‘Do it,’ she said, pointing to the floor. ‘The full down-on-bended-knee thing.’

‘Seriously?’ he said, dark brows raised.

‘Yes,’ she said imperiously. He grinned. ‘Okay.’

The tall, denim-clad hunk obediently knelt down on one knee, took her right hand in both of his and looked up into her face. ‘Andie, will you do me the honour of becoming my fake fiancée?’ he intoned, in that deep, so-sexy voice.

Looking down at his roughly handsome face, Andie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Yes, I accept your proposal,’ she said, in a voice that wasn’t quite steady.

Dominic squeezed her hand hard as relief flooded his face. He got up from bended knee, and for a moment she thought he might kiss her …

Gift-Wrapped

in Her

Wedding Dress

Kandy Shepherd

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KANDY SHEPHERD swapped a career as a magazine editor for a life writing romance. She lives on a small farm in the Blue Mountains near Sydney, Australia, with her husband, daughter and lots of pets. She believes in love at first sight and real-life romance—they worked for her! Kandy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her at www.kandyshepherd.com.

MILLS & BOON

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To all my Christmas magazine colleagues, in particular Helen, Adriana and Jane—the magic of the season lives on!

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SO HE’D GOT on the wrong side of the media. Again. Dominic’s words, twisted out of all recognition, were all over newspapers, television and social media.

Billionaire businessman Dominic Hunt refuses to sleep out with other CEOs in charity event for homeless.

Dominic slammed his fist on his desk so hard the pain juddered all the way up his arm. He hadn’t refused to support the charity in their Christmas appeal, just refused the invitation to publicly bed down for the night in a cardboard box on the forecourt of the Sydney Opera House. His donation to the worthy cause had been significant—but anonymous. Why wasn’t that enough?

He buried his head in his hands. For a harrowing time in his life there had been no choice for him but to sleep rough for real, a cardboard box his only bed. He couldn’t go there again—not even for a charity stunt, no matter how worthy. There could be no explanation—he would not share the secrets of his past. Ever.

With a sick feeling of dread he continued to read onscreen the highlights of the recent flurry of negative press about him and his company, thoughtfully compiled in a report by his Director of Marketing.

Predictably, the reporters had then gone on to rehash his well-known aversion to Christmas. Again he’d been misquoted. It was true he loathed the whole idea of celebrating Christmas. But not for the reasons the media had so fancifully contrived. Not because he was a Scrooge. How he hated that label and the erroneous aspersions that he didn’t ever give to charity. Despaired that he was included in a round-up of Australia’s Multi-Million-Dollar Misers. It couldn’t be further from the truth.

He strongly believed that giving money to worthy causes should be conducted in private—not for public acclaim. But this time he couldn’t ignore the name-calling and innuendo. He was near to closing a game-changing deal on a joint venture with a family-owned American corporation run by a man with a strict moral code that included obvious displays of philanthropy.

Dominic could not be seen to be a Scrooge. He had to publicly prove that he was not a miser. But he did not want to reveal the extent of his charitable support because to do so would blow away the smokescreen he had carefully constructed over his past.

He’d been in a bind. Until his marketing director had suggested he would attract positive press if he opened his harbourside home for a lavish fund-raising event for charity. ‘Get your name in the newspaper for the right reasons,’ he had been advised.

Dominic hated the idea of his privacy being invaded but he had reluctantly agreed. He wanted the joint venture to happen. If a party was what it took, he was prepared to put his qualms aside and commit to it.

The party would be too big an event for it to be organised in-house. His marketing people had got outside companies involved. Trouble was the three so-called ‘party planners’ he’d been sent so far had been incompetent and he’d shown them the door within minutes of meeting. Now there was a fourth. He glanced down at the eye-catching card on the desk in front of him. Andrea Newman from a company called Party Queens—No party too big or too small the card boasted.

Party Queens. It was an interesting choice for a business name. Not nearly as stitched up as the other companies that had pitched for this business. But did it have the gravitas required? After all, this event could be the deciding factor in a deal that would extend his business interests internationally.

He glanced at his watch. This morning he was working from his home office. Ms Newman was due to meet with him right now, here at his house where the party was to take place. Despite the attention-grabbing name of the business, he had no reason to expect Party Planner Number Four to be any more impressive than the other three he’d sent packing. But he would give her twenty minutes—that was only fair and he made a point of always being fair.

On cue, the doorbell rang. Punctuality, at least, was a point in Andrea Newman’s favour. He headed down the wide marble stairs to the front door.

His first impression of the woman who stood on his porch was that she was attractive, not in a conventionally pretty way but something rather more interesting—an angular face framed by a tangle of streaked blonde hair, a wide generous mouth, unusual green eyes. So attractive he found himself looking at her for a moment longer than was required to sum up a possible contractor. And the almost imperceptible curve of her mouth let him know she’d noticed.

‘Good morning, Mr Hunt—Andie Newman from Party Queens,’ she said. ‘Thank you for the pass code that got me through the gate. Your security is formidable, like an eastern suburbs fortress.’ Was that a hint of challenge underscoring her warm, husky voice? If so, he wasn’t going to bite.

‘The pass code expires after one use, Ms Newman,’ he said, not attempting to hide a note of warning. The three party planners before her were never going to get a new pass code. But none of them had been remotely like her—in looks or manner.

She was tall and wore a boldly patterned skirt of some silky fine fabric that fell below her knees in uneven layers, topped by a snug-fitting rust-coloured jacket and high heeled shoes that laced all the way up her calf. A soft leather satchel was slung casually across her shoulder. She presented as smart but more unconventional than the corporate dark suits and rigid briefcases of the other three—whose ideas had been as pedestrian as their appearances.

‘Andie,’ she replied and started to say something else about his security system. But, as she did, a sudden gust of balmy spring breeze whipped up her skirt, revealing long slender legs and a tantalising hint of red underwear. Dominic tried to do the gentlemanly thing and look elsewhere—difficult when she was standing so near to him and her legs were so attention-worthy.

‘Oh,’ she gasped, and fought with the skirt to hold it down, but no sooner did she get the front of the skirt in place, the back whipped upwards and she had to twist around to hold it down. The back view of her legs was equally as impressive as the front. He balled his hands into fists by his sides so he did not give into the temptation to help her with the flyaway fabric.

She flushed high on elegant cheekbones, blonde hair tousled around her face, and laughed a husky, uninhibited laugh as she battled to preserve her modesty. The breeze died down as quickly as it had sprung up and her skirt floated back into place. Still, he noticed she continued to keep it in check with a hand on her thigh.

‘That’s made a wonderful first impression, hasn’t it?’ she said, looking up at him with a rueful smile. For a long moment their eyes connected and he was the first to look away. She was beautiful.

As she spoke, the breeze gave a final last sigh that ruffled her hair across her face. Dominic wasn’t a fanciful man, but it seemed as though the wind was ushering her into his house.

‘There are worse ways of making an impression,’ he said gruffly. ‘I’m interested to see what you follow up with.’

* * *

Andie wasn’t sure what to reply. She stood at the threshold of Dominic Hunt’s multi-million-dollar mansion and knew for the first time in her career she was in serious danger of losing the professional cool in which she took such pride.

