“Out of these clothes.”
Her eyes went wide, and he chuckled. “As in, out of these and in our own clothes. Let’s go out after this and share our life stories over some wine. Unless you have other plans?”
The invite sounded fun. And very intimate. “Where exactly would this take place?”
“There’s a wine bar outside of town. It’s a renovated old house with a great view. I think you’ll like it.”
She nearly expelled a breath of relief, thinking he was going to say his place. “Oh. Yes, that would be fine.”
He stared at her mouth, and just when she thought he was going to kiss her—and this time she was ready for it—he pulled away. “Come on. Let’s get this party started.”
He picked up the books and opened the door. His final words last night repeated in her head.
The next time we kiss it’ll be because you came to me.
She bit her lower lip, enjoying the little power she held. Would he indeed not kiss her unless she kissed him first?
The passionate challenge excited her. She joined him at the elevator and hit the up button. “The Beckers are first on our list. Two boys and a girl. Brandon, Luke and Danielle. Bedtime is eight o’clock so we’re right on time.”
“Sounds good.”
They stepped on the elevator and soared to the seventh floor. When he offered his arm, Greta smiled, and curled a hand around his hard bicep. Something about being on Mason’s arm felt very right.
He slid a glance her way. “I know it’ll be hard for you, but try not to stare at my fine legs when we’re around the children.”
She laughed and jabbed him with her elbow. “I don’t know how I’ll control myself, sir.”
He winked at her. “Me either.”
When they arrived at the suite’s door, the child-like screams, boyish yelling and pleading voice of the house nanny alerted them.
“Children are a lot like little soldiers, right?” Mason knocked. “Just need to show them who’s boss and keep them in line.”
“Soldiers? When was the last time you were around small children, Mason?”
“Hmm. I did some time in elementary school.”
She giggled.
The door swung open, a harried young blonde on the other side, who breathed with relief. “You’re here! They just finished their baths. It might take a minute to settle them down—” Another girlish scream sounded and the nanny cringed. “But they’ll be good, I’m sure.”
“We’ll see about that,” Mason teased as he walked in.
One of the boys was jumping up and down on an overstuffed chair, while the other scraped his toy car on the hardwood coffee table, making vroom noises. The little girl held onto her doll, turning around in a circle, singing the same line of a song over and over.
The nanny snapped her fingers. “Dani, come here, sweetheart. Brandon, get down! Check it out, Luke. They have your favorite book.”
The little girl, no more than six, ran straight to Mason and wrapped her arms around his leg. She raised her big brown eyes and beamed up at him. “You look like a prince!”
Mason appeared at a loss, which was a first for Greta to witness. Half-heartedly, he tried to pry her arm off his leg. “I, uh…I’m Mason.”
She sighed dreamily. “Prince Mason!”
Brandon jumped off the chair, landing on his feet, and asked, “Did you bring some candy?”
Greta chose to relay the bad news. “No candy, but we did bring a story to read! Wouldn’t that be nice?”
Luke ran over to his brother, and whispered something in his ear. Brandon crossed his arms with a proud frown. “My brother thinks you’re pretty, but I think stories are for babies. Candy!”
Mason sank to his haunches and Danielle released him, offering her doll. He chucked her under her chin, removed his hat in a gallant manner and smiled. “I couldn’t agree more. What’s a story without candy? Tell you what. If you’re good and let us read to you, I’ll see what I can do about it.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and whispered loudly, jerking his head at the nanny, “Don’t tell you-know-who.”
The nanny rolled her eyes, but smiled. She ushered the children into one of the suite’s bedrooms.
Greta came up next to Mason. “You’re a natural.”
“A natural bluffer. How bad is it I lied about giving them candy?”
“On a scale from one to ten? A nine with any child. But hopefully they’ll be too tired to care.”
The children were set upon the king-size bed, and like magic, once they were under the covers, their energies settled. The nanny told them she was going downstairs for a quick bite to eat, and would be back within a half hour.
Mason and Greta pulled chairs close to the bed. Once the nanny left, Danielle climbed out of the bed and into Mason’s lap. Greta silently dared him to tell the girl no. He didn’t.
“All right, what are we reading tonight?” Mason started as he opened the giant book. “A good one. How the Grinch Stole Christmas.”
“My favorite!” Luke cried out.
Danielle sat in the crook of his arm, gripping her small hand on his lapel. He handed the book for Greta to hold, and cleared his throat, reading. “‘Every Who down in Whoville liked Christmas a lot, but the Grinch, who lived just north of Whoville - did not…’”
While Mason read the story, his smooth, baritone voice perfect for narration, Greta turned the pages. Luke lay on his side, head propped up by his hand, while Brandon sat up against the headboard, arms draped around his bent knees. They were enraptured by Mason’s voice, enthusiasm, and how he made the appropriate faces at the Grinch’s appalling behavior.
They weren’t the only ones in awe.
Growing up, simple pleasures like stories before bedtime didn’t happen for her. Her father often left her with the neighbor when he went on mysterious jobs for weeks on end. It didn’t matter what time of year it was—her birthday, her first day of school, Christmas—Greta couldn’t count on having a predictable childhood. She had no siblings, her mother had died when she was two and she never knew if her father would ever come back.
