The Millionaire's Mistletoe Mistress. Natalie Anderson

straight nose, the even brows, the angular jaw, but it was the eyes that held hers, with their unbelievable colour and their focus and their sudden flicker of something that looked a lot like you wanna dare?

      At that whisper of wickedness she closed her eyes for a second, holding back the wave of sensual feeling that wanted to spread over her, forcing herself to pause the explicit show her imagination wanted to screen and instead get on top of what she was supposed to be doing.

      ‘This isn’t your room.’ She didn’t mean to snap. But she was embarrassed and confused.

      ‘Actually, I think it is.’

      Oh, did he have to have a voice to match the body? All amused and confident and capable of turning her pause button off again?

      ‘Actually, it isn’t.’ Pause button back on. She was in control and fighting for her rights. ‘The receptionist said I could use it to tidy up and change.’

      ‘Well, that was nice of her. But it’s my room.’

      ‘It was a him.’

      ‘Ah.’ He nodded, and that dare in his eyes became a very naughty looking challenge. ‘I’d have said yes to you, too. Beauty in distress.’

      She wasn’t distressed, she was flustered, getting hot and rapidly approaching full-on panic mode. ‘I can’t get the key card to work.’

      ‘That’s because it’s my room.’

      ‘It’s not. It’s—’

      She broke off as he took half a step closer. ‘What’s your room number?’

      Her pause button slipped and she answered breathlessly, staring at that chest once more. ‘Sixty-seven.’

      ‘Ah.’

      At that know-it-all sound, she looked up. He was nodding again, and this time accompanying it with a wide smile—perfect white teeth, all too devastating.

      ‘Ah, what?’ Her heart couldn’t beat any faster. She couldn’t feel any hotter. And the wild thing was that she was wishing she could forget the silly meeting with her stuffy new boss and just stand here all day. Staring at him.

      ‘This is my room—number sixty-nine. Yours is just along the corridor a bit.’

      She slowly looked behind him and read the number on the door. She could have sworn that nine was a … Oh, hell, could she really be so stupid? ‘Sixty-nine?’

      ‘Sixty-nine.’

      ‘And I’m …’ Not sixty-nine. Not thinking sixty-nine. Not thinking … Ohhhhhh. The sensual feeling rippled. Imagine—those muscles, that size, that heat … and tasting it all.

      Her mental X-rated movie started rolling again.

      His head angled and he almost whispered, ‘You can come in here if you want.’

      Unconsciously she mirrored him, angling her head so she could keep watching the same gleam of light in his eyes. Then what he’d said sank in. ‘What? No!’

      ‘Oh—okay.’ He was out-and-out grinning now. ‘I thought for a second there you looked like you might want to.’

      Oh, great. So her lustful moment had been totally transparent. She put her hand to her chest protectively, hoping her nipples weren’t prodding through the wet shirt like twin missiles aimed at him. They sure felt as if they were. ‘What I want is to find my hotel room.’ Frozen speech now. Dignity had to be recovered.

      ‘Well, like I said, it’s just along the corridor a little.’

      She curled her fingers and pulled the halves of her shirt closer together. This time it was his gaze that dropped. His smile widened as he gave her torso a very thorough inspection.

      She could feel herself responding even more to his warm appraisal. She couldn’t believe she was standing in a hotel corridor being turned on just by looking at a complete stranger—and by him looking at her.

      ‘Okay,’ she croaked. She turned—too fast for her recently scraped knee—and couldn’t quite stifle her groan of pain.

      His glance went lower. ‘Hey, you’ve hurt your leg. It’s bleeding.’ He stepped after her. ‘Can I get you a plaster?’

      The change from teasing flirt to concerned gentleman was too fast and too damn sweet. Infatuation threatened to slip over her, to send everything sensible from her head—what little was left.

      Embarrassed even more by her ridiculous response to him, she muttered, ‘No, I’m fine.’ She added, ‘Thanks …’ way too late as she tried to walk normally, but her leg had really stiffened now.

      ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ He followed her into the hall. ‘I’m good with first aid.’

      Imogen turned back and nodded, unable to stop her eyes slipping south one last time. She was quite sure he’d be good with everything. Did he have any idea how good he looked right now? His legs were long—really long—and every bit as beautifully muscled as his chest. And the way his hair was wet, sitting as if it had been pushed back with a hand, all added up to a gleaming bronze statue way better than Michelangelo’s marble David—this one was all real man. But she didn’t answer, and made it to her door instead. The card worked instantly, the little green light flashed, and she heard the lock mechanism sliding. Thank all the gods.

      She didn’t even try to resist taking one last look. He’d gone back to his room, but had paused in his open doorway—still smiling as if he knew everything she was thinking, and still not wearing anything like enough clothing.

      Feeling far too hot for this freezing winter’s day, she let the door slam behind her and, tiptoeing on her sore leg, taking the weight on her good one, hobbled into the bathroom. Caught a glance in the mirror and froze.

      Oh, no.

      She blinked. Took another look to be sure.

      Oh, yes.

      She hadn’t realised the extent of the rip in her blouse. The sleeve had all but come away completely from the seam, and there was a tear from her underarm across the front. To make it worse, the way she’d been holding it just now had pulled that gap even wider. Towel Guy had had a first class view of her breast. Her scarlet-bra-cupped breast.

      Scarlet and lace bra.

      Her mind raced back to her sprint out of the flat early that morning—wanting to get to work and have everything just so for the arrival of her new lord and master. Usually she wore a black bra, or skin tone—plain, nothing too fancy that would show outlines under the fabric of her simple cotton shirts. But with all the extra study she’d been doing to get her last assignments in ahead of the Christmas madness she was behind on the laundry. Like weeks behind. So she’d grabbed this one from the drawer, figuring no one was going to see it anyway, and besides, wasn’t it the kind of day when she needed the extra lift the colour gave her?

      She’d bought the set on a whim once in the store’s sale, simply because she loved the colour. Just looking at it gave her inner confidence a boost—and today her toenails were painted the same colour, even though they’d spend all day hidden away in her ankle boots. Scarlet underwear; blood-red toenails. Not because she was some sexy vamp, but because that deep, almost burnt red was her favourite, and wearing it gave her a pick-me-up—yes, underneath she was covered in confidence. It was still fake, but it was better than none at all.

      Only now she didn’t see it as the confident colour of a winner. It was trashy streetwalker in-your-face tarty—and she was crimson with embarrassment.

      No wonder the hotel receptionist had been so happy to help and so full of smiles. No wonder Towel Guy had been so bold about inviting her in. She was flashing the world half her scarlet-clad assets.

      She glanced at her watch. Less than three minutes. No time to shower—only a quick wash with a flannel and an even quicker