Christmas with the Maverick Millionaire

Her fingers brushed the skin of the jacket. It felt expensive. Thickly padded but light to touch.

Dave climbed into the driver’s seat and nodded at the gear. ‘Told you it was your colour. It matches your eyes.’

She blushed. Her eyes were the one thing that most people commented on. She wasn’t sure whether being blonde-haired and blue-eyed was a blessing or a curse.

Dave started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, heading towards the main road. It felt like being in another world. They were surrounded by snow-covered Alps. The lights were glowing in the town in front of them. It looked warm and inviting against the black fir trees and high mountains.

‘So, you haven’t told me. Who do you work for?’

Dave’s eyes flitted sideways for a second to look at her then focused back on the road ahead. ‘No one’s told you?’ There was a knowing smile on his face.

She shrugged. ‘Not yet. But I thought I was going to have to sign the non-disclosure in blood.’

‘You’re lucky you didn’t.’ She was joking, but he made it sound as if he heard that every other day.

‘What’s the big secret?’ Curiosity was beginning to kill her. She hadn’t given it much thought on the plane flight over, she’d been too busy focusing on the diabetes aspects and developing plans for a newly diagnosed adult patient. Plus, she still had that email to read. She glanced at her phone. Her 3G signal had left her. She had no idea what phone signals would be like in the Alps. She would have to ask for wifi access when they reached the hotel.

‘Mitchell Brody. He’s the big secret. He’s just been diagnosed and he starts a world tour in three weeks. The timing couldn’t be worse.’

Her mouth fell open and her heart did a little stop-start. So not what she was expecting to hear. ‘Mitchell Brody? The Mitchell Brody?’ Now she understood the need for a non-disclosure agreement. Mitchell Brody, rock star, was pure media fodder. Every time the man blinked it practically made the news. Roguishly handsome, fit body and gorgeous smile. But he was the original bad boy. The papers were full of stories about him waking other guests in hotels by rehearsing at four in the morning. Huge headlines about bust-ups between band members and managers. Wrecked rooms and punch-ups with other stars were everyday news. Whoever was the model of the moment, was usually the woman photographed on his arm. He was worth millions, no, billions.

Dave shrugged. ‘Is there any other?’

She gulped. The neat plan she’d imagined in her head instantly scrambled. Mitchell Brody wasn’t the kind of guy who’d take kindly to planning all his meals and insulin doses. He lived by the seat of his pants. The guy had never played by the rules in his life—chances were, he wasn’t about to start now.

She sagged back against her seat as she realised just what she was taking on. ‘Wow. I didn’t expect it to be him.’

Dave seemed amused. ‘Who did you think it would be?’

‘Honestly? I had no idea. Maybe some kind of TV soap actor or rich businessman. Mitchell Brody, well, he’s just huge.’ She looked out of the window at the passing streetlights. The shops were full of Christmas decorations and the buildings lined above were vintage façades of eighteenth-century houses in multicoloured pastel shades of pink, blue, yellow and peach. It was like summer, in the middle of winter. Gorgeous.

The car turned up a mountain. ‘What hotel are we staying in? Do you think I’ll be able to speak to the chef?’

Dave frowned. ‘What makes you think we’re staying in a hotel?’

She watched as they started up the mountain range, passing Tirol-styled hotel after hotel. ‘Isn’t that where everyone stays?’

‘Maybe everyone who isn’t Mitchell Brody. He’s owned a house up here for the last five years.’

‘He has?’ The snow was glistening around them. The hotels were gorgeous—so picturesque. All set perfectly on the mountainside for easy access to the Innsbruck snow slopes. She shifted a little uncomfortably in her seat. Snow slopes. The signs were everywhere. Why else would anyone buy a house up here? She wrinkled her nose, she couldn’t remember any of the press stories being about Mitchell’s antics on the snow slopes. Nope, those stories were all about Caribbean retreats and private yachts. She cleared her throat. ‘Does Mitchell like to ski, then?’

Dave laughed. ‘Does Mitchell like to ski? Do bees flock around honey? Does some seventeen-year-old try and sweet-talk her way past me at every venue we go to?’ He shook his head and gestured towards the back seat. ‘Why do you think I brought you the ski gear?’

