A Dream Christmas. Кэрол Мортимер
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Carter had been doing when he’d entered the apartment and startled her into falling off the stepladder.
‘It looks great so far,’ he complimented lightly. ‘I just—For some reason, I had expected you to be older.’
‘You should have stopped while you were ahead, Mr Hamilton!’
That derisive smile grew wider, caused dimples to appear in her freckled cheeks.
Max grimaced. ‘Was I ahead?’
‘Probably not,’ she came back drily.
He gave an irritated shake of his head. ‘Have we met before?’
Sophie Carter gave a snort of laughter. ‘That’s not very likely, is it?’
Max raised dark brows. ‘Why is that?’
She gave a dismissive wave of her hand that nevertheless managed to encompass the luxury of his penthouse apartment as well as his own appearance, as opposed to her own less than sartorial elegance in jeans, a jumper and heavy boots.
Max’s own attention stayed on that slender artistic hand, the fingers long and delicate, the nails kept practically short. One of his particular hates was long, red-painted talons that could scratch a man’s back to pieces when—
Now that really was an inappropriate thought when made in connection to the hired help!
‘Do you do this sort of thing all the time or is this just a holiday job for you?’ Max tried again.
She shrugged slender shoulders. ‘I’m on Christmas break from my college course.’
Which meant she must be at least eighteen, Max realised. ‘In?’
‘Catering and business management,’ she seemed to reveal reluctantly.
‘So this is just a temp job to earn some extra money during the holidays?’ he realised.
‘Yes,’ she confirmed tightly.
Max’s brows lowered as he frowned. ‘And have you done this organising Christmas thing before?’
‘Many times,’ she assured drily.
‘Do you—’
‘Perhaps you would prefer it if I stopped what I’m doing for now?’ She spoke briskly. ‘I can easily come back again in the morning. After you’ve left for work, of course.’
What Max would really like would be to know why it was that this woman seemed to have decided she disliked him before she had even met him. Because he was pretty sure that she had. After all, his first act had been to save her from what could have been a nasty, and painful, fall onto the marble-tiled floor of his entrance hall.
He shrugged. ‘There isn’t actually a lot of time left before Christmas.’
‘No,’ Sophie acknowledged evenly, more than a little disturbed at the realisation that she found Max Hamilton so immediate, as well as so fiercely, intrusively masculine.
She had known yesterday that just the sound of his voice sent shivers of awareness down her spine—that huskily sexy voice that made a woman think of silk sheets and naked, entwined bodies.
But the last thing Sophie had been expecting was to find the man himself so attractive that her knees felt weak and her hands trembled slightly. She could kind of see where Sally’s friend Cathy had been coming from with this guy. It was just as well she and Sally had agreed not to admit to the family connection …
‘It really is your choice, Mr Hamilton,’ she added dismissively. ‘After all, you’re the one paying the bill.’
He considered her with those deep green eyes for several seconds before speaking again. ‘Maybe the two of us should start again over a glass of wine. You are old enough to drink, I take it?’ he added hastily.
‘I’m twenty-four, Mr Hamilton. I’ve been allowed to drink for several years.’ Sophie eyed him irritably.
‘Twenty-four?’ He looked startled. ‘You don’t look it.’ He eyed her doubtfully.
‘Well, you don’t look like a man who is either too busy or too lazy to organise Christmas for his sister and niece, but obviously looks can be deceiving,’ Sophie came back tartly.
And instantly had cause to regret that tartness as those hard green eyes narrowed to dangerous slits.
‘WHO ARE YOU?’ Max Hamilton demanded again, his voice briskly authoritative now as he suddenly seemed to tower over her in the confines of the entrance hall of his apartment.
Sophie realised she had seriously overstepped the mark with her last comment. ‘I apologise, Mr Hamilton. That was very rude of me and … there is no excuse for it.’
Except her physical reaction to Max Hamilton, of course. Which, given the circumstances of her family connection to Sally, she had no intention of allowing this man to so much as guess at. There was far more at stake here than her irritation with these unexpected feelings towards Max Hamilton. Sally’s job, for one thing. And ensuring that his five-year-old niece, Amy, had an enjoyable Christmas for another.
‘I believe a glass of wine for each of us is definitely in order.’ Max Hamilton spoke determinedly, his tone brooking no argument as he stepped back with the obvious intention of having Sophie precede him into the kitchen just down the hallway.
She did so reluctantly, very self-conscious as she wondered if Max Hamilton was looking at her own unbruised backside as she walked in front of him down the hallway. Probably not, when he had thought she wasn’t even old enough to legally drink alcohol until a few minutes ago. She definitely bore no resemblance, in looks or sophistication, to those beautiful women he was always being photographed with in the papers.
And why did that even matter?
Just because Max Hamilton was the most sexily gorgeous man Sophie had ever set eyes on, with a voice to match, it didn’t mean she was about to join the legion of women who were rumoured to have fallen in love with him over the last ten years.
Because the man was also a too rich and equally spoilt playboy and, worst of all, one who preferred to go skiing with friends rather than celebrate Christmas with his family.
As far as Sophie was concerned, that last mark against him was the worst one …
She watched him now from beneath lowered lashes, hesitating near the doorway as he crossed the kitchen to the wine cooler next to the huge stainless steel American-style fridge.
‘You aren’t driving later, are you?’
Sophie gave a tight smile. ‘Public transport.’
He nodded. ‘White wine okay with you?’
‘Fine,’ she confirmed distractedly.
He moved with a light predatory grace that Sophie found as disturbing as the rest of him. His legs were long in tailored dark trousers, the matching jacket of his suit fitting perfectly over those wide and muscled shoulders, the darkness of his tousled hair almost touching his shoulders at the back and falling onto his brow at the front.
It was testament to how much this man dominated the space around him that Sophie found herself looking at him rather than admiring the amazing kitchen she had literally drooled over earlier today.
She wasn’t a great lover of modern kitchens, but she was willing to make an exception with this one; the kitchen units were high gloss black, topped with dark grey marble, as was the worktable standing in the middle of the spacious room. There was a matching breakfast bar, while all of the appliances were stainless steel, including a large range cooker that took up half of one wall. It was a chef’s dream kitchen.
Sophie’s