Under the Millionaire's Mistletoe (15 page)

He looked at her hand but didn't reach for the ring and a glimmer of a smile touched his lips. “You can't give it back to me. I never gave it to you in the first place.”

Oh. Right. So much for that gesture. Feeling like a fool, she went to slip the ring into her pocket. He did reach for her then. He picked up her left hand and slid the ring back into place. “But leave it there for now. I didn't want to make you a pawn, Meg. I wanted to give you something.”

“And to stop Jason getting anything.”

“Mainly that,” he agreed. “And you know what else?”

“What?”

“This isn't how I planned on starting this morning.”

She didn't want to think about what he might mean by that. There were a number of possibilities. All of the ones that sprang to her mind were unwise.

He tugged her closer, pressed a soft, beguiling kiss to her lips. Very unwise.

“Good morning,” he said with a smile once he'd pulled away, his gaze locking on to hers.

All of her tension had melted with just that one kiss. It was a masterful tactic, a potent secret weapon in his arsenal. “Good morning.”
Kiss me again.

But he didn't. “Have you had breakfast? Or is it lunchtime already again?”

“Breakfast, and no, I haven't eaten. But Luke, I think I should go.”

She watched his face, his eyes, but couldn't read his reaction. “Eat first,” he finally said. Not,
No, don't go, Meg,
which she would have been foolish to expect. Sometimes, though, she was foolish. Last night being the most recent example. Making love
to a man she had no future with. Letting herself love him, even just a little.

In the kitchen, he had her sit on a stool at the breakfast bar while he got out a pan and bacon and eggs. “How did you learn to cook?” No man had ever cooked for her.

He passed her a mug of coffee. “Mom got heavily into her charity work from an early age. She wasn't always around a lot. And when I was a teenager I went through several years of being constantly hungry. Appetite's a great motivator. It's not like I can produce a gourmet meal or anything, but I can do the basics. You want a filling, sustaining meal after or before a day's snow skiing or water skiing? I'm your man.”

I'm your man? The expression was depressingly appealing. As was the man himself.

Within a few minutes he'd carried two plates of eggs and crispy bacon to the small oak table in the breakfast nook. He sat at a right angle to her and they ate in a silence that would have been restful were it not for Meg's regret and quiet despair about how soon this was ending.

Beyond the window, snow flakes began to drift and swirl.

She hadn't heard a weather report in days, but Jason had spoken as though more snow was expected. “Thank you.” She stood from the table. “Now I should go.” She had to end it. The sooner the better. Drawn-out goodbyes were too hard, too painful.

“I thought your car was at the mechanic's till tomorrow.”

That was her problem. “It is.” She caught her bottom lip in her teeth. “You could take me to Sally's?”

Silver eyes assessed her. “Is that what you want?”

No, I want you to ask me to stay. To see where this
thing we have leads. Unless this thing we have is all in my head.
“Yes, it's what I want.”

“Because from what I know of you, the things you've told me, the things I've seen, you don't always consult your own needs.”

Meg said nothing. Was she that transparent? She did put other people's needs ahead of her own. That was how she'd been brought up. That was what she was supposed to do, wasn't it?

“You've called her?” he asked after a pause.

“Not yet.” But she would, and could only hope that Sally kept her questions to herself. For her months here she'd pretended she'd had a real marriage. Now, two days after her husband's return, she was seeking sanctuary at her friend's place. But fortunately, in those two months, Sally truly had become a friend.

“What does staying at Sally's achieve?”

Couldn't he just let it go? She sighed and tried to keep her voice neutral. “Distance. Perspective. It gives you your home and your life back.” But mainly, it would stop her doing dumb things like watching his hands as he held his fork or his cup and remembering the feel of those hands on her.

Luke looked toward the window but said nothing.

Meg paused at the doorway. “I'll need an hour to gather up all my things from around the house and finish packing.”

He gave a single abrupt nod and she left the room. It was easy enough to pack up her clothes and belongings from the master bedroom, but she took her time, folding slowly, uncharacteristically uncertain about how best to pack her bags. In the wardrobe, she let herself touch Luke's suits, his sweaters. Beside the bed, she straightened the fishing magazine and the book that she'd left
all this time on the bedside table. She'd read the book—a thriller—her first month here. Imagining a connection with him as she did so. Her fingers turning the same pages his had.

She lingered in front of the wide window. Its view over the lake had always brought her a measure of serenity. It didn't today. Today, the dark turbulent sky matched the oppression she felt.

She finished in the bedroom but needed to check the rest of the rooms. Over the months she'd lived here, she'd managed to spread herself and her bits and pieces throughout the house. She'd have to do a room-by-room search.

