Mistletoe Mistress

'Is that the first time you've shared with anyone about your mother?' The deep gravelly voice was quite expressionless, and, tucked into his side as she was, she couldn't see the look on his face to gauge how best to reply, and simply decided to go for the truth.

'Yes.' She paused a moment before continuing quickly, 'It simply hasn't cropped up before-'

'Now don't spoil it with a lie.'

'How dare you-?'

'I'm honoured you trusted me enough to tell me, Joanne.' He stopped, moving her round to face him as he held her within the circle of his arms, his face deadly serious and stopping all coherent thought in her head. 'I'm glad she's not around any more because I would have had a hard job to keep my hands off her, but…I'm glad you told me.'

No, don't; don't do this to me. She stared up at him, her honey-brown eyes wide and swimming with emotion. The fire and brimstone she could cope with, the ardent lover…possibly-certainly the ruthless, hard businessman was a cinch-but this tender, quiet side of him that she had seen over the last twenty- four hours was something else. Something…devastating.

'Come on.' He moved them on again, and now there was a wry quirk at the corner of the hard, firm mouth. 'Keep moving, my nervous little fawn, because when you look at me like that I'm very tempted to do something I've never done before in my life.'

'What?' she asked nervously.

'Break a promise.'

Joanne awoke the next morning with her heart singing and her pulse racing at the thought of another whole day with Hawk. She gave herself a stern talking-to in the shower, and again when she was drying her hair and getting dressed in black leggings, high black boots and a long baggy cream jumper, but the singing remained.

She loved him. Utterly, completely-against all the odds and every grain of common sense, she loved him. And she was going to take this last day of the magical weekend-which would probably never be repeated- and enjoy it.

They left Dijon after breakfast to travel southwards towards the time-mellowed villages of Provence, the delightful contrasts of southern France adding to the enchantment of the day. Hawk made for Cassis, a picturesque fishing village on the coast, where they enjoyed a delicious alfresco lunch of freshly caught crab sitting on the verandah of a seafood restaurant, with the weak November sun warming their heads while they ate.

The afternoon was spent strolling round the capital of Provence, Aix-en-Provence, and visiting the fine cathedral, although Joanne noticed very little beyond the tall, dark man at her side. She was falling more and more in love with him-she couldn't help it-and it scared her half to death, making the time bittersweet.

It was late afternoon and they were walking along a road bordering a gracious square, when Joanne noticed two small children with their noses pressed against a shop window, watching a clockwork Santa Claus filling his sledge with toys. The laughing little tots were enraptured, their mother standing indulgently to one side as she smiled at their rosy faces, and as they passed she nodded at them and they nodded back, although Joanne felt her face had frozen.

'What is it?'

She hadn't thought Hawk had noticed, and now she tried to prevaricate as she said, her voice bright, 'I'm sorry?'

'Something in that little scene back there upset you. Why?' He stopped dead, turning her round to face him and looking down into her eyes, his gaze piercingly intent as he repeated, 'Why, Joanne?'

'I don't know what you mean.' Enough. Enough soul-baring for one weekend, she thought desperately as she stared back up at him, so big and dark and handsome in his black leather jacket and black jeans. Tomorrow morning, or the next day, he would be gone-probably for weeks, maybe for months-and she wanted to get through this weekend with nothing but pleasant memories to look back on.

Whenever they parted, whatever the circumstances, she was always left feeling vulnerable and broken, and she didn't want that this time. She had to master this overwhelming longing to draw close to him, to lower her defences and let him in, because it wouldn't mean to Hawk what it meant to her. He didn't understand what this exposure of her innermost self was costing her.

'Yes, you do.' He wasn't going to let it go; she could read his determination in the set of his mouth and narrowing of his eyes. 'Was it the children? Was that it? Or-'

'No, it wasn't the children,' she said quietly, horrified at the possibility he might think she was neurotic about children and families after her revelations the night before. 'They were sweet and their mother looked nice.'

'What, then?' he persisted softly. 'Tell me; I want to know.'

'I just don't like Christmas, that's all.'

She made to walk on but he caught her arm as she moved out of the circle of his arms, swinging her back to face him, his brow furrowed with enquiry. 'When I say tell me, I mean tell me,' he said firmly. 'That wasn't an answer. Explain.'

'Hawk, I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, but why should I?' she said tightly, trying to hide the panic his insistence was causing. 'If I don't like Christmas it's no big deal, is it? Lots of people the world over find it one big headache-it's so commercial.'

'You're not lots of people,' he said softly. 'You're thatched country cottages with roses round the door and big fat tabby cats, you're roasting chestnuts and log fires, you're snowmen, and frosted spider webs and a hundred and one other things I could think of, so…' He paused, his eyes blue light. 'Why don't you like Christmas, Joanne? And don't give me the 'commercial' garbage either.'

She stared at him helplessly, suddenly overwhelmed by the most awful feeling that she wanted to cry. She couldn't, she couldn't, she told herself fiercely. It would embarrass them both and there was no logical reason for it anyway; just because he'd said something nice… If it was nice-perhaps he meant she was predictable and boring? But he hadn't said it that way…

'Well?'

His voice was very gentle, and to combat the emotion that was causing a physical pain in her chest her own was almost harsh as she said, 'Christmas was always a difficult time when I was a child, that's all. The home…the home did its best, but it wasn't like family.'

From the age of nine, after her mother's disastrous second marriage had ended so abruptly, she had resided permanently in the children's Home with no more placements with foster parents, and it had been then that the full significance of her isolation had washed over her.

She had been dispatched back just two weeks before Christmas, confused and heartbroken at her mother's rage towards her, and had cried herself to sleep for the next few nights, longing for even a glimpse of her mother's face.

And then Christmas Eve had come, its mystery and wonder taking hold of her even through the turmoil and pain, and she had been sure, so sure, her mother would visit her. Why she had been so adamant she didn't know, even now, but only her mother could make everything all right, and how could she not come at Christmas? And so she had waited, and waited… And the long day had eventually drawn to a close, and still she had sat at one of the windows looking out into the snow-filled darkness, until one of the home's helpers had persuaded her to go to bed. It had been March before she saw her mother again…

'Don't look like that.' His voice was strained, and it brought her out of the black reverie with a peculiar little jolt, her eyes focusing on his face instead of the small, lost child in her mind.

'Like what?' she asked shakily, her face very pale.

'Crushed, defeated,' he said with a painful grimness. 'We will forget this conversation; I will not allow it to spoil what little we have left of the weekend.'

The tone of his voice stunned her even as she found it impossible to determine exactly how he was feeling, and the next moment he had swept her along the street, his arm about her waist, as they made for the car.

'We are going to have a wonderful meal-I know the very place-and then I am going to fly you back to your apartment in time for you to be tucked up with your cocoa and hot-water bottle before midnight.'

His voice was mocking and light, but as her feet were hardly touching the floor it was some moments before she could gasp, 'Fly? In the air, you mean?'

'Is there another way?'