Then as if fate stepped in, her eyes snagged on the lower half of a man descending from a pretty spiral staircase that she’d not noticed earlier.

Even if men weren’t a priority for Olivia, a little blip of pleasure registered on her radar. Black-trouserscovered legs that went all the way up—and up—the fabric lovingly clasped around muscled thighs, a firm, rounded, super-hero-in-tights butt. Nice.

A girl deserved a little lust blip every now and then and this blip was brightening by the second.

His gaze met hers as if she’d summoned him to look her way. And he didn’t look pleased about that. His eyebrows lowered, his mouth firmed and a muscle clenched in his jaw.

Steely black eyes with the power to tempt. To persuade. A shiver rippled down her spine. The power to take her will and flex it between his long slender fingers like so much overcooked spaghetti.

And Olivia felt hot, like she did when standing on the steaming deck of her yacht on a mid-summer’s day in Barbados. In the eye of a tropical storm even, because her usually strong sea legs were wobbly.

She was still looking at him and he was still looking at her and she swore she saw him mouth, ‘Trouble’.

Praise for Anne Oliver

‘This sweet and sexy story has engaging characters

that will captivate readers from the very first page.’

—RT Book Reviews on There’s Something About a Rebel

‘Quick paced, this story has a sensitive hero that readers

will easily fall in love with.’

—RT Book Reviews on Her Not-So-Secret Diary

‘This attraction-at-first-sight story has just the

right blend of adventure, passion and heartfelt

emotion to make you want to spend time

with this terrific twosome.’

—RT Book Reviews on Hot Boss, Wicked Nights

Mistletoe

Not Required

Anne Oliver

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANNE OLIVER was born in Adelaide, South Australia, with its beautiful hills, beaches and easy lifestyle. She’s never left.

An avid reader of romance, Anne began creating her own paranormal and time travel adventures in 1998, before turning to contemporary romance. Then it happened—she was accepted by Mills & Boon in December 2005. Almost as exciting, her first two published novels won the Romance Writers of Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year for 2007 and 2008. So, after nearly thirty years of yard duties and staff meetings, she gave up teaching to do what she loves most—writing full time.

Other interests include animal welfare and conservation, quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish, and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. She’s travelled to Papua New Guinea, the west coast of America, Hong Kong, Malaysia, the UK and Holland.

Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege and a dream come true. You can visit her website at www.anne-oliver.com.

This and other titles by Anne Oliver are available in eBook format—check out www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to anyone whose lives have been

touched by breast cancer—mums, daughters, sisters,

aunts, grandmothers. And the men who support them.

That’s pretty much everyone really.

With thanks to Wendy for making my time in

beautiful Tasmania even more enjoyable.

With thanks to my editor, Suzanne Clarke, for

putting in the hard work on my hero.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

ONE

Olivia Wishart slicked ruby gloss on her lips, then checked her strapless cocktail dress in the mirror and frowned. ‘Red lips, red dress, red hair.’ She reached for her standby little black dress. ‘I don’t care if everyone’s decked to the halls in Christmas finery, it’s—’

‘Lovely, but not for tonight.’ Her best friend, Breanna Black, whipped the garment from her hand. ‘And not another word—you look sensational.’ She eyed the cleavage on display and nodded. ‘Wise choice—men will look.’

‘So long as they listen.’ Olivia wasn’t a fancy dress fan but the opportunity to talk up her charity to her fellow competitors in this year’s Sydney to Hobart Yacht Race was too good to pass up. And a little flesh never failed to get attention.

‘Try to remember, it is Christmas.’ Brie shimmied into a short mulberry all-in-one playsuit with a fur-trim neckline then tossed Olivia a white feather boa. ‘Here. It’ll put you in the mood.’

Olivia’s lips twitched as she slung the silky feathers around her neck. ‘I assume you’re referring to the festive mood.’

‘That’d be a start,’ Brie suggested, brightly.

Raising the Pink Snowflake Foundation’s profile was the reason for Olivia’s entry into the race. Being invited by yachting royalty to celebrate the festive season at the mega-million-dollar mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour was a bonus, but anything else...well, it wasn’t going to happen.

Brie unravelled a luscious strand of silver tinsel. ‘You’re sure you don’t mind if Jett shares our suite?’ she asked for the umpteenth time.

‘This mysterious brother you’ve managed to keep out of the way for— How long’s it been?’ Stepping into red stiletto sandals, Olivia reassured her, ‘I told you I don’t mind. I’m interested to meet him actually.’

Brie paused in her task of twisting the tinsel into her hair. ‘Half-brother. And it’s a slow, fraught process. Jett’s a hard guy to get to know. I’m not sure he even likes me.’

Olivia smiled. ‘What’s not to like? And he accepted your invitation, didn’t he?’

