Книга - Millionaire Under the Mistletoe / His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction: Millionaire Under the Mistletoe / His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction

Millionaire Under the Mistletoe / His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction: Millionaire Under the Mistletoe / His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction
Emilie Rose

Tessa Radley


Millionaire Under the Mistletoe Callum Ironstone felt responsible enough for struggling chef Miranda Owen to offer her a job. She could cater his holiday dinner party…an important affair where he planned to propose to the appropriate woman. Except…how did he end up with Miranda in his bed?His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction Last year Trent Hightower walked away after a foiled one-night stand and had completely forgotten Paige. Now she intended to seduce the CEO – and this time leave him wanting more. But Trent wasn’t the man she thought he was!










Millionaire Under The Mistletoe


By




Tessa Radley


And






His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction


By




Emilie Rose











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)





Millionaire Under The Mistletoe


By



Tessa Radley


Callum gazed at the woman he’d been fighting to ignore all evening. Without success.

In a plain black dress, her hair up in a knot and no glitter in sight, Miranda should’ve looked plain and drab.



She didn’t.



The black only served to highlight the creamy perfection of her skin. No jewelry adorned the delicious smooth line of her throat.



Desire leaped within him, quickly followed by disbelief. This couldn’t be happening to him.



He narrowed his eyes. This was the same girl who had once screamed at him like a banshee, accusing him of murdering her father…so why the hell couldn’t he stop looking at her? He had his life—his future—all mapped out. And it didn’t include Miranda Owen.




About the Author


TESSA RADLEY loves traveling, reading and watching the world around her. As a teen Tessa wanted to be an intrepid foreign correspondent. But after completing a Bachelor of Arts and marrying her sweetheart she became fascinated by law and ended up studying further and practising as an attorney in a city practice.

A six-month break traveling through Australia with her family re-awoke the yen to write. And life as a writer suits her perfectly: traveling and reading count as research and as for analyzing the world…well, she can think ‘what if’ all day long. When she’s not reading, traveling or thinking about writing she’s spending time with her husband, her two sons—or her zany and wonderful friends. You can contact Tessa through her website, www.tessaradley.com


For my beloved Sophie—

The world has lost an angel

I will remember your love forever


Dear Reader,



Romance readers have a power that never fails to move me.



A dear friend of mine would catch the bus to work and home. To pass the time she read romances on the bus. Short romances that fit easily in her purse. It didn’t take long to discover other romance readers. Soon several women were sharing the names of favorite authors and swapping books. A bus book-reading club had been born.



One woman changed her bus after mistakenly catching an earlier bus one morning and discovered the group. Another was barely literate but wanted to read the books that her newfound friends were chatting about. Friendships were forged between women who would otherwise have remained strangers, sharing a daily commute and nothing else. Instead their lives were enriched by the joy of friendship…and the love in stories they discovered together.



Have a wonderful Christmas.



Tessa Radley




Chapter One


Callum halted at the threshold, his attention riveted on the woman pacing in front of the reception desk. The slanting rays from a lofty skylight caught her hair and turned it into a nimbus of glowing gold.

He took a step forward.

“Callum Ironstone demanded my presence here at three o’clock.” She cocked her wrist and glanced at a serviceable watch. “It’s already ten past. How much longer does he intend to keep me cooling my heels?” Her husky voice held an edge of impatience.

Callum stilled as her words penetrated. This was Miranda Owen?

Not possible.

His gaze tracked up from slender ankles encased in sheer black hose along the sleek lines of the narrow black, hip-hugging skirt. A black polo-neck sweater emphasized the indent of her waist and a saffron-colored coat hung over her arm.

Callum stared.

Digging deep into his memories produced an image of a plump teenager, more at home in a baggy sweatshirt, jeans and muddied yellow Wellingtons. The sunlit locks held no resemblance to the long, untidy ponytail. No doubt the braces were gone, too.

He cleared his throat.

She spun around. Wide caramel-brown eyes met his. His stomach tightened as he took in the lambent hostility.

One thing hadn’t changed. Miranda Owen still blamed him for her father’s death.

Callum didn’t let the knowledge show as he crossed the marble tiles, toasty from the state-of-the-art underfloor heating system. “Miranda, thank you for coming in.”

“Callum.”

That one snapped-out word hinted at long-held resentments.

He stretched out a hand. For a moment he thought she was going to refuse to take it. Then with a small sigh she relented.

Her fingers were strong, her grip firm, yet her skin was soft against his. Before he could come to terms with the interesting dichotomy of her touch, she pulled away.

“Why did you want to see me?”

A woman who got straight to the point—he liked that. Callum shook himself free of the bemusement that this grown-up Miranda evoked. “Let’s talk in my office. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

A picture flickered across his mind of a three-year-younger Miranda spooning several teaspoons of sugar into a cup of hot chocolate at her father’s funeral.

“No, thanks.” Her reply was clipped.

He glanced across to the receptionist. “Bring Ms. Owen a hot chocolate and I’ll have coffee. Bring some extra sugar,” he tacked on before placing his hand under Miranda’s elbow and steering her along the corridor and into his spacious office.

“I’m not a child.” She slanted him a look from beneath ridiculously long lashes, and a frisson of awareness startled Callum. “And I no longer drink chocolate.”

“I can see you’re not a child,” Callum drawled, giving her a slow, sweeping perusal. “You’ve changed.”

“You haven’t.” Miranda broke free of his hold and stepped away.

Still truculent. The heat of desire receded. “Maybe I’m mistaken,” he mused. “I’d gotten the notion you’d grown up.”

Chagrin filled her face. “I’m sorry.”

Callum doubted she regretted her lack of courtesy. Yet when her gaze met his again, he read apprehension in the wide eyes. What was she frightened about? Even as he watched, she straightened her spine and the moment of vulnerability vanished.

He waved to the two boxy leather sofas facing each other under an immense wooden bookshelf packed with books. A tall Christmas tree covered with red bows and silver balls reminded Callum that it was the season of reconciliation. But Miranda’s frozen face warned him that reconciliation was the last thing on her mind. And how could he blame her? Feeling carefully for words, he said, “Look, let’s start over.”

Ignoring him, Miranda passed the cozy seating arrangement heading for a round walnut conference table beside a wall of glass, where she slung her coat and black bag over the closest of the four chairs in a militant fashion.

Okay, so she was going to play this tough, all business. Callum gave a mental shrug and seated himself opposite her. “I asked you to come in because I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?” Confusion clouded her features. “For me?”

He rocked his chair back. “You’re a chef, right?” Hell, he knew she was—he’d paid for every cent of her exclusive training. Though he’d been surprised to learn she’d used her qualifications to gain employment at a popular pub chain rather than some fashionable, upmarket café or boutique hotel. Before she could question how he knew she was a chef, he added, “Adrian told me you work at one of The Golden Goose outlets.”

He’d stopped to inquire how young Adrian was getting along as a temporary driver for the company. The young man had been grateful for the vacation job and had revealed that Miranda dreamed of one day starting her own catering business. That had given Callum the perfect solution…a way to wipe Miranda Owen from his conscience forever. He gave her his most charming grin.

“Yes,” she said guardedly.

She certainly wasn’t blowing him away with an effusive response. Tipping his chair back to earth, he leaned forward and planted his elbows on the conference table. “Here’s the deal. I plan to invite the outgoing chairman of a company Ironstone Insurance has recently taken over to a private dinner party at my home on Saturday night.”

“He’ll come?”

“Oh, yes. Gordon’s staying on as a shareholder and I want to introduce him to the other directors. It’s a celebration.”

The melting brown eyes hardened. “I suppose that makes sense. Your brothers will want to get on side with a significant shareholder.”

Callum stopped smiling. The merger had been his initiative—a successful one that would give Ironstone Insurance a strategic advantage over their competitors for years to come. And Gordon Harris had been even hungrier for the merger than the Ironstone family. Gordon wanted to retire, to take it easy. But Miranda’s words stopped Callum from confessing that there was another, more celebratory reason for the dinner. That would only lead to a dig about protecting his assets.

Two fine lines furrowed her brow. “When you say Saturday…do you mean this week?” At his nod the lines deepened. “That doesn’t leave much time.”

He’d intended to railroad her into agreeing…and not leave any time for second thoughts.

“You don’t think you can do it?” he challenged.

Angry fire kindled in the caramel eyes. “How many people?”

Hiding a grin of triumph, Callum rose to his feet and retrieved a manila folder from the polished expanse of his desk. Returning to the conference table, he dropped the file in front of her. “The details are all in there.”

If he could start Miranda on the road to success, introduce her to some people, perhaps he’d be able to forget the hatred a pair of eighteen-year-old eyes had once held…

Or at least that had been the plan.

But having met Miranda again, he had a suspicion it wasn’t going to be nearly that simple.

Standing behind her, all too conscious of the subtle fragrance of warm vanilla she exuded, Callum watched her elegant fingers flip the file open to the first page of the agreement his PA had prepared. Her shoulders stiffened as she read the figure he proposed to pay for a one-night job.

Satisfaction swept through him. She wouldn’t refuse. His offer was too good. Helping Miranda get started in a business that must presently be nothing more than an impossible dream would be the perfect way to excise the disturbing memory of the wild accusations she’d flung at him.

You killed my father.

Of course he knew he hadn’t, didn’t he? Thomas Owen had killed himself once he realized there would be a trial—where he would almost certainly be found guilty on the overwhelming evidence against him. The courts showed no mercy against employees who stole from their employers. Thomas Owen would have known he was facing prison.

Yet Thomas’s suicide had shaken Callum more than he cared to admit, leaving him haunted by a long shadow of guilt.

A legacy that he was determined to shake.



The black-and-white print on the paper in front of her blurred. Miranda was no longer aware of the maple-wood furniture, or Callum’s spacious office. Instead she experienced again the hot ball of misery that had burned constantly in her chest from the moment her father’s PA had called with the news of her father’s arrest.

Impossible.

But her father’s assistant had insisted it was true: the police had been, and had taken her father away. Miranda needed to get hold of her mother urgently. Callum Ironstone would be issuing a press statement soon.

At barely eighteen, Miranda’s first sighting of Callum Ironstone on television had swung rapidly from interest in the handsome devil with dark hair, a sensual mouth and eyes that held a mesmerizing intensity, to hatred when she’d heard what he had to say. The press statement had been brief but damning.

All of it lies. By the time it came to an end, Miranda was numb with disbelief.

There had been a mistake. Yet Callum Ironstone clearly didn’t believe that. Rage had set in. Her father was not a thief.

Her father was granted bail, and emerged from the courthouse pale, shaken, but determined to clear his name. He had done nothing to justify the indignity the Ironstones had heaped upon him after two decades loyal service. Miranda had been confident it would all be sorted out.

But what followed had been traumatic. And, in the end, Thomas Owen simply gave up. Miranda could still remember the set, serious face of the policewoman who’d knocked on the door to break the news that her father was dead.

Then came the funeral. Miranda’s hands grew clammy and nerves fluttered in her stomach at the memory of the last terrible occasion she’d seen Callum Ironstone—it still made her cringe. Devastated by her father’s death, her white-hot hatred boiling over, she’d confronted him in the stone-walled forecourt of the church.

The men beside him moved to cut her off. But she barged past them. Standing in front of Callum, she inspected him with angry eyes. “How could you take a good man’s life and destroy it?” she’d challenged.

His jaw had set, and his face had grown harder than the marble tombstones in the churchyard. “He stole money from me.”

“So you decided to teach him a lesson and humiliate him?”

A flush seared his carved cheekbones.

A man who resembled Callum—a brother perhaps—stepped forward. “Wait a minute, young lady—”

She brushed him aside, focusing all her emotion on Callum. “You killed him. You know that?” Tears of rage and pain spilled onto her cheeks. “He worked for you for twenty years, you gave him a gold watch, yet you never gave him a chance?”

Her father had been given no opportunity to avow his innocence. Callum had relentlessly pushed the police to the conclusion he’d wanted.

“You’re overwrought,” he said dismissively.

That made the ball of anger swell inside her. “And what’s going to happen to my mother, my brother?” Me? “Now that you’ve destroyed our family?”

Callum gave her a stony stare. He raised a dark, devilish eyebrow and asked sardonically, “Finished?”

She hadn’t been. Not by a long shot. But before she could vent any more he’d cut her off, snapping “Grow up” in a supercilious, condescending way that made her feel childishly inadequate.

Callum’s words had been unkindly prophetic. She’d had to grow up, and quickly. Much as Miranda loved her mother, she knew Flo could never be practical. Overnight Miranda had become the adult in the home. There’d been no choice.

And now that same man was trying offer her money. A bribe?

“No.”

Miranda felt Callum Ironstone start as she spoke. The sensitive skin of her nape prickled. A moment later a pair of bright blue eyes glared down at her. She’d never noticed their color before.

“What do you mean ‘No’?”

Closing the folder with a snap, Miranda slammed it down against the glossy wood. “I mean I have no intention of accepting your blood money.”

