Millionaire Under the Mistletoe / His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction: Millionaire Under the Mistletoe / His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction

“It’s all under control.”

He dropped his gaze from those teasing fingers. Only to be confronted by the provocative white apron with its starchy ruffles and wished furiously he could as easily control his wild thoughts. Clearing his throat, he managed, “Uh…I need to update you on Adrian.”

Her hands stilled. “Adrian?”

The rest of what she said was drowned out by a burst of laughter. Not even staring at her mouth helped him make out the words—although the soft shape of her lips caused another quake of lust.

Placing a hand under her elbow, he drew her away from the bar. “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”

She came slowly, her arm suddenly stiff under his fingertips.

It didn’t augur well for the chances of assuaging the growing hunger that burned in him. He bent forward and said loudly over the music and surrounding chatter, “Let me introduce you around—we can talk about Adrian later.”

He sensed her hesitation. Flicking him a quick, sideways look, she rested a hand on his shoulder and rose on tiptoe. “I’m not sure I can wait.”

Callum shuddered as her breath warmed his ear with the innocently provocative words. Turning his head, he discovered her mouth not far from his. For a moment he was tempted to throw caution to the winds. To confess that Petra meant nothing to him and that she, Miranda, consumed his every thought. To plunder the soft ripeness of that sweet mouth.

But she withdrew her hand, leaving him bereft. Bringing himself back to the present, he mouthed, “Later. We’ll talk when the party settles down. Right now, I ought to circulate.”

She glanced around at the press of people that made it impossible to talk and nodded, but her irises had darkened with worry.

“Adrian’s fine,” he said. Miranda needed to think more about herself and spend less time fretting about her brother. Into a short lull he said, “Have you got your business cards here?”

She nodded. “In my bag. I’ll get them.”

He gave her a thumbs-up and waited for her to return.

Once it had sunk in that Adrian’s secret was still safe, Miranda’s heartbeat steadied and she started to relax.

Callum introduced her to an older couple, Madge and Tom Murray. On learning that Miranda was responsible for the food, Madge said, “The mince pies simply melted in my mouth. What magic did you use?”

That launched a discussion about pastry that attracted a nearby woman. After several minutes Miranda turned to Callum and Madge’s husband and apologized profusely. “Sorry, I lose time when the talk is about food.”

“Madge likes nothing more.” Tom laughed.

The conversation moved on to favorite dishes and dinner-party disasters. Madge was amusing, and her husband clearly doted on her—even though he confessed to hating oysters which Madge vowed was grounds for divorce.

As everyone laughed, Miranda felt a stab of envy. Even though her father had adored and indulged Flo, there’d never been this sense of kinship and shared laughter between her parents.

The arrival of a tall, dark-haired man who looked vaguely familiar interrupted her thoughts. But the respite proved to be short. The newcomer turned out to be none other than Callum’s brother, Fraser, whose sharp eyes assessed Miranda and missed nothing. Not the fact that his brother stood beside her, nor that his brother’s arm was behind her. His arched brows rose a little, but thankfully he only added to the hilarity in their discussions about food.

“What is your secret food passion, Miranda?” asked Madge.

“Chocolate,” she said. “Rich, dark and slightly bitter.”

“Sounds like Callum,” Fraser said with a sly grin.

Miranda didn’t dare glance at the silent man standing next to her. In an instant those mad moments in his home played through her brain like a movie in slow motion.

Callum hoisting her up and stepping between her thighs. Callum soaping her in the shower afterward. Callum naked and damp with droplets moving over her before pinning her on his bed and…

She became brutally aware of the gentle pressure of his hand resting in the small of her back. And blinked. Hard.

This was Callum Ironstone, for heaven’s sake. Petra’s almost financé. Her brother’s boss. Her sworn enemy. How could she allow such treacherous desires to consume her? How could she even be tempted to respond to his touch? And worse, to every breath he drew? Yet the touch of his hand on her back seemed so…right. What was wrong with her?

“I need to get back to the kitchen,” she said desperately, shifting out from beneath his hand.

