The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride

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"I am just a girl standing in front of a salad, asking it to be a doughnut."

-From Amelie's diary

Amelie

"Aww, they clearly like each other," the radio show host exclaims.

"They hated each other, couldn’t stop trading insults—" the male announcer interrupts her.

"Only it was all build-up, OMG…" the first announcer cuts in. "The feels, the emotions.. They wanted to stab each other, but turned out, it was a different kind of stabby that they had for each other."

"Is that what they’re calling it these days, Ivy?" The man snickers, "Good thing this is a late-night chat show."

"I can always count on you to keep me in line, Wolfgang," Ivy quips.

"Call me Wolf," the male announcer drawls.

"Right, well," Ivy clears her throat. " For everyone listening on this blustery night in the lead up to Christmas..." She pauses to take a breath, "The question I’d like to pose is, is it rude to interrupt someone mid-sentence by uh! distracting them? Email us, text us, call in and tell us after the break. This is Smile FM…"

I snort aloud, then switch off the radio tuned into the local radio station. The talk show hosts seem to be living in la-la land, or is it the Christmas spirit that’s affecting them? More likely, it’s the chemistry, between them, which not even the airwaves could disguise. Must be nice, to have that kind of sizzling attraction, huh?

The kind that makes you want to slap the man, punch him in the nuts, maybe; right before you jump on him, wrap your legs around him, and—

That…had been the kind of no-holds-barred romance I’d hoped for when I had met my ex. He'd done everything right, hadn't attempted to kiss me until our third date. In short, he’d been a gentleman…of the double-crossing kind.

Bastard had dumped me after three weeks.

He'd seen my name connected to all the notoriety that had followed my friend Victoria and her now-husband Saint’s wedding… His mother hadn’t been happy about it, and as he’d rushed to inform me, he couldn’t go against his mama’s word… So, I’d been dropped.

On the other hand, my fledgling pastry business had taken off.

Everyone wanted the desserts that had been featured prominently in the publicity accompanying the marriage… I had more orders than I could fulfill. I had worked around the clock in the lead up to Christmas. I’d fulfilled my last booking this morning and handed over the reins of the company to my assistant—yep, I made enough money in the last month to finally hire the intern who had worked with me since I’d started the business.

I can trust her to keep the business going, while I take some time off over Christmas and New Year’s. A few days of no work, no waking up in the early hours to bake… Not unless I want to do it for pleasure; and damn, if I am not going to bake the hell out of some new recipes that I want to try out.

I am going to use the next week to unwind, to reconnect with the girl I’d once been—carefree, happy, with hope in her eyes and a spring in her step—before business worries had taken over my life. I hunch my shoulders. At twenty-five, I am not that old… Except for the fact that I’ve never met a man with whom I’ve managed to hold a relationship down for more than uh—three months.

Well, to hell with that.

I am going to make the most of what I have. To start, I'll rejuvenate over the festive season, then bounce back into London all bright-eyed and ready to take the New Year by storm. Yeah! I turn off the highway, down the narrow road that leads me deeper into the countryside. My sturdy Volkswagen eats up the miles, until I get to a turn-off. I glance at the GPS… Yup, this is the road. Well, what the hell? I turn down the unpaved path. I’d wanted solitude. Guess I am getting it, one way or the other. I drive another mile, turn another corner…and drive up to massive gates.

I roll down my window, pull up the security app I’d installed on my phone, then reach out and wave my phone over the keypad in the wall.

The gates swing open. Awesome, and on the first try!

I continue down the driveway to a single-story bungalow, with a porch running around it, then park the car. I switch off the engine and listen. There… I can hear it… The silence. I can’t stop the smile that lifts my cheeks. Most people don’t like to be alone… Me? I thrive on it. As long as I can bake during the day, then curl up with my book-boyfriend in the evenings, with a glass of my favorite bubbly—champagne only, I’m strict like that—and surrounded by bubbles in a bathtub… Oh yeah, that would be a bonus. I push the door open, then walk around to retrieve my two suitcases. Don’t judge. I like to have the comforts of home with me when I travel. So, what if I am only a few hours away from home? I need my favorite set of PJs, my bath bombs, my wine...and this. I walk around to the front of the car, open the door to the passenger side, and retrieve my most prized possession, the tools of my trade—my pastry chef bag, without which, I never go anywhere.

Sliding the strap of my baking toolkit across my chest, my handbag over one shoulder, I begin to drag one of the suitcases…which promptly gets stuck in the muddy ground. I haul at it, there’s a cracking sound, then the valise dips to one side. Shit, did I break it already? To be fair, it had been a surprisingly cheap buy from the charity shop. I should have known better than to buy it, even though it had been marked down by about 70%. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. I straighten, take a step back, and instantly lose my footing. I hit the ground on my butt.

