Mistletoe Not Required Read Free Page A

really my thing.’
    ‘Not even the Christmas Macarena with the jingle bells and reindeer antlers to wiggle along with?’
    ‘I don’t do Christmas.’ He walked to the railing, gazed at the harbour.
    ‘No?’ she said to his back. ‘What, like, you don’t do the whole mistletoe, eggnog, Secret Santa thing—or is it a personal belief?’
    ‘Two words: Christmas commercialism.’ When he turned to her, his eyes had lost their spark.
    She wasn’t buying it—something had happened in his past that had nothing to do with Christmas commercialism.
    ‘It doesn’t have to be,’ she said. ‘Unless you let it.’
    He shrugged. ‘Anyway, who needs mistletoe? If you want to kiss someone you should go ahead and kiss them, wouldn’t you agree?’ He seemed to lean towards her. ‘Why wait for Christmas?’
    Why, indeed? He had leaned towards her. ‘It depends on whether that person wants to be kissed.’ She told herself she didn’t. She wished she didn’t but, oh, she really did. Every muscle in her body tightened and softened and her lips were practically puckering up in anticipation. ‘But a little festive smooch beneath the mistletoe’s always fun.’ And infinitely safer than shadowed, secluded corners.
    Dark brows rose. ‘Always?’ Somehow, as if she’d willed it, he was within touching distance. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, like runaway power from a nuclear reactor. His eyes seared her with dark intensity.
    ‘Usually,’ she amended with a laugh that sounded nervous to her own ears. ‘With a few Christmas drinks under one’s belt and everyone bursting with good cheer, it’s harmless enough.’ Unlike that nuclear reaction approaching critical mass in the narrowing space between them.
    Had she said harmless ? It was a foregone conclusion; this virtual stranger was going to kiss her and she was going to let him and excitement tingled through her body like a swarm of hungry fire ants.
    ‘So convince me Christmas is worth all the fuss,’ he murmured, reaching out and fingering the ends of her hair.
    She wondered that she couldn’t smell the singe in the air and had to fight for her composure again. ‘Where do you want me to begin?’
    ‘Refresh my memory and run that Secret Santa bit by me again. Is it the same as Kris Kringle?’
    ‘Not necessarily,’ she decided, and ventured into uncharted waters. ‘First off...’ she reached up on tiptoe, slid her boa around his neck then stepped backwards, letting it slide through her fingers until she was holding the very ends ‘...and most importantly...’ she met his eyes boldly even though her legs felt as though they were stumbling through sand ‘...it has to be a secret.’
    ‘Trust me, I won’t tell a soul.’ His voice was silk seduction, sliding over her and all but stealing away any sense she might have had.
    ‘Trust you? Where are my shoes, by the way?’
    ‘Safe.’ He glanced down between their bodies then back to her face. ‘I like you barefoot.’
    ‘So do I, it’s so liberating, don’t you think?’ Something danced behind his smouldering gaze and her feet tickled—as if he were sucking them right into his mouth. One toe at a time. ‘You’d be my Secret Santa?’
    ‘For you...’ he ran one lazy fingertip over her left collarbone, making her shiver ‘...I could be persuaded. Are you sleeping with anyone?’
    The question came out of nowhere and he spoke casually, as if he were asking whether she liked sugar in her coffee. A tugging sensation she’d never experienced unfurled low in her belly and her cheeks burned with fire. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’ Confusion warred with irritation at his smooth, almost lazy arrogance.
    ‘It is if I’m going to kiss you the way I want to kiss you.’ His fingertip moved from her collarbone to skim across her lower lip.
    Her lips burned and the low tugging sensation pulled into a tight knot. Her habitual defensiveness evaporated. What was it about this man