A Dream Christmas

Sophie couldn’t help but laugh as she turned, her face flushed, from taking warmed mince pies from the oven, ready for an afternoon snack.

The last twenty-four hours had gone more smoothly than she could ever have hoped for, following that awful scene between herself and Max at Sally’s flat yesterday evening.

Present opening this morning had been fun. How could it not be, in the company of a five-year-old who still believed in Father Christmas?

To Sophie’s surprise, she had received gifts not only from Janice and Tom, and a separate one from Amy, but there had also been a present under the tree for her from Max. A beautiful pashmina in shades of russet and brown, which she had been convinced Janice must have chosen for him until the other woman assured her that she hadn’t.

Sophie’s heart had given a leap at the thought of Max having gone out to buy a present for her. A pleasure that had been instantly dampened by the blandness of his expression when she had given him her heartfelt thanks for the gift, and he had distractedly thanked her for his own present of the book from her.

Sophie had kept herself busy in the kitchen all morning and Christmas lunch had been a great success. The turkey had been cooked to perfection, along with an assortment of roasted vegetables, with Christmas and chocolate pudding to follow—the latter was for Amy—accompanied by Sophie’s own special brandy cream and ice cream.

Sophie had still been a little uncomfortable as the family once again insisted that she had to sit down and join them for the meal. She was so very aware, still, of the gulf that now yawned between herself and Max.

But she needn’t have worried because Max had gone out of his way to be polite to her today.

Too polite, if Sophie was honest with herself. She much preferred the rude irascible Max to this polite stranger.

She eyed him warily now. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘I think the two of us should talk, don’t you?’ He leant back against the kitchen table, arms folded in front of his powerful chest as he studied her from between narrowed lids. He looked very handsome in a black silk shirt and faded blue jeans, his dark hair as tousled as ever.

Sophie gave him a nervous glance as she placed the mince pies onto a plate. ‘If this is about me not telling you of my family connection to Sally …’

‘It isn’t. Although I’m interested to know why you made that decision.’ His eyes had narrowed questioningly.

Sophie chewed on her bottom lip. ‘Sally mentioned that you once had a problem with a friend of hers who took over as your PA while Sally was away on holiday.’

‘Cathy Lawrence,’ he muttered with feeling.

‘Yes.’ She winced at those obvious feelings of disgust. ‘I was the one who persuaded Sally into not revealing our own family connection. Just in case I messed up too,’ she added awkwardly.

His eyes darkened with amusement. ‘The difference being that I would have welcomed you throwing yourself at me every chance you got.’

‘Instead of which, I threw you.’ Her cheeks burned with remembered embarrassment. ‘Onto the kitchen floor,’ she reminded him with a wince.

Max shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘I deserved it.’

‘But …’

‘Stop worrying, Sophie; I assure you, there will be no repercussions on Sally for any of this. The opposite, in fact,’ he added huskily. ‘This Christmas has been more than I could ever have hoped for. It’s been magical,’ Max continued softly. ‘And that’s mainly due to you.’

‘Me?’ Sophie echoed softly. ‘I didn’t do anything that you didn’t pay me to do.’

Max’s mouth tightened. ‘We both know you’ve gone way above and beyond what I asked for,’ he corrected huskily. ‘In fact, none of this—’ his glance encompassed the whole of his apartment; the sound of his niece’s laughter heard from the next room, the decorations, the wonderful, and deeply nostalgic, smells of the Christmas food cooking ‘—would have been possible without you.’

‘I’m sure you would have managed well enough without me, hired someone else to …’

‘That’s the whole point, Sophie.’ Max straightened as he looked down at her intensely. ‘I’ve realised this last few days that I don’t want anyone else. That managing is exactly what I’ve been doing for so many years. Without you.’

She shot him a nervous glance from beneath lowered lashes. ‘I don’t understand.’

He smiled at her with sympathy; after the shock and, yes, he admitted it, anger of realising that Sophie had hidden from him that she was Sally’s cousin it had taken him twenty-four hours of soul-searching to reach his own conclusions as to why he felt so angry. He couldn’t expect Sophie to understand how he felt after just a couple of minutes of conversation. Or expect her to feel the same way about him as he now felt about her.

