Millionaire Under The Mistletoe: The Playboy's Mistress / Christmas in the Billionaire's Bed / The Boss's Mistletoe Manoeuvres

Whilst it might have been wiser to leave him in ignorance, given the dangerous sexual chemistry in the air, she wanted the satisfaction of establishing herself as a mature woman of the world in his eyes. Perhaps for once in her life she wanted danger…? Her eyes slid over his tall, rangy frame before coming to rest on his face, and she gulped; he registered high enough on the danger scale to satisfy the most reckless risk-taker, she conceded.

‘Nineteen…twenty maybe.’

‘I’m twenty-seven.’

His chin came up and the dark veil of lashes lifted from his high, chiselled cheekbones. His narrowed eyes raked her face. ‘Not possible.’

‘Furthermore,’ she continued, breathless after his intense scrutiny, ‘I’m not some teenage virgin.’ Like he really wanted to know that, Darcy.

‘What are you, then?’

‘Your best hope of getting home, mate.’

His mobile lips quirked; his expression was still rapt. ‘I’d not forgotten that. I was actually wondering what you do when you’re not doing the angel-of-mercy act.’

A wistful expression flitted across her face. ‘At this moment I should be skiing.’

‘But you were lured away by the glamour of deepest, darkest Yorkshire?’

His sneering irony brought an annoyed frown to her face. She took any criticism of her beloved Dales very personally.

‘There was a family crisis,’ she told him tersely.

‘So they called you.’ That would figure.

Darcy resented his tone. ‘I don’t mind,’ she flared. ‘Who else would they call?’

‘You tell me. My recollection is a bit cloudy, but there didn’t seem any shortage of family members from what I saw.’

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she mumbled. ‘I get a panic attack every time I think about how many people I’m meant to be cooking Christmas lunch for.’

‘Is this the same girl—sorry, woman, who considers every strand of tinsel sacred…?’ he taunted gently.

‘This is the woman,’ she countered angrily, ‘who is trying to step into her mother’s shoes and failing miserably!’ The instant the impetuous retort emerged from her lips she regretted it; she regretted it even more when she saw the curiosity on his face.

‘Your mother’s ill…?’

‘No, she’s not. She’s…away.’

His dark brows lifted. ‘Another man…’ It might have been a trick of the light but Darcy thought his hard eyes actually softened. ‘Bad luck, kid. It happens.’

Darcy was furious and horrified by his casual assumption that her mother would have an affair. ‘Not to my family! My mother has gone to a retreat to recharge her batteries, that’s all…’ Tears prickled the backs of her eyelids and her voice thickened emotionally. ‘And I’m not a kid.’

Reece looked down into her stormy upturned face. ‘Want to talk about it?’ he was surprised to hear himself offer; he wasn’t prone to encouraging soul-baring.

‘Not to you.’ Darcy thought he looked relieved rather than disappointed by her blunt response.

‘Fair enough.’

She eyed him suspiciously before she eventually nodded and blew on her icy fingertips. ‘If the interrogation’s over, perhaps we should get along before hypothermia sets in.’

Face burning with embarrassment and humiliation, she turned abruptly on her heel. She deliberately turned her face to the icy embrace of the cold north wind and, as luck would have it, found the car almost immediately.

‘I can’t find the keys,’ she admitted after turning her pockets and handbag inside-out and upside-down.

Reece, who had watched her feverish attempts silently, walked around the car to join her.

‘Might these be what you were looking for?’

Relief was mingled with chagrin as she saw he was indicating the familiar bunch of keys inserted in the driver’s door. He pulled them out, and instead of dropping them into the palm she held out he placed them in a way that meant his fingers brushed against her wrist. The tingle that shot up her extended arm was neat electricity.

‘Thanks,’ she mumbled without looking at him. She couldn’t decide whether or not that touch had been as artless as it had appeared.

He inclined his glossy head graciously. ‘My pleasure.’

The fit inside the car was even snugger than she remembered. His head brushed the top of the car and in order to accommodate his legs he had to draw his knees up towards his chest at an awkward angle.

She went to turn the ignition key but he reached out and covered her hand with his, and if anything this time the sensation was even stronger.

Her eyes, wide and startled, lifted to his. ‘What’s wrong?’

Besides the state of imminent collapse of my nervous system, that is?

‘This kissing thing.’

Darcy wriggled her hand from beneath his and clasped it protectively to her heaving chest. ‘What kissing thing?’ she asked, desperately affecting amnesia.

‘You wanting to kiss me.’

‘You wanting to kiss me.’

‘That too,’ he agreed. ‘The point is, now that you know I’m not a married man and I know you’re not a teenager…or for that matter a virgin…’ A choking sound emerged from Darcy’s throat. ‘Incidentally we have that much in common. There’s no actual reason we shouldn’t.’

‘Shouldn’t…?’ She hoped he wasn’t going to say what she thought he was going to say—he did.

‘Kiss.’

She almost kept the wobble from her cool response. ‘Other than the fact I’d scream blue murder, probably not.’ She sent up a silent prayer that her claim would never be put to the test.

‘Ah…! You’ve gone off the idea… Maybe it’s for the best,’ he conceded casually, before leaning back in his seat and closing his eyes.

Just like that! Heavens, she didn’t expect him to get suicidal because she’d said she didn’t want to kiss him, but he could at least have the decency to look as if he cared! It was, she decided, eyeing his profile with loathing, a matter of simple good manners!

Darcy knew straight off she’d not fall back to sleep for some time—her feverishly active mind was racing like an overwound clockwork toy. She glanced at the illuminated fingers of the clock on the bedside table and groaned: it was only two a.m.

Her tiny bedroom set beneath the eaves faced due north, and the wind was battering against the window-panes, sneaking through every odd crack or cranny in the well-insulated room. The Hall wouldn’t be well-insulated…

‘Oh, hell, why did I go and think that…?’ She rolled onto her stomach and pulled a pillow over her head to drown out the noise. I will not think about him, she told herself angrily.