The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

28

Weston

Make-up sex? What the fuck am I talking about? Clearly this entire idea—which I’d pulled out of my arse, by the way—is a bad one.

The SUV crawls up the driveway of the Victorian house on the outskirts of Durham where my mother lives. The ivy covers most of the west wing, the leaves a burned red this time of the year.

The vehicle stops in front of the steps leading up to the house.

Before my driver can come around, she’s pushed open the door and is hopping out. She opens the passenger door, hauls Max into her arms.

"I have his leash." I frown.

"I’m going to carry the little fella."

Right.

She hauls him closer to her face, "Hey baby, missed me, boy?"

Max licks her nose, her chin.

She laughs.

I scowl.

How dare another male intrude on my territory?

I growl deep in my throat.

Both Max and Amelie turn to me.

"Did you just growl?"

"So?" I glare at her.

She bites her lips, "Uh, you don’t have to be jealous of Max." She tips her nose up.

"Me?" I laugh, "Woman, you are delusional."

"Now who’s lying?" she scoffs.

"You seriously need to stop being obsessed with me."

She gapes at me, "You know what? This conversation is pointless." She straightens and stalks around the car, heading for the stairs. The dress she’s wearing flies up and exposes a flash of her creamy thigh. She takes the steps, and I notice the dark line running up the back of her stockings. My dick twitches, my groin hardens, and this is so, not the fucking time. I don’t want to walk into my family's home sporting a hard on.

I adjust myself, then duck out of the car.

Peter—Sinclair’s chauffeur who’s working with me since Sinclair is away, and because my finger’s still bloody busted—walks around to pop open the lid of the trunk.

I turn and stalk her as she walks up the steps to the front door.

"She keeps you on your toes, huh?" Peter asks.

I tilt my head.

"The two of you remind me of how it was with Mr. Sterling and Ms. Summer before they got together."

"You’re mistaken." I scowl, "There’s nothing like that."

He places both of Amelie's suitcases, and a considerably smaller suitcase —i.e. mine—on the ground; he slaps the trunk shut.

I frown down at Amelie's pink frothy wardrobe on wheels. "You’d think she were packing for a month instead of two nights."

He chuckles, then reaches for the suitcase, but I shake my head, "I’ll carry her load."

He peers up at me, "You do that, Sir."

I frown, open my mouth to ask what he means, but he’s already walked off, with the rest of the luggage.

What-fucking-ever. My brain cells are, clearly, not functioning at full force, which is why I’d read between the lines. He didn’t mean anything by that… He didn’t. Did he?

I shake my head and follow Peter up the steps to where she stands, at an angle to the door.

I dump the bag, pause next to her, "Couldn’t you have packed more sensibly?"

She turns to me, an expression of almost comical consternation on her face, "No. I need it all. I mean, you weren’t helpful at all, gave me no pointers on what to wear, or what to expect, so I had to make sure I had all of my emergency clothes on hand."

"And that?" I point to the chef’s toolkit that she has slung over her other shoulder.

She tucks it under her arm. "I don’t go anywhere without this."

"Right." I drag my fingers through my hair, "Look, maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all, I mean—"

The door opens. "Weston," my sister’s voice calls out.

Next to me, Amelie stiffens. She swallows, clutches at her handbag. The skin stretches white across her knuckles. I should revel in her nervousness, in how out of her depth she seems. I mean, isn’t that the point of this entire charade, to show her who is more superior in this relationship? Is there a relationship between us? And who, exactly, is out of their depth? Her? Or me?

I grip her shoulder. She peers up at me, and I hold her gaze before saying softly, "It will be fine." What will be fine? Why the hell am I trying to put her at ease?

She parts her lips, and fuck it, I can’t resist. I lower my head and brush my mouth over hers. She draws in a breath and I deepen the kiss. Swipe my tongue inside to tangle with hers, draw of that chocolate and honey taste of hers. My head spins.

I break the kiss, survey her face. Flushed cheeks, dazed eyes. She blinks, sways. Good, that should take her mind off of the upcoming ordeal—I mean, the family stuff. Not that I don’t want to spend time with them, but so many people all at once, can be a little overwhelming, especially since my family doesn’t take shit from me.

There’s a commotion behind me, then, "Unca Wes." Arms wrap around my legs. I glance down at my niece.

"Present… Christmas." The little imp smiles up at me. Well, one of us has our priorities right, at least.

"Phoenix," my sister calls out to her daughter, "let Uncle Wes and his friend inside the house, at least, and it’s impolite to ask him what he’s got for you. Speaking of," she turns to me, "I didn’t realize you were bringing a guest." She looks between us.

Amelie’s body goes even more rigid; she turns to me, "You didn’t tell them?" Her gaze narrows on me and color flushes her cheeks.

Oh, this is going to be so much fun.That thing about keeping her off kilter? I intend to deliver on that.

"I like to be spontaneous," I allow my lips to curve.

Amelie makes a sound deep into her throat.

I train my gaze on my sister, "Kirsten this is Amelie. Amelie…this is my younger sister, Kirsten."

"Amelie," Kirsten’s eyes bob between us. She shuffles her feet in that manner which is a dead giveaway that she’s dying to quiz me… Not that I am going to allow that.

Max barks from his vantage point against Amelie’s breasts. I seriously needed to have a man-to-man with that pooch.

Phoenix tugs on my hand. "Moosic…" she chants, "mooooosic."

"Hey, honey." I release my hold on Amelie, then bend to swing Phoenix up in my arms.

The little girl giggles, "Mooooosic."

"Music?" I turn to Kirsten for help.

"Yea, music," Kirsten sighs. "She’s driving us mad with her music blocks."

