Under the Millionaire's Mistletoe(18)

Luke turned his attention to the sandwich. He was halfway through it  when a cup of coffee materialized beside his plate. He looked up and met  her gaze. Her earlier stony expression had softened. "Thank you," he  said again.

And was rewarded with a soft smile and felt again a glimmer of the brief  connection they'd once shared. "You're welcome. You still drink it  black?"

He nodded. Not that there'd been the option of having it any other way  of late. She turned her back on him and adjusted the radio till she  found a station playing Christmas carols. She wore her hair out and the  soft curls brushed just past her shoulders. He'd never seen it out  before. On the island, for practicality's sake, it had always been tied  up. And last night, apart from that single tendril she'd allowed to curl  beside her throat, it had been twisted into something fancy at the back  of her head. He hadn't realized that it was quite so long or silky and  his fingers itched to touch it, to know the feel of it. He clenched his  fists and his jaw. Hair was hair. He did not want to know how hers felt.  What he wanted was to get his life back to normal.

And that did not include having a wife in it.

She'd made herself a coffee, too, and picked up her cup, cradling it  with two hands as she leaned back against the counter on the far side of  the kitchen.

Luke returned his attention to his sandwich and didn't look at her again  until he was finished. But when he did he found her gaze still steady  on him.

"You were hungry?"

"Apparently."

"I can make you another one. Or get you some fruit."

"It's my house, Meg. I can look after myself."

She bit her bottom lip.

"So, tell me-" They both spoke at once.

"You first," she said.

"Tell me about the last three months."

She shrugged. "I left the island, came back here. It took a while to  convince Mark of the truth of my story and that your letter to him  hadn't been signed under duress. Putting in the tree house incident was  what clinched it. He figured you wouldn't have told that story to anyone  you didn't trust. Even at gunpoint." Her eyes danced.

"And you're now the only person in the world apart from Mark and me who knows."

"My lips are sealed." She pressed the lips in question together.

But they hadn't always been sealed like that. They'd parted for him last night. Let him into her warmth.

"Mark was great. He went along with everything, helping explain my  presence to your friends. Apparently, you're so deeply private that no  one was surprised they hadn't heard of me. Only pleased to meet me. And  Mark helped me look for you."

How hard had they looked and how much had Mark-his attorney and his friend-helped her?

Kind, intelligent Mark. In those moments Luke had tried to be  altruistic, he'd thought that if he didn't make it back, Meg and Mark  might be good for each other. He wasn't feeling altruistic now. Far from  it.

A too-familiar tension started to build. It was getting old, the  second-guessing, the not knowing who to trust. "Do you want to walk?" He  needed to get outside, to get moving.                       
       
           



       

And he needed to remember who his friends were. They weren't many but  they were true. And Mark was one of them. Luke had no need or right to  doubt him.

As for Meg, he wanted to trust her, but the jury was still out on that  one. In reality, he'd known her only a few days in Indonesia and he'd  been perilously ill most of that time. His judgment couldn't possibly  have been sound. He'd been betrayed before by people he'd thought he  knew. And he didn't truly know why she'd agreed to marry him.

"Sure." Gentle, trusting. She gathered up their few dishes, put them in the dishwasher, then followed him to the front door.

He opened the closet wondering whether his jacket would still be there.  It was. On the same peg he always hung it on. The first one. So, she  hadn't got rid of his stuff or even moved it for her own convenience.  He'd wondered how much of his presence she'd expunged from the house  when she'd kept him from his bedroom last night.

A red jacket hung beside his. He reached for it and the scarf hanging  with it, passed them to her, then held open the front door.

As she walked past him, he caught the scent of her hair, green apples,  and he had to fight an urge to stop her so that he could lower his head  and inhale that freshness, inhale some of her seeming innocence. The  sort of innocence a man could want to take advantage of.

"Jason hasn't bothered you?" Because Jason, his half brother, was  exactly the type of man who would take a perverse pleasure in abusing  innocence.

She hesitated. "Depends on what you mean by bothered?"

He pulled the door shut behind them. "Care to explain?"

They walked down the stairs together. "He comes around a lot. At first  he was suspicious, a little bit antagonistic even. He had a lot more  questions than anyone else about our relationship and our … marriage. And  he seems to come round only when no one else is here."

At the foot of the stairs, she bent to pat Caesar, who'd bounded up,  joyous at the prospect of another outing. Luke was sure his dog-part  Alsatian, part something that really, really liked to fetch sticks-used  to have more dignity, but he'd dropped to the ground and rolled over for  Meg to scratch his belly. She had nice hands, delicate and gentle. And  soothing. And he would not think about her hands. Specifically, he would  not think about her hands on him. She straightened. "I gather I'm not  the type of woman you usually dated."

"I guess not. You're definitely shorter." Meg barely came up to his  chin. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously but she didn't say anything and he  fathomed the reason for her skepticism. The last woman he'd dated was  Melinda, an ex-model, willowy and glamorous. Who wouldn't in a million  years have even contemplated a six-month stint of voluntary work in  third world conditions. That was, in essence, the biggest difference.

"I met your last girlfriend."

"You did?" He couldn't imagine the two of them having anything in common. He started for the path and she walked at his side.

"She called around one day and Jason arrived just a few minutes after.  He told her I was your wife, although I suspect she'd heard something to  that effect already. And then he told me she was your ex-girlfriend."

And wouldn't Jason have enjoyed that spot of stirring. "How did she take it?"

"She smiled."

"That's good," he said hopefully. Melinda had broken it off with him  several months before he'd gone to Indonesia. She had no cause to be  upset.

"It wasn't a happy smile."

"Oh."

"I know it's none of my business, but why did you and her break up?"

Maybe she had a little cause. He cleared his throat. "Because I didn't want to get married."

"Which kind of explains the not-so-happy smile."

"I guess."

"She was very beautiful." She said it with a kind of awe. But as  beautiful as Melinda had looked, she had nothing on Meg, whose source of  beauty had nothing to do with the clothes she wore and everything to do  with what shone from within.

"Perhaps you should explain to her why you married me," she said quietly.                       
       
           



       

"I'll think about it." He couldn't see that it would achieve anything,  but Meg seemed to want it. Maybe to ease her own conscience. She seemed  so earnest. So innocent. "How old are you?"

A grin tilted her lips and coaxed one from him in return. Admittedly, it  was an odd question to ask his wife. "Twenty-eight," she said. Nearly  ten years younger than him. A world of difference in age and cynicism.  Maybe it was that openness to her that made her look so young, so  appealing.

Meg broke their tenuous connection as she turned away and continued  walking toward the lake. "I learned your age from our marriage  certificate."

That piece of paper legally binding them. He'd need to set about  unbinding them as soon as possible, because despite their verbal  agreement that she'd leave when he got back, she was legally his wife.  She'd have rights if she chose to exercise them.

She'd helped him, he owed her something. Certainly more than mere  gratitude. How much more would be the pivotal question. And Mark would  no doubt have an opinion on that as well as the most efficient and  effective way to undo what he'd done. Set them both free. "What day is  it?"

"Saturday."

He'd call Mark on his personal line later, set up a meeting for first  thing Monday morning. The sooner that was sorted, the better. Regardless  of how much she was likely to cost him. In the meantime, he'd be  friendly but distant. He didn't want to alienate her. But on the other  hand, he didn't want to encourage her to think there was anything more  to their marriage than her having the use of his house until his return.  He also needed to talk to Mark about Jason.