Not because of the incident with the wind and her skirt. Or because she was awestruck by the magnificence of the house and the postcard-worthy panorama of Sydney Harbour that stretched out in front of it. No. It was the man who towered above her who was making her feel so inordinately flustered. Too tongue-tied to come back with a quick quip or clever retort.

‘Th...thank you,’ she managed to stutter as she pushed the breeze-swept hair back from across her face.

During her career as a stylist for both magazines and advertising agencies, and now as a party planner, she had acquired the reputation of being able to manage difficult people. Which was why her two partners in their fledgling business had voted for her to be the one to deal with Dominic Hunt. Party Queens desperately needed a high-profile booking like this to help them get established. Winning it was now on her shoulders.

She had come to his mansion forewarned that he could be a demanding client. The gossip was that he had been scathing to three other planners from other companies much bigger than theirs before giving them the boot. Then there was his wider reputation as a Scrooge—a man who did not share his multitude of money with others less fortunate. He was everything she did not admire in a person.

Despite that, she been blithely confident Dominic Hunt wouldn’t be more than she could handle. Until he had answered that door. Her reaction to him had her stupefied.

She had seen the photos, watched the interviews of the billionaire businessman, had recognised he was good-looking in a dark, brooding way. But no amount of research had prepared her for the pulse-raising reality of this man—tall, broad-shouldered, powerful muscles apparent even in his sleek tailored grey suit. He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome. Not with that strong jaw, the crooked nose that looked as though it had been broken by a viciously aimed punch, the full, sensual mouth with the faded white scar on the corner, the spiky black hair. And then there was the almost palpable emanation of power.

She had to call on every bit of her professional savvy to ignore the warm flush that rose up her neck and onto her cheeks, the way her heart thudded into unwilling awareness of Dominic Hunt, not as a client but as a man.

She could not allow that to happen. This job was too important to her and her friends in their new business. Anyway, dark and brooding wasn’t her type. Her ideal man was sensitive and sunny-natured, like her first lost love, for whom she felt she would always grieve.

She extended her hand, willing it to stay steady, and forced a smile. ‘Mr Hunt, let’s start again. Andie Newman from Party Queens.’

His grip in return was firm and warm and he nodded acknowledgement of her greeting. If a mere handshake could send shivers of awareness through her, she could be in trouble here.

Keep it businesslike. She took a deep breath, tilted back her head to meet his gaze full-on. ‘I believe I’m the fourth party planner you’ve seen and I don’t want there to be a fifth. I should be the person to plan your event.’

If he was surprised at her boldness, it didn’t show in his scrutiny; his grey eyes remained cool and assessing.

‘You’d better come inside and convince me why that should be the case,’ he said. Even his voice was attractive—deep and measured and utterly masculine.

‘I welcome the opportunity,’ she said in the most confident voice she could muster.

She followed him into the entrance hall of the restored nineteen-twenties house, all dark stained wood floors and cream marble. A grand central marble staircase with wrought-iron balustrades split into two sides to climb to the next floor. This wasn’t the first grand home she’d been in during the course of her work but it was so impressive she had to suppress an impulse to gawk.

‘Wow,’ she said, looking around her, forgetting all about how disconcerted Dominic Hunt made her feel. ‘The staircase. It’s amazing. I can just see a choir there, with a chorister on each step greeting your guests with Christmas carols as they step into the house.’ Her thoughts raced ahead of her. Choristers’ robes in red and white? Each chorister holding a scrolled parchment printed with the words to the carol? What about the music? A string quartet? A harpsichord?

‘What do you mean?’ he said, breaking into her reverie.

Andie blinked to bring herself back to earth and turned to look up at him. She smiled. ‘Sorry. I’m getting ahead of myself. It was just an idea. Of course I realise I still need to convince you I’m the right person for your job.’

‘I meant about the Christmas carols.’

So he would be that kind of pernickety client, pressing her for details before they’d even decided on the bigger picture. Did she need to spell out the message of ‘Deck the Halls with Boughs of Holly’?

She shook her head in a don’t-worry-about-it way. ‘It was just a top-of-mind thought. But a choir would be an amazing use of the staircase. Maybe a children’s choir. Get your guests into the Christmas spirit straight away, without being too cheesy about it.’

‘It isn’t going to be a Christmas party.’ He virtually spat the word Christmas.

‘But a party in December? I thought—’

He frowned and she could see where his reputation came from as his thick brows drew together and his eyes darkened. ‘Truth be told, I don’t want a party here at all. But it’s a necessary evil—necessary to my business, that is.’

‘Really?’ she said, struggling not to jump in and say the wrong thing. A client who didn’t actually want a party? This she hadn’t anticipated. Her certainty that she knew how to handle this situation—this man—started to seep away.

She gritted her teeth, forced her voice to sound as conciliatory as possible. ‘I understood from your brief that you wanted a big event benefiting a charity in the weeks leading up to Christmas on a date that will give you maximum publicity.’

‘All that,’ he said. ‘Except it’s not to be a Christmas party. Just a party that happens to be held around that time.’

Difficult and demanding didn’t begin to describe this. But had she been guilty of assuming December translated into Christmas? Had it actually stated that in the brief? She didn’t think she’d misread it.

She drew in a calming breath. ‘There seems to have been a misunderstanding and I apologise for that,’ she said. ‘I have the official briefing from your marketing department here.’ She patted her satchel. ‘But I’d rather hear your thoughts, your ideas for the event in your own words. A successful party plan comes from the heart. Can we sit down and discuss this?’

He looked pointedly at his watch. Her heart sank to the level of the first lacing on her shoes. She did not want to be the fourth party planner he fired before she’d even started her pitch. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes,’ he said.

He led her into a living room that ran across the entire front of the house and looked out to the blue waters of the harbour and its icons of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the Opera House. Glass doors opened out to a large terrace. A perfect summer party terrace.

Immediately she recognised the work of one of Sydney’s most fashionable high-end interior designers—a guy who only worked with budgets that started with six zeros after them. The room worked neutral tones and metallics in a nod to the art deco era of the original house. The result was masculine but very, very stylish.

What an awesome space for a party. But she forced thoughts of the party out of her head. She had ten minutes to win this business. Ten minutes to convince Dominic Hunt she was the one he needed.

CHAPTER TWO

DOMINIC SAT ANDIE NEWMAN down on the higher of the two sofas that faced each other over the marble coffee table—the sofa he usually chose to give himself the advantage. He had no need to impress her with his greater height and bulk—she was tall, but he was so much taller than her even as he sat on the lower seat. Besides, the way she positioned herself with shoulders back and spine straight made him think she wouldn’t let herself be intimidated by him or by anyone else. Think again. The way she crossed and uncrossed those long legs revealed she was more nervous than she cared to let on.

He leaned back in his sofa, pulled out her business card from the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket and held it between finger and thumb. ‘Tell me about Party Queens. This seems like a very new, shiny card.’

‘Brand new. We’ve only been in business for three months.’

‘We?’

‘My two business partners, Eliza Dunne and Gemma Harper. We all worked on a magazine together before we started our own business.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Now you’re “party queens”?’ He used his fingers to enclose the two words with quote marks. ‘I don’t see the connection.’

