Millionaire Under The Mistletoe

Miranda didn’t appreciate the way Callum was messing with her head. That feather-of-a- kiss-that-had-hardly-been-a-kiss had shaken her.

Badly.

And even a busy weekend at The Golden Goose failed to give her respite to regain her composure. All because the man in question turned up at the Goose on Saturday and ordered lunch.

Miranda had known about Callum’s arrival in minutes. Kitty, the youngest, prettiest and flightiest of the waitresses, had rushed into the kitchen to share that the most gorgeous guy she’d seen in her life had just walked in.

“Tall, dark and with periwinkle-blue eyes,” she gushed. “He looks like a movie star.”

“In the Goose?” But despite her skepticism Miranda’s heart stopped in horror. She steadied herself. That description could apply to thousands of men. Well, maybe not thousands. But it didn’t mean…

Yet she hadn’t been able to resist taking a peek-just to make sure.

Only to discover it was Callum.

He sat alone at a small round table to the side of the gas fireplace. In the middle of the day the fire flickered, but the flames still gave off much-needed warmth. Callum’s dark head was bent over the menu, but he looked up almost as though he’d sensed her stare.

She drew quickly out of sight, hissing at her stupidity under her breath.

While Mick muttered about chefs who had too little work, Miranda hurried to rescue a batch of brandy snaps from the oven before they burnt to crisp and, after rolling them deftly around the handle of a wooden spoon, set about piping whipped cream flavored with Grand Marnier into the now-crisp tubes.

What did Callum want? Why was he here?

Her hands shook as she squeezed the piping bag and cream oozed everywhere. Which made her want to kill him!

“He wants steak.” Kitty bounced into the kitchen. “Rare. No sauce. And battered onion rings. A real, live carnivore.”

The two other girls giggled. “I’ll take him some water,” one said.

“Maybe he wants extra onions.” And the second followed her out for a closer inspection.

Miranda stopped herself from rolling her eyes. For the next thirty minutes she was aware of the giggles as the waitresses vied to serve him, and it irritated her beyond belief.

The final insult came when Kitty delivered his request to convey his thanks in person to the dessert chef.

All too conscious of Gianni glowering, Miranda allowed herself to be dragged out into the limelight, noting Callum’s lack of surprise when she appeared.

Of course he’d known she was here.

Resisting the urge to drop a facetious curtsy, she smiled sweetly. “I’m so pleased you enjoyed your meal.”

His gaze rested on her lips, causing them to tingle, before lifting to study her. “What are you doing for Christmas this year?”

Miranda gave a small sigh. “What I always do-spend it with my family.”

For a moment she thought he was going to ask her something, but he only said, “My mother has a passion for brandy snaps, and these are quite the best I’ve ever eaten.”

His sincerity took her aback. He was looking at her like he wanted to devour her. Miranda couldn’t have spoken if she’d tried.

“She would love these.”

“I’ll let you have the recipe,” she croaked at last.

Tipping his head to one side, he considered her. “I’d rather you made them for her.”

Miranda thought about it, her heart quickening. What did he mean? That he wanted her to meet his mother? Then common sense kicked in. Unlikely. “But she doesn’t live in London. The biscuit would go soggy. They should be eaten fresh.”

He was shaking his head. “It was a dumb idea.”

“What was?” she asked, puzzled, wondering what she’d missed.

“Coming here!” He gave her a lopsided smile. “But next time Mother is in town, I will hold you to that offer.”

His smile widened, holding no edge or hint of seduction, and for the first time Miranda got a glimpse of the man his family saw.

And it was a different person from the man she’d grown to loathe. This man she could like. Yet she was no closer to knowing why he’d come today. And she’d turned down his offer to go to Les Miserables with him tonight-and maybe get to know him better. There was no point wondering if Petra was enjoying herself. Thay way lay the path to heartache. She’d sensibly refuse his invitation. The man was an enigma-she would never understand him.

The rest of the weekend was an anticlimax with Gianni stamping and snorting like a bull and glaring balefully across the kitchen at Miranda. One of the girls must have told him what Callum had said, and he hadn’t liked it.

Thankfully, when Miranda finally got home late in the rainy cold of Sunday night there were no flowers to welcome her and remind her of her disturbing nemesis that she couldn’t seem to keep out of her life.

With Adrian still out, the little terrace house seemed empty. Entering the dining room, Miranda saw Flo hurriedly sliding a window envelope under a file.

“Another bill?” she asked, picking up her pace as she crossed to where her mother sat at the table. “I thought I’d paid everything.”

“No, no, don’t you worry about this, darling.”

The vagueness in her mother’s tone sharpened Miranda’s interest. “Let me see-I might have paid it already.”

“This is mine.”

“Yours?” She looked at her mother in surprise.

Flo normally gave all her bills to Miranda to pay-she was hopeless at organizing her finances. Though it tended to require the conjuring up of money from nowhere-often hard-worked overtime-to meet them.

Miranda felt sick. “Please, not more overdue bills that I don’t know about.”

Snagging up the corner of the file, Miranda caught sight of the name of an exclusive department store on the bill under the envelope. “Hemingway’s?”

Guilt glinted in Flo’s dark eyes. “I needed a new coat.”

Miranda pulled out the piece of paper and then blanched. “What was it? Mink?”

“Don’t be silly, darling.” Her mother whipped the bill out from between her nerveless fingers. “There were also a few fripperies for my winter wardrobe. Your father wouldn’t have wanted to see me dressed in rags.”

“Dad isn’t here anymore-and we don’t have his income.” She spied another bill from the same store, dated the previous month. “Pans? You told me your friend Sorrell gave those to you.”

Her mother flushed, an ugly stain on her pale skin. “I’ll deal with the bills, Miranda.”

“How?”

Putting her hands on her hips, Miranda considered her mother. Apart from the allowance Callum paid her mother-the amount Miranda had been led to believe came from the carefully invested residue of her father’s estate-Flo had no income.

“I’ll make arrangements, darling. Don’t worry about it. I’m not useless.”

Arrangements? Dread curled in Miranda’s stomach. “What kind of arrangements?”

“I’ll call up Hemingway’s and have them grant me an indulgence-they’ve done it before.”

“Done it before?” asked Miranda, trying to make sense of why the store would grant her mother an extension on her accounts.

“Yes-last time they even gave me a bigger credit limit.”

Miranda stared at her vague, sweet mother with mounting horror. “Increased your credit limit when you aren’t paying your bills? Why would they do that?”

Flo looked abashed. “Because of Callum, of course.”

“Because of Callum?” She must sound like the village idiot the way she kept repeating her mother. “What does