Winter's Gift: A poignant, funny and sizzling-hot billionaire romance (Bistro La Bohème Series)

by Alix Nichols

  Actually, he doesn’t even need to splurge on a Cartier. A Swarovski would suffice.

  Hell, considering his looks and his charisma, I think most women would be happy to oblige without dinners or trinkets.

  So, why on earth is he wasting his time with me?

  I guess I’m his little extravagance, a bit of deviant fun, or maybe just a handy pinch of solace in a moment of weakness. He and I, we don’t have a relationship. What he’s having is the thrill of transgression, understandable in a straitlaced guy who married too young and then got too bitter. What I’m getting is a well-paid gig with a rookie client who’s unaware of or unwilling to respect the customary boundaries.

  Nothing more.

  Besides, last time we met, he said he’d be out of town for a month on a string of business and private trips to different countries. I’m not sure if I’m reading too much into it, but he had a funny look on his face—something between regret and determination. Was it his way of saying good-bye?

  I contemplate my entanglement for a few more moments before turning the faucet off and drying myself.

  Don’t you dare imagine this could lead anywhere, Anna.

  Don’t you dare.

  When I arrive at Mom’s, the table is already set, and the apartment smells like Heaven (because Heaven, as everyone knows, smells of freshly made piroshki). She’s wearing her best dress and some makeup. It helps to attenuate the dark circles under her eyes but it can’t fill out her hollowed cheeks.

  “Annushka, my sweet girl, are you taking good care of yourself?” She ushers me into the kitchen.

  “I am, Mom. I make sure to eat an apple in a Lotus position every day.”

  She chuckles.

  On my third piroshki I decide to take the bull by the horns. “Mom,” I say as brightly as I can manage. “You need to start your treatment. If we wait much longer, it may be too late. You do realize that, yes?”

  She picks up her fork and begins to move the lettuce around her plate.

  OK.

  I stare at her. “I’ve made all the arrangements with the hospital. You’ll have your first radiotherapy on the fifteenth.”

  She looks up, her expression panicked. “There’s no way we can afford the full treatment. What’s the point in starting it?”

  “I just got a loan.”

  “What?”

  “My law firm gave me a zero percent loan, to be repaid over ten years.”

  “Really?”

  Yeah, really. In the fairy-tale world where everyone is kind and things always go according to plan.

  But, of course, that is not what I say. I give Mom my brightest, sunniest smile and say, “Yes, really. I got the news this morning, and I called the hospital immediately.”

  For the first time since her diagnosis three months ago, Mom looks hopeful. I hide my hands under the table and dig my nails into my palms.

  Mom stands up and begins to pace the kitchen. “I’ll need to tell my boss, and get a medical certificate from the hospital.” She stops and turns to me. “I can’t believe your boss changed his mind after that flat no two months ago!”

  He’ll change his mind when hell freezes over. “He must have connected with his humanity.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.” She lets out a sob.

  “Mom, please, don’t cry.”

  “I’m not crying.” She grabs a paper towel and blows her nose. “Annushka, you’re the best daughter a mother could hope for. You’re doing so much for me.”

  “It isn’t much,” I say drily. “You’ve always put me first. Believe me, I wouldn’t move a finger for my father.”

  When I’m back home, I spend half of the night tossing and turning and reminding myself how vital it is that I remain as pragmatic and cold-blooded as I have been over the past three months. Strangely, it isn’t the worry about my mom or the shame over lying to her that bother me most. It’s the knowledge of how little it takes to push a person from hope to despair.

  And then back again.

  Exactly three months ago, Mom was told she was very sick. Next, she was told her illness would kill her within a year. But, the doctor said, finally smiling, she could beat it with an aggressive combination therapy and keep it at bay with drugs. She could enjoy years—maybe decades—of normal life.

  Two weeks later, we knew we couldn’t afford the therapy.

  And tonight Mom realized she could dare hope again.

