where she should have been able to step out from underneath his protective wing.

‘New York is home now.’ She made an attempt at lightening the mood. ‘And when I have lots of successful matchmaking nights at your clubs and half the door I can afford an apartment of my own, can’t I?’

The teasing smile she shot his way was met with one of his patented unreadable expressions. ‘Can’t get away from me fast enough, can you?’

‘I’m not trying to get away from you.’

‘Looks that way…’ He twisted the stem of the wine glass between his thumb and forefinger, dropping his gaze to study the contents. ‘You need to be careful there, O’Connor. You might hurt my feelings…’

He threw her a grin, but Clare’s heart twisted at the very thought of hurting him even the littlest bit. Not that she thought she ever could. It took a lot to get through Quinn’s outer shell—ninety-nine point nine percent of things were water off a duck’s back.

Without thinking, she swung her legs out over the edge of the sofa, looking straight into the dark pools of his eyes so he knew she was sincere—because she was

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