not.” Matthew gave a sharp shake of his head.
He still wasn’t one hundred percent convinced he should have been given the honor. But, seeing as he’d fought wars in her name, he hadn’t exactly wanted to refuse the Queen her generosity in giving him a knighthood.
“Matthew Chase.”
He put out his hand and took Amanda’s, pleased to feel her pulse quicken at his touch. For added impact he folded his other hand round hers, so that for all intents and purposes he was holding her hand captive.
“It is a pleasure to meet you. Formally.”
“I would like to say the pleasure is all mine, but I think we both know that isn’t strictly true.”
At last he allowed his lips to move into a full and natural smile. “Would this have anything to do with the fact you’re the ‘she’ who is the other contender for Medical Director?”
“You mean your job share until the better woman wins?” Amanda extracted her hand as swiftly as she could. “That’s right. Consider it an Advent Calendar Countdown,” she tacked on brightly. “Seeing as it’s the holidays.”
Matthew returned her tight smile with one of his own before she tugged her fingers away from his. One moment longer with those warm fingers of his surrounding hers and she’d be betraying her over-the-top reaction to his touch.
An accelerated pulse. The rush of heat to her cheeks. The whorls of heat swirling lazily in her belly, only to rocket straight down to a more sensual part of her body she’d really rather not be thinking about when she was meant to be at her businesslike best.
This wasn’t a ball and he was not her Prince Charming. No matter how alive he made her feel. And if this was someone’s idea of an early Christmas present she sure hoped he came with a return receipt.
She rocked back on her heels, hoping it looked as if she was giving Matthew a cool appraisal. In truth she was buying herself composure time.
How on earth was she going to share a job with her son’s father?
More specifically, how was she going to put out the picture of her son she’d already had framed in readiness for her new desk and not have Matthew recognize those blue eyes looking back at him?
His name might be Tristan, but for all intents and purposes he was a mini-Matthew. Except for the blond hair. But even that was growing darker...just like his father’s.
Her head was spinning from the madness of the moment. Matthew was supposed to have disappeared off to Sussex, or Syria, or wherever it was wanderlust playboys went when they grew bored with altruism. Not show up at her job interview!
She could hear Dr. Menzies repeating something about nothing being set in stone, that it was just an idea that the board were floating at this juncture and that with two equally talented contenders...
Ugh! It was all getting a little blurry.
“Amanda?” Dr. Menzies lightly rested a hand on her elbow and it took all her power not to jerk it back. She’d been so deep in thought she’d all but forgotten that the two men and—yes—Deena too were staring at her. “You’re looking a little pale. Would you like to sit down for a minute?”
“No.” She shook her head solidly, forcing herself to blank out the curious expression on Matthew’s face. “Absolutely not. Just not used to...to all this heating.”
“Oh?” Dr. Menzies forehead crinkled in concern.
Stop talking, you idiot!
“It’s the suit. Wool. Layers.”
She tugged at her lapels, undid a button, then wafted her green silk blouse away from her chest, making a little whoo! noise as if she’d somehow ended up on a tropical island.
“Central heating.” She gave a little laugh. “Our house—my aunt’s house,” she swiftly corrected, “still doesn’t have it. Wood burners, a geriatric range and the permanent threat of chilblains.”
“People still get those? Where on earth do you live?” Deena asked with undisguised disbelief. “Not in London?”
Amanda couldn’t help herself. She laughed. “As incongruous as it sounds, our backwards heating system is in fact the product of London in its Georgian heyday.”
“Let me guess... You’re a Wakehurst so...” Matthew crossed his arms and gave her another one of those disarmingly tactile full-body scans. “You live in Bedford Square.”
Her eyes shot wide open. How did he—? What sort of game was he playing?
Or maybe it was just the age-old tag of being a Wakehurst. The Wakehurst name went hand in hand with central London—with stylish properties with little blue plaques indicating the people of note who had lived there—more Wakehursts—and a seemingly endless stream of fashionable soirées. Her family were the type whose titles opened doors. Nice ones.
She bit down on the inside of her cheek. It had been a long time since she’d used her full title. Lady Amanda Wakehurst.
“I’ve seen one of your aunt’s exhibits in the British Museum,” Matthew explained by way of disclosure.
“Auntie Florence?” She crinkled her forehead in confusion. Her aunt did portraiture, mostly. Some in a contemporary style, some more traditional. And usually for private collectors.
“I believe it was a collection of eighteenth-century African pottery.”
“Oh...” Amanda’s reeling mind quickly put together different pieces of the puzzle. “You mean my Great-Aunt Tilda. Yes, she traveled rather...extensively.”
Christopher Columbus had had nothing on her Aunt Tilda. She’d been everywhere. Admittedly on the posh side of the boat...but Amanda had always likened herself to this aunt she had never known. Restless. Always trying to find her place in the world and never quite managing it.
“It would seem so,” Matthew replied drily.
Amanda shrugged. She wasn’t going to apologize for having been born into a family whose collections were better suited to museum displays than the bric-a-brac shelf in a family lounge. He hadn’t had to grow up having to prove his worth amongst such a broad pool of high achievers. Nobel laureates. University wings bearing the family name. Heaven knew she’d spent a lifetime trying to prove herself worthy. Only to fail time and again.
Before she’d had Tristan she’d thought she might just crawl her way back into the good books via her medical career.
After she’d borne a son out of wedlock to a man she refused to name her parents had made it clear she never would be a “true” Wakehurst.
“You don’t strike me as the pottery type.”
Amanda knew it was a lame riposte, but she was clawing for purchase after being casually hip-bumped off the edge of a cliff. Matthew was so calm and in control, and all she could think about was just how throaty a groan he’d given when she’d treated first one and then the other of his nipples to hot, swift licks, chased up by tiny nips of the teeth and then
