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

tore her eyes away from the intensity of his gaze, which seemed to have zeroed in on her face.

      ‘How did you do it?’ she asked, struggling to think of a safe topic for small talk.

      ‘Do what?’

      The puzzled reply had her realising the gaucheness of the question. ‘I just wondered how you …’ She trailed off, wishing she’d never asked. Was he embarrassed by his past? She doubted it. Sitting in the midst of the luxury he’d earned, he looked perfectly at home. Even so, she didn’t want to pry.

      ‘How did I manage to afford all this?’ he prompted.

      She debated trying to pretend she’d been asking something else, but had to give up on the idea. She couldn’t think of an alternative interpretation. And even if she could, the steady, knowing look in his eyes suggested he already knew exactly what she’d been referring to.

      She nodded, and took one more sip of wine, strictly for Dutch courage purposes.

      He tilted his head to one side, as if considering his answer. ‘I discovered I had a talent for design.’ He paused for less than a heartbeat, but she heard the hesitation. ‘Or rather my parole officer discovered I had a talent for design.’

      ‘Your parole officer?’ she asked, startled. He had robbed a bank.

      ‘Relax.’ He grinned, the light in his eyes twinkling again. ‘It’s all right. I’m not an ex-con.’

      ‘I didn’t think you were,’ she lied.

      ‘He was a young-offenders liaison officer. The school pressed charges. After they expelled me.’

      ‘But that’s ridiculous. The drawings were hilarious.’ She could still remember the reason he’d been expelled. And the pinpoint accuracy of the staff caricatures he’d graffiti’d all over the back wall of the new gym in DayGlo spray paint.

      ‘Gates never did have a sense of humour.’ Jace shrugged. ‘And it worked out fine for me.’ Again she heard the slight hesitation. ‘I got to move into a bedsit and onto an art foundation course—thanks to the officer assigned to my case, who actually believed I could be rehabilitated.’

      ‘But you didn’t need rehabilitating. You just needed someone to believe in you.’

      His lips quirked in an indulgent smile. ‘You really are Pollyanna, aren’t you?’

      ‘It’s not that, it’s just …’ What? ‘You didn’t deserve to be treated so harshly. It was only a bit of fun.’

      He placed his bottle on the table. ‘It was criminal damage. And it wasn’t the first time. So of course I deserved it.’ The smile stayed in place, as if it didn’t matter in the slightest. ‘But that’s more than enough about me.’ He took his feet off the table, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘Let’s talk about you. You’re much more interesting.’

      ‘Me?’ She pressed her hand to her chest. Was he kidding? ‘Believe me, I’m not as interesting as you.’

      ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ He lifted his beer, held it poised at his mouth and studied her with an intensity that made her breath catch. ‘So is Cassie short for Cassandra?’ He took a swig and her eyes dipped involuntarily to the sensual line of his lips. He lowered the bottle. ‘Apollo’s paramour,’ he murmured. ‘Gifted with the power of prophecy but forever cursed not to be believed.’

      Cassie trembled, the rough cadence of his voice sending little shivers of excitement over her skin. She gave a breathless laugh, her gaze darting back to his face. ‘If only it were that exciting.’

      His lips edged into a seductive smile. ‘It’s not exciting. Cassandra’s story is tragic.’

       Not from where I’m sitting.

      Cassie smiled despite the tension that crackled in the air. Was he trying to melt her into a puddle of lust? Or was that just wishful thinking on her part? ‘Cassie’s short for Cassidy.’

      His eyebrow rose a fraction. ‘Cassidy?’

      ‘As in David Cassidy,’ Cassie added, her grin spreading as his eyebrow arched upwards. ‘The seventies teen idol. Unfortunately my mum was a huge fan. And I’ve been suffering ever since.’

      How fitting that her mum had given her a name as unsexy as her knickers.

      ‘Mind you, it could have been worse,’ she continued, amused by his obvious surprise. ‘Thank God she wasn’t a Donny Osmond fan or I would have been saddled with Ossie.’

      His laugh rumbled out, low and rough and setting off the little shivers again. ‘I like Cassidy. It’s unusual. Which suits you.’

      She tipped her glass up in a toast. ‘Yup, that’s me, very unusual.’ If only. ‘Unlike you. Who’s so totally run of the mill,’ she added, unable to resist fluttering her eyelashes.

      Instead of looking appalled at her heavy-handed attempt at flirtation, he clinked his bottle against her glass. ‘You are unusual,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

      She took another hasty sip. The rich, heady wine flowed down her throat and wrapped around her chest like a winter quilt.

      She let her gaze wander over to the blue spruce expertly decorated with glass baubles and ribbon bows in the corner. Jace Ryan might be a lot more man than she felt capable of handling. But where was the harm in enjoying his company? At least for as long as it took to clean her coat.

      ‘How exactly am I unusual?’ she asked, knowing it wasn’t true, but happy to have him try to persuade her.

      He placed his beer bottle on the coffee table and stood up. Lifting her hand from her lap, he wrapped his long fingers around it and gave a soft tug to pull her off the sofa. ‘Stand up, so we can examine the evidence.’

      She did as she was told, the appreciative gleam as his gaze roamed over her shocking her into silence.

      ‘Your eyes are a really unusual colour. I noticed that as soon as you jumped into my car. Even though you were ruining the upholstery and calling me a jerk.’

      ‘I only called you a jerk because you were being a jerk,’ she pointed out in her defence.

      He placed his hands on her hips. ‘Stop ruining the mood.’

      ‘What mood?’ she asked, standing so close to him now, she could see the gold flecks in his irises.

      The buckle on his belt brushed against her tummy and the little shivers became shock waves, shuddering down to the place between her thighs.

      ‘The mood I’m trying to create’ he said, a lock of dark hair flopping over his brow. ‘So I can kiss you.’

      Her gaze dipped to his mouth, those sensual lips that had once devoured Jenny temptingly close. ‘You want to kiss me?’ she said on a ragged breath.

      He pressed his thumb to her bottom lip, the touch making it tingle. ‘I must be seriously losing my touch. Isn’t it obvious?’

      ‘But we’ve only just met,’ she whispered, not sure how to respond to his teasing. Did he seriously plan to kiss her? And why the heck was she arguing with him about it?

      He wrapped his hand round her waist, pulled her flush against him. ‘Not true,’ he remarked, his lips only centimetres from hers. ‘We’ve known each other since school.’

      ‘But you don’t remember me.’

      ‘Sure I do.’ His warm breath feathered against her cheek. ‘You’re the little voyeur on the stairwell.’

      She tensed and drew back. ‘You remember? But how?’

      ‘I told you, those eyes are very unusual.’ His lips curved, in that same offhand grin that had captivated her over a decade ago. And suddenly, she understood. This wasn’t