  It’s such a hard, and yet banal, fact of life that what often stands between living and dying is just a stack of banknotes. A fat stack of banknotes, in my mother’s case. So fat that no friend, relation, or bank would lend it to us. But if Filip and I can hold this escort gig for a year, I’ll be able to pay Mom’s initial and most expensive bills. After that, I’ll find a way to get a promotion or a better day job.

  I’ll have to, even if Filip remains an ace at filtering out the dangerous types, negotiating the terms, and ensuring my safety. Even if I continue to rock at faking orgasms, shutting off my emotions, numbing my discomfort with Advil, and keeping my dignity under lock and key.

  I am perfectly aware of what would happen if I do this for too long.

  I’ll break.

  Or someone will break me.

  Chapter Seven

  Paris

  I’m staring at Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night and telling myself it’s time to move on to the next painting, and then the next room. Anton is planted by my side, contemplating the Van Gogh in impenetrable silence. He must be getting impatient, even if he doesn’t show it. He’s been in this museum before. For me it’s a multiple first—my first original Van Gogh, first visit to the Musée d’Orsay, first time in Paris.

  How I found myself here is a baffling, albeit remarkably short story. On Tuesday, I got a call from an unfamiliar number. I never answer such calls. It’s usually a telemarketer or a pollster, and I don’t have time for either. My clients don’t have my private number—they call Filip.

  But, for some inexplicable reason, I picked up this time.

  “How do you feel about Cézanne?” Anton asked by way of greeting.

  “I’m not a huge fan.” I felt giddy at hearing his voice… before I got angry over his intrusion. “Who gave you this number?”

  “I have my channels. And no, Filip is innocent.” He snorted. “As much as a pimp can be.”

  There was a short pause before he spoke again. “What about Van Gogh?”

  “Love him. Van Gogh rocks.” I took a deep breath to make sure my tone was earnest when I asked him, “Is this for the Russian Public Opinion survey?”

  He let out a hearty laugh. “I’m in Brussels. I’ll finish my business here by Friday, and I was thinking of going to Paris for the weekend, to revisit some of my favorite impressionists.”

  “Nice.”

  “Anna, would you like to spend your Saturday in the Musée d’Orsay and your Sunday tasting the best Champagne wines near Reims?”

  “I…” My mind went blank. Pristinely, immaculately blank.

  “My assistant should be able to book us into the Hotel du Marc. It’s a luxury mansion for the guests of Maison Veuve-Clicquot.”

  “I don’t have a visa,” I finally managed to say.

  “Not a problem. You’ll have it by Friday. Maria—that’s my assistant—will send someone over tonight to collect your passport.”

  I didn’t bother asking how I would get to Paris. Maria the Wizard, who was going to get a French visa stamped into my passport without me having to move a finger, would no doubt take care of my travel arrangements, too. A part of me screamed that the whole idea was crazy, excessive, way beyond the customary boundaries. But a larger part of me jumped up and down and drowned my caution in a flood of gleeful drool.

  A weekend with Anton in France, tasting the world’s best wines, and admiring Van Gogh originals sounded simply too good to resist.

  And, what with my transformation into a machine still incomplete, I didn’t.

  The Van Gogh I’m looking
at now is on loan here from the Netherlands. It’s my all-time favorite. Even a small reproduction of it in a book never fails to transport me into that café in Arles. Now, standing before the real thing, I’m fully gone. Anna Sopova is no longer inside the Fin de Siècle railway station converted into a spacious light-bathed museum. Nor is she in a wintry Paris morning. Her local time now is around midnight in late July. She’s in a small town in Provence, sipping her pastis on a brightly lit sidewalk terrace, letting the mild breeze blow cool kisses to her face and ruffle her hair.

  It’s pure bliss.

  Anton’s gaze burns into me, so hot and fierce that color rises to my cheeks.

  I turn to him.

  He blinks and gives me his crooked smile. “So you’re a Van Gogh girl, huh? Of course you are. Why did I ever imagine you a Cézanne fan?”

  I grin. “I live to confound you.”

  He takes my hand. “So you do.”

