Her Knight Under The Mistletoe. Annie O'Neil

those strong arms wrapped round her, that wall of chest assuring her that everything would be all right. Promising that her son would always be looked after... Their son.

      Again she found herself lost for words as she stared into those beautiful blue eyes of his.

      How am I going to tell him I am the mother of his child?

      “Matthew, here, has a short journey too,” Dr. Menzies contributed, clearly oblivious to the frisson between his pair of would-be directors. “Just across the river—isn’t that right, Matthew?”

      Matthew shot the doctor a difficult to discern look. One that probably said the same thing she’d felt when Matthew all but heat-detected her bedroom in Bedford Square: Back off.

      She liked her privacy and it looked as if he did, too. So they had that in common.

      And their son.

      Amanda’s fingers swept along the outside pocket of her handbag, where she still kept the grainy black and white image of Tristan’s first scan.

      After her husband’s last deployment... Well, it had been hard to believe she’d ever feel anything again. Carrying the weight of someone’s senseless death did that to a person. She’d feel the heated rage in his mother’s eyes until the day she died.

      She might not want Matthew Chase to have this job, but she owed him a debt of thanks. Tristan meant the world to her. His arrival had let her see the good things in life again. The simple things. The sun coming up every day. The moon. The stars...when you could see them. Sapphire-blue eyes...

      She’d never once pictured herself being a mother before that night, but now she couldn’t imagine life without her full-of-beans toddler. Which meant she’d better get her act together and start behaving as if she wanted this job. And, no, she wasn’t going to play nicely. She didn’t want to share.

      She was more than capable of running the hospital’s A&E department on her own, and was prepared to prove it. Even if it meant getting a lump of coal in her Christmas stocking. From the bespoke cut of Matthew’s suit, he didn’t look as if he needed the money. But from the fire in his eyes he was no pushover.

      She put out her hand again and gave Matthew’s a short, sharp shake, ignoring the spray of heat shooting up her arm as she turned her full attention to Dr. Menzies.

      “I believe you and I have an appointment?”

      “That we do, my dear, that we do.”

      She threw a look over her shoulder as they entered the older doctor’s office and felt just the tiniest bit of smug satisfaction to see that Matthew was still watching. Hands resting on hips. Head shaking as if he’d just been diddled out of his last pound coin.

      She might not want his money, but she definitely wanted this job. It would mean a regular schedule, money to pay for a proper nanny and give her sainted aunt some more time for her art, and a chance for her to rediscover the woman she had been trying to become all those years ago. A good, honest, hard-working Wakehurst.

      Maybe seeing Matthew was a sign. A portent of good things yet to come. Like a job.

      She dropped him a wink and swung the door closed with a light swoop of her foot. Better luck next time, pal.