Bloody hell, this is all going tits over arse. A whistling sound emerges from the trees.

Goosebumps flare on my skin. Shit, is there someone…or something out there? It’s all well and good to want to be alone… But in the countryside? I hadn’t considered how…spooky it could all be. A low humming sounds in the distance. Is that a bird? A plane? Crap, there is no Superman around here to rescue me. I am on my own. Better get your arse in gear, woman. I jump up to my feet. Best get indoors, turn on some lights, then I can come back for my luggage.

A breeze blows and I hunch my shoulders. Damn it, how can I be warm and cold at the same time?

I take another step, trip over some rocks. Hell, I need lights, and fast. Okay, hold on, I’ve got this.

I grab my phone from my handbag, switch on the flashlight. A beam of light illuminates the way. I walk toward the patio, take the steps up to the front door, shove my hand into my handbag and scrounge around for the key. Where is it? Where the hell is it? There! I pull out the key and insert it into the lock. The door unlocks. Woo!

I push against the door, walk into a spacious living room. Switching off the light, I drop the phone into my handbag. Then I take stock.

There’s an unlit fireplace in the center, a settee beyond that, facing the door, complete with a rug in front of it. To my right are big French windows, to my left is a bookcase, with floor to ceiling shelves, filled with books. Yay, that’s another point for this place. Next to it is a small table with liquor bottles.

I walk to it, place my handbag on the bar counter, next to a wall clock that’s turned face down. I turn it face up; realize it’s stopped. Huh? Guess it ran out of batteries. I replace it on the counter, turn around. That’s when I hear the low sound of whistling again. I gulp. Guess I hadn’t imagined it then?

It’s a whistling, and of the human variety. This is not from an animal or a bird. The hell? I glance around the comfortable space. Everything looks undisturbed, though how would I know? I hear the sound of something sloshing from the direction of the back door… What the—? Did the intruder decide to take a bath?

Is there a hot tub of some kind on the patio at the back?

I take a step forward, then stop. I need a weapon. I am not going out there alone. Shit, why had I thought it was a good idea to come here on my own, remind me again? I hadn’t been running away, I hadn’t… Yeah, right. I’d needed to take myself away from all of those shiny, happy, faces celebrating bloody Christmas, which honestly, I do love… I do… Just not this year. This year, I need to catch a break… And hell, if I haven’t caught something, alright. A burglar, more like it. I unclasp my satchel of baking tools, reach in and remove a—spatula? The humming sound increases in pitch, then a full-blown song reaches me. The hell? I squeeze my fingers around my weapon… Don’t laugh; a spatula can do plenty of damage when it connects with someone’s balls.

I lower my chef's satchel to the ground, then unbutton my coat and shrug it off. I stalk toward the door at the far end.

The sounds of water splashing reaches me through the patio door. Huh? Maybe there is a hot tub out there...

Then a male voice breaks into a rendition of Nothing Else Matters by Metallica. What the—? There's someone out there, all right, and the singing’s not bad, actually. My thief, has a thing for classic rock, and can carry a tune. I hum the lyrics in sync with him… The hell? I pause, draw in another breath. Now or never. Do it, Amelie. Go for it. Whoever it is, he has no right to be here. Shit, should I have called the cops?

The singing stops abruptly. What the—? Did he hear me approaching?

I half angle my body, turn to leave; the door to the patio flies open.

I pivot around, raise my weapon, and find I am confronted with a wall of muscle. Naked chest, water running in rivulets down those sculpted abs that narrow into a concave belly which points to his thick, long—

"My face is up here," he drawls.

Heat flushes my cheeks; I jerk my gaze up. Grey eyes clash with mine—stormy clouds that boil in a sky which hints at oncoming snow. Sleet. Hail. An uncompromising will to get his way, no matter what. A shiver runs down my spine and moisture pools between my legs.

The skin between his eyebrows crinkles and his nostrils flare. No way. He can’t smell my arousal, can he?

That mean upper lip thins further. His pouty lower lip juts out above a chin that wears days’ old growth of beard. Thick dark hair covers his jaw. How would it feel to have him draw those rough whiskers across my inner thighs? Right before he dips his head, darts out his tongue, and licks my innermost secret place. Goosebumps dot my skin. Shit, what’s wrong with me? Why did my mind go there? You know why… Because this handsome piece of 100% male goodness is, quite simply, the most wickedly delicious piece of dessert I’ve ever laid my eyes on. My throat dries. Also, I happen to know him.

"You?" my voice comes out breathless.

"What are you doing here?" he snaps at the same time.

"What are you doing here?" I retort. "And in a hot tub, on the patio of this house, no less?"

