Let It Snow...

He stepped closer, drawn to the fire in her, the fervency in her tone—the disrespect, the near dislike—shocking and attracting him all at once. Very rarely had a woman spoken to him in such a manner. In fact, he could recall only one, a feisty historian he’d met a few months before. This woman reminded him of her in some ways. She had… spirit.

His tread quiet on the floor, courtesy of his new, rubber-soled shoes—supposedly a staple of college students—Philip continued to move toward her. He heard her tiny gasp and knew she was alarmed. But he also saw the way her lips parted, her small tongue slipping out to moisten them. Her pulse fluttered in her throat as her breathing quickened, and the warm pink color in her cheeks deepened to crimson the closer he came.

So, the fiery stranger was not immune to him, as much as she might wish otherwise.

“Don’t come any closer,” she ordered, though her voice quavered. She reached down and picked up the spoon she’d dropped, leaving a thin trail of gooey, liquid chocolate on the countertop. Ignoring that, she waved the spoon at him threateningly, sending a few tiny droplets his way. One landed on his shirt, another on his lower lip.

Philip had always had a weakness for chocolate. As a child, he’d often sneaked into the kitchens and filched desserts, which his father had said was unbecoming of a prince. There was just something decadent about chocolate, something forbidden, dark, slick and luscious. It appealed to all his senses.

He licked his mouth, tasting this concoction, which was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t as sweet or milky as he was used to. It was dark and strong, with enough sweetness to soothe the palate, and the tiniest bite of peppery spice to arouse the senses. He groaned with pleasure as he swallowed.

“By the gods, that’s incredible.”

“Huh?” She sounded thoroughly confused.

Philip didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and clasped her wrist. As if stunned, she didn’t protest. He drew the hand—and the spoon she held—closer, until he could flick out his tongue and taste the dark, gooey substance that drenched it.

The woman—this strange, beautiful, fiery woman—watched him raptly. As if she’d never seen a man take such pleasure in eating.

Philip enjoyed indulging his senses, and he wasn’t sure which delighted him more right now—tasting the decadence gliding down his throat or watching the woman stare in fascination as he did so. “This is remarkable,” he said as he delicately licked off every drop. “Did you make it?”

“I’m melting it for a recipe. You… like to eat chocolate?”

“I like to eat your chocolate.”

She coughed into her fist, then yanked her hand away. Seeing the way her eyes had dropped to his mouth, and she’d pressed her other hand into her middle, as if she needed to grab on to something, he suspected he knew why.

“That was suggestive, wasn’t it?” he asked, hearing the unintentional purr in his tone. Something about the eroticism of licking his favorite delicacy off a spoon held in the hand of a strange and seductive woman had sent warm waves of sexual pleasure through him. They’d obviously translated to her.

“Very.”

“Should I apologize?”

“Only if you’re sincere.”

He didn’t apologize. Because though he’d only been telling the truth about how much he enjoyed her tasty concoction, he couldn’t deny that he liked the idea of tasting her, as well.

Silence descended. She was waiting for the words—sincere or not—but he didn’t speak. As her breathing became more audible, the electric spark between them intensified, until it seemed like a tangible thing. It enveloped them, shifted back and forth between them, drawing him to her as if with magnetic force.

He knew things were different in this world. In some ways more free, in others more rigid. He also knew he had no right to take anything this woman hadn’t freely offered, in any world.

She might not have said it aloud, but her eyes were offering. Her lips were offering. Her body was offering, considering the way she swayed toward him as if against her will.

So he took.

Without a word, he slid his hands into her thick hair, sending glossy strands tumbling, and dragged her to him for a deep, hungry, chocolate-flavored kiss.

2

HE WAS KISSING HER.

Claire registered that much, accepted the fact that a complete stranger—one who should be in the dictionary defining tall, dark and handsome—had his lips on hers and was, oh, God, plunging his warm, delicious tongue into her mouth.

Then reality left. Just walked out the door, taking a huge chunk of her common sense with it.