  We spend the rest of the morning and the entire afternoon at the museum, refueling on coffee and macaroons as we move from room to room. I want to see as much of the collection as I can, and Anton doesn’t seem to mind. When the guards kick us out at closing time, I’m exhausted but profoundly content.

  At dinner in an elegant restaurant off the Champs Elysées, I bring his hand to my lips. “Thank you.”

  Anton shakes his head. “You don’t need to.”

  His hand goes to cup my cheek, and he peers at me for a long moment while his thumb traces my cheekbone.

  “I insist.” I smile, trying to diffuse the suddenly fraught silence.

  He opens his mouth as though to say something, but only exhales instead. Then his expression changes, lightening up. “I must fess up. I failed to keep my promise to you.”

  “What promise?”

  “The Hotel du Marc was fully booked. Even almighty Maria was unable to do anything about it… So, we’ll have to contend ourselves with the second best.”

  “Which is?”

  “Les Crayères Castle. Their champagne is almost as good as Veuve-Clicquot.”

  “Fine by me. Even though I’d rather stay in Paris. There’s so much I’d like to see here!”

  “You will—next time.”

  Next time.

  My soul fills with hope before I remember myself, and anger takes over.

  What’s your deal, Anton? Why are you so nice to me? What kind of vicious letdown are you plotting? How much pain and agony will you inflict once you have me exactly where you want me to be—crazy in love?

  I’m not going there again.

  I won’t let you—or anyone—do what Stan did to me.

  Men are animals.

  I grew up hearing Mom repeat this adage every time she got hurt. I guess that’s why I was still a virgin at twenty-eight—prim, proper, and convinced that men simply weren’t worth the trouble.

  Besides, I had more important things than dating on my mind. I had a mission—pull Mom and myself out of poverty. We both worked crazy hours, accepting any job that came our way including the shittiest cleaning and dishwashing gigs, until we had saved enough to put me through law school.

  Which is where I met Stan.

  Like me, he was a little older than the average student was, but for a different reason. A son of a wealthy retailer, he’d spent his early twenties partying and sampling an impressive range of substances with his like-minded pals. But then his daddy took him in hand and put him in law school. Which Stan hated passionately until the day he spotted me. He called me angel and marveled at how different I was from the girls he usually associated with. He courted me and fed me stories of how I had transformed his soul.

  I was so inexperienced and unprepared for the likes of him. And so, when he sought me out, I made myself easy to find. When he deployed his charms and flirted with me, I clumsily flirted back. And when he said he loved me, I believed his lies.

  Only what had drawn him to me wasn’t love. Not even an infatuation. It was the thrill of the chase and the anticipated high of the kill. And, above all, it was that sordid wager he was hell-bent on winning.

  I didn’t stand a chance.

  Chapter Eight

  Bubbles

  We arrive in the Champagne region mid-morning, check into the Chateau Les Crayères, and grab some lunch. Then we visit the Gothic cathedral of Reims that has hosted the coronation of twenty-five French kings.

  After that, the day is a succession of wine cellars carved into limestone quarries, candlelit tunnels filled with bottles of aging bubbly, redbrick castles, and sparkling flutes. I try to commit to memory the tastes of the biggest maisons—Dom Pérignon, Madame Pommery, Veuve-Clicquot—but then I give up, chalking up my sloppiness to the rising level of alcohol in my blood.

  When Anton asks about the most memorable tasting, I confess it was the no-name champagne into which I was invited to dunk my Biscuit Rose—a delicious Reims specialty I immediately stocked up on for Mom.

  By the time we settle down to dinner in the castle’s Michelin-starred restaurant, I’m exhausted, hungry, and a little tipsy.

  “You need food,” Anton says.

  And food I get. An assortment of amuse-bouches that has me licking my fingers is followed by foie gras with black current jam and then a lobster. After that, we’re served an out-of-this-world molten chocolate cake as the Chef’s coup de grâce.

  Most of what we eat must be aphrodisiacs, because by the time we’re finished, I’m hornier than I’ve ever been.

