One-Click Buy: December 2009 Silhouette Desire

by Susan Mallery

  He was about to open his door, but when she said his name and then said she loved him in such a breathless rush, he paused.

  “You couldn’t possibly love me.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes. I love you.”

  “So, why are you hell-bent on breaking both our hearts?”

  “I thought it was for the best.”

  “For whom? What gives you the right to always make decisions for both of us? Being a couple means you listen to each other and make a decision together that’s best for the couple as a unit.”

  Suddenly she couldn’t trust herself to go on. What if he remained dead set against her?

  Biting her bottom lip, she felt like her life hung in the balance as she stood there, waiting, hoping that he would change his mind about their future.

  “I do love you,” he said. “So much…that what I did seems unforgivable.”

  “Love can forgive anything.”

  “Can it?”

  “In this case. It’s my heart. I should be the one to know.”

  “But I don’t deserve you.”

  “Don’t…say that ever again…” She went up to him and silenced his lips with a fingertip. “Kiss me,” she said. “Hold me. These last few hours without you have been such hell.”

  “What about Egypt?”

  “I was running away for your sake more than mine this time. Now…there’s no reason to go…and every reason… I think…to stay.”

  “I love you. You do belong in my life. You’ve always belonged. I was just too blind to see it.”

  “And you were blinding yourself again to how much I love you and have always loved you.”

  “My love,” he said.

  “After I saw your ravaged face in that newspaper photograph after Noelle’s death…from that moment I think I wanted to come home. You’ve suffered enough.”

  “Hopefully I’ve finally learned something in the process.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure of it.” But in the next breath she was in his arms, clinging to him tightly, feeling renewed faith in tomorrow and in the day after tomorrow.

  Tears of happiness and relief overflowed in her eyes. Once more the future was bright with shared dreams and goals and in the dazzle of all the mutually shared adventures they would have.

  “I thought you deserved a better man than me,” he said.

  “And you always do what’s best for those you love on your own, don’t you?”

  “I try. But this time I didn’t know how I’d live without you. I really didn’t.”

  “Me, either. It’s scary to think that if Pierre hadn’t disappeared, we were both so stubborn set on our path, we might have never had another chance together.”

  “So I owe him even more than I already did.” He looked down at her, his face wide open, his blue eyes filled with love and yet with pain and fear too that he’d come so close to losing her again.

  Logan bent his head and buried his face in her hair. She felt the warmth of his lips on her scalp as he wrapped his arms around her and hung on to her as if she meant everything to him.

  “You’re going to have to be careful about protecting the family from now on,” she teased.

  “So my best trait…is my worst trait.”

  “Only sometimes.”

  “Oh, Cici,” he whispered. “My darling…”

  “Logan,” she murmured in a tone that was equally passionate. “Logan, I’ve never been this happy, not even when we began, not even when you first said you loved me. I love you. I love you so much.”

  He caught her hand, laced his fingers through hers. “Then marry me,” he whispered against her ear. “Tomorrow. Or at least as fast as possible. We’ve wasted way too much time already.”

  Instead of answering him with words, she reached up and kissed his lips which were hot and hard as they hungrily devoured hers, demanding everything and more that she had to give. Her heart was pounding as he crushed her closer.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he began to lead her to the garçonnière.

  “Shouldn’t we tell everybody that we’ve made up?” she asked.

  “All in good time,” he said. “I’ve put you through hell again, so, first, I have to make it up to you.”

  Cici’s warm body lay mashed beneath Logan’s on the same bed in the garçonnière where they’d first made love. His manhood was deeply embedded inside her. This time he wore no condom because she’d said, “I want another child.”

  Spirals of her wiry gold hair fanned out on his pillow.

  How he loved lying like this with her, body to body, the two of them locked together as if they were one being. He loved the softness of her skin, her velvet voice, her smell. In a lifetime, he would never get enough of her.

