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

‘They’ll wonder where I am.’

She watched his sensual lips twist. ‘And you don’t want to broadcast the fact you spent the night with me.’

The sad part was her reputation could probably survive intact. She’d learnt a long time ago that people didn’t think of her and steamy sex in the same thought. She was doomed to be the eternal Mary Poppins figure. Which was pretty ironic when you had an almost ruined marriage on your conscience.

‘Do you blame me?’ she asked him scornfully. He didn’t respond but a nerve along his jaw-line did some flexing. ‘Relax,’ she sighed disconsolately. ‘Even if I did want to tell, nobody would believe me.’

Reece got to his feet and strolled towards her. ‘Put this on—you look ridiculous.’ He handed her her pyjama top.

His scornful contempt of her maidenly modesty was even more infuriating because she shared his opinion; even so, she couldn’t bring herself to expose herself to the full glare of his scrutiny, which was, she reasoned gloomily, bound to be a whole lot more objective than it had been last night.

‘If you’re waiting for me to turn my back you’ll be waiting a long, long time,’ he drawled, taking up a grandstand seat on the packing case. He stretched out his long legs and casually crossed his booted feet at the ankle.

‘You’re no gentleman.’

He seemed to find her accusation amusing.

With an angry toss of her tousled hair she pulled the garment over her head.

It was a classic case of more haste, less speed. With her head halfway through the arm-hole she took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. So she didn’t have the best boobs in the world—they were more than adequate…some might even say ample…what did it matter if he didn’t grade them in the top ten per cent…? After all, they were only ships that had passed—and collided—in the night.

The rest of the manoeuvre was performed with a bit of belated dignity. She smoothed the fabric into place.

‘I’m perfectly at ease with my body,’ she declared defiantly. Why not just give him a list of your insecurities to peruse at his leisure and be done with it, you idiot!

‘Oh, it shows, sweetheart, it shows,’ came the bone-dry response.

Whilst his facial muscles didn’t budge an inch, the sardonic amusement in his eyes said it all. Then suddenly he wasn’t smiling any more and something was added to the atmosphere that hadn’t been there a second before—something that made her heart-rate pick up tempo.

‘Last night…’ he began heavily.

Here was the point where he explained it had been great but… She jumped in to beat him to the punchline; no way could she endure the big brush-off she sensed was heading her way!

‘Last night!’ For some reason she found herself grinning in a manic kind of way across at him. ‘Yes, mad wasn’t it…?’ She shrugged in a way that suggested that kind of madness came her way on a regular basis.

‘Mad, bad…’ his deep voice lovingly caressed each syllable and became diamond-hard as he continued ‘…mind-blowingly great sex…is that what you are trying to say?’

Darcy wasn’t trying to say anything; she was trying to remember how to breathe! Not only did he sound as if he meant it, he looked it too. In fact, that mean, hungry look on his rampantly male features made her shudder inside and blush hotly on the outside—she wished she could have reversed the scenario; it would have shown less.

Now, here was something she hadn’t bargained for. Was it a good or bad thing…?

With a rush she got to her feet and tugged the pyjama top down as far as it would go over her thighs.

‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.’ Of all the moronic… With a sigh of relief she located her clothes folded in a neat pile—Darcy retained a very definite memory of throwing them along with her inhibitions to the four winds the previous night. She found the thought of Reece retrieving and carefully folding her clothes somehow strangely unsettling.

‘Did you?’

‘You know I did,’ she choked.

‘I seem to recall your mentioning something to that effect,’ he agreed.

Darcy choked some more.

‘Why are you running away?’ His languid tone suggested casual curiosity rather than a driving desire to discover the reason.

Darcy zipped up her jeans, swearing softly as the zip snagged in the fabric of the pyjama trousers she had on underneath. ‘That’s rich coming from you!’ she said, going into attack mode.

There was a tense silence.

‘Meaning…?’ Darcy had never heard that dangerous note in his voice before but she didn’t doubt he used it often—and no doubt it had the desired effect of cowing the recipient. Well, not this time, mate…!

A mulish expression settled on her soft features as she planted her hands on her hips and laughed. ‘You’ve got to be kidding…? You’re holed up here; what’s that if it’s not running away?’

She watched the anger slowly fade from his eyes. ‘Christmas. I’m running away from Christmas…’

A startled laugh was drawn from her. ‘There’s a lot of it around.’ If all Mum was running away from was Christmas she’d be delighted—the complications arose if it was her life or, nasty thought, her family that had made her flee!

‘Pardon…?’

Darcy shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she prevaricated, her eyes sliding from his.

‘Then why are you looking so shifty?’ he wondered, displaying an unforgivable and highly worrying degree of perception.

‘I’ve got that sort of face,’ she snapped back bad-temperedly.

‘You wouldn’t make a poker player,’ he agreed.

‘I was just thinking.’

‘Dare I ask what?’

‘If you must know, I was thinking you don’t strike me as the sort of man who runs away from anything. And even if you did, why on earth would you run away here…?’ Her eyes did a quick, highly critical circuit of the room.

He shook his head and clicked his tongue. ‘Don’t let the Yorkshire Tourist Board hear you say that,’ he chided.

‘I meant this house.’

‘Why not…?’ he drawled.

‘No electricity, I’m guessing poor plumbing…?’ She began to tick off the reasons on her fingers.

‘Diabolical,’ he conceded ruefully. ‘If you want the bathroom I’d wait until you get next door if I were you.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’ She refused to be sidetracked. ‘You still haven’t told me why.’

The imperious angle of his head made it seem as though he was looking down his masterful nose at her—Darcy didn’t relish the sensation.

‘Could that be because I don’t think it’s any of your business…?’