The Christmas Love-Child. Jennie Lucas
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“I share a house with Alan.”
He gave her a knowing glance. “I see.”
“We’re not lovers, if that’s what you think!” But she could see he didn’t believe her. She felt her cheeks turn redder still. “I have my own three-room flat in his basement. As his executive secretary, he needs me to always be available. With London rents as expensive as they are, I’m happy to have a place to stay.”
“How very convenient for you both,” he murmured silkily.
“You don’t understand,” she stammered. “It’s all fair and aboveboard. He deducts the cost of the rent from my salary each month!”
He suddenly laughed. “Does he really? So you’re available to him around the clock, running his personal errands on your own time…and he still makes you pay money to live in his basement?” He shook his head. “I can see why he inspires such loyalty.”
“Oh, forget it,” she said in a huff, sitting back against the seat and staring stonily out at passing Hyde Park. “If you’re going to insult Alan, you can forget the tea and just take me home.”
“I didn’t insult him.”
“You did!”
“I’m just surprised at your loyalty. You deserve more.”
She stared at him. She deserved more? It was an entirely new thought. She’d spent three years in lowpaying temp jobs in downtown L.A. before she’d been hired by Cali-West. She’d been instantly smitten by the powerful, blond, handsome CEO who looked like a young Hugh Grant. She’d thought herself very lucky.
But the darkly handsome Russian prince thought she deserved…more?
“Are we close to the tea shop?” Maksim asked. She saw the driver waiting for directions, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.
She pointed grumpily. “Right there. Just past the light.”
The white-haired lady who owned the patisserie appeared flustered by Maksim’s broad-shouldered form appearing in the doorway of her dainty shop. He seemed massively masculine, out of place against the faded flowery wallpaper. She immediately seated them at the best table, tucked in a corner window overlooking the crowds and festive windows of Harrods across the street. When the Frenchwoman asked for their order, Grace waited for Maksim to order first, as Alan would have done.
Instead, he looked at her questioningly, reaching across the small table to take her hand. “What do you recommend, Grace?”
“I…um.” She glanced down at her hand wrapped in his far larger one. She could barely think with him touching her. “The…er…” She pulled her hand away under pretense of picking up the gently tattered menu that she’d long ago learned by heart. “The English breakfast tea is good. The pastries are excellent, and so are the sandwiches.” She looked up at Madame Charbon, handing back her menu. “I’ll have my usual.”
The woman nodded.
Maksim handed her his menu. “I’ll have the same.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
As the Frenchwoman departed, Grace looked at him in surprise. “You don’t even know what you just ordered!”
He shrugged. “You know this restaurant. I trust you.”
He trusted her. She tried not to feel flattered. “Want to know what you’re having?”
“I like surprises.”
Normally Grace didn’t, but she was starting to. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I was so upset in the car. I guess you really weren’t insulting Alan.”
“He is lucky to have you.”
She stared down at the tiny table. The truth was it was sometimes grating how small her paycheck was. And never more so than now. She’d been his junior secretary for eighteen months before she was promoted to executive assistant six months ago. But in spite of her additional responsibilities, he’d never given her a raise commensurate with her new position. He’d always managed to put her off with an excuse and a smile.
Then he’d decided to pursue a long-shot merger with Exemplary Oil PLC and he’d abruptly moved them to London in early October. In L.A. Grace had had fewer expenses. She’d been able to live at home and help her family. Now that she lived in London and paid Alan rent, she was barely able to send her mother a hundred dollars a month.
This led to one inescapable conclusion: the looming foreclosure of her family’s home was entirely Grace’s fault.
As Madame Charbon arrived with the steaming mugs of hot chocolate and croissants, Grace tried to push the depressing thoughts away. They just made her feel more powerless and scared and…angry.
Alan will help me. He will, she repeated to herself.
“What are you thinking about, solnishka mayo?” Maksim asked, leaning forward as he looked at her keenly.
She gulped down some hot chocolate, scalding her tongue. “Nothing. Um. I was just wondering if you’ve ever ridden the Trans-Siberian Railroad.”
His dark eyebrows rose. “An odd question.”
“You’re Russian, aren’t you?” She smiled wistfully. “I used to dream about that train when I was a little girl, a train that crosses seven time zones and nearly six thousand miles, going all the way from Moscow to the Pacific Ocean.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said dryly. “I live in Moscow only a few months a year. When I travel or visit the northern oil fields I go by jet.”
“Of course you do,” she said with a sigh. “So where do you live when you’re not in Russia? London?”
“I have many houses around the world. Six or seven. I live in whichever one is convenient.”
She stared at him. “Six or seven? You’re not even sure how many?”
He shrugged. “I have as many as I need. I sell them when I’m bored.” He licked the thick whipped cream off the top of the mug with his wide tongue, causing her to stare in spite of herself. He took a sip of hot chocolate, then a bite of the croissant. “This is delicious.”
“I’m glad you like it. Alan hates hot chocolate.”
Maksim’s eyes suddenly sliced through hers. “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?”
She felt sucker punched.
“What?” she whispered. “Who?”
“You’re his loyal slave. You live in his house. You spend your free hours running his errands. It’s plain you’re not doing it for the money, since you have none. There’s only one explanation. You love him.”
Grace opened up her mouth to deny it, but suddenly she was so tired of lying. Tired of holding everything inside, of keeping it together, of having no one to confide in and no one she could rely upon. She took a deep breath.
“Yes. I love him.” Sinking her head into her hands, she whispered, “It’s hopeless.”
“I know.” She looked up, saw surprising warmth and sympathy in his handsome face. “I’m usually on the other side of it. Old or young, secretaries imagine themselves in love with me and drop like flies from my office. It’s painful. It causes disruption. I hate it.”
“Me, too.” She gave a little laugh that ended with a sob—or was it a sob that ended with a laugh? She tried her best at a laissez-faire shrug. “And now he’s engaged to someone who’s beautiful, wealthy and so, well…”
“Vicious?” His eyes met hers. “Cruel and mean?”
With a gulp, she nodded. “I’m surprised to hear you say that. Didn’t you love her?”
He changed