‘Only because his initial plans fell through.’

‘You don’t know that for sure.’ But Olivia was pretty sure she did. Classic irresponsible, egocentric male behaviour. Yes, she was absolutely interested to meet him, even if it was only to make certain he knew how much he meant to Brie.

Sighing, Brie flipped her reef of long black hair over her shoulder. ‘It makes me feel bad that I’m going away for New Year’s Eve now, but he told me not to alter my plans on his account.’

‘And why should you? If you’re right about his plans, he’s the one who changed his mind and decided to come at the last minute.’

It was obvious Brie cared but apparently the lost sibling she’d spent three years looking for didn’t give a toss. Even though they were as close as sisters, Olivia had decided it was a sensitive issue and none of her business unless Brie opened up to her. ‘When’s his flight due in?’

‘Any time. I’ll let the front desk know to expect him before I leave—’ Brie’s mobile buzzed and she checked caller ID. ‘That’s him now. Hi, Jett...’

Olivia saw her friend’s smile fade, and the temptation to snatch the phone and give him a piece of her mind was overwhelming. She had to turn away. None of your business, remember.

‘Oh... Uh-huh. Okay. You’ve got the party’s address? I’ll meet you there. Text me when you’re here,’ Olivia heard her say before she disconnected. ‘His flight’s been delayed. Christmas rush; he hasn’t even left Melbourne yet.’ She flicked through the contacts on her phone, her smile returning. ‘Which gives me a spare couple of hours to meet the Horizon Three’s sexy skipper for a drink downstairs at the bar after all.’

‘Good for you,’ Olivia enthused, reserving judgement on Jett—for now. She slipped a wad of business cards into her evening purse, handing one to Brie. ‘Give him this and highlight our cause. And just remember, sexy skipper or not, he’s the enemy come Boxing Day.’

Brie nodded, mobile attached to her ear, obviously waiting for Mr Sexy Skipper to pick up. ‘Don’t get smashed or pick up any strange men before I get there.’

As if. Olivia preferred to wake up with a clear head and no regrets. Brie, not so much. Differences aside, they made a good team, trusted and looked out for each other. She flipped the end of the boa over her shoulder. ‘I promise not to get smashed.’

‘And...?’

‘Hey, it’s a party for yachties, there’ll be men. And I don’t care if they’re strange so long as they’re rich and I can persuade them to part with large sums of money. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m hopeful.’

‘Good luck, then, and be careful, okay? Hi, Liam...’ Brie’s voice instantly switched to smooth sensuality.

‘Back at you,’ Olivia murmured as she slipped out of their suite and headed downstairs to summon the driver they’d organised exclusively for the entire evening.

As the chauffeured vehicle made its way across the bridge, Olivia’s thoughts weren’t so much on the harbour’s glittering light show, but on the session she’d attended as a mandatory part of the genetics testing she’d undergone last week.

Her counsellor had said it could take weeks before she had the results. A chill ran deep through her bones. She’d never have taken the test if her mother hadn’t made her promise to have it before her twenty-sixth birthday—the age her maternal grandmother had been when she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer.

So she’d done it. Two months late, but she’d done it. Fulfilled her mother’s death-bed request. She’d been so busy, it had been easy to push aside her own needs—or as Brie had said, to bury her head in the sand—but now it was real and she could no longer deny the probability that she’d inherited the same mutant gene.

She wrapped her boa tighter around her shoulders. At least the result, whatever the verdict, would bring relief from the uncertainty she’d lived with as long as she could remember. And she’d deal with it in her own way—she had control of that at least.

Until then she refused to think about it. It was Christmas, she had a yacht race to win, a charity to run.

A life to live.

* * *

He was late but Jett Davies skirted the massive gold Christmas tree dominating the black marble foyer as he made his way up yet another sweeping staircase. The third level was an outdoor entertainment area and he caught a waft of briny harbour and freshly mown grass. Winking party lights cast a muted kaleidoscopic blush over the elite guests wearing anything and everything from a token nod to the festive season to the full Christmas get-up.

The guest list included the Who’s Who of the yachting world from all over the globe, along with their glammed-up wives, lovers and/or mistresses. Seemed anyone with money to throw at Australia’s prestigious Sydney to Hobart, one of the world’s top and most difficult off-shore yacht races, was partaking of the evening’s merrymaking.

A force-field of inquisitive eyes found him as he took a beer from a circulating waiter’s tray. Eyes dead ahead, he cut straight to an antique spiral staircase he’d spotted in the corner. He hoped its steep and winding steps would discourage stiletto-heeled females from venturing up. He wasn’t looking for an available woman. He was looking for his sister. Or had been until she’d texted him ten minutes ago to say she’d been caught up. Car problems, she’d told him—she’d let him know when she was on her way.