Perhaps therein lied the reason she separated herself emotionally when it came to Christmas. Sure, she took in the spirit, bought gifts, attended a midnight mass and listened to same songs on repeat…but she didn’t allow herself to really immerse and enjoy it as others did.
She thought it was reserved for people with families.
For a moment, she let her imagination go, picturing the beautiful children as her own, Mason as her husband and the cozy room her home. How easy it was to fantasize about something she didn’t have.
“Greta?”
She gave a start. “Yes?”
“The last page, please?”
“Oh! I’m sorry,” she whispered, noticing Danielle asleep in Mason’s arms. Brandon and Luke’s eyes were hooded, ready to sleep, but the boys were equally pleading, “Finish it. Finish it.”
Mason read the last page, Greta closed the book and the children didn’t mention a word about the candy. He carried the little girl to the bed, placing her in between her older brothers. They left a small desk lamp on, and the doors cracked.
The nanny returned shortly after, thankful for the reprieve, and they were off to the next group.
“Are you all right? You seemed a little sad for a moment there,” Mason commented in the elevator.
Getting caught daydreaming embarrassed her. “Don’t be silly. I’m fine.”
“You’re not going to change your mind about later, are you? Because if you’re too tired, and you’d rather go home…”
“Quite the opposite. I’m really looking forward to tonight.” Alone is the last thing I want to be right now.
He smiled. “Me too.” A small stretch of silence and when doors parted, he remarked, “This is more fun than I t
hought it would be, by the way.”
“Oh? Maybe you just like wearing the tight pants.”
He took her hand, kissing her knuckles. “Maybe it’s just you.”
Those four words woke the butterflies inside. If she weren’t mindful, she’d let those words go to her head. Then her heart. And before Christmas Eve she would find herself falling for Mason Renclair.
The two Allerman children were half asleep by the time Mason began reading The Night Before Christmas. They insisted he sit between them. The boy wore Mason’s top hat while his sister toyed with his silk tie. Greta wished she could take a picture to capture the adorable scene.
The last—twin girls—were the most inquisitive. They asked a lot of questions about The Nutcracker in between the storytelling. Like, why was the King of Mice so mean? Why did Clara’s uncle wear a patch over his eye?
Mason improvised as best he could, and Greta filled in where he left off. Though questions answered led to more questions asked and eventually they laughingly admitted the O’Reilly girls were too smart for them to keep up. The girls seemed to think so too by their child-like frustration. But when Mason and Greta tucked them in and went to leave, one of the girls graciously invited them back next year to read to them again.
After changing into their regular clothes, Greta brushing the ringlets out of her hair, they took Mason’s car to the wine bar he’d spoken of earlier. The 1800s-architecture home had been converted into a contemporary, yet appropriately rustic lounge. An exterior of stone walls and a rich cherry wood interior coupled with quaint furnishings and an inviting fireplace created an old European feel. There was a scattering of high-top tables and Christmas string lights tracing the trim.
A popular place, but they managed to find a table near the back. The server greeted them warmly and offered a heavy-bound menu list of appetizers, wine and specialty cocktails to choose from. Mason selected a red wine and ordered a dish of cheese and salamis to go with it.
The subdued ambiance, holiday jazz and low hum of the patrons blended for an intoxicating buzz. The man sitting in front of her added even more to the experience.
For a while, they made idle chitchat, sampling their cheeses and wine, watching sporadic flakes of snow fall outside. A pleasurable sense of relaxation came over her, and she welcomed the mellow atmosphere and lighthearted conversation. The perfect remedy to her previous melancholy. She was content to sit there, listening to music and gazing at the town lights twinkling beyond. Instead of directing more questions to Greta about her life, Mason had opened the discussion about his. Greta knew a lot about the Renclairs because of her many letters from Sophie, but there was so much more she never thought to ask.
When Greta asked how his family came to Swan’s Crossing, he was happy to indulge her. “My grandfather Howard helped build this town. The hotel, for instance, was one of his first projects, then he started Renclair Development Incorporated. My mother has a lot of familial pride—rightfully so. She insisted on raising her family here, nowhere else would do. She met my dad in college and fell madly in love, so he followed her. My father claims he put up quite the stand to persuade her to settle in the South after they got engaged, but he failed. Grandpa Howard recognized how smart and capable my father was and promised him a bright future for sacrificing his dream to live in the South. He offered my dad a job in the business, since he never had a son of his own to pass it on to. It all worked out.”
“Quite nicely! Where do the Renclair men originally hail from?”
“Georgia. If my father would’ve had his way, I’d be speaking with a drawl and calling you sugar after every sentence.”
“What a shame you ultimately became a Yankee. I love Southern men.” She winked at him.
He chuckled. “What woman doesn’t?”
Picking up a piece of cheese, she bit off half, the tangy morsel delicious on her tongue. “What about Grandpa Renclair? How did he come to live here?”
