Christmas with the Maverick Millionaire

by Scarlet Wilson

  Mitchell threw up his hands. ‘I get it. I just don’t have time for it. Not now. I’ll learn about it later. I’ll take the time then—in six months when this tour is over.’

  ‘No.’ The consultant folded his arms across his chest. ‘If you don’t do as I ask for the next three weeks, I’ll notify your tour insurers. You won’t be covered.’

  For the second time in two days Mitchell was shocked. He wasn’t used to people saying no to him. He was used to snapping his fingers and everyone doing exactly as he said. That was the joy of being a world-famous rock star. Once you earned beyond a certain point, people just didn’t say no any more.

  He could almost feel the blood draining from his body—as if he didn’t feel sick enough already. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’ His voice cracked as he spoke. This nightmare was just getting worse and worse. First the weeks of feeling like death warmed over. Then the ill-timed diagnosis of diabetes. Now a threat to his tour.

  ‘I would, you know.’ The consultant’s chin was set with a determined edge. Mitchell recognised the look because he so frequently wore it himself. ‘A sick rock star is no insurer’s dream. You need to be healthy and in control to take part in the tour. To be frank, I don’t think three weeks of specialist care is going to cut it. Even then, you’ll need additional support on your tour. If you can’t even adhere to the first set of guidelines I give you, then...’ He let his voice tail off.

  Mitchell’s stomach was churning. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t rich already. But this tour had been planned for two years. The proceeds were going towards the funding of the children’s hospital in this area. He’d supported it for years—but always on the condition that no one knew. The last thing he needed was the press invading the one part of his life that was still private. His funding had kept the children’s hospital afloat for the last ten years. But things had changed. The building couldn’t be repaired any more, the whole place needed to be rebuilt. And why rebuild anything half-heartedly? The plans had been drawn up and approved for a brand-new state-of-the-art facility. All they needed was the guaranteed cash. That’s why he couldn’t let them down—no matter how sick he was.

  ‘Fine. I’ll do it. Just find me someone.’ He walked away in frustration and started stuffing his clothes into a holdall.

  The consultant gave him a nod and disappeared down the corridor, coming back five minutes later. ‘You’re in luck. The agency called, they’ve found you a nurse. Her qualifications are a little unusual but she’s got the experience we need.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means she’ll be able to help you manage your condition. I’ll send her some written instructions by email.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘She’ll be on a flight out of Gatwick at seven tonight. She’ll be here around eleven p.m.’ He pointed to the packed bag. ‘I’m not happy about discharging you until her plane lands.’

  Mitchell shook his head and picked up the case with his injector pen. ‘You’ve taught me how to do the injections. I take ten units tonight before I eat.’ Then he pointed to another pen on the bedside table. ‘And twenty-six units of that one before I go to bed. I get it. I do. Now, let me go. The nurse will be here in a few hours and I’ll be fine until then.’

  He could see the hesitation on the guy’s face. It had only been two days and he was sick of the sight of this place already. Hospitals weren’t much fun, even if you had the money to pay for a private room.

  He tried his trademark smile. ‘Come on. How much trouble can I get into in a few hours?’

  * * *

  The plane journey had been a nightmare. The man next to her had snored and drooled on her shoulder from the second the plane had taken off until it had landed in Innsbruck. She’d been doing her best to concentrate on the info she’d downloaded onto her tablet about the latest types of insulin and pumps. She wasn’t sure what kind of regime her patient would be on but she wanted to have some background knowledge on anything she might face.

  Her phone pinged as soon as she hit the tarmac. Great. An email from the doctor with detailed instructions. She struggled to grab her case from the revolving carousel and headed to the exit. She would have time to read the email on the journey to her hotel.

  She scanned the arrivals lounge. Her heart gave a little jump when she saw a card with her name: ‘Samantha Lewis’. It was almost like being a pop star.