  For as long as Logan could remember she was all he’d ever wanted; the wild hair, her dark eyes alight with sexual mischief, the slim voluptuous body and even the legs wrapped so tightly around his waist.

  Her womb quivered, causing his heart to race even faster. What if she was already carrying his baby?

  “Well, go on. What are you waiting for?” she teased in a low whisper.

  “You didn’t say whether or not you’d marry me.”

  “Oh, that,” she said playfully even as her warm, sparkling eyes made more than enough promises to make his heart overflow with bright, shining hope.

  “If I want your baby, marriage definitely goes with the territory.”

  Epilogue

  Everybody from the bad news bikers with their tats and piercings from T-Bos’s Bar to the richest and most elegant lords of the bayou in the county came to the Claiborne wedding ceremony which was held at Belle Rose under a big white tent set up at the edge of the swamp. Alicia clung to Jake’s arm and watched an unsmiling Bos give his niece, Cici, away to the grandson of his ancient enemy.

  Hayes Daniels was the best man, and Noonoon was the matron of honor.

  Maybe the guests all came because nobody believed Logan Claiborne would really stand up to his side of the bargain and marry Cici Bellefleur.

  But marry her he did, and with such a hot look on his tanned face that every man there knew the groom couldn’t wait for the formalities to be over and for his honeymoon to begin.

  No, nobody, not even Pierre missed the love and passion in the bride and groom’s eyes when the wedding march began in earnest.

  Nor did anybody fail to note that the brightly smiling Cici, with demure white roses in her hair, wore a shockingly short white mini skirt and five-inch stilettos as she joined Logan at the altar. What kind of wife would she make such a man, some wondered.

  Then the ceremony was over far too quickly, and the groom kissed his bride far too long and much too passionately, because the rest of the world, even his wedding guests, had ceased to exist and did not matter to him at all.

  TESSA RADLEY

  MILLIONAIRE UNDER THE MISTLETOE

  One

  Callum halted at the threshold, his attention riveted on the woman pacing in front of the reception desk. The slanting rays from a lofty skylight caught her hair and turned it into a nimbus of glowing gold.

  He took a step forward.

  “Callum Ironstone demanded my presence here at three o’clock.” She cocked her wrist and glanced at a serviceable watch. “It’s already ten past. How much longer does he intend to keep me cooling my heels?” Her husky voice held an edge of impatience.

  Callum stilled as her words penetrated. This was Miranda Owen?

  Not possible.

  His gaze tracked up from slender ankles encased in sheer black hose along the sleek lines of the narrow black, hip-hugging skirt. A black polo-neck sweater emphasized the indent of her waist and a saffron-colored coat hung over her arm.

  Callum stared.

  Digging deep into his memories produced an image of a plump teenager, more at home in a baggy sweatshirt, jeans and muddied yellow Wellingtons. The sunlit locks held no resemblance to the long, untidy ponytail. No doubt the brac
es were gone, too.

  He cleared his throat.

  She spun around. Wide caramel-brown eyes met his. His stomach tightened as he took in the lambent hostility.

  One thing hadn’t changed. Miranda Owen still blamed him for her father’s death.

  Callum didn’t let the knowledge show as he crossed the marble tiles, toasty from the state-of-the-art underfloor heating system. “Miranda, thank you for coming in.”

  “Callum.”

  That one snapped-out word hinted at long-held resentments.

  He stretched out a hand. For a moment he thought she was going to refuse to take it. Then with a small sigh she relented.

  Her fingers were strong, her grip firm, yet her skin was soft against his. Before he could come to terms with the interesting dichotomy of her touch, she pulled away.

  “Why did you want to see me?”

  A woman who got straight to the point—he liked that. Callum shook himself free of the bemusement that this grown-up Miranda evoked. “Let’s talk in my office. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  A picture flickered across his mind of a three-year-younger Miranda spooning several teaspoons of sugar into a cup of hot chocolate at her father’s funeral.