‘We always were party queens—even when we were working on the magazine.’ He quirked an eyebrow and she paused. He noticed she quirked an eyebrow too, in unconscious imitation of his action. ‘Not in that way.’ She tried to backtrack, then smiled. ‘Well, maybe somewhat in that way. Between us we’ve certainly done our share of partying. But then you have to actually enjoy a party to organise one; don’t you agree?’

‘It’s not something I’ve given thought to,’ he said. Business-wise, it could be a point either for her or against her.

Parties had never been high on his agenda—even after his money had opened so many doors for him. Whether he’d been sleeping rough in an abandoned building project in the most dangerous part of Brisbane or hobnobbing with decision makers in Sydney, he’d felt he’d never quite fitted in. So he did the minimum socialising required for his business. ‘You were a journalist?’ he asked, more than a little intrigued by her.

She shook her head. ‘My background is in interior design but when a glitch in the economy meant the company I worked for went bust, I ended up as an interiors editor on a lifestyle magazine. I put together shoots for interiors and products and I loved it. Eliza and Gemma worked on the same magazine, Gemma as the food editor and Eliza on the publishing side. Six months ago we were told out of the blue that the magazine was closing and we had all lost our jobs.’

‘That must have been a shock,’ he said.

When he’d first started selling real estate at the age of eighteen he’d lived in terror he’d lose his job. Underlying all his success was always still that fear—which was why he was so driven to keep his business growing and thriving. Without money, without a home, he could slide back into being Nick Hunt of ‘no fixed abode’ rather than Dominic Hunt of Vaucluse, one of the most exclusive addresses in Australia.

‘It shouldn’t have come as a shock,’ she said. ‘Magazines close all the time in publishing—it’s an occupational hazard. But when it actually happened, when again one minute I had a job and the next I didn’t, it was...soul-destroying.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I soon picked myself up.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s quite a jump from a magazine job to a party planning business.’ Her lack of relevant experience could mean Party Planner Number Four would go the way of the other three. He was surprised at how disappointed that made him feel.

‘It might seem that way, but hear me out,’ she said, a determined glint in her eye. If one of the other planners had said that, he would have looked pointedly at his watch. This one, he was prepared to listen to—he was actually interested in her story.

‘We had to clear our desks immediately and were marched out of the offices by security guards. Shell-shocked, we all retired to a café and thought about what we’d do. The magazine’s deputy editor asked could we organise her sister’s eighteenth birthday party. At first we said no, thinking she was joking. But then we thought about it. A big magazine shoot that involves themes and food and props is quite a production. We’d also sometimes organise magazine functions for advertisers. We realised that between us we knew a heck of a lot about planning parties.’

‘As opposed to enjoying them,’ he said.

‘That’s right,’ she said with a smile that seemed reminiscent of past parties enjoyed. ‘Between the three of us we had so many skills we could utilise.’

‘Can you elaborate on that?’

She held up a slender index finger, her nails tipped with orange polish. ‘One, I’m the ideas and visuals person—creative, great with themes and props and highly organised with follow-through.’ A second finger went up. ‘Two, Gemma trained as a chef and is an amazing food person—food is one of the most important aspects of a good party, whether cooking it yourself or knowing which chefs to engage.’

She had a little trouble getting the third finger to stay straight and swapped it to her pinkie. ‘Then, three, Eliza has her head completely around finances and contracts and sales and is also quite the wine buff.’

‘So you decided to go into business together?’ Her entrepreneurial spirit appealed to him.

She shook her head so her large multi-hoop gold earrings clinked. ‘Not then. Not yet. We agreed to do the eighteenth party while we looked for other jobs and freelanced for magazines and ad agencies.’

‘How did it work out?’ He thought about his eighteenth birthday. It had gone totally unmarked by any celebration—except his own jubilation that he was legally an adult and could never now be recalled to the hell his home had become. It had also marked the age he could be tried as an adult if he had skated too close to the law—though by that time his street-fighting days were behind him.

‘There were a few glitches, of course, but overall it was a great success. The girl went to a posh private school and both girls and parents loved the girly shoe theme we organised. One eighteenth led to another and soon we had other parents clamouring for us to do their kids’ parties.’

‘Is there much money in parties for kids?’ He didn’t have to ask all these questions but he was curious. Curious about her as much as anything.

Her eyebrows rose. ‘You’re kidding, right? We’re talking wealthy families on the eastern suburbs and north shore. We’re talking one-upmanship.’ He enjoyed the play of expressions across her face, the way she gesticulated with her hands as she spoke. ‘Heck, we’ve done a four-year-old’s party on a budget of thousands.’

‘All that money for a four-year-old?’ He didn’t have anything to do with kids except through his anonymous charity work. Had given up on his dream he would ever have children of his own. In fact, he was totally out of touch with family life.

‘You’d better believe it,’ she said.

He was warming to Andie Newman—how could any red-blooded male not?—but he wanted to ensure she was experienced enough to make his event work. All eyes would be on it as up until now he’d been notoriously private. If he threw a party, it had better be a good party. Better than good.

‘So when did you actually go into business?’

‘We were asked to do more and more parties. Grown-up parties too. Thirtieths and fortieths, even a ninetieth. It snowballed. Yet we still saw it as a stopgap thing although people suggested we make it a full-time business.’

‘A very high percentage of small businesses go bust in the first year,’ he couldn’t help but warn.

She pulled a face that told him she didn’t take offence. ‘We were very aware of that. Eliza is the profit and loss spreadsheet maven. But then a public relations company I worked freelance for asked us to do corporate parties and product launches. The work was rolling in. We began to think we should make it official and form our own company.’

‘A brave move.’ He’d made brave moves in his time—and most of them had paid off. He gave her credit for initiative.

She leaned forward towards him. This close he could appreciate how lovely her eyes were. He didn’t think he had ever before met anyone with genuine green eyes. ‘We’ve leased premises in the industrial area of Alexandria and we’re firing. But I have to be honest with you—we haven’t done anything with potentially such a profile as your party. We want it. We need it. And because we want it to so much we’ll pull out every stop to make it a success.’

Party Planner Number Four clocked up more credit for her honesty. He tapped the card on the edge of his hand. ‘You’ve got the enthusiasm; do you have the expertise? Can you assure me you can do my job and do it superlatively well?’

Those remarkable green eyes were unblinking. ‘Yes. Absolutely. Undoubtedly. There might only be three of us, but between us we have a zillion contacts in Sydney—chefs, decorators, florists, musicians, waiting staff. If we can’t do it ourselves we can pull in the right people who can. And none of us is afraid of the hard work a party this size would entail. We would welcome the challenge.’

He realised she was now sitting on the edge of the sofa, her hands clasped together and her foot crossed over her ankle was jiggling. She really did want this job—wanted it badly.

Dominic hadn’t got where he was without a fine-tuned instinct for people. Instincts honed first on the streets where trusting the wrong person could have been fatal and then in the cut-throat business of high-end real estate and property development. His antennae were telling him Andie Newman would be able to deliver—and that he would enjoy working with her.

Trouble was, while he thought she might be the right person for the job, he found her very attractive and would like to ask her out. And he couldn’t do both. He never dated staff or suppliers. He’d made that mistake with his ex-wife—he would not make it again. Hire Andie Newman and he was more than halfway convinced he would get a good party planner. Not hire her and he could ask her on a date. But he needed this event to work—and for that the planning had to be in the best possible hands. He was torn.

