Janice Maynard - Blame It On Christmas

How could she think about anything else?

Five

Even now, her hands trembled as she dried herself with a huge fluffy towel that smelled of sunshine and ocean breezes. The housekeeper liked pinning the laundry on an old-fashioned clothesline when weather permitted.

Mazie put on soft, faded jeans and a periwinkle cashmere sweater with a scoop neck. A short strand of pearls that had been her mother’s dressed up the outfit enough to meet her father’s old-school dinner requirements.

Sooner or later, J.B. would call about the property swap. She would have to speak to him as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. And she would have to give him an answer.

His offer was generous. There was no denying the truth.

But she didn’t want to give him what he wanted.

Though it was childish and petty on her part, something inside her wanted to hurt him as much as he had hurt her. For J.B., that meant she needed to hurt his business. She was certain he didn’t have a heart or real emotions. All he cared about was stacking up more money and more accolades for his financial acumen.

If he really cared about her , he’d had plenty of years to make up for the past. But he hadn’t.

At last, she could delay no longer. The sun had set in a blaze of glory, and darkness had fallen over the island. She heard a car in the driveway and recognized her brother’s voice as it floated up from the foyer.

This mess with J.B. would have to wait.

She had time. Time to come up with a plan. When she saw him again, she wanted to be in control.

Passionless.

Absolutely calm.

There was a very good chance he had used their interlude in the vault to sway her to his side. Though he had not instigated the encounter, he was intuitive and fiercely intelligent. If he had sensed her weakness where he was concerned, he wouldn’t have hesitated to use it against her. Nor would he in the future.

She had to be on her guard. She couldn’t let her vulnerabilities where J.B. was concerned fool her into thinking he might really care about her.

Troubled and unsettled, she made her way downstairs. Jonathan might quiz her about the incident earlier in the day when she and J.B. had been trapped, but her father would be oblivious. If the subject came up, she would steer the conversation in a safer direction.

She walked into the dining room, ruefully aware that as usual, the full complement of china and silver and crystal adorned the table. A low arrangement of red roses and holly nestled in a Waterford bowl. Despite the fact that there were only three of them, the Tarletons would dine in style.

Grimacing inwardly, she stopped short when she saw the fourth place setting.

“Who’s coming to dinner?” she asked Jonathan, a dreadful premonition already shaking her foundations.

Behind her, a familiar velvet-smooth voice replied.

“It’s me,” J.B. said. “I hope you don’t mind another mouth to feed.”

J.B. was accustomed to women’s flirtatious maneuvers and their attempts to secure his attention. Rarely had he seen a woman with an expression on her face like Mazie’s. She recovered quickly, but for a split second, she was startled, her unguarded look revealing a mixture of dismay and sensual awareness.

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