Under the Millionaire's Mistletoe (3 page)

A
few phone calls were all it took to give Sam all of the information he needed on Cameron Leather. Yes, the company was in trouble, but it wasn't in its death throes just yet. Dave Cameron had expanded when he should have been more cautious, but with a little judicious input of capital, the company would be back on its feet.

Didn't make him feel any better to realize that. All it told him was that the odds of Anna being exactly as mercenary as he suspected her to be just went a lot higher.

He leaned back in his desk chair and stared out the window at the backyard. Working from home had its perks. Even though Hale Luxury Autos had a full-size shop on the outskirts of town, Sam also had a specially built garage here at home. At the shop, his master mechanics, artists and upholsterers had free rein and he rarely stepped in. Here, he had his own setup and
indulged himself whenever he felt the need to get his hands dirty.

His gaze fixed on the manicured lawn and garden that ran down a slope to the ocean below. Sam took a minute to realize just how far he'd come. He'd started out small, building custom cars for people with more money than taste.

Now, Sam had people flocking to him for his expertise and he spent most of his time trying to rein in the near-constant stream of paperwork involved.

“Mr. Hale?”

“Yes, Jenny?” He turned when his housekeeper opened the door and called to him.

“I made the call. Ms. Cameron will be here at one.”

He smiled. “Excellent. Thanks.”

When she left again to go back to the main house, Sam let his smile widen as he imagined the look on Anna's face when she arrived to give Mrs. Soren an estimate, only to find out
he
was the one who had initiated the call. She wouldn't be happy, but Sam needed to know her. If only to prove to himself he'd been right to break up her and his brother.

Smiling to himself, Sam stepped out of the multi-bayed garage. He studied the view and let his mind wander to the green-eyed redhead whose memory was torturing him.

 

“The living room is this way.”

Anna followed the fiftyish woman down a parquet hallway to an arched doorway that opened into a huge room. Clearly masculine, the decor was mostly big leather chairs, heavy tables and brightly colored rugs scattered across the inlaid wood floor. A stone fireplace
took up most of one wall and floor-to-ceiling windows displayed a view of the wide front lawn.

A huge, beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood in one corner, with wrapped gifts beneath it. Which reminded Anna just how much she needed this job.

“It's lovely,” she said, meaning it. But she couldn't help wondering, “This is your husband's lair, isn't it?” she asked with a smile.

“My husband?” The woman laughed and waved one hand. “Oh, my, no. My husband died twenty years ago. This is my employer's house.”

She was the housekeeper? Anna frowned and looked around the room, as if searching for a hint to the owner's identity. When she found nothing, she said, “I'm sorry. I thought you wanted to talk to me about painting a mural in here.”

“No,” a deep, familiar voice said from behind her. “Mrs. Soren made the call, but I'm the one who wants to hire you.”

Anna went completely still. A setup. And she'd walked right into it. Turning around slowly, she looked up into Sam's blue eyes and, keeping her voice cool, she said, “I'm sorry. There's been a mistake.”

He scowled at her. Small consolation, she knew, but she was pleased that she'd disrupted whatever plan he'd concocted.

Shifting his gaze to the other woman in the room, he said, “That's all, Jenny. Thanks.”

“Yes, sir,” she answered and nodded at Anna as she left.

“You had her lie for you. That's just low.”

“She didn't lie.”

Anna tipped her head to one side and tapped the toe
of her boot against the floor. “So you want to hire me? Please.”

His eyebrows arched high on his forehead. “Are you always this crabby with a prospective customer?”

“You're not a customer, prospective or otherwise,” she said firmly and clutched her portfolio closer to her chest.

He walked into the room and Anna couldn't help but notice how at home he looked in faded black jeans and the dark red T-shirt that clung to his broad chest. His black work boots hardly made a sound as he walked across the deep blue and green rug to stand in front of her.

“Business that good, then?” he asked. “You can turn down customers?”

“In my shop, I can do what I like.”

“True, but seems shortsighted to turn down a job just because you're embarrassed about kissing me.”

“What?”
Her eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “Are you delusional?”

He smirked. “You seem a little sensitive.”

“I'm not sensitive. I'm insulted.”

“Don't know why. It was a great kiss.”

True. Damn it.

“Look,” Anna said, clinging to every stray fiber of her dignity, “we're wasting each other's time here and even if you can afford it, I can't.”

“You agreed to give me an estimate on a wall mural,” he reminded her. “The least you can do is keep your word.”

Anna glared at him and the dirty look she gave him had zero effect on the man. If anything, he looked supremely pleased with himself. Well, fine. She'd keep the appointment and then when she quoted him an
outrageous price, he'd tell her no and she'd leave. All she had to do was take control of this situation.

“Fine, then,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

He gave her a wide smile that tugged at something deep inside her. The man was a walking hormone party. Anna gave herself a stern, if silent, talking-to. There would be no more kissing. No more flirting. No
anything
with Sam Hale.

“Actually,” he said, spreading his arms wide to encompass the room, “I'd prefer to hear your opinion. What kind of murals do you usually suggest?”

Anything would look fabulous in the opulent room, but Anna wouldn't give him the satisfaction of saying so. She gave a quick look around and fixed her gaze on the wide, empty space above the fireplace.

“A window and garden scene would look nice there.”

“A
window?
”

“Trompe l'oeil,” she told him patiently.

“Optical illusion?”

“You could call it that,” she said and in spite of what she was feeling, she found herself warming to her theme. She loved faux finishing. Loved the trompe l'oeil murals that mimicked reality so completely, she'd once seen a man try to pick up a marble that had been painted onto a tabletop.