‘I like your enthusiasm,’ he said. ‘But I’d be taking a risk by working with a company that is in many ways still...unproven.’

Her voice rose marginally—she probably didn’t notice but to him it betrayed her anxiety to impress. ‘We have a file overflowing with references from happy clients. But before you come to any decisions let’s talk about what you’re expecting from us. The worst thing that can happen is for a client to get an unhappy surprise because we’ve got the brief wrong.’

She pulled out a folder from her satchel. He liked that it echoed the design of her business card. That showed an attention to detail. The chaos of his early life had made him appreciate planning and order. He recognised his company logo on the printout page she took from the folder and quickly perused.

‘So tell me,’ she said, when she’d finished reading it. ‘I’m puzzled. Despite this briefing document stating the party is to be “A high-profile Christmas event to attract favourable publicity for Dominic Hunt” you still insist it’s not to reference Christmas in any way. Which is correct?’

* * *

Andie regretted the words almost as soon as they’d escaped from her mouth. She hadn’t meant to confront Dominic Hunt or put him on the spot. Certainly she hadn’t wanted to get him offside. But the briefing had been ambiguous and she felt she had to clarify it if she was to secure this job for Party Queens.

She needed their business to succeed—never again did she want to be at the mercy of the whims of a corporate employer. To have a job one day and then suddenly not the next day was too traumatising after that huge personal change of direction she’d had forced upon her five years ago. But she could have put her question with more subtlety.

He didn’t reply. The silence that hung between them became more uncomfortable by the second. His face tightened with an emotion she couldn’t read. Anger? Sorrow? Regret? Whatever it was, the effect was so powerful she had to force herself not to reach over and put her hand on his arm to comfort him, maybe even hug him. And that would be a mistake. Even more of a mistake than her ill-advised question had been.

She cringed that she had somehow prompted the unleashing of thoughts that were so obviously painful for him. Then braced herself to be booted out on to the same scrapheap as the three party planners who had preceded her.

Finally he spoke, as if the words were being dragged out of him. ‘The brief was incorrect. Christmas has some...difficult memories attached to it for me. I don’t celebrate the season. Please just leave it at that.’ For a long moment his gaze held hers and she saw the anguish recede.

Andie realised she had been holding her breath and she let it out with a slow sigh of relief, amazed he hadn’t shown her the door.

‘Of...of course,’ she murmured, almost gagging with gratitude that she was to be given a second chance. And she couldn’t deny that she wanted that chance. Not just for the job but—she could not deny it—the opportunity to see more of this undoubtedly interesting man.

There was something deeper here, some private pain, that she did not understand. But it would be bad-mannered prying to ask any further questions.

She didn’t know much about his personal life. Just that he was considered a catch—rich, handsome, successful. Though not her type, of course. He lived here alone, she understood, in this street in Vaucluse where house prices started in the double digit millions. Wasn’t there a bitter divorce in his background—an aggrieved ex-wife, a public battle for ownership of the house? She’d have to look it up. If she were to win this job—and she understood that it was still a big if—she needed to get a grasp on how this man ticked.

‘Okay, so that’s sorted—no Christmas,’ she said, aiming to sound briskly efficient without any nod to the anguish she had read at the back of his eyes. ‘Now I know what you don’t want for your party, let’s talk about what you do want. I’d like to hear in your words what you expect from this party. Then I can give you my ideas based on your thoughts.’

The party proposals she had hoped to discuss had been based on Christmas; she would have to do some rapid thinking.

Dominic Hunt got up from the sofa and started to pace. He was so tall, his shoulders so broad, he dominated even the large, high-ceilinged room. Andie found herself wondering about his obviously once broken nose—who had thrown the first punch? She got up, not to pace alongside him but to be closer to his level. She did not feel intimidated by him but she could see how he could be intimidating.

‘The other planners babbled on about how important it was to invite A-list and B-list celebrities to get publicity. I don’t give a damn about celebrities and I can’t see how that’s the right kind of publicity.’

Andie paused, not sure what to say, only knowing she had to be careful not to babble on. ‘I can organise the party, but the guest list is up to you and your people.’

He stopped his pacing, stepped closer. ‘But do you agree with me?’

Was this a test question? Answer incorrectly and that scrapheap beckoned? As always, she could only be honest. ‘I do agree with you. It’s my understanding that this party is aimed at...at image repair.’

‘You mean repair to my image as a miserly Scrooge who hoards all his money for himself?’

She swallowed a gasp at the bitterness of his words, then looked up at him to see not the anger she expected but a kind of manly bewilderment that surprised her.

‘I mightn’t have put it quite like that, but yes,” she said. ‘You do have that reputation and I understand you want to demonstrate it’s not so. And yes, I think the presence of a whole lot of freeloading so-called celebrities who run the gamut from the A to the Z list and have nothing to do with the charities you want to be seen to be supporting might not help. But you are more likely to get coverage in the social pages if they attend.’

He frowned. ‘Is there such a thing as a Z-list celebrity?’

She laughed. ‘If there isn’t, there should be. Maybe I made it up.’

‘You did say you were creative,’ he said. He smiled—the first real smile she’d seen from him. It transformed his face, like the sun coming out from behind a dark storm cloud, unleashing an unexpected charm. Her heartbeat tripped into double time like it had the first moment she’d seen him. Why? Why this inexplicable reaction to a man she should dislike for his meanness and greed?

She made a show of looking around her to disguise her consternation. Tamed the sudden shakiness in her voice into a businesslike tone. ‘How many magazines or lifestyle programmes have featured this house?’ she asked.

‘None. They never will,’ he said.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘The house is both magnificent and unknown. I reckon even your neighbours would be willing to cough up a sizeable donation just to see inside.’ In her mind’s eye she could see the house transformed into a glittering party paradise. ‘The era of the house is nineteen-twenties, right?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It was originally built for a wealthy wool merchant.’

She thought some more. ‘Why not an extravagant Great Gatsby twenties-style party with a silver and white theme—that gives a nod to the festive season—and a strictly curated guest list? Guests would have to dress in silver or white. Or both. Make it very exclusive, an invitation to be sought after. The phones of Sydney’s social set would be set humming to see who got one or not.’ Her eyes half shut as her mind bombarded her with images. ‘Maybe a masked party. Yes. Amazing silver and white masks. Bejewelled and befeathered. Fabulous masks that could be auctioned off at some stage for your chosen charity.’

‘Auctioned?’

Her eyes flew open and she had to orientate herself back into the reality of the empty room that she had just been envisioning filled with elegant partygoers. Sometimes when her creativity was firing she felt almost in a trance. Then it was her turn to frown. How could a Sydney billionaire be such a party innocent?

Even she, who didn’t move in the circles of society that attended lavish fund-raising functions, knew about the auctions. The competitive bidding could probably be seen as the same kind of one-upmanship as the spending of thousands on a toddler’s party. ‘I believe it’s usual to have a fund-raising auction at these occasions. Not just the masks, of course. Other donated items. Something really big to up the amount of dollars for your charity.’ She paused. ‘You’re a property developer, aren’t you?’

