with her.
Hell, why should she be grateful? Given her conviction that he’d caused her father’s death it wasn’t surprising she couldn’t bear the sight of him. Callum didn’t like the niggle of discomfort that ate at his stomach—the same sensation that often gnawed in the middle of the night. If he hadn’t pushed so hard to have Thomas Owen arrested, the man might still be alive today.
And Miranda and Adrian would still have a father.
As he cut through the throng, he smiled and nodded to business acquaintances but didn’t pause until he reached Miranda, busy setting out serviettes and fresh bowls of olives amid a crowd at the bar.
“Need any help?”
Miranda’s eyelashes fluttered down, blocking her eyes from his view. White serviettes printed with gold snowflakes fanned out under the touch of her deft fingers, and he had to strain his ears to hear her response.
“It’s all under control.”
He dropped his gaze from those teasing fingers. Only to be confronted by the provocative white apron with its starchy ruffles and wished furiously he could as easily control his wild thoughts. Clearing his throat, he managed, “Uh…I need to update you on Adrian.”
Her hands stilled. “Adrian?”
The rest of what she said was drowned out by a burst of laughter. Not even staring at her mouth helped him make out the words—although the soft shape of her lips caused another quake of lust.
Placing a hand under her elbow, he drew her away from the bar. “Sorry, I can’t hear you.”
She came slowly, her arm suddenly stiff under his fingertips.
It didn’t augur well for the chances of assuaging the growing hunger that burned in him. He bent forward and said loudly over the music and surrounding chatter, “Let me introduce you around—we can talk about Adrian later.”
He sensed her hesitation. Flicking him a quick, sideways look, she rested a hand on his shoulder and rose on tiptoe. “I’m not sure I can wait.”
Callum shuddered as her breath warmed his ear with the innocently provocative words. Turning his head, he discovered her mouth not far from his. For a moment he was tempted to throw caution to the winds. To confess that Petra meant nothing to him and that she, Miranda, consumed his every thought. To plunder the soft ripeness of that sweet mouth.
But she withdrew her hand, leaving him bereft. Bringing himself back to the present, he mouthed, “Later. We’ll talk when the party settles down. Right now, I ought to circulate.”
She glanced around at the press of people that made it impossible to talk and nodded, but her irises had darkened with worry.
“Adrian’s fine,” he said. Miranda needed to think more about herself and spend less time fretting about her brother. Into a short lull he said, “Have you got your business cards here?”
She nodded. “In my bag. I’ll get them.”
He gave her a thumbs-up and waited for her to return.
Once it had sunk in that Adrian’s secret was still safe, Miranda’s heartbeat steadied and she started to relax.
Callum introduced her to an older couple, Madge and Tom Murray. On learning that Miranda was responsible for the food, Madge said, “The mince pies simply melted in my mouth. What magic did you use?”
That launched a discussion about pastry that attracted a nearby woman. After several minutes Miranda turned to Callum and Madge’s husband and apologized profusely. “Sorry, I lose time when the talk is about food.”
“Madge likes nothing more.” Tom laughed.
The conversation moved on to favorite dishes and dinner-party disasters. Madge was amusing, and her husband clearly doted on her—even though he confessed to hating oysters which Madge vowed was grounds for divorce.
As everyone laughed, Miranda felt a stab of envy. Even though her father had adored and indulged Flo, there’d never been this sense of kinship and shared laughter between her parents.
The arrival of a tall, dark-haired man who looked vaguely familiar interrupted her thoughts. But the respite proved to be short. The newcomer turned out to be none other than Callum’s brother, Fraser, whose sharp eyes assessed Miranda and missed nothing. Not the fact that his brother stood beside her, nor that his brother’s arm was behind her. His arched brows rose a little, but thankfully he only added to the hilarity in their discussions about food.
“What is your secret food passion, Miranda?” asked Madge.
“Chocolate,” she said. “Rich, dark and slightly bitter.”
“Sounds like Callum,” Fraser said with a sly grin.
Miranda didn’t dare glance at the silent man standing next to her. In an instant those mad moments in his home played through her brain like a movie in slow motion.
Callum hoisting her up and stepping between her thighs. Callum soaping her in the shower afterward. Callum naked and damp with droplets moving over her before pinning her on his bed and…
She became brutally aware of the gentle pressure of his hand resting in the small of her back. And blinked. Hard.
This was Callum Ironstone, for heaven’s sake. Petra’s almost financé. Her brother’s boss. Her sworn enemy. How could she allow such treacherous desires to consume her? How could she even be tempted to respond to his touch? And worse, to every breath he drew? Yet the touch of his hand on her back seemed so…right. What was wrong with her?
“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