At the door to the library, she paused, not sure she wanted to face the scene of last night's…encounter. She toyed with the idea of just buying a new book to replace the half read one she'd left in there, then decided she was being ridiculous. She was a grown woman, for goodness' sake. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Luke sat on the couch, a sheaf of hand-written papers on his lap, his long denim-clad legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He looked up as she entered and the memories came flooding back.

Memories of sights; shadows and contours, and scents; his shampoo, his sweat, the essence of Luke himself and sensation; frantic hands, warm lips on skin, desperate longing and utter completion filled her mind. Images of her own reckless abandon.

“I just,” she cleared her throat, “came to get my book.” She pointed at the book on the small table beside him. He watched her silently as she dashed forward to snatch it up and backed out of the room.

As she shut the door behind her again, she thought she heard him speak. A short phrase, too indistinct for
her to make out.
Show me.
She was imagining things. Nothing to show. No stockings today, no red lace. White and a little lacy, with a small bow between her breasts. But mainly plain. That's who she really was. But for a few forbidden seconds she imagined the things she could wear for him if— She cut off her own thoughts. No ifs. No maybes. They'd had an agreement. She'd lived up to her part of it. And now she was going. Last night was…a bonus. Such an inadequate word. A night's insight into a world of possibilities, of pleasure and promise and wholeness.

Ten minutes later he found her on the stairway, strode up to meet her and took her case from her hand. He carried it down, set it by the Christmas tree in the entrance. “There's more?”

“One.”

She followed him up to the bedroom. Her second case, bulging and heavy, sat at the base of the bed. He looked about the room, his gaze sweeping from the bed to her face. “I'll think of you when I'm sleeping in here.”

“Don't, Luke.”

“Don't think of you when I'm sleeping in here? Or don't tell you that I will?”

“Don't…tell me.” It was only fair that he think of her; she'd thought of him often enough as she'd lain there, and knew she would think of him still wherever she went next. For a time at least. But time healed all, dulled memories and yearnings. Eventually she'd forget him. Forget last night. Move on. She had to.

“I spoke to Mark this morning.”

The simple statement doused the recollections. Mark was his attorney as well as his friend. “And?”

“And he's coming round tomorrow morning. But he
said, whatever we do, we shouldn't sleep together.” His lips twitched.

How could he think this was funny? But his amusement called a response from her, a spark of un-Meg-like mischief. Mark would surely be appalled at how incautious their actions had been. “Did you tell him?”

Luke shook his head. “Didn't want to spoil his weekend. I'll tell him tomorrow.”

“It won't make a difference, you know.” She wanted Luke to know that. “I don't want anything from you. I never did. The fact that we slept together doesn't change that.”

“Nothing, Meg?” He picked up her case as though it was weightless. “When you have money, it seems everyone wants something from you. It's hard to believe that there are people who really don't.”

Maybe he wouldn't truly believe that till she walked away from him.

“Even my mother. She only approved of me and what I did because it meant I could donate money to her causes. And maybe she was right.”

“That wasn't the only reason she approved of you. She loved you.”

“I'm sure she did.” He spoke without conviction.

“She couldn't not have.” Meg spoke with more vehemence than she'd meant to. She half loved him herself and she'd known him only a whisper of time.

Luke's eyebrows lifted. And Meg regretted the intensity of her words. Did they reveal too much? Too much of what? She couldn't even say herself. Her feelings, her heart, were galloping ahead to places her mind knew they shouldn't. They'd passed like, and attraction, passed fascination and warmth, were mired in enthrallment, a deep drugging spell of connection and wanting and
rightness. But she wouldn't let it be anything more than that. It was a spell that could, and would have to, be broken. Because she was leaving.

That was what they'd agreed.

L
uke carried Meg's suitcase downstairs, set it beside the first and said what he'd known for the last hour. “We're going to have to wait till the snow stops and the roads are cleared.” She followed his gaze through the panes of glass bordering the door. Snow had blanketed the pines and the ground outside in white and was still falling.

He didn't know what to expect. Frustration that she couldn't get away, as she so clearly wanted to, or resignation that she was stuck here with him for longer still? He didn't expect her to step toward the door and place her fingertips on the glass, soft wonderment in her expression. “I grew up in southern California. It never snowed.” She glanced at him. “It's so beautiful,” she said, turning back to the window.

As she was, beautiful and serene and unspoiled, like the snow outside.

And always able to find a silver lining.

“It might be. But it's no good for driving in.” He was deliberately brusque because it beat the hell out of getting sappy, of letting the way she affected him on so many levels show. They'd made love last night, but she was going this morning. It was for the best. Too much time with her was blurring the lines between what he ought to do, send her off so that she could find someone less jaded, someone who shared her optimism and her dreams, and what he wanted to do, take her back upstairs to his bed, make her his, hope a winter-long blizzard moved in.