She responded. Heaven help her, everything else just faded away and she could focus only on the strength of his magnificent body pressed against hers, and the taste of his mouth.

Chocolate had always been her favorite flavor, but she had never realized that it was missing something, some vital, intrinsic ingredient. Not until now, when she finally got to taste decadent melted Godiva spiced with powerful, devouring man.

She dropped the spoon, hearing it clatter to the floor, as if from a very far distance. Lifting her hands, she put them on his shoulders, while a voice inside screamed at her to push him away. But those traitorous things at the ends of her arms clung to him instead, her fingers digging into the thick muscles as she held tight and kissed him back.

She liked kissing. She loved it, actually. And considering she’d been single for more than a year, she’d missed the intimacy. Especially because this… well, this went beyond anything she’d ever experienced.

Their tongues twirled together, hot and hungry. Time and place fell away and there became nothing but this moment, this man, this kiss. They shared each breath, shared the same space as their bodies melded, her hands going around his neck, one of his dropping to the small of her back to pull her hard against his groin.

She gasped, feeling the rigid erection pressed against her. Part of her leaped for joy, wanting it—wanting that. But the smart, rational Claire, who’d been gagged and shoved in a mental closet for the last ninety seconds, finally came barreling out and screamed Stop!

“No,” she exclaimed, pulling her mouth away. Sanity required her to also take a full step back, ignoring the look of disappointment that appeared on his oh-so-handsome face. That not being far enough, she hopped back another step, colliding with the counter and wincing in pain.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern as he reached for her.

“I’m fine.” She shoved his hand back and ducked away from him, darting around the counter to watch him from the relative safety of the other side.

Safety? Hell, three feet wasn’t a safe distance, not from a man this incredibly alluring.

And dangerous. Don’t forget dangerous. He’s a bad guy, remember? A thug sent here to rough up your kid brother!

Okay, so sometimes even she felt as if Freddy needed a slap upside the head. But no way was she going to let some dude crack his—er, no way would she let the Nutcracker do his thing.

It seemed not only impossible but actually criminal that someone this smooth and sexy should be a criminal. Villains were supposed to be brawny and beastly, like something out of a Disney cartoon, complete with broken noses, crooked or missing teeth, bulging foreheads and tree-trunk-size necks.

Uh-uh. Not this guy.

While he was very tall, with wide shoulders and a broad, rock-hard chest that she could almost still feel pressed against her sensitized body, he wasn’t at all beefy or brawny. He instead looked and felt like the perfect man should. Powerful but lean, muscular but elegant, somehow. He moved almost gracefully, not a lumbering beast, more a prowling predator.

She’d definitely felt stalked as he’d moved close enough to… sample her chocolate.

But it wasn’t just his body that had sucked her brain cells dry and let her kiss a complete stranger. There was also his face. Oh, Lord, that face. He was perfect, been sculpted from marble… His skin was a bit dark, as if he had just come from someplace sunny, or was of Mediterranean—Italian?—descent. The fineness of his brow was accentuated by the widow’s peak that pierced it. His cheekbones were high and autocratic, his cheeks lean, his nose straight and proud, that jaw strong, with a delicious-looking cleft at the bottom. His thick hair was jet-black, short, but wavy and incredibly finger-tempting. And his eyes—those almost intrusive, assessing, deep-set and heavily lashed eyes—were dark brown… like her favorite semisweet confections.

All that and a chocaholic. The man was simply divine.

Ding-ding-ding, hello in there? He wants to hurt your brother. Remember?

She would never let him get close to Freddy. Claire had promised their mother on her deathbed that she would look out for her baby brother. Allowing him to be… de-testicled wouldn’t just be neglecting her responsibilities, it would be unforgivable.

“Now should I offer my apologies?” the sexy stranger asked, his dark eyes gleaming in the soft glow of the overhead lights. Both amusement and awareness shone in those depths, also revealed by the slight uptilting of his soft, sensuous mouth.

I kissed that mouth? I was held by this man?