  “No, thanks.” Her reply was clipped.

  He glanced across to the receptionist. “Bring Ms. Owen a hot chocolate and I’ll have coffee. Bring some extra sugar,” he tacked on before placing his hand under Miranda’s elbow and steering her along the corridor and into his spacious office.

  “I’m not a child.” She slanted him a look from beneath ridiculously long lashes, and a frisson of awareness startled Callum. “And I no longer drink chocolate.”

  “I can see you’re not a child,” Callum drawled, giving her a slow, sweeping perusal. “You’ve changed.”

  “You haven’t.” Miranda broke free of his hold and stepped away.

  Still truculent. The heat of desire receded. “Maybe I’m mistaken,” he mused. “I’d gotten the notion you’d grown up.”

  Chagrin filled her face. “I’m sorry.”

  Callum doubted she regretted her lack of courtesy. Yet when her gaze met his again, he read apprehension in the wide eyes. What was she frightened about? Even as he watched, she straightened her spine and the moment of vulnerability vanished.

  He waved to the two boxy leather sofas facing each other under an immense wooden bookshelf packed with books. A tall Christmas tree covered with red bows and silver balls reminded Callum that it was the season of reconciliation. But Miranda’s frozen face warned him that reconciliation was the last thing on her mind. And how could he blame her? Feeling carefully for words, he said, “Look, let’s start over.”

  Ignoring him, Miranda passed the cozy seating arrangement heading for a round walnut conference table beside a wall of glass, where she slung her coat and black bag over the closest of the four chairs in a militant fashion.

  Okay, so she was going to play this tough, all business. Callum gave a mental shrug and seated himself opposite her. “I asked you to come in because I have a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition?” Confusion clouded her features. “For me?”

  He rocked his chair back. “You’re a chef, right?” Hell, he knew she was—he’d paid for every cent of her exclusive training. Though he’d been surprised to learn she’d used her qualifications to gain employment at a popular pub chain rather than some fashionable, up-market café or boutique hotel. Before she could question how he knew she was a chef, he added, “Adrian told me you work at one of The Golden Goose outlets.”

  He’d stopped to inquire how young Adrian was getting along as a temporary driver for the company. The young man had been grateful for the vacation job and had revealed that Miranda dreamed of one day starting her own catering business. That had given Callum the perfect solution…a way to wipe Miranda Owen from his conscience forever. He gave her his most charming grin.

  “Yes,” she said guardedly.

  She certainly wasn’t blowing him away with an effusive response. Tipping his chair back to earth, he leaned forward and planted his elbows on the conference table. “Here’s the deal. I plan to invite the outgoing chairman of a company Ironstone Insurance has recently taken over to a private dinner party at my home on Saturday night.”

  “He’ll come?”

  “Oh, yes. Gordon’s staying on as a shareholder and I want to introduce him to the other directors. It’s a celebration.”

  The melting brown eyes hardened. “I suppose that makes sense. Your brothers will want to get on side with a significant shareholder.”

  Callum stopped smiling. The merger had been his initiative—a successful one that would give Ironstone Insurance a strategic advantage over their competitors for years to come. And Gordon Harris had been even hungrier for the merger than the Ironstone family. Gordon wanted to retire, to take it easy. But Miranda’s words stopped Callum from confessing that there was another, more celebratory reason for the dinner. That would only lead to a dig about protecting his assets.

  Two fine lines furrowed her brow. “When you say Saturday…do you mean this week?” At his nod the lines deepened. “That doesn’t leave much time.”

  He’d intended to railroad her into agreeing…and not leave any time for second thoughts.

  “You don’t think you can do it?” he challenged.

  Angry fire kindled in the caramel eyes. “How many people?”

  Hiding a grin of triumph, Callum rose to his feet and retrieved a manila folder from the polished expanse of his desk. Returning to the conference table, he dropped the file in front of her. “The details are all in there.”