"I am not in the habit of answering queries posited by women who look like they’ve been dragged in from a storm."

"What?" My jaw drops. I am gaping, and it’s not only because the words complete the image of the man I’ve loathed from the moment I first saw him at the wedding of one of my best friends. "Dr. f'ing Weston," I snarl.

"That’s Doc Kincaid to you." He yawns.

Of course, his surname would have to have the word kink in it in some form. "And are you?" I scowl.

"What?"

"A real doctor?"

He raises his hand, stabs the air with a cigar I only now realize he holds between his fingers. "Do you want to find out?" He looks me up and down, waggles his eyebrows. "I could give you a thorough examination." His gaze settles on my breasts, slides down to my core. "Make sure everything is in working order.” He snickers.

Heat fizzes low in my belly. Hell, with that kind of hotness, this man could clearly get my cake batter to rise in seconds… Wait, did I just think that?

I make a gagging noise in my throat, "Does that line actually work?"

"You’d be surprised." His lips curl.

Oh, that smirk. My stomach seems to bottom out… Or maybe that’s because I haven’t eaten since breakfast.

He draws on his cigar, cheeks hollowing for an instant, before he puffs out smoke. Cherries, cloves…cinnamon. Yum. My mouth waters, "How would it be to bake a cigar dessert?"

"What?" He frowns.

Shit, did I just say that aloud?

"Nothing," I mumble, "and you haven’t answered my question."

His voice lowers to a hush, "I’ll answer yours if you answer mine." Another shiver ladders up my spine. How did he manage to make that seem like an innuendo?

"Is everything a trade to you?"

"You should try it." He smiles, a full-blown grin that highlights the laughter lines that stretch from the corners of his eyes. I mean, could this guy be any more perfect? I allow my gaze to take in the breadth of his shoulders, that gorgeous neck, the swell of those hard biceps, the smattering of hair on those forearms—No, do not look lower; don’t do it—to the splint that he sports around middle finger of his right hand.

"What happened to you?" I scowl.

"This?" He raises his middle finger to show me the bird by default, "I fractured my middle finger a car accident."

"How convenient," I scoff. "You can announce your jerk-face nature without speaking a word."

He chuckles, "You always this nice to injured men?"

"You always go around flashing women?"

"You enjoyed the view." He raises that goddam cigar again to his mouth, wraps those beautiful lips around the smoke stick.

And I'd love to get my mouth around his fat, juicy cigar too.

No, no. Enough with the terrible metaphors. But, hello, can you blame me?I am only a woman standing in front of a man—a naked, gorgeous-as-hell, stud muffin of a male who pulls the cigar from his mouth, and blows out a cloud of fragrant smoke from between pursed lips.

Moisture melts my core. My toes curl.

Jesus, there should be a law against him using his mouth like that. Of course, I could find other uses for that mouth of his too… No, no no. Why are you insisting on going back down that route?

"Nothing I haven’t seen," I toss my head.

"Unlikely." He lowers his right hand—the one with the splint and the default flip-me-off-bird to his crotch.

What the—? Don’t look there, bitch— Don’t bloody watch him grasp himself and squeeze.

I gulp, the sound audible in the small space. And damn him, but I can’t take my gaze off of that gorgeous part of his anatomy.

He moves his arm to his side, "I rest my case."

Hell, but a certain part of him is far from being in resting position.Gulp. Did I just word play on his dick play? Clearly, his proximity is rubbing off if all I can think of are these poor jokes.

"By the way," his tone is conversational, "you planning on defending yourself with that?" He jerks his chin.

I tighten my grasp around the spatula and raise it. "This has been known to strike fear in the heart of burglars and those who’ve tried to break in on me before," I snap.

"You were burgled?" His jaw hardens.

"None of your business."

"Answer the bloody question." He takes a step forward. I scoot back. My leg brushes something warm and furry, which moves.

"Whoa!" I struggle to find my balance then, for the second time in ten minutes, the world tilts, and I find myself falling… Falling.

The spatula slips from my grasp. I squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for my butt to connect with the hard ground, only I’m yanked upright. Heat envelops me and my breasts flatten against something unyielding. I don’t need to open my eyelids to know it’s his chest, the one with the cut planes, the eight-pack abs. I slap my palm against that wall of muscles which coil, move, and writhe under my fingertips. I gulp and my legs threaten to give way under me, but his hold around my shoulders tightens. I spot the smoldering smoke stick of his on the ground.

"Your…cigar," I stutter.

“You noticed,” he quips.

I grimace, then nod my head toward the floor. “I meant that one.”

