Was he Prince Charming...or Scrooge?
When sweet, kind Kristen Anderson asks self-made billionaire Dean Suminski to invest in her charity, he agrees, but with one condition: Kristen must be his Christmas-party date!
It might be glamorous being on handsome Dean’s arm, but Kristen soon discovers the bruised soul behind Dean’s brusque exterior. He has built his barriers against Christmas—and for a very good reason. Kristen’s hoping she can start to melt his defenses...with one magical mistletoe kiss!
Dean watched her face change. When she’d turned from looking at the Christmas decorations her eyes had been bright. But when their gazes met her face seemed to freeze.
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
“Of course I am.”
He’d expected her to lie, and laughed when she didn’t. “Because you don’t lie, you and I are going to get along spectacularly.”
She glanced down at her pretty satin dress. She looked as much like a princess in the dress as her boss, Princess Eva. But to Dean she was even prettier. She had soft-looking Scandinavian skin, so pale it had picked up the moonlight when they’d walked from the hotel to his limo, and green eyes that were a striking contrast. Her thick yellow hair had been pulled up into some creation of curls on top of her head, exposing her long, cultured neck.
And his first thought when he’d seen her was how easy it would be to kiss that neck.
CHAPTER ONE
WHEN THE ELEVATOR bell rang in the lobby of the upscale Paris hotel, Kristen Anderson’s heart thumped. She spun to face the ornate wrought iron doors, her whole body shivering in anticipation—
Two middle-aged American women got out.
She didn’t have time to sag with disappointment, because someone tapped her on the shoulder and asked her a quiet question.
In French.
Which she didn’t speak.
She turned around to see a man dressed in a suit, undoubtedly the desk clerk.
Speaking English, because her native Grennadian was nearly unheard of, she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak French.”
The elevator bell dinged again. Her head snapped toward the sound.
In perfect English, the desk clerk said, “May I ask, mademoiselle, your business in our hotel?”
She pointed at the tall, broad man exiting the elevator. “I want to see him.”
She took two steps toward Dean Suminski, chairman of the board and CEO of Suminski Stuff, but the clerk caught her arm.
“No, mademoiselle.” He shook his finger like a metronome. “You will not disturb a guest.”
Walking toward her, Dean Suminski shrugged into a gorgeous charcoal-gray overcoat. His eyes were down. She guessed that was his way of ignoring anyone who might be around him. But she didn’t care. Getting him to visit Grennady and consider it as the place to relocate his company was her mission for her country. Approaching him was also practice for when she had to deal with men like him on a daily basis after she started her charitable foundation. One desk clerk wouldn’t stop her.
“Sorry, Pierre.” She pulled her arm out of his short, stubby fingers. “Someday I’m going to build schools in third world countries. I have to learn to be brash.”
She spun away from the clerk and shouted, “Mr. Suminski!”
He totally ignored her.
“Mr. Suminski! I know that’s you. I’ve seen your face on the internet.”
He walked to the door.
She scurried after him. “I just need two minutes.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the clerk point at a man behind another discreet desk. He nodded and bounded toward her. But Suminski walked out the door and she stayed on his heels, catching him when he stopped in front of a limo.
“Seriously. Two minutes. That’s all I need.”
In the silence of the crisp early December morning, at a hotel set back, away from the congestion of Paris’s main thoroughfare, she heard his annoyed sigh and was surprised when he faced her.
“Who are you?”
With his dark eyes locked on her face, Kristen froze. His black hair was perfect, not a strand out of place. His high forehead, straight nose and high cheekbones could have made him a king.
When she didn’t answer, he said, “Fine,” and began to turn away.