Emilie Rose - Millionaire Under the Mistletoe / His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction

He was despicable. She shifted farther into the corner of the couch. “Yes or no?”

He shook his head.

The phone on the highly polished desk rang twice before stopping abruptly. Callum glared across at it, then back to her. “The meeting is ready to continue. I have to go.” But he didn’t rise. “If you change your mind, call me.”

“I won’t,” she stated with absolute conviction. “And don’t invite me out again. Call Petra—she’s still the woman you plan to marry.”

There was no doubt in her mind that Petra would accept him.

Poor thing.

“If you say so.” His eyes cooled further. “So why did you come?” His hard mouth bore no trace of a smile.

She hesitated, aware of the chasm that yawned between them, much wider than the distance that separated them on the sofa. Adrian had asked her to be nice. This didn’t look like a man who would give her—or Adrian—the benefit of the doubt.

But she had to try. “How’s Adrian getting—” She broke off.

“Adrian? Getting along?” His gaze narrowed. “He’s doing very well. That’s why you came to see me? Because of your brother?”

The warmth he’d greeted her with had vanished. The smiling eyes had been replaced with blue chips of ice.

She backtracked hastily. “No, no, I just asked.” Now he must think her a total mother hen. Forcing a conciliatory smile, she said, “I’m pleased he’s getting on well.”

Callum rose to his feet. “I’ve been intending to suggest that he apply for one of the scholarships that Ironstone offers.” His cold gaze swept her. “And before you leap to any nasty conclusions, this is an opportunity offered to any school-leavers who work for us to go to university. I don’t even administer it.”

She’d done it now. She’d made him mad. And if she breathed a word about the car Adrian had crashed, her brother would not only lose his vacation job and the chance of a permanent position, he’d also lose all chance of a scholarship—and it would be her fault.

To placate him, she said, “It would be the answer to my prayers.” And it was true. The thought of Adrian studying toward a career. Having a chance of a successful future…

Except it would come from the Ironstone family. But she could live with that. She certainly wouldn’t stand in Adrian’s way.

Yet before she could say anything further, Callum continued, “So if you didn’t come to accept my invitation and you didn’t come see me about your brother, why are you here?”

Help. She sucked in a deep breath. There was only one thing left to say—sure, it meant she’d have to eat crow, but she could do that.

“I wanted to thank you for giving me the chance to cater for you.” Her stomach heaved. “I’ve already had a call as a result. Look.” She dug into her bag and pulled out a few of the business cards she’d had printed up yesterday. “One of your dinner guests on Saturday asked for a card. I didn’t have any. So I’ve had some printed up. What do you think?” She couldn’t restrain the lilt of pride in her voice as she passed him a card.

He studied it. “Not bad. Do you have any more?”

“Why?”

“I might be able to hand them to prospective clients.” He shot her a quick glance. “In fact, can you cater a Christmas cocktail party?” Callum rattled off a sum per head. “In the boardroom here? This Friday?”

Embarrassment squirmed through her. “That wasn’t a hint. I didn’t mean for you to give me more—”

“The caterer we booked has fallen ill. Do you want the job? Or do I get Biddy to find someone else?”

Miranda considered Adrian’s predicament. Their tight finances. “Perhaps,” she said cautiously.

A rap on the door had Callum stepping away from her. “Yes or no?” He parodied her question from earlier, and Miranda flushed.

Biddy popped her head around the doorjamb. “The copies are done, and everyone’s finished their coffee—they’re waiting for you.”

He moved toward the door. “So what will it be?”

Ignoring the receptionist’s curious glance, Miranda blew out the breath she’d been holding. “Yes.”

The boardroom was packed.

Everywhere Callum looked people held cocktail glasses, while they talked and laughed. Waitresses in long, red sequined dresses wearing Santa hats with fur trim offered around trays of snacks. And behind the hum of conversation he could hear the festive notes of “Ding Dong Merrily on High.”

He should’ve been pleased. Ecstatic, in fact. Yet all he could do was glare in increasing frustration at the woman who’d pulled it all off.

Miranda had chosen to wear fishnets.

Callum really hadn’t needed his brother, Fraser, to point that out to him. She wore black. A snug dress that, unlike the V-neck of last week’s dress, had a high collar suited to a nun and should’ve looked seriously sedate. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she busied herself around the buffet table piled with mince pies and pots of whipped cream, repositioning the posies of poinsettias tied with gold bows and lit up with red candles.

Did the fishnets, too, end at the tops of her thighs?

A bolt of raw lust stabbed him at the memory of stroking the soft skin of her inner thigh. Had she worn them deliberately to drive him out of his mind?

As for that damn frilly white apron that tied with the great white bow behind her back, begging him to yank it loose…

Ah, hell.

“Back off,” Callum growled as he caught Fraser smiling at Miranda for the second time in less than five minutes.

“I’m pulling rank,” Fraser murmured. “I’m older. Go away.”

Callum forced his attention from the woman who had him tied up in mental knots. “Forget it,” he told his brother grimly. “That doesn’t work anymore.”

“You’re warning me off!” Fraser’s grin widened as he searched Callum’s face. “I thought you were already attached.” Turning his head, Fraser scanned the room. “Although I haven’t seen the princess here tonight.”

“Petra doesn’t like it when you call her Princess,” he said pompously, and spoiled the effect by slicing his brother a dirty look.

“Does your lack of answer mean she was supposed to be here?”

“No.”

Callum shuddered at the memory of the disastrous call he’d made from New York. He should have ended it with Petra a week ago. It hadn’t been fair to keep Petra on a string, not while this hunger for Miranda ate at him like acid. Petra hadn’t said much, but he knew he’d hurt her. It’s not you, it’s me —he’d even used that old corny line. You deserve better. She did—he should’ve waited to break it off with her in person.

So he’d organized a string of pearls to be delivered to her, more to assuage his guilt than to offer consolation. And he was grateful Petra wasn’t here tonight—although he’d noted Gordon’s appearance with some relief.

Callum knew he probably had Petra to thank for that. The woman had style.

So why the hell couldn’t it be Petra he craved with this deep and desperate desire?

“She’s got more sense than I credited her with if she dumped you.” Fraser sounded almost satisfied.

Narrowing his gaze, Callum studied his brother’s mocking smile. He didn’t correct his brother’s mistaken belief that it was Petra who’d done the ditching. Instead he said with brotherly candor, “I don’t think she likes you much. Kind of like Miranda—who hates my guts.”

“Miranda?” Fraser’s suddenly blank expression gave nothing away. “Wasn’t Thomas Owen’s daughter named Miranda?”

Without meaning to, Callum glanced toward the woman who’d been tormenting his nights. “Yes.”