“Don’t you dare say anything about a woman’s place,” Madge warned as Fraser looked as if he were about to comment.

He said, “I wouldn’t dare. Mother would send us to our rooms for voicing such heresy, wouldn’t she, Callum?”

“Without a doubt.” The laugh lines around Callum’s eyes crinkled, making him even more attractive.

Miranda escaped before she could be further seduced. Or, heaven help her, admit that she wanted to be seduced.

Drat the man.

The long night was almost over.

Miranda had been clock-watching for the past half hour, waiting for the guests to leave as the medley of cheerful Christmas carols segued into light classics. But she still started when Callum came up silently behind her, invading the refuge she’d sought behind the tall Christmas tree in the lobby where she’d hidden in the hope of avoiding him.

A quick upward glance from where she knelt beside three crates revealed that he’d discarded his jacket, and the white shirt he wore was startling in the dim lobby.

“I’ve been looking for you.” Callum held out a glass of what looked like port. “You’ve done enough tonight, Miranda. Leave packing those glasses and take a break.”

She glanced at the dark liquid swirling in the crystal glass and pictured—too vividly—what had happened the last time she’d indulged in wine under his roof. Her pulse quickened, causing blood to rush to her head and a wave of dizzy desire.

“No, thanks.” Miranda fought to control her physical reaction. Port would only cause her defenses—already vulnerable—to crumble more rapidly. Earlier he’d promised to catch her later and talk about Adrian; no doubt that was why he had been looking for her. Not to seduce her—contrary to her wild imaginings.

He shrugged and took a sip of his wine. The lights of the tall Christmas tree overhead flashed, creating a surreal glow of silver, and for a moment she was riveted. His tie had been abandoned and the pulse in the hollow of his throat beat visibly.

She stared transfixed.

Then he surprised her.

“Tonight was a success. I want to thank you, Miranda.”

His eyes were warm, the blue muted, making her wish they’d met under different circumstances—that he wasn’t the man responsible for her father’s death.

“I only did what you employed me to do,” she said stiffly as he set his glass down on the white marble floor beside her. She ducked her head, determined not to reveal her impossible thoughts, and carried on stacking empty glasses into their crates, using the occasional ting of crystal as a warning bell to keep herself from falling under his thrall.

“No, you did far more than expected. The Christmas crackers were a success, and so were the edible Christmas tree decorations.”

His voice came closer and she spoke quickly, desperate to keep him at bay. “I thought your guests might like something to take home.”

“Madge Murray was raving about the chocolate angels.”

“Yes, I gave her extras.” She raised her shoulders and let them fall with what she hoped looked like a careless shrug. “My mother taught me how to make them when I was a little girl.” Flo had always had the ability to bake fairy-tale items; it was the ordinary things like lunch and dinner that were beyond her.

At the brush of Callum’s fingers under her chin, her head came up in a hurry. He pinned her under his ferociously bright gaze. As the Christmas lights flickered overhead, she imagined the glitter in his eyes revealed emotion. But the words he spoke negated that fancy.

“Her husband is one of our most important customers.”

The hope she’d glimpsed died. Of course, for Callum everything was always about work. Never about emotion. Or fairy tales. He was ready to marry for corporate convenience. Unlike her, he would never believe in love…or Christmas wishes. She tried not to let her disappointment show—and hated herself for wishing it had all been about so much more, and that the emotion she’d imagined she’d glimpsed had been real.

She drew away. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

“Very pleased.”

“Good.” She got to her feet. “Now I’d better get these glasses to the collection point. The company I hired them from will be here soon to fetch them.”

Callum stared at the woman with frustration. He wasn’t interested in the damn dirty glasses. Why couldn’t she be one of those kittenish women who batted her eyelids and cooed her thanks? How he would revel being on the receiving end of her gratitude…

He took in the creamy skin, the soft, lush mouth and desire spiked through him.

Dark. Driving. Relentless.

Callum gave himself a mental shake. Not going to happen. Not tonight. Not ever. So he’d better get over this…this fascination she held for him.

Even Fraser had noticed.

Hell.

Would he ever be able to get that night she’d spent in his bed out his head? Or stop thinking about how to get her back there and make love to her all over again?