He nodded. ‘Among other interests.’

‘Maybe you could donate an apartment? There’d be some frenzied bidding for that from people hoping for a bargain. And you would look generous.’

His mouth turned down in an expression of distaste. ‘I’m not sure that’s in keeping with the image I want to...to reinvent.’

Privately she agreed with him—why couldn’t people just donate without expecting a lavish party in return? But she kept her views to herself. Creating those lavish parties was her job now.

‘That’s up to you and your people. The guest list and the auction, I mean. But the party? That’s my domain. Do you like the idea of the twenties theme to suit the house?’ In her heart she still longed for the choristers on the staircase. Maybe it would have to be a jazz band on the steps. That could work. Not quite the same romanticism and spirit as Christmas, but it would be a spectacular way to greet guests.

‘I like it,’ he said slowly.

She forced herself not to panic, not to bombard him with a multitude of alternatives. ‘If not that idea, I have lots of others. I would welcome the opportunity to present them to you.’

He glanced at his watch and she realised she had been there for much longer than the ten-minute pitch he’d allowed. Surely that was a good sign.

‘I’ll schedule in another meeting with you tomorrow afternoon,’ he said.

‘You mean a second interview?’ she asked, fingers crossed behind her back.

‘No. A brainstorming session. You’ve got the job, Ms Newman.’

It was only as, jubilant, she made her way to the door—conscious of his eyes on her back—that she wondered at the presence of a note of regret in Dominic Hunt’s voice.

CHAPTER THREE

TRY AS SHE MIGHT, Andie couldn’t get excited about the nineteen-twenties theme she had envisaged for Dominic Hunt’s party. It would be lavish and glamorous and she would enjoy every moment of planning such a visually splendid event. Such a party would be a spangled feather in Party Queens’ cap. But it seemed somehow wrong.

The feeling niggled at her. How could something so extravagant, so limited to those who could afford the substantial donation that would be the cost of entrance make Dominic Hunt look less miserly? Even if he offered an apartment for auction—and there was no such thing as a cheap apartment in Sydney—and raised a lot of money, wouldn’t it be a wealthy person who benefited? Might he appear to be a Scrooge hanging out with other rich people who might or might not also be Scrooges? Somehow, it reeked of...well, there was no other word but hypocrisy.

It wasn’t her place to be critical—the media-attention-grabbing party was his marketing people’s idea. Her job was to plan the party and make it as memorable and spectacular as possible. But she resolved to bring up her reservations in the brainstorming meeting with him. If she dared.

She knew it would be a fine line to tread—she did not want to risk losing the job for Party Queens—but she felt she had to give her opinion. After that she would just keep her mouth shut and concentrate on making his event the most memorable on the December social calendar.

She dressed with care for the meeting, which was again at his Vaucluse mansion. An outfit that posed no danger of showing off her underwear. Slim white trousers, a white top, a string of outsize turquoise beads, silver sandals that strapped around her ankles. At the magazine she’d made friends with the fashion editor and still had access to sample sales and special deals. She felt her wardrobe could hold its own in whatever company she found herself in—even on millionaire row.

‘I didn’t risk wearing that skirt,’ she blurted out to Dominic Hunt as he let her into the house. ‘Even though there doesn’t appear to be any wind about.’

Mentally she slammed her hand against her forehead. What a dumb top-of-mind remark to make to a client. But he still made her nervous. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake that ever-present awareness of how attractive he was.

His eyes flickered momentarily to her legs. ‘Shame,’ he said in that deep, testosterone-edged voice that thrilled through her.

Was he flirting with her?

‘It...it was a lovely skirt,’ she said. ‘Just...just rather badly behaved.’ How much had he seen when her skirt had flown up over her thighs?

‘I liked it very much,’ he said.

‘The prettiness of its fabric or my skirt’s bad behaviour?’

She held his cool grey gaze for a second longer than she should.

‘Both,’ he said.

She took a deep breath and tilted her chin upward. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said with a smile she hoped radiated aplomb. ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt.’

‘Dominic,’ he said.

‘Dominic,’ she repeated, liking the sound of his name on her lips. ‘And thank you again for this opportunity to plan your party.’ Bring it back to business.

In truth, she would have liked to tell him how good he looked in his superbly tailored dark suit and dark shirt but she knew her voice would come out all choked up. Because it wasn’t the Italian elegance of his suit that she found herself admiring. It was the powerful, perfectly proportioned male body that inhabited it. And she didn’t want to reveal even a hint of that. He was a client.

He nodded in acknowledgement of her words. ‘Come through to the back,’ he said. ‘You can see how the rooms might work for the party.’

She followed him through where the grand staircase split—a choir really would be amazing ranged on the steps—over pristine marble floors to a high-ceilinged room so large their footsteps echoed as they walked into the centre of it. Furnished minimally in shades of white, it looked ready for a high-end photo shoot. Arched windows and a wall of folding doors opened through to an elegant art deco style swimming pool and then to a formal garden planted with palm trees and rows of budding blue agapanthus.

For a long moment Andie simply absorbed the splendour of the room. ‘What a magnificent space,’ she said finally. ‘Was it originally a ballroom?’

‘Yes. Apparently the wool merchant liked to entertain in grand style. But it wasn’t suited for modern living, which is why I opened it up through to the terrace when I remodelled the house.’

‘You did an awesome job,’ she said. In her mind’s eye she could see flappers in glittering dresses trimmed with feathers and fringing, and men in dapper suits doing the Charleston. Then had to blink, not sure if she was imagining what the room had once been or how she’d like it to be for Dominic’s party.

‘The people who work for me did an excellent job,’ he said.

‘As an interior designer I give them full marks,’ she said. She had gone to university with Dominic’s designer. She just might get in touch with him, seeking inside gossip into what made Dominic Hunt tick.

She looked around her. ‘Where’s the kitchen? Gemma will shoot me if I go back without reporting to her on the cooking facilities.’

‘Through here.’

Andie followed him through to an adjoining vast state-of-the-art kitchen, gleaming in white marble and stainless steel. The style was sleek and modern but paid homage to the vintage of the house. She breathed out a sigh of relief and pleasure. A kitchen like this would make catering for hundreds of guests so much easier. Not that the food was her department. Gemma kept that under her control. ‘It’s a superb kitchen. Do you cook?’

Was Dominic the kind of guy who ate out every night and whose refrigerator contained only cartons of beer? Or the kind who excelled at cooking and liked to show off his skills to a breathlessly admiring female audience?

‘I can look after myself,’ he said shortly. ‘That includes cooking.’

That figured. After yesterday’s meeting she had done some research into Dominic Hunt—though there wasn’t much information dating back further than a few years. Along with his comments about celebrating Christmas being a waste of space, he’d also been quoted as saying he would never marry again. From the media accounts, his marriage in his mid-twenties had been short, tumultuous and public, thanks to his ex-wife’s penchant for spilling the details to the gossip columns.

‘The kitchen and its position will be perfect for the caterers,’ she said. ‘Gemma will be delighted.’

‘Good,’ he said.

‘You must love this house.’ She could not help a wistful note from edging her voice. As an interior designer she knew only too well how much the remodelling would have cost. Never in a million years would she live in a house like this. He was only a few years older than her—thirty-two to her twenty-eight—yet it was as if they came from different planets.

