Three Nights Before Christmas: A Holiday Romance Collection

by Kati Wilde

  “Not really. I don’t give a shit about the money.”

  “Why pursue it, then?”

  Because I’ll settle for a slice of pie, if I have to. But what I really want is the whole goddamn thing.

  Or rather, I don’t want the Wyndhams to get any of it. Not even a bite.

  “Revenge,” I say bluntly. For all the good it will do. My mother is dead. She’ll never see any of the Wyndham money, never know the comfort it could have brought, never know the satisfaction of seeing justice done. “Or just out of spite.”

  Her brows arch. “Spite?”

  “Yeah.” And some rage, a little more hatred. “Spite.”

  “Spite,” she echoes softly, then laughs—a sound so full and rich and amused, so damn unexpected, it almost knocks me out of my chair. “Oh, I like that.”

  That reply is unexpected, too. And I can’t stop my own grin in response.

  Her gaze drops to my mouth. A hard snap! follows, then she elegantly rises from her seat, arms folded beneath her breasts. Half turning away from me, she moves to the window and looks out over that million-dollar view.

  My view is worth a hell of a lot more. Audrey Clarke is a statuesque column of ivory and gold from head to toe. Her cream-colored sweater clings to every curve and looks soft and touchable. Just like her pants. When I first saw her, I thought she was wearing a long skirt until I watched her walk away and realized they were wide-legged trousers. High-waisted, too, cinching around her middle in a wide band. But all that ivory material doesn’t conceal the round shape of her ass or the long lengths of those legs, as if her pants were tailored specifically for her. Hell, I bet they were. I bet her entire outfit costs more than my monthly rent. Yet she doesn’t wear any jewelry with it. No rings, no necklace—though by rights, she should be dripping with rocks and ice. But no. Just soft, flowing clothing—and that rubber band.

  Snap. “How do you propose to handle sleeping”—snap—“and living arrangements?”

  “It’s all laid out in the business plan.” Which she apparently still has no intention of reading, because she simply looks over her shoulder at me until I continue, “Nothing would change. I’d stay in my apartment, you’d stay in your place. I’d keep my head down for the duration of our marriage, keeping to myself and focusing on work. I wouldn’t do anything to embarrass you or your company.”

  She tilts her head slightly. “Do you think I’m easily embarrassed, Mr. Moore?”

  I have no fucking idea what she is. I can’t make any sense of her. “I suppose you’d have to care about what others think of you, first.”

  She smiles again. “Yes. I would. And what about consummation?”

  “Consummation?”

  “Intercourse, Mr. Moore. Sex traditionally seals a marriage contract.”

  Christ. Instantly I picture her beneath me, staring up with those icy eyes and lying absolutely still and silent except for the jiggle of her tits and the soft gasp escaping those plush lips every time I slam my cock into her. Giving it to her hard and rough. Trying to crack that ice, to make her pussy melt around me. She’d probably be so goddamn tight—

  “Mr. Moore?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.” I shift in the seat, pulling at the edge of my jacket to cover the brainless, aching bulge of my cock. Goddamn it. These new pants were already a bit too small and now they are really too fucking small. “Some stupid shit popped into my head. I got off track.”

  “Ah.” She watches me with a faint smile. “My head does that, too.”

  “Okay. Great.” I spear a hand through my hair, trying to reel in my wayward thoughts. “Uh, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t require physical intimacy as part of the contract.”

  Her brows arch again. “No?”

  “No.” Just as I stated in my business plan. And it took a long damn time to find a phrase as benign as physical intimacy. Not that it matters when the next thing out of my mouth is, “There’s no reason why we’d need to talk to each other much, let alone fuck.”

  “Hmmm,” is her only response and she looks out the window again. While I sit in this little chair with a hot iron pipe wedged behind my zipper. Hmmm. Then she turns back to me with a “I don’t believe that would be satisfactory.”

  Big surprise there. “What part?”

  “Failing to consummate the marriage.” Taking her seat again, she faces me across the wide desk. “Or at least, failing to appear to consummate it. If the purpose of a marriage agreement is to prevent the Wyndhams from acquiring the estate in the unlikely event of your demise, we should not give them reason to argue that our marriage was an illegitimate one. Failure to consummate a marriage is a common reason for annulment.”

  Is she just yanking my chain now? We both know there isn’t going to be any goddamn marriage. If people like her married people like me, I wouldn’t even be here.

  I never meant for her to take my proposal seriously. Yet it isn’t a joke, either. None of this is. Not from the moment thirty years ago when Robert Wyndham told a young maid working in his family mansion that he loved her and wanted to marry her before knocking her up. Not from the moment he wrecked his yacht, drowning himself and the rich fiancée he proposed to after getting what he wanted from my mother. Not from the moment the Wyndhams closed ranks and told my pregnant mother that she’d never work in a respectable house again.