“Blood money?” he said softly, dangerously, and his gaze narrowed to an intimidating glitter.

She refused to be cowed. “Yes, blood money for what you did to my father.”

“Your father stole from Ironstone Insurance.”

Miranda shook her head. “You got the wrong man.”

“Give me strength.” Callum made a sharp, impatient sound. “You’re not a child anymore.”

“Stop it!” She put her hands over her ears.

Blue eyes bored into hers.

Feeling foolish, like the immature child he’d accused her of being almost three years ago, she uncovered her ears and dropped her hands out of his line of sight into her lap and curled them into fists.

With hard-won composure, Miranda said, “I’m sure being wealthy beyond belief means you’ve gotten used to throwing money around to make all your problems go away. But not this time. I won’t take a cent.”

His jaw had hardened. A shiver closely allied to fear feathered down her spine as he bit out, “Don’t you think it’s rather late for fine principles?”

Miranda stared at him blankly. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve conveniently forgotten?”

“Forgotten what?”

His lips compressed into an impatient line. “Taking money from me.”

“That’s a lie—I’ve never taken a cent from you.”

She’d die of starvation before she did that. He’d caused her family so much grief.

After the funeral, the house where Miranda had grown up with its apple orchard and paddocks had, by necessity, been sold along with her horse Troubadour and Adrian’s expensive racing bicycles. Her mother had never gotten used to the cramped terrace house in a rundown street south of the Thames that the three of them had moved into. Even with Adrian away during the term at the exclusive boarding school Flo had refused to countenance him leaving, space was tight.

Thankfully the lump sum Ironstone Insurance had paid out after her father’s death had been invested wisely, the interest paying for Adrian’s and Miranda’s education as well as a modest retainer to support her mother, though it left Flo only a shadow of the lifestyle she’d once taken for granted.

Yet as Miranda’s gaze remained locked with Callum’s, a deep sense of foreboding closed around her heart.

“So where did the funds for Greenacres come from?” he asked, naming the exclusive culinary school she’d attended. He held up two fingers. “Two years. And your brother’s schooling at St. Martin’s…”

No, please God.

It had been a shock to discover her parents’ precarious financial position after her father’s death. But at least her father had kept his life insurance up-to-date.

Voice trembling, she said, “My father’s life insurance policy paid f—”

“Your father’s suicide voided the policy.”

“No!” She realized she was shaking her head wildly. “That can’t be true.”

Yet even as she denied it, her brain worked furiously. What he said sounded perfectly logical. From the stories her father had told about repudiated claims she knew about fine print. So why had the company paid out the policy after his death when they’d fired her father…had publicly branded him a criminal? And why had she never questioned the settlement?

Because she’d trusted her father not to do anything that would leave her…them…so horribly exposed. Surely he would never have killed himself, cutting them off from the last lifeline available to them?

But he had.

Why had he killed himself, and abandoned them when there’d been so much to live for? It wasn’t as if he’d been guilty. Yet Thomas Owen had left his family vulnerable. And this man, a man she detested, had bailed them out.

Why?

She must have said it out loud. Because Callum shifted from one foot to the other and discomfort flashed in his eyes. Her gaze sharpened. He thought she’d been asking why he’d supported them…and that made him uncomfortable. The next why? popped into her head: what did Callum have to feel guilty about?

The answer hit her like a bolt of lightning, filling her with icy shock. Had it been a payoff? So they wouldn’t sue Ironstone Insurance? No. Her mother would never have accepted that.

Or would she have? Miranda wavered. Things had been pretty dire after her father’s death. Had her mother been tempted?

“You can’t have paid for everything.” Please, please, let it not be so.

Something like pity softened his gaze. “Do you want to see the invoices?”

Trepidation made her mouth go dry. “And the allowance my mother receives every month?” She paused. But she had to ask…had to know. “Are you paying that, too?”

His eyes told her yes.

It was too much. Miranda’s stomach started to churn again. The sick feeling that had unsettled her earlier swept over her like a tidal wave.

She turned her head away and stared out the sheetglass window over the cloud-shrouded city where the light was rapidly waning. Miranda shivered. How much had Callum paid? How much did her family owe the man responsible for her father’s death? And how was she ever going to pay it back?

Just trying to figure how much money was involved made her feel all weak inside. Jerkily, she staggered to her feet and yanked her coat on, hugging its warmth around her. Slinging her bag over her shoulder, she faced him, her head held high. “I don’t want this job—I don’t want anything from you. And you can stop the allowance to my mother from today—she doesn’t want your money, either.”

She stumbled across his office. The expanse of carpet stretched forever and the door seemed a long way away.

As she grasped the doorknob, he spoke from behind her. “If I were you, I’d check that your mother feels the same way you do—you may be in for a surprise.”




Chapter Two


Outside the towering glass world of Ironstone Insurance darkness had fallen. Huddled in her coat, Miranda hurried toward the bus stop. Not even the festivity of the Christmas lights twinkling through the winter gloom could lift her spirits.

A chill wind swirled around her legs as Callum’s words reverberated though her head. If I were you, I’d check that your mother feels the same way you do—you may be in for a surprise.

Her mother couldn’t have possibly known…wouldn’t have hidden this from her.

Homeward-bound traffic rushed past, and Miranda fumbled in her bag for her cell phone before punching the call button with an icy, shaking finger. “Mum?”

“Hello, darling.” Flo sounded cheerfully vague. “I’m home from my tea with Sorrel. What are we having for dinner?”

The mundane thought disoriented Miranda for an instant. Dinner? Who cared? She gathered her scattered thoughts together.

“I just saw Callum Ironstone. He says Dad’s insurance never paid out and that Callum paid for my studies and Adrian’s schooling himself.” Reaching the deserted bus stop, Miranda halted and held her breath as she waited for her mother’s denial.

Instead, an ominous silence. Her mother had known.

“Mum?”

Nothing.

“Flo—” Miranda resorted to her mother’s name as she’d been doing more and more recently “—please tell me it’s a lie.” Unable to stand still, she took a few unsettled steps out of the shelter and paced restlessly along the sidewalk. Miranda closed her eyes, willing her mother to deny it.

“Darling…”

As her mother’s breathy voice trailed away, Miranda knew Callum had told her the truth. There had never been a life insurance payout. Her gloved hands tightened round the phone and despair set in. The same evil little wind whirled around her ears, and she shivered. Opening her eyes, she glimpsed her bus trundling past the stop.

“Wait,” she called, running after it.

“What did you say, darling?” Flo sounded alarmed over the open line.

“I just missed my bus.” Miranda slowed to a standstill. Her next bus wasn’t due for half an hour and she would be freezing by the time she got home. She wanted to howl to the dark sky. Or burst into tears. But what would that help? The phone pressed against her ear, Miranda backed up and sagged tiredly against the bus shelter, staring bleakly into the shadows.

“Darling, the Ironstones owed it to us.”

“I don’t want money from them.” Especially not from him. “I want them to take responsibility for what they did to Dad.” To us.

“This is their way of taking responsibility, by paying us money.”

But it was Callum who had paid.

The chilling thought that had occurred to her in Callum’s office resurfaced. Sucking the cold, damp air into her lungs, she plunged on. “Mum, was it supposed to be a payoff from the company so that we—and Dad’s estate—wouldn’t sue?”

“Darling, no!”

The tension that had tightened her stomach into knots eased a little. “So you didn’t sign any settlement agreement?”

“There was a document,” her mother admitted, “but it wasn’t anything important.”

“Are you sure?” Miranda prompted urgently.

“Only that I’d use the money for your and Adrian’s education…and for housekeeping.”

“That’s all?”

“And there was a little something for me each month, too,” Flo added reluctantly.

“Perhaps I should look at that agreement,” said Miranda darkly.

“Oh, darling, I don’t even know where it is anymore. It’s nothing important. Let it go. The Ironstones took responsibility for what happened.”

“Not the Ironstones. Callum Ironstone.”

It had become important to make that distinction. And Miranda wished she had seen that missing agreement. She strongly suspected that Callum had rushed to the grieving widow with a contract that precluded legal action—against him, his family and their company.

And no doubt the cash had been the price of his guilty conscience. Money had freed him from what he’d done.

It made her see red.

But how could she make Flo understand she wanted Callum Ironstone to sweat blood? And his brothers, too. And his father, who’d been chairman at the time Miranda’s father had been framed.

But more than anything it was Callum she wanted to see suffer—because he’d been her father’s boss. It had been Callum who’d made the decision that had ruined her father’s life. He had summarily dismissed Thomas Owen, an employee with twenty years’ service to Ironstone Insurance, had him arrested, charged with a crime he hadn’t committed, and then had publicly humiliated a humble, gentle man.

“Darling, Adrian says he needs a word with you.”

Her mother’s voice brought her back to the dark London street. Miranda shivered again. A second later her brother’s voice came over the line.

“Mir?”

He sounded so young. He was the reason she’d set foot in Callum Ironstone’s moneyed world today. It seemed an age since her only worry had been about what Adrian might have done. In less than an hour, Callum had turned her world upside down.

How was she ever going to find the money to pay back Callum?

“What is it?” she asked dully. The long day on her feet in The Golden Goose topped by the meeting with Callum had sapped her strength. All she craved was a warm home and a hot meal that she hadn’t had to cook. And someone to hold her, to tell her that everything would be okay.

None of that would happen. She’d been cutting the heating to a minimum to save money, so the terrace house would be barely warm, and there would be no hot meal unless she cooked it herself.

Adrian interrupted her musing. “Listen, sis, I need you to lend me some money. Can you draw it out on your way home?”

“More money?” Only last night she’d given him fifty pounds for a night out with his friends. At least he was due to be paid on Friday. It galled her that she was actually grateful for the job he had with Ironstone Insurance, but she needed that money back. Desperately. “How much do you need this time?”

“Uh…”

A sharp edge of unease knifed her at his hesitation. Her voice rising, she asked, “How much?”

The amount made her breath catch. “Good grief, Adrian, I don’t have that kind of money.” Even the monthly housekeeping fund was almost empty. “What have you done?”

“Nothing, I promise you. Nothing major. I’m just helping—”

“You haven’t been gambling again?”

A couple of months back Adrian had developed an addiction to blackjack, and had started frequenting casinos. His talk of developing a system that couldn’t lose had struck terror into Miranda. Now images of bull-necked debt collectors threatening to break her baby brother’s fingers crowded her mind. “You promised not to go back there.” A promise he’d resented, but she’d insisted on it before she’d agreed to pay off his debts. “Are you in danger?”

“No!” He gave a half laugh. “I haven’t been gambling. Honestly, you should hear yourself, sis—you’re worse than Mum.”

Flo was too soft on him. That was part of the reason he’d gotten so close to trouble. Miranda knew it was time he grew up.

“I can’t just keep giving you handouts, Adrian. You still owe me the money I lent you last ni—”

“I know, I know. You’re the best sister in the world.”

Miranda hesitated. “So what’s this money for?”

“Oh, don’t nag, sis. It’s to help someone in trouble,” he said cagily.

What had happened to being the best sister in the world? “Hardly nagging, given the amount you want. Can’t this person find someone else to help them?”

“I’ve promised.” Adrian sounded impatient. “It’s going to be hard to back out now.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you pledged my money.”

Then wished she’d bitten her tongue when he said, “Just forget it, okay. I’ll find someone else to help me—maybe I can get an advance against my pay.”

And place her further in Callum’s debt? Over her dead body! Miranda contemplated the amount in her savings account. Every cent she’d squirreled away for the past fourteen months. The extra jobs. The overtime. All painfully accumulated to allow her a few months of breathing space when she finally handed in her notice at The Golden Goose and started her own catering business.

It was a pittance compared to the overwhelming amount she needed to repay Callum. Her dream was already history.

She suppressed a sigh.

But at least Adrian wasn’t gambling. He wasn’t in trouble. Despite her fears, she hadn’t been called in to Ironstone’s because he’d done anything stupid. And now he’d promised to help a friend. Weren’t those precisely the kind of values she’d tried to instill in him?

The time had come to start trusting his judgment; otherwise he’d never grow up.

But, oh, boy, it was hard.

“Let me see what I can do.”

A pause. Then, “Thanks, sis.”

“But it will be a loan, Adrian,” she cautioned. This wasn’t going the way of all the other sums she’d “lent” her brother. “Your friend needs to understand that. When will I get it back?”

“Soon,” he replied, with a worrying vagueness that reminded her uncomfortably of Flo. “He’ll get paid—probably at the end of the next fortnight.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Hitting the end-call button with unaccustomed ferocity, Miranda noticed that it had started to drizzle. She shivered in the gloom. Her dream had just received a death knell, so why bother about a bit of rain?

Headlights cut through the drizzle, tires hissing as a sleek car veered toward the curb. Miranda turned away, not in the mood for unwelcome harassment.

A window lowered. “Jump in.”

Callum!

Miranda hunched her shoulders and ignored him.

