Fiance For Christmas

She glared at him. “It’s not funny!”

Nick sat down and took her hand. “Look, Cassie, just for now play along. Until Max and Julia sort themselves out, at least.”

Cassie eyed him suspiciously, then sighed. “I suppose so.”

He put a finger under her chin. “In the meantime, would you be surprised to know…I do want to kiss you? Most of the time.” His lips settled on hers. When she made no protest he slid his hands into her hair and held her fast, kissing her with an unexpected tenderness that breached her defenses far more than any masterful display of passion.

CATHERINE GEORGE was born in Wales, and early on developed a passion for reading, which eventually fueled her compulsion to write. Marriage to an engineer led to nine years in Brazil, but on his later travels the education of her son and daughter kept her in the U.K. And instead of constant reading to pass her lonely evenings, she began to write the first of her romantic novels. When not writing and reading she loves to cook, listen to opera, browse in antiques shops and walk the Labrador.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CASSIE was good at organisation. And sharing a house was a lot of fun. Most of the time, anyway. But to get the place to herself for once, to entertain a special guest to dinner, had taken only slightly less organisation than the Olympic Games. Now, at last, two of her friends were at that very moment winging their way to a Christmas ski-holiday, and the other two were safely out with their men after swearing a blood oath not to return before the small hours.

Not, of course, that Rupert was certain to stay that long. But he might. In the meantime there were things to be done. Not famed for her cooking skills, Cassie had opted for a visit to the hairdresser instead of attempting the impossible, and lashed out on an extravagant, ready-to-cook meal on the way home. After a swift bath, and twice the usual time spent on her face, she ran down to the large sitting-room to make sure it was immaculate for once. Normally she ate with the others in the kitchen, or from a tray on her knees in front of the television, but tonight, for Rupert, something special was called for. Which meant using the small round table under the window. Cassie eyed it thoughtfully, wondering whether to use her embroidered scarlet cover as a tablecloth, or save it for her bed.

Cassie quickly draped the cover over the table. No male had ever crossed the threshold of her bedroom up to now. Nor been invited to do so. But if by any chance things did progress that far Rupert would hardly take time out to admire the decor. Not, of course, Cassie assured herself, that things would get that far. But with Rupert it just might be different.

As eight o’clock loomed closer Cassie stepped into her dévoré velvet dress and turned the heating up to compensate for brief sleeves and a lot more sheer dark stocking on view than usual. No way could she spoil her splendour with a woolly cardigan and opaque tights. She eyed her reflection, searching, wondering if she’d gone too far over the top. She’d fully intended having her fair curly hair straightened and smoothed out, to look more sophisticated. Instead she’d let the young male hairdresser cajole her into a few strategic gilt highlights before he transformed her mop into a mane of extravagant ringlets. Combined with the skimpy burgundy velvet, the effect was vastly different from Cassandra Lovell, efficient administrative assistant, who wore neat suits to her job at the bank, and brushed her hair into a French pleat.

Cassie put tomato and basil soup in a pan over a low flame, placed salmon in watercress sauce ready in the microwave, and arranged baby vegetables ready to steam over tiny potatoes. Everything, she decided, was as ready as it could be. The only thing missing was the guest of honour. When the doorbell rang, ten minutes earlier than expected, Cassie took a quick look in the mirror over the kitchen sink, then hurried into the hall and switched on the light—with no result. She sighed, made a mental note to put electric lightbulbs on the communal shopping list, then opened the door, smiling in welcome.

‘Where is she?’ demanded the man who pushed past her. Without so much as a glance at her he strode into the sitting-room, his mouth tightening as he eyed the table set for two.

‘Very cosy, Julia,’ he snarled, and spun round to face the girl who stood glaring at him from the doorway.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’ demanded Cassie furiously. ‘Julia doesn’t live here any more.’

If she hadn’t been so angry Cassie would have laughed at the blank astonishment on Dominic Seymour’s face. He was blue with cold under a deep-dyed tan, his black, collar-length hair dishevelled; he was in dire need of a shave, and fatigue dulled brilliant blue eyes rimmed with lashes so black the eyes appeared set in, Irish fashion, with a sooty finger. He wore a raincoat over a crumpled linen suit totally unsuitable for London in December, and he was shivering.