‘To stop me from getting cold?’ Her voice squeaked as she spoke, as the true horror of the situation started to unload. Her one and only skiing trip as a teenager had resulted in her spending most of her time flat on her back—or face down in the snow. Water had seeped through her jeans and down the sleeves and neck of her jacket. She’d finally hidden back down at the ski centre in front of a roaring fire with a hot chocolate in front of her. When the ski instructor had eventually come looking for her to persuade her back onto the slopes, her answer had been a resounding no.

Even the thought of skiing sent a shiver down her spine, which Dave misinterpreted. ‘Better put your jacket on, we’ll be there in a minute and it’s freezing out there.’

She nodded and wiggled her arms out of her grey duffel and pulled the blue jacket over from the back seat. It was pure and utter luxury, evident from the second she pushed her arms inside. Even though they were still inside the car, the heat enfolded her instantly. She tucked her blonde curls under the matching woolly hat and pulled up the zip. ‘It’s lovely, Dave. Thanks very much.’

She eyed the salopettes still lying across the back seat. It was a stand-off. No way was she putting those on.

Dave turned the wheel down a long private road. The warm glow at the end gradually came into focus. A beautiful, traditionally styled Tirol chalet. Okay, maybe it was four times the size of all the others she’d seen. But it was gorgeous, right down to the colourful window boxes, upper balcony and black and red paintwork on the outside.

She opened the car door and almost didn’t notice the blast of icy air all around her. She was too busy staring at the mountain house. She climbed out and automatically stuck her hands in her pockets. The wind started whistling around her jeans. Maybe salopettes weren’t such a bad idea after all.

‘This place is huge,’ she murmured. ‘How many people stay here?’

Dave was pulling her case from the trunk as if it was as light as a feather. ‘Just you and Mitchell.’

She sucked in a deep breath. The air was so cold it almost smarted against her throat. So not what she’d expected to hear. ‘You don’t stay here too?’

Dave laughed. ‘Me? No.’

‘And he doesn’t have any staff?’ She was trying not to think the thoughts that were currently circulating in her brain. Alone. In a mountain retreat. With a gorgeous rock star. She could almost hear her friend Carly’s voice in her ear, along with the matching action punch in the air. ‘Kerching!’

This was really happening.

Wow. Her feet were stuck to the ground. Snow seeped instantly through her flat-heeled leather boots, which had distinctly slippery soles. She should really move, but the whole place looked like a complete ice rink. She wobbled as she turned around and grabbed the fur-lined boots from the car. They had thick treads—obviously designed for places like this. It only took a minute to swap them over.

‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.’ Dave strode over towards the entranceway of the house. ‘Mitch is really private. He doesn’t like people hanging around him. There’s no cook. No PA.’ He gave a little laugh as if he’d just realised what she’d be up against. ‘Yeah, good luck with all this, Samantha.’

She blinked. She was going to be staying in a house alone with Mitchell Brody. The hottest guy on the planet. She might even have had a tiny crush on him at some point.

She might have lingered over some picture of him on the internet, showing off a naked torso with a fabulous set of abs, slim-fitting leather trousers and his shaggy, slightly too-long dark hair. The guy made grunge sexy.

She gulped. Her throat had never felt so dry. When was the last time she’d had something to drink? It must have been on the plane a few hours ago. Dave pushed open the door to the house and she stepped inside.

Wow. It was like stepping inside a shoot for a house magazine. The biggest sitting room she’d ever been in, white walls, light wooden floors, with a huge television practically taking up one wall. Sprawling, comfortable sofas and a large wooden dining-room table surrounded by twelve chairs. It screamed space. It yelled money. This place must have cost a fortune.

There was a tinkle of glass breaking off to her right, followed by some colourful language. Dave’s brow wrinkled. ‘Mitch?’

The headlines started to shoot through her brain. Please don’t let her first meeting be with a drunken rock star.

She followed Dave as he strode through to the equally large kitchen. It should have been show home material too, but it was in complete disarray. Every door was hanging open, with food scattered everywhere. The door of the biggest refrigerator she’d ever seen was also open and Mitchell Brody was rummaging around inside—a glass of orange juice smashed around his feet. He didn’t even seem to have noticed.