A door slammed, and a moment later an arm landed across her shoulders, surrounding her with warmth and comfort. Miranda was tempted to lean into his broad chest and draw the strength she could. She squared her shoulders. This was Callum Ironstone. Her enemy.

“I’m parked illegally. Let’s go before I get ticketed.”

She shrugged him off. “I’ll wait for my bus, thanks.”

He glanced up at the electronic information board above the bus shelter. “Looks like a long wait. Or would you rather freeze on principle?”

She hated that he managed to make her sound like a petulant child. Reluctantly Miranda allowed him to take her elbow—ignoring the sudden prickles of sensation—and steer her to his car, a ghost-gray Daimler. Opening the door for her, he stood back while she clambered in.

A delicious frisson rippled down her spine as the warm interior embraced her. Turning her head away as if in rejection of the seductive comfort Callum’s wealth offered, Miranda stared blindly out the side window as he settled in the driver’s seat beside her.

“Where to?”

The weight of Callum’s gaze settled on Miranda.

“Home.”

“Not The Golden Goose?”

“I’ve finished for the day.” No point revealing what a tussle she’d had getting time off.

Instead of starting the car, he said, “I’d have thought you’d have used your qualifications to land something better than a job at a place like that.”

She shrugged and stared through the windshield at traffic that had slowed to a crawl as the drizzle turned to rain. No point defending The Golden Goose. Not when what he said was true and she couldn’t wait to escape.

Although any chance of that had gone up in smoke the moment he’d told her about her father’s life insurance being nonexistent.

“It was the closest job I could find to home.” That meant less spent on transport, less time commuting, which gave more hours to work overtime. “It’s only a short bus ride away,” she said tiredly. “It pays the bills.”

And that was what mattered. Making sure Adrian’s future education was taken care of, repaying Callum and saving enough money to look after Flo. Until she’d repaid Callum she couldn’t even think of opening her own catering business.

He must have heard her sigh because he said gently, “I know your family is short of cash. You should’ve accepted my proposition—who knows, you might have impressed people and gotten a few more catering jobs to ease the hardship.”

Did he have any idea what kind of temptation he’d dangled in front of her? How hard it had been to refuse?

She eyed him warily as he accelerated into the stream of traffic. Yes, he probably did. “Now I believe everything I’ve heard about you.”

“Everything? You shouldn’t believe everything.” She caught a lightning flash of wicked blue eyes before he turned his attention back to the road. “Some rumors are nothing more than wild speculation.”

Ignoring the innuendo underlying the humor, Miranda said hastily, “That you have the ability to home in on what people want and then use it against them?” And now he was doing that to her.

Studying his profile, she took in the straight nose jutting out with masculine arrogance, quickly bypassing his generous mouth. Miranda had no idea how he’d gotten a glimpse into her soul, her deepest desire, but somehow the sneaky bastard had.

If the offer had come from anyone else…

“I’m only asking you to cater a dinner party for me. How can I use that against you?”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way,” she said darkly, thinking of how he’d pressured her poor mother into signing an agreement that Flo wouldn’t have had a hope of understanding. No doubt it cleared the Ironstone family of all liability. Helplessness filled Miranda. How could she fight such a man?

“So why don’t you prove to me that I didn’t waste money putting you through cooking school?”

“Culinary school,” she corrected.

“If you say so.” He slowed as a light turned red. He swiveled his head, and his gaze met hers. “If it makes it easier, think of it this way. You owe it to me.”

“I owe it to you?” The gall of the man. “I owe you nothing.” He owed her. For taking her father away, for ruining her family.

Her anger and confusion trapped her. She wanted him to hurt as much as she hurt, wanted to force him to take responsibility for what he’d done. But not by making her family his pet charity. And the only thing she truly desired he could never give back.

Her father.

In the meantime, all the money Callum had given Flo had to be paid back. And once that had been accomplished, Miranda hoped the guilt of knowing what he’d done killed him.

“If you could, you’d gather what cash you could and hurl it at me right now, wouldn’t you?” That rogue eyebrow quirked up again.

“Maybe,” she said grudgingly, resenting the fact that he could read her so well.

He shook his head. “What a wasted effort.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“It will take you forever.” As the lights changed, he put the car back into gear and pulled away. “You should put away your bitterness and grab this opportunity with both hands. Who knows where it could lead?”

And make a deal with this devil?

But she turned his words over in her mind. She’d already accepted it would take years to save what she owed him. And even if she did, it didn’t look like his conscience would keep him awake every night of his life. Callum Ironstone probably didn’t have a conscience.

So why was she tying herself into knots to pay back money he and his family wouldn’t even miss? Why not take the bloody job?

The money was amazing. It would almost cover the amount Adrian wanted from her. Almost. If she cut corners on the household budget for the next month, she wouldn’t even need to take anything from her savings.

Temptation beckoned. He’d be paying the money to a caterer anyway. This wasn’t charity. It looked perfectly straightforward.

Too perfectly straightforward.

“Why did you offer me the contract?”

“The caterer I usually use is too busy. Christmas.” He gestured to the fairy lights sparkling through the rain. “And I’ve been too busy to hire someone else. Seeing Adrian at work this morning reminded me of you—I knew you’d have the skills. But if you don’t want it, I’ll find someone else.”

She ought to refuse. No good would come out of this association. She even rounded her mouth to say “No.”

Then she thought about Adrian, his frustration as he’d said, “Forget it.” She thought about delving into her hard-earned cash to help his friend out. She needed the cash Callum offered.

Miranda took a deep breath and said, “Okay, I’ll do it.”

And when he smiled, a slow satisfied curve on his lips, Miranda hoped she hadn’t made a terrible mistake.



Callum gazed across the refectory-style table at the woman he’d been fighting to ignore all evening.

Without success. Not only had Miranda cooked a meal that had made his mouth water, she’d carefully supervised the staff she’d hired, popping in and out of the dining room to check on the wine and that everything was running smoothly.

She’d even distracted him from Petra Harris, Gordon’s daughter, something he’d never foreseen. Especially not tonight, of all nights.

Callum told himself it couldn’t be Miranda’s appearance that had him tied up in knots. Instead of a traditional white chef’s jacket and herringbone trousers, she wore a plain black dress, her hair up in a knot and no glitter in sight. By rights she should’ve been eclipsed by every other woman in the room, and she should’ve looked plain and drab.

Yet she didn’t.

The black only served to highlight the creamy perfection of her skin. No jewelry adorned the deliciously smooth line of her throat. And the only gold that glinted in the glow of the discreet uplighters adorning his dining room were the bits of hair that had escaped and framed her face, making her eyes look wider and more mysterious than ever.

Desire leaped within him, quickly followed by disbelief. This couldn’t be happening to him.

He narrowed his eyes. This was the same girl who had once screamed at him like a banshee, accusing him of murdering her father…so why the hell couldn’t he stop looking at her? He had his life—his future—all mapped out. And it didn’t include Miranda Owen.

Forcing his attention back to Gordon Harris’s daughter seated beside him, Callum vowed not to let himself be distracted. Hell, he’d planned to propose to Petra after dinner. In his study. Just the two of them. A quick ten-minute tête-à-tête, before announcing it in spectacular fashion to the world—he’d even invited a journalist tonight who covered the society pages. The ring box was in his pocket. Ready. Waiting. It wasn’t only the merger with Gordon’s company he’d planned to reveal tonight…

He gazed at the woman he’d decided would make him a perfect wife.

“The food tonight is out of this world.” Petra smiled at him, revealing sparkling white teeth, and her fingers brushed his.

“I couldn’t agree more.” Callum tried to convince himself that powder-blue eyes were every bit as appealing as the color of melted caramel, and failed dismally. To his consternation, there was no spark of electrical charge from the brush of her fingers, either.

“Would you like crème caramel or strawberry cheesecake?” Miranda asked.

Adrenaline surged through him. He could’ve sworn he’d sensed Miranda’s approach even before she spoke beside him, and every nerve went on red alert as he picked up the subtle scent of vanilla. Her innocent offer of dessert made him instantly desire far more carnal pleasures. Damn, what the hell was happening?

“Strawberry cheesecake for me,” said Petra, giving Miranda an easy smile. “I was just complimenting Callum on the fabulous spread tonight.”

“Thank you.” A flush of pleasure lit Miranda’s cheeks, making her look even more downright sexy. “May I suggest a Sauterne or ice wine to accompany it?”

“Ooh, I’ll have ice wine. Sounds delicious.”

“I’ll bring you a clean glass.” Miranda stretched past Callum to remove Petra’s wineglass. The tension within him twisted higher as she brushed against him. When she reached forward, the black fabric of her dress tightened across the gentle valley of her belly, accentuating the feminine indent of her waist and the rounded curve of her hip. He couldn’t tear his gaze away.

She straightened. “What would you like?”

What would he like?

Thank God she couldn’t read his mind. She’d run a mile. He glanced up and connected with the melting eyes that so entranced him. Prosaically, she repeated the choices.

“Crème caramel, please,” he muttered, his throat suddenly thick as a mental image of himself offering her a spoonful of the rich dessert flashed through his mind. He visualized her pink tongue delicately licking the creamy texture off the spoon, her lashes flicking up. Her eyes, glowing and golden, promising him untold delights and—

“That’s all?”

“All?” he croaked, then realized his eyes were raking her body, so he jerked his attention away.

It wasn’t all; he wanted so much more…

God, this was stupid! And the sparks had been sizzling ever since she had arrived earlier in the evening. He’d found himself hanging around the kitchen—he’d offered her a glass of Merlot to give himself an excuse to watch her—until the arrival of the two women he’d hired to serve his guests had sent him scuttling for his study and a shot of whiskey.

He’d been grateful when his half brothers, Jack and Hunter, had arrived with their dinner partners so that he could escape her thrall. Gordon and Petra had come soon after.

There was nothing special about Miranda. She wasn’t nearly as beautiful as Petra—and she was extremely prickly and difficult—yet she intrigued him.

When last had he experienced anything like this?

Guilt ate at him. He was conscious of the ring he’d chosen lying heavy in his pocket. How the hell was he supposed to propose to Petra when his headspace was full of Miranda?

He glanced around the table, claustrophobia closing in on him. His brother, Fraser, gave him a grin.

This was his coup—he’d organized every last detail. There’d always been healthy competition between him and his brother, Fraser, and his two half brothers. Being the youngest of the four, he’d been last to make it onto the board of the company. But he’d intended to be the first to marry.

Yet now that the time had come to propose to Petra…he couldn’t. Instead he wanted to bolt.

Perhaps this inexplicable crazy lust for Miranda was nothing more than a flight response to his carefully planned siege of Petra.

He drew a gulp of air in relief. Fear. That’s what this was. It wasn’t about Miranda at all—she was simply a convenient excuse.

He gave Petra an uncomfortable smile. “Enjoying yourself?”

Her father leaned forward. “We all are.”

A chorus of agreement followed.

“Such a pity the snowed-up roads prevented your parents from joining us.”

Callum seized on his parents’ absence. How could he announce his engagement without them present? They’d never forgive him. He scanned the faces around the table. Everyone was having a fantastic time—except for him.

Under Petra’s smile, he shifted. He knew Gordon had great expectations for this relationship with Petra. Callum hadn’t slept with her yet, though both he and Petra had known they were headed for the bedroom; he’d wanted the contracts signed…and a ring on her finger first.

He stuck one hand into his jacket pocket.

“Crème caramel,” Miranda announced.

Just her husky tone was enough to make him start at the want that resurged. Taking his hand out of his pocket, he stared at the dessert she’d placed on the starched white-damask tablecloth in front of him. Creamy custard…and caramelized sugar the same rich golden brown as her eyes.

He picked up a spoon.

The dessert was smooth on his tongue. Sweet and silky. With a hint of vanilla. The caramel rich and tangy.

Would Miranda taste as delectable?

Hell! And he was getting hard just thinking about it. Callum shifted uncomfortably and forced himself to focus on the dinner conversation.



In the kitchen, Miranda rested her head against the cool, hand-painted Italian tiles and suppressed the urge to swear violently.

“Are you okay?” Jane, one of the women Callum had hired to help tonight, touched her shoulder lightly.

Miranda straightened. “I’m fine.”

But she wasn’t. Something had happened out there in the dining room—something she didn’t understand. Callum had looked at her, and she had responded like a sunflower greeting the morning sun. And the realization pierced her heart like a shard of ice.

Please, not him.

She hated him.

Miranda reached with a shaky hand for what was left of the glass of red wine Callum had poured her earlier, and drained it. Jane picked up a bottle and silently topped her glass.

“Thanks.” Miranda smiled at the other woman. “Believe it or not, I never drink when I’m working.”

“It’s a good vintage.” Jane helped herself to a wineglass out the cupboard. After filling the glass she lifted it. “Very nice.”

Miranda felt a rush of gratitude. “Thank you.” She took a sip and set the glass down. “I’m okay now. Let’s get on with the coffees.”