Impossible. Those kinds of wild, romantic moments happened to other women. To helpless, small, delicate, beautiful women. Not to blunt, responsible, down-to-earth Amazons like Claire Hoffman.

“Only if you’re sincere,” she mumbled, swallowing.

Considering her words were the volume of a mouse’s squeak, she couldn’t say there was much chance she’d get an apology.

“Let me rephrase that. Do I have anything to apologize for?”

Did he? He hadn’t exactly forced her. Yeah, he’d started the kiss, but he hadn’t grabbed her, pushed her up against the refrigerator and ripped her clothes off.

Oh, wow.

Stop, stop, stop!

Angry at her traitorous body, which demanded he do anything but apologize, she dodged the question altogether. “Look, I’m not letting you touch Freddy. Kissing me isn’t going to work any more than threatening me would have.”

He flinched, as if slapped, and for the first time since he’d entered the kitchen, he looked angry. “Threatening you? I would never threaten a woman.”

How noble. Hence the name? No nuts, no worries? “So you save your threats for young, inexperienced fools like my brother?”

“Your brother?” That fine brow went up and he tilted his handsome head in confusion. “Mr. Hoffman?”

“Yes. Freddy’s my brother. And if you think I’m going to let you hurt him, you’ve got another think coming.”

“Shouldn’t that be another thought coming?”

She growled. “What are you, the freaking grammar police?”

“I’m not from this area, and I am not sure I understand all your colloquialisms.”

“Where do you come from?” she asked, though she cursed herself for doing so. She had no interest in the man, and this conversation was beyond confusing.

“The land of Barcelona,” he declared with a decisive nod.

“Uh… Spain? You sure don’t sound Spanish.”

He waved a hand. “I am well traveled… but, um, but also poor. A student making my way around the world.”

Huh. That was surprising. The guy oozed confidence and self-reliance, looking more like a ship’s captain or a… a sheik—that was it, some oil-rich gazillionaire. Yes, his clothes were casual, and didn’t appear terribly expensive, but he wore them like somebody who had money.

He had the leanest waist and hips, most attractive male butt and strong legs… at least, as far as she could tell. And considering she’d been pressed up against him five minutes ago, she could tell a lot. So, really, anything would look phenomenal on the man.

Or off the man.

She swallowed hard, trying to focus. “So tell me, student, what are you learning from your boss, the bookie? How to swindle people? How to… crack nuts?”

“You keep talking about this nut cracking. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

There was no disguising the confusion in his voice. For the first time, a hint of uncertainty entered Claire’s mind.

She’d turned around and found a big, strong, dark and mysterious stranger in the shop kitchen, asking for Freddy. Her mind had immediately connected him with the deadly man her brother had warned her about a few days ago.

But what if he wasn’t who she thought he was? What if she’d mistaken him for a mobster, when he was just… Just what? Looking for directions to the Statue of Liberty by slipping in the back door of a closed candy shop on a Sunday evening?

Something didn’t add up. But she had to know for sure.

“Who, exactly, are you?”

“I’m Philip.” He extended his hand. “Philip… Smith.”

She eyed it as if it were poisonous. Not because she didn’t want to touch him, to feel his hand in hers and assess its strength, and imagine how it might feel rubbing against parts of her body. But rather, because she did.

Finally, though, realizing he wasn’t going to drop his arm until she shook, she reached out and grasped his fingers with hers, squeezing lightly, pumping once and yanking away.

No matter how quickly she moved, it wasn’t fast enough. She was still left with curiosity about other squeezing and pumping. Lots of squeezing and pumping.

Pull your head out of his pants. It had obviously been too long since she’d gotten laid if she was thinking about sex with a guy who might or might not be here to neuter her brother.

The stranger was watching her closely, his eyebrows raised expectantly, and she finally remembered he’d offered her his name.

“I’m Claire Hoffman,” she mumbled.

“Claire. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Was he for real? Would a mob enforcer really talk like that?

“And if you run the delightful shop, in which I purchased some festive holiday candies yesterday, it appears I am your upstairs neighbor.”

“Wha-a-a…?”

