Janice Maynard - Millionaire Under The Mistletoe

‘Pardon…?’

Darcy shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she prevaricated, her eyes sliding from his.

‘Then why are you looking so shifty?’ he wondered, displaying an unforgivable and highly worrying degree of perception.

‘I’ve got that sort of face,’ she snapped back bad-temperedly.

‘You wouldn’t make a poker player,’ he agreed.

‘I was just thinking.’

‘Dare I ask what?’

‘If you must know, I was thinking you don’t strike me as the sort of man who runs away from anything. And even if you did, why on earth would you run away here…?’ Her eyes did a quick, highly critical circuit of the room.

He shook his head and clicked his tongue. ‘Don’t let the Yorkshire Tourist Board hear you say that,’ he chided.

‘I meant this house.’

‘Why not…?’ he drawled.

‘No electricity, I’m guessing poor plumbing…?’ She began to tick off the reasons on her fingers.

‘Diabolical,’ he conceded ruefully. ‘If you want the bathroom I’d wait until you get next door if I were you.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’ She refused to be sidetracked. ‘You still haven’t told me why.’

The imperious angle of his head made it seem as though he was looking down his masterful nose at her—Darcy didn’t relish the sensation.

‘Could that be because I don’t think it’s any of your business…?’

Darcy relished this sensation even less! She caught her breath angrily at the calculated rebuff.

‘Well, that put me in my place, didn’t it?’

A spasm of something close to regret flickered across Reece’s features.

‘Hold on.’ He moved to intercept her before she reached the door. ‘My friend’s builders have been a little less than truthful with their reports to him,’ he explained abruptly. ‘I’d say they’ve fallen behind schedule by a couple of months. I was expecting something less…basic.’

‘Then you’re not staying?’ Of course he’s not, dumbo.

‘I wasn’t…’

Sure she must have misheard his soft response, Darcy raised her startled eyes to his face. ‘What’s changed?’

He was watching her with that infuriatingly enigmatic smile that told her absolutely nothing. ‘I like the neighbours.’

Their eyes met and a great rush of sexual longing crowded out sensible coherent thought. She never figured out how long she stood there staring at him like a drooling idiot.

Does he think all he has to do is click his fingers and I’ll…? Why not, Darcy, girl, that’s all he had to do last night! Her face flushed with mortification.

‘Like the idea of sex on tap, you mean!’

His mouth tightened.

‘Well, let me tell you, if you think last night was anything other than a one-off, think again!’ she advised hotly.

‘Does the idea of a relationship based on sex frighten you, Darcy?’

‘No,’ she told him candidly, ‘it appalls me!’

‘And excites you,’ he interjected slyly.

‘No such thing!’ she blustered.

‘Liar…you want me and we both know it.’

Darcy gave a hoarse, incredulous laugh—talk about Neanderthal. ‘Why not just thump your chest and drag me off to your cave?’

Reece thought the general idea was sound, although he was thinking more along the lines of a nice hotel room with good plumbing and Room Service.

‘It may not be a particularly politically correct thing to say, but—’

‘May?’ she squeaked. ‘There’s no “may” about it!’

‘Tell me, do you regret last night happened? Do you regret we made love, Darcy?’

She lifted her chin, met his eyes scornfully, and opened her mouth. ‘You bet I…’ The blood drained dramatically from her face. ‘I…no,’ she admitted with the utmost reluctance—now would have been a good time to lie.

‘As I was saying, from the first moment I saw you…’

Perhaps the significance of her confession was wasted on him…? Then again, perhaps this was wishful thinking on her part.

‘The first moment you saw me you thought I was a boy. Is there something you’re not telling me…?’

He eyed her with signs of irritation. ‘So, not the first,’ he gritted. ‘We’re not talking about then, we’re talking about now.’

Darcy didn’t want to talk about now—actually, she didn’t want to talk about anything with this infuriating man who seemed to have the knack of making her say incriminating things.

‘And now,’ she announced coldly, ‘I’m going home—or I would be if you’d shift yourself.’ She looked pointedly past his shoulder at the door.

Reece immediately stepped to one side with a fluid grace that made her stomach muscles quiver; perversely she found herself reluctant to take the escape route offered.

Whilst she hovered indecisively he moved to her side. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

Darcy’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking—right?’

‘Actually,’ he confessed, ‘I was hoping you’d let me have the use of your shower, or, better still, a long, hot bath.’

‘My God, but you’ve got a nerve!’ she gasped.

‘I’ve also got several broken ribs, extensive bruising and a bust shoulder, but don’t let that influence your decision.’

Despite herself, Darcy felt a smile forming. ‘We’re not a hotel!’ she told him severely.

‘Is that a no?’

Darcy’s eyes narrowed. ‘It should be.’ He didn’t look surprised by her capitulation, but then, why would he, when you’ve already proved you’re a push-over in every sense of the word? ‘If you say anything to my family about…you know what…’

‘So, Darce…?’

‘So what?’ Darcy waved her secateurs in her brother’s face. ‘If you’re going to get in my way you might as well carry this lot.’ She indicated the large pile of freshly cut holly at her feet.

‘Me!’

My God, but men were hopeless. ‘I suppose you’d just stand there and watch me shift the lot.’ They’d certainly stand by and watch her decorate the house with boughs of festive greenery, not to mention decorate the enormous tree that by family tradition they collected from the local garden centre owned by her godparents.

‘It’s sharp.’

‘It’s holly, Nick; of course it’s sharp.’

‘This sweater cost me a fortune,’ he grumbled, preceding her up the garden path. ‘Where do you want it?’ he asked when they eventually reached the house.

‘Leave it in the porch. Feel like a cup of coffee?’ she asked as her brother followed her into the house.

‘I feel like some answers.’

Darcy, her expression suspicious, watched as he plucked a couple of stray glossy leaves from the fine rib of his sweater.

‘About what?’ she asked, trying not to sound defensive.

‘About what you were doing with our neighbour. I thought you couldn’t stand him.’

‘I can’t,’ Darcy asserted stoutly. ‘The man had a serious accident. What was I supposed to do—say he couldn’t take a shower?’ She turned away, crashing the cups and saucers. ‘Did you say you wanted tea or coffee?’

‘Neither. It would be when you bumped into him while you were walking the dogs that he asked to use our facilities, would it, Darce…?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she agreed quickly, not turning around.

‘Since when, little sister, did you take the dogs for a walk wearing your pyjamas?’

Darcy started and spilt the milk over the work surface.

‘Language!’ her brother reproached.

She shot him a withering glance and wiped her clammy palms on the seat of her jeans before she picked up the cup; the faint tremor in her fingers was barely noticeable—though eagle-eyed Nick had probably spotted it.

‘Since when did you become Miss Marple?’ She laughed lightly as she planted herself on a chair and raised the scalding drink to her lips. Playing it down was the best way to go…