A Dream Christmas

Yet she always had. Her fascination with Luc, with his moods, and his smile, and his good looks, had been there from day one. Her ring had kept her insulated against taking any of it too seriously or too far. But there had always been a little more to her feelings for him than was strictly appropriate.

A little flutter of excitement when he walked into the office in the morning that had absolutely no business being there.

The engines fired up, and they started moving down the runway. There were a lot of perks to one’s boss having a private plane, but the efficiency and speed were top on the list. They achieved liftoff only a few minutes after she boarded, and she didn’t even have to sit next to anyone with questionable hygiene.

Luc’s hygiene was impeccable. He smelled like … well, he smelled like everything good and spicy. The man, ironically, smelled like Christmas.

“Thanks for that, Luc. So are you going to let me in on the agenda for the next couple of days and why I’m so necessary?”

“You’re necessary because you always are,” he said, his accent caressing the words like a touch. A very sensual touch. He spoke very good English but there was a French flavor to his speech that never failed to make her feel all shivery.

“Well, thanks for that. But specifically, what function am I fulfilling?”

“I need you to help keep track of things. And to give your opinion. When I decide on what I want to offer, I’d like your take on things.”

“But you’re an expert on real estate. Surely you don’t need my opinion.”

“I do. I need people to want to come and stay in a resort. Obviously, it’s being sold because it’s not profitable at the moment, or at least it’s not doing what Fleischer wants it to. Or else why would he sell? So I have to make the decision as to whether or not I can make it do what he can’t.”

“And you want my opinion for that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m flattered. Look, that’s the second time in two days you’ve flattered me. You’re losing your edge.”

“You can unbuckle now,” he said, a command, not a request. Why did it make her go all shivery?

“Okay,” she said, undoing the buckle because she wanted to, not because he’d told her to.

She leaned back in her seat, and the stewardess appeared with a red-and-white mug, and a small plate with a scone. She also had Scotch for Luc.

“Wow. That’s roguish of you. It’s early.”

“It’s evening in Paris.”

“And we’re in New York.”

“I’m still on Paris time.”

“Have you been back to Paris in four years?”

He smiled and she gave herself a mental back pat.

“No.” Then he unrepentantly lifted his glass to his lips and took a drink.

She admired him for it, if she was completely honest. He was a master at not giving a damn about what other people thought, or what the rules or conventions were. And to someone who was so bound to those same things, it was both awe-inspiring and terrifying.

She wished she could be like that for one fleeting moment. That she could say to hell with convention and reason. To hell with Clint and their past. To hell with what he was asking her to do. And with what her family might think.

But that wasn’t her.

“I’ll just stick with my latte.”

He held his drink out. “You don’t care to make it more interesting?”

“A full-fat latte is interesting enough,” she said. “Trust me. Why are we leaving so early?”

“We have a breakfast meeting with Fleischer.”

“A breakfast meeting?”

“Yes, after which we will spend our time enjoying the resort. I think he’s hoping to drive the price up.”

“By showing you a nice relaxing time? Doesn’t he know you’d rather chew glass? Oh, no, he’s probably going to foist holiday cheer on you!”

“Luckily,” Luc said, leaning back, one long leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent at the knee, “I am immune. You, on the other hand, had better be careful.”

“I’m already radiant with cheer,” she said, smiling and fluttering her lashes at him. This, at least, felt normal. She’d forget all that other crap for now. No one ever teased Luc, she’d noticed that when she’d first come to work with him. But she did. She treated him like she did everyone else, well, with some added respect because he signed her paychecks, but her parents had always taught her that race, gender, class or general uptightness were never a reason to treat anyone differently.

So, in spite of the fact that he was as rich as God and scary as all get-out, she treated Luc like she did everyone. And weirdly, he seemed to like it. At least, she still had a job. So at the minimum he tolerated it.

Which she would accept.

“You do sort of radiate,” he said, taking another drink of Scotch.

“Why don’t I feel complimented?”

