Fiance For Christmas. Catherine George

is as lucky as you get,’ she warned him sharply, put out by something in his manner.

      The spectacular eyes gleamed. ‘Don’t worry, Cassie. I wasn’t about to leap on your body.’

      ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ she retorted, bristling. ‘I prefer men who come without your history, Dominic Seymour.’

      ‘Why does my name sound like an epithet when you say it in full?’ he asked curiously.

      ‘It’s better than some epithets I could use!’

      ‘So you still dislike me?’

      She shrugged. ‘I’m not crazy about you, I admit. Though Julia told me you weren’t really to blame for what happened. I know you were in love with her once, of course, but that was nothing new. Most men she met fell in love with her. I just wish she’d married any one of them instead of Max Seymour.’

      ‘Does she still feel the same way about him?’ asked Nick soberly.

      ‘We don’t discuss Max, but I’m pretty sure she does. Though how she can still love him utterly mystifies me. If a man treated me like that I’d either murder him or forget he ever existed.’

      ‘No grand passion for you, then, Cassie?’

      ‘No way. I’m not the type.’ She shrugged. ‘I quite fancy Rupert, but I don’t see him as something permanent in my life.’

      Nick got to his feet, yawning. ‘I’ll withdraw to your bathroom, then I’d better call a cab.’

      ‘I’ll make some coffee first,’ she said, jumping up.

      ‘What a saint you are, Cassandra,’ he mocked, and breathed in deeply to steady himself as he followed her from the room.

      Cassie went out to fill Meg’s expensive Italian machine with the Blue Mountain coffee she’d bought to impress Rupert. While it was brewing she washed up quickly, obeying the golden rule of the house. No dirty dishes left until next day. At last she filled tall mugs with fragrant dark coffee, and put them on a tray with cream and sugar.

      Cassie nudged the sitting-room door open with her knee, then gave a sigh of pure frustration, mentally kicking herself for taking so long. Nick Seymour was stretched out on the sofa, fast asleep.

      Cassie muttered something rude under her breath, put the tray down on the table and did her best to rouse Nick from a sleep so deep it looked like a coma. And it might just as well have been for all the good it did when she tried to wake him. In the end she gave up, bone-weary herself by this time. She took the tray back into the kitchen, gulped down some of her coffee and went upstairs to borrow a blanket and a double quilt from Hannah, who was skiing with Meg in Gstaad. Cassie eased Nick’s shoes from his long, chilly feet, put a cushion under his head and tucked the blanket and quilt round his sprawled, relaxed body, careless of whether she disturbed him. But Nick slumbered on, vanquished by a combination of jet-lag and stress topped off by a good dinner and three glasses of unaccustomed wine.

      ‘Sweet dreams,’ said Cassie, resigned, and turned out the light.