He must be crazy.

Especially as she was making it clear as the crystal she was packing away that she had no intention of even dating him. All night she’d been running from him, apprehension in her eyes. And how could he blame her? He’d been reduced to using his company functions as a way to spend time with her.

Once the festive season was over it would be some time before he could set up catering engagements for her without arousing her suspicion. He would have no excuse to see her, not unless he took to frequenting The Golden Goose.

He grimaced. That would be desperate measures indeed.

“What’s wrong?”

He straightened at the sound of Miranda’s voice. “Wrong?”

“You’re frowning.”

“I’ve no reason to frown—it’s been a very successful evening.”

“Good.”

He told himself he’d find another way to keep in touch with her. “Oh, earlier I wanted to tell you that I spoke to your brother.”

A subtle tension shimmered through her. If he hadn’t been so aware of every nuance and change in her expressive eyes, he probably wouldn’t even have noticed.

“After I flew in from New York I gave him the application forms for the two Ironstone Insurance scholarships and told him that I’d nominate him.” His nomination would carry a lot of weight with the deciding committee, but she didn’t need to know that. It would only make her believe he was merely giving charity in another guise.

Yet for once, instead of objecting, the tension seemed to drain out of her. “If Adrian could get a scholarship to university—or even a job for next year—it would be such a relief.” Her lashes fluttered down. “Thank you.”

It must strangle her to have to thank him for anything. He reached out and touched her arm, intending to tell her that she owed him no thanks—that it was the least he could do.

And froze.

Here was the opportunity he’d been looking for. So perfect—and he’d almost missed it. He could use her brother as a way to keep in touch—arrange meetings with her to talk about him.

All to get into Miranda’s pants again, he scoffed at himself.

Was this what he had been reduced to? Miranda’s brother was almost a man and Callum had always tried to treat him like an adult. If Adrian found out Callum was meeting Miranda to discuss him, the bond he’d been working so hard to forge with the youth would be broken.

But right now he couldn’t care about that.

Unless he offered Adrian a permanent position at Ironstone Insurance or called in a favor to make sure her brother was offered a university scholarship, there would be no more reason to see Miranda.

No excuse to lure her into his bed…

He let the thumb resting on her arm stroke along the fabric of her dress sleeve and heard her breath catch.

Not totally unaffected then.

He couldn’t help remembering how soft her naked skin had been against his, how sweet she’d tasted. His gaze rested on her mouth.

So passionate.

This craving for her confounded him. He’d been right to break it off with Petra—he couldn’t marry any woman while he felt like this. And despite Miranda’s determined indifference, he suspected she wanted him every bit as badly. The passion she’d revealed the night they’d made love couldn’t be feigned.

If only her father’s death didn’t stand between them.

“Miranda, about your father…”

The lights flashed and he read anger in her eyes. “You should never have—”

“I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she said.

She was right. He’d been determined to prove how tough he was, how merciless. The corporate tycoon. It was something he’d have to live with all his life.

“You’re right.”

“Thank you.”

For a long moment he thought she was going to say more.

But instead she said with forced cheerfulness, “Christmas will soon be here. I’ll just have to wish that everything will come right for Adrian in the coming year.”

He blinked. “You think Christmas wishes work?”

She tipped her head up and stared at the tree above them. “I think one can dream…and wish…and hope.”

Miranda was a romantic. For a moment he wished for her sheer, blind optimism. Unable to help himself, he asked, “What do you look forward to most at Christmas?”

“I love spending it with my family. I love—” She broke off. “You don’t want to hear all this.”

“But I do.” And he found he was telling the truth. “Tell me what you want to see when you wake up on Christmas morning.”

“The best gift?” She gave him a funny little twisted smile. “Well, I can’t have that. So I’ll take snow. As much as I love the lights in the city at Christmas, I love snow more. And it doesn’t often snow in London for Christmas. Sleet and sludge, yes, but not pure, pristine snow that crunches underfoot in the early morning and yours are the first footprints of the day.”

He heard the longing. “You miss the country, don’t you?”