The only encouragement he had was that he knew Sophie responded to him on a physical level, at least. The rest would have to be worked at.

Which was a pretty scary thought for a man who had never in his life felt the least inclination to work at a relationship with a woman before now.

Before Sophie.

He smiled slightly. ‘I love the book you bought me for Christmas, by the way. I’ve been meaning to buy it for months, I just never got around to it, was always too busy doing something else.’

‘I’m glad you like it.’ She still eyed him warily. ‘As you can see, I love my pashmina.’ She was wearing it about her neck right now, the russet and brown colours looking wonderful against the red of her hair.

‘I’m glad.’ Max nodded. ‘Sophie …’ He gave a grimace as he paused impatiently.

‘Yes?’

Max straightened his shoulders determinedly. ‘I may as well come straight out with it and just tell you how I feel.’

‘How you feel about what?’ Sophie looked completely bewildered by his intensity.

She might look even more bewildered in a moment, but it was a risk Max had to take. That he was determined to take. ‘Everything you’ve said and thought about me was correct. I’ve avoided celebrating Christmas for years because of my parents’ deaths on Christmas Eve sixteen years ago. I found it an irritation; I even resented having to organise Christmas here this year for Janice and Amy. And I have a reputation when it comes to women. Have never so much as contemplated a serious relationship with one.’

‘Max …’

‘Until now,’ he completed firmly. ‘Until you,’ he added huskily as he reached out to take both her hands in his. ‘Sophie—’ He drew in a deep steadying breath. ‘Being with you these past few days, feeling my apartment become a home rather than just a place for me to sleep. Laughing with you, arguing with you, kissing you …’

‘Oh, please don’t!’ She groaned her embarrassment.

He gave a wide smile. ‘I love kissing you and touching you, Sophie. Just as I love laughing and arguing with you. In fact, I love it all so much, I love you so much, I want to go on doing it for the rest of my life.’

Sophie had ceased breathing as she gazed up at Max searchingly, wonderingly, sure she must be dreaming. Or that she had somehow fallen over and bumped her head and was imagining all of this. Because Max—Max Hamilton, billionaire CEO and owner of Hamilton Enterprises, a man who had avoided emotional involvement for all of his adult life—couldn’t possibly have just told her that he loved her. Could he?

She gave a disbelieving shake of her head. ‘You were so angry with me last night.’

‘I was angry with myself,’ he corrected. ‘And totally confused by the depth of that anger. It’s taken me until now to admit why that was. Sophie, I’m no good at this sort of thing, have no idea how to go about courting you, wooing you, winning you, let alone persuading you into loving me as I love you.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘But I would dearly like you—in fact, I’m begging you—to give me a chance to at least try.’

Sophie couldn’t speak, could still barely breathe, as she felt the hot tears gather in her eyes. Tears of happiness, not sorrow. Because, miracle of miracles, Max had just told her that he loved her.

Max loved her!

It was too huge, too immense, too intense for her to be able to fully take it in.

‘Sophie, please,’ Max groaned throatily at her continued silence. ‘At least tell me you’ll give me that chance. I couldn’t bear it if—These past few days, being here with you, coming home to you, have shown me that it, and you as my wife, are what I want for the rest of my life.’ He stared down at her intently.

‘You want to marry me?’ she gasped breathlessly.

‘Of course I want to marry you.’ Max looked down at her sternly. ‘What did you think I meant by courting, wooing and winning you?’

‘I didn’t think—Didn’t know—Oh, yes, Max, I’ll marry you!’ She threw her arms about his neck as she launched herself into his arms. ‘I love you too, Max. I love you so very much.’ She beamed up at him. ‘I didn’t dare to hope, to dream, that you would ever feel the same way about me.’

Max looked down at her searchingly, his face lighting up with joy as he saw the truth of that love shining in the warmth of her eyes and her expressive face.

Miracles did happen, Max realised emotionally.

And Sophie was his own personal miracle.