  She trundled her case over to the guy in the thick parka. It was late at night and his hat was coated with thick snowflakes. There was something so nice about being in a place covered with snow at Christmastime. Even if it was bitterly cold.

  ‘Samantha Lewis?’ He grabbed the handle of her case as she nodded. ‘Is this it? Just one case?’

  She grinned. ‘Why? How many should I have brought?’

  His face broke into a wide smile as he shook his head. ‘Last time I picked someone up here she had ten suitcases, including one for her dog.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  He nodded. ‘No kidding.’ He had another look around. ‘No skis?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m here to work, not to ski.’

  The guy’s brow wrinkled. ‘Hmm. Sorry.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Dave, Mitchell’s sidekick. You name it, I do it.’ He started to walk towards the exit. ‘I’ve got a jacket and hat for you in the car.’ His eyes skimmed up and down her body. ‘It might be a little big but it’s definitely your colour. I know you were called at short notice and we were worried you wouldn’t have any gear with you.’

  She tilted her head to the side. ‘Who is Mitchell? I’ve not been told who I’m working for yet. And gear for what?’

  An icy blast hit them as soon as they walked through the airport doors. Her grey duffel coat was no match for the winter Alpine temperatures. How nice. They’d bought her a coat and hat. She wasn’t quite sure whether to be pleased or insulted.

  He raised the boot on a huge black four-by-four and pushed her case inside. It was the biggest one she owned but it looked tiny in there. She blinked as she noticed the winter tyres and snow chains. Just how deep was the snow around here? He opened the door for her and she climbed inside. On the seat behind her was a bright blue ski jacket, slightly longer in style so it would cover her bum, alongside a matching pair of salopettes, hat, gloves and flat fur-lined black boots.

  Her fingers brushed the skin of the jacket. It felt expensive. Thickly padded but light to touch.

  Dave climbed into the driver’s seat and nodded at the gear. ‘Told you it was your colour. It matches your eyes.’

  She blushed. Her eyes were the one thing that most people commented on. She wasn’t sure whether being blonde-haired and blue-eyed was a blessing or a curse.

  Dave started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, heading towards the main road. It felt like being in another world. They were surrounded by snow-covered Alps. The lights were glowing in the town in front of them. It looked warm and inviting against the black fir trees and high mountains.

  ‘So, you haven’t told me. Who do you work for?’

  Dave’s eyes flitted sideways for a second to look at her then focused back on the road ahead. ‘No one’s told you?’ There was a knowing smile on his face.

  She shrugged. ‘Not yet. But I thought I was going to have to sign the non-disclosure in blood.’

  ‘You’re lucky you didn’t.’ She was joking, but he made it sound as if he heard that every other day.

  ‘What’s the big secret?’ Curiosity was beginning to kill her. She hadn’t given it much thought on the plane flight over, she’d been too busy focusing on the diabetes aspects and developing plans for a newly diagnosed adult patient. Plus, she still had that email to read. She glanced at her phone. Her 3G signal had left her. She had no idea what phone signals would be like in the Alps. She would have to ask for wifi access when they reached the hotel.

>   ‘Mitchell Brody. He’s the big secret. He’s just been diagnosed and he starts a world tour in three weeks. The timing couldn’t be worse.’

  Her mouth fell open and her heart did a little stop-start. So not what she was expecting to hear. ‘Mitchell Brody? The Mitchell Brody?’ Now she understood the need for a non-disclosure agreement. Mitchell Brody, rock star, was pure media fodder. Every time the man blinked it practically made the news. Roguishly handsome, fit body and gorgeous smile. But he was the original bad boy. The papers were full of stories about him waking other guests in hotels by rehearsing at four in the morning. Huge headlines about bust-ups between band members and managers. Wrecked rooms and punch-ups with other stars were everyday news. Whoever was the model of the moment, was usually the woman photographed on his arm. He was worth millions, no, billions.

  Dave shrugged. ‘Is there any other?’

