Millionaire Under the Mistletoe

by Tessa Radley

  And froze.

  Here was the opportunity he’d been looking for. So perfect—and he’d almost missed it. He could use her brother as a way to keep in touch—arrange meetings with her to talk about him.

  All to get into Miranda’s pants again, he scoffed at himself.

  Was this what he had been reduced to? Miranda’s brother was almost a man and Callum had always tried to treat him like an adult. If Adrian found out Callum was meeting Miranda to discuss him, the bond he’d been working so hard to forge with the youth would be broken.

  But right now he couldn’t care about that.

  Unless he offered Adrian a permanent position at Ironstone Insurance or called in a favor to make sure her brother was offered a university scholarship, there would be no more reason to see Miranda.

  No excuse to lure her into his bed….

  He let the thumb resting on her arm stroke along the fabric of her dress sleeve and heard her breath catch.

  Not totally unaffected then.

  He couldn’t help remembering how soft her naked skin had been against his, how sweet she’d tasted. His gaze rested on her mouth.

  So passionate.

  This craving for her confounded him. He’d been right to break it off with Petra—he couldn’t marry any woman while he felt like this. And despite Miranda’s determined indifference, he suspected she wanted him every bit as badly. The passion she’d revealed the night they’d made love couldn’t be feigned.

  If only her father’s death didn’t stand between them.

  “Miranda, about your father…”

  The lights flashed and he read anger in her eyes. “You should never have—”

  “I had no choice.”

  “There’s always a choice,” she said.

  She was right. He’d been determined to prove how tough he was, how merciless. The corporate tycoon. It was something he’d have to live with all his life.

  “You’re right.”

  “Thank you.”

  For a long moment he thought she was going to say more.

  But instead she said with forced cheerfulness, “Christmas will soon be here. I’ll just have to wish that everything will come right for Adrian in the coming year.”

  He blinked. “You think Christmas wishes work?”

  She tipped her head up and stared at the tree above them. “I think one can dream…and wish…and hope.”

  Miranda was a romantic. For a moment he wished for her sheer, blind optimism. Unable to help himself, he asked, “What do you look forward to most at Christmas?”

  “I love spending it with my family. I love—” She broke off. “You don’t want to hear all this.”

  “But I do.” And he found he was telling the truth. “Tell me what you want to see when you wake up on Christmas morning.”

  “The best gift?” She gave him a funny little twisted smile. “Well, I can’t have that. So I’ll take snow. As much as I love the lights in the city at Christmas, I love snow more. And it doesn’t often snow in London for Christmas. Sleet and sludge, yes, but not pure, pristine snow that crunches underfoot in the early morning and yours are the first footprints of the day.”

  He heard the longing. “You miss the country, don’t you?”

  “Particularly at this time of the year.”

  The lights in the Christmas tree flashed again, revealing a wistful, faraway expression he knew she’d have hated him to see.

  “I remember as a child getting up on Christmas morning, going with Adrian to check our stockings on the mantelpiece. Then I’d go and see my pony—take the biggest carrots I could find and slices of apple.” She gave a whisper of a sigh. “The warm smell of horse and hay inside the stables after the crisp air outside…that must be one of my favorite Christmas memories. And by the time I got back to the house my parents would be awake and we’d all gather under the tree.”

  Her lashes lay in dark crescents against her cheeks, and her mouth curved up in a smile that made an unfamiliar ache tighten around his chest.

  “A real tree.” She gestured to the Christmas tree that towered over them. “Not a fake monstrosity with fake snow like this one.”

  Callum nodded, feeling a strange affinity for her. When he was growing up, his family had always decorated a pine tree, too. And each year the scent had filled his home along with the sweet aromas of baking biscuits. They still shared Christmas in the country every year.

  He wanted to offer her a chance to relive the Christmas she dreamed of. He wanted to invite her home to spend Christmas in the country with him at Fairwinds. Although he suspected she would refuse his invitation.