She glanced at Dave, whose face showed utter confusion at the scene around him. Every part of her body started to react. She moved quickly. ‘Is this normal, Dave?’

‘No, not at all.’ He hadn’t budged. His feet seemed welded to the floor.

Her instincts kicked into gear. She had no idea what to expect. She knew next to nothing about Mitchell Brody—only what she’d read in the press. But right now he wasn’t Mitchell Brody, rock star. He was Mitchell Brody, patient. One who was newly diagnosed with diabetes. ‘Is anyone else here?’

Dave shook his head. There was no one she could ask for some background information. Dave had been with her for the last hour, so Mitchell must have been alone. She hadn’t even had a chance to read the email from the consultant yet. She strongly suspected his actions were to do with his diabetes but, then again, she might just be about to witness a legendary Mitchell Brody tantrum. No matter what, it was time to act.

She moved over next to him, kicking the glass away from around his feet and touching his back. ‘Mitchell, can I help you with something?’

He spun around and she drew in a deep breath in shock. His shirt was hanging open and the top button of his jeans was undone. His face was gaunt, the frame under his shirt thin and the six-pack that adorned teenage walls had vanished, all clinical signs of ketoacidosis. Just how long had it taken them to diagnose him?

‘Who are you?’ he growled, before ignoring her completely and turning back to the refrigerator and scattering some more food around. An apple flew past her ear, closely followed by a banana, and then a jar of jam, which shattered on the grey tile floor.

The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Mitchell Brody was having a hypoglycaemic attack, his blood sugar so low he would probably pass out in the next few minutes if she didn’t get some food into him.

‘Move,’ he hissed, as he nudged her with his hip. She looked around. She had no idea where anything was in this place. She recognised the belligerent edge to his voice. Her sister had had it frequently as she’d hypoed as a child. That fine line where she hadn’t been able to focus or steady her thoughts and had moved into auto-protect mode. It was almost as if the adrenaline fight-or-flight reaction had kicked in and it had been survival of the fittest.

‘What does he like to eat?’ she asked Dave, as she started searching through the cupboards for something suitable. She needed something to give him a quick blast of sugar in his system.

Dave hesitated. ‘Strawberries and apples—he has a smoothie every morning. Or he did, until this happened.’

She reached past Mitchell, who was still fumbling in the refrigerator. ‘Get him over to the sofa.’ Her words were brisk. She had to act quickly. She grabbed a punnet of strawberries from the fridge and some apples. The blender was sitting on the countertop and she threw the whole lot in and held down the lid while pressing the button. She pulled a carton of yoghurt from the fridge too. It was peach, totally random, but it would have to do. She dumped it in the blender as well and kept pressing. Dave appeared at her side, putting his hands on Mitchell’s shoulders and guiding him over to sit down. ‘What’s going on?’

‘His blood sugar is too low. If I can get something into him quickly, he should be fine,’ she said over the noise of the blender.

She grabbed a glass from one of the open cupboards and dumped the contents of the blender into it. There were some straws scattered across the countertop and she pushed a couple into the drink. Seconds later she sat down on the sofa next to him.

‘Hi, Mitchell, I’m Samantha, your nurse. Can you take a little drink of this for me, please?’

She held the straw up towards his lips and he immediately batted it away with his hands. ‘No, leave me alone.’ Her stomach was doing flip-flops. Every person was different, but from past experience her sister could also be slightly aggressive while hypoing. Not an ideal scenario. Particularly with a man who had more muscle than she did. Thank goodness Dave was here. Maybe he would respond better to a familiar face?

She held tightly on to the glass and persisted, ‘It’s your favourite. Just take a sip.’

His eyes had that slightly wild look in them, definitely unfocused as if the world around him wasn’t making sense. He hesitated for a second, before finally taking a reluctant sip. After a few moments he sucked a little harder, as if he’d recognised the taste of what he was drinking. He grabbed the glass from her hand and held it close to his chest while he sucked.

It was a slow process, but one that Samantha was familiar with. She was patient, she could wait. Five minutes later the glass was nearly drained. Her hands were itching to find a blood-glucose monitor and check his levels—there had to be one around here somewhere. But she didn’t want to leave his side.

