On the First Night of Christmas.... Heidi Rice

the hem of the tunic, she yanked it down, goose pimples rising on her bare thighs as her toes curled into the downy-soft carpeting.

      ‘Fine, thanks,’ she murmured, noticing the tiny dimple winking in one hard, chiselled cheek. That he found her predicament amusing only confirmed how ludicrous that moment of vanity had been. He wasn’t remotely interested in her. Or her knickers.

      ‘Make yourself comfortable in the lounge.’ He indicated the large living area as the dimple deepened. ‘While I get these sent down.’ He picked up her boots, then reached for the leggings under her arm.

      She forced herself to relax so he could take them. ‘Oh—Okay.’ She cleared her throat when the words came out on a squeak. ‘Thanks, I will.’

      ‘Help yourself to a drink.’ To her dismay he didn’t turn, but seemed to be waiting for her to move first. ‘They’re in the cabinet under the flat-screen.’

      She opened her mouth to say thanks for the millionth time, then thought better of it. He’d probably got the message loud and clear by now. Bobbing her head, she forced herself to move. But as she headed towards the lounge, her footsteps silenced by the carpet, she strained to hear him walk away. When silence reined, she couldn’t help hoping that if anything was peeping out from under her tunic, it involved crimson lace and not utilitarian white cotton.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      He was fast losing the will to even try.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Forget candy man … Jace Ryan was an entire sweetshop.

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