Under the Millionaire's Mistletoe (13 page)

She started for the door.

“Leave it,” he said.

But she'd remembered who it likely was. “Um… No. We can't.”
We can't leave it and we can't go where you're thinking. Where I was thinking. Wanting.

Luke looked from the broad cedar door to Meg. “You know who that is?”

Meg glanced at her watch. “Maybe.” They were punctual, a little early even, which normally she'd rate as a good quality.

“So it's someone for you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Whoever it is, send them away. I don't feel like company today.”

“I can't do that.”

“Because?”

The chimes rang softly through the house again. “Because I think it's the caterers.”

His eyes narrowed on her. “Why are there caterers ringing my doorbell?”

“Because they'd like to come in?” She kept her tone hopeful and innocent.

“Meg?” His tone was anything but hopeful or innocent. She'd have said more suspicious and accusing.

“They have some setting up to do. For the dinner tonight.” The doorbell rang again and was followed by an insistent knock.

“Open it. And then I think you better tell me what dinner they're setting up for.”

Meg let the small army of caterers in, guided them through to the kitchen and took as long as she could
showing them anything and everything she thought they might need to know. She didn't leave till it became obvious she was only getting in their way.

She went back to the entranceway where she'd left Luke, where he'd kissed her, but he wasn't there. The red bow was back in place on the post. She could look for him, but she'd doubtless see him soon enough. In the meantime, she had things she needed to do. Like run away before she started acting on three months' worth of daydreams.

In her—Luke's—bedroom she pulled a plain black suitcase from the wardrobe and dropped it onto her—his—bed and unzipped the lid. From the top dresser drawer she gathered her underwear and put it into the case. The second drawer contained Luke's clothes. She opened the third drawer and pulled out her T-shirts.

“What are you doing?”

She tensed at the sound of his voice and spun, her T-shirts clasped to her chest, to see him standing in the doorway. “Packing.”

“You do have a knack for stating the obvious.”

“We agreed I'd go as soon as you got back.”

“And then we agreed Monday, because your car is at the mechanic's.” Luke strolled across the room and positioned himself in front of the wide window that most days allowed forever views out over the lake. Today, ominous clouds hid the far, snow-capped mountains, restricting the view instead to the lake's edge. “What is it you're frightened of?”

“Nothing.” And even though he wasn't looking at her, she clutched the T-shirts a little tighter, a flimsy barrier against his questions, his insight.

“Now, me, I'm frightened of you.”

A ludicrous notion. “I don't think so. You hold all the
power here. Your house, your territory.” Not to mention his looks, his wealth, her weakness for him.

“What scares me, Meg,” he said to the window, “is the way I feel when I look at you. And the way those feelings intensify when you look back at me.”

His words stilled her, made her want to hope. She covered the foolish, unlikely hope with glibness. “And I'll just bet you're a ‘feel the fear and do it anyway' kind of guy.”

“Sometimes,” he said quietly. “Not always. Sometimes the fear is to protect us.”

Meg placed the T-shirts on top of her underwear, spreading them so they hid the scraps of lace that were her secret indulgence. Plain, practical Meg liked pretty, sometimes even sexy, lingerie.

Luke crossed to the dresser. She'd divided the space on top in half. One-third, two-thirds, actually. A third for his things, a watch and a framed photo of his mother only needed so much space. The two-thirds on the right was littered with her things. Perfume, a pair of earrings, a scented candle and… “Don't touch that.”

He turned with a curling photo in his hand. “This?”

“Yes,” she sighed, “that.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't mean don't touch it. You can have it. Throw it out if you like.”

He lifted a questioning eyebrow.

“I needed something to show people when I went back to try to find you. Clearly, I don't need it anymore.” The photo showed the two of them, Luke sitting up in bed, looking ill but still with a certain intensity to his gaze, and Meg perched beside him looking worried and pointing to something off camera. Their wedding photo.
She didn't even know why she'd left it out and on the dresser.

