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“I need to get back to the kitchen,” she said desperately, shifting out from beneath his hand.
“Don’t you dare say anything about a woman’s place,” Madge warned as Fraser looked as if he were about to comment.
He said, “I wouldn’t dare. Mother would send us to our rooms for voicing such heresy, wouldn’t she, Callum?”
“Without a doubt.” The laugh lines around Callum’s eyes crinkled, making him even more attractive.
Miranda escaped before she could be further seduced. Or, heaven help her, admit that she wanted to be seduced.
Drat the man.
The long night was almost over.
Miranda had been clock-watching for the past half hour, waiting for the guests to leave as the medley of cheerful Christmas carols segued into light classics. But she still started when Callum came up silently behind her, invading the refuge she’d sought behind the tall Christmas tree in the lobby where she’d hidden in the hope of avoiding him.
A quick upward glance from where she knelt beside three crates revealed that he’d discarded his jacket, and the white shirt he wore was startling in the dim lobby.
“I’ve been looking for you.” Callum held out a glass of what looked like port. “You’ve done enough tonight, Miranda. Leave packing those glasses and take a break.”
She glanced at the dark liquid swirling in the crystal glass and pictured—too vividly—what had happened the last time she’d indulged in wine under his roof. Her pulse quickened, causing blood to rush to her head and a wave of dizzy desire.
“No, thanks.” Miranda fought to control her physical reaction. Port would only cause her defenses—already vulnerable—to crumble more rapidly. Earlier he’d promised to catch her later and talk about Adrian; no doubt that was why he had been looking for her. Not to seduce her—contrary to her wild imaginings.
He shrugged and took a sip of his wine. The lights of the tall Christmas tree overhead flashed, creating a surreal glow of silver, and for a moment she was riveted. His tie had been abandoned and the pulse in the hollow of his throat beat visibly.
She stared transfixed.
Then he surprised her.
“Tonight was a success. I want to thank you, Miranda.”
His eyes were warm, the blue muted, making her wish they’d met under different circumstances—that he wasn’t the man responsible for her father’s death.
“I only did what you employed me to do,” she said stiffly as he set his glass down on the white marble floor beside her. She ducked her head, determined not to reveal her impossible thoughts, and carried on stacking empty glasses into their crates, using the occasional ting of crystal as a warning bell to keep herself from falling under his thrall.
“No, you did far more than expected. The Christmas crackers were a success, and so were the edible Christmas tree decorations.”
His voice came closer and she spoke quickly, desperate to keep him at bay. “I thought your guests might like something to take home.”
“Madge Murray was raving about the chocolate angels.”
“Yes, I gave her extras.” She raised her shoulders and let them fall with what she hoped looked like a careless shrug. “My mother taught me how to make them when I was a little girl.” Flo had always had the ability to bake fairy-tale items; it was the ordinary things like lunch and dinner that were beyond her.
At the brush of Callum’s fingers under her chin, her head came up in a hurry. He pinned her under his ferociously bright gaze. As the Christmas lights flickered overhead, she imagined the glitter in his eyes revealed emotion. But the words he spoke negated that fancy.
“Her husband is one of our most important customers.”
The hope she’d glimpsed died. Of course, for Callum everything was always about work. Never about emotion. Or fairy tales. He was ready to marry for corporate convenience. Unlike her, he would never believe in love…or Christmas wishes. She tried not to let her disappointment show—and hated herself for wishing it had all been about so much more, and that the emotion she’d imagined she’d glimpsed had been real.
She drew away. “I’m glad you’re pleased.”