Dave was looking pretty uncomfortable. He clearly wasn’t used to anything like this and it was obvious she was going to have to give him a few lessons in dealing with diabetes too.

‘What do we do now?’ he asked.

‘Now?’ She sat back against the sofa. It was every bit as comfortable as it looked. ‘Now, Dave, we wait.’

CHAPTER TWO

THERE WAS AN angel floating around in his vision. An angel with blonde curls, bright blue eyes and a matching jacket. She also had a weird matching hat on her head that made the curls look as if they were suspended in mid-air. Strange. His dreams didn’t normally look like this.

The angel kept patting his hand and talking to him quietly. Those weren’t the normal actions of a woman this hot in his dreams either. Maybe he was turning over a new leaf?

He smiled to himself. Maybe he could take his dream in another more Mitch-like direction?

There was another voice in the background. It was annoying him. Eating into the little space in his head that was cloudy and comfortable. But something else wasn’t comfortable. His back ached. And for some odd reason he felt cold.

His hands touched his bare chest. Why was he half-dressed?

He sat up, trying to unload the fuzzy feeling around him. Ahh. He recognised that voice. The background noise was Dave. He was talking the way he did when he was nervous, too fast, his words all joined up and practically rolling into one.

The blue angel was still misting around. She was talking to him again. ‘Hi, there, Mitchell. Are you back with us?’ She didn’t wait for a reply—just as well really, as his mouth felt a bit thick—as if someone had just punched him and given him a split lip. He stuck his tongue out and licked. No, no blood. But there was definitely something else, something familiar. Strawberries. When had he eaten those?

His brain was starting to function again. Tiny little jigsaw pieces slotting into place to give a bigger picture.

But one thing was still standing out a mile. The unfamiliar.

She touched him again. Only on his arm, but it was enough to make his senses spark. Contrary to public belief, Mitchell Brody didn’t like people touching him, pawing at him. It made him feel as if he were for sale. Like a cashmere scarf or leather shoe being stroked in a women’s department store. Yuck.

He shrugged her off and sat up. ‘Who are you?’ He shook his head, it felt like jelly was in his brain.

She smiled. A beaming white, perfect-teeth kind of smile. Who was her dentist?

She held her hand out towards him. ‘You’ve been expecting me. I’m Samantha Lewis, your nurse. The agency sent me to help you manage your diabetes.’ The smile disappeared from her face. ‘And not a moment too soon. Why did they discharge you from hospital before I got here?’

A frown creased her forehead, ruining the smooth skin and showing little creases around her eyes. He’d liked her better before.

He moved in the chair, turning around to see the mumbling Dave.

‘Dave, what’s going on here?’ His voice sounded a little funny. A little slow. His eyes took in the chaos in the kitchen, which looked as if food had exploded all around it. He stood up and pointed. ‘And what on earth happened in my kitchen?’

The last thing he could remember was looking at the clock and wondering when his nurse would arrive. He hadn’t even decided what room to put her in.

His shirt was flapping around and he did up a few of the buttons haphazardly. Not that he was embarrassed by his body. The amount of calendars he sold every year put paid to that idea. But it was hardly an ideal meeting with his new nurse. When had she got here?

New nurse. Now his brain was kicking back into gear he was more than a little surprised. He had kind of expected some older matron-type who’d bark orders at him for the next three weeks.

He certainly hadn’t expected some cute, slim, blonde-haired, blue-eyed chocolate-box-type cheerleader. In lots of ways he should be pleased.

But he wasn’t. Not really. Something wasn’t right. Was this what the doctor had warned him about? How sometimes with diabetes you could be unwell?

After tonight’s display he needed someone to get his condition under control so he could start on his tour. People were counting on him. Kids were counting on him—not to mention their families. The last thing he needed was some bright-eyed, bushy-tailed young girl hanging around him, distracting him.

She tapped him on the arm. The expression on her face had changed. She wasn’t all smiles now. She was deadly serious. ‘Mitchell, can you tell me where your blood-glucose meter is? You need to check your levels then we’ll have a chat about what just happened.’

She spoke to him as if he was a child. Her tone and stance had changed completely.

