The Billionaire’s Christmas Bride by L. Steele

54

"Q: What do you call a lamb covered in chocolate?

A: Candy Baa."

-From Amelie's diary

Amelie

I slide the tray of chocolate cookies out of the oven. Yeah, I've been here for a half hour already. What can I say? I'm a sucker. And it doesn't take me much time to mix up the cookie batter. Not when all of the ingredients, and more, are available... And the oven...? Whoa!

I rake my gaze over the sparkling steel surface of the top of the range oven... The man has his faults, but he hadn't compromised when it came to the kitchen. I turn to glance out of the window; the evening light of the city pours in through the large panes. I can see the Thames and the bridge. OMG, Tower Bridge gleams as it picks up the rays from the setting sun. The entire scene is almost surreal, and beautiful, and completely not what I am used to.

But you could...you could stay here, bake in this kitchen every day, sleep in his bed every night, have him fuck you and bring you to orgasm. Hell, bet he'd even proclaim his love again and probably mean it this time... You could have everything you’ve dreamed of... So why the hell are you holding out?That fucking independent spirit of mine... Why the hell do I have to be this adamant?

It had seemed all right to take his money earlier... But that was before I realized I want more, want him to want me for who I am. A cakehead, who has to figure out things her own way, without help or interference... At least, he'd left me alone to get on with the baking. Where is he anyway? Why hasn't he checked in on me yet?

I place the cookies on the cooling trays I'd found.

I had been on the verge of leaving and he'd managed to stall me. Clever man—he knows me too well. I smile at the thought, until I realize it’s not true. If he really knew me, he’d know what I want from him. He wouldn’t be trying to buy me. Suddenly, I want to cry. I need to get out of here.

I walk toward the door, then pause. I wonder what else he has in this big-ass place? Should I explore? Shouldn't I leave instead? I pause... But the cookies. Okay, I'll stay until the cookies have cooled.

I set the alarm on my phone, pocket it, then creep out of the kitchen. I head for the living room; he's not there. Turn and walk into the next room. It's a playroom, filled with toys. Bet Phe spends a lot of time in here.

I walk into the next room—a study filled with books where an eleven-year-old pre-teen would love to spend time. Yep, this is Skye's. I guess his family comes over to visit often. Does he babysit his nieces? Of course, he does.

I head into the adjacent room. The scent of cigar smoke and something else—his scent, those heavy testosterone notes tease my nostrils. This is his space, a study, more of a man-cave, complete with volumes of medical journals on the shelves.

I peruse the titles, glance down. Huh? He has an entire shelf filled with the Harry Potter books. So, he liked to read them for pleasure? Aww. A warmth trickles through my chest. I stiffen. No, you cannot allow yourself to soften. Damn it, maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.

I'd hoped to find something that would incriminate him, allow me to nurture my need to have a low opinion of him. Instead, all signs confirm that this is a and this one?

man who loves his family, who has the kind of quirks I enjoy. And yeah, he is a surgeon, and he does save lives. I hunch my shoulders. The man is bloody complex and too attractive, and I don't stand a chance. This had been a bad idea. Speaking of, where the hell is the Doc? Had he been so confident that I would stay, that he'd left? Had he done it to give me some down time? To cool off maybe, and come to my senses? Typical male manipulation. I huff. He knew if he left me alone in his space, I'd investigate it. I reach the doors to his bedroom, hesitate. Go on, do it. A quick peek, that's all it is.

I shove open the doors, enter a room which I swear is as big as my apartment. My feet sink into the carpet that stretches out toward a massive king-sized bed in the center. To one side, sliding doors open onto a terrace, beyond which is the inevitable spectacular view of Tower Bridge. And at the far end? That has to be a walk-in closet. I march toward it, push open the doors and peek it. It's filled with an array of his pants, shirts, ties, suits, scrubs, his designer shoes. No watches, of course. I know, now, why he doesn't keep those accessories. Also, one entire side of the closet is cleared out. For what? Did someone else just move out? Or had he been so sure that I'd move in with him? Presumptuous, much?

As I near the kitchen, the scent of freshly baked cookies teases my nostrils. My mouth waters and my belly grumbles. I hasten my pace, head for the oven. Ha, life's so much better when you have cookies in your hand. And really, I should have left, but procrastibaking is my specialty. You know, when you have a million things to do, but you put it on the back burner and prefer to bake? I snort, then brush my hand over the apron that I'd pulled on. It's a designer piece, that much I can tell. Who makes designer aprons? More to the point, who buys them? Weston fucking Kincaid does, that's who.

I lean over the cookies, inhale the heady perfume. OMG, almost as good as fucking... Well, that's what I used to think. Then I'd met Weston and okay...baking is my second favorite past-time now, the first being, riding his monster dick, licking the frosting off of his penis... Stop, stop. Enough already. Change of topic, focus on something else. I reach for a cookie and bring it to my mouth.

"Is that for me?"

His voice sounds so close, I squeak. The cookie slips from my fingers. He swoops down catches it.

"Good save," I mutter as he straightens and turns to me.

He glances at the piece of cookie in between his fingers, then raises it and holds it to my lips.

"Open." His gaze is fixed on my face. He peruses my features, searching... searching for... What? My compliance? That I'll throw myself at his feet and ask him to fuck me? That I'll reveal my feelings? Tell him how I've fallen for him, that I want a future with him? Have I allowed him to distract me because I don't want to leave? Because I already miss him—his large body that pins me down and allows me to be weak... Secure in the knowledge that he'll catch me. He'll take care of me... I know that...but I want more. I part my lips and he pops the cookie in. I bite down. The soft texture melts in my mouth. I lick my lips. He lowers his gaze to my mouth, watches me with that intensity that's so Weston. I chew, swallow, open my mouth. He feeds me more of the cookie. I chew, swallow again. This time, his breath catches. The tendons of his throat move, his shoulders bunch. "Amelie," his voice is harsh and soft at the same time.

"Don't." I should turn away. This is where I walk away and never look back. Write off the past few days, count this Christmas as a lost cause, then go home to my apartment—now secure, thanks to him—and bake until I can't see straight. Then swallow down enough wine that I don't remember much of the immediate future. Go through the motions in life... Move on... Pick myself up again and plod forward, one freaking step at a time.

He holds up the last piece of the cookie.

I shake my head, "You have it."

He glances at it then pops it into his mouth. He chews on it and that's when it sinks in.

"It has chocolate," I mutter.

He raises his shoulders, "So?"

"Thought you didn't like it?"

"Told you I was coming around to it." He bends his knees and peers into my face, "In fact, it's fast becoming my second favorite dessert to eat."

My heart stutters. One stupid bit of praise from him and my heart literally seems to melt, like the chocolate in those stupid cookies.

Don't ask him. Don't.

"What's the first?" I mumble.

"What do you think?" His lips curve.

My cheeks heat. My belly flutters. Don't blush. Don't let him see how much that compliment pleases me. I swipe my hair over my shoulder. "Don't think that you can get back in my good graces by praising my cooking."

"Baking" he corrects me.

"Right." I drag my fingers through my hair. Why the hell do I get the feeling that everything is out of my control, right now? "It's time I left."

I brush past him.

"Stop," he calls out, then softly adds, "Don't leave, Cookie."

I hunch my shoulders, keep my gaze trained on the door. You don't want this, don’t want him like this. You are a big girl; you can move forward on your own. You don't need any alphahole to jerk you around and think he can buy you with money.

"Princess," his coaxing voice follows me, "I'll let you take the lead."