“Particularly at this time of the year.”

The lights in the Christmas tree flashed again, revealing a wistful, faraway expression he knew she’d have hated him to see.

“I remember as a child getting up on Christmas morning, going with Adrian to check our stockings on the mantelpiece. Then I’d go and see my pony—take the biggest carrots I could find and slices of apple.” She gave a whisper of a sigh. “The warm smell of horse and hay inside the stables after the crisp air outside…that must be one of my favorite Christmas memories. And by the time I got back to the house my parents would be awake and we’d all gather under the tree.”

Her lashes lay in dark crescents against her cheeks, and her mouth curved up in a smile that made an unfamiliar ache tighten around his chest.

“A real tree.” She gestured to the Christmas tree that towered over them. “Not a fake monstrosity with fake snow like this one.”

Callum nodded, feeling a strange affinity for her. When he was growing up, his family had always decorated a pine tree, too. And each year the scent had filled his home along with the sweet aromas of baking biscuits. They still shared Christmas in the country every year.

He wanted to offer her a chance to relive the Christmas she dreamed of. He wanted to invite her home to spend Christmas in the country with him at Fairwinds. Although he suspected she would refuse his invitation.

“Miranda—”

She reached up to straighten a silver bow on the company tree. The movement pulled her dress tight across her breasts and his breath caught in his throat. He forgot what he’d been about to say. Forgot everything except the crazy hunger she made him feel.

Unable to resist, he hooked an arm around her and pulled her close. Then he brushed his lips across hers very gently.

The air grew still.

Callum wanted to kiss her again with all the pent-up passion she’d kindled in him and sweep her off her feet before carrying her to his home.

Instead he set her away from him.

She touched her mouth with two fingers. “What was that for?”

There had to be a reason for him to kiss her? Callum gave her a long look. Instead of collapsing into his arms like most women would have, the suspicion in her eyes deepened.

Finally he said, “Blame it on the mistletoe.”

She glanced upward and a puzzled frown creased her brow. “But there isn’t any.”

Exactly. He needed no excuse to kiss her—the fire she’d ignited burned with an unquenchable fury—but Callum doubted she’d appreciate his honesty if he told her that.

Chapter Six

Miranda didn’t appreciate the way Callum was messing with her head. That feather-of-a-kiss-that-had-hardly-been-a-kiss had shaken her.

Badly.

And even a busy weekend at The Golden Goose failed to give her respite to regain her composure. All because the man in question turned up at the Goose on Saturday and ordered lunch.

Miranda had known about Callum’s arrival in minutes. Kitty, the youngest, prettiest and flightiest of the waitresses, had rushed into the kitchen to share that the most gorgeous guy she’d seen in her life had just walked in.

“Tall, dark and with periwinkle-blue eyes,” she gushed. “He looks like a movie star.”

“In the Goose?” But despite her skepticism Miranda’s heart stopped in horror. She steadied herself. That description could apply to thousands of men. Well, maybe not thousands. But it didn’t mean…

Yet she hadn’t been able to resist taking a peek—just to make sure.

Only to discover it was Callum.

He sat alone at a small round table to the side of the gas fireplace. In the middle of the day the fire flickered, but the flames still gave off much-needed warmth. Callum’s dark head was bent over the menu, but he looked up almost as though he’d sensed her stare.

She drew quickly out of sight, hissing at her stupidity under her breath.

While Mick muttered about chefs who had too little work, Miranda hurried to rescue a batch of brandy snaps from the oven before they burnt to crisp and, after rolling them deftly around the handle of a wooden spoon, set about piping whipped cream flavored with Grand Marnier into the now-crisp tubes.

What did Callum want? Why was he here?

Her hands shook as she squeezed the piping bag and cream oozed everywhere. Which made her want to kill him!

“He wants steak.” Kitty bounced into the kitchen. “Rare. No sauce. And battered onion rings. A real, live carnivore.”

The two other girls giggled. “I’ll take him some water,” one said.

“Maybe he wants extra onions.” And the second followed her out for a closer inspection.

Miranda stopped herself from rolling her eyes. For the next thirty minutes she was aware of the giggles as the waitresses vied to serve him, and it irritated her beyond belief.