He was about to place the photo back where it had stood leaning against her perfume, when instead, he picked up the small crystal bottle and brought it to his nose. He closed his eyes and nodded. “Very Meg.” Opening his eyes, he studied her. “Flowers and sweetness.” Meg adjusted her T-shirts in the case.

“Tell me about this dinner the caterers in my kitchen are setting up for.”

She opened her mouth to speak.

He held up a warning finger. “I just want the facts. No evasive answers. What party do you have planned for tonight?” He frowned. “And if you're planning a party, why are you packing as though you can't get out of here fast enough.”

“There's a Christmas dinner for the Maitland Foundation here tonight. Most of the really big donors will be here. I haven't had all that much to do with the organization. I just agreed with Sally when she suggested that this house would be the perfect place for the dinner. And agreed with her that there was no reason it couldn't be here.”

“She didn't tell you that she asks every year if she could have it here, and that every year I tell her no?”

Meg swallowed. Sally had told her she'd bear the blame if Luke got back before Christmas, but it didn't seem fair. “Actually, she did. But I couldn't see any reason not to have it here. You have a beautiful home. And it's so much more personal to have a dinner in a home than at a restaurant.”

Luke blew out a heavy sigh. The hands at his sides had curled into fists. And for a few brief seconds he shut his eyes. Meg contemplated sneaking out. Too soon he
opened them again, the silver sharp and intent. “So why are you packing now?”

“Now that you're back, I don't need to be here for it.”

He crossed to the bed. Took everything out of her suitcase, dropped it onto the bedcover, then zipped the case shut. “Think again. If I have to be here for this dinner, then you most definitely do.”

She unzipped the case and gathered up the pile of clothes. “No, I don't.”

“These donors who are coming, they know I have a wife?”

“Yes, most of them,” she said slowly, holding her clothes to her chest and hoping fervently that she'd covered her underwear with her T-shirts.

“Then they'll expect you to be here. The Maitland Foundation and its donors espouse strong family values. You could cost it thousands if you don't show,
Mrs.
Maitland.”

“That's not fair.”

“You're right, it's not.” He smiled, devious and victorious. “I'll leave you to start getting ready.” He stopped at the door and nodded at the clothes in her arms. “I'm sure the red will look fetching on you.”

Meg glanced down. There were only two red items in her arms and neither of them was a T-shirt.

M
eg paused and wrapped her fingers around the polished wood of the banister. She'd made a point of staying out of the caterers'—and Luke's—way while she showered and dressed and put up her hair. But now she barely recognized the entranceway that she'd last seen just a few hours ago. Her homemade decorations were gone. The stairs were twined with ivy, among which nestled hundreds of glinting fairy lights. Below her, an enormous Christmas tree, topped with a star, glittered and sparkled in silver and gold in the entranceway, scenting the air with the fragrance of pine. Tall candelabra stood either side of the front door. The house was filled with the delicate notes of a string quartet playing Christmas music. It was as though someone had waved a wand and transformed the already graceful foyer into something magical.

Luke strode through the doors thrown wide from the
next room and had a foot on the bottom step before he looked up and stilled. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “I was just coming to get you. Our guests are starting to arrive, darling.”

The wand must have touched Luke as well. Before now, she'd only ever seen him dressed casually. Even then, and even when ill, he'd looked striking, had an undeniable charisma. But now, in an elegant tuxedo, its cut and custom tailoring accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and his lean strength, he looked devastating. A surge of possessiveness and pride swept through her. This man was her husband.

She quashed both the possessiveness and the pride. She had no right to feel possessive of a man who wasn't in any way hers. And she had no right to the pride. He'd had to believe he was dying to offer marriage. Even so, he waited expectantly for her. And she couldn't quite calm the leap of her pulse.

Part of his attraction was the way when he looked at her she felt like he only saw her, only thought of her, as though she fascinated him every bit as much as he fascinated her.

Meg held a little tighter to the banister. She had only one dress suitable for a dinner like this. And it was red. Now Luke would think, and he'd be right, that she wore the red lace beneath it. Or worse, and he'd be wrong, that she wore it for him.