A miracle he fully intended to love and cherish for the rest of his life.

EXACTLY A YEAR LATER, Sophie’s main Christmas present to Max was to tell him that in approximately seven months’ time they would be bringing yet another miracle to the happiness of their married life together. That she was expecting a cousin for Amy and her six-month-old brother, Barney …

* * * * *

Snowed in with Her Boss

Maisey Yates

USA TODAY bestselling author MAISEY YATES lives in rural Oregon with her husband and three children. She reels the epic trek she takes several times a day from her office to her coffee-maker is a true example of her pioneer spirit. In 2009 Maisey sold her first book to Mills & Boon® Modern™. Since then it’s been a whirlwind of sexy alpha males and happily-ever-afters and she wouldn’t have it any other way. Maisey’s favourite time of year is Christmas, when she can focus on family and friends. Visit her website at www.maiseyyates.com and look for her on Facebook.

CHAPTER ONE

“PLEASE, SIR. WE NEED just one more shovelful of coal for the fire. Only, the bookkeepers are freezing, even with their fingerless gloves and stocking caps.”

“What are you talking about, Amelia?” Luc Chevalier looked up from his desk at his assistant, who appeared, if possible, more doe-eyed than usual, her dark brows crinkling in the middle, her hands clasped in front of her chest.

“Embellishing my request for time off.”

“It is not cold in this office. Neither do I have a … fireplace in here, and if I did, I wouldn’t burn coal. I would burn wood.”

“A Christmas Carol,” she said, blinking her owlish blue eyes. “I feel like a Dickensian street urchin.” She sighed, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.

“I cannot give you time off.”

“Think of Tiny Tim.”

“I sincerely doubt anyone called Tiny Tim is depending on your presence over the holidays.”

“You don’t know that,” she said.

He cleared his throat and shuffled the papers on his desk. “I do, actually. You have two sisters. You have no brothers. Your father’s name is Michael. And unless you have a new nephew named Tim, there is no Tim.”

“How do you remember all that? It makes it seem like you care.”

“Not especially,” he said, “it’s just that I don’t forget.”

“Charming. Luc, it’s Christmas. I need some extra time off.”

“What is the date today, Amelia?”

“It’s December 21.”

“Then it is not Christmas. Christmas is one day. Not a week. Not four months as store displays might have you believe. One day. You will be off work in time on Christmas Eve to enjoy any religious services you may need to attend, and you will be off on the day of the holiday itself. But not the entire week before.”

“Don’t you have some sort of feast to get to? Family gathering?”

“You’re well aware that I do not have a good relationship with anyone in my family, as my father is a terrible human being and my brother is barely a notch above him. I do not take holidays with them. I do not take holidays at all.”

“Bah. Humbug,” she said.

“In continuation of your A Christmas Carol theme. Very clever.”

“Though, I feel, underappreciated in this setting.”

“Which setting?”

“Your office. With a man who hates Christmas, the sound of children’s laughter and classic literature.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I’m quite fond of classic literature.”

“Har. Har. Please, Luc.”

He cleared his throat and stood up, watching Amelia’s blue eyes widen slightly as he did. “I’m sorry, but I found out only an hour ago that I need to go to Aspen to speak to Don Fleischer about the acquisition of the resort. I can’t afford to sit it out and wait until after Christmas.”

Luc was relatively new to real estate. He was coming off being the CEO of one of Europe’s largest investment firms. But after finding out his father was stealing from clients, he’d walked, after burning the generations-old institution to the ground.

His father had caused him enough pain over the course of his life, yet he’d continued to work for the old man and he had no idea why.

But he was done with that. He’d taken the money he’d earned off investments and started new, away from Chevalier Financial.

And that meant he couldn’t let things simply sit just because some people felt the need to inject their lives with frivolity and trees inside their living rooms. He didn’t get it, particularly, but then, the only function Christmas had ever served in his life was that it got his father out of the house nearly every night for the month of December for social engagements.

He’d always appreciated that about the holidays, anyway.

“Wait … what? We’re going to Colorado?”

