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      When Quinn’s stomach rumbled, he remembered that he hadn’t actually had time for breakfast yet. He couldn’t be bothered to go down to the kitchen to grab some cereal but he did have the tin of cake that Carissa Wylde had given him.

      And there was nobody there to complain that cake wasn’t a breakfast food. Nobody to count the carbs and sigh and look pained. Nobody to stop him doing what he wanted because her needs had to come first, second and third.

      He opened the tin.

      The cake smelled good. Really good.

      He picked up a square. Still warm, too. Crisp edges against his fingertips, and yet there was enough give when he held it for him to know that the inside would be deliciously squidgy.

      He took a bite.

       Heaven in a cube.

      Had Carissa made the brownies herself? If so, he was going to find out what he could trade her for more of those brownies, fresh out of the oven. Maybe she had a temperamental laptop that needed coaxing back to life every so often. Something that wouldn’t take him long to fix—just long enough for her to be grateful and make him some brownies. He made a mental note to float that one by her, and then finished off the rest of the tin.

      The brownies kept him going all day, until he’d finished the testing and was satisfied that the system did exactly what he’d designed it to do. A quick call to let his client know that all was well and he’d install everything at their office first thing tomorrow, and he was done.

      Which left unpacking.

      Not that he had huge amounts of boxes. He kept as much as he could digitally. Lots of clutter meant lots of dust. And he’d never seen the point in the knick-knacks his aunt displayed on her mantelpiece and in her china cabinet. If it wasn’t functional, Quinn wasn’t interested. Minimalism suited him much better.

      He’d already done the important stuff yesterday—his office and his bed. The rest of it could wait.

      He glanced at his watch.

      Half past seven.

      Was it too late to call in at number seven and return the cake tin to Carissa Wylde? Or would she be in the middle of dinner?

      There was only one way to find out. Either way, he could talk to her or arrange a time to talk to her.

      And this had nothing at all to do with the fact that every time he’d looked away from his computer desk that day he’d seen her laughing in his mind’s eye, the curve of her throat soft and tempting and inviting.

      He washed up the tin, dried it, and walked out into the mews to ring Carissa’s doorbell. She answered the door in less than a minute—still dressed in this morning’s black suit and white shirt, though this time she’d changed the killer heels. For bunny slippers. Which should’ve made him sneer, but actually it made her endearingly cute.

      ‘Oh. Mr O’Neill.’

      Given that he’d been a bit gruff with her this morning, it wasn’t surprising that she looked a bit wary of him now. ‘Quinn,’ he said, hoping that the offer of first-name terms was enough of an overture. ‘I’m returning your tin. Thank you for the cake.’

      ‘Pleasure. I hope you liked it.’

      ‘I did. I liked it a lot,’ he said, and her cheeks went pink with pleasure.

      Which was bad, because now he was imagining her face flushed for quite a different reason. For goodness’ sake. Could his libido not keep itself under control for two minutes? And he really didn’t think that a woman like Carissa Wylde would agree to the terms he insisted on nowadays when it came to relationships—light, a bit of fun, and absolute emotional distance. Nothing serious. Nothing deep. Nothing that could end up with him getting hurt. His instincts told him that she was the sort who’d want closeness. Something that wasn’t in his skill set. Which would mean she’d get hurt—and he didn’t want to hurt her.

      ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.

      How terribly English and upper class she sounded, he thought, faintly amused—and yet she was more than a stereotype. She drew him. Intrigued him. And a cup of tea wouldn’t hurt, would it? It didn’t mean getting close. It meant being neighbourly.

      ‘That would be nice,’ he said. ‘If your husband doesn’t mind.’

      Her face shuttered. ‘No husband. And, even if there was one, I have the right to invite a neighbour in for a cup of tea.’

      Ouch. He’d clearly trodden on a sore spot. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to...’ Hmm. She was clearly a rich, successful businesswoman. Maybe a divorced one. And he didn’t have ridiculous preconceptions about a woman’s place in any case. ‘I didn’t mean to imply,’ he said, ‘that you needed a husband to validate you.’

      She looked surprised, then pleased. ‘Apology accepted. Come in.’

      And how different her house was from his own. The air smelled of beeswax—clearly any wood in the house was polished to within an inch of its life—and the lights were soft and welcoming rather than stark and functional. He noted fresh flowers in the hallway. And he’d just bet that her living room held cases of leather-bound books. Carissa looked like a woman who read rather than flicking endlessly through channels of repeats on satellite TV.

      When she led him through to the kitchen, he wasn’t surprised to see that the work surfaces weren’t covered in clutter. But it was definitely a kitchen that was used rather than one that was all for show. An efficient one, he thought, tallying with his view of her as a successful businesswoman.

      She used proper tea leaves rather than teabags—so clearly she had an eye for detail and liked things done properly—and her teapot was silver. Quinn had a nasty feeling that it was solid silver rather than silver plate. As was the tea strainer. And the sugar bowl and spoons.

      Old money, then? Very different from his own background. Not that it mattered. He’d made his own way in life, and he was comfortable with who he was.

      ‘Milk?’ she asked.

      ‘Please.’

      And she proceeded to pour him the perfect cup of tea. In what looked like an antique porcelain cup.

      It was made even more perfect by the fact that she’d placed more brownies on a matching porcelain plate.

      ‘Help yourself,’ she said.

      ‘Thank you.’ He didn’t need a second invitation.

      ‘So, Mr O’Neill. Quinn.’ She smiled at him. ‘The real-life Q.’

      He almost choked on his brownie. Particularly when she added, ‘“Smart Is the New Sexy.”’

      He groaned, knowing exactly what she was referring to. ‘Just ignore anything you read in that magazine. Please,’ he added, looking pained. ‘I only did the interview as a favour to a friend, and her boss went a bit mad with it. I didn’t say half of what was reported. And I’m not...’ Time to shut up. Before he dug that hole any deeper.

      ‘The СКАЧАТЬ