Good thing she was leaning against the counter, not only because her legs suddenly felt weak, but because there would be something to catch her plummeting jaw as it collapsed downward. She stared at the man, putting the pieces together, remembering how Freddy had cajoled her to rent the upstairs apartments to get him his gambling money. They hadn’t talked about it since; she’d been busy decorating the shop and restocking specific seasonal goodies. Could he—would he—have done it behind her back? Would even weak, spoiled Freddy do something so rotten?

You didn’t. Oh, God, tell me you didn’t.

But she knew he had. Freddy had already had this plan in mind, or perhaps even in motion, when he’d come to her about the money the other day. Then when he’d asked her to meet him at his place to talk some more yesterday, he’d stood her up. She’d had to get her part-timer to cover the store on a busy Saturday afternoon, and Freddy hadn’t even been there.

Because he was here, renting those apartments?

Oh, that sneaky bastard.

“Now tell me,” Philip ordered, “who did you think I was when I first came in? And why did the thought of that person being here frighten you?”

“I wasn’t frightened.”

“I think you were,” he said, those dark eyes piercing, demanding she reveal the truth.

“I thought it might be somebody looking for my brother.”

“Someone who wanted to hurt your brother?” The man’s tone said he wouldn’t accept anything less than pure honesty. “Someone who’d threatened him?”

“Maybe.”

Her visitor’s jaw clenched; she could see the flexing of his muscles.

“Would this person hurt you to get at your brother?”

She shifted her gaze, not knowing what Freddy’s cohorts were capable of.

Philip’s whole body seemed to grow bigger, harder—more threatening—as he leaned closer. “I walked right in. Why are you working here alone at night? Your brother should be here protecting you!”

Laughter burst from her mouth at the very idea. “Freddy couldn’t protect his graham crackers from the other kids in day care.”

“He doesn’t sound like much of a man.”

“He’s only twenty-one,” she said, not even sure why she was making excuses for her sibling. “And I’ve sort of had to finish raising him since our mother died.”

Or, well, all his life. But who was counting?

“At twenty-one you’re a man,” Philip insisted, “in any land. It’s wrong that he put you in such a position.” Her visitor cast a quick, malevolent glance toward the door. “Don’t worry, if this dangerous person comes looking for him now, I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to worry anymore. You’re no longer alone.”

Right. No longer alone. Because he freaking lived upstairs! How she’d let herself be distracted from that, she had no idea.

Then she realized it was probably because it had been such a long time since anyone had acted protectively toward her. Maybe it was a little overbearing, and maybe he did sound like a caveman, but something about the idea of this hot, sexy man wanting to protect her seemed incredibly exciting.

But he wouldn’t be around to make good. He couldn’t possibly. Because there was no way she could let him stay. He was going to have to leave her life just as quickly as he’d come into it.

Why that thought sent a sharp stab of regret rushing through her, she couldn’t say. It made no sense; she barely knew him. But there was no other choice.

Swallowing and taking a deep breath, she spoke, “You know what? I think we have some talking to do. So how about you sit down and we figure out exactly what’s going on here.”

Except she knew what was going on.

She’d been scammed by her own brother. And now she had to figure out how to get rid of her unwanted upstairs neighbor.

THOUGH IT TOOK SOME cursing, mumbling, hair twisting and chocolate eating—everything other than the chocolate part coming from her, the beautiful woman he still tasted on his lips—Philip had finally figured out what had happened. Claire Hoffman owned the building in which he sat. She had not authorized her wastrel brother to rent out any of the upstairs units, and was both furious and fearful. Furious at the position her sibling had put her in, and fearful of how Philip would react to her attempts to back out of the deal.

Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Her brother might not have had the legal right to offer Philip and his entourage the dwellings, but he had accepted money for them and scrawled a signature on a contract, one his sister carefully examined when Philip withdrew it from his pocket. And while he might not be accustomed to all the ways of this world, he knew a few things, including a bit about the law.

She could make him leave. But he could then go to the authorities and charge her brother with fraud or theft.

