by Tessa Radley
“I can’t think of a better reason.”
Her breath died abruptly in her throat as he gazed at her with raw, unvarnished hunger.
Callum Ironstone wanted her.
For one wild moment she was tempted to flee. From him—and from her own riotous imaginings. She scanned across the restaurant, checking if the escape route was clear, and except for one waiter balancing a tray on his shoulder, it was.
She should run. Now.
If she stayed it might be too late to free herself from the power of his attraction. Callum posed a risk that she’d never anticipated.
Yet an overwhelming desire for an answer to the question she’d posed kept her in the chair, even as his hands caressed hers with slow deliberation.
He couldn’t be offering marriage to get her into his bed—he’d already done that. There had to be more to it than this incomprehensible desire that leaped between them. And he’d already made it clear, love had nothing to do with it.
Questions buzzed around inside her head, multiplying into further questions. But before she could utter them, he bent his head closer to hers. In the candlelight she could see all the way into the bright blue eyes, to the black flecks that lurked like hazardous rocks in a deceptively calm stretch of sea.
“I think we could make a fantastic team.”
“You and me? A team?” Was the man insane?
“Shh.” He laid his index finger against his lips. “Hear me out.”
Miranda found herself following that finger and staring at the beauty of the full lower lip that softened his strong features and gave an unexpected sensuality to the arrogantly handsome face.
His hand dropped back to rest on the tablecloth beside hers, and to her consternation Miranda was acutely aware of the inch of distance separating their fingers.
She hadn’t wanted him reducing her to a quivering mass just by the stroke of his fingers, had she?
“You have a gift—one that complements my strengths,” he was saying. “With your skills—”
“A gift? You mean cooking?” She jerked her head back in disbelief. “So you really do want to marry me for my cooking?”
“It’s more than that. You have an ability to make people feel not only nourished, but also cherished on a level I cannot reach.”
Warmth filled her at the unexpected compliment. Yet she realized it was true. She’d always cared for those close to her—her family were sure of her love. Nourish. Cherish. He’d articulated something that she’d only ever been dimly aware of in the back of her consciousness. “Thank you. That’s a nice thing to say.”
He shook his head. “Not nice. Absolutely true. And it’s a talent I can use.”
The warmth fizzled out.
“You would be able to take care of a side of my life I don’t have time to deal with.”
Of course. Everything was always about what he could use. What he could turn to profit. He must’ve been born with a calculator for a heart.
Miranda raised her glass and took a careful sip. Despite the rush of bubbles to the surface, the champagne tasted flat. A reflection of her state of mind, no doubt. She set the glass down. “You want to marry me so I can sort your business entertaining.”
He didn’t deny it.
What had she expected? Callum was running one hundred percent true to type.
“Gee, you must be patting yourself on the back for the wise investment you made paying for my culinary training.”
His mouth compressed into a tight line. “Don’t be so cynical. You’d be far more than a chef. You’d be my wife, for God’s sake. You’d run my life.”
“Mrs. Callum Ironstone. A useful wife with no identity of her own.” The idea chilled her. There would be no room for nourishing or cherishing in such a life. “And what about love and romance and all the reasons people usually get married?” What about all her dreams and hopes?
Flags of color scorched his cheekbones and his eyes sparked. “I have every intention of sleeping with Mrs. Ironstone,” he said between clenched teeth. “This won’t be some platonic marriage. We’ve already proved we’re a very good fit.”
Fit? It made her sound like a damn suit that he could shed when she’d outworn her use.
After a quick glance around revealed no one was looking their way, she lowered her voice and said, “I spoke of love, Callum. Not sex.”
An unreadable expression flitted over his face. “Love is an emotional complication neither of us need.”
“Speak for yourself. I don’t see love as an emotional complication.”
He gave her a superior smile. “Of course it is. Look at you—just talking about love is getting you wound up. Sex will allow you to relax, unwind.” His fingertips crossed the inch of tablecloth that had become no-man’s land to play along the tender skin of her inner wrist, and Miranda quivered in reaction as tingles exploded up her arm. He paused, exploring the fine lilac lines of her pulse, and the smile became reckless. “But if romance is so important to you…I can take care of that.”
Despite her madly racing pulse, Miranda went down fighting. “Your idea of romance is roses and hot sex.”
His hands, damn them, cradled hers with a tenderness that she knew meant nothing.
“What’s wrong with that?” He truly did look puzzled. “It would be far better to keep our relationship straightforward. We both know we set each other on fire in bed—I’ve never experienced anything like it,” he admitted with a raw honesty she had no choice but to believe. “That’s why I had to end it with Petra.”
He leaned closer across the table. She could smell the crisp, clean scent of him—so male with a hint of bergamot and musk underpinning it.
It would be so easy to give in—it would solve all her problems.
She wouldn’t have to worry about Gianni or Mick at work. Or her family. All her financial worries would become a thing of the past in an instant. Callum would take care of everything. She’d be able to resign from The Golden Goose and she’d simply present him with Flo’s debts to settle. His wealth would mean Adrian’s and Flo’s debts wouldn’t make a dent.
