A Champagne Christmas: The Christmas Love-Child / The Christmas Night Miracle / The Italian Billionaire's Christmas Miracle. Catherine Spencer
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She shook her head uneasily. “No,” she lied. “I’m not afraid of you at all.”
He held the door wider. “Then get in.”
Flurries of sleet swirled around Grace in a sudden gust of wind. Wet tendrils of blond hair whipped against her cheek, sticking to her skin. But she didn’t feel the chill. His gray eyes seared through hers, sapping her will.
And she made her choice—which was really no choice at all. She climbed into the back seat of his Rolls-Royce.
He closed the door behind her.
Once released from his basilisk gaze, alone in the back seat, Grace was as suddenly shocked as if she’d just woken up sleepwalking in Buckingham Palace. What was she doing here? It wasn’t a dream. She was really in Prince Maksim’s limo. She was consorting with the enemy.
But he’s not my enemy, she thought in confusion as she watched his dark shadow walk around to the other side. He’s Alan’s enemy. And what do people say? The enemy of my friend is my enemy? Or is it that the enemy of my enemy is my friend?
The door opened, and the most handsome, ruthless man in London climbed in beside her with a dark glance that made her feel hot and sweaty all over.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked.
“Am I being nice?”
“If it’s to get secrets about my boss—”
“It’s Christmas. The season of joy.” Festive lights from the nearby shops glinted off his wolflike teeth as he gave her a sharp smile. “And I’m going to give you joy.” He turned to his chauffeur. “Davai.”
The shadowy Rolls-Royce swept away from the curb. And just like that, Prince Maksim Rostov took her away from the drudgery and crowds and cold, and swept Grace up into his lavish world.
MAKSIM glanced down at the girl’s lovely, dazzled blue eyes as his chauffeur drove east through the crowded traffic on Knightsbridge Road towards Mayfair. She’d called him “nice.” He repeated the word in his mind as if he were trying to comprehend it.
Nice?
Prince Maksim Ivanovich Rostov had not become powerful by being nice.
His great-grandfather had been nice during his Paris exile, spending money as if he were still Grand Duke with his own fiefdom in St. Petersburg, giving largesse freely to every hard-luck story that walked into his pied-à-terre.
His grandfather had been nice, spending what little remained of the Rostov fortune down to the last penny in London as he waited impatiently for the Russian people to kick out the Soviets and beg him to return.
His father had been nice, hopelessly trying to support his young, sweet American wife by taking increasingly humiliating jobs until he’d finally followed his father’s lead of suicide-by-vodka, leaving his gentle wife, eleven-year-old son and baby daughter to fend for themselves in her native Philadelphia.
But Maksim…
He was not nice.
He was selfish. He was ruthless. He took what he wanted. It was how he’d built a billion-dollar fortune out of nothing.
And now…he wanted Grace Cannon.
For the past hour, he’d been waiting for her. His chauffeur had driven back and forth on Brompton Road, waiting to catch the girl as she came up from the Knightsbridge Tube stop on the way home to her basement flat in Barrington’s town house.
This young American secretary was the key to everything.
She would help him finally crush Barrington. The man had been a thorn in his side for far too long, and now he’d finally crossed the line by taking both the deal—and the woman—that rightfully belonged to Maksim.
Barrington thought he’d saved himself from ruin by taking Francesca as his fiancée. He’d soon find it was his last mistake. He would get neither the bride nor the merger.
Maksim would destroy him. As he deserved.
And Grace Cannon would help him. Whether she wanted to or not.
Maksim turned to her with a smile. Unfolding a soft cashmere blanket, he draped it over her shivering body.
“Thank you,” she said, her teeth still chattering.
“It’s my pleasure.”
“You’re not what I expected,” she whispered, pressing the blanket against her cheek. “You’re not like everyone says.”
“What do they say?” He carelessly placed his arm on the leather seat behind her. She was still shivering. He moved closer. Even though she was now covered with a blanket, her shivering only increased when he touched her.
“They say…you’re a…ruthless playboy,” she said haltingly. “That you spend half your time conquering business rivals…and the other half making conquests of women.”
He laughed. “They are right.” He moved closer, looking down into her face. “That is exactly who I am.”
His thigh brushed against hers, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She scooted away from him as if he’d burned her.
She was skittish. Very skittish.
There were only three possible explanations.
One—she was afraid of him. He dismissed that idea out of hand. She wouldn’t have agreed to get in his car if she’d been truly afraid.
Two—she had no experience with men. He dismissed that idea, as well. A twenty-five-year-old virgin? Almost impossible in this day and age. Particularly since she not only worked for Alan Barrington, she lived in his house. He surely had seduced her many times over.
That left only the third possibility. She was ripe for Maksim’s conquest.
He slowly looked her over. She wasn’t a girl that any man would immediately notice. Compared to fiery bird-of-paradise Francesca, who had bright-red hair, sharp red nails and a vicious red mouth, Grace Cannon was a drab sparrow, pale and frumpy with barely a word to say for herself.
And yet…
Now that Maksim really looked at her, he saw that the girl wasn’t nearly as plain as he’d first thought. Her ill-fitting coat and wet ponytail had made her seem so, but now he realized his mistake.
The fact that she wore no makeup only revealed the perfection of her creamy skin. Her eyelashes and eyebrows were so light as to be invisible, but that proved the glorious pale gold of her hair came from nature, not a salon. She wore no lipstick and her teeth hadn’t been bleached to blinding movie-star whiteness, and yet her tremulous smile was warmer and lovelier than any he’d seen. She wasn’t stick thin as the strange fashion for women dictated, but her ample curves only made her more lushly desirable.
He suddenly realized the dowdy secretary was a beauty.
A secret beauty, disguising herself away from the world. Beneath the unattractive clothing and the frumpy, frizzy hairstyle, her loveliness shone bright as the sun.
She hid her beauty. Why?
“What’s wrong?” She frowned up at him suddenly, furrowing her brow in alarm.
Had she guessed his plan? “What, solnishka mayo?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“You’re beautiful,” he said simply. “Like sunshine in winter.”
She blushed, biting her tender pink lip as she looked away. Clutching the luxurious cashmere like a security blanket against her wet, threadbare coat, she scooted further away from him on the car’s