Megan stooped down so that she was on the same level as the six-year-old, brown-haired, blue-eyed boy in front of her. Face of an angel, but spoiled rotten. She had seen many versions of this child over the past two years, since she had been working in London. It seemed to be particularly predominant at private schools, where children were lavished with all that money could buy but often starved of the things that money couldn't.

'Okay, Dominic. Here's the deal. The show's about to start, the mummies and daddies are all out there waiting, and the Nativity play just isn't going to be the same without you in it.'

'I don't want to be a tree! I hate the costume, Miss Reynolds, and if you force me then I'm going to tell my mummy, and you'll be in big trouble. My mummy's a lawyer, and she can put people into prison!' he ended, with folded arms and a note of irrefutable triumph in his voice.

Megan clung to her patience with immense difficulty. It had been a mad week. Getting six-year-old children to learn and memorise their lines had proved to be a Herculean feat, and the last thing she needed on the day before school broke up was a badly behaved brat refusing to be a tree.

'You're a very important tree,' she said gently. 'Very important. The manger wouldn't be a manger without a very important tree next to it!' She looked at her watch and mentally tried to calculate how much time she had to convince this tree to take his leading role on stage—a role which involved nothing more strenuous than waving his arms and swaying. She had only been at this particular school for a term, but she had already sussed the difficult ones, and had cleverly steered them away from any roles that involved speech.

'I want my mummy. She'll tell you that I can be whatever I want to be! And I want to be a donkey.'

'Lucy's the donkey, darling.'

'I want to be a donkey!'

Tree; donkey; donkey; tree. Right now, Megan was heartily wishing that she had listened to her friend Charlotte, when she had decided to leave St Margaret's and opted for another private school. Somewhere a little more normal. She could deal with normal fractious children. She had spent three years dealing with them at St Nick's in Scotland, after she had qualified as a teacher. None of them had ever threatened her with prison.

'Okay. How about if we fetch your mummy and she can tell you how important it is for you to play your part? Remember, Dominic! It's all about teamwork and not letting other people down!'

'Donkey,' was his response to her bracing statement, and Megan sighed and looked across to where the head of the junior department was shaking her head sympathetically.

'Happened last year,' she confided, as Megan stood up. 'He's not one of our easier pupils, and fetching his mum is going to be tricky. I've had a look outside and there's no sign of her.' Jessica Ambles sighed.

'What about the father?'

'Divorced.'

'Poor kid,' Megan said sympathetically, and the other teacher grinned.

'You wouldn't be saying that if you had witnessed him throwing his egg at Ellie Maycock last Sports Day.'

'Final offer.' Megan stooped back down and held both Dominic's hands. 'You play the tree, and I'll ask your mummy if you can come and watch me play football over the vacation if you have time.'

Forty-five minutes later and she could say with utter conviction that she had won. Dominic Park had played a very convincing tree and had behaved immaculately. He had swayed to command, doing no damage whatsoever, either accidental or intentional, to the doll or the crib.

There was just the small matter of the promised football game, but she was pretty sure that Chelsea mummies, even the ones without daddies, were not going to be spending their Christmas vacation at home. Cold? Wet? Grey? Somehow she didn't think so.

Not that she had any problem with six-year-old Dominic watching her play football. She didn't. She just didn't see the point of extending herself beyond her normal working hours. She wasn't sure what exactly the school policy was on pupils watching their teachers play football, and she wasn't going to risk taking any chances. Not if she could help it. She was enjoying her job and she deserved to. Hadn't it taken her long enough to wake up in the morning and look forward to what the day ahead held in store for her?

From behind the curtain she could hear the sound of applause. Throughout the performance cameras and video recorders had been going mad. Absentee parents had shown up for the one day in the year they could spare for parental duty, and they were all determined to have some proof of their devotion.

Megan smiled to herself, knowing that she was being a little unfair, but teaching the children of the rich and famous took a little getting used to.

