Christmas In The Boss's Castle. Scarlet Wilson

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       CHAPTER TWO

      ONCE THE TEARS started she couldn’t stop them. They were coming out in that weird, gasping way that made her feel as if she were fighting for every breath. She stopped in front of the elevator and fumbled for her card.

      No! She didn’t have it. He still did.

      She looked around. Fire exit. It was the only other way out of here. There was no way she was hanging around.

      As soon as she swung the door open she started upwards instead of down. Her chest was tight. She needed some air and she must be only seconds away from the roof. The grey door loomed in front of her. Was everything in this place black or grey? She pushed at the door and it sprang open onto the flat roof.

      The rush of cold air was instant. She walked across the roof as she tried to suck some in.

      She hadn’t even thought about the cold. She hadn’t even considered the fact it might still be snowing. The hotel was always warm so her thin shirt was no protection against the rapidly dipping temperatures on a late December afternoon.

      But Grace couldn’t think about the cold. All she could think about was the man she’d just met—Finlay Armstrong.

      The expressions on his face. First of anger, then of disgust, a second of apparent amusement and then the soul-crushing, heart-ripped-out-of-his-chest look.

      She’d done that to him. A stranger.

      She’d caused him that amount of pain by just a few actions—just a few curious words.

      She shivered involuntarily as the tears started to stream down her face. He’d implied that he’d sack her.

      It was Christmas. She’d have no job. How could she afford to stay in the flat? As if this Christmas weren’t already going to be hard enough without Gran, now she’d absolutely ruined whatever chance there was of having a peace-filled Christmas.

      Her insides curled up and tumbled around. Why had she touched that angel? Why had she thought she had a right to decorate his room? And why, why had she blurted out that question?

      The look on his face...the pain in those blue eyes. She shivered again. He’d lost his wife and because of that he couldn’t bear Christmas. He didn’t want to celebrate, didn’t want to be reminded of anything.

      The little things, the little touches she’d thought he might like, the tree, the decorations, the lights and the smells had all haunted him in a way she hadn’t even imagined or even considered. What kind of a person did that make her?

      She knew what it was like to find Christmas hard. A hundred little things had brought tears to her eyes this year—even while she was trying to ignore them. The smell of her gran’s favourite perfume. The type of biscuit she’d most enjoyed at Christmas. Even the TV listing magazine where she used to circle everything she wanted to watch. But none of that—none of that—compared to the pain of a man who’d lost his wife.

      Her gran had led a good and long life. His wife? She could only imagine how young she must have been. No wonder he was angry. No wonder he was upset.

      She squeezed her eyes closed. She hadn’t managed to find someone she’d made that special connection with yet. Someone she truly loved with her whole heart. Imagine finding them only to have them ripped away. How unfair must that feel?

      The shivering was getting worse. Thick flakes of snow started to land on her face. She stared out across London. The views from the penthouse were already spectacular. But from the roof? They were something else entirely.

      It was darker now and if she spun around she could see the whole of Chelsea spread out in front of her. The Armstrong’s roof was the highest point around. The streets below looked like something from a Christmas card. Warm glowing yellow lights from the windows of the white Georgian houses, with roofs topped with snow. There were a few tiny figures moving below. People getting excited for Christmas.

      The tears flowed harder. Battersea Power Station glowed in the distance. The four distinctive chimneys were usually lit up with white lights. But this time of year, the white lights were interspersed with red—to give a seasonal effect.

      Every single bit of Christmas spirit she’d ever had had just disintegrated all around her.

      Perfect Christmas. No job. No family. A mother on the other side of the world who couldn’t care less. And probably pneumonia.

      Perfect.

      * * *

      The realisation hit him like a boxer’s right hook.

      What had he just done?

      There was a roaring in his ears. He didn’t behave like this. He would never behave like this. What on earth had possessed him?

      All thoughts of eating, pulling the blinds and collapsing into bed vanished in an instant.

      He rushed out into the hall. Where had she gone? Her chambermaid cart was abandoned in the hall. His eyes went to the panel above the elevator. But no, it wasn’t moving. It was still on this floor.

      Something cut into the palm of his hand. He looked down. The plastic identity card. Of course. He’d taken it from her. She couldn’t use the elevator.

      He strode back into his room and picked up the phone. He hadn’t recognised the new receptionist. Officially—he hadn’t even checked in.

      The phone answered after one ring. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Armstrong?’

      ‘Frank? Who are the Maids in Chelsea?’

      There was a second of silence. The question obviously caught the concierge unaware.

      He could almost picture the way Frank sucked the air through his teeth when he was thinking—he could certainly hear it.

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