By the time she went out into the dining room, she told herself she had her reactions in check. The wine had warmed her, dissolving the icy chill. As she passed the end of the long dining table, an older man asked her for a card and Miranda flushed when she realized she didn’t have any. Something she would remedy tomorrow.

Moving up the table, she was breathlessly aware of Callum’s dark, brooding presence at the head. Given that he looked devilishly good in a black dinner jacket with a pristine white shirt, keeping her resolve was far from easy.

She smiled at the woman sitting beside him who had complimented her cooking, and tried to ignore the way the woman’s fingers brushed Callum’s dinner-jacketed arm when she made a point.

After one searing look from Callum, Miranda averted her gaze, and turned away, making sure to busy herself down at the other end of the table.

This powerful awareness of Callum was a complication she didn’t need.



Thank God dinner was over.

After the planning he’d put into the evening, the end was an anticlimax. Callum could hardly wait to see Petra, her father and his family out the front door. The confusion in Petra’s expectant eyes made him feel like an utter bastard.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he said, ushering her off behind her father.

Talk to her? And say what? How in heaven’s name was he supposed to explain something he didn’t even understand himself?

He justified that it could’ve been worse. What if he’d already been engaged to Petra when this urge to chase Miranda like a hound after a bitch in heat had taken hold? It made him go stone-cold.

This second-thoughts stuff must be normal. Wedding-ring fright. But he wouldn’t run away. He’d deal with it the same way he did every other problem he met: head-on. Confront this inconvenient lust, the need to indulge in one last chase. Get Miranda out his system. Then marry Petra exactly as he’d planned.

Simple.

Closing the door behind the last of his guests, Callum went to find Miranda. Anticipation lent lightness to his step. He peered into the library—his favorite haunt—but it was empty. Not that he’d expected to discover her there.

He finally tracked her down in the scullery tucked away at the far end of the kitchen. Miranda was busy stacking the dirty dishes into the drawers of the state-of-the-art dishwasher.

She’d donned an apron, an absurd white bit of cotton with a ruffle along the hem below a bib that barely covered her front. It lent the black dress she wore the naughty severity of a French maid costume.

Callum breathed deeply. “What are you doing?”

She kept her eyes down. “Cleaning up.”

Given the boiling heat that simmered in him, her lack of interest irritated. He marched forward and said more stridently than he intended, “Where’s the help I hired?”

“The help you hired?” She straightened, affront glittering in her eyes. “They have names. Emily and Jane. They’re people. Emily was tired—she’s been up since dawn and she has a long way to go to get home.”

“So where’s the other one?”

One finely arched eyebrow rose. “You mean Jane?”

He nodded impatiently. “Yes, Jane.”

“Her brother picked her up.”

“And even though you’ve been at work preparing food long before they arrived, they left you with all the mess?”

“They cleared most of it.” She gestured to the adjoining kitchen. “And the leftover food has been itemized and frozen. I’m just packing in the coffee cups and dessert dishes, Emily and Jane—” she used their names pointedly “—have already run the dishwasher twice, and unpacked it.”

She strode past him into the kitchen and looked around. “All nice and tidy, see?”

Callum followed and leaned back against the center island. Folding his arms across his chest, he said, “And what about you? Don’t you have to hurry home?”

“Of course.” She stalked across to a row of hooks and picked off her bag and a black woolen coat. Dropping the bag and coat on the center island, she unzipped a side pocket and retrieved her cell phone. “But I’ve been paid an astronomical amount for tonight’s dinner—I’m making sure you get your money’s worth.”

His money’s worth?

The words taunted, especially from a woman wearing such a starkly erotic outfit. With an effort he focused his attention back on her face. “It’s what I always pay.”

Her eyes went round. He could see her thoughts buzzing as she calculated. “And you entertain often?”

“Yes, but it’s work.” As well as being part of the rationale for courting Petra. He needed a wife.

And Petra would be perfect.

He only needed to propose…

Yet he couldn’t imagine Petra looking so innocently erotic in the black-and-white getup that Miranda was wearing. Or having this effect on him. His erection throbbed painfully behind the concealing fabric of his pants.

Callum shut his eyes.

And opened them to find Miranda staring at him. The silence in the kitchen pounded in his ears. Her mouth was lush, her eyes meltingly seductive. Driven by an urge he couldn’t resist, he took a step forward.

His hands settled on her upper arms, the flesh soft and giving under his fingers. Hoarsely, he asked, “I’ve been wanting to taste you all night. Are you as sweet as the crème caramel?”

Callum gave her a moment to object. Time stopped. She didn’t move. Or say anything. His hands slid around her and he pulled her to him. The warm scent of vanilla enfolded him, so feminine, so seductive.

He took the phone out of her unresisting hand and set it down on the island.

Her lips remained closed as he kissed her, not accepting, but not rejecting him, either.

Callum raised his head, and looked down into her face. There was a startled awareness in her eyes. His mouth slanted as he said, “Not as sweet as I’d expected.”

She started to say something, and in a flash he bent his head and took advantage of her parted lips.

His tongue sank in, and he plundered the warm, private cave. He’d lied. She tasted sweeter than sin. Of rich red wine, spicy cinnamon and seductive woman.

When her tongue swirled around his, Callum gave a moan of satisfaction.

Instantly Miranda’s body softened against his, melting into him. Heat swept over him. His hands pressed into the small of her back, drawing her against the blatant evidence of his arousal.

She didn’t pull away as he’d half expected.

His fingers played with the bow that fastened her apron behind her back and it came loose. “Do you know how sexy this outfit is?” he murmured against her mouth.

“An apron is sexy?”

“Oh, God…yes.”

She laughed, a lilting sound that drove him wild. He put his mouth over hers, tasting the musical notes. Ah, but she was delicious.

Her hands came up between them and pushed against his chest. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Callum let her back away. “Why not?”

“Because.”

He started to smile. “Because why?”

“You’re going to make me say it, aren’t you?”

His smile faded and he tensed, bracing himself for the accusations, ready to argue that actions had consequences, that wrongdoing couldn’t escape unpunished, that she had to let it go.

Her eyes warred with his. “I don’t like you.”

Relief surged through him. They weren’t about to discuss the circumstances of her father’s death while desire raged through him and blood pounded in his head. He wanted her back in his arms. It was insane. “Liking me has nothing to do with this.”

He whirled Miranda round and pinned her against the island, his thigh between hers. Miranda gasped at the pressure against a sensitive area, her fingers digging into his upper arms.

This time Callum gave no quarter, kissing her until they were both breathless. By the time he’d finished, she was clinging to him.

“You love that, don’t you?” Some demon within him demanded a concession from her.

But she remained mute, her eyes sparkling with defiance, her cheeks flushed with high wild color.

He hoisted her up onto the silver countertop, ignoring her squawk of protest. One of her pumps clattered to the tiled floor.

“My shoe.”

“Never mind your shoe.” He stepped between her parted thighs, forcing her dress’s hemline higher, and bending his head he placed open-mouthed kisses against the too-tempting smooth skin of her neck.

Her head lolled back, granting him unrestricted access. Lower down his hands ran along her nylon-clad thighs, he ruched her dress up farther, and when she didn’t stop him, Callum moved in for the kill.

Stroking her thigh, his fingers encountered a lacy stocking edge…then soft, satiny bare skin. He groaned as he realized she wasn’t wearing panty hose.

“Grief, woman, you know how to fuel a man’s fantasies,” he growled close to her ear as he caressed the tender flesh of her inner thigh.

Miranda only moaned, her hands knotting in his shirt.

Callum was past coherent thought. He stripped off first his dinner jacket, then ripping the snaps of his dinner shirt apart, let it fall on the stainless steel slab behind her.

“Oh.”

The sound of wonder that escaped her as she gazed boldly at his bare chest made him feel like a god. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her mouth with slow, deliberate intent, outlining the shape with the tip of his tongue. Miranda responded with hunger, and what had started out as a leisurely kiss erupted into no-holdsbarred ardor.

Callum ran his hands under the loosened apron, over breasts and stomach still covered by her dress, down along her legs. He paused to caress the hollows behind her stockinged knees, then retraced the path to where the nylons ended.

After hesitating only a moment, he let his fingers drift higher until he encountered silky panties. His fingertips slid under the edge and slipped into her moist heat.

She arched against his hand. His fingers delved deeper. Her hips rocked invitingly. He buried his head in the valley between her breasts and tongued the soft hollow. Her fingers dug into his hair and pulled him closer. A roaring hunger surged through him.

This could only end one way.

With his free hand, Callum reached for his belt and zipper.

“So sweet.”

He shoved down his trousers and briefs with impatient hands, then eased her closer, her thighs splayed around his hips.

The stainless steel was shockingly cold and hard. “You must be freezing.”

She shook her head, arched back…and shivered. “Wait.”

He stilled at her command. Disappointment, hot and sharp as a blade, twisted in his gut. Slowly, with aching regret, he withdrew his hand from her warmth. “Why are you stopping?”

Bewilderment made him raise his head. It changed when he saw the foil package that lay in the palm of her hand, her open bag upended on the bench. God. He hadn’t even thought about a condom. But she’d had the presence of mind to protect them both.

He took it, tore it open and sheathed himself. “Are you sure, Miranda?”

She nodded, and her arms reached for him.

Euphoria filled him. Callum grabbed his shirt, bunched it up in a fist, and wedged it gently in behind her to pad her from the counter edge.

Then, unable to restrain himself another second, he positioned himself and pushed forward into the woman who’d been driving him wild all night.




Chapter Three


Miranda opened her eyes, caught one glimpse of the naked male torso she was snuggled up to, and a wave of mortification crashed over her.

Callum.

Oh, no! What had she done?

She lay rigid, not daring to breathe. Thankfully the man she’d fallen so foolishly into bed with last night was still asleep. Miranda suppressed a groan. And after that impulsive coupling up against the kitchen counter, she’d let him carry her upstairs—and make love to her all over again.

Let him? If anything she’d been a willing, totally wanton participant. It made her feel sick with guilt.

She cracked her eyes open and caught a glimpse of the dark mahogany bedhead. Beyond, pale winter-morning light spilled through sash windows into the bedroom. His bedroom.

Soon he’d waken. The idea of him finding her naked in his bed filled her with horror. Taking a deep breath, she inched her leg toward the edge of the bed. He stirred. Miranda froze.

After long, dragging seconds she slowly relaxed. He hadn’t woken. Shifting her weight to the edge of the mattress, she was conscious of her heartbeat drumming loudly in her chest.

An arm slid over her, and a large male hand closed familiarly over the top of her breast. Miranda forced herself to keep absolutely still.

Oh, help!

What to do now?

Her first impulse to push that possessive hand away and leap out of his bed receded as the strong male fingers stilled.

Affront mixed with adrenaline. He’d gone back to sleep!

Eyes darting to and fro, Miranda formulated a plan. Her dress and knickers lay in a pile on the floor. Her shoes were nowhere in sight—probably scattered across the kitchen floor. She shuddered at the memories that evoked.

How could she have done such things with this man?

She blocked it all out and turned her mind back to what dominated her now: escape.

If she rolled out of bed, she could scoop up her clothes and make a run for it. With luck she’d be out the bedroom door before he’d wake and realize she’d gone. Downstairs she’d grab her shoes, her coat and her bag—which should be on the bench top where she’d left it the evening before. An image of the contents—emergency condoms, lipstick, hairbrush, wallet, cell phone—scattered over the countertop flashed through her mind and she groaned silently.

Cell phone, she thought. Her breath caught. Her mother!

She never stayed out all night. Flo would be worried sick, had probably left a dozen anxious messages.

But at least she’d be able to come out of this disastrous encounter knowing she couldn’t be pregnant—or worse. Although right now that seemed small compensation for last night’s stupidity.

Miranda hauled in a shallow breath and readied herself to flee.

“So you’re still alive?” Provocative fingers explored the rise of her hip. “For a moment I thought you’d given up breathing—that you might require a little mouth-tomouth resuscitation.”

Callum’s lazy confidence cast despair into Miranda. He’d probably been awake from the start. There’d never been any chance of a hasty getaway. Bastard.

She curled into a tight ball, refusing to acknowledge him.

“Come now.” He tightened his hold, rolling her over onto her back. Wide-awake blue eyes stared down into hers. “It was better than that—in fact it was bloody fantastic…for both of us.” Satisfaction oozed from that throaty growl.

Miranda careened between wishing she could actually expire from humiliation and a fierce urge to murder the naked man beside her.

Conceited ape!

Well, there was only one way to get out of this situation—and that was with what little dignity she could muster.

She sat up, making sure she took a large swath of the sheet with her to keep her breasts covered and tossed her hair back. “Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t that good.”

His eyes ignited with laughter. “You’ve forgotten so soon? My sweet, you were begging.”

A flush of heat stained her cheeks, then spread across her entire body. Damn. She couldn’t deny it. But he was despicable.

Since when had she ever harbored any illusions about Callum Ironstone? She constrained herself to a look of disdainful dislike.