  “Miranda—”

  She reached up to straighten a silver bow on the company tree. The movement pulled her dress tight across her breasts and his breath caught in his throat. He forgot what he’d been about to say. Forgot everything except the crazy hunger she made him feel.

  Unable to resist, he hooked an arm around her and pulled her close. Then he brushed his lips across hers very gently.

  The air grew still.

  Callum wanted to kiss her again with all the pent-up passion she’d kindled in him and sweep her off her feet before carrying her to his home.

  Instead he set her away from him.

  She touched her mouth with two fingers. “What was that for?”

  There had to be a reason for him to kiss her? Callum gave her a long look. Instead of collapsing into his arms like most women would have, the suspicion in her eyes deepened.

  Finally he said, “Blame it on the mistletoe.”

  She glanced upward and a puzzled frown creased her brow. “But there isn’t any.”

  Exactly. He needed no excuse to kiss her—the fire she’d ignited burned with an unquenchable fury—but Callum doubted she’d appreciate his honesty if he told her that.

  Six

  M iranda didn’t appreciate the way Callum was messing with her head. That feather-of-a-kiss-that-had-hardly-been-a-kiss had shaken her.

  Badly.

  And even a busy weekend at The Golden Goose failed to give her respite to regain her composure. All because the man in question turned up at the Goose on Saturday and ordered lunch.

  Miranda had known about Callum’s arrival in minutes. Kitty, the youngest, prettiest and flightiest of the waitresses, had rushed into the kitchen to share that the most gorgeous guy she’d seen in her life had just walked in.

  “Tall, dark and with periwinkle-blue eyes,” she gushed. “He looks like a movie star.”

  “In the Goose?” But despite her skepticism Miranda’s heart stopped in horror. She steadied herself. That description could apply to thousands of men. Well, maybe not thousands. But it didn’t mean…

  Yet she hadn’t been able to resist taking a peek—just to make sure.

  Only to discover it was Callum.

  He sat alone at a small round table to the side of the gas fireplace. In the middle of the day the fire flickered, but the flames still gave off much-needed warmth. Callum’s dark head was bent over the menu, but he looked up almost as though he’d sensed her stare.

  She drew quickly out of sight, hissing at her stupidity under her breath.

  While Mick muttered about chefs who had too little work, Miranda hurried to rescue a batch of brandy snaps from the oven before they burnt to crisp and, after rolling them deftly around the handle of a wooden spoon, set about piping whipped cream flavored with Grand Marnier into the now-crisp tubes.

  What did Callum want? Why was he here?

  Her hands shook as she squeezed the piping bag and cream oozed everywhere. Which made her want to kill him!

  “He wants steak.” Kitty bounced into the kitchen. “Rare. No sauce. And battered onion rings. A real, live carnivore.”

  The two other girls giggled. “I’ll take him some water,” one said.

  “Maybe he wants extra onions.” And the second followed her out for a closer inspection.

  Miranda stopped herself from rolling her eyes. For the ne
xt thirty minutes she was aware of the giggles as the waitresses vied to serve him, and it irritated her beyond belief.

  The final insult came when Kitty delivered his request to convey his thanks in person to the dessert chef.

  All too conscious of Gianni glowering, Miranda allowed herself to be dragged out into the limelight, noting Callum’s lack of surprise when she appeared.

  Of course he’d known she was here.

  Resisting the urge to drop a facetious curtsy, she smiled sweetly. “I’m so pleased you enjoyed your meal.”

  His gaze rested on her lips, causing them to tingle, before lifting to study her. “What are you doing for Christmas this year?”

  Miranda gave a small sigh. “What I always do—spend it with my family.”

  For a moment she thought he was going to ask her something, but he only said, “My mother has a passion for brandy snaps, and these are quite the best I’ve ever eaten.”

  His sincerity took her aback. He was looking at her like he wanted to devour her. Miranda couldn’t have spoken if she’d tried.

  “She would love these.”

  “I’ll let you have the recipe,” she croaked at last.

  Tipping his head to one side, he considered her. “I’d rather you made them for her.”