“A close translation of the French name means
trick the eye.
With the right artist, you can pretty much remodel your entire home without lifting a hammer.”

“And you're the ‘right' artist?”

“I'm really good,” she said simply.

“I bet you are.”

She flushed a little and hated herself for it. But she
would defy any woman in the world to remain completely cool and unruffled with
this
particular man focusing all of his attention on her.

He watched her. “Explain what you mean about the painting.”

She didn't know what he was up to, but as long as she was there anyway, she couldn't resist talking about her favorite kind of work. “For instance, on that long wall over there, I could paint a set of French doors opening onto an English garden. It would look real enough to convince you that you could step outside and smell the flowers.” She looked back at him. “Or I could give you an ocean scene complete with crashing waves and seabirds overhead. I could really, within reason, give you anything you wanted.”

Oh, boy, that had come out a lot different than it sounded in her head. He must have been thinking the same thing, because something hot and wicked flashed in his eyes.

“And what do you charge for this amazing service?”

She cleared her throat, inhaled sharply and told herself that he didn't really care. He wasn't actually interested. So she gave him a price well above what she would normally charge for a mural.

He didn't even blink.

“I'll give you twice that if you can have it done before Christmas.”

“Are you serious?” He couldn't be, she told herself. This was all part of some twisted game. He'd brought her here for his own purposes, whatever they were, and now he was dangling a great job in front of her like bait.

The hell of it was, it was working.

“Yes, I'm serious,” he told her, and walked toward her with slow, measured steps.

“Why?” Anna stared up into his deep blue eyes and didn't flinch from the gleam of passion she saw shining at her. “Why would you hire me? Why would you offer so much money?”

“Does it matter?”

She wrestled with that question for a second or two. Her mind raced with arguments, pro and con. One part of her wanted to throw his offer in his face and march out the door, head held high. The other, more practical side of her was shrieking,
Are you crazy? Take the job!

In a couple more silent seconds, she had already tallied up the bills she could pay if she took the job he offered. It had been a slow couple of months in the world of faux finishing and with this one job, she could cover her expenses for another two months. Not to mention the Christmas presents she could buy if she took this commission.

The downside was obvious.

She'd be spending a lot of time with a man who both infuriated and excited her. Who needed that kind of irritation on a daily basis? Not to mention the fact that her body tended to light up like a fireworks display whenever he was within three feet of her. That couldn't end well.

“So what'll it be?” he asked, a sly smile on his face as if he knew she was arguing with herself. “Stay or go?”

His satisfied expression told Anna that he was completely sure of himself. He thought he had her pegged. That she was just another woman ready to grab the money and run.

She should go. She knew it. She'd love to be able to look into his eyes and say, “No, you can't buy me.” But
as satisfying as that sounded, she knew she wasn't going to walk away.

She couldn't afford to.

“Fine,” she muttered. “I'll take the job.”

“Thought you might.”

To keep from saying something she would no doubt regret, she bit her tongue. The man was more irritating than he was gorgeous, which was really saying something. She'd work for him, Anna told herself, but she wasn't going to let him insult her for her trouble either.

“Just so you know,” she told him with a patient tone she was proud of, “I'm only taking this job because I really need the work. But so we're clear…I don't like you.”

His eyebrows winged up. “And yet, you're staying. So money talks?”

Make that even
more
irritating than he was gorgeous. He'd already told his younger brother to dump her because he thought she was after his money. Now, he was no doubt convinced that he'd been right about her, which just made her furious.

“Easy to say money doesn't matter when you have plenty of it,” she pointed out.

“Yeah, it is.” Then he said, “Not the point of this, though. The point is, even though you hate me personally, you're more than willing to take my money.”

“Less willing every second,” she muttered.

“That I don't believe.”

Anna narrowed her gaze on him and asked, “Are you trying to make me quit before I've even started?”

“Nope, just waiting to see how long you could hold on to your temper.”

“Not much longer,” she admitted. Taking a breath, she said, “If it's all right with you, I'll start tomorrow.”

“Fine. I'll expect you at eight.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Well,” she said after a simmering few seconds, “this is childish.”

“I'm sort of enjoying it.”

“Color me surprised,” she told him. “But believe it or not, some of us have other, more important things to do.”

He grinned and Anna took a breath. Why was it
this
man who got to her so easily? Where was the indifference she'd felt for his brother? Why did the
wrong
brother feel so right?

If this was some sort of test of her morals, Anna thought, she was already failing badly. It was taking every ounce of will she possessed to keep from finding more mistletoe and dragging this man under it. She didn't want to be interested, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

How was she ever going to be able to hold her ground against Sam Hale?

 

She had
It's a Wonderful Life
playing on the TV, and the lights on the tree were the only illumination in the room. Anna took a sip of her cold, white wine and told herself to relax already.

Unfortunately, it wasn't working. Her mind kept turning to Sam Hale and what he might be up to. Since leaving his house that afternoon, she'd been trying to figure him and his plan out. So far, she had nothing.

When the doorbell rang, she groaned, pried herself off the couch and went to answer it. One glance through the peephole had her briefly resting her forehead against the
door. Then she surrendered to the inevitable and opened it. “Hi, Clarissa.”

Her father's wife scurried inside, fingers clutching at her shoulder bag. She glanced around the room, frowned, then reached over to flip the light switch. Anna blinked at the sudden blast of light.

“Oh, Anna,” Clarissa said, “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for behaving so foolishly at the party. I didn't mean to embarrass you or anything.”

“It's okay. I understand.”

“I know you do, dear.” The older woman patted her hair as if searching for a strand out of place. She was doomed to disappointment. Clarissa's short, bright red hair was, as always, perfect. “I'm just so worried about your father.”