Under the sheet his hand came to life, playing knowingly over her all-too-responsive flesh as it edged onto the swell of her breast.

“Stop it.” Her arm lashed out, knocking the offending hand away, and with horror she realized the sheet had fallen, too.

“Nice.” His eyes turned molten. His hand came up and he stroked the underside of her breasts. “Delectable, in fact.” Her nipples had peaked at his touch and now ached with piercing tingles of desire.

Delectable? A fresh wave of heat flooded her. Followed quickly by anger.

How could she have responded with such lack of inhibition to this man?

“Get out of my way.” She leaped from the bed, and, taking time only to snag up her clothes, she bolted for the en suite where she locked the door and started to dress with frantic haste.



After pulling on jeans, Callum galloped down the stairs and got into the kitchen just in time to see Miranda shoveling her things off the countertop into her bag.

From behind her, his eyes lingered on the strands of gold that glowed like dancing sunbeams in the morning light and he resisted the urge to pull her into his arms, kiss her and tousle the waves into a more bedded look. Somehow he didn’t think she’d appreciate passion right now.

She pushed a hairbrush into her bag with a hasty movement.

He took a step toward her unable to resist the impulse to say, “At least be honest and admit you loved every moment of last night.”

She started at the sound of his voice. Her head jerked around and he saw her eyes held the look of a trapped deer. “I only did it because I owe you. Remember?”

His mind blanked out. “Because you owe me?”

“Money.” She backed up but rubbed her forefinger and thumb together with bravado, her expression defiant. “For putting me through culinary school.”

“Last night was payback?”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded and her hair bobbed around her face.

“You slept with me because you felt indebted?” Outrage swamped Callum. No woman had ever slept with him to prostitute herself. What had been an amazing experience suddenly felt sordid. Annoyed, he said, “I paid a fortune. One night wouldn’t begin to cover my outlay.”

Her shoulders stiffened. Instead of replying, Miranda turned her back on him and gathered the last few of her scattered belongings together before dropping them into her bag. She zipped it shut with a decisive movement.

She was leaving, Callum realized.

The rigid line of her back spelt out her intention to put as much distance between them as she could. She shoved his jacket aside with unnecessary force.

“Hey, that’s my favorite Armani.”

His attempt to lighten the mood fell flat. The jacket slithered over the edge and, despite her grab for it, fell to the ground.

“Sorry.” She bent to pick it up and Callum heard his car keys jingle as they slid from the pocket. “What’s this?”

Her eyes, shockingly close, were on the same level as his as he knelt, too. For a moment he felt as if he’d been sucked into her soft, melting center.

“What’s what?” he asked huskily, unable to tear his gaze away.

“This…”

He glanced down at the dark blue velvet ring box lying in the palm of her hand.

Crap.

“It’s a jeweler’s box.” She stated the obvious before he could reply. Already her fingers were working the catch.

Alarm electrified him. “No. Don’t.”

Too late.

For long seconds Miranda stared at the diamond solitaire ring inside. Then she raised eyes full of questions. “You planned to ask me to marry you?”

Callum had the disoriented sense that he’d just been catapulted into an alien world. He couldn’t think. Hell, he couldn’t breathe—his lungs were empty.

“Why?” Her eyes held a luminosity that twisted his gut into knots.

“Uh…” He gulped in air.

“Because you slept with me?” A puzzled frown furrowed her brow as she lifted the ring from the bed of velvet and caressed it with her fingertips. “No. That’s not right. You had the ring before you slept with me. So…”

This was not going as he’d planned. He could see her thinking, coming to the Lord knew what conclusion.

Ah, hell. “Not you,” he muttered.

“What?” Her full attention zeroed in on him again.

“I wasn’t going to propose to you.”

An indecipherable expression flashed across her face. “Then who?”

He saw the moment she put it together. Her eyes went dark and blank. “Petra.”

He nodded slowly, uneasy at the way Miranda was looking at him.

“You asked Petra to marry you last night.” She dropped the ring back into the box and the lid snapped shut, the sound loud in the early morning silence. Then she stood up and he heard the box skip across the stainless steel bench.

He flinched. Miranda thought—

“Hang on,” he said urgently, leaping to his feet.

But she ignored him. Swinging on her heel, she marched across the kitchen, her heels tap-tapping a furious tattoo on the matte wooden floor.

“Hey, you don’t understand.” He reached out to restrain her as she stomped past.

She turned her head and gave him a contemptuous glare. His hand fell away.

“Oh, I understand too well. You asked the daughter of a new major shareholder to marry you. She had the sense to refuse, so you slept with the hired help—” she spat out the last two words “—in a fit of pique.” She punctuated her conclusion by marching to the door into the house and slamming it behind her.

A click followed.

Callum skidded after her, only to find she’d locked the door from the hall side. By the time he’d rushed out the back door, through the mews, and around to the front of the row of town houses, Miranda was gone.



The beastly two-timing jerk.

Miranda was still fuming when she arrived at The Golden Goose shortly before noon on Sunday. Fortunately Flo had accepted her arrival home in the clothes she’d gone out in last night with no questions, glossing over Miranda’s stuttered excuse about working late.

Her mother’s skirting the issue hadn’t soothed her as much as it should’ve. Nor did it help that Gianni, the longtime chef, was glowering at her over the chopping block while Mick, the manager, danced around muttering that she was late—even though Miranda knew she’d walked in the door at five minutes to midday.

The final straw came when Mick cornered her later to say that her commitment was lacking. She’d left early last week, and now she was late and she was to take this as a warning. In these tough times, he expected more.

Gianni gave her a sly grin as she passed him, confirming where the heart of the problem lay. She wished she could reassure him, tell him that she had no ambitions to take over his job. But she knew that would only make him rush to tell Mick about her lack of commitment.

She was screwed.

By the time she got home late that night, Miranda was ill-prepared for the sight of an ostentatious bunch of long-stemmed pink roses that must’ve cost some joker a fortune.

And she suspected she knew who the joker might be.

“An admirer from last night?” Flo arched a finely penciled eyebrow. “I thought you said it was work.”

“Must be a thank-you,” Miranda bit out, ripping off the still-sealed envelope and pocketing it to get it out of her mother’s line of sight.

“So considerate.” Flo touched the blooms with reverent fingers. “They’re beautiful. I watered them. Why don’t you put them in your bedroom?”

And be stuck looking at a reminder of last night’s calamity? No, thanks! Stalking away, Miranda wished she hadn’t said they were a thank-you; now she couldn’t even throw the wretched flowers away.

“Someone rang for you earlier.”

Miranda froze in the doorway, but didn’t turn around. “Who?”

“A man. He had a rough voice. It was strangely familiar,” said Flo slowly.

Miranda stifled an anxious groan. “Did he leave a name?” She prayed not. Her mother didn’t need to know she’d been fraternizing with the Ironstones.

“No. He said he’d catch you on your cell phone.”

Her cell phone had been off while she worked. “Thanks, Mum.”

After setting down the unopened white envelope on the dressing table in her room, Miranda made for the bathroom the three of them shared. After she’d showered the odors of The Golden Goose away, she changed into a flannel nightie and brushed her teeth.

Climbing into bed, she finally picked up her cell phone and switched it on. The message light flashed. She stared at it for long seconds.

No. She had no intention of giving in to curiosity and checking to see if Callum had left her a message. The man had dominated her thoughts far too much already. And she was not about to let him cause her another sleepless night.

Setting the phone on the bed stand, she turned the lamp off, refusing to let herself dwell on the reason why she’d slept so little last night…




Chapter Four


Miranda was wakened the following morning by banging on her bedroom door. She’d barely opened her eyes before Adrian barged in.

“Phone.” He held out the handset. “Callum.”

Her heart sank. She wished fervently she hadn’t been too cowardly to check her cell phone the night before. Now she was at a decided disadvantage. “Thanks.”

Adrian hovered in the doorway, clearly curious. But an older-sister scowl caused him to roll his eyes and depart. When his footfalls finally faded, she lifted the handset to her ear. “Yes?”

“What happened to good morning?” Callum sounded delighted.

She squinted at her bedside clock. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Although now that I think about it, you didn’t greet me yesterday, either. Maybe you’re not a morning person.”

He had that right. But nor did she want any reminder about waking in his bed yesterday morning. “What do you want?”

“Now there’s a leading question.” He’d lowered his voice to a husky drawl and at once a rush of heat filled Miranda. Oh, heavens! She couldn’t let herself respond to Callum with such unfettered sensual delight.

She tamped it down. “Oh, please, it’s too early in the morning for sexual innuendo.”

He laughed. “Definitely not a morning person. I apologize for calling so early.” That must be a first. “I’m flying out to New York this afternoon,” Callum continued more briskly, “and my schedule this morning is hellish.”

Miranda suppressed the urge to cheer at the thought of Callum over three thousand miles away—it would give her time to recover from the turmoil that sleeping with him had caused her.

He was still talking rapidly. “I’ve got tickets for Les Misérables on Saturday night. Do you want to go? We can have dinner afterward.”

“You called me to invite me on a date?” she said, blank dismay settling over her.

The silence stretched. Then he said, “I suppose you could call it that.”

What else did one call a show and dinner followed by whatever else he had in mind? Shivers prickled as vivid images of what he might be planning assailed her.

The last thing she needed was an affair with Callum Ironstone. She already despised herself enough for allowing him to seduce her—although to be fair she’d been more than willing. If she hadn’t had those glasses of red wine…if he hadn’t been so damn tempting…if he hadn’t kissed her and turned her legs to jelly.

Oh, God, she couldn’t believe she was letting herself relive it all. Callum had taken her to bed the same night he’d proposed to another woman. Because of him her father was dead. How could she have let him touch her? Seeing him again would be a betrayal of her very soul.

“No, I can’t come.”

“Another evening then?”

“No.” She hung up.

The phone rang again. She glared at it. Then picked it up before Adrian—or Flo—could.

“Did you get the message I left on your cell phone last night?”

“No,” she said guardedly, eyeing the phone that winked a message on the bedside table. “But whatever you said wouldn’t have changed my answer.”

“You believe I only slept with you because Petra rejected me.”

That was only the tip of the iceberg. She was furious with herself for sleeping with him at all. Furious with him for making it so easy. “Yes? So what?”

“I never asked Petra to marry me,” he said.

“You didn’t?”

“That’s the message I left for you yesterday.”

“Oh.” She fell silent. Why had he told her this? She wouldn’t allow it to be important. Yet her pulse quickened. Miranda drew a steadying breath, aware that she had to tread carefully.

“It doesn’t make any difference, Callum.” She couldn’t afford to alienate him. He’d given Adrian a vacation job, which might lead to a permanent placement next year. If she annoyed Callum, he might fire Adrian. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for me to date you.”

She heard him whisper “Liar” just as she hurriedly severed the connection.



This time he didn’t ring back. But before she could set foot out of bed, Adrian slipped into her room.

“What did Callum want?”

She wasn’t telling him that his boss, her nemesis, had asked her on a date. “Nothing to do with you.”

Adrian looked sick. “Sis, please be nice to him.”

Adrian’s anxiety reinforced her own worry that if she annoyed Callum he’d take it out on her brother. But there was a limit to how far she’d go—and Adrian had to know that.

“Be nice?” She loaded the meaning. “What are you asking me to do here, Adrian?”

“I mean be polite.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Nothing more. I don’t want to lose this opportunity to get a good reference.”

She hated the idea that Adrian thought she’d jeopardize his work. Was that how bitter she’d become?

Miranda crossed her fingers under the bedclothes. “I did some catering for Callum. We were talking about that.”

His expression cleared. “That’s great. So you’ll be doing more work for him?”

“I didn’t say that,” she said hastily.

“I told him you were a good chef—that you were wasted at The Golden Goose.”

“The Goose is convenient.” Miranda fixed her brother with a narrow stare. Adrian must have told Callum about her dream to run her own catering business. At least that meant her fear that Callum had been able to read her like an open book had been…relatively baseless. “What else did you tell him?”

Her brother spread his hands. “Nothing. I swear.”

She studied him as she swung her legs out of bed. “Okay, I believe you. Now scoot—I want to get dressed.”

But he lingered. “Uh…when will you give me that money?”

“I’ll go to the bank today.”

“Sis…” He hesitated, then said in a rush, “Can you add another couple hundred quid?”

She paused in front of the wardrobe. “More money? When you still haven’t repaid me the fifty pounds I lent you last week?”

He all but ran out of her room. “We can talk about it when you’re dressed,” he said over his shoulder.

Adrian had made breakfast by the time she got to the kitchen. Miranda drew out one of the pine chairs that Flo had sewed yellow-and-white-checked gingham covers for and stared suspiciously at the spread on the table. Scrambled eggs. Bacon. Mushrooms. Toast. Marmalade. Her favorites. “Is this a bribe?”

“No.” But he looked sufficiently guilty for her to frown at him. “I took Mum her food on a tray.”

