Linda Thomas-Sundstrom - Millionaire Under The Mistletoe - The Playboy's Mistress / Christmas in the Billionaire's Bed / The Boss's Mistletoe Manoeuvres

‘As in, you don’t sleep with anyone else?’

‘As in, neither of us sleep with anyone else,’ he corrected blandly. Darcy’s eyes widened. Was that a hint of possessiveness she was hearing, and, if it was, what did that mean?

‘That would be a major sacrifice.’ Did the man think she cruised the single scene in a bid to add fresh scalps to her belt?

He seemed to find her sarcasm encouraging. ‘It makes sense; we both want the same things…you’re not at the stage where you want a commitment, and I’m past it.’

Darcy gazed up at him, speechless with incredulity. You dear, delicious, deluded man, she thought bleakly.

‘Are you still worried I’m a loose cannon, emotionally speaking?’

I’m the only emotional basket case around here. ‘You seem to have got your life on track very successfully,’ she choked. ‘Your work-life, anyhow.’

Reece’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘Nick again…’

‘He mentioned you didn’t take any time off after the…accident.’

‘Very tactfully put,’ he congratulated her. ‘A certain section of the Press never forgave me for ruining a great tragic story by not falling apart in public. I’m not comfortable with the role of tragic hero,’ he explained, a spasm of fastidious disgust crossing his face. ‘After Joanne died the Press had a field-day. The public appetite for the personal tragedy of people who have a high public profile is almost limitless. They wheeled out the experts to pontificate on the grieving process, interviewed every person I’d ever said good morning to…’

Darcy could feel the pain behind his prosaic words. It must have been agony for a very private man to have his grief dissected and analysed.

‘And when you were working you weren’t thinking.’

Reece shot her a startled look. ‘That was the theory—it didn’t always work,’ he admitted wryly. ‘After Jo’s death the Press pack were their usual rabid selves, and my lack of co-operation only increased their appetite. Of course when I didn’t oblige them by drowning my sorrows in a gin bottle they were even less happy. Chequebook journalism being what it is, any ex of mine can look forward to making a tidy profit—several have.’

Darcy’s face froze. ‘Is that meant to be an incentive?’ she breathed wrathfully.

‘Hell, no, I didn’t mean you!’ he exclaimed—she seemed to be remarkably lacking in avarice.

Darcy’s hands went to her hips as she tossed back her hair. ‘You’d better not.’

‘I’ve made you mad, haven’t I?’

‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ she snapped sarcastically.

‘Let me take you to dinner; we can talk more.’

Darcy didn’t want to talk more—she’d already had more talk than she could cope with. ‘I c-can’t go to dinner with you,’ she stuttered.

‘Why not?’

‘Well, I’ve got a lot to do.’

‘You have to eat.’

‘And it’s Clare’s first night home.’

He looked palpably unimpressed by her clinching argument. ‘The table’s booked for eight-thirty.’ He consulted his watch. ‘That gives you twenty minutes to get ready.’

‘Do people always do what you say?’

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