Dent…
Help! He still didn’t know about Adrian’s accident, and she suspected Callum wouldn’t be quite so sanguine about her keeping him in the dark. Yet Adrian had asked her not to tell Callum. How could she betray her brother?
Oh, this was dreadful.
A wave of shame swept her that she’d even considered accepting his proposal for such superficial reasons. She’d be using him. Marrying him for his wealth.
Hadn’t he admitted that he intended to use her, too? But that was no reason to stoop to his level. When she married, it would be because she loved a man so much she didn’t want to live without him.
Miranda stopped herself from sighing aloud. It was better this way. They didn’t even share the same life views. And she wasn’t likely to change him.
She shook her hands free from his. “I can’t marry you.”
“You can’t?” He looked utterly surprised.
He’d expected her to say yes? But Miranda found that she had no urge to laugh at the stunned expression in his eyes. Instead a curious hollowness settled in the space beneath her heart. “I want more, Callum.” Much more.
“I see.”
But she doubted he did. And it was too hard to explain.
Putting her elbows on the table, she dropped her face into the cup of her hands, feeling utterly wretched.
The touch of a finger under her chin caused her to lift her head. It was only the pad of his index finger yet she was aware of his touch through her whole body.
When she met his eyes, she could read little there. But then he was hardly the kind of man a woman could read like a glossy gossip rag. And that enigmatic quality was part of what drew her to him again and again even though she knew it was downright self-destructive.
“Look, I really do need your help.”
“What help?” she asked with more than a little suspicion. After all, he w
as an Ironstone.
“Our family always spends Christmas at Fairwinds.”
At the height of her hatred for Callum, she’d pored over Country Life images of Fairwinds, the Ironstones’ country retreat set on Lake Windermere’s bank in the Lake District. A long tree-lined lane cutting through a grassy park, a forecourt edged with neatly clipped box hedging, and a flight of stone stairs leading up to the imposing house with its mullioned windows and a steep jagged roofline. The photos had oozed old wealth and gracious living.
And she’d raged against how unfair life was.
Miranda shook herself free of the memory. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I’d like you to spend Christmas with us,” he said, “as my partner for the weekend.”
Miranda sucked in a breath.
“It’s my mother’s birthday,” he continued, “the day after Christmas. We’re planning to throw her a surprise birthday party—and Gordon and Petra have already been invited.”
Callum didn’t need to add that he’d originally planned to take Petra along to his mother’s birthday as his fiancée. That his break-up with the blonde had caused a horrible complication. It was written all over his discomfited face. And that knowledge caused an unexpected wash of bittersweet sensation to engulf Miranda.
“You’re asking me to come along and protect you?”
Heavens, men could be so obtuse.
“Something like that.” The barely imperceptible tension that had been coiled within him eased a little, and his eyes smiled into hers. “You could take over working the kitchen on the weekend. I’d make it worth your while.”
Miranda itched to slap him.
“My mother always goes to a great deal of trouble over the festive season—works herself half to death, which makes us all feel guilty. This year she turns sixty.” His expression held a tenderness she’d never seen. “We want to spoil her rotten. We’d planned to get some help with the Christmas preparations, but we’ve all been involved with the merger and no one’s gotten around to organizing it. Neglectful sons, aren’t we?”
There was something inherently sweet about the thought of four grown men—five if you counted his father—coming up with such an idea. It made her turn to marshmallow.
“We’d even pay you—top rates, given that it will be over the Christmas weekend.”
For a moment she thought of her family. She’d never spent Christmas away from them. But how could she possibly resist? The commission Callum was dangling in front of her would enable her to put something toward the deposit Adrian wanted for the pre-owned BMW he’d already agreed to buy from a friend before the expense of the accident—and maybe even buy her mother the new microwave she desperately wanted. And she had to admit to a yearning to see the home in the country that he’d spoken of with such affection.
The only thing that concerned her about his request was Petra. How did the other woman feel about Callum? Miranda suspected Petra would be wounded to be faced with her supposed successor. It made her feel uncomfortable.
Callum must have seen her hesitation because he asked, “Will you come?”, giving her a charmingly lopsided smile. “Will you make my mother’s life, my life—all our lives—so much easier?”
Faced with his love for his mother, how could she refuse? He cared for his mother, loved her. That was beyond doubt. She was discovering a side of Callum she’d never seen before.
Or had she?
Even though he barely knew Flo, he’d taken care of her since her husband’s death. More than Miranda had ever realized. He’d misjudged her father with tragic results…but he hadn’t walked away and abandoned them. Anonymously he’d tried to make amends in the best way he could—by making sure she and her brother received a top-class education, and by looking after the widow of the man he’d wronged.
Perhaps it was time for her to let up on him a little. He’d done wrong, but he’d clearly regretted the consequences his actions had produced.
She’d intended to throw all his money back in his face once she scrimped it together. Yet here was something he was asking her to do, something that could ease her burden of the debt.
Their food arrived before she could answer, the two waiters whipping off the silver covers of the plates with a flourish.
