Under the Millionaire's Mistletoe(26)

He looked at her hand but didn't reach for the ring and a glimmer of a  smile touched his lips. "You can't give it back to me. I never gave it  to you in the first place."

Oh. Right. So much for that gesture. Feeling like a fool, she went to  slip the ring into her pocket. He did reach for her then. He picked up  her left hand and slid the ring back into place. "But leave it there for  now. I didn't want to make you a pawn, Meg. I wanted to give you  something."

"And to stop Jason getting anything."

"Mainly that," he agreed. "And you know what else?"

"What?"

"This isn't how I planned on starting this morning."

She didn't want to think about what he might mean by that. There were a  number of possibilities. All of the ones that sprang to her mind were  unwise.

He tugged her closer, pressed a soft, beguiling kiss to her lips. Very unwise.

"Good morning," he said with a smile once he'd pulled away, his gaze locking on to hers.

All of her tension had melted with just that one kiss. It was a  masterful tactic, a potent secret weapon in his arsenal. "Good morning."  Kiss me again.

But he didn't. "Have you had breakfast? Or is it lunchtime already again?"                       
       
           



       

"Breakfast, and no, I haven't eaten. But Luke, I think I should go."

She watched his face, his eyes, but couldn't read his reaction. "Eat  first," he finally said. Not, No, don't go, Meg, which she would have  been foolish to expect. Sometimes, though, she was foolish. Last night  being the most recent example. Making love to a man she had no future  with. Letting herself love him, even just a little.

In the kitchen, he had her sit on a stool at the breakfast bar while he  got out a pan and bacon and eggs. "How did you learn to cook?" No man  had ever cooked for her.

He passed her a mug of coffee. "Mom got heavily into her charity work  from an early age. She wasn't always around a lot. And when I was a  teenager I went through several years of being constantly hungry.  Appetite's a great motivator. It's not like I can produce a gourmet meal  or anything, but I can do the basics. You want a filling, sustaining  meal after or before a day's snow skiing or water skiing? I'm your man."

I'm your man? The expression was depressingly appealing. As was the man himself.

Within a few minutes he'd carried two plates of eggs and crispy bacon to  the small oak table in the breakfast nook. He sat at a right angle to  her and they ate in a silence that would have been restful were it not  for Meg's regret and quiet despair about how soon this was ending.

Beyond the window, snow flakes began to drift and swirl.

She hadn't heard a weather report in days, but Jason had spoken as  though more snow was expected. "Thank you." She stood from the table.  "Now I should go." She had to end it. The sooner the better. Drawn-out  goodbyes were too hard, too painful.

"I thought your car was at the mechanic's till tomorrow."

That was her problem. "It is." She caught her bottom lip in her teeth. "You could take me to Sally's?"

Silver eyes assessed her. "Is that what you want?"

No, I want you to ask me to stay. To see where this thing we have leads.  Unless this thing we have is all in my head. "Yes, it's what I want."

"Because from what I know of you, the things you've told me, the things I've seen, you don't always consult your own needs."

Meg said nothing. Was she that transparent? She did put other people's  needs ahead of her own. That was how she'd been brought up. That was  what she was supposed to do, wasn't it?

"You've called her?" he asked after a pause.

"Not yet." But she would, and could only hope that Sally kept her  questions to herself. For her months here she'd pretended she'd had a  real marriage. Now, two days after her husband's return, she was seeking  sanctuary at her friend's place. But fortunately, in those two months,  Sally truly had become a friend.

"What does staying at Sally's achieve?"

Couldn't he just let it go? She sighed and tried to keep her voice  neutral. "Distance. Perspective. It gives you your home and your life  back." But mainly, it would stop her doing dumb things like watching his  hands as he held his fork or his cup and remembering the feel of those  hands on her.

Luke looked toward the window but said nothing.

Meg paused at the doorway. "I'll need an hour to gather up all my things from around the house and finish packing."

He gave a single abrupt nod and she left the room. It was easy enough to  pack up her clothes and belongings from the master bedroom, but she  took her time, folding slowly, uncharacteristically uncertain about how  best to pack her bags. In the wardrobe, she let herself touch Luke's  suits, his sweaters. Beside the bed, she straightened the fishing  magazine and the book that she'd left all this time on the bedside  table. She'd read the book-a thriller-her first month here. Imagining a  connection with him as she did so. Her fingers turning the same pages  his had.

She lingered in front of the wide window. Its view over the lake had  always brought her a measure of serenity. It didn't today. Today, the  dark turbulent sky matched the oppression she felt.

She finished in the bedroom but needed to check the rest of the rooms.  Over the months she'd lived here, she'd managed to spread herself and  her bits and pieces throughout the house. She'd have to do a  room-by-room search.                       
       
           



       

At the door to the library, she paused, not sure she wanted to face the  scene of last night's … encounter. She toyed with the idea of just buying a  new book to replace the half read one she'd left in there, then decided  she was being ridiculous. She was a grown woman, for goodness' sake.  She pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Luke sat on the couch, a sheaf of hand-written papers on his lap, his  long denim-clad legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He looked  up as she entered and the memories came flooding back.

Memories of sights; shadows and contours, and scents; his shampoo, his  sweat, the essence of Luke himself and sensation; frantic hands, warm  lips on skin, desperate longing and utter completion filled her mind.  Images of her own reckless abandon.

"I just," she cleared her throat, "came to get my book." She pointed at  the book on the small table beside him. He watched her silently as she  dashed forward to snatch it up and backed out of the room.

As she shut the door behind her again, she thought she heard him speak. A  short phrase, too indistinct for her to make out. Show me. She was  imagining things. Nothing to show. No stockings today, no red lace.  White and a little lacy, with a small bow between her breasts. But  mainly plain. That's who she really was. But for a few forbidden seconds  she imagined the things she could wear for him if- She cut off her own  thoughts. No ifs. No maybes. They'd had an agreement. She'd lived up to  her part of it. And now she was going. Last night was … a bonus. Such an  inadequate word. A night's insight into a world of possibilities, of  pleasure and promise and wholeness.

Ten minutes later he found her on the stairway, strode up to meet her  and took her case from her hand. He carried it down, set it by the  Christmas tree in the entrance. "There's more?"

"One."

She followed him up to the bedroom. Her second case, bulging and heavy,  sat at the base of the bed. He looked about the room, his gaze sweeping  from the bed to her face. "I'll think of you when I'm sleeping in here."

"Don't, Luke."

"Don't think of you when I'm sleeping in here? Or don't tell you that I will?"

"Don't … tell me." It was only fair that he think of her; she'd thought of  him often enough as she'd lain there, and knew she would think of him  still wherever she went next. For a time at least. But time healed all,  dulled memories and yearnings. Eventually she'd forget him. Forget last  night. Move on. She had to.

"I spoke to Mark this morning."

The simple statement doused the recollections. Mark was his attorney as well as his friend. "And?"

"And he's coming round tomorrow morning. But he said, whatever we do, we shouldn't sleep together." His lips twitched.

How could he think this was funny? But his amusement called a response  from her, a spark of un-Meg-like mischief. Mark would surely be appalled  at how incautious their actions had been. "Did you tell him?"

Luke shook his head. "Didn't want to spoil his weekend. I'll tell him tomorrow."

"It won't make a difference, you know." She wanted Luke to know that. "I  don't want anything from you. I never did. The fact that we slept  together doesn't change that."