He shrugged those impressively broad shoulders. ‘It’s a spectacular house. But it’s just a house. I never get attached to places.’

Or people?

Her online research had showed him snapped by paparazzi with a number of long-legged beauties—but no woman more than once or twice. What did it matter to her?

She patted her satchel. Back to business. ‘I’ve come prepared for brainstorming,’ she said. ‘Have you had any thoughts about the nineteen-twenties theme I suggested?’

‘I’ve thought,’ he said. He paused. ‘I’ve thought about it a lot.’

His tone of voice didn’t give her cause for confidence. ‘You...like it? You don’t like it? Because if you don’t I have lots of other ideas that would work as well. I—’

He put up his right hand to halt her—large, well sculpted, with knuckles that looked as if they’d sustained scrapes over the years. His well-spoken accent and obvious wealth suggested injuries sustained from boxing or rugby at a private school; the tightly leashed power in those muscles, that strong jaw, gave thought to injuries sustained in something perhaps more visceral.

‘It’s a wonderful idea for a party,’ he said. ‘Perfect for this house. Kudos to you, Ms Party Queen.’

‘Thank you.’ She made a mock curtsy and was pleased when he smiled. How handsome he was without that scowl. ‘However, is that a “but” I hear coming on?’

He pivoted on his heel so he faced out to the pool, gleaming blue and pristine in the afternoon sun of a late-spring day in mid-November. His back view was impressive, broad shoulders tapering to a tight, muscular rear end. Then he turned back to face her. ‘It’s more than one “but”,’ he said. ‘The party, the guest list, the—’

‘The pointlessness of it all?’ she ventured.

He furrowed his brow. ‘What makes you say that?’

She found herself twisting the turquoise beads on her necklace between her finger and thumb. Her business partners would be furious with her if she lost Party Queens this high-profile job because she said what she wanted to say rather than what she should say.

‘This party is all about improving your image, right? To make a statement that you’re not the...the Scrooge people think you are.’

The fierce scowl was back. ‘I’d rather you didn’t use the word Scrooge.’

‘Okay,’ she said immediately. But she would find it difficult to stop thinking it. ‘I’ll try again: that you’re not a...a person lacking in the spirit of giving.’

‘That doesn’t sound much better.’ She couldn’t have imagined his scowl could have got any darker but it did. ‘The party is meant to be a public display of something I would rather be kept private.’

‘So...you give privately to charity?’

‘Of course I do but it’s not your or anyone else’s business.’

Personally, she would be glad if he wasn’t as tight-fisted as his reputation decreed. But this was about more than what she felt. She could not back down. ‘If that’s how you feel, tell me again why you’re doing this.’

He paused. ‘If I share with you the reason why I agreed to holding this party, it’s not to leave this room.’

‘Of course,’ she said. A party planner had to be discreet. It was astounding what family secrets got aired in the planning of a party. She leaned closer, close enough to notice that he must be a twice-a-day-shave guy. Lots of testosterone, all right.

‘I’ve got a big joint venture in the United States on the point of being signed. My potential business partner, Walter Burton, is the head of a family company and he is committed to public displays of philanthropy. It would go better with me if I was seen to be the same.’

Andie made a motion with her fingers of zipping her lips shut. ‘I... I understand,’ she said. Disappointment shafted through her. So he really was a Scrooge.

She’d found herself wanting Dominic to be someone better than he was reputed to be. But the party, while purporting to be a charity event, was simply a smart business ploy. More about greed than good-heartedness.

‘Now you can see why it’s so important,’ he said.

Should she say what she thought? The scrapheap of discarded party planners beckoned again. She could imagine her silver-sandal-clad foot kicking feebly from the top of it and hoped it would be a soft landing.

She took a deep steadying breath. ‘Cynical journalists might have a field-day with the hypocrisy of a Scrooge—sorry!—trying to turn over a new gilded leaf in such an obvious and staged way.’

To her surprise, something like relief relaxed the tense lines of his face. ‘That’s what I thought too.’

‘You...you did?’

‘I could see the whole thing backfiring and me no better off in terms of reputation. Possibly worse.’

If she didn’t stop twisting her necklace it would break and scatter her beads all over the marble floor. ‘So—help me out here. We’re back to you not wanting a party?’

She’d talked him out of the big, glitzy event Party Queens really needed. Andie cringed at the prospect of the combined wrath of Gemma and Eliza when she went back to their headquarters with the contract that was sitting in her satchel waiting for his signature still unsigned.

‘You know I don’t.’ Thank heaven. ‘But maybe a different kind of event,’ he said.

‘Like...handing over a giant facsimile cheque to a charity?’ Which would be doing her right out of a job.

‘Where’s the good PR in that?’

‘In fact it could look even more cynical than the party.’

‘Correct.’

He paced a few long strides away from her and then back. ‘I’m good at turning one dollar into lots of dollars. That’s my skill. Not planning parties. But surely I can get the kind of publicity my marketing department wants, impress my prospective business partner and actually help some less advantaged people along the way?’

She resisted the urge to high-five him. ‘To tell you the truth, I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking that exact same thing.’ Was it wise to have admitted that?

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I tossed and turned all night.’

A sudden vision of him in a huge billionaire’s bed, all tangled in the sheets wearing nothing but...well nothing but a billionaire’s birthday suit, flashed through her mind and sizzled through her body. Not my type. Not my type. She had to repeat it like a mantra.

She willed her heartbeat to slow and hoped he took the flush on her cheekbones for enthusiasm. ‘So we’re singing from the same hymn sheet. Did you have any thoughts on solving your dilemma?’

‘That’s where you come in; you’re the party expert.’

She hesitated. ‘During my sleepless night, I did think of something. But you might not like it.’

‘Try me,’ he said, eyes narrowed.

‘It’s out of the ball park,’ she warned.

‘I’m all for that,’ he said.

She flung up her hands in front of her face to act as a shield. ‘It...it involves Christmas.’

He blanched under the smooth olive of his tan. ‘I told you—’

His mouth set in a grim line, his hands balled into fists by his sides. Should she leave well enough alone? After all, he had said the festive season had difficult associations for him. ‘What is it that you hate so much about Christmas?’ she asked. She’d always been one to dive straight into the deep end.

‘I don’t hate Christmas.’ He cursed under his breath. ‘I’m misquoted once and the media repeat it over and over.’

‘But—’

He put up his hand to halt her. ‘I don’t have to justify anything to you. But let me give you three good reasons why I don’t choose to celebrate Christmas and all the razzmatazz that goes with it.’

‘Fire away,’ she said, thinking it wasn’t appropriate for her to counter with three things she adored about the festive season. This wasn’t a debate. It was a business brainstorming.

‘First—the weather is all wrong,’ he said. ‘It’s hot when it should be cold. A proper Christmas is a northern hemisphere Christmas—snow, not sand.’

Not true, she thought. For a born-and-bred Australian like her, Christmas was all about the long, hot sticky days of summer. Cicadas chirruping in the warm air as the family walked to a midnight church service. Lunch outdoors, preferably around a pool or at the beach. Then it struck her—Dominic had a distinct trace of an English accent. That might explain his aversion to festivities Down Under style. But something still didn’t seem quite right. His words sounded...too practised, as if he’d recited them a hundred times before.