“Yes. You’ll be compensated for travel, as always, and I will have you back in time for Christmas. Actual Christmas, and not these vague days leading up to it that everyone seems to want to spend in a red-and-green haze.”

“Luc … my family is …”

“You can bring them back key chains. And a mug. I will give you spending money for cheesy, location-based souvenirs.”

“Luc, I don’t …”

“It is not a request, Amelia, it’s part of your job.”

She balled her hands into fists and raised them up, shaking them, the ring on her left hand glittering in the light. “Blast you, Luc Chevalier.”

“Every year, Amelia. For the past three years. And you still act surprised?”

“You don’t make me go on a last-minute business trip every year.”

“No, but we have this discussion about Christmas every year. Though, this is the first year you’ve borrowed from A Christmas Carol. The year you stole from scripture to try and convince me was a particular low.”

“On earth, peace and time off among men.”

“We leave early tomorrow. We’re taking the private plane, and I will have those candy cane lattes you like.”

“And the candy stir sticks?” she asked.

“Yes, the candy stir sticks.”

She sucked her lush bottom lip between her teeth and chewed on it for a moment, and he allowed himself some time to enjoy the sight.

He hadn’t enjoyed a woman in … far too long. Starting up a new company meant there was no time for sex. Though, sex and his assistant should never be a part of the same train of thought. No matter how long it had been.

A good assistant was a lot harder to find than a good time in bed. And his very engaged assistant was off-limits for even more reasons than just employment.

“And scones?”

“In several flavors, though I believe cranberry is your seasonal preference.”

A smile made the corners of her lips turn upward. “You remembered.”

“Again, because I don’t forget. Don’t be flattered by it.”

“I’ve known you for nearly four years and you’ve never once flattered me on purpose, Luc.”

“But what does it really matter since you still end up getting the coffee you like?”

She lifted a shoulder. “I guess it doesn’t. Though, don’t think it atones for the fact that you’re making me fly more than halfway across the country when I have Christmas shopping to do.”

“You can shop online. During business hours. You do it, anyway.”

Her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open in a perfect rendition of shock. “I do not.”

“You do. On your phone. I’ve seen you do it.”

“Vintage fashion goes fast. I have to be able to buy it when it comes up.”

“And you have to be able to … I don’t know, personally assist me when I need it.”

She rolled her eyes. “When do I not, Luc?”

“You always do, which is why you still work for me. And speaking of the fact that you still work for me, perhaps it’s time you went and did a little of that.”

“Oh, Luc, Santa is going to bring you so many presents.”

He smiled in spite of himself. Amelia had that way about her. She wasn’t the type of person he would normally employ. Much less the type of person he would employ to work so closely with him.

She wasn’t quiet or professional. She didn’t seem to observe any sort of conventional dress code. Though her red shoes, black dress pants and oversize charcoal sweater, open at the front with a white button-up shirt dotted with birds were indeed office appropriate in the strictest sense, they were not conventional.

She also wasn’t one to work with quiet efficiency. Rather, she was one to work while whistling, or singing. She had a nice voice, soft and old-fashioned, like having a black-and-white movie flitting around the office.

And he should mind. She should drive him crazy. She should disrupt his peace of mind and his Zen, though many would argue he actually possessed no Zen. And yet, Amelia didn’t bother him in the least. He found her a strange, if somewhat comforting presence.

She wasn’t quietly efficient, but she was efficient, and sometimes her singing “A Few of My Favorite Things” was a nice signal that her efficiency was in full swing.

“Santa would be better off giving presents to someone who needs them,” he said. “If I want something, I go out and get it. I don’t need to wait for it to be brought to me.”

She pursed her lips. “Yep. Well, I’m off to go and do all that work I have to do. Since I won’t be in the office for … how many days?”

“We’re only staying over one night, Amelia. You’ll be back home in plenty of time for Christmas. Don’t make your eyes all big.”

“They’re just like that,” she said, blinking slowly.

He let out a deliberate sigh, then scooped the papers up from his desk and handed them to her. “No, they aren’t. You definitely make them larger in different situations. You’re doing it now, don’t try and play innocent.”