She descended the stairs. Wearing the demure but fitted dress and too-high heels, she was well out of her comfort zone. Or maybe it was his silver gaze steady on her that made her hyperaware of her every movement.

Tonight. She just had to get through tonight without succumbing to his pull. When she was away from him again she'd be fine, but when he was near, he scram
bled her thought processes till she didn't know what she wanted, or till she wanted things she knew she oughtn't.

She stopped a step above him and finally, defiantly, met his gaze. And looked quickly away, her defiance doused. Heat. She'd read heat in his eyes. For her.

It was insane.

As insane as the heat of the response deep within her that his gaze had ignited.

He needed to get back out into the real world, remember the type of woman he was attracted to, the type of woman who belonged in his world, and stop playing games with her.

Except it didn't feel like a game.

She looked back at him, he waited, his hand extended. Trapped by his gaze, Meg swallowed and put her hand in his, felt his fingers fold around hers. And at that touch, that gentle, unerring connection, something shifted and changed, including Meg in this evening's magic.

Hope flickered. Might she be entitled to one enchanted evening?

She did her best to quash the thoughts. A childhood spent lost in books and fairy tales was now having the unwanted repercussions her grandmother had warned of.

Luke smiled, that same smile he had back up in her—his—bedroom as his fingers tightened around hers. “Let's go, Mrs. Maitland, we're having a party.” His tone was light, teasing. Maybe she'd imagined the heat.

The living room was now decorated in silver and gold, with enough candles to keep them going for months if the power ever went out. Luke paused in the doorway and glanced up. Mistletoe hung from the door frame. In full view of those guests who'd already arrived, he planted a
quick, hard kiss on her lips. Then he put his mouth close to her ear and whispered, “I knew you'd look good in red.” His words and his warm breath on the bare skin of her neck sent a shiver through her.

Pretending she hadn't heard, hadn't been affected by his words or his kiss, Meg dredged up a bright, but possibly vacant, smile as guests approached.

“Wyatt, Martha, good to see you. You've met my wife, Meg?” Luke released her hand but rested it instead at the curve of her waist. She wasn't sure which disturbed her composure more.

He stayed by her side almost all evening as he worked the room with skill and ease. As head of Maitland Corporation, he left the running of the foundation to Blake, the director, but he spoke with knowledge and passion about the foundation's work. He talked to almost everyone, smiling and magnanimous, while at the same time ensuring Meg was included in conversations, asking her opinion on whatever topic came up. But he also took advantage of every opportunity, and created more than a few of his own, to touch her: to take her hand, or touch her arm, to curve his palm around her waist, to cup her shoulder. Once, claiming she had a crumb of pastry from a canapé on her cheek, he'd turned to her and brushed his thumb across her face, letting her see the heat in his eyes, making her want him.

And if he wasn't at her side, he was watching her, making her think about him, about their promise. The evening became an exquisite torture.

A bejeweled woman, who'd just promised the foundation a hefty donation, turned away, her parting words
See you both at the New Year's Eve cocktail party,
ringing in Meg's ears and Luke's gaze pinning her. He lifted two champagne flutes from the tray of a circulating waiter
and passed one to Meg. He led her to a somewhat quiet corner of the room and she took a sip of the sparkling liquid.

“I was going to tell you about the cocktail party.”

“Clearly I need to take a look at
our
social calendar and see what's expected of me. It's not in my house, is it?”

“No.”

“Then I'll deal.”

They watched the mingling crush. By then she'd be long gone. “I didn't realize you were such a people person.”

“I'm not,” he said softly. “But I know how to play the game.” He turned his back on the room so that only she could see his face and hear his words. “The only person I'm thinking about is you and how good you look in red. And how good you'll look out of it.”

His words, blatant and seductive, shocked her. How had they got to this point and, more importantly, how did she stop it? Because while she was certain it was all just a part of the “game” to him, if affected her differently, more deeply than he could know. “Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“What you've been doing all evening. I'm trying to concentrate, to listen to what people are saying and you're making me think…”

“Think what, Meg?” His low voice seemed to sink through her to her core. “About the things I might like to do with you? Because I've been thinking about my husbandly privileges.”