He continued, warming to his point as she wondered about the subtext to his spiel. ‘Then there’s the fact that the whole thing is over-commercialised to the point of being ludicrous. I saw Christmas stuff festooning the shops in September.’

She almost expected him to snarl a Scrooge-like Bah! Humbug! but he obviously restrained himself.

‘You have a point,’ she said. ‘And carols piped through shopping malls in October? So annoying.’

‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘This whole obsession with extended Christmas celebrations, it...it...makes people who don’t celebrate it—for one reason or another—feel...feel excluded.’

His words faltered and he looked away in the direction of the pool but not before she’d seen the bleakness in his eyes. She realised those last words hadn’t been rehearsed. That he might be regretting them. Again she had that inane urge to comfort him—without knowing why he needed comforting.

She knew she had to take this carefully. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I know what you mean.’ That first Christmas without Anthony had been the bleakest imaginable. And each year after she had thought about him and the emptiness in her heart he had left behind him. But she would not share that with this man; it was far too personal. And nothing to do with the general discussion about Christmas.

His mouth twisted. ‘Do you?’

She forced her voice to sound cheerful and impersonal. Her ongoing sadness over Anthony was deeply private. ‘Not me personally. I love Christmas. I’m lucky enough to come from a big family—one of five kids. I have two older brothers and a sister and a younger sister. Christmas with our extended family was always—still is—a special time of the year. But my parents knew that wasn’t the case for everyone. Every year we shared our celebration with children who weren’t as fortunate as we were.’

‘Charity cases, you mean,’ he said, his voice hard-edged with something she couldn’t identify.

‘In the truest sense of the word,’ she said. ‘We didn’t query them being there. It meant more kids to play with on Christmas Day. It didn’t even enter our heads that there would be fewer presents for us so they could have presents too. Two of them moved in with us as long-term foster kids. When I say I’m from five, I really mean from seven. Only that’s too confusing to explain.’

He gave a sound that seemed a cross between a grunt and a cynical snort.

She shrugged, inexplicably hurt by his reaction. ‘You might think it goody-two-shoes-ish but that’s the way my family are, and I love them for it,’ she said, her voice stiff and more than a touch defensive.

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘I think it...it sounds wonderful. You were very lucky to grow up in a family like that.’ With the implication being he hadn’t?

‘I know, and I’m thankful. And my parents’ strong sense of community didn’t do us any harm. In fact those Christmas Days my family shared with others got me thinking. It was what kept me up last night. I had an idea.’

‘Fire away,’ he said.

She channelled all her optimism and enthusiasm to make her voice sound convincing to Sydney’s most notorious Scrooge. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if you opened this beautiful home on Christmas Day for a big lunch party for children and families who do it hard on Christmas Day? Not as a gimmick. Not as a stunt. As a genuine act of hospitality and sharing the true spirit of Christmas.’

CHAPTER FOUR

DOMINIC STARED AT Andie in disbelief. Hadn’t she heard a word he’d said about his views on Christmas? She looked up at him, her eyes bright with enthusiasm but backlit by wariness. ‘Please, just consider my proposal,’ she said. ‘That’s all I ask.’ He could easily fire her for straying so far from the brief and she must know it—yet that didn’t stop her. Her tenacity was to be admired.

Maybe she had a point. No matter what she or anyone else thought, he was not a Scrooge or a hypocrite. To make a holiday that could never be happy for him happy for others had genuine appeal. He was aware Christmas was a special time for a huge percentage of the population. It was just too painful for him to want to do anything but lock himself away with a bottle of bourbon from Christmas Eve to Boxing Day.

Deep from within, he dredged memories of his first Christmas away from home. Aged seventeen, he’d been living in an underground car park beneath an abandoned shopping centre project. His companions had been a ragtag collection of other runaways, addicts, criminals and people who’d lost all hope of a better life. Someone had stolen a branch of a pine tree from somewhere and decorated it with scavenged scraps of glittery paper. They’d all stood around it and sung carols with varying degrees of sobriety. Only he had stood aloof.

Now, he reached out to where Andie was twisting her necklace so tightly it was in danger of snapping. Gently, he disengaged her hand and freed the string of beads. Fought the temptation to hold her hand for any longer than was necessary—slender and warm in his own much bigger hand. Today her nails were painted turquoise. And, as he’d noticed the day before, her fingers were free of any rings.

‘Your idea could have merit,’ he said, stepping back from her. Back from her beautiful interesting face, her intelligent eyes, the subtle spicy-sweet scent of her. ‘Come and sit outside by the pool and we can talk it over.’

Her face flushed with relief at his response and he realised again what spunk it had taken for her to propose something so radical. He was grateful to whoever had sent Party Planner Number Four his way. Andie was gorgeous, smart and not the slightest in awe of him and his money, which was refreshing. His only regret was that he could not both employ her and date her.

He hadn’t told the complete truth about why he’d been unable to sleep the night before. Thoughts of her had been churning through his head as much as concerns about the party. He had never felt so instantly attracted to a woman. Ever. If they had met under other circumstances he would have asked her out by now.

‘I really think it could work,’ she said as she walked with him through the doors and out to the pool area.

For a heart-halting second he thought Andie had tuned into his private thoughts—that she thought dating her could work. Never. He’d met his ex-wife, Tara, when she’d worked for his company, with disastrous consequences. The whole marriage had, in fact, been disastrous—based on lies and deception. He wouldn’t make that mistake again—even for this intriguing woman.

But of course Andie was talking about her party proposal in businesslike tones. ‘You could generate the right kind of publicity—both for your potential business partner and in general,’ she said as he settled her into one of the white outdoor armchairs that had cost a small fortune because of its vintage styling.

‘While at the same time directly benefiting people who do it tough on the so-called Big Day,’ he said as he took the chair next to her.

‘Exactly,’ she said with her wide, generous smile. When she smiled like that it made him want to make her do it again, just for the pleasure of seeing her face light up. Not a good idea.

Her chair was in the shade of one of the mature palm trees he’d had helicoptered in for the landscaping but the sun was dancing off the aqua surface of the pool. He was disappointed when she reached into her satchel, pulled out a pair of tortoiseshell-rimmed sunglasses and donned them against the glare. They looked ‘vintage’ too. In fact, in her white clothes and turquoise necklace, she looked as if she belonged here.

‘In principal, I don’t mind your idea,’ he said. ‘In fact I find it more acceptable than the other.’

Her smile was edged with relief. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased that makes me.’

‘Would the lunch have to be on actual Christmas Day?’ he said.

‘You could hold it on Christmas Eve or the week leading up to Christmas. In terms of organisation, that would be easier. But none of those peripheral days is as lonely and miserable as Christmas Day can be if you’re one...one of the excluded ones,’ she said. ‘My foster sister told me that.’

The way she was looking at him, even with those too-perceptive green eyes shaded from his view, made him think she was beginning to suspect he had a deeply personal reason for his anti-Christmas stance.

