Christmas Angel for the Billionaire. Liz Fielding

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СКАЧАТЬ you warm enough back there?’ George Saxon asked.

      ‘Yes. Thank you.’

      The heater was efficient and despite his lack of charm, he hadn’t fumbled when she’d fallen into his arms. On the contrary. He’d been a rock and she felt safe enough in the back of his truck. A lot safer than she’d felt in his arms. But of course this was her natural place in the world. Sitting in the back with some man up front in the driving seat. In control.

      Everything she’d hoped to escape from, she reminded herself, her gaze fixed on the man who was in control at the moment. Or at least the back of his head.

      Over the years she had become something of a connoisseur of the back of the male head. The masculine neck. All those chauffeurs, bodyguards…

      George Saxon’s neck would stand comparison with the best, she decided. Strong, straight with thick dark hair expertly cut to exactly the right length. His shoulders, encased in the soft tan leather of his jacket, would take some beating too. It was a pity his manners didn’t match them.

      Or was she missing the point?

      Rupert’s perfect manners made her teeth ache to say or do something utterly outrageous just to get a reaction, but George Saxon’s hands, like his eyes, had been anything but polite.

      They’d been assured, confident, brazen even. She could still feel the imprint of his thumbs against her breasts where his hands had gripped her as she’d fallen; none of that Dresden shepherdess nonsense for him. And his insolence as he’d offered her the torch had sent an elemental shiver of awareness running up her spine that had precious little to do with the cold that had seeped deep into her bones.

      He might not be a gentleman, but he was real—dangerously so—and, whatever else he made her feel, it certainly wasn’t desperation.

      Annie didn’t have time to dwell on what exactly he did make her feel before he swung the truck off the road and turned onto the forecourt of a large garage with a sign across the workshop that read, George Saxon and Son.

      Faded and peeling, neglected, it didn’t match the man, she thought as he backed up to one of the bays. He might be a little short on charm but he had an animal vitality that sent a charge of awareness running through her.

      Xandra jumped down and opened the doors and then, once he’d backed her car in, she uncoupled it, he said, ‘There’s a customer waiting room at the far end. You’ll find a machine for drinks.’ Dismissed, she climbed down from the truck and walked away. ‘Annie!’

      She stopped. It was, she discovered, easy to be charming when everyone treated you with respect but she had to take a deep breath before she turned, very carefully, to face him.

      ‘Mr Saxon?’ she responded politely.

      ‘Shut the damn door!’

      She blinked.

      No one had ever raised their voice to her. Spoken to her in that way.

      ‘In your own time,’ he said when she didn’t move.

      Used to having doors opened for her, stepping out of a car without so much as a backward glance, she hadn’t even thought about it.

      She wanted to be ordinary, she reminded herself. To be treated like an ordinary woman. Clearly, it was going to be an education.

      She walked back, closed the door, but if she’d expected the courtesy of a thank you she would have been disappointed.

      Always a fast learner, she hadn’t held her breath.

      ‘Take no notice of George,’ Xandra said as he drove away to park the truck. ‘He doesn’t want to be here so he’s taking it out on you.’

      ‘Doesn’t…? Why not? Isn’t he the “and Son”?’

      She laughed, but not with any real mirth. ‘Wrong generation. The “and Son” above the garage is my granddad but he’s in hospital. A heart attack.’

      ‘I’m sorry to hear that. How is he?’

      ‘Not well enough to run the garage until I can take over,’ she said. Then, blinking back something that looked very much like a tear, she shrugged, lifted her head. ‘Sorry. Family business.’ She flicked a switch that activated the hoist. ‘I’ll take a look at your car.’

      Annie, confused by the tensions, wishing she could do something too, but realising that she’d been dismissed—and that was new, as well—said, ‘Your father mentioned a waiting room?’

      ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. It’ll be freezing in there and the drinks machine hasn’t worked in ages.’ Xandra fished a key out of her pocket. ‘Go inside where it’s warm,’ she said, handing it to her. ‘Make yourself at home. There’s tea and coffee by the kettle, milk in the fridge.’ Xandra watched the car as it rose slowly above them, then, realising that she hadn’t moved, said, ‘Don’t worry. It won’t take long to find the problem.’

      ‘Are you quite sure?’ she asked.

      ‘I may be young but I know what I’m doing.’

      ‘Yes…’ Well, maybe. ‘I meant about letting myself in.’

      ‘Gran would invite you in herself if she were here,’ she said as her father rejoined them.

      In the bright strip light his face had lost the dangerous shadows, but it still had a raw quality. There was no softness to mitigate hard bone other than a full lower lip that oozed sensuality and only served to increase her sense of danger.

      ‘You shouldn’t be in here,’ he said.

      ‘I’m going…’ She cleared her throat. ‘Can I make something for either of you?’ she offered.

      He frowned.

      She lifted her hand and dangled the door key. ‘Tea? Coffee?’

      For a moment she thought he was going to tell her to stay on her own side of the counter—maybe she was giving him the opportunity—but after a moment he shrugged and said, ‘Coffee. If there is any.’

      ‘Xandra?’

      ‘Whatever,’ she said, as she ducked beneath the hoist, clearly more interested in the car than in anything she had to say and Annie walked quickly across the yard, through a gate and up a well-lit path to the rear of a long, low stone-built house and let herself in through the back door.

      The mud room was little more than a repository for boots and working clothes, a place to wash off the workplace dirt, but as she walked into the kitchen she was wrapped in the heat being belted out by an ancient solid fuel stove.

      Now this was familiar, she thought, relaxing as she crossed to the sink, filled the kettle and set it on the hob to boil.

      This room, so much more than a kitchen, was typical of the farmhouses at King’s Lacey, her grandfather’s Warwickshire estate.

      Her last memory of her father was being taken to visit the tenants before he’d gone away for the last time. She’d been given brightly coloured fizzy pop and mince СКАЧАТЬ