He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. I need you to check on some properties while I deal with some final schematics approvals for the new build. And no singing.”

“No singing?”

“Drink your latte.”

“But I want to sing.” She didn’t really.

“No,” he said, taking another sip of his Scotch as he took his laptop out of the bag that was positioned next to him, “singing.”

She pulled a face and took her computer out, too. “I can sing in my mind.”

“No, you can’t.”

“You don’t own my thoughts, Luc Chevalier,” she said, opening up her laptop and typing in her password.

“No, I meant you’re incapable of singing in your head. You will be belting out something ridiculous in about five minutes. It’s best if we put a moratorium on music.”

“I can so sing in my head.” She had a feeling she wouldn’t, though. Not with her thoughts as crammed with gloom as they were.

They both put their heads down and started working. And it didn’t take long for her to fill the empty space left by reading boring work reports with a Christmas carol. A few moments later Amelia felt her lips start moving and then …

“‘God rest ye merry …’” She looked up, at Luc’s dark, judgy gaze. She cleared her throat and looked back down. “Bah humbug, Mr. Scrooge.”

But she didn’t sing again. She worked. And she kept on that way until the plane landed in Denver.

“That landing was terrible,” Amelia said as they got into the limo that was waiting for them in front.

“It always is here,” he said. “It’s all the mountains.”

“Damn mountains,” she muttered, putting her purse in her lap and curling up against the door, more for a little distance from Luc than from genuine trauma over their rough landing.

Luc reached over, his finger brushing her cheek. A bolt of heat crackled across her skin and went down deep. “Are you all right?” he asked, his deep voice traveling along the path forged by the fire that had gone before it.

It was a one-two punch. His touch and his voice. If he added something else to the mix she was toast. She moved more tightly into the cold plastic embrace of the door handle.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I get a little nauseous on rough touchdowns like that, but honestly, it’s nothing to be concerned about because … Since when are you ever concerned?”

“Since you look like you’re about to vomit on the leather seats.”

“So touching.”

She whipped her phone out of her purse and opened up one of her flash sale shopping apps, scrolling through the daily deals.

“See? You do shop at work.”

“It’s early!” she protested. “And we went back in time.”

“You’re still on the clock until five.”

“You’re harsh,” she said, touching a picture of a pair of candy-apple-red shoes.

“You have shoes that look just like that,” he said.

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I don’t!”

“You wore them yesterday.”

She rolled her eyes. “Those are cranberry. These are more of a true red.”

“And today you have on Muk Luks.”

She looked down at her knee-high furry boots, with the leather laces and fuzzy balls. “Yes. I do. It’s cold here out west. It’s snowing.”

“Which is what you want with a ski resort,” he said. “At least we have that.”

“Yeah, otherwise it’s just a bunch of rich idiots scooting down a mud hill.”

“Yes, well, you don’t want that.”

“Mmm.”

The limo wound up the side of a mountain, on a freshly plowed two-lane road lined with snow-covered evergreens.

In Manhattan, there were places on the streets where your vision was walled in by buildings. Beyond the gray steel in front of you was the glass and metal beyond it, and above, there was a small pocket of yellow-coal sky.

But here … here it was trees. Trees along the roadway, over the mountains and, beyond that, more trees, with a shocking blue sky streaked with white clouds.

It was like being thrust into Oz after the black-and-white haze of Kansas.

The road ended on the mountaintop at a large lodge, constructed of heavy wooden beams and a green sheet metal roof, covered in patches of bright snow.

“Sold. Can I live here forever?” she asked.

“There are very few shops,” he said.

“Online shopping.”

“Are you still online shopping?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Because as someone pointed out, I do have very similar shoes.”

“You should have brought ski boots.”

“We’re only going to be here a day.”

“Yes, and we’re due at breakfast now.”

“Now? I am in Muk Luks, Luc, as you pointed out.”

He made a very dismissive French sound that rippled through her, not like the sexy electricity from before, but like annoying, static electricity. “They’ll do fine. You’re in the mountains, after all. And you look as beautiful as ever.”