"Moooosic bo-k-ssss," Phoenix warbles. "Unca Wezz."

I chuck her under her chin and she giggles. "Play…play… Unca Wezz."

Right.

I glance toward Amelie, who smiles at the little girl. "Hey, baby doll," she coos, "What’s your name?"

Phoenix blinks at Amelie, then holds out her arms.

"Oh." Amelie looks at Phoenix, then at me.

I reach over, fasten Max’s leash to his collar. "Told ya so," I whisper into her ear.

She scowls, lowers Max to the floor, and her handbag slides down her arm.

"Let me get that." I grab the bag before it hits the floor.

Then I straighten and hand Phoenix over to her. Amelie cuddles Phoenix, and her other bag—the chef's toolkit—bumps her back. I reach for it; Amelie frowns.

"You can trust me," I snicker.

She raises one eyebrow, "Can I?"

"Of course, Sweetheart." I raise one eyebrow.

She opens her mouth, to protest, no doubt. I lean down, press another kiss to her lips, and slide the bag off of her shoulder in the same move.

I step back, swinging her chef’s satchel over my other shoulder.

"Smooth," Kirsten laughs.

"Doggy," Phoenix pants.

Max woofs, wags his tail, pawing at Amelie as he tries to get to the little girl.

"Wait…." Amelie protests. Phoenix pats her cheek. Amelie glances down at her and her face breaks into a smile. "Hey pumpkin, what’s your name?"

"Phe," she grins, jumping a little in Amelie’s arms.

Amelie props her on her hip, "Hey, Phe." Amelie’s smile widens, "Whatcha wearing on your head."

Phoenix touches the unicorn shaped hairband, "Pepper."

"Good name." She leans in closer, "What about your friend behind you?"

Phoenix gazes at her wide-eyed, "You…can see him?" She gulps.

"Yep, I can. What’s his name?"

"Jack." Phoenix bobs her head, "Jack. Jack."

"Jack?" I turn to Kirsten.

Kirsten nods. "He’s imaginary," she says in a low voice.

"Ah." I glance back at the woman, who bends her glossy blonde head toward the dark blonde-haired kid. Something hot stabs at my chest.

"You want one of your own, huh?" Kirsten nudges me.

"What?" I turn to her, "Of course, not."

Kirsten tilts her head, "Hmm." She looks me up and down. Seeing...what? The bags over my shoulders, the dog straining at the leash, the other end of which I hold onto with my uninjured hand...

I scowl at her, "You have a weird look on your face."

"I am not the one who’s changed." She grins, then reaches up to pat my cheek. "Finally," she titters, "I can’t tell you how I was looking forward to this day."

"You are not making any sense," I grumble.

"It’s normal—so much happening in so little time," she waggles her head, "but when it’s right, it’s right, you know?"

"No," I glower.

The fuck is wrong with my sister? Had I grown another head on my way here?

"Hey," a new voice mumbles. I glance up as my eleven year old niece ambles into the room.

"Skye." I hold out my fist. "Whassup?"

She walks over, ignores me, then frowns at Amelie, "Who're you?"

"Skye!" Kirsten exclaims. "You apologize right now to Amelie, you hear me?"

Skye rolls her eyes, then sighs, "Yeah, fine, whatever. Sorry... Amelie. Pleased to meet you, Amelie. Hey, Uncle Wes." She tosses her head. "There," she jerks her chin in Kirsten's direction. "Happy now?" She turns on her heel and flounces off.

"Whoa." I blink. "What happened there?"

"Sorry." Kirsten turns red. "She's already turning into a teenager. I shudder to think how she's going to be in a few years' time."

She crosses over to Amelie, "Let’s get you inside." She holds out her arms to Phoenix, who jumps back into Kirsten’s arms.

"Mommy!" Phoenix throws her arms around Kirsten’s neck, then strains in her grasp to peer at Max, "Doggy, doggy, play...play."

Kirsten lowers the little girl to the ground, "Come on, let’s go in." She hitches her arm through Amelie’s, "Was the trip okay?"

The three of them walk in.

I stare after them, then down at Max, who whines, and strains at his leash. Amelie’s bag slides down to the crook of my arm. How the hell did I get stuck with this? Brilliant surgeon? Check. Obnoxious billionaire? You bet. Carrying my girlfriend’s luggage into my family home? Wh-a-t? Time for a reality check. Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea? Who suggested this? Oh, wait, that was me.

Peter walks out. He glances down at the pink suitcase then at me,

"Keep this the fuck to yourself," I mutter. "Not a word to the rest of the Seven."

He chuckles, then schools his expression into one of indifference. "Of course, Sir, you can trust my discretion."

What-fucking-ever.I stalk forward, my progress somewhat impeded by the blasted tank on wheels that I pull along.

"Oh, Sir?"

I turn.

"The pink brings out the blonde in your beard."

Peter walks off.

Blonde hairs in my beard? I don’t have blonde hairs in my beard. The only blonde hair my beard has been close to…is her pussy hair. Those luscious lower lips of hers that had indicated that she was a natural blonde, and fuck me, if that hadn’t been a turn-on. My dick twitches in agreement. I pause. Nope, not going there. The last thing I need is walking in with a chub the size of England in my pants. I shake my head, and follow Max into the house. Of course, the bloody pooch has to lead the way.

He barks, tugs on his leash, which slips from my hand, He darts forward.

"Max." I quicken my pace.

Footsteps approach down the curved stairwell.

"Weston," a woman’s voice calls out.

I pause, turn toward the woman who walks down the steps, the first love of my life, the one woman who has my complete irrevocable devotion.

I smile up at her.

Her features light up, "You came."