Christmas at Carriage Hill. Carla Neggers

her coat, a lovely, simple gray cashmere with no buttons, just an easy tie. She’d designed and made it herself, but dresses were her specialty. Although she was getting a name for herself, she’d been flattered when Olivia Frost had asked her to design the dresses for her Christmas Eve wedding to wealthy Dylan McCaffrey—Alexandra’s second cousin. Or some sort of cousin. Earlier that year, he had discovered that his father, Duncan McCaffrey, was Grace and Philip’s son, placed in the loving hands of a couple who’d adopted him as an infant. Grace hadn’t seen him again for more than seventy years, until shortly before his death two years before. He’d been a businessman and adventurer, marrying late, and now his only son—Grace’s grandson—was marrying a woman from Knights Bridge.

      Alexandra had already packed Olivia’s wedding dress for the flight to Boston. She loved designing and sewing wedding dresses. That wouldn’t change even if she never would have one of her own.

      RAF officer Ian Mabry, a thorough rake of a man, was her last mistake.

      She went down the narrow stairs to her shop—it was more a design studio, really—and locked up as she headed out. Her street was off the village’s main thoroughfare but nonetheless lined with shops and restaurants, the buildings constructed of the honey-colored limestone that signified a traditional Cotswolds village. Despite the sunshine, the air was brisk, although not as cold as it would be in New England. She’d packed warm layers for her trip.

      Because Ian was not in town and his family had no idea of the havoc he’d wreaked on her life, Alexandra decided on lunch at the corner pub the Mabrys owned. She slipped into a cozy wooden booth under the pub’s low, beamed ceilings and ordered soup—a lovely-sounding leek and potato—and tea. A few shopkeepers wandered in, but it was early yet. She loved the pub’s relaxed, unhurried atmosphere. She supposed she shouldn’t berate herself for having succumbed to Ian’s charms when he’d waited on her on one of her first nights in town. She’d been tired from moving and had been second-guessing the wisdom of leaving London. All her friends who’d helped with the move had gone home, with promises to visit soon and often. She’d felt alone but in a good way. It was positive, healthy.

      And she’d thought Ian was a local man who managed his family’s thriving pub.

      Wrong. So wrong.

      Now, of course, she noticed the framed photograph behind the bar of Ian in his fighter pilot uniform. His smile was without fear and decidedly, at least in her estimation, cocky.

      From August through early November, she’d thought him the most exciting, charming, endearing and thoroughly desirable man she’d ever met. A manly man. Sexy. Self-confident. Not without flaws, but she’d missed the danger signs. The ambition. The single-mindedness. The need to put himself and his work first, ahead of everything else.

      He’d said he’d seen the same in her. “You don’t want a quiet Cotswolds life, Alex. You want London. You want the applause.”

      She’d told him in no uncertain terms what she didn’t want was him to tell her what she wanted.

      Everything had unraveled quickly after that delightful little conversation.

      Her soup arrived, steaming and delicious, with warm wholemeal bread and local butter. She was enjoying herself despite the assault of bad memories when she became aware of someone sliding into the booth across from her.

      She looked up and saw it was Ian.

      “Hello, Alex,” he said.

      “You’re not here,” she said, determinedly slathering butter on her bread. “I’m making you up. I’m sure people are staring at me because I’m talking to myself.”

      “I hear you’re flying to Boston tomorrow.”

      She sighed. She hadn’t conjured him up. He was there, all muscle, ego, good looks and that over-the-top masculinity she had found irresistible from the moment she’d laid eyes on him—a surefire warning she had foolishly not heeded. She noted his military-cropped tawny hair. His clear gray-blue eyes. His cleft chin. His smile.

      His hands.

      Dear heaven, Ian Mabry’s hands...

      She set her bread back on its plate. “Yes, I am flying to Boston. I don’t need you to fly me there, if that’s what you’re wondering.” She immediately regretted her snippy tone, not because he didn’t deserve it, but because she didn’t want him to think she was anything but neutral where he was concerned. “I’m attending a wedding outside Boston.”

      “Olivia Frost and Dylan McCaffrey’s wedding.”

      “Mmm.”

      He’d met them when they were in England in October. “How did Olivia’s dress come out?” Ian asked mildly.

      Alexandra raised her gaze to him. Wing Commander Ian Mabry asking about one of her dress designs? Seriously?

      “You were working on it when I was in town last,” he added.

      Heat flooded her cheeks. She could try to blame the fire, the soup, the tea, but he would know better. His slight grin—that sexy, wry grin—told her she would never get away with it. She’d had the pattern pieces for Olivia’s dress on her bed when Ian had...

      “Yes, I was.”

      She left it at that. She needed to be the up-and-coming London designer who had relocated to the beautiful, upscale Cotswolds and had full command of her life. She did not need to be another of Ian Mabry’s conquests. She refused to let him think she was still pining for him, because she wasn’t. Not a bit.

      “Did you ever find that—what was it that went astray?” he asked. “A bit of the sleeve, wasn’t it?”

      “Yes, it was, and I did find it, thank you.”

      “We did mess up the place.”

      The place being her bed. Alexandra grabbed her bread. “I’m in a bit of a hurry, Ian. I leave for London in thirty minutes.”

      “How are you getting to London?”

      She hadn’t bought her own car yet. Of course he would know that. She waved a hand. “I’m taking the train.”

      “Alone?”

      “Yes, of course.” The snippiness again, and again she regretted it. “I’m staying with friends tonight.” Actually, she was staying with her grandmother—Philip Rankin’s daughter, a proud woman who would be relieved that Alexandra had come to her senses regarding her RAF pilot. “I have a lot of friends,” she added crisply.

      “You’re still getting to know people here,” he said. “You’ve been busy with your work, but it takes time to make new friends. It will happen.”

      Alexandra realized she wanted to throw something at him. She truly did. If he hadn’t rattled her by reminding her of scattering pattern pieces on her floor while simultaneously disrobing her, she might have gone ahead and pitched a chunk of bread at him. With his reflexes, he’d have ducked, and she’d have felt like a fool. Good that she’d let the impulse wash over her.

      “How long will you be away?” he asked her.

      Long enough to get over you, I hope. “A week, unless I change my mind,” she said coolly.

      “And stay longer or come home sooner?”

      “Either. How long are you at home?”

      “Awhile,” he said, rising.

      “Then you’ll be gone before I return?”

      He sauntered off without answering—pretending not to have heard her—and dipped behind the bar, then disappeared into the kitchen. Alexandra finished her lunch. She would fly to Boston tomorrow and spend a couple of nights there before heading to Knights Bridge. This would be her first Christmas away from England, but it would be wonderful—and a positive, healthy way to get herself out of her post-Ian