Don’t blush. Don’t blush. “You think I’m beautiful?”

Oh, wow. What in the world was that? How needy could she get? Asking if he thought she was beautiful.

Though, considering the beating her ego had taken recently … she did feel in need.

He looked her over, his dark gaze assessing. “Yes. Because you are beautiful, and I can see.”

“Oh, well. That’s nice.”

“I am nice.”

“Pah!”

Luc got out of the limo and walked around to her side, opening the door for her. “Look,” he said, “nice.”

“Well, you aren’t horrible.”

“Damned with faint praise.”

“I bet that doesn’t happen often.”

A smile curved his lips. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether or not they’re mad that I didn’t stay around for the morning after.”

“Ah,” she said, getting out of the limo, her head a little swimmy. She really didn’t need to think of Luc in that context. Not so near her … thinking about him in that context. “Well, that has nothing to do with this.”

“Of course not. Ready for breakfast?”

“Obviously I expect a Denver omelet.”

“We’re not in Denver.”

“But we’re a lot closer than usual. So I assume it will be superior to the New York Denver omelet.”

“One hopes,” he said.

They walked across the paved drive and through the front doors into the expansive lobby. An older man dressed in a suit, with black hair that looked as though it might have been dusted in snow, stood there with a woman at his side. She was near his age, Amelia guessed, and perfectly put together in a blue pantsuit that Amelia herself would never be caught dead in, but could respect.

“Mr. Chevalier.” The man, Don Fleischer, she presumed, extended his hand.

“Mr. Fleischer,” Luc said, confirming her initial thought. “And this is?”

“My lovely wife, Anna.”

“Pleasure,” Luc said, his lips wrapped around the word as if it was decadent chocolate. Why was his voice so sexy?

Anna Fleischer was not unaffected. And really, who would be? The other woman flushed slightly and extended her hand to shake his. “Very nice to meet you.”

“I’m very pleased to see you’ve brought your girlfriend—or is that fiancée,” he said, his eyes dropping to her left hand, “with you. I prefer to have something of a family meeting, rather than a true business meeting. And I particularly like it when a man includes his partner in important business affairs.”

“Naturally,” Luc said, moving nearer to her, his arm sliding around her waist. “I would hardly make such a decision without the woman I love by my side.”

CHAPTER THREE

AMELIA STIFFENED, HER EYES widening. “Uh …”

“You must be starving, Amelia, darling,” Luc said.

She curled her hand into a fist, feeling conscious of the ring on her finger, the one that had been there for four years. The one she’d spent most of the day considering removing.

And now it had gotten them into this.

Though, why Luc was touching her instead of correcting Fleischer she didn’t know.

She felt as if she’d stepped into an alternate dimension. What was the man going on about? “I did have the scone on the plane.”

“Just one scone,” he said. “I thought you wanted an omelet.”

Don laughed. “We do have good omelets. Right this way into the dining area.”

Amelia and Luc followed, Luc with his arm still wrapped around her waist. He was making her all warm. And it was weird.

Then when they reached the table he held the chair out for her. She sat, giving him the best and most subtle side eye she could manage.

The breakfast really was a personal visit, peppered with talks of business. Luc was adept at mainly keeping the personal topics relegated to Don and Anna, and to use those moments to push through to a discussion about the running of the resort. They were moving to be in warmer climates, to be nearer to their grandchildren, but the resort was special to them and wouldn’t it be nice to have another couple interested in taking it over?

Luc, to his credit, did remind them that he owned many properties, and would likely not personally run things in Aspen. But they were both sold on his charm, so neither seemed to mind.

Amelia, for her part, mainly sat quietly, shoveling egg, ham and cheese into her mouth. It was a good omelet. That, at least, in this crazy mixed-up world, was a surety. Cheese would never fail her.

Every once in a while she would nod enthusiastically in agreement with Luc, because that much she knew would be appreciated. That she did as part of her job. The touching stuff, though, was not a part of her job, and every time he brushed his fingers over her knuckles she had to fight the urge to leap up out of her chair and shake the warm fuzzies off her hand.