  She gulped. The neat plan she’d imagined in her head instantly scrambled. Mitchell Brody wasn’t the kind of guy who’d take kindly to planning all his meals and insulin doses. He lived by the seat of his pants. The guy had never played by the rules in his life—chances were, he wasn’t about to start now.

  She sagged back against her seat as she realised just what she was taking on. ‘Wow. I didn’t expect it to be him.’

  Dave seemed amused. ‘Who did you think it would be?’

  ‘Honestly? I had no idea. Maybe some kind of TV soap actor or rich businessman. Mitchell Brody, well, he’s just huge.’ She looked out of the window at the passing streetlights. The shops were full of Christmas decorations and the buildings lined above were vintage façades of eighteenth-century houses in multicoloured pastel shades of pink, blue, yellow and peach. It was like summer, in the middle of winter. Gorgeous.

  The car turned up a mountain. ‘What hotel are we staying in? Do you think I’ll be able to speak to the chef?’

  Dave frowned. ‘What makes you think we’re staying in a hotel?’

  She watched as they started up the mountain range, passing Tirol-styled hotel after hotel. ‘Isn’t that where everyone stays?’

  ‘Maybe everyone who isn’t Mitchell Brody. He’s owned a house up here for the last five years.’

  ‘He has?’ The snow was glistening around them. The hotels were gorgeous—so picturesque. All set perfectly on the mountainside for easy access to the Innsbruck snow slopes. She shifted a little uncomfortably in her seat. Snow slopes. The signs were everywhere. Why else would anyone buy a house up here? She wrinkled her nose, she couldn’t remember any of the press stories being about Mitchell’s antics on the snow slopes. Nope, those stories were all about Caribbean retreats and private yachts. She cleared her throat. ‘Does Mitchell like to ski, then?’

  Dave laughed. ‘Does Mitchell like to ski? Do bees flock around honey? Does some seventeen-year-old try and sweet-talk her way past me at every venue we go to?’ He shook his head and gestured towards the back seat. ‘Why do you think I brought you the ski gear?’

  ‘To stop me from getting cold?’ Her voice squeaked as she spoke, as the true horror of the situation started to unload. Her one and only skiing trip as a teenager had resulted in her spending most of her time flat on her back—or face down in the snow. Water had seeped through her jeans and down the sleeves and neck of her jacket. She’d finally hidden back down at the ski centre in front of a roaring fire with a hot chocolate in front of her. When the ski instructor had eventually come looking for her to persuade her back onto the slopes, her answer had been a resounding no.

  Even the thought of skiing sent a shiver down her spine, which Dave misinterpreted. ‘Better put your jacket on, we’ll be there in a minute and it’s freezing out there.’

  She nodded and wiggled her arms out of her grey duffel and pulled the blue jacket over from the back seat. It was pure and utter luxury, evident from the second she pushed her arms inside. Even though they were still inside the car, the heat enfolded her instantly. She tucked her blonde curls under the matching woolly hat and pulled up the zip. ‘It’s lovely, Dave. Thanks very much.’

  She eyed the salopettes still lying across the back seat. It was a stand-off. No way was she putting those on.

  Dave turned the wheel down a long private road. The warm glow at the end gradually came into focus. A beautiful, traditionally styled Tirol chalet. Okay, maybe it was four times the size of all the others she’d seen. But it was gorgeous, right down to the colourful window boxes, upper balcony and black and red paintwork on the outside.

  She opened the car door and almost didn’t notice the blast of icy air all around her. She was too busy staring at the mountain house. She climbed out and automatically stuck her hands in her pockets. The wind started whistling around her jeans. Maybe salopettes weren’t such a bad idea after all.

  ‘This place is huge,’ she murmured. ‘How many people stay here?’

  Dave was pulling her case from the trunk as if it was as light as a feather. ‘Just you and Mitchell.’

  She sucked in a deep breath. The air was so cold it almost smarted against her throat. So not what she’d expected to hear. ‘You don’t stay here too?’

