Her Billionaire Santa

by Allen, Jewel

  Contents

  Copyright

  Join Jewel's Gems

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Special Thanks to

  If you enjoyed this book

  About the Author

  Books by Jewel Allen

  Her Billionaire Santa

  Copyright © 2018 Jewel Allen

  Interior design: Jewel Allen

  Cover design: Josephine Blake of Covers & Cupcakes

  Editing: Christina Schrunk

  To those who still believe

  JOIN JEWEL’S GEMS for all new release announcements, giveaways, and fun stories behind the books.

  Books in Her Billionaire CEO series:

  Her Billionaire Bodyguard

  Her Billionaire Prince

  Her Billionaire Cowboy

  Her Billionaire Santa

  Her Billionaire Spy

  CHAPTER ONE

  KATY

  Katy Stevens circled the block once more, looking for parking. She wished now that she’d had her family’s chauffeur drop her off instead of insisting on driving her car from Manhattan to downtown New York City by herself.

  At Christmas time. On a slushy day in early December. With everyone and their dog trying to do their Christmas shopping.

  The high-rise’s parking garage was full, so she would have to find a spot at the curb. Her original thinking was that she didn’t want to give off the wrong impression by coming to this meeting in a chauffeured car. If billionaire Marcus James were to see her in a limo, surely he’d think her cause didn’t deserve a donation. Even if it was a wonderful cause. She realized now how silly her concern had been. He had a penthouse office. He wasn’t exactly watching the streets for his visitors.

  She took a deep breath, and slowly, calm filled her. Her frown disappeared. How could she forget the true reason for the season?

  Her parking problem was nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to the tragedy her friends were still grappling with back in Conchilla, Guatemala. They’d lost everything in an earthquake three months prior, and Katy was worried about parking?

  “Thank you for helping me get here safely,” she prayed. “Please, Lord, I’m kind of in a bind. Help me find a spot.”

  As Katy circled once again, a van pulled away from the curb ahead. She nearly squealed with delight until a black Ashton-Martin cut her off and slid into the empty place.

  She wanted to cry. Indignant feelings rose within her. The driver of the offending vehicle came out of the driver’s side. She needed to give him a piece of her mind, if only to make herself feel better.

  Scooting her car forward and lowering her passenger window alongside him, she said, “That was not gentlemanly, sir. You stole my spot.”

  The man turned slowly, a frown marring his dark and devastatingly handsome features. In his impeccably tailored suit and with his beard, he looked like one of those Giorgio Armani models.

  “Pardon me?” he said.

  “You took my spot. I was just about to pull in when you forced me to slam on my brakes and—”

  “I get the picture.”

  “I have an important meeting. It’s life and death. You can probably find a spot easier than me since your car is so small.”

  “Sorry. I have meetings too. Better luck next time.” He walked toward the building without a backward glance.

  Katy blinked back tears as she raised her window. At the same time, she heard a tap on the glass of her driver’s side door. A cop stood with his arms crossed, staring at her.

  She pressed the window button, letting the blaring traffic noise and car exhaust of a New York winter day into her car again.

  “Hi, officer,” she said.

  “You gotta move along, lady.”

  “I’m trying.” She brightened. “Sir, could you please help me? I need a parking spot, or I’m going to be late and let down my friends in Guatemala.”

  “Guatemala?” The cop scratched his head.

  “Anyway,” Katy said, “maybe you could issue a parking ticket to someone and have them towed. I’m sure some people have overstayed their spot.” As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she regretted it. It was a mean, selfish thing to say.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I’m not the parking enforcer. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  Katy felt as though her sanity was hanging by a thread. She spoke clearly and from the heart. “I was supposed to be in a meeting up there in that building five—no, ten—minutes ago to make a presentation for a Christmas contest. I’m trying to get money for earthquake victims in Guatemala, but I can’t find parking.”

  As they talked, a car pulled away from the curb. Katy would have gunned it, but another sedan cut her off.

  “See?” she said, her voice breaking.

  Understanding dawned on the cop’s face. “Well, ma’am, you’ve got to be more aggressive.”

  “That’s fine, officer.” She slumped in resignation. “Maybe they need the parking more than I do. Thanks for listening. I’m going to move on.” She raised her window.

  The cop walked forward and motioned for her to stop, just as a car ahead pulled out of a parking place. Katy watched it happen with a pang of sorrow, but then the cop gestured for her to take the spot.

  “Me?” she mouthed.

  He nodded. Another car wanted to cut in, but the cop put his hand up to stop them. Once again, he directed Katy to pull in.

  After she’d successfully parked, Katy leaped out of the car, not caring that her ankle boots were getting drenched in the dirty slush.