She didn’t, though. She sat still. And she was pretty sure she was accomplishing the playing it cool act.

“Well,” Don said, standing when all the plates were clear. Everyone else at the table followed suit. “I suppose I should let you get to your room.”

“I … It is no trouble at all to have Amelia put in her own room,” Luc said, stumbling over his English. She’d never heard him do that before.

Anna laughed. “We’re not that old-fashioned, Mr. Chevalier. We put you in the Aspen Suite. Of course we didn’t realize Amelia was coming, but it is the best room in the lodge.”

“Faaaabulous,” Amelia said, heat rising in her cheeks and other … places.

“Everything was taken up already,” Don said.

“Oh, very kind of you,” Luc said, smiling. “Now … which floor?”

Don handed him a card with a code written on it. “The top floor. And you have a passcode to get into the room.”

“Fantastic.” Luc took it and tucked it into his suit jacket pocket. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” she said, smiling far too brightly as she walked with him to the elevator. They got inside and when the doors slid shut, she rounded on him. “What the?”

“I could have corrected them, but to what end? We’re here for a day, to look the place over and to try and get the best deal possible. Forging something of a … personal relationship with the Fleischers is obviously the way to go. And will make my somewhat low offer look okay.”

“This is awkward. Like … fourteen-year-old boy walking by the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition in public, while wearing sweatpants, awkward.”

“That is some kind of awkward.”

“Isn’t it?” she snipped.

“Amelia, you and I have worked together for four years, I’m sure we can sleep in close quarters for an evening without being terribly bothered by it. Unless you’re bothered by it.”

“What? Me? Pfffft.” She blew out a breath. “Bothered. Why would I be bothered?”

“You seem bothered.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts and determinedly stared the elevator doors down, as if that might make it move faster. “Nope,” she said. “Not. Bothered, that is. Not even a little. You’re my boss and … and … a friend kind of, when you aren’t being a grumpy…. Well, you’re grumpy most of the time but … why would it be weird? It’s not weird.”

“Then everything should be fine. I just saw no need to rock the boat.”

She took a deep breath and let it back out again, everything suddenly kind of unsteady. “But you lied. About us. And I don’t … I don’t really like that.”

“Why?”

“Because. Just … you know, forget it.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“Fantastic,” he said.

The doors slid open and Luc walked out without waiting, then strode down the hall to the room, punching in the code quickly. She followed, trying to process why exactly she was suddenly in annoyed territory, rather than just slightly uncomfortable territory.

Shades of Clint?

No. This had nothing to do with Clint, and all the garbage happening with him. That was a separate drama and would have to wait to be dealt with. Probably while they were all spending Christmas together. His parents and hers, and … just great.

Anyway, for her to be bothered by Luc’s little lie on that level would sort of require her to have feelings for Luc. And for him to be tricking her into thinking he had feelings for her. Which was not what was happening. So really, it was nothing like Clint. So she should just chill.

She walked into the suite and breathed a sigh of relief. It was large. With more than one room. There was a couch right in the main room, and there was what she assumed to be a bedroom off to the left. There was another door to the right that might just be another bedroom.

“There,” he said. “This will actually be quite convenient, because if I need you for anything, you’ll be right there.”

She nearly choked over the image that put in her head. Of Luc needing her. In the night. His big hands, dark on her pale skin as they skimmed her curves and …

“Yeah,” she said. “For work stuff.”

“What else would I mean?”

“No … personal stuff.”

He arched a dark brow. “Amelia, does this make you uncomfortable? Because the last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” she said. “I’m fine. It’s a nonissue. We’re adults. We can manage.”

“Let me tell you,” he said, dark eyes blazing as he took two steps closer to her, his expression intense. “I know some men just take what they want, with no thought to how it might affect other people, but I am not that man.”

“I know,” she said, feeling breathless now.

“That is for men like my brother.”

She swallowed hard, her heart beating fast. “Yes, I know. Your brother the fiancée-stealing jerk.”