“So now it’s just you and me.” Miranda sighed as she sat down. “Okay, explain to me why I should pay another cent to sort out your friend’s problems. Hasn’t he got family of his own?”

Adrian turned a dull red that clashed with his freckles. “It’s not for a friend. It’s for me.”

“A new pair of shoes?” she asked snippily. “You know I’m saving. Can’t this wait?”

“No.” He looked down at his plate for long seconds. When he looked up, Miranda was shocked at the desperation in his expression. “I’m in trouble.”

All her worst fears crowded in. “Tell me.”

“Last Monday night—”

“When you went out with your friends?”

He nodded. “I borrowed a car from work, but I crashed it—hit a concrete pillar in a basement parking lot as we were leaving a club.”

Horror filled her. “Everyone was okay?” The pounding of her heart slowed at his nod, and relief seeped through her, turning her limbs weak. No one had been hurt…or worse. “Were you drunk?”

“No.” He looked shaken. “I never drink and drive.”

She relaxed enough to fork a mouthful of food into her mouth. “So get the car fixed.”

“I’ve already had it repaired—and borrowed money from my friends to pay for it. But the amount was more than the original quote—that’s why I need more money. And they’re pressing me to repay them.”

I don’t have any more money. Not for this. Miranda bit back her wail of despair, as the extent of his deceit struck her. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t want you to know.” Even his neck was red now. “I’m sorry.”

She restrained herself from asking what else he’d held back from her, and pondered on the fix he was in. “Wait, you shouldn’t be paying—the car belongs to Ironstone. It will be insured. Just fill out an incident report and let Ironstone handle the claim.”

“I can’t.” He looked utterly wretched. “I wasn’t supposed to have the car out after work hours. There might be criminal charges for theft if anyone at Ironstone finds out.”

“Theft?” She stared at him in alarm.

“Yes, for taking the car without the owner’s consent.” He suddenly looked very young, reminding her that he’d only recently finished school and was little more than a schoolboy. “I’m really sorry, sis.”

Miranda knew exactly how Callum would react if he found out—and being sorry wouldn’t help. He’d have Adrian arrested, and prosecute him to the full extent of the law. Look what he’d done to their father.

She couldn’t let that happen again.

“I’ll get you the money today.” She thought with regret about the fantasy of her own catering business, then dismissed it. Adrian was more important.

But maybe if she explained it all to Callum he might understand. There was a chance. Today was her day off, and Callum had said he was flying out this afternoon.

If she hurried she could see him before he left.

“It won’t happen again.” Adrian’s promise got her attention.

“Better not,” she growled. “Now eat your breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.” He pushed back his chair and picked up the plate, crossing to the sink. “I’m going to work.”



This time Miranda arrived at the Ironstone Insurance building without the benefit of being expected, and the receptionist wasn’t nearly as friendly.

“Mr. Ironstone is busy,” she said.

“I only need five minutes.” Miranda had to speak to Callum before he left for New York. Had to make him see that Adrian was a good boy, that he’d made a mistake in taking the car—and that all the damage would be paid for.

Because the alternative was unthinkable. Prison. She couldn’t let this ruin her brother’s life. Miranda shuddered as memories plagued her. Her father had been arrested…and then he’d been dead. So final. It wasn’t going to happen to Adrian.

“Mr. Ironstone is not available.”

“I know, Callum’s going to New York—he told me. I presume he’s in that meeting,” she tacked on, trying to sound as though she was privy to his every plan.

The receptionist shot an indecisive look in the direction of a closed door leading off the reception area before turning her attention back and giving Miranda a curious look.

Just then the door cracked open. “Biddy, can you make four copies of this report, please?”

The receptionist came round the counter, and Miranda saw her chance. “Callum,” she called out.

He looked up, and his eyes crinkled into a smile. “Miranda, what are you doing here?”

“I have to talk to you. In private,” she added urgently as she glanced past him into the occupied boardroom.

“I’ll be with you in a minute.” He rapidly made excuses to his board members and ushered her along the corridor into his office.

“You’ve changed your mind?” he asked, closing the door. His eyes were warmer than she’d ever imagined the color blue could be.

Changed her mind? She blinked at him as she settled into the soft sofa beneath the bookshelves. Oh, the date! He thought she was here because she’d decided to accept?

“No—”

Help. He was moving closer, seating himself beside her. The heat that she’d sworn she would not allow herself to feel swamped her anew. His fingers closed on her upper arms. For a moment she was so incredibly tempted just to give in, to let him kiss her. But she couldn’t.

“Uh…I wanted to talk about…”

He bent his head. That smiling mouth held her entranced. In a second it would land on hers.

“No!” She ducked away to the far end of the sofa. “You can’t kiss me. You’re going to marry Petra.” She gabbled the first thing that came into her head.

He blinked. “I am?”

“You bought her a ring.” He must’ve spent a fortune on it. That meant he had to be serious.

The powerful surge of adrenaline ebbed, and her brains unscrambled. Petra’s father was an important figure in his life now that Gordon Harris held so much stock in Ironstone. That’s why men like Callum married.

Not for love. Or even desire.

But for cold, sound financial reasons.

And Petra would accept with alacrity. Callum was a catch. An Ironstone. Not everyone held the view of him Miranda did.

In her mind she replayed that disaster on Saturday night when she’d ended up sprawled over his kitchen counter, and later in his bed. All evening she’d been conscious of his gaze following her, setting her body aflame. Even while he’d listened to Petra, talked to her father, been ribbed by his brothers…the whole time he’d been watching her.

All his brothers had been there. To meet Gordon, he’d told her here in this very office. A celebration.

Celebration…

Of what? She’d thought he’d been referring to the merger. Had it been something else entirely?

“Those two guests you told me couldn’t make it because of the snowstorm up north. They were your parents, weren’t they?”

“Well…yes.”

Her suspicions crystallized into certainty. “You were going to announce your engagement.”

The utter silence told Miranda she was right.

“But you didn’t announce it…because you didn’t get around to proposing to her,” she said, following her line of thought through to the natural conclusion. “And you slept with me instead.” Miranda tilted her head. “Have you broken up with her?”

He stretched. “Miranda—”

Callum hadn’t broken off whatever relationship he had going with Petra. For some reason he’d simply decided he wanted her.

“Miranda, wait—”

He was despicable. She shifted farther into the corner of the couch. “Yes or no?”

He shook his head.

The phone on the highly polished desk rang twice before stopping abruptly. Callum glared across at it, then back to her. “The meeting is ready to continue. I have to go.” But he didn’t rise. “If you change your mind, call me.”

“I won’t,” she stated with absolute conviction. “And don’t invite me out again. Call Petra—she’s still the woman you plan to marry.”

There was no doubt in her mind that Petra would accept him.

Poor thing.

“If you say so.” His eyes cooled further. “So why did you come?” His hard mouth bore no trace of a smile.

She hesitated, aware of the chasm that yawned between them, much wider than the distance that separated them on the sofa. Adrian had asked her to be nice. This didn’t look like a man who would give her—or Adrian—the benefit of the doubt.

But she had to try. “How’s Adrian getting—” She broke off.

“Adrian? Getting along?” His gaze narrowed. “He’s doing very well. That’s why you came to see me? Because of your brother?”

The warmth he’d greeted her with had vanished. The smiling eyes had been replaced with blue chips of ice.

She backtracked hastily. “No, no, I just asked.” Now he must think her a total mother hen. Forcing a conciliatory smile, she said, “I’m pleased he’s getting on well.”

Callum rose to his feet. “I’ve been intending to suggest that he apply for one of the scholarships that Ironstone offers.” His cold gaze swept her. “And before you leap to any nasty conclusions, this is an opportunity offered to any school-leavers who work for us to go to university. I don’t even administer it.”

She’d done it now. She’d made him mad. And if she breathed a word about the car Adrian had crashed, her brother would not only lose his vacation job and the chance of a permanent position, he’d also lose all chance of a scholarship—and it would be her fault.

To placate him, she said, “It would be the answer to my prayers.” And it was true. The thought of Adrian studying toward a career. Having a chance of a successful future…

Except it would come from the Ironstone family. But she could live with that. She certainly wouldn’t stand in Adrian’s way.

Yet before she could say anything further, Callum continued, “So if you didn’t come to accept my invitation and you didn’t come see me about your brother, why are you here?”

Help. She sucked in a deep breath. There was only one thing left to say—sure, it meant she’d have to eat crow, but she could do that.

“I wanted to thank you for giving me the chance to cater for you.” Her stomach heaved. “I’ve already had a call as a result. Look.” She dug into her bag and pulled out a few of the business cards she’d had printed up yesterday. “One of your dinner guests on Saturday asked for a card. I didn’t have any. So I’ve had some printed up. What do you think?” She couldn’t restrain the lilt of pride in her voice as she passed him a card.

He studied it. “Not bad. Do you have any more?”

“Why?”

“I might be able to hand them to prospective clients.” He shot her a quick glance. “In fact, can you cater a Christmas cocktail party?” Callum rattled off a sum per head. “In the boardroom here? This Friday?”

Embarrassment squirmed through her. “That wasn’t a hint. I didn’t mean for you to give me more—”

“The caterer we booked has fallen ill. Do you want the job? Or do I get Biddy to find someone else?”

Miranda considered Adrian’s predicament. Their tight finances. “Perhaps,” she said cautiously.

A rap on the door had Callum stepping away from her. “Yes or no?” He parodied her question from earlier, and Miranda flushed.

Biddy popped her head around the doorjamb. “The copies are done, and everyone’s finished their coffee—they’re waiting for you.”

He moved toward the door. “So what will it be?”

Ignoring the receptionist’s curious glance, Miranda blew out the breath she’d been holding. “Yes.”




Chapter Five


The boardroom was packed.

Everywhere Callum looked people held cocktail glasses, while they talked and laughed. Waitresses in long, red sequined dresses wearing Santa hats with fur trim offered around trays of snacks. And behind the hum of conversation he could hear the festive notes of “Ding Dong Merrily on High.”

He should’ve been pleased. Ecstatic, in fact. Yet all he could do was glare in increasing frustration at the woman who’d pulled it all off.

Miranda had chosen to wear fishnets.

Callum really hadn’t needed his brother, Fraser, to point that out to him. She wore black. A snug dress that, unlike the V-neck of last week’s dress, had a high collar suited to a nun and should’ve looked seriously sedate. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she busied herself around the buffet table piled with mince pies and pots of whipped cream, repositioning the posies of poinsettias tied with gold bows and lit up with red candles.

Did the fishnets, too, end at the tops of her thighs?

A bolt of raw lust stabbed him at the memory of stroking the soft skin of her inner thigh. Had she worn them deliberately to drive him out of his mind?

As for that damn frilly white apron that tied with the great white bow behind her back, begging him to yank it loose…

Ah, hell.

“Back off,” Callum growled as he caught Fraser smiling at Miranda for the second time in less than five minutes.

“I’m pulling rank,” Fraser murmured. “I’m older. Go away.”

Callum forced his attention from the woman who had him tied up in mental knots. “Forget it,” he told his brother grimly. “That doesn’t work anymore.”

“You’re warning me off!” Fraser’s grin widened as he searched Callum’s face. “I thought you were already attached.” Turning his head, Fraser scanned the room. “Although I haven’t seen the princess here tonight.”

“Petra doesn’t like it when you call her Princess,” he said pompously, and spoiled the effect by slicing his brother a dirty look.

“Does your lack of answer mean she was supposed to be here?”

“No.”

Callum shuddered at the memory of the disastrous call he’d made from New York. He should have ended it with Petra a week ago. It hadn’t been fair to keep Petra on a string, not while this hunger for Miranda ate at him like acid. Petra hadn’t said much, but he knew he’d hurt her. It’s not you, it’s me—he’d even used that old corny line. You deserve better. She did—he should’ve waited to break it off with her in person.

So he’d organized a string of pearls to be delivered to her, more to assuage his guilt than to offer consolation. And he was grateful Petra wasn’t here tonight—although he’d noted Gordon’s appearance with some relief.

Callum knew he probably had Petra to thank for that. The woman had style.

So why the hell couldn’t it be Petra he craved with this deep and desperate desire?

“She’s got more sense than I credited her with if she dumped you.” Fraser sounded almost satisfied.

Narrowing his gaze, Callum studied his brother’s mocking smile. He didn’t correct his brother’s mistaken belief that it was Petra who’d done the ditching. Instead he said with brotherly candor, “I don’t think she likes you much. Kind of like Miranda—who hates my guts.”

“Miranda?” Fraser’s suddenly blank expression gave nothing away. “Wasn’t Thomas Owen’s daughter named Miranda?”

Without meaning to, Callum glanced toward the woman who’d been tormenting his nights. “Yes.”

Fraser followed his gaze. “That same Miranda?”

This time Callum’s “Yes” was terse.

Knowing his brother was examining him with keen interest made Callum feel uncomfortably exposed. The silence stretched long enough to become pointed. Finally Fraser said gently, “Ouch.”

Exactly. “Just stay away from her.”