The stairs opened up onto a small viewing platform above the main outdoor entertainment area. Deserted—the way he liked it. Leaning on the rail, he watched the ferries track across the twinkling harbour.

Car problems. Breanna. He didn’t know her well but he knew her well enough—there was no car and a man was definitely involved. He chugged back on his beer. Perhaps they had more in common than he’d thought.

The band below fired off a set of rocking Christmas tunes and his head throbbed. He didn’t do the festive season—all that Kris Kringle nonsense, mistletoe madness and nostalgia.

So why had he agreed with Breanna’s suggestion to meet her here instead of the hotel bar? Or them as it happened, because Breanna was sharing the suite with a girlfriend. Which had him wondering about the wearer of the strawberry lace panties and matching D-cups hanging over the shower rosette in the second bathroom...

Don’t even think about it. He shook trouble away, checked the time. Ten more minutes, Breanna, and I’m gone.

* * *

Guests were starting to leave when Olivia finally found a moment alone and a semi-secluded spot to sit. She sucked on the straw of her Christmas Jones cocktail—her first alcoholic beverage for the evening—and leaned towards the balcony watching the incandescent candles amongst the garden shrubbery.

Hurry up, Brie.

She’d networked all evening to promote Snowflake and was delighted with the responses and promises for donations. But she and her crew had just come off five days’ intensive training on the harbour, her feet were killing her and she was ready for some shut-eye.

Except Brie wasn’t answering her phone—but she’d texted a winky face.

Did that mean she’d forgotten their arrangement to be there for each other at the end of the evening or what? Pushing up from her plastic party chair, she considered texting a response to say she was leaving but they’d made a promise to watch out for each other years ago and that had never changed.

Then, as if fate stepped in, her eyes snagged on the lower half of a man descending a pretty spiral staircase that she’d not noticed earlier. Even if men weren’t a priority for Olivia, a little blip of pleasure registered on her radar. Black trousers covered legs that went all the way up—and up—the fabric lovingly clasped around muscled thighs, a firm, rounded, superhero-in-tights butt. Nice. A girl deserved a little lust blip every now and then and this blip was brightening by the second.

He reached the bottom step and the full-frontal, full impact hit with a wow. It was as if a flashbulb went off and Olivia blinked. There he was. A fully formed, three-dimensional, reach-out-with-both-hands-and-touch example of prime masculinity.

The stranger she’d not promised Brie she’d stay away from.

A mouth-watering stranger with bronzed olive skin that tempted any woman with a pulse to lick her way across that shadowed chin and linger awhile at the perfectly sculpted mouth.

His gaze met hers as if she’d summoned him to look her way. And he didn’t look pleased about that. His eyebrows lowered, his mouth firmed and a muscle clenched in his jaw.

He looked kind of familiar but she’d totally have remembered a guy like him. She’d revelled in that initial instant of feminine power but now somehow he’d reversed the situation and that cool control she could always count on, and was so proud of, was disappearing like ice on a barbecue grill.

Steely black eyes with the power to tempt. To persuade. A shiver rippled down her spine. The power to take her will and flex it between his long slender fingers like so much overcooked spaghetti.

And Olivia felt hot, as she did when standing on the steaming deck of her yacht on a midsummer’s day in Barbados. In the eye of a tropical storm even, because her usually strong sea legs were wobbly.

She was still looking at him and he was still looking at her and she swore she saw him mouth, ‘Trouble’.

Oh yeah, absolutely. Double trouble in flashing neon lights. She’d never met a man who’d affected her this way—this hot, itchy, melty way. Not that they’d met... Had they?

Her pulse took off and her heart raced to catch up. He’d moved so subtly she hadn’t noticed that he stood between her and the only route to the lower levels via the marble staircase. Intentional or not—she couldn’t be sure and the anticipation hummed through her body like a build-up of static electricity.

Fight or flight? In yachting there was only one option. Unexpected and dangerous situations were dealt with in a calm, rational manner. Dealing with men was no different. Whatever happened, she would not run away.

With feigned indifference, she tossed her bedraggled twist of feathers over one shoulder, a silky strand catching on her lip as she drew in a wheezy breath to say, ‘Hi.’

* * *

Jett knew it was time to leave when Trouble with the most eye-catching, reddest hair he’d ever seen spoke to him in that husky, breathless voice. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the feather stuck to her pouty lower lip as she made little puh-puh noises to try and blow it off. He had the weirdest image of her blowing those little noises on his belly while her fingernails raked over his nipples and her hands swirled over his chest, his hips. Lower.

Damn.

Just say hi back and walk away. Fast. But his feet obeyed only that rapidly hardening part of his anatomy, and before he knew it he’d crossed the space between them, reached out and plucked the feather from what was a very pretty mouth. He felt a sensation of warm static before he snatched his fingers back.