She backed a little farther into the corner. “You're not really my husband.” But he'd caught what she'd been thinking and she hated that he knew it. That she was that transparent. Because being married to someone
carried connotations regardless of the reasons for the marriage.

He leaned closer. “That's the thing, Meg, I really am your husband. And you know it. And you think about it.”

“Stop it, Luke. Please.”

Something in her tone or her words stilled him. He backed off a little, easing her need to either reach for him or run from him. “If you want me to.”

She nodded. “I do. Thank you.” She was Meg. She wasn't allowed to want him. Not in the real world. She looked past him to see Sally approaching, glowing with the success of the evening so far.

“You two make a gorgeous couple.” Sally kissed both Meg and Luke. “I'm so pleased you finally found a good woman, Luke, and had the sense to marry her. I foresee a long and happy union.”

If only in my dreams.
The line from the Christmas song popped into Meg's head. Now clearly wasn't the time to tell Sally that she was leaving and that Luke would be starting divorce proceedings as soon as possible.

Luke smiled and raised his glass to Sally, which could look like he was agreeing with her. It could, if you were Meg, also look like he was avoiding commenting on what she'd said.

She sat beside Luke for the dinner, ignoring the occasional press of his thigh against hers. He kept their topics of conversation neutral, his tone and his glances warm, only a degree or two more than friendly. For all of his subtle teasing foreplay earlier, he seemed, from the time of her request, to have switched off, or at least turned down the wattage on the sensual messages.

Whereas Meg had to fight to hide her feelings, and
fight to conceal the slow burning fuse of desire he'd lit and that now refused to be extinguished.

When the dinner was all but over, he sat back with his arm behind her and his hand curled around her arm, his thumb tracing lazy circles that sent heat spiraling through her. It was just a thumb. It shouldn't be able to do that.

She waited till he was deep in conversation with the man across the table before easing her chair back. Not deep enough, apparently. He dropped a firm hand to her thigh, anchoring her to her chair and looked at her, a knowing smile glinting in his eyes and touching his lips. “Oh, no, you don't. You're not running away now.”

“I was just…” she could see him waiting for her excuse “…I'm not needed here,” was the best she could come up with.

“I need you here.”

She could almost wish that was true. He'd needed her once and married her because of it. That need had passed. He was back in his life, he was strong and healthy. His hand gentled on her thigh, but the heat of his palm burned through the silk of her dress, sizzled along her skin.

“I'm tired.” She tried again, which was also true, although she didn't expect to sleep any more tonight than she had last night. Last night she'd been dealing mainly with the surprise of his sudden return. Tonight she'd be battling the strength of a desire that seemed to have flamed from nothing. Even though she realized now that the seeds had been sown and taken root back on the island. Then, she'd been able to ignore it, pretend it was something else. But she'd built fantasies around Luke. Fantasies she'd scarcely acknowledged.

She needed to leave. And not just this party. She
needed to leave this house, break the spell she was falling under. Already she was way too close to the precipice of stupidity.

“You can't leave,” he said quietly, “because I have plans for you, Meg. Slow, sensuous plans.” Holding her gaze, his hand inched farther up her thigh.

Lost. She was lost. The precipice rushed closer.

He wanted her and he knew she wanted him, knew what his touch was doing to her, how it heated her, and he knew she wanted more of it.

Luke pushed his chair back. Claiming jet lag, he excused them both.

In the entranceway, he shut the double doors behind them, muting the sounds of music and conversation. Illuminated only by flickering candles and fairy lights, he murmured, “Mistletoe,” and then pulled her to him and kissed her. Meg welcomed the press of his hard body against hers, reveled in the taste of him. The man she'd married. His mouth and lips and tongue teased and explored and seduced. Already, she knew the way their mouths fit together, knew the scent of him. He gripped her waist, slid his hands to cup her behind, she answered his pull with an involuntary rocking of her hips.

He shuddered in her arms and broke the kiss to rest his forehead against hers, breathing as heavily as she was. “I made you a promise, Meg. Will you let me keep it?”