A Champagne Christmas. Кэрол Мортимер

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      Grace had become a twenty-five-year-old virgin.

      A freak of nature.

      And a million miles away from Prince Maksim Rostov’s league!

      But his car had splashed her, she argued with herself. He’d caused her to drop the lingerie. Wouldn’t it be fair to allow him to replace it, when the alternative could mean her ruin?

      Tempted, she licked her lips nervously. The sensation of his hand against her own caused a swirling in the tender center of her palm that sent awareness prickling up to the flesh of her ear, tightening her nipples and making her breasts feel strangely heavy. She felt his gaze trace her lips. Her cheeks went hot and her mouth went dry. Every breath she took, every rise and fall of her lungs, became more shallow.

      “It is cold,” he said. “My car is waiting.”

      “But, but Leighton clothes are expensive,” she stammered, floundering. “They’re so expensive they make Hermès and Louis Vuitton look like a bargain-basement fire sale.”

      He lifted his dark eyebrows.

      “I think I can handle the expense,” he said dryly. Signaling with one hand, he put the other against the small of her back, guiding her gently toward the curb of a side street where she saw a black Rolls-Royce limousine.

      She felt his hand on her back and shook all over. It was that touch which finally forced her surrender.

      Looking back at him, she whispered, “Alan must never know.”

      His lips trembled on the brink of a smile. “Agreed.”

      The shock waves from his hand on her lower back continued to sizzle up her arms and down her legs as she breathed, “Thank you.”

      “Thank you.” His eyes gleamed down at her. “I always enjoy the company of a beautiful woman.”

      It broke the spell. She started to laugh, snorting through her nose before she covered it with a cough.

      Her…beautiful? That was a good joke! She knew she wasn’t anything special. And at the moment, wearing no makeup, with a damp old coat over her second-hand skirt suit and her hair tucked back in a soaked blond ponytail, she looked like a half-drowned refugee from an office in a swamp!

      So why had a handsome prince dropped out of the sky to help her? Just because his driver had splashed her with water from the street? Did he have that much honor and generosity of Christmas spirit?

      Or was it something else?

      The dark suspicion returned to her. When she was younger, she’d believed the best of people. But since she’d started working for Alan, she’d seen how devious people could be. Both in business and in love.

      Was Prince Maksim hoping to use her against Alan to take back his merger and his marriage?

      “I hope you know,” she said evenly, “that doing me this favor won’t make me discuss Alan or the merger.”

      He just gave her a darkly assessing smile. “Do you think I need your assistance?”

      “Don’t you?” she said uncertainly.

      They reached the Rolls-Royce limousine purring next to the curb. With a dismissive shake of his head to the driver, the prince opened her door himself.

      “Get in.”

      Standing on the edge of the sidewalk, against the ebb and flow of Christmas shoppers, Grace looked at the open door of the car and hesitated. She wondered suddenly if she was doing a foolish thing, making a deal with the devil.

      When she didn’t move, he said mockingly, “Surely you’re not afraid of me, Miss Cannon?”

      Biting her lower lip, she glanced up at his handsome face. She was afraid of him. Afraid of his wealth, his power and well-known ruthlessness.

      But even more than that, she was afraid of the sensual reaction that overwhelmed her body every time he touched her. Every time he even looked at her.

      She shook her head uneasily. “No,” she lied. “I’m not afraid of you at all.”

      He held the door wider. “Then get in.”

      Flurries of sleet swirled around Grace in a sudden gust of wind. Wet tendrils of blond hair whipped against her cheek, sticking to her skin. But she didn’t feel the chill. His gray eyes seared through hers, sapping her will.

      And she made her choice—which was really no choice at all. She climbed into the back seat of his Rolls-Royce.

      He closed the door behind her.

      Once released from his basilisk gaze, alone in the back seat, Grace was as suddenly shocked as if she’d just woken up sleepwalking in Buckingham Palace. What was she doing here? It wasn’t a dream. She was really in Prince Maksim’s limo. She was consorting with the enemy.

      But he’s not my enemy, she thought in confusion as she watched his dark shadow walk around to the other side. He’s Alan’s enemy. And what do people say? The enemy of my friend is my enemy? Or is it that the enemy of my enemy is my friend?

      The door opened, and the most handsome, ruthless man in London climbed in beside her with a dark glance that made her feel hot and sweaty all over.

      “Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked.

      “Am I being nice?”

      “If it’s to get secrets about my boss—”

      “It’s Christmas. The season of joy.” Festive lights from the nearby shops glinted off his wolflike teeth as he gave her a sharp smile. “And I’m going to give you joy.” He turned to his chauffeur. “Davai.”

      The shadowy Rolls-Royce swept away from the curb. And just like that, Prince Maksim Rostov took her away from the drudgery and crowds and cold, and swept Grace up into his lavish world.

CHAPTER TWO

      MAKSIM glanced down at the girl’s lovely, dazzled blue eyes as his chauffeur drove east through the crowded traffic on Knightsbridge Road towards Mayfair. She’d called him “nice.” He repeated the word in his mind as if he were trying to comprehend it.

       Nice?

      Prince Maksim Ivanovich Rostov had not become powerful by being nice.

      His great-grandfather had been nice during his Paris exile, spending money as if he were still Grand Duke with his own fiefdom in St. Petersburg, giving largesse freely to every hard-luck story that walked into his pied-à-terre.

      His grandfather had been nice, spending what little remained of the Rostov fortune down to the last penny in London as he waited impatiently for the Russian people to kick out the Soviets and beg him to return.

      His father had been nice, hopelessly trying to СКАЧАТЬ