The Christmas Love-Child

“Only one woman in a hundred would have turned down my offer,” the Russian prince said quietly from behind her. “One in a thousand.”

She looked back at him with a trembling attempt at a smile. “You are my boss’s rival. I feel enough of a traitor allowing you to replace the lingerie. Accepting a gift from you would not be appropriate.”

“No one would ever know about it.”

“I would know. And so would you.”

“Ah.” He looked down at her, his dark eyes intent. “A woman of honor.”

She felt uncomfortable, unsure of what response to make. The way he looked at her didn’t help. It just made her jumpy in her own skin. After feeling invisible for so long, being so suddenly seen by a man like Maksim made her dizzy.

It was like spending years in the darkness and then abruptly being hit by a blaze of sun. It sizzled her all over. She felt blinded by the intensity of his heat.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the salesgirl hold out the bag with a bright smile. “Merry Christmas, miss. Please come again soon.”

“Allow me.” Maksim took the bag, carrying it for her.

A prince and a gentleman?

It shocked her. If she’d been shopping with Alan, he would have made her carry everything. He liked to keep his hands free. After all, he always joked, didn’t women love to carry shopping bags? But then, Alan was her boss.

Maksim was…her enemy?

He was different from any man she’d ever known before. Dangerous. Because he was so handsome? Ruthless. Because he was a billionaire? And gallant. Because he was a prince?

Whatever it was, he was just like the Leighton clothes. Not for Grace. Nothing to do with real life. And yet she couldn’t look away, and a part of her couldn’t stop wondering what it would be like to be his woman.

As they climbed into his waiting Rolls-Royce, she felt the strength of his hand beneath her arm as he helped her in. Felt his touch up and down her body. And she trembled in her wet coat for reasons that had nothing to do with cold.

“Is it strange for you to buy lingerie for your ex-girlfriend?” she murmured as the car pulled away from the curb.

He shrugged, looked away. “She may someday be my girlfriend again.”

“But she’s engaged to Alan.”

She saw the twitch in his jaw. “And two months ago she was with me.”

“You can’t possibly think—”

“I don’t wish to speak of her.” He took both her hands in his own. “I wish to speak only of you.” He looked down at her and the edges of his lips turned up. “You need warming up.”

“I…do?” she breathed.

“Join me for dinner tonight.”

He was asking her out on a date? She tried not to tremble. Failed. “I couldn’t possibly.”

His dark eyebrows lowered. “Why?”

“I’m not hungry, for one.” As if on cue, her stomach gave an audible growl and she blushed. She’d worked through lunch writing engagement announcements for Alan’s friends and family, while her boss met Francesca for a celebratory lunch at her father’s estate outside the city. “If Alan found out…”

“He won’t.”

“Splurging on dinner is not in my budget.”

“I will of course be pleased to—”

“No.”

He sighed, clearly exasperated. “You make it impossible to pamper you.”

“I don’t want you to pamper me.” Her stomach growled again, and she bit her lip. “But…perhaps a small snack wouldn’t hurt. As long as we go Dutch.” And as long as Alan never finds out. “There’s a tea shop by Harrods, close to our house.”

He raised his eyebrows. “‘Our’ house?” he asked innocently. “You have a roommate?”

She felt a blush go across her cheeks. “I share a house with Alan.”

He gave her a knowing glance. “I see.”

“We’re not lovers, if that’s what you think!” But she could see he didn’t believe her. She felt her cheeks turn redder still. “I have my own three-room flat in his basement. As his executive secretary, he needs me to always be available. With London rents as expensive as they are, I’m happy to have a place to stay.”

“How very convenient for you both,” he murmured silkily.

“You don’t understand,” she stammered. “It’s all fair and aboveboard. He deducts the cost of the rent from my salary each month!”

He suddenly laughed. “Does he really? So you’re available to him around the clock, running his personal errands on your own time…and he still makes you pay money to live in his basement?” He shook his head. “I can see why he inspires such loyalty.”