After she’d made the expected noises of approval, they departed. And, drawing a deep breath, Miranda said, “I think it’s a lovely gesture. Your mother will adore a birthday celebration. Of course I’ll come.”
“Toothbrush. Shampoo. Perfume.”
Miranda packed the final items into her toiletry holdall and tossed it into her overnight bag. Then, crumpling up her list, she dropped it into the bin beneath her dressing table.
“You’re all packed?”
She hadn’t heard her mother come in. Miranda turned her head to smile at Flo. “Only my cooking stuff left to pack—at least Callum’s Daimler has plenty of space. I’m going to miss you and Adrian, Mum.”
“You’ll be back after the weekend on Boxing Day.” Flo patted her arm. “Not that long.”
But it would be over Christmas. “With Christmas falling on Friday this year, Boxing Day seems so far away.”
Flo gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll keep you some Christmas pudding, darling.”
“That would be lovely.” Her mother made the best Christmas pudding in the whole world.
“Adrian’s already up. Should we open our presents before you go?”
Miranda studied Flo. “Wouldn’t you prefer to wait until Christmas tomorrow?”
“It will be so strange without you. Let me see what Adrian wants to do.”
Flo waltzed out, and Miranda gathered up the modest gifts she’d bought for her mother and Adrian, before making her way to the small lounge.
Adrian and Flo were already waiting, Flo all but dancing with excitement as she pushed a package into Miranda’s hands. “We’re doing it now. Save mine until last.”
Miranda laughed. “I will, I will.” She handed Adrian the bottle of aftershave she’d bought him—one she knew he liked. “This is yours. When I get paid for this weekend’s work, I’ll give you a check to put toward the BMW—that way your friend will at least continue to hold it for you. I’d like to get Mum a microwave, too.”
Adrian’s face lit up. “Thanks, sis. That’s awesome. One day I’ll repay everything you’ve done for me.”
Miranda felt a niggle of misgiving. “Pay me back? You don’t need to. It’s a gift.”
Her brother looked uncomfortable. “One you can’t afford—not if you want to get out of The Golden Goose.”
Had she become so tight about money that her brother couldn’t accept a gift from her anymore? It reminded her of her own determination to pay Callum back come hell or high water.
But Adrian was family. It was different.
Before she could say anything more, he handed her a flat parcel. “It’s a boring gift. But I think you’ll enjoy it.”
It was a book by a chef she admired. She hugged him, then she settled down and tore the wrapping from the package her mother had given her. Her fingers peeled back the paper to reveal a red woolen scarf. She drew it out. It was as soft as the silk she’d collected from the silkworms she’d reared as a child, the wool fine and warm against her fingertips.
How much had it cost?
She bit back the question. “It’s beautiful. Thanks, Mum.”
Flo’s eyes glowed with happiness. “Take it with you. That color does marvelous things for your skin. I knew it was yours the moment I spotted it. And here’s something else.”
A second, much larger, package landed in her lap.
“Mum, you didn’t need to…” Her voice trailed away as she saw the ivory trench coat that lay inside.
“They’re very in this season, darling.”
Miranda felt as if she’d been turned to stone. She stared at the coat. But instead of seeing a garment, all she could see were bills.
Unpaid bills.
“Mother�
�” She looked up. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve extended your credit further. Tell me you won a lottery. Anything. Just not more debt.”
The happiness on her mother’s face subsided. “Oh, Miranda, don’t spoil it.”
Beside her mother, Adrian fidgeted.
“We can’t afford this, Flo.”
She’d have to face Callum, tell him that her mother was still using his name. Then she’d have to pay him back. The debt stretched ahead of her like an un-scaleable mountain. “Oh, Mum.”
“Don’t ‘Oh, Mum’ me.” Her mother stood up abruptly. “You’re not the only one allowed to give nice presents.”
“What do you mean?”
“You just promised Adrian you’d help him with the deposit on his car—and possibly buy me the new model microwave I’ve been wanting. But we’re not allowed to give you anything nice?”
Adrian looked like he wished he was far away.
“It’s not the size—or the expense—of the present that counts. It never has been.” Miranda folded the wrappings over the coat. “You need to take this back. Get the account credited.”
Her mother’s shoulders sagged. “But you’ll keep the scarf?”
She took in her mother’s dejection. With an inward sigh Miranda conceded, “Yes, I will.”
Flo perked up instantly. “And wear it this weekend. That red lipstick of yours will match it perfectly.”
Miranda crossed over to her mother and hugged her. Flo stood quietly in the circle of her arms, and Miranda noticed that her mother had become as fragile as a butterfly; she was thinner than she’d ever been. “I love you, Mum.”
How she wished that things were different. For Flo to be more reasonable. For her father to be here.
Ah, what did it help to wish for the impossible?
Her father wasn’t coming back.
And she was spending the weekend with the man who had caused his death. A man who’d asked her to be his wife.
What a traitor she’d become.
Eight
E verything was packed and ready to take to Fairwinds. There was some baking that with Flo’s help Miranda had prepared in advance, a selection of herbs and spices that she never traveled without—and extras that she intended to gift to the family—as well as a plethora of laborsaving devices and utensils.