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.”