He needed to find some kind of middle ground. “Let's go for a walk.”

Her slow smile of pleasure and approval warmed him. Or maybe all she felt was relief at not being trapped indoors with him. He handed her her coat from the closet. “There are so many things we'll never do together. But we've got this day, whether we like it or not.”

She'd be gone soon enough. A walk in the snow couldn't hurt. Layers and layers of clothing. And it was surely better than being inside with her with little to do except be ambushed by thoughts of making love to her again, sinking into her heat, of watching a different kind of wonderment on her face, of seeing her ecstasy. Which was how he'd spent the morning. Staying out of her way but acutely aware of her.

She was her own kind of delirium. He could no longer pretend his reaction to her was a product of fever, and honesty compelled him to admit that something about her had called to him well before his infection had become serious. The attraction of innocence, of her optimism? Wanting to drench himself in her aura.
Snap out of it.
He shoved his arms into his coat, hands into gloves and his feet into snow boots and stood apart from her,
not so much as looking at her, while he listened to her movements, the rustle of clothing, the zipper on her jacket sliding up, a soft stomp as she pushed her feet into boots.

He opened the door and stepped outside, breathed deeply of the Meg-free air. The door closed behind him. Her shoulder nestled against his. Her scent assailed him. The scent he'd reveled in last night.

She walked ahead, tripping lightly down the steps, her footsteps crunching through snow as she skipped ahead, her brightly colored Sherpa hat bobbing with her footsteps, the tassels by her ears swinging like braids. Already she was committed to an idea that was nothing more than an off-the-cuff suggestion to find a way through the situation. Luke followed, gloved hands in his pockets, his step measured and slow. She stopped, flung her arms wide, tipped her face skyward and spun in a slow circle, embracing the day. Already her nose and cheeks were pink. He wanted to kiss her. Heaven help him. He wanted to kiss those cheeks, those eyes, those lips. “Help me make a snowman.” She crouched down, gathered a ball of snow and began rolling it.

She'd make a great mother. Not something he'd ever thought before about the women he'd been involved with. She had so much of the carefree spirit of a child within her. And yet she'd seen hardship, she'd been confronted with it daily in Indonesia. Seen it and chosen to keep the flame of optimism alight within her. He crouched, too, began rolling a second snowball. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done this, certainly not since he was a child. He stacked his snowball on top of the larger one she'd rolled and began rolling a third for the head.

“Carrot,” she announced, “for the nose. And I don't suppose you have buttons?”

He shook his head.

She headed back to the house. “I'll find something.”

Luke was settling the head in place when Meg came hurrying back with a carrot and two plums. She pressed the carrot and fruit into place, one of the plums shedding a single purple tear. Then she wrapped her scarf around the snowman's neck and pulled a camera from her pocket. “Stand by Frosty.”

“Frosty?”

“It's almost Christmas. What else are we supposed to call him?”

He reached for the camera. “You stand by…Frosty. I'll take your picture.”

She shook her head and the light in her eyes dimmed just a little. “I'd like one of you.”

To remember him by? “For that matter, I'd like one of you.” To remember her by. Even though he had the feeling his problem was going to be in trying to forget her.

She shrugged and stood by the snowman. “Come stand with us. My arm is just long enough to take a picture of us both.”

He stood at her side and taking a glove off, eased the camera from her hand. “My arm's longer.” She pressed up against him and without thinking, he slid his free arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer. The thinking occurred too late, when he inhaled the fragrance of her shampoo. “On three. One. Two. Three.” The shutter clicked.

“One more,” she said. “Just in case.”

“On three again.” This time on three, as the shutter clicked she wriggled in his hold and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

“Let me see it,” she said as though she hadn't just done
that—kissed him as though it was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. Which, perhaps with someone else it would be, but from Meg it hadn't felt ordinary. It had felt like a gift.

Refusing to be distracted, he adjusted the setting to replay and, not looking at the picture, passed her the camera. What he did look at was her. Her breath coming in small misty puffs. Her cheeks and nose getting redder still with the cold. The lips that had moments ago touched his face. So much for not getting distracted.

He dropped all pretence of resolution and cupped a hand to one rosy cheek. Meg looked up, a smile playing about her lips. The smile dimmed and her lips parted as she read his intent. Using his teeth he pulled his other glove off, let it fall to the snow so that he could frame her face with both his hands. Skin against skin.

Slowly, he lowered his head and kissed her.

Properly.

If they only had this day left, if he only had a finite and too-limited number of kisses left, then he wasn't going to let her waste them on his cheek.