  “Thank you, Officer!” she said. “Bless you a hundred times and Merry Christmas!”

  The cop grinned. “Merry Christmas to you too, little lady. Good luck!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  MARCUS

  The meeting finished earlier than Marcus James expected. Marcus was glad he’d agreed to a group interview format. If he’d had to endure more sob stories than what he had to just sit through, the activity would have been interminable.

  As it was, he gave a brief presentation and asked everyone to say a little bit about themselves. Now he could put a face to the name. All but one of the finalists had shown up to be considered for his million-dollar contest.

  He had called it the Santa Project. A feel-good competition that doubled as a publicity stunt for their newest jewelry line.

  Santa indeed.

  Deep down, Marcus no longer believed in Christmas. And not j
ust Santa and all that jazz. He no longer believed that goodness prevailed in the world. Bless the heart of these do-gooders. They were a dying breed. Maybe by helping them, he’d get extra points to get into heaven.

  His assistant’s voice crackled on the intercom. “Mr. James, you have one more applicant for the Christmas Contest. Shall I send her in?”

  “She missed the appointment. Tell her we’ll consider her application along with everyone else’s.”

  His door opened. Latrell poked her head in.

  “Sir, the lady requests just one minute.”

  Marcus closed his eyes and then opened them again. “Latrell, I have a lot to do. I don’t have time for this.”

  “I understand, sir. But…” She glanced over her shoulder. “She’s begging to see you. She seems really nice.”

  Latrell, usually hard-nosed about guarding Marcus’s time, surprised him by her persistence. She normally wouldn’t have given anyone the time of day. This person must be pretty persuasive. “Two minutes.”

  Latrell smiled, looking relieved. “I’ll tell her.”

  His eyes widened when the woman entered his office.

  “You!” they said at the same time.

  It was the woman who’d chewed him out on the curb for stealing her parking spot. He decided right then and there that she wouldn’t win the contest.

  Her cheeks turned pink. “My name is Katy Stevens,” she said.

  He nodded. “Marcus James.” They shook hands. Her hand felt small and frozen.

  “I’m sorry I missed the interview,” she said. “I……I couldn’t find parking.”

  His lip twitched. “Oh?”

  “I…I’m sorry I yelled at you at the curb.”

  Her apology disarmed him. He couldn’t stay mad at this girl. Leaning back in his chair, he took a couple of seconds to study her. Pale, glowing skin framed by long russet hair. Her eyes transformed her from pretty to beautiful. They were huge and expressive.

  He wondered, idly, if she was single. She had no ring on her finger, so…

  No. He wasn’t looking for a new relationship, thank you. Especially not around Christmas, of all times.

  He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I yelled at you too.”

  She sobered. “Mr. James—”

  “Marcus. Please.” He gestured to the chair. “Sit down.”

  She did and then plunged on. “Marcus, the people of Conchilla, Guatemala, need to win your million dollars.”

  “Katy, is it? There are so many other worthy causes. I just met nine others here today. You will get your fair shake—”

  “No,” she said. “You don’t understand. They need it more than anyone. They…” Her words trailed as emotion overtook her.

  “Sorry.” She put her hand to her mouth. “If you could just see how devastated they were by the earthquake.” She struggled to calm her breath. “But, yes, you’re right. The others deserve the money too.”

  “Wait. Did you say you’re Katy Stevens?” He stared at her. “Are you the daughter of the mall mogul Arlo Stevens?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand, then, why you’ve come to me. Your family can easily pay a million dollars for your friends in Guatemala.”

  She raised her chin. “I wish my father could help,” she said slowly, “but the last few years have resulted in losses. People are changing the way they buy.”

  “Not as much mall traffic?”

  She shook her head.

  Marcus gestured toward the folders on his desk. “What do these people need, a hundred thousand, tops? A little bit of the dollar goes a long way there, I imagine. Get them some huts, and they’re set.”

  She stood, her expression turning cold. “Why don’t you give them some rice and beans while you’re at it?” She paused, wincing. “Sorry. It’s just…you sit there cool and aloof. Is that really how you’’ll pick the winner?” She glanced at the stack of folders on his desk. “Based on some group interview and impersonal applications?”

  Softly, she added, “You know, until you’ve walked in a man’s shoes, you wouldn’’t know what it’s like. Maybe you’ve never lost someone or gone without.”

  He pushed off the desk. “Oh, yes, I’ve walked in many a man’s shoes.” Disdain burned in his eyes. “I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. To wake up the next day and realize they’re never ever coming back.” His lip curled. “Yet you fling at me that I have no heart? How many billionaires do you know who sponsor a contest like this?”

