Pretending she hadn’t heard, hadn’t been affected by his words or his kiss, Meg dredged up a bright, but possibly vacant, smile as guests approached.
“Wyatt, Martha, good to see you. You’ve met my wife, Meg?” Luke released her hand but rested it instead at the curve of her waist. She wasn’t sure which disturbed her composure more.
He stayed by her side almost all evening as he worked the room with skill and ease. As head of Maitland Corporation, he left the running of the foundation to Blake, the director, but he spoke with knowledge and passion about the foundation’s work. He talked to almost everyone, smiling and magnanimous, while at the same time ensuring Meg was included in conversations, asking her opinion on whatever topic came up. But he also took advantage of every opportunity, and created more than a few of his own, to touch her: to take her hand, or touch her arm, to curve his palm around her waist, to cup her shoulder. Once, claiming she had a crumb of pastry from a canapé on her cheek, he’d turned to her and brushed his thumb across her face, letting her see the heat in his eyes, making her want him.
And if he wasn’t at her side, he was watching her, making her think about him, about their promise. The evening became an exquisite torture.
A bejeweled woman, who’d just promised the foundation a hefty donation, turned away, her parting words See you both at the New Year’s Eve cocktail party, ringing in Meg’s ears and Luke’s gaze pinning her. He lifted two champagne flutes from the tray of a circulating waiter and passed one to Meg. He led her to a somewhat quiet corner of the room and she took a sip of the sparkling liquid.
“I was going to tell you about the cocktail party.”
“Clearly I need to take a look at our social calendar and see what’s expected of me. It’s not in my house, is it?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll deal.”
They watched the mingling crush. By then she’d be long gone. “I didn’t realize you were such a people person.”
“I’m not,” he said softly. “But I know how to play the game.” He turned his back on the room so that only she could see his face and hear his words. “The only person I’m thinking about is you and how good you look in red. And how good you’ll look out of it.”
His words, blatant and seductive, shocked her. How had they got to this point and, more importantly, how did she stop it? Because while she was certain it was all just a part of the “game” to him, if affected her differently, more deeply than he could know. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“What you’ve been doing all evening. I’m trying to concentrate, to listen to what people are saying and you’re making me think…”
“Think what, Meg?” His low voice seemed to sink through her to her core. “About the things I might like to do with you? Because I’ve been thinking about my husbandly privileges.”
She backed a little farther into the corner. “You’re not really my husband.” But he’d caught what she’d been thinking and she hated that he knew it. That she was that transparent. Because being married to someone carried connotations regardless of the reasons for the marriage.
He leaned closer. “That’s the thing, Meg, I really am your husband. And you know it. And you think about it.”
“Stop it, Luke. Please.”
Something in her tone or her words stilled him. He backed off a little, easing her need to either reach for him or run from him. “If you want me to.”
She nodded. “I do. Thank you.” She was Meg. She wasn’t allowed to want him. Not in the real world. She looked past him to see Sally approaching, glowing with the success of the evening so far.
“You two make a gorgeous couple.” Sally kissed both Meg and Luke. “I’m so pleased you finally found a good woman, Luke, and had the sense to marry her. I foresee a long and happy union.”
If only in my dreams. The line from the Christmas song popped into Meg’s head. Now clearly wasn’t the time to tell Sally that she was leaving and that Luke would be starting divorce proceedings as soon as possible.
Luke smiled and raised his glass to Sally, which could look like he was agreeing with her. It could, if you were Meg, also look like he was avoiding commenting on what she’d said.
She sat beside Luke for the dinner, ignoring the occasional press of his thigh against hers. He kept their topics of conversation neutral, his tone and his glances warm, only a degree or two more than friendly. For all of his subtle teasing foreplay earlier, he seemed, from the time of her request, to have switched off, or at least turned down the wattage on the sensual messages.
Whereas Meg had to fight to hide her feelings, and fight to conceal the slow burning fuse of desire he’d lit and that now refused to be extinguished.
When the dinner was all but over, he sat back with his arm behind her and his hand curled around her arm, his thumb tracing lazy circles that sent heat spiraling through her. It was just a thumb. It shouldn’t be able to do that.
She waited till he was deep in conversation with the man across the table before easing her chair back. Not deep enough, apparently. He dropped a firm hand to her thigh, anchoring her to her chair and looked at her, a knowing smile glinting in his eyes and touching his lips. “Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not running away now.”
“I was just…” she could see him waiting for her excuse “…I’m not needed here,” was the best she could come up with.
“I need you here.”
She could almost wish that was true. He’d needed her once and married her because of it. That need had passed. He was back in his life, he was strong and healthy. His hand gentled on her thigh, but the heat of his palm burned through the silk of her dress, sizzled along her skin.
“I’m tired.” She tried again, which was also true, although she didn’t expect to sleep any more tonight than she had last night. Last night she’d been dealing mainly with the surprise of his sudden return. Tonight she’d be battling the strength of a desire that seemed to have flamed from nothing. Even though she realized now that the seeds had been sown and taken root back on the island. Then, she’d been able to ignore it, pretend it was something else. But she’d built fantasies around Luke. Fantasies she’d scarcely acknowledged.
She needed to leave. And not just this party. She needed to leave this house, break the spell she was falling under. Already she was way too close to the precipice of stupidity.
“You can’t leave,” he said quietly, “because I have plans for you, Meg. Slow, sensuous plans.” Holding her gaze, his hand inched farther up her thigh.
Lost. She was lost. The precipice rushed closer.
He wanted her and he knew she wanted him, knew what his touch was doing to her, how it heated her, and he knew she wanted more of it.
Luke pushed his chair back. Claiming jet lag, he excused them both.
In the entranceway, he shut the double doors behind them, muting the sounds of music and conversation. Illuminated only by flickering candles and fairy lights, he murmured, “Mistletoe,” and then pulled her to him and kissed her. Meg welcomed the press of his hard body against hers, reveled in the taste of him. The man she’d married. His mouth and lips and tongue teased and explored and seduced. Already, she knew the way their mouths fit together, knew the scent of him. He gripped her waist, slid his hands to cup her behind, she answered his pull with an involuntary rocking of her hips.