  If he could start Miranda on the road to success, introduce her to some people, perhaps he’d be able to forget the hatred a pair of eighteen-year-old eyes had once held….

  Or at least that had been the plan.

  But having met Miranda again, he had a suspicion it wasn’t going to be nearly that simple.

  Standing behind her, all too conscious of the subtle fragrance of warm vanilla she exuded, Callum watched her elegant fingers flip the file open to the first page of the agreement his PA had prepared. Her shoulders stiffened as she read the figure he proposed to pay for a one-night job.

  Satisfaction swept through him. She wouldn’t refuse. His offer was too good. Helping Miranda get started in a business that must presently be nothing more than an impossible dream would be the perfect way to excise the disturbing memory of the wild accusations she’d flung at him.

  You killed my father.

  Of course he knew he hadn’t, didn’t he? Thomas Owen had killed himself once he realized there would be a trial—where he would almost certainly be found guilty on the overwhelming evidence against him. The courts showed no mercy against employees who stole from their employers. Thomas Owen would have known he was facing prison.

  Yet Thomas’s suicide had shaken Callum more than he cared to admit, leaving him haunted by a long shadow of guilt.

  A legacy that he was determined to shake.

  The black-and-white print on the paper in front of her blurred. Miranda was no longer aware of the maplewood furniture, or Callum’s spacious office. Instead she experienced again the hot ball of misery that had burned constantly in her chest from the moment her father’s PA had called with the news of her father’s arrest.

  Impossible.

  But her father’s assistant had insisted it was true: the police had been, and had taken her father away. Miranda needed to get hold of her mother urgently. Callum Ironstone would be issuing a press statement soon.

  At barely eighteen, Miranda’s first sighting of Callum Ironstone on television had swung rapidly from interest in the handsome devil with dark hair, a sensual mouth and eyes that held a mesmerizing intensity, to hatred when she’d heard what he had to say. The press statement had been brief but damning.

  All of it lies. By the time it came to an end, Miranda was numb with disbelief.

  There had been a mistake. Ye
t Callum Ironstone clearly didn’t believe that. Rage had set in. Her father was not a thief.

  Her father was granted bail, and emerged from the courthouse pale, shaken, but determined to clear his name. He had done nothing to justify the indignity the Ironstones had heaped upon him after two decades loyal service. Miranda had been confident it would all be sorted out.

  But what followed had been traumatic. And, in the end, Thomas Owen simply gave up. Miranda could still remember the set, serious face of the policewoman who’d knocked on the door to break the news that her father was dead.

  Then came the funeral. Miranda’s hands grew clammy and nerves fluttered in her stomach at the memory of the last terrible occasion she’d seen Callum Ironstone—it still made her cringe. Devastated by her father’s death, her white-hot hatred boiling over, she’d confronted him in the stone-walled forecourt of the church.

  The men beside him moved to cut her off. But she barged past them. Standing in front of Callum, she inspected him with angry eyes. “How could you take a good man’s life and destroy it?” she’d challenged.

  His jaw had set, and his face had grown harder than the marble tombstones in the churchyard. “He stole money from me.”

  “So you decided to teach him a lesson and humiliate him?”

  A flush seared his carved cheekbones.

  A man who resembled Callum—a brother perhaps—stepped forward. “Wait a minute, young lady—”

  She brushed him aside, focusing all her emotion on Callum. “You killed him. You know that?” Tears of rage and pain spilled onto her cheeks. “He worked for you for twenty years, you gave him a gold watch, yet you never gave him a chance?”

  Her father had been given no opportunity to avow his innocence. Callum had relentlessly pushed the police to the conclusion he’d wanted.

  “You’re overwrought,” he said dismissively.

  That made the ball of anger swell inside her. “And what’s going to happen to my mother, my brother?” Me? “Now that you’ve destroyed our family?”

  Callum gave her a stony stare. He raised a dark, devilish eyebrow and asked sardonically, “Finished?”