‘Thanks.’ Eyes the colour of his signature Blue Mint Lagoon cocktail sparkled.

He curled tingling fingers into a fist. Another damn. Trouble with a sense of humour.

He saw...something...behind the fun and she looked away quickly, as if she hadn’t meant to share. Her gaze flicked upwards and behind him. ‘Anything interesting up there?’

There could be—if you want. ‘Nope.’

‘There has to be something, or why the staircase?’

He shrugged at her logic, stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Just a couple of telescopes.’

‘Really? I love stargazing.’

Even in the dimness he could see the fairy lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes and a splash of freckles over her nose. She enjoyed the outdoors whereas he rarely had the time for such indulgence. No doubt another spoiled socialite with plenty of time to waste. ‘Too much light pollution in the city,’ he told her, rocking back on his heels. ‘I’d say they’re for watching the harbour.’

‘Oh, yes, why didn’t I think of that?’

She walked to the bottom of the spiral stairs and peered up, one slender hand on the rail. Sun-kissed skin. Neat unvarnished nails. A nice flash of abundant cleavage. Man, he had to stop staring like some pre-pubescent teenager—

‘Did you sneak a peek?’

‘What?’ His guilty gaze shot somewhere over her shoulder, then he realised she was talking about telescopes. ‘Ah...no.’

She cast him an unreadable look then started up. ‘Why not?’

‘Because— Hey, you won’t want to go up like that.’ In one stride he was there, his fingers closing firmly over hers. The contact sent a zing up his forearm. All that static build-up discharged in one hit.

She must have felt it too because her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. ‘Like...what?’

He yanked his hand away. ‘Those heels—you’ll break your neck.’

‘Only if I—’ On cue, one stiletto slipped and caught in the iron lace doyley tread. She yanked it free. ‘Cripes. I see your point.’

He shook his head. ‘Why don’t you—?’

‘Okay...’ On the third tread, she toed off her shoes. And groaned lustily—a sound that did dangerous things to his already wide-awake libido. ‘Relief at last. Why didn’t I think of that earlier?’ She handed them to him over the rail, avoiding skin contact. ‘Hold these till I get back.’

‘I...’ Siren-red patent, they were warm from her feet and smelled of new leather. Dangling them from one hand, he watched her climb, toenails painted to match, strong toned calves. Smooth, golden thighs disappeared beneath the shadows of her dress’s short hemline. She moved fast and without effort, as if she worked out a lot. A yachtie’s woman?

If Jett were the skipper, he’d keep her below decks and all to himself for the entire journey. Yep, naked and barefoot—he could get creative with feet, a little warm brandy and sweet ripe apricots—

Hell. He shook his head to clear it. Now was not the time to be coming up with new recipes.

He wasn’t looking for a woman, dammit. He had to remind himself again because his mind seemed to have forgotten. He was waiting for Breanna, half-sister, who was doing whatever, with whomever. Everything, it seemed, except checking in with him. He should go back to the hotel, catch up on some sleep. Away from trouble in a red dress.

But he had her shoes. He could hardly just abandon them here. And he didn’t want to leave without one more glimpse of her. Which wasn’t quite true because he wanted more than a glimpse. A lot more.

He placed one foot on the bottom step and made an instant decision. Forget Breanna; she hadn’t answered his call. Instead, a little up-close and personal might just be on the menu for tonight. No trouble, he assured himself; he didn’t want or need to know who she was. A hot lick of anticipation stroked down his body and his steps quickened while his stomach tightened and his mouth watered. One sweet taste. The perfect dessert to end the evening.

* * *

Olivia hoped the sound of her heart pounding its way out of her chest wasn’t audible. Hearing his footsteps on the metal treads, she turned as the guy appeared on the platform behind her. And was blown away again by the sight of all that blatant masculinity. Which was unsettling because she’d relegated men to the bottom of her list of priorities a long time ago.

Determined not to let him see how much he was affecting her, she moved to the larger telescope and adjusted it for a view of the party-goers milling around Circular Quay to distract herself and give her time to think what to do next.

She could feel his gaze stroking heat down her spine and the backs of her thighs. His musky masculine scent wafted her way. As diversions went, the impromptu viewing idea was an epic fail—she had no idea if the lens was in focus or not. As for coming up with what to 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 slid up her bare arms to her shoulders.

The hairs on her arms rose in response and she shivered and met his gaze. ‘Except you look like more of a sinner than a Santa.’

He pulled the top half of her body into stunning and breath-stealing contact, his lips tantalisingly close to hers. ‘Which do you want me to be?’

