Under the Millionaire's Mistletoe(6)

"Does it matter?"

She wrestled with that question for a second or two. Her mind raced with  arguments, pro and con. One part of her wanted to throw his offer in  his face and march out the door, head held high. The other, more  practical side of her was shrieking, Are you crazy? Take the job!

In a couple more silent seconds, she had already tallied up the bills  she could pay if she took the job he offered. It had been a slow couple  of months in the world of faux finishing and with this one job, she  could cover her expenses for another two months. Not to mention the  Christmas presents she could buy if she took this commission.

The downside was obvious.

She'd be spending a lot of time with a man who both infuriated and  excited her. Who needed that kind of irritation on a daily basis? Not to  mention the fact that her body tended to light up like a fireworks  display whenever he was within three feet of her. That couldn't end  well.

"So what'll it be?" he asked, a sly smile on his face as if he knew she was arguing with herself. "Stay or go?"

His satisfied expression told Anna that he was completely sure of  himself. He thought he had her pegged. That she was just another woman  ready to grab the money and run.

She should go. She knew it. She'd love to be able to look into his eyes  and say, "No, you can't buy me." But as satisfying as that sounded, she  knew she wasn't going to walk away.

She couldn't afford to.

"Fine," she muttered. "I'll take the job."

"Thought you might."

To keep from saying something she would no doubt regret, she bit her  tongue. The man was more irritating than he was gorgeous, which was  really saying something. She'd work for him, Anna told herself, but she  wasn't going to let him insult her for her trouble either.

"Just so you know," she told him with a patient tone she was proud of,  "I'm only taking this job because I really need the work. But so we're  clear … I don't like you."

His eyebrows winged up. "And yet, you're staying. So money talks?"

Make that even more irritating than he was gorgeous. He'd already told  his younger brother to dump her because he thought she was after his  money. Now, he was no doubt convinced that he'd been right about her,  which just made her furious.                       
       
           



       

"Easy to say money doesn't matter when you have plenty of it," she pointed out.

"Yeah, it is." Then he said, "Not the point of this, though. The point  is, even though you hate me personally, you're more than willing to take  my money."

"Less willing every second," she muttered.

"That I don't believe."

Anna narrowed her gaze on him and asked, "Are you trying to make me quit before I've even started?"

"Nope, just waiting to see how long you could hold on to your temper."

"Not much longer," she admitted. Taking a breath, she said, "If it's all right with you, I'll start tomorrow."

"Fine. I'll expect you at eight."

"Fine."

"Fine."

"Well," she said after a simmering few seconds, "this is childish."

"I'm sort of enjoying it."

"Color me surprised," she told him. "But believe it or not, some of us have other, more important things to do."

He grinned and Anna took a breath. Why was it this man who got to her so  easily? Where was the indifference she'd felt for his brother? Why did  the wrong brother feel so right?

If this was some sort of test of her morals, Anna thought, she was  already failing badly. It was taking every ounce of will she possessed  to keep from finding more mistletoe and dragging this man under it. She  didn't want to be interested, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

How was she ever going to be able to hold her ground against Sam Hale?



She had It's a Wonderful Life playing on the TV, and the lights on the  tree were the only illumination in the room. Anna took a sip of her  cold, white wine and told herself to relax already.

Unfortunately, it wasn't working. Her mind kept turning to Sam Hale and  what he might be up to. Since leaving his house that afternoon, she'd  been trying to figure him and his plan out. So far, she had nothing.

When the doorbell rang, she groaned, pried herself off the couch and  went to answer it. One glance through the peephole had her briefly  resting her forehead against the door. Then she surrendered to the  inevitable and opened it. "Hi, Clarissa."

Her father's wife scurried inside, fingers clutching at her shoulder  bag. She glanced around the room, frowned, then reached over to flip the  light switch. Anna blinked at the sudden blast of light.

"Oh, Anna," Clarissa said, "I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for  behaving so foolishly at the party. I didn't mean to embarrass you or  anything."

"It's okay. I understand."

"I know you do, dear." The older woman patted her hair as if searching  for a strand out of place. She was doomed to disappointment. Clarissa's  short, bright red hair was, as always, perfect. "I'm just so worried  about your father."

Which was the only reason Anna was willing to overlook Clarissa's  panicky attempts at matchmaking. "Dad will be fine. The company's had  rough times before."

"Not like this." Clarissa reached out, snagged Anna's wineglass from her  hand and downed what was left of it in one long gulp before handing it  back. "Thank you. But now that I know you're actually interested in  Samuel Hale, I'm resting easier."

Here it comes, she thought. "Clarissa, there's nothing going on between-"

"No, no, I don't want to invade your privacy," she said with a careful  shake of her head. "I just wanted you to know that I understand  completely. It was so wise of you to move from Garret to Sam. After all,  it's his company. Garret's just the younger brother."

Anna felt a headache coming on and wished for more wine to drown it. "I'm not after either of them. Sam … "

"Oh, we all saw the kiss," Clarissa assured her, letting her gaze sweep  around the small living room of Anna's bungalow cottage. She stared at  the brightly lit tree for a moment and smiled before adding, "Your  father is pleased, too. Though he does want to talk with Sam."

"No," Anna said quickly, imagining her father asking Sam's "intentions."  "No talking. Clarissa you have to tell Dad that I'm not dating Sam."                       
       
           



       

"Why ever would I do that?" Clarissa smiled conspiratorially. "He only wants to know that you're happy, dear."

"Clarissa … "

"Oops," she said, with a quick check of her watch. "I really have to  run. I'm meeting your father for an early dinner before we go to the  community theater. They're doing A Christmas Carol."

"Clarissa," Anna tried again, but her stepmother was already halfway out  the door. "It's not what you think. Honestly, there's nothing between  Sam and I."

She laughed. "Darling, I saw that kiss. Along with half the town, I  might add. Whether you want to admit it or not, there's definitely  something between you!" She leaned in, brushed a kiss on Anna's cheek  and said, "Your tree's lovely, by the way!"

Then she was gone and Anna was left alone with her disturbing thoughts and an empty wineglass.





Five




She wasn't going to be painting in that wonderful room she had seen the day before.

Anna drove around to the back of Sam's house, following the long, wide  driveway around the house to a sprawling lawn and what looked like a  five-car garage. Trees lined one side of the property and the lawn  sloped down toward the cliff and the ocean below. A white rail fence  meandered along the cliff's edge and boasted a few late blooming  chrysanthemums at its base.

Storm clouds hovered on the horizon, looking as though they were  gathering strength to make a rush toward shore. A cold wind rattled  through the boughs of the pines and snatched a few orange leaves from a  huge maple tree. Winter in coastal northern California didn't mean snow  after all. It meant fall-colored trees long into January.

It really was lovely, but why she was back here, she didn't have a clue.  The housekeeper had directed her to the back of the house and now, she  wasn't sure what to do next. Anna got out of her car and looked around,  pushing the wind-twisted tangle of her hair out of her eyes.

She walked back to the trunk of her small SUV and lifted the hatch,  displaying all of her tools. Yardsticks, paints, transfer papers,  charcoal sticks and painter's tape. Her brushes were standing straight  up in empty coffee cans and she used a plastic caddy to hold a selection  of pencils along with painters' rags and tightly closed jars of clean  water.