"Forget that." His breath feathers over my hair and liquid lust shoots through my veins. The scent of pine and cloves mixes with that edgy darkness that is purely Weston. Speaking of—something hard stabs into my waist—the aforementioned “cigar.” A groan boils up my throat. Not fair—this crazy attraction to someone I’ve barely met a couple of times. Why does he have to smell so delicious? Bet if I licked his chest, he’d taste more decadent than the chocolate mud pie cake recipe I’ve been wanting to bake. I'll lick the frosting off his cupcake any time. Nooooo. Not again. Enough with comparing his unmentionables with my favorite stuffed goodies. OMG, how would it feel to have him stuff his goodies in my cannoli? Wait, did that even make sense?

His voice dips, “You haven’t answered my question."

"What?" I blink.

"Someone broke in on you?" He enunciates his words at a slow pace as if I am slow of mind… Which, I admit, at the moment, I seem to be. His larger-than-life charisma has turned my brain cells to mush. "Tell me," he coaxes. Is he using the same tone he’d use with the puppy to make him obey? Well, hell, if it isn’t working on me as well.

"Y…yes." My stomach clenches. "But I fought off the thief…." I force out the words.

His muscles coil; tension radiates off of his body. "You confronted the man?" he snaps.

"Yeah," I hunch my shoulders, "It happened a week ago… No biggie." I swallow as my heart begins to race. It hadn’t been pleasant, that almost encounter. I had been alone in the kitchen of my bakery at 4 am… Hell, it had been horrible, actually. The guy had thrown a fright into me and I had thrown this spatula at him. "I chased him off. Yay. See? I’m fine, still alive." And bloody shaken, but I’m not going to tell him that.

His grip tightens, "Did he hurt you?" His jaw tics.

I stare up into his tight features. You’d think Mr. Jerkass here is all concerned about my safety.

"Did he?" his voice snaps through the noise in my head.

"N…no," I shake my head.

"No, what?"

No, I will not give in to this insane chemistry between us.I didn’t come all this way to run slap-bang into a man who is, surely, far worse than the one who recently broke my heart. "No, he didn’t do any harm. He ran off before I could use the spatula on him." I tip up my chin. "Though I can’t promise the same to you."

He chuckles, "I love a good fight, don’t you?"

Jackass.

A whine sounds behind me.

I shoot a sideways glance to spot a puppy plant his behind on the ground…exactly the kind of position I’d have been in, if ‘Mr. Overbearing Brute’ here hadn’t grabbed me first. Oh, so that's what I’d brushed against earlier and almost fallen over.

"Max," Weston talks to the dog, "you hungry, buddy?"

The puppy whines again.

"I’ll be right there, little fella." His voice takes on a cajoling tone, and damn him, but my ovaries seem to spasm. The hell is he doing to me? Before this, I’ve never thought about kids… Hell, I’ve barely managed to embark on a halfway decent career, and I’ve never thought of myself as someone who’d want a family. But Weston, with his smoldering glare, his hard face, his harder—um—body, and that coaxing manner with which he talks to Max… I can see him with a child tucked under one arm, and me under his other… Heck, I can see me under him, period. My mouth waters. My panties dampen further. Get your mind out of the gutter, you slut.

"Isn’t he Sinclair and Summer’s pet?" I frown. My friend Summer had married Sinclair Sterling, one of the seven billionaire co-owners of 7A investments. The media had labelled them the Seven and, Dr Douche here is one of them.

"Summer and Sinclair are away on an extended honeymoon," Weston grunts.

"Aww. So you decided to puppy-sit?" A warm glowing ball lights up inside of me.

He glowers, "Don’t gush any sweet icky stuff now—uh, what’s your name again?"

Poof—that warm feeling I mentioned? Forget about it. The hell is wrong with this man? "You know my name all right, you ass." I stab my finger in his chest, "So why are you pretending otherwise?"

"Me?" He blinks, "Do I?" He tilts his head, pretending to think, "Is it Lily?"

A slow burn starts up my spine.

"No… No." He cracks his neck, "It will come to me, it will… It’s Malia, right?"

Anger laces the edges of my vision. I draw in a breath, then another. Stay calm, he can only get so much more obnoxious, right?

"Wait, let me try, one more time…" He pats his temple with the palm of his injured hand. "It’s…something French, isn’t it? Like… Valerie, Malory, maybe? No, I have it." He snaps his fingers, "It’s Celine. I got that right, didn’t I?" He chuckles.

I clench my fists, then raise my hand toward his face.

He catches my wrist. "Tsk, tsk," he clicks his tongue. "What a temper you have, little one."

"Don’t ‘little one’ me… You… You wanker."

"Finally," his eyes gleam, "here kitty, kitty, show me your claws."

"I’ll do better than that," I hiss, "I’ll show you how it is to see the sun at night time."

I bring up my knee, aim for his groin.