TWO

Of course the guy was a mind-reader as well because he knew her instant preference for sin over safe and his body hardened against hers and his fingers tightened on her arms. Up close Olivia could see gold stardust in his irises and her own desire reflected back.

And heaven help her, wild and wicked was exactly what she needed tonight. She wanted to lose herself to oblivion. To dive headlong into those dark depths and surrender to the promised pleasure she saw there—

Except...this whole scenario was straight out of her private fantasies but now it was real and happening and moving too fast and she couldn’t catch her breath.

‘Wait.’ She dragged a hand up between them, pushed it against his chest. Hard as concrete. But warm and sculpted, and to her dismay her fingers spread over the undulating surface of their own volition. ‘Just. Wait.’

‘Are you okay?’ He loosened his hold and leaned back. ‘Because if you’re not s—’

‘I’m fine.’ She sucked in air. ‘Absolutely fine.’ Or would be if she could establish the same footing with this godlike, devilishly attractive being in front of her. Not surrender, she told herself. Equality.

‘Tell you what,’ he said, slowly. ‘Why don’t we—?’

‘Yes. Why don’t we?’ And before she changed her mind again she wound her fingers around the ends of her boa for a firm hold. Here was a rare chance to grab life and living with both hands and reel him in. She saw the glimpse of surprise in his dark eyes as she reached up on tiptoe, yanked him close and planted her mouth on his.

And oh, this man didn’t disappoint. As their lips connected she was sure she heard a hiss. More of a sizzle, actually. Heat met heat and that smouldering spark that had been arcing between them since they’d first laid eyes on each other ignited. She felt it catch, deep down inside, sending showers of sparkles to every extremity.

He pulled back a fraction. ‘Is control your thing, darling?’ A rogue’s smile danced over his lips and his eyes lit with amusement.

In a different situation his condescending darling would have annoyed her, but she didn’t have time to be annoyed because he was already moving his lips over hers once more and playing the game—his way. He was mayhem and magic and completely irresistible.

Determined to keep up, she matched his enthusiasm, leaning in and arching her body against his. Their lips softened and parted. Merged. His flavour invaded her mouth as breath mingled, tongues met and entwined.

She tasted wealth and power and persuasion. Danger in a will that matched her own. And for the first time in her life she wondered if a man—specifically, this man—might be more than she could handle.

But this was just a little harmless flirtation on a balcony. And Christmas Eve was about midnight madness and whimsical delights.

With eager hands she acquainted herself with his body. Hard slabs of muscle, the soft indent below his Adam’s apple. The springy masculine hair that sprouted from the V of his open-necked shirt. He was a gift and she was a kid on Christmas morning.

His hands were busy too, warm and firm on her shoulders, beneath her hair, down her back, toying with the top of her zipper. She gave an involuntary shiver—the tiny metal teeth were the only things holding up her dress and preventing her from standing here in nothing but red lace bikini panties.

On a balcony metres away from a hundred or more guests.

With a man she didn’t know.

Someone had so spiked that cocktail.

Or maybe it was time to live on the edge for once.

* * *

Damn. Jett managed, with difficulty, to pry his lips from hers. ‘I knew it.’ He leaned back and searched her face through a fog of lust. ‘Was that a fun shiver of delight and anticipation or do we need the festive foliage?’

‘Definitely fun.’ She smiled, those effervescent starlight eyes sparkling. ‘No mistletoe required.’

‘Thank God for that, then; I’ve no idea where to find any.’

‘What did you mean by: you knew it?’ she asked.

He hadn’t intended to say it aloud and blamed it on working all day after last night’s all-hours drink-fest. He slid his hands over lush feminine curves, lingering on her hips. ‘That you’d be a refreshing surprise at the end of a very ordinary day.’

Her hands covered his. ‘Not trouble?’

He touched his nose to hers. ‘You’re big trouble.’

‘I can live with that.’ Unrepentant, she entwined their fingers and rubbed her lips over his. ‘How about you?’

He sucked her sweet taste from his lips. ‘Mmm...’ Strawberries and pineapple with a dash of vodka. ‘So can I,’ he murmured before leaning down for a second helping.

More of this out-of-control feeling he’d not experienced since his teens. His erection throbbed and ached and burned as if it were his first time. His head spun with the fragrance of her skin, her hair and the way she shifted against him—breasts, belly, thighs all aligned perfectly, as if she’d been made to order. It wasn’t his lack of sleep sending him slightly insane—it was her.

Crazy was good—so were her lips: warm and pliant and mobile. He’d been working manic hours for months now; he needed a change of pace and didn’t everyone need a bit of wholesome crazy now and then? As she said, it was Christmas. It wasn’t called the silly season for nothing. ‘Maybe there’s something in this Secret Santa business after all,’ he murmured into her ear.