“And if I don’t?” Fraser asked. “Then what, little brother? You’ll beat me to pulp?”

Blood rushed through his ears. “Don’t…try…it.” He bit the words out with aggressive intent.

Fraser hooted in disbelief. “You would.”

The sound of his sibling’s laughter caused Callum to ask grimly, “What’s so damn funny?”

“If you don’t know, I’m not telling.” Fraser was already off to where their half brothers, Jack and Hunter, huddled with a major stakeholder. Still smirking, he threw over his shoulder, “You always did like to do things the hard way, Callum.”



You always did like to do things the hard way. Fraser’s words still rang in Callum’s ears as he fought his way through the crush of people that seemed to have grown larger and louder over the past hour, heading to where Miranda and two waitresses were replenishing platters of savories on the temporary bar.

She shot him a wary look as he approached.

He supposed it was foolish to have hoped for a little gratitude after all the trouble he’d taken to ensure she could do the catering tonight. Biddy had been far from pleased at having to call the catering company that had already been booked—he’d had to pay them in full for the late cancellation.

Of course Miranda didn’t know that. He’d told her the caterer had been forced to renege for reasons of illness…Nor did she know he’d broken up with Petra. He had no intention of telling her either. Miranda already had more power over him than he liked.

Talk about a tangled web.

As far as doing things the hard way, this fierce attraction to Miranda topped all. Callum wasn’t even sure his motives were pure any longer. What had begun as a sop to his conscience had somehow gotten out of control since meeting the all-grown-up Miranda. He didn’t know what had hit him. All he knew was that he wanted to take her back to his bed…sate himself with her.

Hell, why should she be grateful? Given her conviction that he’d caused her father’s death it wasn’t surprising she couldn’t bear the sight of him. Callum didn’t like the niggle of discomfort that ate at his stomach—the same sensation that often gnawed in the middle of the night. If he hadn’t pushed so hard to have Thomas Owen arrested, the man might still be alive today.

And Miranda and Adrian would still have a father.

As he cut through the throng, he smiled and nodded to business acquaintances but didn’t pause until he reached Miranda, busy setting out serviettes and fresh bowls of olives amid a crowd at the bar.

“Need any help?”

Miranda’s eyelashes fluttered down, blocking her eyes from his view. White serviettes printed with gold snowflakes fanned out under the touch of her deft fingers, and he had to strain his ears to hear her response.

“It’s all under control.”

He dropped his gaze from those teasing fingers. Only to be confronted by the provocative white apron with its starchy ruffles and wished furiously he could as easily control his wild thoughts. Clearing his throat, he managed, “Uh…I need to update you on Adrian.”

Her hands stilled. “Adrian?”

The rest of what she said was drowned out by a burst of laughter. Not even staring at her mouth helped him make out the words—although the soft shape of her lips caused another quake of lust.

Placing a hand under her elbow, he drew her away from the bar. “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”

She came slowly, her arm suddenly stiff under his fingertips.

It didn’t augur well for the chances of assuaging the growing hunger that burned in him. He bent forward and said loudly over the music and surrounding chatter, “Let me introduce you around—we can talk about Adrian later.”

He sensed her hesitation. Flicking him a quick, sideways look, she rested a hand on his shoulder and rose on tiptoe. “I’m not sure I can wait.”

Callum shuddered as her breath warmed his ear with the innocently provocative words. Turning his head, he discovered her mouth not far from his. For a moment he was tempted to throw caution to the winds. To confess that Petra meant nothing to him and that she, Miranda, consumed his every thought. To plunder the soft ripeness of that sweet mouth.

But she withdrew her hand, leaving him bereft. Bringing himself back to the present, he mouthed, “Later. We’ll talk when the party settles down. Right now, I ought to circulate.”

She glanced around at the press of people that made it impossible to talk and nodded, but her irises had darkened with worry.

“Adrian’s fine,” he said. Miranda needed to think more about herself and spend less time fretting about her brother. Into a short lull he said, “Have you got your business cards here?”

She nodded. “In my bag. I’ll get them.”

He gave her a thumbs-up and waited for her to return.



Once it had sunk in that Adrian’s secret was still safe, Miranda’s heartbeat steadied and she started to relax.

Callum introduced her to an older couple, Madge and Tom Murray. On learning that Miranda was responsible for the food, Madge said, “The mince pies simply melted in my mouth. What magic did you use?”

That launched a discussion about pastry that attracted a nearby woman. After several minutes Miranda turned to Callum and Madge’s husband and apologized profusely. “Sorry, I lose time when the talk is about food.”

“Madge likes nothing more.” Tom laughed.

The conversation moved on to favorite dishes and dinner-party disasters. Madge was amusing, and her husband clearly doted on her—even though he confessed to hating oysters which Madge vowed was grounds for divorce.

As everyone laughed, Miranda felt a stab of envy. Even though her father had adored and indulged Flo, there’d never been this sense of kinship and shared laughter between her parents.

The arrival of a tall, dark-haired man who looked vaguely familiar interrupted her thoughts. But the respite proved to be short. The newcomer turned out to be none other than Callum’s brother, Fraser, whose sharp eyes assessed Miranda and missed nothing. Not the fact that his brother stood beside her, nor that his brother’s arm was behind her. His arched brows rose a little, but thankfully he only added to the hilarity in their discussions about food.

“What is your secret food passion, Miranda?” asked Madge.

“Chocolate,” she said. “Rich, dark and slightly bitter.”

“Sounds like Callum,” Fraser said with a sly grin.

Miranda didn’t dare glance at the silent man standing next to her. In an instant those mad moments in his home played through her brain like a movie in slow motion.

Callum hoisting her up and stepping between her thighs. Callum soaping her in the shower afterward. Callum naked and damp with droplets moving over her before pinning her on his bed and…

She became brutally aware of the gentle pressure of his hand resting in the small of her back. And blinked. Hard.

This was Callum Ironstone, for heaven’s sake. Petra’s almost financé. Her brother’s boss. Her sworn enemy. How could she allow such treacherous desires to consume her? How could she even be tempted to respond to his touch? And worse, to every breath he drew? Yet the touch of his hand on her back seemed so…right. What was wrong with her?

“I need to get back to the kitchen,” she said desperately, shifting out from beneath his hand.

“Don’t you dare say anything about a woman’s place,” Madge warned as Fraser looked as if he were about to comment.

He said, “I wouldn’t dare. Mother would send us to our rooms for voicing such heresy, wouldn’t she, Callum?”

“Without a doubt.” The laugh lines around Callum’s eyes crinkled, making him even more attractive.

Miranda escaped before she could be further seduced. Or, heaven help her, admit that she wanted to be seduced.

Drat the man.



The long night was almost over.

Miranda had been clock-watching for the past half hour, waiting for the guests to leave as the medley of cheerful Christmas carols segued into light classics. But she still started when Callum came up silently behind her, invading the refuge she’d sought behind the tall Christmas tree in the lobby where she’d hidden in the hope of avoiding him.

A quick upward glance from where she knelt beside three crates revealed that he’d discarded his jacket, and the white shirt he wore was startling in the dim lobby.

“I’ve been looking for you.” Callum held out a glass of what looked like port. “You’ve done enough tonight, Miranda. Leave packing those glasses and take a break.”

She glanced at the dark liquid swirling in the crystal glass and pictured—too vividly—what had happened the last time she’d indulged in wine under his roof. Her pulse quickened, causing blood to rush to her head and a wave of dizzy desire.

“No, thanks.” Miranda fought to control her physical reaction. Port would only cause her defenses—already vulnerable—to crumble more rapidly. Earlier he’d promised to catch her later and talk about Adrian; no doubt that was why he had been looking for her. Not to seduce her—contrary to her wild imaginings.

He shrugged and took a sip of his wine. The lights of the tall Christmas tree overhead flashed, creating a surreal glow of silver, and for a moment she was riveted. His tie had been abandoned and the pulse in the hollow of his throat beat visibly.

She stared transfixed.

Then he surprised her.

“Tonight was a success. I want to thank you, Miranda.”

His eyes were warm, the blue muted, making her wish they’d met under different circumstances—that he wasn’t the man responsible for her father’s death.

“I only did what you employed me to do,” she said stiffly as he set his glass down on the white marble floor beside her. She ducked her head, determined not to reveal her impossible thoughts, and carried on stacking empty glasses into their crates, using the occasional ting of crystal as a warning bell to keep herself from falling under his thrall.

“No, you did far more than expected. The Christmas crackers were a success, and so were the edible Christmas tree decorations.”

His voice came closer and she spoke quickly, desperate to keep him at bay. “I thought your guests might like something to take home.”

“Madge Murray was raving about the chocolate angels.”

“Yes, I gave her extras.” She raised her shoulders and let them fall with what she hoped looked like a careless shrug. “My mother taught me how to make them when I was a little girl.” Flo had always had the ability to bake fairy-tale items; it was the ordinary things like lunch and dinner that were beyond her.

At the brush of Callum’s fingers under her chin, her head came up in a hurry. He pinned her under his ferociously bright gaze. As the Christmas lights flickered overhead, she imagined the glitter in his eyes revealed emotion. But the words he spoke negated that fancy.

“Her husband is one of our most important customers.”

The hope she’d glimpsed died. Of course, for Callum everything was always about work. Never about emotion. Or fairy tales. He was ready to marry for corporate convenience. Unlike her, he would never believe in love…or Christmas wishes. She tried not to let her disappointment show—and hated herself for wishing it had all been about so much more, and that the emotion she’d imagined she’d glimpsed had been real.

She drew away. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”

“Very pleased.”

“Good.” She got to her feet. “Now I’d better get these glasses to the collection point. The company I hired them from will be here soon to fetch them.”

Callum stared at the woman with frustration. He wasn’t interested in the damn dirty glasses. Why couldn’t she be one of those kittenish women who batted her eyelids and cooed her thanks? How he would revel being on the receiving end of her gratitude…

He took in the creamy skin, the soft, lush mouth and desire spiked through him.

Dark. Driving. Relentless.

Callum gave himself a mental shake. Not going to happen. Not tonight. Not ever. So he’d better get over this…this fascination she held for him.

Even Fraser had noticed.

Hell.

Would he ever be able to get that night she’d spent in his bed out his head? Or stop thinking about how to get her back there and make love to her all over again?

He must be crazy.

Especially as she was making it clear as the crystal she was packing away that she had no intention of even dating him. All night she’d been running from him, apprehension in her eyes. And how could he blame her? He’d been reduced to using his company functions as a way to spend time with her.

Once the festive season was over it would be some time before he could set up catering engagements for her without arousing her suspicion. He would have no excuse to see her, not unless he took to frequenting The Golden Goose.

He grimaced. That would be desperate measures indeed.

“What’s wrong?”

He straightened at the sound of Miranda’s voice. “Wrong?”

“You’re frowning.”

“I’ve no reason to frown—it’s been a very successful evening.”

“Good.”

He told himself he’d find another way to keep in touch with her. “Oh, earlier I wanted to tell you that I spoke to your brother.”

A subtle tension shimmered through her. If he hadn’t been so aware of every nuance and change in her expressive eyes, he probably wouldn’t even have noticed.

“After I flew in from New York I gave him the application forms for the two Ironstone Insurance scholarships and told him that I’d nominate him.” His nomination would carry a lot of weight with the deciding committee, but she didn’t need to know that. It would only make her believe he was merely giving charity in another guise.

Yet for once, instead of objecting, the tension seemed to drain out of her. “If Adrian could get a scholarship to university—or even a job for next year—it would be such a relief.” Her lashes fluttered down. “Thank you.”

It must strangle her to have to thank him for anything. He reached out and touched her arm, intending to tell her that she owed him no thanks—that it was the least he could do.

And froze.

Here was the opportunity he’d been looking for. So perfect—and he’d almost missed it. He could use her brother as a way to keep in touch—arrange meetings with her to talk about him.

All to get into Miranda’s pants again, he scoffed at himself.

Was this what he had been reduced to? Miranda’s brother was almost a man and Callum had always tried to treat him like an adult. If Adrian found out Callum was meeting Miranda to discuss him, the bond he’d been working so hard to forge with the youth would be broken.

But right now he couldn’t care about that.

Unless he offered Adrian a permanent position at Ironstone Insurance or called in a favor to make sure her brother was offered a university scholarship, there would be no more reason to see Miranda.

No excuse to lure her into his bed…

He let the thumb resting on her arm stroke along the fabric of her dress sleeve and heard her breath catch.

Not totally unaffected then.

He couldn’t help remembering how soft her naked skin had been against his, how sweet she’d tasted. His gaze rested on her mouth.

So passionate.

This craving for her confounded him. He’d been right to break it off with Petra—he couldn’t marry any woman while he felt like this. And despite Miranda’s determined indifference, he suspected she wanted him every bit as badly. The passion she’d revealed the night they’d made love couldn’t be feigned.

If only her father’s death didn’t stand between them.