  Miranda thought about it, her heart quickening. What did he mean? That he wanted her to meet his mother? Then common sense kicked in. Unlikely. “But she doesn’t live in London. The biscuit would go soggy. They should be eaten fresh.”

  He was shaking his head. “It was a dumb idea.”

  “What was?” she asked, puzzled, wondering what she’d missed.

  “Coming here!” He gave her a lopsided smile. “But next time Mother is in town, I will hold you to that offer.”

  His smile widened, holding no edge or hint of seduction, and for the first time Miranda got a glimpse of the man his family saw.

  And it was a different person from the man she’d grown to loathe. This man she could like. Yet she was no closer to knowing why he’d come today. And she’d turned down his offer to go to Les Misérables with him tonight—and maybe get to know him better. There was no point wondering if Petra was enjoying herself. Thay way lay the path to heartache. She’d sensibly refuse his invitation. The man was an enigma—she would never understand him.

  The rest of the weekend was an anticlimax with Gianni stamping and snorting like a bull and glaring balefully across the kitchen at Miranda. One of the girls must have told him what Callum had said, and he hadn’t liked it.

  Thankfully, when Miranda finally got home late in the rainy cold of Sunday night there were no flowers to welcome her and remind her of her disturbing nemesis that she couldn’t seem to keep out of her life.

  With Adrian still out, the little terrace house seemed empty. Entering the dining room, Miranda saw Flo hurriedly sliding a window envelope under a file.

  “Another bill?” she asked, picking up her pace as she crossed to where her mother sat at the table. “I thought I’d paid everything.”

  “No, no, don’t you worry about this, darling.”

  The vagueness in her mother’s tone sharpened Miranda’s interest. “Let me see—I might have paid it already.”

  “This is mine.”

  “Yours?” She looked at her mother in surprise.

  Flo normally gave all her bills to Miranda to pay—she was hopeless at organizing her finances. Though it tended to require the conjuring up of money from nowhere—often hard-worked overtime—to meet them.

  Miranda felt sick. “Please, not more overdue bills that I don’t know about.”

  Snagging up the corner of the file, Miranda caught sight of the name of an exclusive department store on the bill under the envelope. “Hemingway’s?”

  Guilt glinted in Flo’s dark eyes. “I needed a new coat.”

  Miranda pulled out the piece of paper and then blanched. “What was it? Mink?”

  “Don’t be silly, darling.” Her mother whipped the bill out from between her nerveless fingers. “There were also a few fripperies for my winter wardrobe. Your father wouldn’t have wanted to see me dressed in rags.”

  “Dad isn’t here anymore—and we don’t have his income.” She spied another bill from the same store, dated the previous month. “Pans? You told me your friend Sorrell gave those to you.”

  Her mother flushed, an ugly stain on her pale skin. “I’ll deal with the bills, Miranda.”

  “How?”

  Putting her hands on her hips, Miranda considered her mother. Apart from the allowance Callum paid her mother—the amount Miranda had been led to believe came from the carefully invested residue of her father’s estate—Flo had no income.

  “I’ll make arrangements, darling. Don’t worry about it. I’m not useless.”

  Arrangements? Dread curled in Miranda’s stomach. “What kind of arrangements?”

  “I’ll call up Hemingway’s and have them grant me an indulgence—they’ve done it before.”

  “Done it before?” asked Miranda, trying to make sense of why the store would grant her mother an extension on her accounts.

  “Yes—last time they even gave me a bigger credit limit.”

  Miranda stared at her vague, sweet mother with mounting horror. “Increased your credit limit when you aren’t paying your bills? Why would they do that?”

  Flo looked abashed. “Because of Callum, of course.”

  “Because of Callum?” She must sound like the village idiot the way she kept repeating her mother. “What does Callum Ironstone have to do with your accounts?”

  “He originally settled all our accounts after your father died. It was part of our agreement,” Flo said defensively. “Everyone knows who the Ironstones are. Things were so difficult at the time—don’t you remember? He used to pay the accounts I sent him until you took over.”

