face. Dark, wavy hair, in need of a cut, brushed his forehead. He was clean-shaven and tanned. Too tanned for this time of year at Lake Tahoe, and not a skier’s tan. But it was the silver eyes boring into her with unreadable intent that stilled her.
She knew those eyes.
But she didn’t know this man.
She’d met so many people in the last few months, it was no surprise that she might forget a face. Except for the fact that this man was not the forgettable type-imposing, disconcerting and way too handsome.
How had he even gotten in? Caesar, guard dog extraordinaire, invariably created an unholy ruckus when anyone, even her friends, approached the house. It had taken him all of the three months she’d lived here to get used to her. And the stranger standing in front of her, silent and watchful, most definitely did not fall into the category of friend. He dropped a leather overnight bag to the carpet with a quiet thud.
There was something so expectant in the way he and, she realized, her guests, watched her. And waited.
The seconds ticked by. Who was he? She needed the answer to that single, simple question before she knew how to react.
He glanced up. Above her hung a chandelier, and incongruous among the glinting crystal dangled a sprig of mistletoe. Surely not?
Meg looked back at him, looked again into those eyes.
Eyes she’d only ever seen the likes of once before.
She felt the color drain from her face. He eased the tray from her hands, placed it on the table behind her. “Luke?” His name left her lips on a whisper.
He watched her struggle for calm, and his mouth stretched into a smile that held little humor. He slid large hands over her jaw to cup her face. “Hi, honey, I’m home,” he said softly as he lowered his head.
Too stunned to react, Meg stood rooted to the spot. Warm lips collided with hers. There was hunger in his kiss, hunger and a quest for control.
She wouldn’t react. Wouldn’t
His fingers threaded into her hair as he claimed her mouth in a blatant attempt to dominate her, and then he gentled his kiss. That surprising gentling melted her defenses and dissolved rational thought.
He was alive. He was home. He was kissing her again.
He’d kissed her only once before. She’d thought her memories had been colored by the circumstances of the time.
Apparently not.
This kiss was every bit as beguiling and as latent with promise as that first one.
But the moment she found herself kissing him back, reaching for him, he lifted his head and then set her away from him as though it was she who had initiated the kiss and he needed to put distance between them to prevent her from doing it again.
Dimly, she heard a burst of applause.
Her awareness returned. Her guests-the organizing committee for tomorrow night’s charity dinner-were witnessing this scene play out. She felt the color rush back to her cheeks.
Luke’s gaze didn’t leave her face. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, darling? I saw only a few familiar faces.”
Not daring to look away, she said, “Everyone,” and the word came out a hoarse whisper that made him grin a shark’s grin. She cleared her throat. “This is Luke Maitland. My husband.”
Then it all happened in a blur: hugs, congratulations, assurances that they knew she’d want to be alone with her husband after his unexpected return. Within minutes she and the stranger she’d married stood together at his front door as the quiet purr of the last departing vehicle faded into the night.
Meg stepped out and away from the arm he had draped possessively and firmly-as though he knew she wanted to bolt after that final car-over her shoulder. Frigid air wrapped itself around her in its stead.
He followed close as she led the way back to the high-ceilinged living room. His living room. Platters of nibbles still sat on the coffee table, Bing still sang, but everything had changed.
Those eyes. How could she not have known him instantly?
Finally, when the silence had stretched way beyond comfortable, Meg spoke. “You’re looking…better.” The last time she’d seen him he’d been lying, pale and unshaven, on a makeshift hospital bed on an Indonesian island. And taller. In the few days she’d spent with him, he’d invariably been lying down, or bent with pain when he’d tried to stand. Illness had a way of diminishing people. There was nothing diminished about him now. Upright and strong, he comfortably cleared six foot.
“Disappointed?” he asked quietly.
The question stunned her. “No! How can you ask that? I thought you might die.”
“So did I. But that wouldn’t necessarily have worked out badly for you.” He glanced around the sumptuous living room.
They’d spent only a few days together, but she’d thought she’d had a bond with the observant, insightful man in her care. A man who, despite his pain, had made her laugh. The man she remembered had been nothing like this-cool and distant. Suspicious. Then again, the man she remembered had been close to death. “No, it would have worked out terribly.”
His gaze never wavered. “You got my house. It could have been permanent. And you’ll have realized by now that there’s much more than the house.”
Back then, he’d talked only of the beauty and magic of the area, of how he’d wanted someone who could appreciate it to have it, someone who understood him. She’d had no idea when she’d married him just how wealthy he was, that when he’d said house he meant mansion on the shore of Lake Tahoe, complete with private jetty, indoor pool, game room, boardroom and a library stocked floor to ceiling with books. She could have lived happily for years in the library alone.
Meg crossed to the fireplace and positioned herself behind an armchair, her fingers pressing into the padding of its high leather back. “You have no right to just walk in here-”
“To my own house?”
“To just walk in,” she continued, “and start accusing me of…what exactly is it you’re accusing me of?”
He paused and she held her breath, waiting, uncertain. “Nothing,” he said on a rough sigh, dragging a hand across the back of his neck, and some of the accusation leached from his eyes.
“Luke, it was all your idea. You practically demanded I marry you.”
He strolled closer, picked up one of the Christmas cards from the mantelpiece and glanced at the inside before replacing it. “I don’t remember much more than a token resistance from you.”
“You were sick, so let me help you remember. As I recall it, you were desperate. You even invoked the memory of your mother.”
She’d met his mother only once. Meg had gone with a friend to hear her speak at a lunchtime fundraiser in L.A. and had been so impressed that she’d introduced herself to her afterward. They’d ended up having coffee together and talking for hours. It was as a result of that one fateful meeting that when things had ended between Meg and her then-boyfriend she’d thought of doing something completely different. Had thought of Indonesia and the Maitland Foundation. A path that had led her to here and now. “You asked me to do it for her-because of how much I’d respected her and because I knew how revered she’d been on the island. And you even threatened that if I didn’t accept you were going to propose to the very next woman who walked into the room.” She’d believed him to be serious and in an uncharacteristic fit of possessiveness Meg hadn’t wanted anyone else to have “her” patient, the man she’d spent so many hours talking to. “You said I was doing you a favor.”
Hard to imagine how that could be true now, how plain Meg Elliot, with little to call her own, could have done a handsome millionaire a favor by marrying him.
He rested an arm on the mantel and stared at the fire. A smile touched his lips and then vanished. Uncomfortable in the same room as the stranger who was her husband, Meg edged around the chair and toward the door. She needed space, needed to get to her own room and process what was happening, figure out what she did next. His return changed everything.
“You must be tired.” She had no idea where he’d come from or how far he’d traveled today. But it was late and deep lines creased the skin around his eyes, so she assumed her guess had some foundation. “We can talk all this through in the morning.”
