Under the Millionaire's Mistletoe(27)

"Nothing, Meg?" He picked up her case as though it was weightless. "When  you have money, it seems everyone wants something from you. It's hard  to believe that there are people who really don't."

Maybe he wouldn't truly believe that till she walked away from him.

"Even my mother. She only approved of me and what I did because it meant  I could donate money to her causes. And maybe she was right."

"That wasn't the only reason she approved of you. She loved you."

"I'm sure she did." He spoke without conviction.

"She couldn't not have." Meg spoke with more vehemence than she'd meant  to. She half loved him herself and she'd known him only a whisper of  time.

Luke's eyebrows lifted. And Meg regretted the intensity of her words.  Did they reveal too much? Too much of what? She couldn't even say  herself. Her feelings, her heart, were galloping ahead to places her  mind knew they shouldn't. They'd passed like, and attraction, passed  fascination and warmth, were mired in enthrallment, a deep drugging  spell of connection and wanting and rightness. But she wouldn't let it  be anything more than that. It was a spell that could, and would have  to, be broken. Because she was leaving.                       
       
           



       

That was what they'd agreed.





Six




Luke carried Meg's suitcase downstairs, set it beside the first and said  what he'd known for the last hour. "We're going to have to wait till  the snow stops and the roads are cleared." She followed his gaze through  the panes of glass bordering the door. Snow had blanketed the pines and  the ground outside in white and was still falling.

He didn't know what to expect. Frustration that she couldn't get away,  as she so clearly wanted to, or resignation that she was stuck here with  him for longer still? He didn't expect her to step toward the door and  place her fingertips on the glass, soft wonderment in her expression. "I  grew up in southern California. It never snowed." She glanced at him.  "It's so beautiful," she said, turning back to the window.

As she was, beautiful and serene and unspoiled, like the snow outside.

And always able to find a silver lining.

"It might be. But it's no good for driving in." He was deliberately  brusque because it beat the hell out of getting sappy, of letting the  way she affected him on so many levels show. They'd made love last  night, but she was going this morning. It was for the best. Too much  time with her was blurring the lines between what he ought to do, send  her off so that she could find someone less jaded, someone who shared  her optimism and her dreams, and what he wanted to do, take her back  upstairs to his bed, make her his, hope a winter-long blizzard moved in.

He needed to find some kind of middle ground. "Let's go for a walk."

Her slow smile of pleasure and approval warmed him. Or maybe all she  felt was relief at not being trapped indoors with him. He handed her her  coat from the closet. "There are so many things we'll never do  together. But we've got this day, whether we like it or not."

She'd be gone soon enough. A walk in the snow couldn't hurt. Layers and  layers of clothing. And it was surely better than being inside with her  with little to do except be ambushed by thoughts of making love to her  again, sinking into her heat, of watching a different kind of wonderment  on her face, of seeing her ecstasy. Which was how he'd spent the  morning. Staying out of her way but acutely aware of her.

She was her own kind of delirium. He could no longer pretend his  reaction to her was a product of fever, and honesty compelled him to  admit that something about her had called to him well before his  infection had become serious. The attraction of innocence, of her  optimism? Wanting to drench himself in her aura. Snap out of it. He  shoved his arms into his coat, hands into gloves and his feet into snow  boots and stood apart from her, not so much as looking at her, while he  listened to her movements, the rustle of clothing, the zipper on her  jacket sliding up, a soft stomp as she pushed her feet into boots.

He opened the door and stepped outside, breathed deeply of the Meg-free  air. The door closed behind him. Her shoulder nestled against his. Her  scent assailed him. The scent he'd reveled in last night.

She walked ahead, tripping lightly down the steps, her footsteps  crunching through snow as she skipped ahead, her brightly colored Sherpa  hat bobbing with her footsteps, the tassels by her ears swinging like  braids. Already she was committed to an idea that was nothing more than  an off-the-cuff suggestion to find a way through the situation. Luke  followed, gloved hands in his pockets, his step measured and slow. She  stopped, flung her arms wide, tipped her face skyward and spun in a slow  circle, embracing the day. Already her nose and cheeks were pink. He  wanted to kiss her. Heaven help him. He wanted to kiss those cheeks,  those eyes, those lips. "Help me make a snowman." She crouched down,  gathered a ball of snow and began rolling it.

She'd make a great mother. Not something he'd ever thought before about  the women he'd been involved with. She had so much of the carefree  spirit of a child within her. And yet she'd seen hardship, she'd been  confronted with it daily in Indonesia. Seen it and chosen to keep the  flame of optimism alight within her. He crouched, too, began rolling a  second snowball. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done this,  certainly not since he was a child. He stacked his snowball on top of  the larger one she'd rolled and began rolling a third for the head.                       
       
           



       

"Carrot," she announced, "for the nose. And I don't suppose you have buttons?"

He shook his head.

She headed back to the house. "I'll find something."

Luke was settling the head in place when Meg came hurrying back with a  carrot and two plums. She pressed the carrot and fruit into place, one  of the plums shedding a single purple tear. Then she wrapped her scarf  around the snowman's neck and pulled a camera from her pocket. "Stand by  Frosty."

"Frosty?"

"It's almost Christmas. What else are we supposed to call him?"

He reached for the camera. "You stand by … Frosty. I'll take your picture."

She shook her head and the light in her eyes dimmed just a little. "I'd like one of you."

To remember him by? "For that matter, I'd like one of you." To remember  her by. Even though he had the feeling his problem was going to be in  trying to forget her.

She shrugged and stood by the snowman. "Come stand with us. My arm is just long enough to take a picture of us both."

He stood at her side and taking a glove off, eased the camera from her  hand. "My arm's longer." She pressed up against him and without  thinking, he slid his free arm around her shoulders, pulled her closer.  The thinking occurred too late, when he inhaled the fragrance of her  shampoo. "On three. One. Two. Three." The shutter clicked.

"One more," she said. "Just in case."

"On three again." This time on three, as the shutter clicked she wriggled in his hold and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Let me see it," she said as though she hadn't just done that-kissed him  as though it was a perfectly ordinary thing to do. Which, perhaps with  someone else it would be, but from Meg it hadn't felt ordinary. It had  felt like a gift.

Refusing to be distracted, he adjusted the setting to replay and, not  looking at the picture, passed her the camera. What he did look at was  her. Her breath coming in small misty puffs. Her cheeks and nose getting  redder still with the cold. The lips that had moments ago touched his  face. So much for not getting distracted.

He dropped all pretence of resolution and cupped a hand to one rosy  cheek. Meg looked up, a smile playing about her lips. The smile dimmed  and her lips parted as she read his intent. Using his teeth he pulled  his other glove off, let it fall to the snow so that he could frame her  face with both his hands. Skin against skin.

Slowly, he lowered his head and kissed her.

Properly.

If they only had this day left, if he only had a finite and too-limited  number of kisses left, then he wasn't going to let her waste them on his  cheek.

The warmth of her mouth was an erotic contrast to the chill of her lips.  Her heat, as his tongue teased and tasted, swamped him. She wrapped her  arms around his waist and kissed him back, softened against him. Pure  Meg. Laughter and depth, temptation and innocence. His past, his present  and his- Just his past and his present. That's all it would be.

He kissed her still, widening his stance so that he could fit her more  closely against him. Kissing her out here was safe. Layers of clothing  and a bitter chill to prevent his taking any of them off. But the  temptation was so great that he'd likely stay out till they both froze  just for the pleasure of feeling her pliant mouth beneath his, her  warmth and sweetness, her eagerness.