on a leisurely cruise. ‘I doubt if your idea of going away for Christmas is the same as mine,’ she drawled, her eyes aglow with humour.
His eyes narrowed, his mouth tightening at her derision. ‘I’m going to Bermuda.’
She smiled at her second guess being the closest. ‘And I’m going back to my grandfather’s home in Ireland, a small cottage, a real fire instead of an electric one, and a tree that sheds its pine-needles all over the carpet!’ It wasn’t until she began talking about it that she realised how much she had missed her home this last year, and how much she was looking forward to seeing it again.
‘You’re homesick,’ Lyon Falconer stated abruptly.
‘Yes,’ Shay confirmed huskily.
‘If you miss it so much what are you doing in London?’ he frowned.
‘My grandfather didn’t want me to marry Devlin Murphy,’ she recalled with a smile.
‘Devlin Murphy?’ the man across the room from her repeated sharply.
She nodded. ‘He lives next door to my grandfather.’
‘And you were in love with him?’
‘No.’ She laughed at the idea. ‘But my grandfather was afraid that I might be if I didn’t get away and see something of the world other than Ireland.’
‘And now that you’ve seen it?’
Her laughter faded, a sad look in deep purple eyes. ‘Now I know that although I love the place I could never settle for a small cottage in Ireland for the rest of my life, even it if does have a real fire,’ she admitted with a sigh of regret.
‘Nice to visit but you don’t want to live there,’ Lyon Falconer derided.
She became conscious of exactly who it was she was revealing her inner feelings to, stiffening slightly. ‘You’re very cynical,’ she told him without thinking, blushing fiery red when she did so.
‘But correct,’ he mocked.
‘Yes,’ she bit out. ‘I hope you have a nice time in Bermuda.’ Shay moved to brush past him as he still stood near the door.
He grasped her arm. ‘Come for a drive with me,’ he invited huskily.
‘A—a drive?’ She swallowed hard, his closeness unnerving her.
‘Yes.’ His gaze held hers, purple captivated by yellow cat’s eyes. ‘You don’t want to dance, you aren’t hungry, and you don’t drink, that only leaves going for a drive,’ he drawled.
‘But it’s late …’
‘Does that matter?’ he encouraged throatily.
Of course it didn’t matter! ‘Where will we go?’ asked Shay breathlessly.
‘Wherever fate decides to take us,’ he answered with surprising intensity. ‘Shay …?’
‘Yes?’ He was so close now their thighs were almost touching.
‘Do you believe in fate?’
After tonight she believed in anything! ‘I think so,’ she nodded.
He gave a sudden grin, looking younger, his hand sliding down her wrist to capture hers. ‘Then let’s see what it holds in store for us!’ He seemed to be challenging that fate, daring it to deny him something he wanted very much—and that something was Shay.
Shay should have known then not to become involved with a man who challenged life itself, who lived his life as if each moment were his last, should have run from him before he had the chance to hurt her. But she hadn’t run, had allowed him to pull her through the crowded adjoining room, into the lift and out to his waiting car, filling her with the same recklessness that had possessed him.
They hadn’t spoken as they drove, but there was none of the awkward silence between them that should have existed, the smiles Lyon sent her way filling her with a quiet glow of expectation.
He stopped the car near Regent Street, taking her hand to walk at her side down the dazzling street, the famous Christmas lights filling them both with a childish sense of the ridiculous, each picking out the unlikeliest items in the illuminated shop windows that they would like under their tree Christmas morning.
‘But what I’d really like,’ Lyon suddenly turned to growl, ‘is an Irish pixie with purple eyes.’
Colour flooded her cheeks as he held her intimately against him, making no secret of his stirring arousal as he moved his thighs against hers. ‘I’m too tall to be a pixie,’ Shay told him awkwardly.
‘One of the “little people" then,’ Lyon mocked her.
‘It’s the same thing,’ she said crossly. ‘And on Christmas morning I intend being under my own tree in Ireland, opening my own presents!’
‘Pity,’ he drawled, swinging her away from him. ‘What shall we do now?’
She pulled a face at the lateness of the hour. ‘I’m usually in bed at two o’clock in the—’ She broke off as she realised exactly what she was inviting with her thoughtlessly spoken words.
‘What an excellent idea,’ Lyon mocked. ‘Your bed or mine?’ He quirked dark blond brows.
‘Neither,’ Shay gasped. ‘I may have impulsively left the party with you, Mr Falconer,’ her Irish accent returned in her agitation, ‘but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to jump into bed with you!’
‘Why not? You want me, don’t you.’ It was a statement not a question. ‘I could see that you did the moment our eyes met across the typing pool that day.’
‘You—you saw me then?’ She looked up at him with startled eyes.
His mouth twisted. ‘It isn’t every day I encounter a purple-eyed pixie, especially one that looks at me so longingly, which was why I made it my business to find out your name. Did you like what you saw that day, Shay?’
She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, her cheeks becoming even redder as she saw the way he was watching the provocative movement.
‘Do you like what you see tonight?’ His gaze compelled her to answer.
‘Mr Falconer, please—’
‘I’d like to, Shay, I’d like to pleasure every silken inch of you, to taste you, to have you taste me in return.’ His gaze was fixed on her lips as he slowly bent down to her.
His verbal lovemaking made her quiver with expectation, her lips already parted for the invasion of his kiss, and it was an invasion, the silken thrust of his tongue plundering deeper and deeper inside, inviting her to do the same to him. The lights, the softly falling snow, the noise of the people and traffic, all faded with the intensity of that kiss, Lyon finally the one to pull away.
‘Shay, come home with me,’ he invited hoarsely, his forehead resting on hers as they both trembled, his skin warm and damp.