In a minute everyone would start filtering out of the hall, and she would do her duty and present a smiling face to the proud parents. To the very well-entertained parents—because, aside from the play, they would be treated to substantial snacks, including crudités, delicate salmon-wrapped filo pastries, miniature meatballs and sushi for the more discerning palate. Megan had gaped at the extravaganza of canapés. She still hadn't quite got to grips with cooking, and marvelled at anyone who could produce anything edible that actually resembled food.

Out of nowhere came the memory of Alessandro, of how he'd used to laugh at her attempts at cooking. When it came to recipe books she was, she had told him, severely dyslexic.

It was weird, but seven years down the road she still thought of him. Not in the obsessive, heartbroken, every-second-of-every-minute-of-every-waking-hour way that she once had, but randomly. Just little memories, leaping out at her from nowhere that would make her catch her breath until she blinked them away, and then things would return to normal.

'Duty calls!'

Megan snapped back to the present, to see Jessica Ambles grinning at her.

'All the parents are waiting outside for us to tell them what absolute darlings their poppets have been all term!'

'Most of them have been. Although I can think of a few…'

'With Dominic Park taking first prize in that category?'

Megan laughed. 'But at least he waved his arms tonight without knocking anyone over. Although I did notice that Lucy the donkey kept her distance. Amazing what a spot of blackmail can do. I told him he could watch my next football match.' She linked her arm through her colleague's and together they headed out to the main hall, leaving behind a backstage disaster zone of discarded props and costumes, all to be cleared away the following afternoon, when the school would be empty.

The main hall was a majestic space that was used for all the school's theatrical performances and for full assemblies. A magnificent Christmas tree, donated by one of the parents, stood in the corner, brightly lit with twinkling lights and festooned with decorations—many from the school reserves but a fair few also donated by parents. Elsewhere, along one side, were tables groaning with the delicacies and also bottles of wine—red and white.

The place was buzzing with parents and their offspring, who had changed back into their school gear, and numerous doting relatives. In between the teachers mingled, and enjoyed the thought that term was over and they would be having a three-week break from the little darlings.

Megan was not returning to Scotland for the holidays. Her parents had decided to take themselves off to the sunshine, and her sisters were vanishing to the in-laws'. Playing the abandonment card had been a source of great family mirth, but really she was quite pleased to be staying put in London. There was a lot going on, and Charlotte would be staying down as well. They had already put up their tree in the little house they shared in Shepherd's Bush, and had great plans for a Christmas lunch to which the dispossessed had been cordially invited. Provided they arrived bearing food or drink.

A surprising number of people had seemed happy to be included in the 'dispossessed' category, and so far the numbers were up to fifteen—which would be a logistical nightmare, because the sitting room was small—but a crush of bodies had never fazed Megan. The more the merrier, as far as she was concerned.

She heard Dominic before she actually spotted him. As was often the case with him, he was stridently informing one of his classmates what Father Christmas was bringing him. He seemed utterly convinced that the requested shed-load of presents would all be delivered, and Megan wondered whether he had threatened the poor guy with a prison sentence should his demands not be met.

She was smiling when she approached his mother, curious to see what she looked like. Matching parents to kids was an interesting game played by most teachers, and this time the mental picture connected perfectly with the real thing.

Dominic Park's mother looked like a lawyer. She was tall, even wearing smart, black patent leather flats, with a regal bearing. Dark hair was pulled back into an elegant chignon, and her blue eyes were clever and cool. Despite the informality of the occasion, she was wearing an immaculate dove-grey suit, with a pashmina loosely draped around her shoulders.

She was introduced via Dominic, who announced, without preamble, that this was Miss Reynolds and she had promised she would take him to watch her play football.

'You must be Dominic's mum.' Megan's smile was met with an expression that attempted to appear friendly and interested but somehow didn't quite manage to make it. This was a woman, Megan thought, who probably distributed her smiles like gold dust—or maybe she had forgotten how to smile at all, because it wasn't called for in a career that saw her putting people into prison, if her son was to be believed.

'Correct, Miss Reynolds, and I must say that I was very disappointed when Nanny told me today that Dominic would be playing a tree. Not terribly challenging, is it?'

