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

‘You’ve made a lot of noise but you haven’t come right out and said no.’

She gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘And I’m supposed to believe that’s all it takes…?’

‘Believe it or not, it’s true.’

You could have taken a chainsaw to the tension in the air.

‘Will you fasten your seat belt?’

Reece smiled, but didn’t push his advantage. ‘It hurts the bust ribs,’ he explained mildly.

So would being thrown through the windscreen. ‘Don’t be such a sissy!’ she admonished sternly.

‘You’re the boss.’

If only, she thought wistfully. I should have said no—why didn’t I say it…? ‘If the word “mouth” crosses your lips once more I’ll make you walk back,’ she warned him sternly. Darcy had no intention of becoming a rich man’s plaything—no matter how tempting the notion was.

‘Last night—’

Darcy cut him off. ‘That too.’

‘I have a very extensive vocabulary, Darcy.’

‘And I have a very low tolerance level.’ Her angry sneer morphed into a weak scowl. ‘Why the hell did you come here?’ If he hadn’t been doing so she’d never have met him and her life would have been a lot simpler.

‘Maybe I got tired of well-meaning people trying to rehabilitate me.’

Darcy puzzled over his obscure reply. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘That’s the way I’d like to keep it for the moment.’

There was only a handful of people in the garden centre, but Reece suspected they’d have come in for personal attention even if the place had been packed out. As if he’d been expecting them, the guy Reece assumed ran the place appeared as soon as they drew up. He greeted Darcy warmly and enfolded her in a bear-like hug. When she emerged she reluctantly acknowledged his presence.

‘This is Richard Stenning, my godfather. Uncle Rick, this is Reece, and, before you say anything, he’s not my boyfriend.’

‘But I’m working on it.’

Both men seemed to find this crack amusing; Darcy didn’t.

‘I was thinking between six feet and six feet six…?’ she said briskly, eyeing up the swathes of green pine.

‘I’m six four and a half actually.’

‘Not you, stupid, the tree.’

The older man looked at the bickering couple with a benevolent smile. ‘Come along this way, Darcy, I think I’ve got just what you want.’

Darcy doubted this very much unless he had a supply of six-foot-four-and-a-half males with fascinating green eyes, black hair and sex appeal that went off the scale! Despite this, she stomped obediently after him.

Despite Reece’s unhelpful contributions, she eventually selected one that was neither too bushy nor too straggly and didn’t have any bare bits. The tree was bagged in a net and installed in the back of the Land Rover beside Wally.

‘You’ll have a mince pie, of course?’

Reece bent downwards to enquire in her ear, ‘Is this another family tradition?’

Darcy ignored him and the tantalising male scent of him that teased her receptive nostrils—she was partially successful.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she agreed, following their host into the shop area, which was dripping with both tasteful and gaudy Christmas decorations—not the place for a man who was trying to avoid Christmas, although Reece seemed to be taking the festive surroundings in his stride. ‘But no sherry for me,’ she added hastily, with an expression of regret, ‘I’m driving.’

‘But you’ll have some, Mr Erskine?’

‘Reece. Yes, I’d love some.’

Darcy was watching from under the protective sweep of her lashes, so she had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen in shock as he took a robust bite from his innocent-looking pie. Her lips twitched; she was far more tentative in her approach.

‘Delicious as usual,’ she mumbled, chewing away valiantly; Uncle Rick must have a stomach of cast iron, she decided, watching him munch his way through two for her one. The problem with Aunty Grace’s mince pies was that they looked totally delicious and had the consistency of concrete. ‘Aunty Grace has surpassed herself this year.’

‘Delicious,’ she heard Reece agree faintly after he very visibly swallowed.

‘Would you like another, Reece?’

Reece patted his stomach. ‘Love to, but I don’t want to take the edge off my appetite—I’m taking Darcy to lunch,’ he explained glibly.

‘First I’ve heard about it.’

‘It was meant to be a surprise, darling.’ He glanced at the steel-banded watch on his wrist. ‘Talking of which, we should be making a move—I’ve booked a table for twelve.’

‘Where would that be…darling?’ she wondered innocently. The man was entirely too slick.

‘Why, where else but your favourite, daaarling?’ Reece drawled smoothly.

‘Twelve…? You’d better get a move-on, Darcy; it’ll take you twenty minutes to get to the Bull’s Head. You give my best to the family.’

Darcy bent forward and kissed the older man’s cheek. ‘I will, Uncle Rick. Why, Reece!’ she exclaimed, picking up the glass carefully secreted behind a potted palm. ‘You’ve forgotten your sherry,’ she reminded him spitefully.

‘So I have.’ He met her eyes and, nostrils flared, tipped back the glass, downing the contents in one gulp—like taking nasty medicine, she thought, stifling the urge to giggle.

‘Was that a test, or an initiation ceremony?’ he muttered under his breath as they walked together back to the Land Rover.

If it had been he’d have passed with flying colours. ‘Uncle Rick only hands out the mince pies and sherry to valued friends and customers.’

‘I’m surprised he still has any.’

‘Shut up,’ she hissed, waving through the window. ‘He’ll hear you.’

‘What was that I just drank?’

‘Sherry.’