|Название||Millionaire Under the Mistletoe / His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction|
|Автор произведения||Emilie Rose|
|Серия||Mills & Boon Desire|
Millionaire Under The Mistletoe
His High-Stakes Holiday Seduction
MILLS & BOON
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Millionaire Under The Mistletoe
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.
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
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.
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?
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.
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.”
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