Under the Millionaire's Mistletoe(29)

"Should or want to?" He searched her face.

"Should." It was the last thing she wanted.

"Then don't. Stay here. This is okay, isn't it?" As though that was the only thing stopping her from staying.

This was so much better than okay, which was precisely why she should go to Sally's.

"I make a mean spaghetti Bolognese."

"Wouldn't it be better for both of us if I left now?"

He contemplated her question, gave it more thought than she'd expected  and she found herself on tenterhooks for his answer. Finally, he shook  his head. "I like being near you, Meg. I don't know why. You ease  something within me. I'm going to miss you when you go, so I'm in no  hurry for that to happen."                       
       
           



       

He spoke an echo of her thoughts out loud.

Whatever time they had would be all that she would get. She wasn't going  to curtail it. She sank back into the cushions of the couch, determined  instead to make every minute, every second of these precious hours  count, to store every moment in her memory.

As they watched the sequel, the afternoon bled into dusk which darkened  quickly to night. They ate together, his spaghetti Bolognese as good as  he'd claimed. And then they watched the third and final installment.

As the closing credits rolled, neither of them made any move to stand.

Far from it. "Lie down here with me," he said as though he knew that if  she got up from the couch it would be to leave. It had to be. "It's wide  enough."

So they lay down facing one another, heads on cushions. His hand resting at the curve of her waist.

"What will you do when you leave here?" he asked.

Meg chewed her lip. "Sally's offered me a job with the Maitland Foundation."

"You've accepted?"

She shook her head. "I wanted to see what you thought. Whether that might keep me too close?"

His hand curved more firmly around her. "The thought of having you close isn't such a terrible thing."

"But after people have thought we were married."

"We were married."

"Not properly."

He shifted his hand, found hers, touched a finger to the gold band adorning it. "Tell that to the minister."

"I just mean that it could be awkward."

"I do what I think is right. I thought, still do, that marrying you was  the right thing to do at the time." He pulled her a little closer. "I've  had no cause to regret that decision."

"You don't regret what we did last night?"

A smile spread across his face. "How could I possibly regret that? The very thought of it could sustain me for years to come."

"I can't help feeling that we're missing something. That we ought to be regretting it."

"In that case, you're thinking too much."

Maybe he was right. She was overthinking things. They'd had their night.  She'd be able to take those memories and these with her, tucked up  beside him, the scent of his cologne, the snow outside, the fire inside.  He would be her benchmark, her standard. But he so far outshone anyone  else she'd ever met that it was impossible to imagine that standard  being reached again.

They lay on the couch talking for hours about everything and nothing.  She'd never shared so much of herself with anyone or felt so honored and  warmed by the trust he showed in sharing with her.

They changed positions so that he was spooned behind her, stroking her  side. After a time his hand slowed and stopped. His breathing softened.

Meg still lay awake. "What if I loved you?" she whispered into the darkness.

She felt a deeper stillness steal over him.

He'd heard.

He said nothing.

And she knew there was no "what if" about it. Somewhere, somehow she'd  fallen in love with him, with his quiet strength and his deep integrity,  with his silver eyes and the way he kissed her, held her, and because  he of all people seemed to see the person she was inside.

But he hadn't asked for that-her love.

"That wouldn't be a good idea," he said gently.



Luke felt Meg shrink a little away from him and against overriding  impulse he didn't pull her back. She didn't really love him. She  couldn't because he was all wrong for her. He was too old, too cynical  about life and people and love. He was a loner. Wasn't he?

She deserved someone closer to her own age, someone closer to her in  optimism and kindness. She imagined qualities in him he didn't have.

He would let her go. Set her free.

In the morning.

And the thought filled him with desolation. It was the thought of a  Meg-less existence that broke his resolve, made him pull her in closer  to him, made him try to absorb a little of her essence into himself. He  wanted something from her that he'd never wanted from a woman  before-just to be with her, to have her near. And the nearer the better.  The feelings were so new that he didn't know what to do with them, how  to deal with them.                       
       
           



       

She'd helped him so much. Helped him on the island when he'd first been  injured, helped him by marrying him, and the very thought of her had  sustained him when he'd been ill. Even now, lying here like this, her  breathing soft and gentle, she soothed something within him, filled and  completed him. In so many ways she was his better half. But she deserved  more. She deserved to find her own better half.

So he would help her by letting her go.



The doorbell chimed through the house. Meg and Luke struggled to  sitting, his arm falling from her. Through the windows a clear, bright  day showed snow-covered mountains on the far side of the crystalline  lake. Meg had never been so disappointed to see a beautiful day.

Luke stood, running a hand through his hair as he looked down at her. "That'll be Mark."

His attorney. That announcement, more than the weather even, told her  that her time with Luke was over. She'd served her purpose, and in  return had found a deep, brief perfection. That would be enough. It had  to be.

They walked to the front door together. He would take Mark to his office. "This shouldn't take too long."

She nodded. She'd be gone before then. It was the best, the only, way.  She wasn't going to stay for the humiliation of the terms he wanted to  end their connection with, no matter how gently he would do it.

He turned for his office. Mark looked at her, pity in his gaze. "He'll look after you," he murmured.

Great, even his attorney felt sorry for her.

Luke stopped at the office door. "Wait," he said as though he knew she'd  already decided to go. He held her gaze until she nodded.

Unable to stay in the house where for such a brief time she'd found  bliss, Meg took Caesar outside, striding unseeing along the path she'd  walked so often, and tried to shut out her awareness of the ticking time  bomb that was Luke's meeting with Mark.

Caesar found and then dropped a stick in the center of the path. "Not  today, buddy." She strode past it, but when he next overtook her, it was  back in his mouth.

It was over. Her fantasy. And she knew the answer to the question she'd  posed to Luke-would her working close by be a problem. It might not be  for him, but it would be for her. Seeing him and having to not let him  see she loved him. Hearing people talk about him. Seeing him dating  other women. No, it definitely wasn't going to work for her. She wasn't  that reasonable. She wasn't that thick-skinned.

She stopped at the base of a dead and blackened pine that alone had at  some point been struck by lightning. Caesar dropped his stick and  sniffed, his nose tracking to the body of a small bird, a mountain  chickadee, lying still and stiff. Meg stared at the little corpse, her  heart breaking at the sight.

She had to leave.

Despite tacitly agreeing to wait, she couldn't. She would get her car  and go. She would do it before the meeting was even over, before Luke  and Mark gently, kindly explained the details of how her happiness was  to end. Because she knew she couldn't take their explanations with  anything like the dignity they deserved. She considered her options.  Sally would come if she called. Her friend would take her to collect her  car. And then she could go. Somewhere. Anywhere. Away.

Pulling her phone from her pocket, she hurried back along the path. She  caught sight of the lake and the snow-capped mountains through the  screen of pine trees and stopped. It was a sight that had always filled  her with peace and given her strength. She took a moment to absorb the  view for the last time.

Caesar dropped his stick onto her foot.

She shook her head at him. "You don't give up, do you, buddy?" She bent  to pick up the stick and stilled with her fingers wrapped around its  roughened bark.

He didn't give up. He never gave up. Not when it came to something he  wanted. Even now he watched her, tail wagging, willing her to throw the  stick.