The Millionaire's Mistletoe Mistress

‘It’s not. It’s—’

She broke off as he took half a step closer. ‘What’s your room number?’

Her pause button slipped and she answered breathlessly, staring at that chest once more. ‘Sixty-seven.’

‘Ah.’

At that know-it-all sound, she looked up. He was nodding again, and this time accompanying it with a wide smile—perfect white teeth, all too devastating.

‘Ah, what?’ Her heart couldn’t beat any faster. She couldn’t feel any hotter. And the wild thing was that she was wishing she could forget the silly meeting with her stuffy new boss and just stand here all day. Staring at him.

‘This is my room—number sixty-nine. Yours is just along the corridor a bit.’

She slowly looked behind him and read the number on the door. She could have sworn that nine was a … Oh, hell, could she really be so stupid? ‘Sixty-nine?’

‘Sixty-nine.’

‘And I’m …’ Not sixty-nine. Not thinking sixty-nine. Not thinking … Ohhhhhh. The sensual feeling rippled. Imagine—those muscles, that size, that heat … and tasting it all.

Her mental X-rated movie started rolling again.

His head angled and he almost whispered, ‘You can come in here if you want.’

Unconsciously she mirrored him, angling her head so she could keep watching the same gleam of light in his eyes. Then what he’d said sank in. ‘What? No!’

‘Oh—okay.’ He was out-and-out grinning now. ‘I thought for a second there you looked like you might want to.’

Oh, great. So her lustful moment had been totally transparent. She put her hand to her chest protectively, hoping her nipples weren’t prodding through the wet shirt like twin missiles aimed at him. They sure felt as if they were. ‘What I want is to find my hotel room.’ Frozen speech now. Dignity had to be recovered.

‘Well, like I said, it’s just along the corridor a little.’

She curled her fingers and pulled the halves of her shirt closer together. This time it was his gaze that dropped. His smile widened as he gave her torso a very thorough inspection.

She could feel herself responding even more to his warm appraisal. She couldn’t believe she was standing in a hotel corridor being turned on just by looking at a complete stranger—and by him looking at her.

‘Okay,’ she croaked. She turned—too fast for her recently scraped knee—and couldn’t quite stifle her groan of pain.

His glance went lower. ‘Hey, you’ve hurt your leg. It’s bleeding.’ He stepped after her. ‘Can I get you a plaster?’

The change from teasing flirt to concerned gentleman was too fast and too damn sweet. Infatuation threatened to slip over her, to send everything sensible from her head—what little was left.

Embarrassed even more by her ridiculous response to him, she muttered, ‘No, I’m fine.’ She added, ‘Thanks …’ way too late as she tried to walk normally, but her leg had really stiffened now.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ He followed her into the hall. ‘I’m good with first aid.’

Imogen turned back and nodded, unable to stop her eyes slipping south one last time. She was quite sure he’d be good with everything. Did he have any idea how good he looked right now? His legs were long—really long—and every bit as beautifully muscled as his chest. And the way his hair was wet, sitting as if it had been pushed back with a hand, all added up to a gleaming bronze statue way better than Michelangelo’s marble David—this one was all real man. But she didn’t answer, and made it to her door instead. The card worked instantly, the little green light flashed, and she heard the lock mechanism sliding. Thank all the gods.

She didn’t even try to resist taking one last look. He’d gone back to his room, but had paused in his open doorway—still smiling as if he knew everything she was thinking, and still not wearing anything like enough clothing.

Feeling far too hot for this freezing winter’s day, she let the door slam behind her and, tiptoeing on her sore leg, taking the weight on her good one, hobbled into the bathroom. Caught a glance in the mirror and froze.

Oh, no.

She blinked. Took another look to be sure.

Oh, yes.

She hadn’t realised the extent of the rip in her blouse. The sleeve had all but come away completely from the seam, and there was a tear from her underarm across the front. To make it worse, the way she’d been holding it just now had pulled that gap even wider. Towel Guy had had a first class view of her breast. Her scarlet-bra-cupped breast.

Scarlet and lace bra.

