Under the Millionaire's Mistletoe(17)

She dropped his wrist, lifted her chin and her wide clear eyes searched  his face. Defiance overlaid a glimmer of wariness. "Should I be?"

He could still feel the imprint of her fingers, her skin against his. It  had been like that whenever she'd touched him. "What do you think?" He  didn't know why he was goading her. He'd had scarcely more than a few  hours' sleep in the last forty-eight hours. All he really wanted was to  lie down somewhere, he didn't care where, and close his eyes. He'd come  home, not knowing what to expect, but knowing she couldn't have been as  simultaneously wholesome and desirable as his memory wanted to paint  her. Besides, he'd never really been into wholesome.

"I think, no."

He hadn't even known if he'd be able to find her. He certainly hadn't  expected her to be hosting a party in his own house. It tarnished the  wholesome image, made him doubt his judgment and his memories. "You're  sure?"

"I think, for some perverse reason, you'd like me to be afraid of you. But the man I remember was decent and kind."

He watched her lips, a soft coral pink. He hadn't intended on kissing  her. But her lack of recognition of him had galled. And besides, she had  been standing under the mistletoe. What was a husband supposed to do?  "I was sick. I wasn't entirely myself."

"Some things don't change."

Another first, someone defending him to himself. "And some things change  completely, Mrs. Maitland." For instance, he now had the wife he'd  sworn he'd never burden his life with.

"I'm not Mrs. Maitland. I never took your name. It didn't seem right."

He didn't know whether he was relieved or affronted. "Just my house. My  money. My life." He curled his hand around the newel at the base of the  stairs.

Her eyes narrowed and her hands went to her hips. "You're swaying, and  talking almost as much gibberish as you were that last day on the  island. Go to bed."

"Come with me." He was in no state to do anything other than sleep. But  she didn't know that. "I've been sleeping alone for so long."

"Luke." She said his name with such frustrated impatience, and none of her earlier trepidation, that maybe she did know.

"That wasn't how you used to say my name." He'd heard her the times when  she'd thought he was sleeping. And even when she'd known him to be  awake, there had been such tenderness in her voice. "And not how I  dreamed of hearing you say it."

"First my hands, now my voice. Any other parts of me you dreamed of?"

Luke smiled. "I don't think you want to know." Color climbed her cheeks.





Two




Luke woke alone in a broad, soft bed. Nothing unusual about the alone  part, but the bed was a different story altogether. The snow-white  sheets smelled fresh and clean and felt crisp against his skin. A  feather pillow cushioned his head. Opening his eyes, he scanned the  room. A miniature Christmas tree stood on the dresser. Christmas?                       
       
           



       

Then he remembered last night. Though he'd been so exhausted, it was all  a little vague. Coming home. Finding Meg, the woman he'd married out of  desperation and anger, here. And he remembered the mistletoe. That  memory was crystal clear. He also recalled his last sight of her  hurrying up the stairs away from him.

Throwing back the covers, he strode to the window and pushed the  curtains wide, needing to orient himself to the time and the season.  Outside, ponderosa pines framed a panoramic view of Lake Tahoe. A leaden  sky hung low and oppressive with the threat of snow but gave no real  clue as to the time of morning.

He stretched, easing his shoulder through a full range of movement. It  was his shoulder that had started it all. A gash from a handsaw dropped  from the roof of the almost-completed school building. In the heat and  humidity the cut became infected. The infection steadily worsened. And  the remote Indonesian island's depleted medical supplies hadn't run to  the antibiotics he'd needed.

He'd only gone to the island to fulfill a long overdue promise to his  mother to take a closer look at the Maitland Foundation's work there.  She'd headed up that office until her death a year ago. But while seeing  the foundation's work, he'd discovered his half brother's duplicity.  And the visit had nearly ended up costing his life.

He'd also discovered Meg.

And got himself a wife.

A wife he now had to un-get.

A movement on the path leading up from the lake toward his house caught  his eye. His wife. Meg. Not Meg Maitland. But Meg … he couldn't even  remember her surname. Wearing sweats and a form-fitting, long-sleeved  top, with her hair tied into a high, swinging ponytail, she jogged along  the path toward him, her breath making small puffs of mist in the air.  Caesar trotted at her side, a stick in his mouth. His dog at least had  known him last night, even if he now seemed more than happy with his  allegiance to her.

She glanced up, saw him, then averted her gaze. Was he-? Luke looked  down. He wore boxers-one of his few purchases on the way home. So, what  was her problem? Whatever it was, she definitely wasn't looking back his  way. She tossed the stick for Caesar and when he returned with it, she  bent over and fussed with him for a while before disappearing round the  side of the house.

Fifteen minutes later, Luke, showered and fully dressed, rummaged  through his kitchen cupboards looking for something to eat. The pantry  was better stocked than he ever remembered it being.

At the sound of footsteps, he turned. She, too, had showered and now  wore appealingly snug jeans and a red-and-white sweater. She looked  fresh and innocent, like she ought to still believe in Santa Claus. But  looks could be deceiving. He had a lot of questions for her. Questions  he intended to get answers to today.

He hadn't exactly behaved with his trademark calm detachment last night.  A fact he regretted. But he couldn't quite bring himself to regret  kissing her. It might have been his only opportunity. Soon she would be  out of his house and out of his life. That's what they'd agreed should  happen if-when, she'd insisted-he came back. Though they hadn't  discussed time frames.

"Do you want me to make you lunch?" she asked.

"Lunch? I usually start with breakfast."

A smile twitched at her lips. "After midday, I usually call it lunch."

He remembered that smile, how easily and often it played about her  mouth, how it made her blue eyes sparkle like sunlight on water,  reminding him of the lake he loved. Making her smile had been one of his  few pleasures when he'd been laid low. "You're kidding me." He knew  he'd been tired, but … he searched the kitchen. The clock on the microwave  read one-forty. And he knew that wasn't a.m.

"You must have been exhausted." She watched him warily.

He nodded.

"Sit down. I'll make you a sandwich."

Was she was trying to soften him up, being all sweet and obliging, this  woman installed in his house, his life? Did she want something from him?  Of late, it seemed everyone-friends, enemies, officials-wanted  something.

His cynicism must have shown because her hands went to her hips. "Oh,  for goodness' sake, sit down." She pointed, straight-armed, at one of  the bar stools behind the breakfast bar. "I'm not going to try and  poison you and I don't want anything from you. I'm offering-and it's a  one-time-only offer-to make you lunch. While you look infinitely better  than you did back on the island and much better than you did last night  even, to be honest, you still don't look great. And as from now, I'm  going to refuse to care."                       
       
           



       

Luke smiled as he strolled to take the seat he'd been ordered to. So,  his Florence Nightingale wasn't all sweetness and light. He liked her  better for it. It made her more real. He watched her moving about his  kitchen, opening and shutting cupboards and the fridge with what he  deemed unnecessary force. She didn't bother asking him what he did or  didn't want on his sandwich, which didn't bother him, because he was so  ravenous he didn't care.

He'd never sat here and watched a woman in his own kitchen before. He wasn't sure he liked it.

Gradually, her movements slowed and gentled to some thing practiced and  efficient as she set about putting the sandwich together for him. He  watched her deft hands with their delicate fingers, watched the sway of  her hips and the curve of her rear as she crossed the kitchen for this  or that, and decided that a woman in his kitchen wasn't entirely a bad  thing. A few minutes later, she slid the plate across the breakfast bar  toward him. "Thank you."

The simple courtesy seemed to surprise her, which shouldn't surprise  him. He hadn't exactly been Mr. Charming last night. Or this morning.