Dark-fringed eyes widened farther. “I am not.”

He raised his brows and she raised hers back. “Off with you,” he said, smiling again, because she just had that way about her.

“I’m off, Mr. Chevalier.” Somehow when she said “Mr. Chevalier” it had a way of sounding less respectful than when she called him Luc.

“Good,” he said.

“‘Ohh, tidings of comfort and joy!’” she sang as she walked out.

“Well, that’s going to be fun on a three-hour plane ride,” he muttered, sitting back at his desk.

He might be adding alcohol of some kind to his latte. There was only so much holiday cheer he could stomach.

CHAPTER TWO

AMELIA BRUSHED HER bangs out of her eyes, trying to undo the damage done by the wind as she’d boarded Luc’s private plane.

She should be used to the opulence by now, but she wasn’t. How could you get used to opulence on this scale? A giant plane, for two people and staff. It was bigger than her apartment, and definitely plusher. But then, she doubted Luc got anything at thrift shops.

She sat down on the couch and tried to ignore the dull buzz that filled her ears. Shell-shocked was about all that described her this morning. Not heartbroken, which was weird. Or not weird. But angry. And she was rarely angry.

But she was now. She felt … empty. And tricked. And in some ways relieved. But also confused.

It’s you I want to spend my life with. This isn’t who I want to be.

Well, what was she supposed to do with that? Thanks for all this right around the holidays, Clint.

She fiddled with her engagement ring, a heavy weight settling on her chest.

“Where is my latte?” she asked the empty room.

Luc chose that moment to stride—yes, stride, he was big on the striding—into the seating area of the plane. Her heart did a funny little jump thing. Like it did when he surprised her. It wasn’t her fault. He was dead sexy, and no matter her current circumstances, she noticed. She noticed big-time.

From his lean, well-muscled build, to his smooth mocha skin, dark eyes and sensual lips … Oh, yes, Luc Chevalier was not a man a woman could ignore. Even a woman like her, who was ensnared in a relationship so complicated she didn’t even want to look at the man she was engaged to, and should not want to look at any other man, period.

Stupid Clint. And his stupid issues. Issues that were hers because that’s what happened when you cared for someone. When you’d loved them since you were sixteen.

Nine years. Nine years of being together, of buying into all kinds of stupid things she never should have, and now … well, she had no idea what.

Things with Clint had seemed simple at first. Then she’d started working for Luc and things had become immeasurably more complicated. She’d had a man in her life providing her with companionship, being the son her parents had never had and in general treating her like a sister while he was supposed to be her future husband. All while her boss slowly drove her crazy with the promise of lust and sex that had certainly not been a happening thing in her relationship.

Of course, Luc had never actually promised her sex. But he … exuded it. One look at him, and you knew, just knew, what those big, capable hands could do. Probably. It was all hypothetical for her. But her imagination was really good. It always had been. Heck, after all these dry years with Clint, it had to be. Honed, sharpened, etcetera.

He’d convinced her that waiting until marriage was romantic and right. And she’d felt … as if it showed how serious he was. As if it made her special. Of course, it might have been had he not been burning off his sexual needs with other people.

While she’d had nothing but fantasies. And scones. And shoes.

Lots and lots of shoes.

And complications. After this morning there were complications she’d never foreseen. Her entire life felt upended. Her family … Oh, this would destroy her family. Clint was the son her parents had never had and her marrying him was so darn approved of it was almost comical.

“Your latte will arrive after takeoff,” Luc said, sitting in the chair opposite her, his masculine scent teasing her nose and making her stomach tighten. Working with him was hard on a girl’s hormones. “Buckle up.”

She obeyed, not even bristling at his commanding tone, because hey, she was used to it.

Honestly, it was a good thing he was as grumpy as he was. That sort of helped to counterbalance his sexiness. Okay, she lied. Sometimes his grumpiness was even enticing. Because it made every smile she eked out of him an achievement. It made him seem like a locked box holding something special inside and sometimes she got little glimpses of it, and it made her want to just … wrench him open sometimes.

But that was inappropriate. One should not want to wrench their boss open.