“Miranda, about your father…”

The lights flashed and he read anger in her eyes. “You should never have—”

“I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” she said.

She was right. He’d been determined to prove how tough he was, how merciless. The corporate tycoon. It was something he’d have to live with all his life.

“You’re right.”

“Thank you.”

For a long moment he thought she was going to say more.

But instead she said with forced cheerfulness, “Christmas will soon be here. I’ll just have to wish that everything will come right for Adrian in the coming year.”

He blinked. “You think Christmas wishes work?”

She tipped her head up and stared at the tree above them. “I think one can dream…and wish…and hope.”

Miranda was a romantic. For a moment he wished for her sheer, blind optimism. Unable to help himself, he asked, “What do you look forward to most at Christmas?”

“I love spending it with my family. I love—” She broke off. “You don’t want to hear all this.”

“But I do.” And he found he was telling the truth. “Tell me what you want to see when you wake up on Christmas morning.”

“The best gift?” She gave him a funny little twisted smile. “Well, I can’t have that. So I’ll take snow. As much as I love the lights in the city at Christmas, I love snow more. And it doesn’t often snow in London for Christmas. Sleet and sludge, yes, but not pure, pristine snow that crunches underfoot in the early morning and yours are the first footprints of the day.”

He heard the longing. “You miss the country, don’t you?”

“Particularly at this time of the year.”

The lights in the Christmas tree flashed again, revealing a wistful, faraway expression he knew she’d have hated him to see.

“I remember as a child getting up on Christmas morning, going with Adrian to check our stockings on the mantelpiece. Then I’d go and see my pony—take the biggest carrots I could find and slices of apple.” She gave a whisper of a sigh. “The warm smell of horse and hay inside the stables after the crisp air outside…that must be one of my favorite Christmas memories. And by the time I got back to the house my parents would be awake and we’d all gather under the tree.”

Her lashes lay in dark crescents against her cheeks, and her mouth curved up in a smile that made an unfamiliar ache tighten around his chest.

“A real tree.” She gestured to the Christmas tree that towered over them. “Not a fake monstrosity with fake snow like this one.”

Callum nodded, feeling a strange affinity for her. When he was growing up, his family had always decorated a pine tree, too. And each year the scent had filled his home along with the sweet aromas of baking biscuits. They still shared Christmas in the country every year.

He wanted to offer her a chance to relive the Christmas she dreamed of. He wanted to invite her home to spend Christmas in the country with him at Fairwinds. Although he suspected she would refuse his invitation.

“Miranda—”

She reached up to straighten a silver bow on the company tree. The movement pulled her dress tight across her breasts and his breath caught in his throat. He forgot what he’d been about to say. Forgot everything except the crazy hunger she made him feel.

Unable to resist, he hooked an arm around her and pulled her close. Then he brushed his lips across hers very gently.

The air grew still.

Callum wanted to kiss her again with all the pent-up passion she’d kindled in him and sweep her off her feet before carrying her to his home.

Instead he set her away from him.

She touched her mouth with two fingers. “What was that for?”

There had to be a reason for him to kiss her? Callum gave her a long look. Instead of collapsing into his arms like most women would have, the suspicion in her eyes deepened.

Finally he said, “Blame it on the mistletoe.”

She glanced upward and a puzzled frown creased her brow. “But there isn’t any.”

Exactly. He needed no excuse to kiss her—the fire she’d ignited burned with an unquenchable fury—but Callum doubted she’d appreciate his honesty if he told her that.




Chapter Six


Miranda didn’t appreciate the way Callum was messing with her head. That feather-of-a-kiss-that-had-hardly-been-a-kiss had shaken her.

Badly.

And even a busy weekend at The Golden Goose failed to give her respite to regain her composure. All because the man in question turned up at the Goose on Saturday and ordered lunch.

Miranda had known about Callum’s arrival in minutes. Kitty, the youngest, prettiest and flightiest of the waitresses, had rushed into the kitchen to share that the most gorgeous guy she’d seen in her life had just walked in.

“Tall, dark and with periwinkle-blue eyes,” she gushed. “He looks like a movie star.”

“In the Goose?” But despite her skepticism Miranda’s heart stopped in horror. She steadied herself. That description could apply to thousands of men. Well, maybe not thousands. But it didn’t mean…

Yet she hadn’t been able to resist taking a peek—just to make sure.

Only to discover it was Callum.

He sat alone at a small round table to the side of the gas fireplace. In the middle of the day the fire flickered, but the flames still gave off much-needed warmth. Callum’s dark head was bent over the menu, but he looked up almost as though he’d sensed her stare.

She drew quickly out of sight, hissing at her stupidity under her breath.

While Mick muttered about chefs who had too little work, Miranda hurried to rescue a batch of brandy snaps from the oven before they burnt to crisp and, after rolling them deftly around the handle of a wooden spoon, set about piping whipped cream flavored with Grand Marnier into the now-crisp tubes.

What did Callum want? Why was he here?

Her hands shook as she squeezed the piping bag and cream oozed everywhere. Which made her want to kill him!

“He wants steak.” Kitty bounced into the kitchen. “Rare. No sauce. And battered onion rings. A real, live carnivore.”

The two other girls giggled. “I’ll take him some water,” one said.

“Maybe he wants extra onions.” And the second followed her out for a closer inspection.

Miranda stopped herself from rolling her eyes. For the next thirty minutes she was aware of the giggles as the waitresses vied to serve him, and it irritated her beyond belief.

The final insult came when Kitty delivered his request to convey his thanks in person to the dessert chef.

All too conscious of Gianni glowering, Miranda allowed herself to be dragged out into the limelight, noting Callum’s lack of surprise when she appeared.

Of course he’d known she was here.

Resisting the urge to drop a facetious curtsy, she smiled sweetly. “I’m so pleased you enjoyed your meal.”

His gaze rested on her lips, causing them to tingle, before lifting to study her. “What are you doing for Christmas this year?”

Miranda gave a small sigh. “What I always do—spend it with my family.”

For a moment she thought he was going to ask her something, but he only said, “My mother has a passion for brandy snaps, and these are quite the best I’ve ever eaten.”

His sincerity took her aback. He was looking at her like he wanted to devour her. Miranda couldn’t have spoken if she’d tried.

“She would love these.”

“I’ll let you have the recipe,” she croaked at last.

Tipping his head to one side, he considered her. “I’d rather you made them for her.”

Miranda thought about it, her heart quickening. What did he mean? That he wanted her to meet his mother? Then common sense kicked in. Unlikely. “But she doesn’t live in London. The biscuit would go soggy. They should be eaten fresh.”

He was shaking his head. “It was a dumb idea.”

“What was?” she asked, puzzled, wondering what she’d missed.

“Coming here!” He gave her a lopsided smile. “But next time Mother is in town, I will hold you to that offer.”

His smile widened, holding no edge or hint of seduction, and for the first time Miranda got a glimpse of the man his family saw.

And it was a different person from the man she’d grown to loathe. This man she could like. Yet she was no closer to knowing why he’d come today. And she’d turned down his offer to go to Les Misérables with him tonight—and maybe get to know him better. There was no point wondering if Petra was enjoying herself. Thay way lay the path to heartache. She’d sensibly refuse his invitation. The man was an enigma—she would never understand him.

The rest of the weekend was an anticlimax with Gianni stamping and snorting like a bull and glaring balefully across the kitchen at Miranda. One of the girls must have told him what Callum had said, and he hadn’t liked it.

Thankfully, when Miranda finally got home late in the rainy cold of Sunday night there were no flowers to welcome her and remind her of her disturbing nemesis that she couldn’t seem to keep out of her life.

With Adrian still out, the little terrace house seemed empty. Entering the dining room, Miranda saw Flo hurriedly sliding a window envelope under a file.

“Another bill?” she asked, picking up her pace as she crossed to where her mother sat at the table. “I thought I’d paid everything.”

“No, no, don’t you worry about this, darling.”

The vagueness in her mother’s tone sharpened Miranda’s interest. “Let me see—I might have paid it already.”

“This is mine.”

“Yours?” She looked at her mother in surprise.

Flo normally gave all her bills to Miranda to pay—she was hopeless at organizing her finances. Though it tended to require the conjuring up of money from nowhere—often hard-worked overtime—to meet them.

Miranda felt sick. “Please, not more overdue bills that I don’t know about.”

Snagging up the corner of the file, Miranda caught sight of the name of an exclusive department store on the bill under the envelope. “Hemingway’s?”

Guilt glinted in Flo’s dark eyes. “I needed a new coat.”

Miranda pulled out the piece of paper and then blanched. “What was it? Mink?”

“Don’t be silly, darling.” Her mother whipped the bill out from between her nerveless fingers. “There were also a few fripperies for my winter wardrobe. Your father wouldn’t have wanted to see me dressed in rags.”

“Dad isn’t here anymore—and we don’t have his income.” She spied another bill from the same store, dated the previous month. “Pans? You told me your friend Sorrell gave those to you.”

Her mother flushed, an ugly stain on her pale skin. “I’ll deal with the bills, Miranda.”

“How?”

Putting her hands on her hips, Miranda considered her mother. Apart from the allowance Callum paid her mother—the amount Miranda had been led to believe came from the carefully invested residue of her father’s estate—Flo had no income.

“I’ll make arrangements, darling. Don’t worry about it. I’m not useless.”

Arrangements? Dread curled in Miranda’s stomach. “What kind of arrangements?”

“I’ll call up Hemingway’s and have them grant me an indulgence—they’ve done it before.”

“Done it before?” asked Miranda, trying to make sense of why the store would grant her mother an extension on her accounts.

“Yes—last time they even gave me a bigger credit limit.”

Miranda stared at her vague, sweet mother with mounting horror. “Increased your credit limit when you aren’t paying your bills? Why would they do that?”

Flo looked abashed. “Because of Callum, of course.”

“Because of Callum?” She must sound like the village idiot the way she kept repeating her mother. “What does Callum Ironstone have to do with your accounts?”

“He originally settled all our accounts after your father died. It was part of our agreement,” Flo said defensively. “Everyone knows who the Ironstones are. Things were so difficult at the time—don’t you remember? He used to pay the accounts I sent him until you took over.”

Her mother fluttered her hands like a delicate butterfly but Miranda refused to be diverted. “I don’t remember. It must have been in that agreement you never showed me,” she said grimly. “Are you telling me you’ve extended your credit on the basis of Callum’s name?” It was too horrible to contemplate.

“Well, it’s not costing him anything,” Flo said defiantly.

“But it will if you don’t pay. I can’t believe these stores have let the balances run on for so long.”

“I call them regularly—I’m hardly some debtor they think is about to abscond. They know Callum will look after me.”

This was getting worse and worse. Miranda snatched the account back, and studied it, before looking back at her mother in despair. “The interest is running at a prohibitive rate.”

“I don’t think all the stores charge such high rates, darling.”

All the stores? “There are more?” Miranda stared at her mother, aghast.

So much for her stubborn determination never to be beholden to Callum again. There was no money to pay these accounts. Callum would be contacted by the stores eventually to be told that her mother was shopping on his credit.

Unless of course Hemingway’s decided to institute legal action to recover the debt.

The shame of it.

“Oh, dear Lord, Mum. What have you done?”



It was the following afternoon—her day off—and after a spending the day walking aimlessly around the city, her brain in turmoil, Miranda finally decided to take action about her mother’s revelation.

Even if Callum had paid off her parents’ accounts after her father’s death, he could hardly have intended her mother to continue using his name to lever credit. The time had come to see him and lay all the dead cats on his boardroom table, she decided with mordant humor. Adrian and Flo would have to put up with whatever repercussions followed.

She could no longer continue deceiving him.

Miranda paused at Trafalgar Square. Years ago Flo had sometimes brought her and Adrian here to feed the pigeons, and each Christmas, they’d come to admire the lights and Christmas tree. The pigeons had long since been discouraged, but the Christmas tree still stood. And the fountain Adrian had almost fallen into one icy winter’s day.

So when her cell phone rang and she heard Callum’s distinctive voice, Miranda was hardly surprised. She sank down on a bench near the fountain. To her annoyance her “Hi” was more than a little breathless.

“Been making any brandy snaps lately?”

His lighthearted comment made her want to cry. That teasing humor wouldn’t last once he heard what her mother had been up to. “Not enough.”

That reminded her that she needed to organize some overtime. There were Flo’s accounts to pay. On the spur of the moment she said rashly, “I don’t suppose you have more work for me?”

The pause echoed in her ears.

She shut her eyes. Stupid. She opened them and gazed blindly at the tall tree decorated with vertical rows of light on the other side of the fountain. “I mean real work. I don’t want a donation.”

“I know you don’t. I was thinking.”

She tried not to notice how low his voice was…how sexy…or how it sent shivers down her spine.

“Maybe we could meet and talk about people I know who might be able to give you work,” he said.

It wouldn’t be a date. And little as she wanted to be in his debt, what harm was there in using his social network to further her own ends? It wasn’t as if she was taking money from him.





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