Her Knight Under the Mistletoe

by Annie O'Neil

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

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

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

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

  He tuned in when the conversation turned medical.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Matthew Chase.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Ugh! It was all getting a little blurry.

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

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

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

  Stop talking, you idiot!

  “It’s the suit. Wool. Layers.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It would seem so,” Matthew replied drily.

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

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

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

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

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

  “How very astute.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Your auntie has things in the British Museum?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  And she had laughed. Laughed.

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

  It had been as if each particle of joy that had lit her up inside had been switched off. Even more so when she’d gone to her parents for support. Assuming she was only after money, they’d told her it was time for her to grow up. Show some spine.

  Spine?

  They wanted spine? They’d see spine.

  From the moment the door to her parents’ house had closed she had become consumed with a drive to prove them wrong. Prove she was worth more than a mention in the society pages. It wasn’t as if they’d offered her much loving support throughout her childhood. She knew her au pairs better than she knew them. There had never been a gala or dinner party left unattended on their watch. Couldn’t they see how lonely she’d been? How desperate for their affection?

  It was only when she’d been named the youngest doctor in Britain to run her own trauma unit that she had been ushered back into the Wakehurst fold. And that was how she’d found herself at the party that night with Matthew.

  And a few months later, when she’d begun to show, she’d gone straight back to being persona non grata.

  Illegitimate children did that to a family whose raison d’être was ramming a wedge between the privileged and pretty much the whole of the rest of the world who weren’t lucky enough to have been born with the right surname. How her mother could never see that it was just dumb luck to be born into a life of privilege...

  “So!” Matthew clapped his hands, jarring her back to the present. “Was I right? Is this chilblain-inducing home of yours in Bedford Square?”

  She gave him a quick nod. If she wasn’t mistaken, he was putting a bit more emphasis on the “bed” than the “ford.” Cheeky so-and-so.

  Unbidden, an image of the pair of them, completely naked and pressed together as if their lives depended upon it, burnt at the frayed edges of her reserve of cool, calm and collected.

  “Good guess,” she replied as neutrally as she could. “It’s really convenient for the hospital. Just a hop, skip and a jump!”

  She smiled brightly at Dr. Menzies, then turned to give Matthew a let’s-see-what-I-can-figure-out-about-you scan—before stopping herself midway because the man was just too damn sexy for words. He was six-foot-something. She’d fit easily under his chin. Not that she imagined being in a nestling hug with him or anything... One that would feel so protective, with those strong arms wrapped round her, that wall of chest assuring her that everything would be all right. Promising that her son would always be looked after... Their son.

  Again she found herself lost for words as she stared into those beautiful blue eyes of
his.

  How am I going to tell him I am the mother of his child?

  “Matthew, here, has a short journey too,” Dr. Menzies contributed, clearly oblivious to the frisson between his pair of would-be directors. “Just across the river—isn’t that right, Matthew?”

  Matthew shot the doctor a difficult to discern look. One that probably said the same thing she’d felt when Matthew all but heat-detected her bedroom in Bedford Square: Back off.

  She liked her privacy and it looked as if he did, too. So they had that in common.

  And their son.

  Amanda’s fingers swept along the outside pocket of her handbag, where she still kept the grainy black and white image of Tristan’s first scan.

  After her husband’s last deployment... Well, it had been hard to believe she’d ever feel anything again. Carrying the weight of someone’s senseless death did that to a person. She’d feel the heated rage in his mother’s eyes until the day she died.

  She might not want Matthew Chase to have this job, but she owed him a debt of thanks. Tristan meant the world to her. His arrival had let her see the good things in life again. The simple things. The sun coming up every day. The moon. The stars...when you could see them. Sapphire-blue eyes...

  She’d never once pictured herself being a mother before that night, but now she couldn’t imagine life without her full-of-beans toddler. Which meant she’d better get her act together and start behaving as if she wanted this job. And, no, she wasn’t going to play nicely. She didn’t want to share.

  She was more than capable of running the hospital’s A&E department on her own, and was prepared to prove it. Even if it meant getting a lump of coal in her Christmas stocking. From the bespoke cut of Matthew’s suit, he didn’t look as if he needed the money. But from the fire in his eyes he was no pushover.

  She put out her hand again and gave Matthew’s a short, sharp shake, ignoring the spray of heat shooting up her arm as she turned her full attention to Dr. Menzies.