  And this shit about consummation? There isn’t a chance in hell Audrey Clarke would ever let someone like me touch her. So she’s either amusing herself—or this is payback. Wasting my time just like she probably believes I wasted hers.

  Now she continues as if she’s still considering this. “It wouldn’t be difficult to create the appearance of a legitimate marriage, however. A honeymoon, followed by sharing the same home. Preferably my house, as I’d be more comfortable there.”

  As opposed to living in the shithole that she assumes my apartment is? “Why not lie? If it ever became an issue, just say that I fucked your pussy raw every single night.”

  Her hand jerks. With a soft fwap, the rubber band breaks and shoots across the desk, landing between my feet. Audrey blinks once, twice. Then says, “I’m a terrible liar.”

  “Yeah, right.” A powerful businesswoman who can’t lie? “What if someone asks a question you don’t want to answer?”

  “I don’t say anything at all. And sometimes I look at them like this.”

  Holy fuck. I thought she looked at me with ice in her eyes before? That was a tropical heatwave compared to the withering, glacial stare she levels at me now. If I wasn’t so fascinated by the change that comes over her, my dick would have shriveled up and I’d have been tempted to slowly back away.

  Instead I laugh. “So without saying a word, you tell them that you can’t believe they ever had the balls to ask you such a stupid fucking question.”

  She grins, and all that withering disdain vanishes. “It’s a useful tool.”

  “I bet.” Because it’s bothering me, I bend over and sweep up the broken rubber band, then don’t have a clue what to do with it. There isn’t a trash in sight, and I’d feel like an asshole tossing it onto that spotless desk. I am an asshole, so feeling like one shouldn’t matter. But I shove the band into my pocket to toss later.

  She drums her fingertips against the presentation folder. “Have you finished your pitch or are there other points you want me to consider?”

  “Basically, the property is the only point. Either you want it enough to fight the Wyndhams in court, or you don’t.” Briefcase in hand, I stand. “I suppose you’ll need time to read through my proposal and to consider any changes to the—”

  “I don’t need time to consider it.”

  Shit. If she had any intention of entering into an agreement—even one as simple as paying for the legal fees—she’d consult her lawyers first, get an estimate of cost. My jaw clenches, then I force out a polite, “I understand. Thank you for your time, Miss Clarke.”

  “Mr. Moore.” She remains in her chair, her voice amused but her g
aze intense. “I’m accepting your proposal.”

  I stare at her, uncomprehending. “You are?”

  “I am.”

  “What part?”

  “All of it,” she replies easily. “With necessary amendments regarding our living situation, since the arrangements you suggested weren’t satisfactory.”

  The fuck…? “But the marriage part was satisfactory?”

  “It was.” Her eyebrows twitch into a slight frown when I slowly sink into my chair, drag my hands through my hair. “Mr. Moore?”

  “Caleb,” I tell her gruffly. Since we’re apparently getting married. “Call me Caleb.”

  “Caleb,” she agrees. “I’m Audrey.”

  Audrey. Who will soon be my wife. What the hell have I done? What the hell has she done, accepting me? That wasn’t part of the plan. Not really. I only came looking for a slice but she gave me the whole damn pie.

  But that’s good. That is damn good. Because that means the Wyndhams are fucked.

  Still. Holy shit. I pass a rough hand over my face to make sure I’m awake. Eyes open. Not dreaming.

  I drop my hand back to my side. “What now?”

  Her lips quirk. “Did you not plan beyond this point?”

  “I didn’t really think I’d get to this point. So, no. That’s my only plan.” I gesture to the folder on her desk.

  Nodding, she states, “That’s probably for the best.”

  “It’s for the best that I’m unprepared?”

  “Yes. So that our plans won’t be in conflict as I decide how to take on the Wyndhams. From this point on, Caleb, we’ll be doing this my way.” Reaching forward, she taps a button on her desk phone. “Jessica, Jeremy—please join Mr. Moore and me in my office.”

  Doing this my way. Fair enough. I came to Audrey Clarke because she can stand against the Wyndhams. But I don’t think there’s a chance in hell that Audrey and I won’t soon be in conflict. Because this is already grating against my nature. I’m not the type to stand back and let someone else handle everything. Especially when it’s my shit being handled.

  But for now, I’ll grit my teeth and let her do her thing. Because even sitting still, she moves fast.

  So do her assistants. The woman—Jessica—could have been a transplant from the law firm I visited a few weeks back. Everything about her says ‘serious business,’ from her stylish pantsuit to her sensible heels. The kind of assistant I expect to see here. But Jeremy, he’s something else. Beneath his suit jacket, he sports a Star Wars tee. And his scuffed pair of red Converse sneakers aren’t the shiny dress shoes I figured an executive assistant would be required to wear.

