LITMIR.BIZ

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do next, heck, all she could think was how his lips would taste... ‘Amazing,’ she murmured.

      ‘Have to agree with you there.’

      She turned to him but he wasn’t looking at the twinkling carpet of lights on the harbour, he was watching her and screwing with her equilibrium again. She deflected with, ‘Are you sailing in the race?’

      ‘Not me.’

      She noticed he didn’t ask the same of her. No doubt the women he associated with were willowy, fragile types who were afraid of breaking a fingernail or a sweat. ‘Sailing’s not your thing?’

      He shrugged, his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘In case you’re wondering, I’m here for the free food.’

      She laughed spontaneously. ‘Ah, it was you who demolished all the prawns.’ She gestured to the crowd on the dance floor below who were swaying their hips and waving their little gold bells to ‘Jingle Bell Rock’. ‘So, were you getting your groove on down there on the dance floor tonight?’

      He shook his head, a smile on his lips. ‘I’m not the prawn thief and since you didn’t ask me to dance, no, I wasn’t.’ And oh, my, in the shadowy light, the cutest, innocent-little-boy dimples flirted at the corners of his mouth. It kick-started some sort of weird maternal instinct when what it should have been doing was to warn her to run in the opposite direction.

      Between talking up Snowflake to anyone who’d listen, she’d danced her feet to death—and had continued to promote Snowflake while bopping. ‘I didn’t see you...’ Men never joked with her, but this one was—at least she thought he was—and she trailed off, feeling awkward.

      ‘Haven’t been here long,’ he told her at last. ‘Anyway the Macarena’s not 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 that she’d throw away any sense of caution?

      She’d obviously been struck by some random insanity.

      Over the years, she’d grown accustomed to guys accusing her of being intimidating or closed off. Snowflake and her studies had taken her focus and consumed her energy for so long it hadn’t left time for anything else, particularly any fleeting and indulgent liaisons with the opposite sex. She had more important things on her agenda, such as making a difference for people with serious and terminal illness.

      But it was Christmas Eve and random insanity had indeed struck because right now on the top of this year’s Christmas list was his lips on hers. Her Secret Santa—dark as midnight, and an exciting mystery to unravel and enjoy. Just for tonight.

      He watched her, reading her thoughts. Knowing she was going to say yes. But then he said, ‘When a woman tells me it’s none of my business, it’s usually because she wants me to kiss her regardless of the man she’s sleeping with.’

      Oh, he was cocky, arrogant, full of himself. An irate breath caught in her throat. ‘Of course I’m not sleeping with anyone or I wouldn’t be standing here with you.’ She drew herself up tall. ‘And if you think I’m that kind of woman then you have very poor taste and we have nothing in common.’

      ‘On the contrary, I have very discerning taste when it comes to women. If I thought you were lying you wouldn’t see me for dust.’

      She relaxed a bit, if you could call letting out a slow breath and sucking in another relaxing. ‘Good, then. Because...because I want you to kiss me...that way.’

      His mouth quirked and he touched the ends of her hair again as the band struck up their version of ‘All I Want for Christmas’. ‘Glad we cleared that up.’

      ‘Me too.’

      ‘Now, where were we?’

      She licked dry lips. ‘Secret Santa.’

      ‘Ah...’ The devil with a smile lurked in his black eyes as his hands

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