Millionaire Under The Mistletoe. Janice Maynard

a rush she got to her feet and tugged the pyjama top down as far as it would go over her thighs.

      ‘I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.’ Of all the moronic… With a sigh of relief she located her clothes folded in a neat pile—Darcy retained a very definite memory of throwing them along with her inhibitions to the four winds the previous night. She found the thought of Reece retrieving and carefully folding her clothes somehow strangely unsettling.

      ‘Did you?’

      ‘You know I did,’ she choked.

      ‘I seem to recall your mentioning something to that effect,’ he agreed.

      Darcy choked some more.

      ‘Why are you running away?’ His languid tone suggested casual curiosity rather than a driving desire to discover the reason.

      Darcy zipped up her jeans, swearing softly as the zip snagged in the fabric of the pyjama trousers she had on underneath. ‘That’s rich coming from you!’ she said, going into attack mode.

      There was a tense silence.

      ‘Meaning…?’ Darcy had never heard that dangerous note in his voice before but she didn’t doubt he used it often—and no doubt it had the desired effect of cowing the recipient. Well, not this time, mate…!

      A mulish expression settled on her soft features as she planted her hands on her hips and laughed. ‘You’ve got to be kidding…? You’re holed up here; what’s that if it’s not running away?’

      She watched the anger slowly fade from his eyes. ‘Christmas. I’m running away from Christmas…’

      A startled laugh was drawn from her. ‘There’s a lot of it around.’ If all Mum was running away from was Christmas she’d be delighted—the complications arose if it was her life or, nasty thought, her family that had made her flee!

      ‘Pardon…?’

      Darcy shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she prevaricated, her eyes sliding from his.

      ‘Then why are you looking so shifty?’ he wondered, displaying an unforgivable and highly worrying degree of perception.

      ‘I’ve got that sort of face,’ she snapped back bad-temperedly.

      ‘You wouldn’t make a poker player,’ he agreed.

      ‘I was just thinking.’

      ‘Dare I ask what?’

      ‘If you must know, I was thinking you don’t strike me as the sort of man who runs away from anything. And even if you did, why on earth would you run away here…?’ Her eyes did a quick, highly critical circuit of the room.

      He shook his head and clicked his tongue. ‘Don’t let the Yorkshire Tourist Board hear you say that,’ he chided.

      ‘I meant this house.’

      ‘Why not…?’ he drawled.

      ‘No electricity, I’m guessing poor plumbing…?’ She began to tick off the reasons on her fingers.

      ‘Diabolical,’ he conceded ruefully. ‘If you want the bathroom I’d wait until you get next door if I were you.’

      ‘Thanks for the advice.’ She refused to be sidetracked. ‘You still haven’t told me why.’

      The imperious angle of his head made it seem as though he was looking down his masterful nose at her—Darcy didn’t relish the sensation.

      ‘Could that be because I don’t think it’s any of your business…?’

      Darcy relished this sensation even less! She caught her breath angrily at the calculated rebuff.

      ‘Well, that put me in my place, didn’t it?’

      A spasm of something close to regret flickered across Reece’s features.

      ‘Hold on.’ He moved to intercept her before she reached the door. ‘My friend’s builders have been a little less than truthful with their reports to him,’ he explained abruptly. ‘I’d say they’ve fallen behind schedule by a couple of months. I was expecting something less…basic.’

      ‘Then you’re not staying?’ Of course he’s not, dumbo.

      ‘I wasn’t…’

      Sure she must have misheard his soft response, Darcy raised her startled eyes to his face. ‘What’s changed?’

      He was watching her with that infuriatingly enigmatic smile that told her absolutely nothing. ‘I like the neighbours.’

      Their eyes met and a great rush of sexual longing crowded out sensible coherent thought. She never figured out how long she stood there staring at him like a drooling idiot.

      Does he think all he has to do is click his fingers and I’ll…? Why not, Darcy, girl, that’s all he had to do last night! Her face flushed with mortification.

      ‘Like the idea of sex on tap, you mean!’

      His mouth tightened.

      ‘Well, let me tell you, if you think last night was anything other than a one-off, think again!’ she advised hotly.

      ‘Does the idea of a relationship based on sex frighten you, Darcy?’

      ‘No,’ she told him candidly, ‘it appalls me!’

      ‘And excites you,’ he interjected slyly.

      ‘No such thing!’ she blustered.

      ‘Liar…you want me and we both know it.’

      Darcy gave a hoarse, incredulous laugh—talk about Neanderthal. ‘Why not just thump your chest and drag me off to your cave?’

      Reece thought the general idea was sound, although he was thinking more along the lines of a nice hotel room with good plumbing and Room Service.

      ‘It may not be a particularly politically correct thing to say, but—’

      ‘May?’ she squeaked. ‘There’s no “may” about it!’

      ‘Tell me, do you regret last night happened? Do you regret we made love, Darcy?’

      She lifted her chin, met his eyes scornfully, and opened her mouth. ‘You bet I…’ The blood drained dramatically from her face. ‘I…no,’ she admitted with the utmost reluctance—now would have been a good time to lie.

      ‘As I was saying, from the first moment I saw you…’

      Perhaps the significance of her confession was wasted on him…? Then again, perhaps this was wishful thinking on her part.

      ‘The first moment you saw me you thought I was a boy. Is there something you’re not telling me…?’

      He eyed her with signs of irritation. ‘So, not the first,’ he gritted. ‘We’re not talking about then, we’re talking about now.’

      Darcy didn’t want to talk about now—actually, she didn’t want to talk about anything with this infuriating man who seemed to have the knack of making her say incriminating things.

      ‘And now,’ she announced coldly, ‘I’m going home—or I would be if you’d shift yourself.’ She looked pointedly past his shoulder at the door.

      Reece immediately stepped to one side with a fluid grace that made her stomach muscles quiver; perversely she found herself reluctant to take the escape route offered.

      Whilst she hovered indecisively he moved to her side. ‘I’ll walk you home.’

      Darcy’s eyes widened. ‘You’re joking—right?’

      ‘Actually,’ he confessed, ‘I was hoping you’d let me have the use of your shower, or, better still, a long, hot bath.’

      ‘My