“Oh, forget it,” she said in a huff, sitting back against the seat and staring stonily out at passing Hyde Park. “If you’re going to insult Alan, you can forget the tea and just take me home.”

“I didn’t insult him.”

“You did!”

“I’m just surprised at your loyalty. You deserve more.”

She stared at him. She deserved more? It was an entirely new thought. She’d spent three years in low-paying temp jobs in downtown L.A. before she’d been hired by Cali-West. She’d been instantly smitten by the powerful, blond, handsome CEO who looked like a young Hugh Grant. She’d thought herself very lucky.

But the darkly handsome Russian prince thought she deserved…more?

“Are we close to the tea shop?” Maksim asked. She saw the driver waiting for directions, glancing at her in the rearview mirror.

She pointed grumpily. “Right there. Just past the light.”

The white-haired lady who owned the patisserie appeared flustered by Maksim’s broad-shouldered form appearing in the doorway of her dainty shop. He seemed massively masculine, out of place against the faded flowery wallpaper. She immediately seated them at the best table, tucked in a corner window overlooking the crowds and festive windows of Harrods across the street. When the Frenchwoman asked for their order, Grace waited for Maksim to order first, as Alan would have done.

Instead, he looked at her questioningly, reaching across the small table to take her hand. “What do you recommend, Grace?”

“I…um.” She glanced down at her hand wrapped in his far larger one. She could barely think with him touching her. “The…er…” She pulled her hand away under pretense of picking up the gently tattered menu that she’d long ago learned by heart. “The English breakfast tea is good. The pastries are excellent, and so are the sandwiches.” She looked up at Madame Charbon, handing back her menu. “I’ll have my usual.”

The woman nodded.

Maksim handed her his menu. “I’ll have the same.”

“Oui, monsieur.”

As the Frenchwoman departed, Grace looked at him in surprise. “You don’t even know what you just ordered!”

He shrugged. “You know this restaurant. I trust you.”

He trusted her. She tried not to feel flattered. “Want to know what you’re having?”

“I like surprises.”

Normally Grace didn’t, but she was starting to. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I was so upset in the car. I guess you really weren’t insulting Alan.”

“He is lucky to have you.”

She stared down at the tiny table. The truth was it was sometimes grating how small her paycheck was. And never more so than now. She’d been his junior secretary for eighteen months before she was promoted to executive assistant six months ago. But in spite of her additional responsibilities, he’d never given her a raise commensurate with her new position. He’d always managed to put her off with an excuse and a smile.

Then he’d decided to pursue a long-shot merger with Exemplary Oil PLC and he’d abruptly moved them to London in early October. In L.A. Grace had had fewer expenses. She’d been able to live at home and help her family. Now that she lived in London and paid Alan rent, she was barely able to send her mother a hundred dollars a month.

This led to one inescapable conclusion: the looming foreclosure of her family’s home was entirely Grace’s fault.

As Madame Charbon arrived with the steaming mugs of hot chocolate and croissants, Grace tried to push the depressing thoughts away. They just made her feel more powerless and scared and…angry.

Alan will help me. He will, she repeated to herself.

“What are you thinking about, solnishka mayo?” Maksim asked, leaning forward as he looked at her keenly.

She gulped down some hot chocolate, scalding her tongue. “Nothing. Um. I was just wondering if you’ve ever ridden the Trans-Siberian Railroad.”

His dark eyebrows rose. “An odd question.”

“You’re Russian, aren’t you?” She smiled wistfully. “I used to dream about that train when I was a little girl, a train that crosses seven time zones and nearly six thousand miles, going all the way from Moscow to the Pacific Ocean.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said dryly. “I live in Moscow only a few months a year. When I travel or visit the northern oil fields I go by jet.”

“Of course you do,” she said with a sigh. “So where do you live when you’re not in Russia? London?”