Under the Millionaire's Mistletoe(22)

She slid her arms around his waist and stepped into him. And still he kissed her, his fingers threading deeper into her hair.

Meg forgot all the reasons why this was a bad idea and lost herself in  his kiss, in the simple joining. He gave of himself, made no demands,  and because of that swept her away, a leaf delighting in the wind,  flying for that brief time between tree and ground.

And for that brief time it was just him, just her, no past or future, just the now and this kiss, his lips against hers.

Too soon, but what had to be minutes later, he lifted his head, his  hands still framed her face, his thumbs lazily stroked her cheeks.

"Remind me in what possible way that could have been a bad idea. I'm  thinking it was one of the best, if not the best idea I've ever had."

She opened her mouth to speak and waited for her brain to provide the words.

He slid his hands over her shoulders, down her arms, till he held both  her hands in his. And Meg knew she was in deep, deep trouble because all  she could think was that she wanted him to kiss her again and then she  wanted more. Much, much more.

The chiming of the doorbell broke through the sensory spell he wove. Her  first reaction was disappointment. Her second, as sanity returned, was  relief. That kiss could only have led to places they couldn't go, not  without horribly complicating what was already a far-too-complicated  situation, and not without threatening the safe cocoon she'd spun around  her heart.

She started for the door.

"Leave it," he said.

But she'd remembered who it likely was. "Um …  No. We can't." We can't  leave it and we can't go where you're thinking. Where I was thinking.  Wanting.

Luke looked from the broad cedar door to Meg. "You know who that is?"

Meg glanced at her watch. "Maybe." They were punctual, a little early even, which normally she'd rate as a good quality.

"So it's someone for you?"

"Not exactly."

"Whoever it is, send them away. I don't feel like company today."

"I can't do that."

"Because?"                       
       
           



       

The chimes rang softly through the house again. "Because I think it's the caterers."

His eyes narrowed on her. "Why are there caterers ringing my doorbell?"

"Because they'd like to come in?" She kept her tone hopeful and innocent.

"Meg?" His tone was anything but hopeful or innocent. She'd have said more suspicious and accusing.

"They have some setting up to do. For the dinner tonight." The doorbell rang again and was followed by an insistent knock.

"Open it. And then I think you better tell me what dinner they're setting up for."

Meg let the small army of caterers in, guided them through to the  kitchen and took as long as she could showing them anything and  everything she thought they might need to know. She didn't leave till it  became obvious she was only getting in their way.

She went back to the entranceway where she'd left Luke, where he'd  kissed her, but he wasn't there. The red bow was back in place on the  post. She could look for him, but she'd doubtless see him soon enough.  In the meantime, she had things she needed to do. Like run away before  she started acting on three months' worth of daydreams.

In her-Luke's-bedroom she pulled a plain black suitcase from the  wardrobe and dropped it onto her-his-bed and unzipped the lid. From the  top dresser drawer she gathered her underwear and put it into the case.  The second drawer contained Luke's clothes. She opened the third drawer  and pulled out her T-shirts.

"What are you doing?"

She tensed at the sound of his voice and spun, her T-shirts clasped to her chest, to see him standing in the doorway. "Packing."

"You do have a knack for stating the obvious."

"We agreed I'd go as soon as you got back."

"And then we agreed Monday, because your car is at the mechanic's." Luke  strolled across the room and positioned himself in front of the wide  window that most days allowed forever views out over the lake. Today,  ominous clouds hid the far, snow-capped mountains, restricting the view  instead to the lake's edge. "What is it you're frightened of?"

"Nothing." And even though he wasn't looking at her, she clutched the  T-shirts a little tighter, a flimsy barrier against his questions, his  insight.

"Now, me, I'm frightened of you."

A ludicrous notion. "I don't think so. You hold all the power here. Your  house, your territory." Not to mention his looks, his wealth, her  weakness for him.

"What scares me, Meg," he said to the window, "is the way I feel when I  look at you. And the way those feelings intensify when you look back at  me."

His words stilled her, made her want to hope. She covered the foolish,  unlikely hope with glibness. "And I'll just bet you're a 'feel the fear  and do it anyway' kind of guy."

"Sometimes," he said quietly. "Not always. Sometimes the fear is to protect us."

Meg placed the T-shirts on top of her underwear, spreading them so they  hid the scraps of lace that were her secret indulgence. Plain, practical  Meg liked pretty, sometimes even sexy, lingerie.

Luke crossed to the dresser. She'd divided the space on top in half.  One-third, two-thirds, actually. A third for his things, a watch and a  framed photo of his mother only needed so much space. The two-thirds on  the right was littered with her things. Perfume, a pair of earrings, a  scented candle and …  "Don't touch that."

He turned with a curling photo in his hand. "This?"

"Yes," she sighed, "that."

"Why not?"

"I didn't mean don't touch it. You can have it. Throw it out if you like."

He lifted a questioning eyebrow.

"I needed something to show people when I went back to try to find you.  Clearly, I don't need it anymore." The photo showed the two of them,  Luke sitting up in bed, looking ill but still with a certain intensity  to his gaze, and Meg perched beside him looking worried and pointing to  something off camera. Their wedding photo. She didn't even know why  she'd left it out and on the dresser.                       
       
           



       

He was about to place the photo back where it had stood leaning against  her perfume, when instead, he picked up the small crystal bottle and  brought it to his nose. He closed his eyes and nodded. "Very Meg."  Opening his eyes, he studied her. "Flowers and sweetness." Meg adjusted  her T-shirts in the case.

"Tell me about this dinner the caterers in my kitchen are setting up for."

She opened her mouth to speak.

He held up a warning finger. "I just want the facts. No evasive answers.  What party do you have planned for tonight?" He frowned. "And if you're  planning a party, why are you packing as though you can't get out of  here fast enough."

"There's a Christmas dinner for the Maitland Foundation here tonight.  Most of the really big donors will be here. I haven't had all that much  to do with the organization. I just agreed with Sally when she suggested  that this house would be the perfect place for the dinner. And agreed  with her that there was no reason it couldn't be here."

"She didn't tell you that she asks every year if she could have it here, and that every year I tell her no?"

Meg swallowed. Sally had told her she'd bear the blame if Luke got back  before Christmas, but it didn't seem fair. "Actually, she did. But I  couldn't see any reason not to have it here. You have a beautiful home.  And it's so much more personal to have a dinner in a home than at a  restaurant."

Luke blew out a heavy sigh. The hands at his sides had curled into  fists. And for a few brief seconds he shut his eyes. Meg contemplated  sneaking out. Too soon he opened them again, the silver sharp and  intent. "So why are you packing now?"

"Now that you're back, I don't need to be here for it."

He crossed to the bed. Took everything out of her suitcase, dropped it  onto the bedcover, then zipped the case shut. "Think again. If I have to  be here for this dinner, then you most definitely do."

She unzipped the case and gathered up the pile of clothes. "No, I don't."

"These donors who are coming, they know I have a wife?"

"Yes, most of them," she said slowly, holding her clothes to her chest  and hoping fervently that she'd covered her underwear with her T-shirts.

"Then they'll expect you to be here. The Maitland Foundation and its  donors espouse strong family values. You could cost it thousands if you  don't show, Mrs. Maitland."

"That's not fair."

"You're right, it's not." He smiled, devious and victorious. "I'll leave  you to start getting ready." He stopped at the door and nodded at the  clothes in her arms. "I'm sure the red will look fetching on you."