His house was huge, she thought wistfully. Huge and gorgeous. Polished wood floors, soft rugs and huge windows, it succeeded in being stylish and welcoming at the same time.
He intercepted her glance. ‘My sister’s an interior designer. She can’t resist the temptation to manage my living space. It’s called interfering.’
‘Lucky you.’ What wouldn’t she have given to have a sibling to interfere in her life?
Pushing away the thought, she followed him into the large living room. More huge windows overlooked the garden and the lawn sloped down to the shore of the lake. The mist had lifted, the snow had stopped and in the distance the fells rose, snowy and breathtakingly beautiful.
A crackling log fire formed the focus of the room and Miranda found herself wanting to sink down onto the thick, opulent rug and purr like a cat.
It was hard to believe that people actually lived like this, she mused as she looked at the exquisite painting above the fire. It all seemed a million miles from her real life.
Then her eyes rested on a photograph on the mantelpiece. There was no mistaking the man in the photo. The same wicked blue eyes, the same cropped dark hair and dangerous smile. And he was rolling in the snow with two laughing children.
She picked it up, the warmth draining from her body, her mouth so dry she could hardly form the words. ‘Are they yours? Are you married?’ She almost laughed at herself. Of course he was married! Why would a man like him be single?
‘They’re my nephews—my sister’s children. I’m not married.’ His eyes narrowed and his gaze was suddenly intent. ‘Do you think I’d have invited you back here if I was married with children? Do I look as though I’m married?’
‘Appearances can be deceptive.’ Hoping that he didn’t notice that her hand was shaking, she put the photograph carefully back on the table.
This was ridiculous.
She ought to leave, she thought to herself, suddenly unsettled by the feelings she was having.
But then she thought of the small, freezing bedroom with the bare walls and peeling paintwork that awaited her. She was in no hurry to go home.
If he wasn’t married, what harm could it do to stay? She wasn’t hurting anyone.
Just for the rest of the day, she promised herself, and then she’d go back to the harsh reality of her life.
She sank down onto the sofa. It was deep and squashy and comfortable and suddenly she just wanted to curl up and sleep. ‘This is a lovely room.’
‘Thanks. What can I get you to drink?’ He stood by the fire, fingers hooked into the pockets of his jeans as he watched her. ‘Wine? Champagne?’
‘Oh.’ She brushed her damp hair away from her face. ‘Something non-alcoholic, please. Juice? Tonic?’
‘It’s Christmas. Don’t you fancy anything stronger?’
‘No, thanks. I have to cycle home later. I don’t want to be drunk in charge of a heap of rust.’
He smiled and handed her a glass. ‘So where’s home, Miranda? And why were you avoiding Christmas Day?’
‘It’s just not my favourite time,’ she said evasively, and he gave a wry smile of understanding.
‘Too much of the media portrayal of happy families?’
‘Oh, no. That’s all nonsense.’
His blue eyes lingered on hers. ‘Is it?’
‘Of course.’ She curled her legs under her and grinned at him. ‘It’s an image created by advertisers would have you believe that the perfect family exists, but it doesn’t. At least, only on the surface. Underneath, it’s all very different.’
‘Different in what way?’
‘Things are never as they appear on the surface. All families have secrets.’ She sipped at her drink. ‘Take the fa
mily in that yoghurt advert on television.’
He smiled. ‘I know the one you mean. Healthy, happy and smiling. Two children and a dog. The sun is shining and there isn’t a cloud in the sky.’