  She drew herself up, this slight girl with huge eyes. “You’re right,” she said, looking stricken. “Thank you for your kind gesture.”

  “Kind gesture.” He scoffed. “It’s hardly a kind one.”

  A furrow formed between her brows. “What do you mean?”

  He recalled the idealistic glow in her eyes earlier. “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m no billionaire Santa. I’m doing this kind gesture, as you call it, because it’’s my business empire’s attempt at improving our reputation. I don’t believe in Christmas.”

  Understanding dawned. “You mean all its trappings of commercialism?”

  “No.” He enunciated every word. “I mean, I do not believe in Christmas. In goodness. In hope. It’s a rotten world filled with nasty things, including Christmas.”

  There. She was adequately shocked. Her face went slack. Good. Sooner or later, someone was going to burst her bubble.

  “I…I’m sorry for bothering you.” She averted her gaze. “I’ll wait like the others for your call. I hope…you’ll pick Conchilla.”

  With one last glance, she left in a hurry.

  ***

  Marcus sat at his desk and stared at the door for a long time, mulling Katy Stevens’s words. He pictured her in his mind, impassioned in her plea. She was an interesting girl. He wondered why she cared so much about Conchilla. Her, a white girl, trying to raise funds for her friends in Central America.

  His gaze lit upon the application folders. Latrell had tabbed them all with each applicant’s name and cause. He pushed each one from the pile until he came to her name.

  Katy Stevens.

  He opened the folder and read the bio on her application.

  Twenty-six. Just four years younger than him.

  Works for her dad’s commercial real estate investment company.

  Lives in Manhattan.

  In a ritzy neighborhood, if Marcus wasn’t mistaken.

  He flipped over her cover letter, and several photos slid out. Pictures of Katy with cute Guatemalan kids, smiling into the camera. Debris piled behind them, houses leveled flat from the earthquake. What would it take to rebuild a place like that? Probably not much.

  Why did she think she would need so much money? And how much of their problems could money actually solve? After this quick fix, wouldn’t they revert back to their former poverty?

  He read her cover letter.

  Dear Mr. James,

  I am writing on behalf of my friends in Conchilla, Guatemala. In August of this year, they suffered from an earthquake. Today, many still live under tarps in harsh conditions. No running water, no electricity. No schools.

  A million dollars will help them not just now but for the future. I am hoping that the award will also be enough to give them seed money for trade work. Thus, they will be able to live free of fear, facing the future confidently.

  The children need schools. In turn, they will help their country rise out of generations of poverty.

  I first became acquainted with Conchilla when I visited with my father as a young teen. Their humble ways touched my heart, and ever since, I have been serving their community in whatever way I can. I hope you will consider my application on their behalf. I will be visiting the area for a few days starting December 13. If you decide to visit, I would be happy to introduce you to the people so you can see what has already been done and what still needs to be completed.

  Marcus clutched the paper in his hands, his mood shifting. In the
past, he had a heart. But, frankly, none of what he had read moved him.

  He shoved away from his desk and stood, walking over to his floor-to-ceiling window to look out at the gray New York skyline. He recalled the earthquake victims and Katy, looking happy despite the devastation of their city.

  “God,” he prayed, feeling so out of practice since his beloved wife and child were killed. “If you really exist. I need to feel again. I need to love again. I want meaning in my life. I want to be like these people. Simple in their needs and yet happy despite all that. Show me what to do.”

  He thought he might feel something warm in his chest, but he only felt…nothing. He formed a fist and clenched his jaw out of frustration, when an answer floated into his head.

  Go to Conchilla. Take up her invitation.

  His mind resisted, even though his heart knew the answer lay in those words.

  Would Katy Stevens welcome him into her world? Would she be willing to play tour guide for him as she promised?

  There was only one way to find out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  KATY

  December 13

  Katy gripped her armrest as the small plane shuddered on its final descent into the Guatemalan city of Antigua. Despite her apprehension over the soundness of the small-engine plane, her chest loosened with happiness at the sight of the hills rising up to mountains circling lush valleys. Little patches of farmland dotted the countryside.

  She was home again.

  Certainly, this wasn’t like her home in Manhattan, but her heart belonged to Guatemala and to its people.

  She stretched and listened to the Spanish chatter of her fellow passengers, sensing their excitement. Katy wished she was more fluent in Spanish and the native Mayan language, K’iche, though she was actually pretty decent in both, picking up conversations here and there. When she’d come to this country as an intern, she’d vowed to spend most of her waking days in the country conversing with native speakers, unlike her fellow interns who hung out with other Americans and drank cheap cerveza most nights. By the end of the six months, she was fluent. It was too bad that she had forgotten a lot over time.