“Have you heard the story?” he asked.

“From you? Only every time his name is mentioned in the news. I also read the article in Vanity Fair about The Wedding That Wasn’t.”

“You didn’t even work for me then.”

“No, but I read that kind of thing. I’m interested in society and pop culture and it was … a big deal.”

“I know, Amelia, it was my wedding. Trust me, I know.”

She blinked. “You must have loved her a lot.”

Luc paused, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking at Amelia, who looked especially wide-eyed, yet again, since their encounter with the Fleischers downstairs. Not that he could blame her, especially.

It had been a definite change in direction, but as he’d said to her in the elevator, he saw no reason to correct Don, not when it might work to their advantage in some way. He had no way of knowing, and it would be best if he could simply give himself every tool to work with.

Of course, somehow, all of that had led to a shared suite, and to her asking questions about Marie.

“No,” he said, his tone harsher than he’d intended. “I did not love her a lot. I daresay I didn’t love her much at all. It was a business arrangement.” Which was partly true. But she’d been the woman he was prepared to spend his life with and, in the end, she’d betrayed him.

And even more painfully, his brother had betrayed him. Yes, he knew Blaise had his own baggage. Raised mainly in Africa with their mother, Blaise’s life had been completely different from Luc’s. Luc had spent his childhood in a mansion in Paris.

And in his mind, he’d always seen Blaise’s stealing Marie before the wedding as some kind of revenge. Revenge for a charmed life that had never been as charmed as Blaise had imagined. As anyone might have imagined.

His father had been—was still—a tyrant. A mean drunk. Distant at best and violent at worst.

But all anyone ever saw was the facade. The mansion. The man in the suit.

Luc knew differently.

And while he’d paid lip service to forgiveness, while he’d told Blaise years ago to just forget it, forgiveness had never truly taken root in him. Because Blaise couldn’t return what he’d stolen. Because Luc could never forget.

“Well, if you didn’t love her then …” Amelia looked at him, pain in her blue eyes. “I hope she knew, Luc. Because I think it’s pretty bad form to use a woman like that. To use anyone like that.”

“She knew,” Luc said. “Though, in the end she said it wasn’t enough. The day before the wedding. Do you suppose she could have come to that conclusion faster? Do you suppose she might have … ended things with me before she jumped into bed with my brother?”

Amelia frowned. “Fine. Point taken.”

“I was not using her. I believe I just pointed out to you that I’m not one who does that.”

“And … your brother was using her?”

“My brother is with someone else now.”

Blaise and his wife, Ella, had been married for four years. Surprisingly, or rather not, Luc had not attended the wedding.

“I know,” Amelia said, pointing toward her breasts. At least, that was where his eyes went. “This dress is hers.”

“You’re wearing one of my sister-in-law’s designs?” he asked.

“I wear Ella Stanton clothes all the time. She’s a genius. I like to mix her with vintage.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“So I can’t sing in my head and you don’t know how you feel about me wearing a certain designer? What next? Are you going to order me to take the dress off?”

She froze as soon as the words left her mouth, her gaze clashing with his.

He took a moment to appreciate the way her dress formed to her figure. One thing was certain, his sister-in-law was talented. The gray sweater dress made the most of every curve, covering skin, but tantalizing all the same.

And he wondered what exactly she might look like unwrapped for his pleasure. He’d done his best never to go there with her, really, he’d succeeded. She wasn’t his type. She was open, smiley and chipper. She wasn’t all self-contained and polished like an ice sculpture, not in the least.

She was all cheer and broad gestures. And she was not his fiancée. She was engaged to another man, and he would be damned if he ever sunk that low.

He would never be like his brother. Would never be like his father. Both seemed to do whatever they wanted in regards to women, but not Luc.

He ignored the fierce twist in his gut and turned toward the bar in the corner. “I could use a drink.”

“It’s still before noon.”

“Not in New York.”

“Blah!” she said. “So … what, I have to pretend to be your fiancée now?”