The warmth of her mouth was an erotic contrast to the chill of her lips. Her heat, as his tongue teased and tasted, swamped him. She wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him back, softened against him. Pure Meg. Laughter and depth, temptation and innocence. His past, his present and his— Just his past and his present. That's all it would be.

He kissed her still, widening his stance so that he could fit her more closely against him. Kissing her out here was safe. Layers of clothing and a bitter chill to prevent his taking any of them off. But the temptation was so great that he'd likely stay out till they both froze
just for the pleasure of feeling her pliant mouth beneath his, her warmth and sweetness, her eagerness.

It was Meg who broke the kiss, leaning back, her arms looped around his waist so that her hips pressed a little more firmly against his. “I don't think we should.”

He'd think a little more clearly if it wasn't for those hips. He knew all the reasons why she was right. This was ending. And it needed to end cleanly. As cleanly as was possible given what had already passed between them. He didn't want to hurt her. “You're right. But just one more.” He waited for her smile, waited till the indecision in her eyes was swept away by agreement and the flare of hunger as she abandoned reason and caution and lifted her face to his. Meg. His wife. So quick to respond to him. Something primal stirred. More than lust. He chose not to examine it, let desire and pure pleasure take the upper hand.

They were both breathing heavily, their breaths mingling in the air, by the time she again pulled away. And this time she broke all contact, stepping away from his touch, turning to adjust the snowman's carrot nose. “We should go in.”

And this time he knew better than to disagree. Because despite what he'd thought, kissing her out here wasn't safe. Far from it. Kissing the way they had been spoke too openly of more, of picking up where they'd left off last night. Of his falling into her heat. Of staying there.

“Besides, I'm cold.” Her cheeks were flushed.

Luke lifted her hand, pulled a glove off and enclosed her fingers in his. He tucked her hand against his side as he led her back to the house.

Inside again, he hung up their coats. He didn't look at her cases by the front door as he led her toward the living room, knew a moment's hesitation as they passed
the Christmas tree, he wouldn't kiss her inside, knew another moment as they passed the stairs, the stairs he wouldn't lead her up to his bedroom. Finally in the relative sanctuary of the living room, he lit the fire. “Stand here. Warm yourself.”

Unquestioning and not meeting his gaze, she held her hands out to the flames.

Luke left the room, returned in five minutes carrying two cups of cocoa. He didn't know why looking after her gave him such pleasure and satisfaction, but it did. She stood exactly where he'd left her, staring into the flames.

“You're warm enough?” He handed her a cup of cocoa and she nodded as she took it, seemingly intrigued by the marshmallows floating on the top.

“What now?” she asked.

Almost all of the ideas that sprang to mind were unwise. “I have a suggestion.”

Her gaze lifted and narrowed on him.

“Not that.” He laughed. Because if he didn't laugh he'd take the assumption as an invitation. “Not that the idea doesn't have merit.” A slow blush crept up her face. “I'm suggesting a movie.” She quickly covered the flash of disappointment in her gaze. But the flash had pleased the unwise part of him. Like her, he covered the reaction. He slid a movie into the player, picked up the remote. “The snow's stopped. Soon enough the roads will be cleared and you'll leave.” He led her to the couch and sat close beside her, pulling the broad coffee table closer so that he could rest his feet on it. She watched him, waiting for him to continue. He settled into the soft black leather of the couch, pulled her back with him and tried to explain his reasoning. “I never intended to marry. Never thought I would. I don't need other people the way some do.

I'm content on my own.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “So this might be it. My only chance to spend time with my wife. To experience married life. We can be like an old couple who have comfortable routines they've settled into over a lifetime of being together. Cocoa and a movie on a snowy afternoon. We'll argue over chick flick or action movie.” He picked up the remote, pointed it at the TV and the screen flickered to life. “Action movie will win because we watched your chick flick last week.”

As the opening credits rolled and on-screen a car wound its way up a rocky mountainside at night, she nestled a little closer and stretched her legs out alongside his, resting her small feet, in their red socks, beside his.

They were an hour into the movie which had managed to capture only a portion of his awareness away from her, when Caesar started barking. Moments later the doorbell chimed. Luke glanced at his watch, his mood darkening. He stood. “You keep watching. I just have to deal with this.”

She reached for the remote, located the Pause button. “I'll wait.”

“I'm not sure how long this will take. Depends on how much of a fuss he makes.”

“He? Jason?”

Luke nodded, resenting this intrusion, the sullying of his afternoon with her. But he needed to deal with it. He'd been thinking about their earlier conversation, about finding a way to deal with Jason that did justice to his mother.

“I'll wait,” she said, looking away from him as she settled back into the cushioning leather, looking small
and stoic, expecting better of him than he was prepared to give. On-screen, the hero was frozen with a gun pressed to the villain's temple, his eyes bleak.