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

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.

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