  Dave laughed. ‘Me? No.’

  ‘And he doesn’t have any staff?’ She was trying not to think the thoughts that were currently circulating in her brain. Alone. In a mountain retreat. With a gorgeous rock star. She could almost hear her friend Carly’s voice in her ear, along with the matching action punch in the air. ‘Kerching!’

  This was really happening.

  Wow. Her feet were stuck to the ground. Snow seeped instantly through her flat-heeled leather boots, which had distinctly slippery soles. She should really move, but the whole place looked like a complete ice rink. She wobbled as she turned around and grabbed the fur-lined boots from the car. They had thick treads—obviously designed for places like this. It only took a minute to swap them over.

  ‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.’ Dave strode over towards the entranceway of the house. ‘Mitch is really private. He doesn’t like people hanging around him. There’s no cook. No PA.’ He gave a little laugh as if he’d just realised what she’d be up against. ‘Yeah, good luck with all this, Samantha.’

  She blinked. She was going to be staying in a house alone with Mitchell Brody. The hottest guy on the planet. She might even have had a tiny crush on him at some point.

  She might have lingered over some picture of him on the internet, showing off a naked torso with a fabulous set of abs, slim-fitting leather trousers and his shaggy, slightly too-long dark hair. The guy made grunge sexy.

  She gulped. Her throat had never felt so dry. When was the last time she’d had something to drink? It must have been on the plane a few hours ago. Dave pushed open the door to the house and she stepped inside.

  Wow. It was like stepping inside a shoot for a house magazine. The biggest sitting room she’d ever been in, white walls, light wooden floors, with a huge television practically taking up one wall. Sprawling, comfortable sofas and a large wooden dining-room table surrounded by twelve chairs. It screamed space. It yelled money. This place must have cost a fortune.

  There was a tinkle of glass breaking off to her right, followed by some colourful language. Dave’s brow wrinkled. ‘Mitch?’

  The headlines started to shoot through her brain. Please don’t let her first meeting be with a drunken rock star.

  She followed Dave as he strode through to the equally large kitchen. It should have been show home material too, but it was in complete disarray. Every door was hanging open, with food scattered everywhere. The door of the biggest refrigerator she’d ever seen was also open and Mitchell Brody was rummaging around inside—a glass of orange juice smashed around his feet. He didn’t even seem to have noticed.

  She glanced at Dave, whose face showed utter confusion at the scene around him. Every part of her body started
to react. She moved quickly. ‘Is this normal, Dave?’

  ‘No, not at all.’ He hadn’t budged. His feet seemed welded to the floor.

  Her instincts kicked into gear. She had no idea what to expect. She knew next to nothing about Mitchell Brody—only what she’d read in the press. But right now he wasn’t Mitchell Brody, rock star. He was Mitchell Brody, patient. One who was newly diagnosed with diabetes. ‘Is anyone else here?’

  Dave shook his head. There was no one she could ask for some background information. Dave had been with her for the last hour, so Mitchell must have been alone. She hadn’t even had a chance to read the email from the consultant yet. She strongly suspected his actions were to do with his diabetes but, then again, she might just be about to witness a legendary Mitchell Brody tantrum. No matter what, it was time to act.

  She moved over next to him, kicking the glass away from around his feet and touching his back. ‘Mitchell, can I help you with something?’

  He spun around and she drew in a deep breath in shock. His shirt was hanging open and the top button of his jeans was undone. His face was gaunt, the frame under his shirt thin and the six-pack that adorned teenage walls had vanished, all clinical signs of ketoacidosis. Just how long had it taken them to diagnose him?

  ‘Who are you?’ he growled, before ignoring her completely and turning back to the refrigerator and scattering some more food around. An apple flew past her ear, closely followed by a banana, and then a jar of jam, which shattered on the grey tile floor.

  The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Mitchell Brody was having a hypoglycaemic attack, his blood sugar so low he would probably pass out in the next few minutes if she didn’t get some food into him.