So Mitchell did what he always did. He completely ignored her and walked over to the kitchen, crunching on some broken glass on the tiled floor. ‘Who broke a glass?’ he yelled, spinning around to accuse Dave and the strange new nurse.

He held his hands out. ‘What happened, Dave? Who did it? Who’s been in my kitchen?’ He didn’t like disorder. That’s why it was so much easier staying by himself—there was no one else around to make a mess.

Dave was pushing things back into cupboards. He turned around and rested his hands behind him on the countertop, hesitating before he spoke.

‘Well, actually, I wasn’t here. I went to pick up Samantha at the airport. And when we got back … His voice tailed off as if he didn’t want to finish.

Mitchell could feel his exasperation reach breaking point. He had no idea what was going on in his own home. ‘When you got back, what?’ He glanced at the clock and blinked, then looked again. The last two hours of his life seemed to have vanished without him knowing where they’d gone.

Dave laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You were raking about the cupboards and the fridge. We weren’t quite sure what you were doing.’

It was as if the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle fell into place. Except it didn’t slot in quietly, it slammed in, as if banged by a hammer. Realisation dawned on his face and he looked around again. ‘I did this?’

Samantha appeared at his side. ‘Mitchell, it’s time you and I had a talk.’

This time he erupted. ‘I don’t want to talk! I want to know what the hell happened here!’

But his nurse didn’t jump at his outburst. She didn’t seem at all surprised. She just folded her arms across her chest as if she were some kind of immovable force. ‘From this point onwards you do exactly what I tell you. If I tell you we’re going to talk then …’ she paused ‘… we’re going to talk.’ She pointed over towards the sofa. ‘So get your butt over there, Mr Brody, and sit down!’

The heat in the kitchen was stifling. Samantha yanked off her goose-down jacket and flung it over a chair. If she kept this on much longer she would be roasted like a chicken. Her face must be scarlet by now.

This was definitely a baptism of fire. She looked at the clock—it was almost midnight and Dave had already told her he didn’t stay in the house. ‘Dave, why don’t you go on home to bed? I’ll be fine. I’ll need to talk to you in the morning though, it’s important you understand how to deal with things.’

Dave gave a grateful nod and disappeared out of the door as if he were being chased by a herd of zombies. All of this was definitely new to him.

Mitchell hadn’t moved—probably from the shock of someone talking to him like that. What was she thinking? But she was his nurse. It was her job to take charge. ‘Mitchell, your blood-glucose meter, where is it?’ He was in shock, she could tell. It looked like he’d just experienced his first full-blown hypoglycaemic attack and was totally confused.

After a few seconds he turned to face her.

Wow. He was just inches from her, and Samantha had just experienced the full Brody effect—those dark brown eyes and perfect teeth. It didn’t matter that his face was gaunter than normal and his body leaner. Teenagers all over the world would give their eye-teeth to be in this position. She was trying not to focus on the bare skin on his chest and scattered dark hair beneath the loosely fastened shirt. Trying not to lower her gaze to get another look at his abs.

She was beginning to feel a little hot and bothered again. He hadn’t moved. His brown eyes were fixed on hers. Sucking her in and making her forget what she was supposed to be doing. What on earth was he thinking?

Then he blinked.

He pointed over to a blue plastic box nestled behind the sofa. ‘It’s there.’

The moment was completely lost and Sam mentally kicked herself.

It snapped her back into focus. She was here to do a job. Here to get this man well again. She couldn’t stand around, mooning like some teenager. It was embarrassing.

She walked over, picked up the box and gestured to him to sit down again, but he shook his head and moved over towards the huge dining table instead.

As the minutes progressed he was getting more and more back to normal—whatever Mitchell Brody’s normal might be. The dining table was more formal than lounging on the sofa. She was kind of annoyed she hadn’t thought of it herself. She had to keep this on a professional level.

He slumped down into one of the chairs, his handsome face skewed by a puzzled frown. It wasn’t familiar. She’d never seen a picture of him looking so dejected. It made things crystal clear for her. She had to take rock star Mitchell Brody, and what she knew of him, out of this equation.

This was a twenty-nine-year-old guy who’d just been diagnosed with a life-changing disease—and by the look of his body the diagnosis had taken a long time.