The final insult came when Kitty delivered his request to convey his thanks in person to the dessert chef.

All too conscious of Gianni glowering, Miranda allowed herself to be dragged out into the limelight, noting Callum’s lack of surprise when she appeared.

Of course he’d known she was here.

Resisting the urge to drop a facetious curtsy, she smiled sweetly. “I’m so pleased you enjoyed your meal.”

His gaze rested on her lips, causing them to tingle, before lifting to study her. “What are you doing for Christmas this year?”

Miranda gave a small sigh. “What I always do—spend it with my family.”

For a moment she thought he was going to ask her something, but he only said, “My mother has a passion for brandy snaps, and these are quite the best I’ve ever eaten.”

His sincerity took her aback. He was looking at her like he wanted to devour her. Miranda couldn’t have spoken if she’d tried.

“She would love these.”

“I’ll let you have the recipe,” she croaked at last.

Tipping his head to one side, he considered her. “I’d rather you made them for her.”

Miranda thought about it, her heart quickening. What did he mean? That he wanted her to meet his mother? Then common sense kicked in. Unlikely. “But she doesn’t live in London. The biscuit would go soggy. They should be eaten fresh.”

He was shaking his head. “It was a dumb idea.”

“What was?” she asked, puzzled, wondering what she’d missed.

“Coming here!” He gave her a lopsided smile. “But next time Mother is in town, I will hold you to that offer.”

His smile widened, holding no edge or hint of seduction, and for the first time Miranda got a glimpse of the man his family saw.

And it was a different person from the man she’d grown to loathe. This man she could like. Yet she was no closer to knowing why he’d come today. And she’d turned down his offer to go to Les Misérables with him tonight—and maybe get to know him better. There was no point wondering if Petra was enjoying herself. Thay way lay the path to heartache. She’d sensibly refuse his invitation. The man was an enigma—she would never understand him.

The rest of the weekend was an anticlimax with Gianni stamping and snorting like a bull and glaring balefully across the kitchen at Miranda. One of the girls must have told him what Callum had said, and he hadn’t liked it.

Thankfully, when Miranda finally got home late in the rainy cold of Sunday night there were no flowers to welcome her and remind her of her disturbing nemesis that she couldn’t seem to keep out of her life.

With Adrian still out, the little terrace house seemed empty. Entering the dining room, Miranda saw Flo hurriedly sliding a window envelope under a file.

“Another bill?” she asked, picking up her pace as she crossed to where her mother sat at the table. “I thought I’d paid everything.”

“No, no, don’t you worry about this, darling.”

The vagueness in her mother’s tone sharpened Miranda’s interest. “Let me see—I might have paid it already.”

“This is mine.”

“Yours?” She looked at her mother in surprise.

Flo normally gave all her bills to Miranda to pay—she was hopeless at organizing her finances. Though it tended to require the conjuring up of money from nowhere—often hard-worked overtime—to meet them.

Miranda felt sick. “Please, not more overdue bills that I don’t know about.”

Snagging up the corner of the file, Miranda caught sight of the name of an exclusive department store on the bill under the envelope. “Hemingway’s?”

Guilt glinted in Flo’s dark eyes. “I needed a new coat.”

Miranda pulled out the piece of paper and then blanched. “What was it? Mink?”

“Don’t be silly, darling.” Her mother whipped the bill out from between her nerveless fingers. “There were also a few fripperies for my winter wardrobe. Your father wouldn’t have wanted to see me dressed in rags.”

“Dad isn’t here anymore—and we don’t have his income.” She spied another bill from the same store, dated the previous month. “Pans? You told me your friend Sorrell gave those to you.”

Her mother flushed, an ugly stain on her pale skin. “I’ll deal with the bills, Miranda.”

“How?”

Putting her hands on her hips, Miranda considered her mother. Apart from the allowance Callum paid her mother—the amount Miranda had been led to believe came from the carefully invested residue of her father’s estate—Flo had no income.

“I’ll make arrangements, darling. Don’t worry about it. I’m not useless.”