fast proving herself to be unique. A woman who cared more about him than herself? ‘Are you a good listener, Lucy?’
‘Some people say I am.’
He removed the wire netting from the foil covering the cork, and started to ease it with his thumb. ‘I have – I had,’ he corrected himself with a wry look, ‘a rather grand girlfriend.’
‘Someone royal?’ she guessed.
‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ he admitted, but it amused him to think that Lucy had instantly put him in the type of high society he had no time for.
‘You’ve broken up with her?’ she pressed.
Was there more than interest in her voice? ‘I don’t do grand, Lucy.’
‘Me neither!’ she exclaimed, but this was swiftly followed by the lip-pressing routine. ‘Sorry—I didn’t mean to interrupt you.’
‘That’s okay. Come on—sit down.’ He angled his chin toward the nearest bar stool, and noticed Lucy’s gaze skimming the mistletoe overhead. The designers had really gone to town. ‘If you’re allergic to mistletoe we can sit over there.’ He indicated one of the booths, and then realised she’d hate that. Booths were far too intimate.
Gathering her jacket around her like a protective cloak, she confirmed this. ‘I’m fine standing.’
‘Sit,’ he insisted. ‘You must be tired.’
‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘And, okay, just one glass,’ she agreed when he glanced at her for her agreement as he began to pour.
‘You don’t get the champagne until you sit down, Lucy.’
She laughed and relaxed a little, and came to perch on a stool.
As he pushed the crystal flute across the bar toward her, she rested her chin on her hand and turned her face up to his. Did she realise how tempting she looked?
‘So, you had a bad night,’ she prompted.
‘I planned for a Christmas without complications,’ he admitted, ‘but my on-off girlfriend had other ideas, and made the mistake of trying to prise a proposal of out of me.’ Along with a whole host of financial favours for her high-living, feckless parents, he remembered.
‘So you’re a confirmed bachelor,’ Lucy supplied.
‘You guessed it,’ he said, playing along. But she was right in that he liked being able to pick and choose when he socialised and when he was alone. He was a focused man. Polo was his life. He occasionally envied his friends with their wives and children, but falling in love wasn’t for him. He wasn’t ready. He doubted he ever would be. He liked his life exactly as it was.
‘So if you could have one thing for Christmas what would it be?’
He stared at Lucy, surprised at her openness, but then again, not. ‘I’m supposed to be asking the questions here, Lucy. I’m the boss.’
‘Ah, but as you reminded me, I’m off-duty,’ she said, ‘so we’re just friends having a chat.’
‘Are we now?’
Friends? No woman had ever called him that before. He had enjoyed arrangements in the past that suited him, sharing pleasures that were freely offered.
‘If I could have one thing for Christmas…’ Lucy said, distracting him.
‘What would that be?’ His interest surprised him.
‘I’d want something simple, something meaningful…’
A woman who cared nothing for wealth and fame? She was certainly unique. But if everyone was like Lucy he’d have to stop giving lavish presents and he loved giving lavish presents. He laughed. ‘So you’d rather have a bag of penny sweets I’d picked out myself than all the expensive gifts in the world, if someone else chose them for me to give to you?’
‘Too right I would,’ she agreed. ‘But I do love this champagne,’ she said, grinning at him over the rim of the glass. ‘And I’m guessing this isn’t cheap.’
‘You’re right.’
‘It’s delicious.’
And so was she.
‘I’m sorry to hear about your bad start to Christmas, Senhor Ortoya.’
‘Gabe—please.’
‘Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be?’ She heaved a theatrical sigh that made him smile.
‘You’re right there.’ The affair had been struggling for weeks.
‘So your girlfriend wanted a diamond ring for Christmas. Most girls would wish for that in their stockings. But what else did she want? She obviously asked too much of you?’
He was instantly alert. Something had changed in Lucy’s voice. She wasn’t playing a game any longer. She was really interested. This would have been the cue for a confirmed bachelor to slam the door and turn the key in the lock, but because he wanted to keep Lucy around a little longer, he opened up. ‘Her parents lived in a stately pile where I was expected to shoot with Daddy, and make up a bridge foursome with Mummy every weekend.’ Lucy looked even prettier when she frowned. ‘Why the frown?’ He topped up her champagne.
‘Just trying to picture you in plus fours.’
He laughed out loud. ‘I’ve never worn them, but I’m a crack shot.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ she said wryly. She laughed, and her whole face lit up in a way that made his senses roar. ‘So why do you hate the idea of the weekend visits so much?’
‘I abhor killing animals for fun, and I’d rather eat my own feet than put them under a bridge table.’
‘Poor Gabe.’
‘Stop laughing at me.’
‘Sorry.’ Failing to mask the smile, she dipped her face to the glass. ‘With a life like yours, you just need to be quiet sometimes, I expect,’ she said thoughtfully when she straightened up.
‘Don’t make a martyr out of me, Lucy. I’m a fully paid-up bad boy with a track record—’
‘—that would really scare the horses?’ she suggested, starting to laugh.
‘You are a bad, bad girl, Lucy Lavender.’ And he was enjoying her company more and more. He might have left it there if Lucy hadn’t chosen that precise moment to brush a strand of mistletoe that had escaped the swag above the bar away from her face. He had wanted to kiss her on many an occasion and tonight that feeling was unstoppable. He was already anticipating the way she would soften beneath his touch, and as he leaned toward her…Gabe Ortoya experienced rejection for the first time in his life!
He barely had chance to brush his lips against hers before Lucy pulled away and damn near fell off the stool. He had to fling himself across the width of the bar to catch her and steady her before she hurt herself.
‘It is a Christmas tradition, Lucy,’ he reminded her with a glance at the mistletoe.
‘And one I try to avoid, Senhor Ortoya.’
‘You do have an allergic reaction to mistletoe,’ he observed dryly.
‘Yes. It’s called the fight-or-flight mechanism.’
‘Then stay and fight,’ he challenged.
A tense moment passed, and then to his relief she smiled at him. ‘I might just do that,’ she warned, ‘and then you’ll be sorry.’
He doubted that somehow. His senses were still reeling from Lucy’s clean soapy scent; she had felt warm and pliant beneath his ultra-sensitive hands. The brief touch of her lips hadn’t lasted nearly long enough for him, and he had been reluctant to let her go. But he couldn’t hold on to Lucy