Millionaire Under the Mistletoe / His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction: Millionaire Under the Mistletoe / His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction. Emilie Rose
Just her husky tone was enough to make him start at the want that resurged. Taking his hand out of his pocket, he stared at the dessert she’d placed on the starched white-damask tablecloth in front of him. Creamy custard…and caramelized sugar the same rich golden brown as her eyes.
He picked up a spoon.
The dessert was smooth on his tongue. Sweet and silky. With a hint of vanilla. The caramel rich and tangy.
Would Miranda taste as delectable?
Hell! And he was getting hard just thinking about it. Callum shifted uncomfortably and forced himself to focus on the dinner conversation.
In the kitchen, Miranda rested her head against the cool, hand-painted Italian tiles and suppressed the urge to swear violently.
“Are you okay?” Jane, one of the women Callum had hired to help tonight, touched her shoulder lightly.
Miranda straightened. “I’m fine.”
But she wasn’t. Something had happened out there in the dining room—something she didn’t understand. Callum had looked at her, and she had responded like a sunflower greeting the morning sun. And the realization pierced her heart like a shard of ice.
Please, not him.
She hated him.
Miranda reached with a shaky hand for what was left of the glass of red wine Callum had poured her earlier, and drained it. Jane picked up a bottle and silently topped her glass.
“Thanks.” Miranda smiled at the other woman. “Believe it or not, I never drink when I’m working.”
“It’s a good vintage.” Jane helped herself to a wineglass out the cupboard. After filling the glass she lifted it. “Very nice.”
Miranda felt a rush of gratitude. “Thank you.” She took a sip and set the glass down. “I’m okay now. Let’s get on with the coffees.”
By the time she went out into the dining room, she told herself she had her reactions in check. The wine had warmed her, dissolving the icy chill. As she passed the end of the long dining table, an older man asked her for a card and Miranda flushed when she realized she didn’t have any. Something she would remedy tomorrow.
Moving up the table, she was breathlessly aware of Callum’s dark, brooding presence at the head. Given that he looked devilishly good in a black dinner jacket with a pristine white shirt, keeping her resolve was far from easy.
She smiled at the woman sitting beside him who had complimented her cooking, and tried to ignore the way the woman’s fingers brushed Callum’s dinner-jacketed arm when she made a point.
After one searing look from Callum, Miranda averted her gaze, and turned away, making sure to busy herself down at the other end of the table.
This powerful awareness of Callum was a complication she didn’t need.
Thank God dinner was over.
After the planning he’d put into the evening, the end was an anticlimax. Callum could hardly wait to see Petra, her father and his family out the front door. The confusion in Petra’s expectant eyes made him feel like an utter bastard.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said, ushering her off behind her father.
Talk to her? And say what? How in heaven’s name was he supposed to explain something he didn’t even understand himself?
He justified that it could’ve been worse. What if he’d already been engaged to Petra when this urge to chase Miranda like a hound after a bitch in heat had taken hold? It made him go stone-cold.
This second-thoughts stuff must be normal. Wedding-ring fright. But he wouldn’t run away. He’d deal with it the same way he did every other problem he met: head-on. Confront this inconvenient lust, the need to indulge in one last chase. Get Miranda out his system. Then marry Petra exactly as he’d planned.
Simple.
Closing the door behind the last of his guests, Callum went to find Miranda. Anticipation lent lightness to his step. He peered into the library—his favorite haunt—but it was empty. Not that he’d expected to discover her there.
He finally tracked her down in the scullery tucked away at the far end of the kitchen. Miranda was busy stacking the dirty dishes into the drawers of the state-of-the-art dishwasher.
She’d donned an apron, an absurd white bit of cotton with a ruffle along the hem below a bib that barely covered her front. It lent the black dress she wore the naughty severity of a French maid costume.
Callum breathed deeply. “What are you doing?”
She kept her eyes down. “Cleaning up.”
Given the boiling heat that simmered in him, her lack of interest irritated. He marched forward and said more stridently than he intended, “Where’s the help I hired?”
“The help you hired?” She straightened, affront glittering in her eyes. “They have names. Emily and Jane. They’re people. Emily was tired—she’s been up since dawn and she has a long way to go to get home.”
“So where’s the other one?”
One finely arched eyebrow rose. “You mean Jane?”
He nodded impatiently. “Yes, Jane.”
“Her brother picked her up.”
“And even though you’ve been at work preparing food long before they arrived, they left you with all the mess?”
“They cleared most of it.” She gestured to the adjoining kitchen. “And the leftover food has been itemized and frozen. I’m just packing in the coffee cups and dessert dishes, Emily and Jane—” she used their names pointedly “—have already run the dishwasher twice, and unpacked it.”
She strode past him into the kitchen and looked around. “All nice and tidy, see?”
Callum followed and leaned back against the center island. Folding his arms across his chest, he said, “And what about you? Don’t you have to hurry home?”
“Of course.” She stalked across to a row of hooks and picked off her bag and a black woolen coat. Dropping the bag and coat on the center island, she unzipped a side pocket and retrieved her cell phone. “But I’ve been paid an astronomical amount for tonight’s dinner—I’m making sure you get your money’s worth.”
His money’s worth?
The words taunted, especially from a woman wearing such a starkly erotic outfit. With an effort he focused his attention back on her face. “It’s what I always pay.”
Her eyes went round. He could see her thoughts buzzing as she calculated. “And you entertain often?”
“Yes, but it’s work.” As well as being part of the rationale for courting Petra. He needed a wife.
And Petra would be perfect.
He only needed to propose…
Yet he couldn’t imagine Petra looking so innocently erotic in the black-and-white getup that Miranda was wearing. Or having this effect on him. His erection throbbed painfully behind the concealing fabric of his pants.
Callum shut his eyes.
And opened them to find Miranda staring at him. The silence in the kitchen pounded in his ears. Her mouth was lush, her eyes meltingly seductive. Driven by an urge he couldn’t resist, he took a step forward.
His hands settled on her upper arms, the flesh soft and giving under his fingers. Hoarsely, he asked, “I’ve been wanting to taste you all night. Are you as sweet as the crème caramel?”
Callum gave her a moment to object. Time stopped. She didn’t move. Or say anything. His hands slid around her and he pulled her to him. The warm