He’d only ever shared that reason with one woman—Melody, the girl who’d first captivated, then shredded, his teenage heart back in that car park squat. By the time Christmas had loomed in the first year of his marriage to Tara, he’d known he’d never be sharing secrets with her. But there was something disarming about Andie that seemed to invite confidences—something he had to stand guard against. She might not be what she seemed—and he had learned the painful lesson not to trust his first impressions when it came to beautiful women.

‘I guess any other day doesn’t have the same impact,’ he reluctantly agreed, not sure he would be able to face the festivities. Did he actually have to be present on the day? Might it not be enough to provide the house and the meal? No. To achieve his goal, he knew his presence would be necessary. Much as he would hate every minute of it.

‘Maybe your marketing people will have other ideas,’ she said. ‘But I think opening your home on the actual December twenty-five to give people who really need it a slap-up feast would be a marvellous antidote to your Scrooge...sorry, miser... I mean cheap reputation.’ She pulled a face. ‘Sorry. I didn’t actually mean any of those things.’

Why did it sting so much more coming from her? ‘Of course you did. So does everyone else. People who have no idea of what and where I might give without wanting any fanfare.’ The main reason he wanted to secure the joint venture was to ensure his big project in Brisbane would continue to be funded long after his lifetime.

She looked shamefaced. ‘I’m sorry.’

He hated that people like Andie thought he was stingy. Any remaining reservations he might hold about the party had to go. He needed to take action before this unfair reputation become so deeply entrenched he’d never free himself from it. ‘Let’s hope the seasonal name-calling eases if I go ahead with the lunch.’

She held up a finger in warning. ‘It wouldn’t appease everyone. Those cynical journalists might not be easily swayed.’

He scowled. ‘I can’t please everyone.’ But he found himself, irrationally, wanting to please her.

‘It might help if you followed through with a visible, ongoing relationship with a charity. If the media could see...could see...’

Her eyes narrowed in concentration. He waited for the end of her sentence but it wasn’t forthcoming. ‘See what?’

‘Sorry,’ she said, shaking her head as if bringing herself back to earth. ‘My thoughts tend to run faster than my words sometimes when I’m deep in the creative zone.’

‘I get it,’ he said, though he wasn’t sure what the hell being in the creative zone meant.

‘I meant your critics might relent if they could see your gesture was genuine.’

He scowled. ‘But it will be genuine.’

‘You know it and I know it but they might see it as just another publicity gimmick.’ Her eyes narrowed again and he gave her time to think. ‘What if you didn’t actually seek publicity for this day? You know—no invitations or press releases. Let the details leak. Tantalise the media.’

‘For a designer, you seem to know a lot about publicity,’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘When you work in magazines you pick up a lot about both seeking and giving publicity. But your marketing people would have their own ideas, I’m sure.’

‘I should talk it over with them,’ he said.

‘As it’s only six weeks until Christmas, and this would be a big event to pull together, may I suggest there’s not a lot of discussion time left?’

‘You’re right. I know. But it’s a big deal.’ So much bigger for him personally than she realised.

‘You’re seriously considering going ahead with it?’

He so much preferred it to the Z-list celebrity party. ‘Yes. Let’s do it.’

She clapped her hands together. ‘I’m so glad. We can make it a real dream-come-true for your guests.’

‘What about you and your business partners? You’d have to work on Christmas Day.’

‘Speaking for me, I’d be fine with working. True spirit of Christmas and all that. I’ll have to speak to Gemma and Eliza, but I think they’d be behind it too.’ Securing Dominic Hunt’s business for Party Queens was too important for them to refuse.

‘What about caterers and so on?’ he asked.

‘The hospitality industry works three hundred and sixty-five days a year. It shouldn’t be a problem. There are also people who don’t celebrate Christmas as part of their culture who are very happy to work—especially for holiday pay rates. You don’t have to worry about all that—that’s our job.’

‘And the guests? How would we recruit them?’ He was about to say he could talk to people in Brisbane, where he was heavily involved in a homeless charity, but stopped himself. That was too connected to the secret part of his life he had no desire to share.

‘I know the perfect person to help—my older sister, Hannah, is a social worker. She would know exactly which charities to liaise with. I think she would be excited to be involved.’

It was her. Andie. He would not be considering this direction if it wasn’t for her. The big glitzy party had seemed so wrong. She made him see what could be right.

‘Could we set up a meeting with your sister?’ he asked.

‘I can do better than that,’ she said with a triumphant toss of her head that set her oversized earrings swaying. ‘Every Wednesday night is open house dinner at my parents’ house. Whoever of my siblings can make it comes. Sometimes grandparents and cousins too. I know Hannah will be there tonight and I’m planning to go too. Why don’t you come along?’

‘To your family dinner?’ His first thought was to say no. Nothing much intimidated him—but meeting people’s families was near the top of the list.

‘Family is an elastic term for the Newmans. Friends, waifs and strays are always welcome at the table.’

What category would he be placed under? His memory of being a real-life stray made him wince. Friend? Strictly speaking, if circumstances were different, he’d want to be more than friends with Andie. Would connecting with her family create an intimacy he might later come to regret?

He looked down at his watch. Thought about his plan to return to the office.

‘We need to get things moving,’ she prompted.

‘I would like to meet your sister tonight.’

Her wide smile lit her eyes. ‘I have a really good feeling about this.’

‘Do you always go on your feelings?’ he asked.

She took off her sunglasses so he was treated to the directness of her gaze. ‘All the time. Don’t you?’

If he acted on his feelings he would be insisting they go to dinner, just the two of them. He would be taking her in his arms. Tasting her lovely mouth. Touching. Exploring. But that wouldn’t happen.

He trusted his instincts when it came to business. But trusting his feelings when it came to women had only led to bitterness, betrayal and the kind of pain he never wanted to expose himself to again.

No to feeling. Yes to pleasant relationships that mutually fulfilled desires and were efficiently terminated before emotions ever became part of it. And with none of the complications that came with still having to work with that person. Besides, he suspected the short-term liaison that was all he had to offer would not be acceptable to Andie. She had for ever written all over her.

Now it was her turn to look at her watch. ‘I’ll call my mother to confirm you’ll be joining us for dinner. How about I swing by and pick you up at around six?’

He thought about his four o’clock meeting. ‘That’s early for dinner.’

‘Not when there are kids involved.’

‘Kids?’

‘I have a niece and two nephews. One of the nephews belongs to Hannah. He will almost certainly be there, along with his cousins.’

Dominic wasn’t sure exactly what he was letting himself in for. One thing was for certain—he couldn’t have seen himself going to a family dinner with any of Party Planners Numbers One to Three. And he suspected he might be in for more than one surprise from gorgeous Party Planner Number Four.

Andie got up from the chair. Smoothed down her white trousers. They were nothing as revealing as her flyaway skirt but made no secret of her slender shape.

‘By the way, I’m apologising in advance for my car.’

He frowned. ‘Why apologise?’

‘I glimpsed your awesome sports car in the garage as I came in yesterday. You might find my hand-me-down hatchback a bit of a comedown.’

He frowned. ‘I didn’t come into this world behind the wheel of an expensive European sports car. I’m sure your hatchback will be perfectly fine.’

Just how did she see him? His public image—Scrooge, miser, rich guy—was so at odds with the person he knew himself to be. That he wanted her to know. But he could not reveal himself to her without uncovering secrets he would rather leave buried deep in his past.

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