Her cheek lifted into a smile against his. ‘Definitely,’ she agreed, winding slender arms that smelled of sun-warmed apricots and cool cucumber around his neck.

With a growl, he walked her backwards until she butted up against the wall. He might have stopped a moment to admire the Titian-haired picture of perfection before him but patience had never been one of his strengths when it came to beautiful, willing women. He ground his pelvis against her and was rewarded when she arched her hips in response and sent up a little whimper of longing and capitulation. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders and she moaned.

‘Yes, darling, I’ve got what you want.’ One hand cupped the back of her head to hold her in place while he continued to savour the sweet delight of her mouth, the other glided over a breast, finding a taut little bead that hardened instantly beneath his touch.

He rolled it between his fingers through the fabric and she moaned again—the soft yielding sound compelling him to put his lips there. His teeth. To nip at the silk, to close his mouth over the bud and suck. To soothe her while he tortured himself with what he couldn’t do. At least, not here.

But the sounds of the party below seemed muted and irrelevant in the shadows. He looked into her desire-drenched eyes while he smoothed his palms over her dress, sliding the skin-warmed silk up her thighs. Up, over her hips. ‘You like what I’m doing to you.’

She pressed her lips together but a little mewing sound escaped.

‘There’s more,’ he promised, his fingers finding and exploring the smooth flesh of her inner thighs. Her head rolled back against the wall and her eyes darted towards the stairs. ‘No one’s going to come up here,’ he reassured her in his best persuasive tone. ‘Trust me.’

Wide-eyed, she looked back at him, disbelief etched between her slim brows. Her arms slid down to her sides, apparently incapable of holding on any longer.

Satisfaction rolled through him. She was his. Or would be, before the night was done.

‘Hey,’ he murmured, inching his hand higher, drawing tiny circles with his fingertips and feeling her legs start to tremble. ‘You chose sinner over Santa, work with me here.’

She shook her head. ‘I...’

‘A good choice.’ His fingers found satin and lace. Hot and damp satin and lace, and he knew they were halfway to where they both wanted to go.

But then she tensed. Sucked on her bottom lip.

‘Hey, it’s Christmas,’ he teased gently.

‘But—’

He cut off her protest with a slow, soothing kiss until he felt her soften once more. ‘Okay, forget sinner,’ he said against her lips. ‘We’ll play Secret Santa instead, and he won’t do anything you don’t want him to. You’re in the driver’s seat, and a few dozen guests within earshot over the balcony will tell you the same.’

In the driver’s seat? Olivia might have laughed but she was half out of her mind. Delirious and blinded by a desire and an urgency she’d never experienced.

A mistake, that cocktail, because she should have been able to resist. She’d never had a problem resisting men. But this man wasn’t just any man. He was wicked and persuasive and clever, and his hand was inside her panties, touching her—thrilling her—with just one flick of his finger over her most sensitive place and any second now she was going to shatter into a million pieces and she knew she’d never be the same ever again.

‘Come for me.’ The voice at her ear transported her to undiscovered realms, lifting her higher to some pinnacle just beyond her reach—

The distinctive beat of Coldplay jolted her back to some vague resemblance of reality. Brie. With trembling fingers she yanked her phone from the jewelled bag slung over one shoulder. Brie’s picture smiled at her. She glared back, found her voice. ‘Now you call.’

His fingers stilled but his hand remained, hot and arousing and slippery, inside her panties. ‘Is it an emergency?’

‘I don’t think so, b—’

‘Then get rid of whoever it is.’

His dictatorial tone irritated. ‘No.’ However tempting, she couldn’t—wouldn’t—ignore her friend until she knew she was okay. ‘I have to get this.’

Reluctantly, she tried to push his hand away. It didn’t budge. In the end she had no choice but to answer—breathlessly. ‘Hi...’ She closed her eyes as if not seeing him would somehow make him disappear. Resisted squirming against his fingers—for all of three seconds or so. ‘You all right?’

‘I’m great. Fabulous. What took you so long to answer?’

Brie wasn’t the only one feeling fabulous. ‘I’m...’ what the hell, Brie would be happy for her ‘...being seduced by a man in black. He’s my Secret Sinner-Santa.’

‘Believe it,’ he whispered into her ear.

She pressed her lips together to stop the urge to smile and squeal at the same time and felt the scrape of his bristled jaw against her neck.

Pause at the other end of the phone. ‘Oh. Okay. Sorry I’m late but I’m here now. Are you still at the party? I’ve looked everywhere.’

Not quite everywhere, Brie. ‘Yes...’ Omigod... His thumb was doing something amazing. How could she think, let alone carry on any semblance of intelligent conversation while he manipulated her with such devastating expertise? Darts of pleasure were shooting through her body and lights were coalescing and swirling in front of her eyes. ‘Still...here. Already told you...’

