Mistletoe Mistress

two-complete with hidden bowers, tiny fountains and the inevitable love-seats dotted about the most intimate corners.

'I don't know…' The mellow, incomparable wines of the region, two of which she had imbibed pretty freely at dinner, were not conducive to good control.

'Well, I do.' He solved her dilemma by taking her hand and drawing her up from her seat, and again she found herself relishing the power, the authority, the sheer masculinity in his lean, strong frame, which had drawn the eyes of more than one predatory female during their meal.

And she knew what most of them were thinking. Why, why, is he with her? But he was, and it was her he had asked to walk with him…

This intoxicating thought carried her out into the gar-dens in something of a smug daze, but as the cool night air stroked her face, its warning caress carrying the scent of starry, frost-touched nights, cold reason asserted itself.

Her mother had been the sort of woman who had allowed men to use her, time after time after time, and then walk away when they had had enough. She didn't know if her mother had loved these men-she had certainly felt more for them than she had her own flesh and blood, that was for sure-but there had been something, some elemental driving desire to be loved, that had proved weakening and dangerous. Could those sorts of things be passed on in the genes?

As Hawk tucked one of her arms in his, the strength and bulk and smell of him overwhelmingly intoxicating, her mind raced on.

She knew he couldn't-or wouldn't-accept the concept of a monogamous lifestyle, that he didn't want to even try. She was a passing whim with him, perhaps a challenge that had stirred his jaded appetite for a while, added to which her usefulness at Bergique & Son couldn't be ignored. In fact-and here her mind balked a little as she made herself face the truth-he was a loner, a man who answered to no one, kept his own counsel and liked it that way. He would never settle down, he just wasn't the type, and that was exactly- exactly-the sort of man her mother had been inexplicably drawn to, despite all rhyme and reason, in the same way a moth was drawn to the bright light that would ultimately spell its destruction.

'What are you thinking about?'

His voice was soft and deep, and its very gentleness made her speak before she considered her words. 'My mother, actually,' she said quietly.

'Do you miss her?' There was no shred of surprise in the calm voice, although it couldn't have been the answer he was expecting.

'Not in the way you mean; she wasn't that sort of mother,' Joanne said with painful honesty.

They had walked into a part of the garden that was almost Victorian in its layout, very sheltered and pretty, and now, as he drew her down on to a lacy wooden seat, it felt as though they were the only two people alive in all the world. The night was breathtakingly still, not a sound from the hotel in the distance disturbing the tranquillity, and when Hawk said, 'Tell me about her, about you, about your childhood,' the strange, almost dreamlike quality of the night loosened her tongue.

He was a good listener-too good-and when she fell quiet, some twenty minutes later, it was with the realisation she had said far more than she intended.

'I'm sorry, Joanne.' And he was, and also murderously angry with the woman who had borne her and then cast her aside at such a young, vulnerable age. The anger he was trying to hide made his voice grim, hard even, and she cast a quick troubled glance at him before looking straight ahead again.

'It's all right,' she said stiffly. He was annoyed with her for going on the way she had, she thought wildly. She shouldn't have said all that-she couldn't believe she had; he had probably just wanted a few light facts about her early life, not an in-depth year-by-year account. He must think she was pathetic-

'No, no, it isn't,' he said flatly, still in the same forbidding voice. 'Every child should know it's loved and wanted.'

'Were you?' She wouldn't have dared to ask normally, but here it seemed right, and she wanted to turn the conversation from her.

'Loved and wanted? Very much,' he said quietly. 'My mother…my mother was the sort of person who lived to make others happy, and her whole life revolved around my father and me, and her friends. You could say she was her own worst enemy.'

'By loving her family?' Joanne protested.

'By caring too much-for my father at least' He raked a hand through his short black hair. 'She never revealed, by one word or action, the misery he inflicted upon her. She simply fought through every day of her life trying to make things right that could never be right I can't accept that sort of emotion can be called love-it is obsession, the most damaging sort of obsession.'

'You're saying that simply because you can't handle the fact that love exists,' Joanne said quietly. 'Perhaps she considered that the good times she had with him were worth all the pain and anguish.'

'Then she was a fool.' The words were dragged out of the depths of him, his voice harsh and jagged. 'Just as your mother was a fool. And I still think that what my mother felt for my father, and your mother felt for her husbands and lovers, was obsession, not love. I can't accept-' He stopped abruptly, a muscle clenching at the side of his jaw, before he said, 'What the hell? None of it matters in the long run.'

'Hawk-'

'I'll show you what's real one day, Joanne.' His voice was savage and cold, and made his following words all the more chilling. 'I'll make love to you until nothing and no one exists, until the earth melts away and all you can see and hear and touch is me. I shall kiss every inch of your body, see you mindless beneath me, begging for what only I can give you. And you'll want me-you'll want me so badly you'll be on fire-but we'll both know exactly what we are doing.'

'And it won't mean anything?' she asked faintly, caught up in his blackness.

'Of course it will mean something.' He caught her face in his hands, his eyes urgent now and the terrible anger fading. 'It will mean one hell of a lot but we won't be fooling ourselves, don't you see? You are a casualty of your mother's obsession with this fantasy called love-'

'No, I don't want to hear this.' She jerked away from him, her voice shaking. This was all wrong; he had twisted everything to make it all wrong but she couldn't find the words to tell him…

'Shh. Shh, now.' Suddenly he was tender, frighteningly tender, folding her into his big hard frame and holding her close to his heart for a long moment, before lowering his head and taking her trembling mouth in a kiss that was pure enchantment. 'So fierce and so brave, so beautiful…' His voice was a soft caress against her lips and she couldn't fight it-or him.

One moment he was fire and brimstone, the next fiercely tender, and the effect was hypnotic. She didn't understand him-she didn't have a clue what went on in that ruthless male mind, and perhaps it didn't matter anyway, so long as he didn't guess the state of her true feelings towards him. Because one day soon his desire for her would wane, when someone else more suitable caught his fancy, and that would be that. He would give up the chase, retire gracefully, and no doubt allow the new lady the pleasure of licking his wounds.

He explored her mouth slowly, taking his time, and her bones dissolved into a warm, aching throb before he raised his head again.

'You're still holding me to that promise?' His voice was dry, very dry, and she just knew he knew she wanted to say no.

She nodded. The tumult of sensuous pleasure his lips had induced was not conducive to clear speech, and she didn't intend to give him the satisfaction of hearing her shaky whisper.

'Pity.' He bent and kissed the tip of her nose before pulling her to her feet. 'Great pity…' he drawled easily, his mouth drawn to hers again in a searching, lingering kiss that sent waves of pleasure right down to her toes, before he lifted his head and slipped an arm round her waist as they began to walk down the secluded little path again.

He could kiss, he could really, really kiss, she thought fretfully, desperately hoping her trembling hadn't been noticed by that wicked narrowed gaze. But then, he'd had plenty of practice, hadn't he? It was easy for him to remain controlled, cold even.

And why, why had she told him all that about her childhood, let him in like that, when she knew he wasn't really interested and would view it exactly as he had, with barely concealed contempt?