Her mind raced back to her sprint out of the flat early that morning—wanting to get to work and have everything just so for the arrival of her new lord and master. Usually she wore a black bra, or skin tone—plain, nothing too fancy that would show outlines under the fabric of her simple cotton shirts. But with all the extra study she’d been doing to get her last assignments in ahead of the Christmas madness she was behind on the laundry. Like weeks behind. So she’d grabbed this one from the drawer, figuring no one was going to see it anyway, and besides, wasn’t it the kind of day when she needed the extra lift the colour gave her?

She’d bought the set on a whim once in the store’s sale, simply because she loved the colour. Just looking at it gave her inner confidence a boost—and today her toenails were painted the same colour, even though they’d spend all day hidden away in her ankle boots. Scarlet underwear; blood-red toenails. Not because she was some sexy vamp, but because that deep, almost burnt red was her favourite, and wearing it gave her a pick-me-up—yes, underneath she was covered in confidence. It was still fake, but it was better than none at all.

Only now she didn’t see it as the confident colour of a winner. It was trashy streetwalker in-your-face tarty—and she was crimson with embarrassment.

No wonder the hotel receptionist had been so happy to help and so full of smiles. No wonder Towel Guy had been so bold about inviting her in. She was flashing the world half her scarlet-clad assets.

She glanced at her watch. Less than three minutes. No time to shower—only a quick wash with a flannel and an even quicker fix of her mascara and a swipe of the comb through her hair. She retied it back in a harsh ponytail and got to redressing.

The new shirt was forest-green and silk, and felt deliciously cool on her hot body. She took in a breath and told herself to calm down as she tried to work the buttons through their too small holes. Any last shred of calm dissipated as she pulled on the new trousers—they were way firmer round the hips and thighs than she would usually wear. Definitely too firm round the butt. Her temperature lifted again as she tucked in the shirt and did up the zip and button at the waist. This was the kind of sleek outfit she’d have worn at her old job—emphasising her curves and showing her long legs while still being appropriate office attire. She’d wanted to look attractive there. Wanted to be wanted—what a naïve fool of a girl she’d been. She’d learnt more than one painful lesson as a result. One of them being that work and amorous relationships shouldn’t ever mix.

So she had no desire to be seen as feminine at Mackenzie Forrest. She simply wanted to be good at her job. But this was only a first meeting, with all the office and admin team. The new boss probably wouldn’t even notice her—he’d be too busy giving a speech or something. And at least the trousers covered the ugly graze. She’d fashioned a crude plaster for it out of tissue and sticky tape. That would sponge up the blood and stop her trousers from rubbing against it and being even more uncomfortable. Her elbow was sore, too. And she was thrown by the whole twenty-minute mess.

Imogen tossed her muddy clothes into the shopping bag. One last deep breath and another quick count to ten as she tried to forget the blue eyes that had twinkled at her with that mix of humour and heat and concern.

There had definitely been heat. Oh, yes, there’d been heat.

Awkwardly, she walked out of the room and took another frantic look at her watch—already three minutes late. The door of room number sixty-nine was shut. Good thing too. Turning, she headed for the lifts and—oh, wouldn’t it just be her luck?

Towel Guy was up ahead, and looking back down the corridor at her. Only he was wearing more now—more as in a tailored suit: it had to be custom-made, the way it hung so smoothly from his tall frame, dark grey, with an ice-white shirt and a blue tie that brought out the sapphiric tint in his eyes. Oh, yes, he was malemodelicious. His hand was on the door to take the stairs, but he paused, watching her hobble towards him. Then he moved away from the door, pressing the button to summon the lift instead. All the while he watched her walk nearer.

Totally self-conscious, she moved towards him, refusing to run. He could get this lift and she’d get the next. She didn’t want to be red-faced and breathless when meeting the new boss. She was already late, so another minute wasn’t going to matter that much. Anyway she couldn’t run. Her leg was too stiff.

The lift arrived. He entered. Kept his finger on the door open button long enough for her to get there and get in. For a mad moment she met his eyes, and was nearly fried on the spot.

‘Which floor?’

‘Two, please.’ Imogen looked low to the ground, not really wanting to look into those blues again—they were hotter than hell.

The doors slid shut and she kept her focus hard on the seam in the centre of them.

‘The colour really suits you.’

She started, glanced down at the green, felt her embarrassment increase—but the politeness thing was deeply ingrained. ‘Oh …’ She took a breath to try and be able to talk. ‘Thank—’

‘The green is nice.’ He cut her off. ‘But I was thinking of the red.’