Her Christmas Prince. Catherine Mann

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      Gathering her own small, beaded clutch and shawl from her seat, she found her mind racing ahead to what she needed to do the next day—thoughts that were interrupted when she heard a low, masculine voice call her name.

      “Miss Sanchez?”

      Turning, she found herself dwarfed by a wide-shouldered, dark-haired mountain of a man.

      She swallowed once before pasting a smile on her face and tipping her head up, up, up to meet his gaze.

      “Yes?”

      “If you have a minute, my employer would like to speak with you.”

      He inclined his head, drawing her attention to the back of the room, where a lone gentleman sat at one of the now-cleared round tables.

      From what she could see at this distance, he was quite handsome.

      He was also staring at her.

      “Your employer?” she asked.

      “Yes, miss.”

      So much for gaining more information about who, exactly, the mountain’s employer was.

      But if he had attended tonight’s dinner, then he was likely a current or potential donor, and she always had time to speak with a contributor. Especially one who could afford his own bodyguard, or CIA agent, or professional wrestler….

      “Of course,” she said, maintaining her bright, upbeat demeanor.

      Turning sideways, the giant gestured for her to move ahead of him, and then escorted her across the nearly empty room. Around them, dishes clinked and stacked chairs clattered as the kitchen and cleaning staff worked to disassemble what had taken all day to set up.

      As she approached the man who wished to speak with her, he lifted a flute of champagne and took a long sip.

      He wore a smartly tailored jacket of navy blue, cut quite differently than most of those she’d seen throughout the night. He definitely was not a local.

      She also noticed that her earlier perception of him being “quite handsome” was a gross inaccuracy. He was movie-star gorgeous, with dark hair and startling blue eyes that seemed to bore into her like laser beams.

      Holding out her hand, she introduced herself. “Hello, I’m Alandra Sanchez.”

      “I know,” he replied, taking her hand and refusing to let it go as he tugged her gently forward. “Have a seat, won’t you, please.”

      Letting her shawl fall lower on her bare back, she slid onto the chair beside him. “Your…employee said you wanted to speak to me.”

      “Yes,” he replied slowly. “May I offer you a glass of champagne?”

      She opened her mouth to refuse, but the hulk was already pouring and setting a glass in front of her.

      “Thank you.”

      Though they both had drinks now, and the evening’s event was clearly over, the man seated beside her still didn’t speak. The silence made Alandra shift uncomfortably, and caused gooseflesh to break out along her arms.

      “What did you need to speak with me about, Mr.…” she finally pressed, careful to remain as polite as possible.

      “You may call me Nicolas,” he replied.

      His voice carried a slight accent. Perhaps the hint of a British lilt, but Alandra couldn’t place it.

      “Nicolas,” she repeated, because he seemed to expect it. Then she continued in her attempts to get to his reason for wanting to speak with her.

      “Were you interested in making a donation to the fund for the new children’s cancer wing of the hospital?” she asked. “If so, I would be happy to accept a check tonight. Or if you’d prefer, I can put you in touch with someone from the organization you can speak with, to make your contribution personally.”

      For a moment after she finished, he simply continued to study her, his lapis-blue eyes sharp and commandingly intense.

      After taking another sip of the expensive champagne, he slowly said, “I would be happy to give to your little…cause. However, that is not why I invited you over here.”

      Alandra’s eyes widened fractionally at that, but she did her best to hide her consternation.

      “I am staying in a suite of rooms here in this hotel,” he informed her. “I’d like for you to return there with me. Spend the rest of the evening in my bed. If things go well and we are…compatible, perhaps we can discuss further arrangements.”

      Alandra blinked, but otherwise remained frozen in place, her entire body mannequin-stiff and unmoving. She couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d lifted a hand and slapped her across the face.

      She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what she should say.

      This certainly wasn’t the first time she’d been propositioned. Young or old, rich or poor, men had always been attracted to her, and she’d had more than her share of invitations to dinner, the theater, even romantic jaunts to private island hideaways.

      And, yes, she was well aware that every single one of those men had hopes that dinner, the theater and tropical getaways would help him to seduce her into his bed.

      But never—never—had any of them been so bold, so brash, as to flat-out ask her to sleep with him.

      This was all because of the scandal, she realized suddenly, her spine snapping straight with offense. Those bloody articles had labeled her an immoral home wrecker. And this man had obviously gotten wind of that and decided she wouldn’t be averse to an indecent proposal.

      Well, she was averse. She was disgusted and thoroughly insulted.

      Pushing her chair back, she rose to her feet, rearranged her shawl across her back and arms, and tightened her fingers on her small clutch purse. Concentrating on her breathing, she stood perfectly rigid, looking down at him.

      “I don’t know what kind of woman you think I am. But I can assure you I’m not the kind to go to bed with a man I’ve just met.”

      She cut a quick glance at the bear standing at attention a yard or two away. “Maybe your bodyguard can find someone a little more willing and a lot less discriminating to go back to your room with you tonight. That is, if you’re utterly incapable of finding her on your own.”

      With that, Alandra turned on her heel and marched out of the ballroom to the elevator.

      Just who the hell did the man think he was?

       Two

      Who did she think she was to speak to him in such a manner?

      Nicolas had never been turned down like that before.

      He СКАЧАТЬ