  “We could go up to the La Rotonde bar,” Anton says, “and enjoy the night view of the gardens.”

  “Or we could go to bed,” I say, giving him a saucy smile, “and enjoy other views.”

  His brows go up a little. I know I’m acting out of character, at odds with my sophisticated geisha persona. But I don’t care. The wine and food have mellowed me. All I want right now is to kick off my glossy armor so that I can breathe freely, speak without forethought, and act without premeditation.

  I want to be myself tonight.

  Anton stands up and offers his hand. “You win.”

  Our room is spacious, comfortable and subdued, with only a small nod to the plush grandeur of the castle. Not that I’ve been inside a castle before, but I’ve seen enough of them in movies to know this one is first class, inside and out, caves and gardens and cast iron fences included.

  As I wait for Anton to come out of the bathroom, I sprawl across the king-size bed and imagine myself the lady of the Chateau. On any other day, I would nip such an idle fantasy in the bud, but tonight anything goes.

  I roll over to lie on my stomach, prop my head on my elbows, and survey the artfully lit grounds. What a singular destiny to have inherited all this wealth, history, and beauty! No need to search for a purpose in life and your role in the universe. It’s laid out for you: Take care of your magnificent estate so that you can pass it on to the next generation in the best possible shape.

  I hear Anton approach the bed, but I don’t budge. As it happens, my sheer negligee offers him a nearly unobstructed vista of my posterior, and I know how much he likes it.

  I did promise him views, after all.

  He sits on the bed next to me, kicks off his shoes and flattens his large, long-fingered hand on the small of my back. It stays there for a few seconds and then begins to move, stroking, pressing, and squeezing. His ministrations grow bolder by the minute, and it feels so damn good. I tilt my head and glance at him. His gaze roams my body, lingering on its curves. His pupils are dark, their depths raw with need.

  My body aches in response.

  Yes. Anything you wish. I want it too.

  I keep staring at his eyes until they lock with mine, and my heart jumps a beat. Lucky me this man has such a healthy, kink-free sexuality. Because the fire in his gaze causes so many sparks and short circuits in my brain that I forget about caution, my “hard limits” and rules. Anton has no idea, but his unique brand of lust—wolfish hunger blended with reverence—is the most precious gift any man
has ever given me.

  I sit up abruptly and begin to undo the buttons of his shirt. His engraved cufflinks come off next. He lets me undress him completely and nudge him to lie on his back. With that crooked smile dancing on his lips, he leans on the plump pillow and clasps his hands behind his head.

  I settle next to him and grin. “It’s my turn to touch. Don’t move no matter what I do.”

  “OK.”

  I survey my spoils. He’s completely naked now. His body is lean and muscled in all the right places. Salt-and-pepper stubble marks his firm jawline. I run my fingertips over it, letting it grate and prickle my soft skin. Then I trace his warm, satiny lips. What a delicious contrast to the rough feel of his jaw! I want more of those lips than a touch can offer. I need their electrifying taste mixed with the muted scent of the aftershave from his cheeks.

  I’ve grown to crave that mix.

  With Anton, I’ve grown to thirst for that intimate, carnal contact of two sets of lips that can be revolting with the wrong man but oh so delicious with the right one. A frisson shoots through my body at the sweet anticipation of his mouth enveloping mine, his tongue pushing inside, probing, stroking, and drugging me with the glorious masculine essence of him.

  Soon.

  For now, I’ll continue to study him, tracing the contours of his face, feasting my eyes on his rugged beauty. I stroke the exposed hollow under his arm.

  Anton makes a move to lower his arm, but I gently push it back.

  “Must you?” He gives me a pleading look.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Oh yes, I must.”

  He sighs and lets me have my way with him.

  After a while, I move on to his torso, combing my fingers through the cloud of dark hairs softening its hard planes. I love how they sprawl over the expanse of his chest and then taper to a narrow stream. It runs across his taut abdomen, descends to his navel, dips in and out, and then thickens again.