‘Where?’ Irritated impatience.

‘I’m...not...good company right now.’

‘I disagree,’ murmured the muffled voice, this time against the top of her breasts.

‘What?’ Brie’s voice, confused. ‘Is there someone with you?’

‘Must be...the hand—the band.’ A breeze with scent of summer and sex cooled the raging inferno in her cheeks while Secret Sinner-Santa assumed control and drove her to a rising crescendo of delight and desire and sheer desperation with every manic beat of her pulse.

‘And what do you mean not good company? Ken’s waiting, stay right where you are, wherever it is, I’m coming to get you.’

‘No... I’m coming...’

And she was. Right now. Right here. Awareness narrowed down to a pinpoint of sparkling sensation and the hand holding her phone slid from her ear as the world receded like the tide before a tsunami.

She heard the disembodied moan—part plea, all pleasure—sprint up her throat as the crescendo peaked and rolled, sending her tumbling over the silvery crest and showering her body with gold.

A slow sigh escaped her lips. Sweet, sugar-coated bliss. Sagging against his hard-packed stomach and an impressive erection, she floated down, her feet still not quite touching the ground. She wasn’t exactly a virgin but no guy had ever done it for her the way he had. Now she understood how sinfully, devastatingly irresistible the right man’s touch could be.

On the downside, it reduced even the most rational, self-disciplined person to a quivering, mindless mass. It had changed a sane sensible woman with a mind and opinion of her own—and an ability to say no—to someone she didn’t recognise.

She flopped her head back against the wall and looked up at him, committing his face to memory, then kissed her fingers and pressed them to his lips. ‘Merry Christmas.’

From somewhere near her left elbow, she heard Brie’s voice. ‘Olivia, are you drunk?’

‘No.’ Just not herself. Without taking her eyes off him—the way a sailor wouldn’t take her eyes off an approaching storm front—she raised the phone to her ear. ‘Meet you on the driveway. Two minutes.’

She disconnected and began sidestepping along the wall. Away. Now she’d had a moment to come to her senses, all she wanted was to be by herself and think about what she’d done. What he’d done. Oh my God. Her inner muscles clenched in fond remembrance. Casual sex on a balcony was not who she was. She didn’t know what to say, so she went with, ‘Thanks.’

He caught her arm, his dark, almost familiar eyes a cool shade of cynical. ‘So that’s it? Thanks?’

‘Yes. What else do you want me to say?’

His nostrils flared and a muscle twitched along his jaw. ‘We haven’t finished.’

Oh. She couldn’t help it; her gaze flicked down between them and her whole body felt weak and fizzy at the tempting display of manly magnificence outlined in fine black fabric. Pity she wasn’t going to see it in all its glory. ‘Sorry. I am, truly.’ You’ll never know how much. ‘But my friend’s waiting.’

He remained where he was, expression dangerously impassive. ‘Better hurry, then. And watch your step.’

A shiver ran down her spine but she realised he hadn’t meant it as a threat but a warning to take care on the stairs. Hiding his annoyance that she was running off without so much as a name uttered between them. Or was he relieved, as she was, that this had just been a little harmless Christmas Eve flirtation? No, she very much doubted he felt relieved.

Coldplay started up again, making her jump. ‘Thirty seconds, Brie, and I’m there,’ she said to the phone. ‘Have you met up with Jett yet?’ She was proud of her casual question and breezy voice as she all but stumbled to the stairs, scrambling for the handrail and tripping over her feet on her way down, a pair of eyes following her every move. She could feel them, dark and intense down her spine.

‘Forget Jett,’ Brie told her in a tight-lipped voice. ‘He’s obviously forgotten me. He can damn well find his own way back.’

Olivia slowed her mad dash when she saw Brie pacing the circular drive beside their chauffeured car. But not soon enough, because Brie had caught sight of her first. One slim eyebrow hiked and a smile played around her lips. Taking in Olivia’s no-doubt ravished and guilty-as-sin appearance.

‘Let’s go,’ Olivia said, pulling her evening bag off her shoulder and crushing it between her fingers.

Brie didn’t move. ‘Sinner-Santa, Liv. You weren’t kidding after all.’

‘It’s Christmas.’ The car was idling, the door was open and Olivia moved fast. ‘What are we waiting for?’

‘Such a hurry.’ Brie stepped into her path, sharp eyes scanning Olivia’s bare feet. ‘Cinderella only lost one shoe.’

Oh. Crap. ‘Never mind.’ She darted around Brie, muttering, ‘Thanks, Ken,’ and sweeping past their driver as if the hounds of hell were about to catch up with her. ‘What’s a pair of shoes?’