“He came after my grandmother passed away, when I was thirteen. He wanted to stay in their home in Savannah but he kept showing up to visit without notice and my parents knew the old man was lost without her. Despite his abrasive attitude, he doesn’t like to be alone for long. He’s crazy about my mom. She sort of reminds him of Grandma. And like her, she loves fussing over him. Guess with me and Sophie out of the house, she has someone who depends on her again.”
She set her chin on her palm. “I disagree it’s a dependence. I think everyone needs to feel…well, needed by someone.”
“Especially women.”
Typical male. She rolled her eyes. “Oh come on! It’s a two-way street. Were you not claiming the other night I was wounding your pride by not asking for help?”
He relented. “Guess to some extent you’re right.” He studied her for a long, discomfiting minute. “Who needs you, Greta?”
Her heart began to pound. A personal question. There he goes Once again, he poked a stick at her proverbial wounded animal. “No one. I told you.”
“Is that the way you like it?”
“Yes,” she replied without hesitation.
“Why?”
She sucked in a breath, considering her response. “Frankly, I don’t think I’d be very good at being depended on for a long period of time.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Well, you hardly know me,” she clipped.
“I know,” he drawled in a seductive voice. “I’m working on that.”
Fear brushed through her. He’s working on it? If she let Mason Renclair have his way, she’d be exposed in no time. He’d peel her layers one by one until he knew everything about her.
A voice inside whispered, would that be so bad?
“So,” he began, sitting back, changing the subject. “What did you ask Santa to bring you this year for Christmas?”
Grateful the verbal spotlight was off she relaxed again. “Aren’t I a little old for that?”
He shrugged. “You’re never too old to ask for what you want. You never know.” A smile began to curve his mouth. “You might get it. Christmas morning, you could wake up and see that what you asked for is right there under the tree.”
She raised a brow and twisted her lips. “I stopped wishing for nonsense like that when I was about ten.”
“Someone broke the news about the man in the red suit?”
“No. I…” She shouldn’t tell him. He’d only feel sorry for her. Then again, they were forgotten wishes. Long forgiven. “I never had that kind of Christmas morning. I’d heard of it. The restless sleep the night before, trying to stay up as late as you can, listening for reindeer.” A gurgle of childish excitement built inside her, and she broke into a smile. “Then waking up, running downstairs and seeing a bunch of pretty, shiny gifts under the tree. Tearing them open, and finally getting that present you’ve been praying and begging for.” Her grin turned wistful. “I never really had that. We were always somewhere different for Christmas, in an empty house, or a cramped apartment with no room for a tree, let alone presents. I always had my record player, though.”
His gaze was speculative, instead of sympathetic, which she hadn’t expected. Maybe he sensed she wasn’t seeking any compassion. Good. Maybe he was getting to know to her.
While his scrutiny continued, it began to unnerve her. “Anyway, my life was anything but traditional. In some ways I was lucky. I grew up fast, learned to keep expectations low. I learned how to negotiate a quick deal and cook my own meals by the time I was old enough to count money.”
The warmth of his smile echoed in his smooth, deep voice. “That’s what makes you even more special.”
Her pulse jumped. She wished he wouldn’t say things like that, even though it felt good to hear them. More and more, he was breaking her down, dissolving the frost.
Taking a long sip of wine, holding his gaze, she attempted to wash down the flut
tering in her stomach. The effects of the cabernet created a fine buzz in her head, and Mason’s electric gaze combined with it were making her think of their passionate kiss last night. Licking her lips, she saw him shift his eyes to her mouth, desire igniting.
“Tell me, Mason. What do you want for Christmas?” she asked huskily, hoping she already knew the answer.
“You,” he answered, taking her bait. “All wrapped up in ribbon.”
“You mean you want my body,” she arched.
He displayed sham innocence. “Don’t you come with it?”
Her laughter was soft. “Is that all you want?”
“I always want more.” His hand skimmed over her knuckles, and flesh bumps surfaced on her arm. “But I’m not greedy; I’ll take one thing at a time.”
Oh, boy. “Didn’t I tell you when we first met I sensed something dangerous about you?”
He nodded. “Afraid of me again?”
“Afraid if I give up one thing, you’ll steal the rest.”
His chuckle was low, agreeing, as if he intended to do just that.
Once she gave him her body, it would be easy to hand over more, wouldn’t it? The desire, the yearning for him, somehow overrode her fear it would happen. Or maybe that was the wine. Regardless of either, she wanted Mason, and soon—maybe even tonight—they were both going to get what they wanted.
Chapter Eight
“If you don’t quit doing that,” Mason warned Greta as he drove them to the estate, “you’re going to cause a serious accident.”
Her low, sexy laugh made Mason’s hand grip the gearshift, his knuckles whitening. Greta was tracing a fingertip on the back of his hand, making him wild, causing him to hit the gas. Pretty soon he was going to pull over, throw the car in park and have his way with her.
But he’d said she had to come to him. By God he prayed that was her agenda once they reached the house.
When he pulled up, heart thundering, hands eager to caress her silky skin, he didn’t know how he was going to stay sane much longer.
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