  Her mother fluttered her hands like a delicate butterfly but Miranda refused to be diverted. “I don’t remember. It must have been in that agreement you never showed me,” she said grimly. “Are you telling me you’ve extended your credit on the basis of Callum’s name?” It was too horrible to contemplate.

  “Well, it’s not costing him anything,” Flo said defiantly.

  “But it will if you don’t pay. I can’t believe these stores have let the balances run on for so long.”

  “I call them regularly—I’m hardly some debtor they think is about to abscond. They know Callum will look after me.”

  This was getting worse and worse. Miranda snatched the account back, and studied it, before looking back at her mother in despair. “The interest is running at a prohibitive rate.”

  “I don’t think all the stores charge such high rates, darling.”

  All the stores? “There are more?” Miranda stared at her mother, aghast.

  So much for her stubborn determination never to be beholden to Callum again. There was no money to pay these accounts. Callum would be contacted by the stores eventually to be told that her mother was shopping on his credit.

  Unless of course Hemingway’s decided to institute legal action to recover the debt.

  The shame of it.

  “Oh, dear Lord, Mum. What have you done?”

  It was the following afternoon—her day off—and after a spending the day walking aimlessly around the city, her brain in turmoil, Miranda finally decided to take action about her mother’s revelation.

  Even if Callum had paid off her parents’ accounts after her father’s death, he could hardly have intended her mother to continue using his name to lever credit. The time had come to see him and lay all the dead cats on his boardroom table, she decided with mordant humor. Adrian and Flo would have to put up with whatever repercussions followed.

  She could no longer continue deceiving him.

  Miranda paused at Trafalgar Square. Years ago Flo had sometimes brought her and Adrian here to feed the pigeons, and each Christmas, they’d come to admire the lights and Christmas tree. The pigeons had long sin
ce been discouraged, but the Christmas tree still stood. And the fountain Adrian had almost fallen into one icy winter’s day.

  So when her cell phone rang and she heard Callum’s distinctive voice, Miranda was hardly surprised. She sank down on a bench near the fountain. To her annoyance her “Hi” was more than a little breathless.

  “Been making any brandy snaps lately?”

  His lighthearted comment made her want to cry. That teasing humor wouldn’t last once he heard what her mother had been up to. “Not enough.”

  That reminded her that she needed to organize some overtime. There were Flo’s accounts to pay. On the spur of the moment she said rashly, “I don’t suppose you have more work for me?”

  The pause echoed in her ears.

  She shut her eyes. Stupid. She opened them and gazed blindly at the tall tree decorated with vertical rows of light on the other side of the fountain. “I mean real work. I don’t want a donation.”

  “I know you don’t. I was thinking.”

  She tried not to notice how low his voice was…how sexy…or how it sent shivers down her spine.

  “Maybe we could meet and talk about people I know who might be able to give you work,” he said.

  It wouldn’t be a date. And little as she wanted to be in his debt, what harm was there in using his social network to further her own ends? It wasn’t as if she was taking money from him.

  And she would use the opportunity to tell him what Flo had done. Maybe even what Adrian had done—if the meeting went smoothly enough.

  “That would be great.” The world seemed bright and shiny—no longer dull and gray. “I’d like that.”

  “Then I’ll pick you up on Friday—we’ll have dinner.”

  Friday night? That sounded suspiciously like a date. But she knew that this time she wouldn’t refuse.

  Callum was rather pleased with himself.

  Not only had he managed to secure a date with Miranda—although he rather doubted she’d view the evening in the same light—he’d also gotten glowing feedback about the Christmas cocktail party Miranda had catered for him. Apart from the fact that everyone had enjoyed it, saying it was streets ahead of any similar event they’d attended, Hunter told him there’d been a promise of a new corporate deal from Tom Murray, and a businessman Callum had been courting for a long time had made an appointment to talk about having all his plants insured with Ironstone Insurance. He’d even heard that Miranda had catered a small dinner party for Hunter, though she’d said nothing about that.