She piled into the back seat, her pesky observant friend settled in beside her, and Ken closed the door. Brie pressed a button and the privacy screen rose. As the vehicle progressed sedately towards the gates she picked a feather off Olivia’s shoulder, held it up as evidence. ‘And where’s the rest of my boa?’

Leaning back against the head rest, Olivia closed her eyes, which only drew attention to the riot happening inside her. ‘There was a wink in those words, Brie. And a nudge. And I’m warning you now they won’t get you anywhere.’

She felt the seat dip as Brie shifted towards her. ‘BFFs share.’

‘There’s nothing to share.’ Blood rushed to Olivia’s cheeks. ‘Not a thing.’

‘Well, fa-la-la-la-la!’ She punctuated each meaningfully loaded syllable with an exclamation mark. ‘Not a thing, hmm?’

She blew out a resigned breath. ‘Okay, not quite not a thing.’

‘Not quite?’

‘No. Yes. No. Doesn’t matter.’

‘What’s his name and are you seeing him again?’

‘No to both.’

‘Oh.’ Brie sounded disappointed. Olivia’s emotions were so all over the place she didn’t know how she herself felt. ‘And if I did know his name, I wouldn’t tell you. Big fat huh to BFFs. You haven’t talked to me about Jett, so we’re even.’

‘Jett’s my brother, not my lover, it’s hardly the same. And if you must know, I haven’t talked about Jett because he asked me not to.’

‘Why? Oh, Brie, he’s not done something, like, really bad, has he?’ She remembered Brie talking about his reluctance to open up and dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Like, has he been in prison...?’

‘No.’ Brie laughed. ‘Nothing like that. But he’s in the media—’

‘Famous?’ Olivia nodded slowly. ‘I’d know him.’

‘Livvie, you’ve been so focused on your work and studies and getting Snowflake up and going these past few years, I doubt it. And you really know how to deflect the conversation away from you.’

‘I told you. Okay, I didn’t tell you.’ She lowered the window to let the breeze cool her face. ‘We didn’t... But he... I...’ She smiled—she couldn’t help it. ‘It truly was an orgasmic experience.’

‘Wow.’

‘Totally.’ But Olivia’s buoyancy faded and something not so cheerful hooked in her chest. She pushed it away hard and joked, ‘Sinner-Santas are strictly for Christmas Eve. They disappear in a twinkle of Santa’s sleigh bell at midnight. And...’ she checked her watch ‘...Christmas Eve’s over.’

It was officially Christmas Day. The two of them were supposed to be having Christmas lunch with the mysterious brother—if he bothered to turn up. And Boxing Day it was all hands on deck, meaning if he didn’t show Brie wouldn’t catch up with him for days. ‘You’ve heard nothing from Jett?’

She gave a tight shrug. ‘He texted he was on his way to the party. Since then, nothing.’

‘He knows you’re in the race, doesn’t he?’

‘Yeah. He was coming to Sydney anyway, so I suggested we could celebrate the festive day together. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea.’

‘He’ll turn up, Brie. And I can’t wait to meet him.’

* * *

Well, if that didn’t take the celebration cake. Jett watched her flee, red hair flying, relieved he hadn’t gone any further. Still, it could’ve been an even hotter night in the city—if he hadn’t found out who she was. He shifted his stance to accommodate the swelling in his trousers that wasn’t likely to subside any time soon.

Trouble in strawberry lace D-cups. In the flesh.

And there’d been an abundance of that. Smooth and creamy and damn. Dragging off the feathers she’d left around his neck, he stuffed them in his back pocket. He could smell her skin—apricots and cucumber.

He might have followed, if only to return her shoes—then persuade her that the festivities should be extended a few hours because it was still Christmas Eve somewhere in the world—until he’d heard her mention his name. His name.

He’d been fooling around with Breanna’s friend.

A harsh bark of laughter escaped. What were the odds? Walking to the balcony, he searched out the driveway mostly hidden by a corner of the house. He caught sight of Breanna in the car’s headlights. He didn’t have to wait long to see a flash of red zip past her and disappear into the car.

The car accelerated down the drive and he turned away, facing into the breeze blowing up from the harbour. He needed to cool off. One minute without an audience—he shifted again—better make that five minutes. The excruciating pity of it all was she’d had no idea who he was and he might have enjoyed an evening—and a hell of a lot more—with someone who wasn’t out for his name and fame.

Breanna’s friend.

Sexy.

Available.

Not a good idea.

He scowled at the wall where she’d come apart beneath his hand, dress hiked, thighs quivering and her moans of pleasure sobbing on the air. The scent of her arousal lingered. Hell. He’d be lucky if he slept a wink tonight.

He’d known she was trouble the instant he’d clapped eyes on her.

But—he couldn’t help but grin—trouble had never come in such a tempting package.

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