The way she stumbled over her words and wouldn’t meet Philip’s eye said she knew it. But she wasn’t ready to give up.

“So you see,” she said, twisting her hands in front of her on the broad counter, “I couldn’t possibly let you and your two friends stay in those apartments. They’re really not in any condition to be lived in.”

“They are acceptable to me.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t let you stay.”

Maybe not. Maybe, in fact, Philip didn’t really need to stay. He could certainly afford to find another place to live. It might not be quite as perfect for his plan to pose as a poor man, while also being able to stay in the heart of the most exciting city in this world, but it could be done.

He wasn’t going to do it, however.

Because of her.

First, because there was no way on Elatyria he was leaving this woman alone to deal with the dangerous criminal she’d thought him to be. He suspected her brother owed someone money and would use the cash Philip had given him to pay off the debt. But what if he hadn’t? What if he’d pocketed it and left the city, leaving his sister to deal with his mess—and his creditors?

Oh, no. Philip wasn’t leaving her unprotected, not by any means, whether she liked it or not. If he, Shelby and Teeny had to take shifts guarding the door to her shop—or the one that led to her apartment—that’s what they’d do.

Aside from wishing to protect her, he simply wanted to know more about this woman, Claire Hoffman, who was calling to him, drawing him like no one ever had. Perhaps it was because she was talking in circles, telling tales of terror—as if a few bugs or sagging floors mattered—to make him leave. Perhaps because of the way she’d tasted and felt in his arms. Perhaps because she was trying so desperately to pretend she hadn’t been every bit as affected by that warm, hungry kiss as he had.

Whatever the reason, he had found her, he’d kissed her, and he still wanted her. So he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’m afraid I can’t simply move back out,” he told her when she stopped for breath. “Unless, of course, you can return all of the money I gave your brother.” He was certain she couldn’t.

She nibbled her lip. “Uh, how much was that, exactly?”

“Fifteen thousand American dollars.”

She coughed so hard she fell off her stool. Fortunately, Philip had quick reflexes and dived off his own to grab her before she could hit the floor. He landed on his knees, catching her in his arms and yanking her protectively against his body.

Raspy breaths escaped her mouth and she looked at him, blinking rapidly. He could feel the wild thudding of her heart against his chest, and wondered whether she was alarmed by her near miss… or by his nearness.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“You are most welcome.”

They stayed that way for a moment, staring at each other, and Philip tried very hard to count the number of blue flecks in her green eyes—or green flecks in her blue ones—before finally remembering he should probably let her up.

Moving slowly, carefully, to make sure she didn’t slip—either to the floor, or closer against any of his body parts that were reacting mightily to having her in his arms again—he gently set her down, then rose to his feet and pulled her up, as well.

“I take it that’s more than you can pay back?” he murmured.

“Definitely more.” She swallowed visibly. “He actually charged you fifteen thousand dollars for those apartments?”

“Yes, five thousand per month for each unit, plus another five as a security deposit.”

She shook her head. “Yeah, sure. Because there’s so much valuable stuff that could be damaged or broken.”

Sarcasm was common in his world, too, but he quite liked how she did it.

“Fifteen thousand dollars,” she repeated to herself.

“That was almost all the money I had. The, uh, the people in my village back home took up a collection to send me here,” he said quickly, realizing this was quite a lot of money.

She scrunched her brow. “Isn’t Barcelona a big city?”

A misfire. Damnation, he should have studied his back-story more. Aware that the best way to avoid answering an uncomfortable question was to shrug it off, he shrugged. “It is therefore more than I can afford to lose,” he told her, which wasn’t exactly true, but wasn’t totally a lie.

The amount was nothing overall, but in terms of his presence here in New York, it was important. He had brought only a certain amount of cash from the vault at home—his father always keeping a supply of various currencies on hand for traveling expenses—and had to make it last. Philip couldn’t start all over with another housing situation without coming perilously close to the limit of his funds. That would leave him having to sell something—possibly one of Shelby’s bejeweled rings, which Philip would of course replace. But it would hardly be worth the man’s whining.