She had an amazing accent that matched her regal bearing perfectly.

'We like to think of the Nativity Play as a fun production, Mrs Park, rather than a competition.' She smiled down at Dominic, who was scowling at some sushi in a napkin. She took it from him. 'And you made a marvellous tree. Very convincing.'

'When will you be playing football?' he demanded.

'Ah… Timetable still to be set!'

'But you won't forget, will you?' he insisted. 'Because my mummy's a—'

'Yes, yes, yes… I think I've got the message on that one, Dominic' Megan smiled at his mother. 'I've been told that I shall be flung into prison without a Get Out Of Jail Free card if I don't let him watch one of my matches….'

'Silly boy. I've told him a hundred times that I'm a corporate lawyer! And we shall have to discuss Dominic watching your football match, I'm afraid. We're very busy over the Christmas period, and Nanny won't be around for three days, so I shall be hard-pressed to spare the time to take him anywhere.'

Megan was busy feeling sorry for poor Nanny, who had clearly been inconsiderate enough to ask for time off over Christmas, when she was aware that they had been joined by someone. The elegant lawyer had stopped in mid-flow, and there actually was something of a smile on her face now as she looked past Megan to whoever was standing behind her.

'Alessandro, darling. So good of you. I'm absolutely parched.'

Alessandro!

The name alone was sufficient to send Megan into a tail-spin. Of course there was more than one Alessandro in the world! It was a common Italian name! It was just disconcerting to hear that name when she had been thinking about him only minutes earlier.

She turned around, and the unexpected rushed towards her like a freight train at full speed, taking her breath away. Because there he was. Alessandro Caretti. Her Alessandro.

Standing in front of her. A spectre from the past. Seven years separated memory from reality, but he had remained the same. Still lean, still muscular, still staggeringly good-looking. Yes, a little older now, and his face was harsher, more forbidding, but this was the man who had haunted her dreams for so long and still cropped up in her thoughts like a virus lying dormant in her bloodstream—controlled, but never really going away.

She had never seen him in a suit before. Seven years ago he had worn jeans and sweatshirts. He was wearing a suit now, a charcoal-grey suit, and, yes, a white shirt—so some things must not have changed.

Megan could feel the blood rushing into her face, and it was a job to keep steady, to hold out her hand politely and wonder if he would even recognise her. Her hair was shorter now, but still as uncontrollable as it always had been. Everything else was the same.

She was shaking when she felt the brief touch of his hand as she was introduced.

What was he doing here? Was he Dominic's father? But, no. From next to her she could hear that cut-glass accent saying something about her fiancé. He was engaged! Wearing a suit and engaged to the perfect woman he had foreseen all those years ago when he had broken up with her.

He didn't appear to recognise her as he held out the glass of wine to his fiancée, eliminating her from the scene by half turning his back on her.

On the verge of flight, she was stopped by Dominic announcing yet again—this time to Alessandro—that Miss Reynolds would be taking him to a football match. At this, Alessandro focused his fabulous dark eyes on her and said, un-smilingly, 'Isn't that beyond the call of duty, Miss Reynolds?'

How can you not even recognise me? Megan wanted to yell. Had she been so forgettable? Didn't he even recognise her name? Maybe he had met so many women over the years that faces and names had all become one great big blur.

'It seemed the only way to persuade Dominic to be a tree.' It was a miracle that her vocal cords managed to remain intact when everything else inside was going haywire. 'And it's not taking him to a football match. It would be to watch me playing football.'

'You play football?'

His dark, sexy voice wrapped itself around her, threatening to strangle her ability to breathe.

'One of my hobbies,' Megan said, taking one protective step back. She dragged her eyes away from that mesmerising face and addressed his fiancée. 'I hope you have a lovely Christmas, Mrs Park.' She realised that she was still clutching the discarded sushi, which had seeped through the napkin and was now gluey against the tightly closed palm of her hand.

'You'll have to give my mother your phone number, Miss Reynolds, and your address. For the football match? You promised!'