  Which means Audrey must not care. At least, not too much. There’s probably a line, though. I bet that if I’d come to this meeting in my work clothes, she sure as hell wouldn’t be considering marriage. It’s a long way from geeky T-shirts under a trendy suit jacket to Carhartt work pants permanently stained with motor oil.

  Marriage. I still can’t believe she’s considering it at all, no matter what I’m wearing. She must want that mansion real fucking bad.

  Styluses poised over their tablets, her assistants come to stand on either side of my chair—which feels awkward as hell with me seated between them. I don’t like sitting while other people are standing nearby. But I might as well be a part of the chair for all the attention they give me. Their entire focus is on Audrey.

  She starts right in. “Contact the Methodist church on Alder and secure the first available date that Reverend Foster can officiate a wedding ceremony—unless you prefer another venue or have a different religious affiliation?”

  The last part is directed to me. “None,” I tell her.

  She nods and tells her assistants, “The Methodist church, then.”

  Beside me, Jessica scribbles onto her tablet screen. “And who should I say is getting married?”

  “Caleb and I are.”

  “Congratulations!” they cheerfully say in unison, not missing a beat. Which is fucking incredible, because I still haven’t caught up to the idea yet. But maybe they’re used to Audrey Clarke throwing crazy shit their way.

  “Thank you,” she replies and rises to her feet, heading over to the window again. Now I’m the only person in the whole damn office who’s sitting. Getting up isn’t an option yet, though. Not unless I hold my briefcase in front of my crotch. Because my dick still isn’t playing nice inside these too-tight pants, and the view she presents of her sweet ass isn’t helping any. “As soon as you’ve nailed down the time for the ceremony, create a guest list. I want the invitations printed and sent out within two days.”

  This time, with her back turned, I see the “oh shit” glances that her assistants exchange.

  “Within two days?” Jeremy echoes with a faint squeak in his voice. “Printed and mailed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the guest list should include…?” That comes from Jessica.

  “After we’ve finished here, Caleb can give you the names of his friends and family. More particularly, however, I want every single adult Wyndham to receive their own invitations, each one delivered by a special courier who is instructed to give it directly to the recipient.” She glances back at me. “We’ll put the family on notice right away.”

  With a hand delivered invitation to go fuck themselves. “Sounds good.”

  Jessica scribbles again. “And your guests will be…?”

  “Every Clarke employee. And my local social contacts—but only the ones whose company I enjoy.”

  “All five of them?” Jeremy asks, sharing a quick grin with Jessica.

  I assume he’s teasing her but Audrey answers as if he is serious. “Yes. All five.”

  “And…your parents?” Jessica asks that with a slight hesitation.

  There’s no hesitation in Audrey’s flat answer. “No.”

  “All right,” Jeremy says with a warning glance toward Jessica. They both wipe their expressions clear when Audrey turns back, taking her seat again.

  A frown creases her brow as she gazes at me. “Two days isn’t fast enough. I want the Wyndhams to be on edge even before they receive the invitations. Are there any events tonight that Caleb and I can attend and either the Wyndhams or their friends will also be present?”

  “The mayor’s tree lighting ceremony is tonight at seven,” Jessica answers immediately. “It’s followed by a cocktail party in the atrium of the Clement Hotel. No doubt several people from that social circle would be there.”

  “Did I receive an invite?”

  “You declined it.”

  “Then un-decline it. And add a plus one—if you are free tonight, Caleb?”

  “Yeah.” Jesus. A cocktail party? “Do I need a tux for that?”

  I’m going to end up blowing a week’s paycheck just on clothes. But it’ll be worth it, I remind myself. When the Wyndhams start panicking, it’ll be worth every penny and every second I spend in a monkey suit.

  “Just put on what you would normally wear for a date,” Audrey says to me, and it’s real fucking adorable that she thinks I’m the kind of guy who has the time or money to take women out on dates. “I’ll get my lawyers started on the marriage contract. Jessica and Jeremy can keep you apprised of what will need to be done before the wedding—the license, tuxedo fittings, and so on. And if there’s anything you need, simply contact them. Or…me. Jessica can give you my number and you can, uh, text. Text my phone.”

  She lifts the device awkwardly, as if to demonstrate what a phone is—or as if she’s not used to giving a business associate permission to contact her directly. Judging by the way her assistants blink and look at each other, it might be the very first time.

  It’s odd. And kind of cute. But I’m more than ready to get the hell out of here and figure out what just happened. “Sounds good,” I say and grab my briefcase. “What’s the plan for tonight?”

  She glances at her phone, checking the time. “Will six-thirty be long enough for you to get ready? My drive
r can pick you up then. Just let Jessica know where.”

  Hell no. I’m not going to be picked up anywhere by some fancy driver in some fancy car. “Since we’re running short on time, how about I just meet you at the tree lighting ceremony?”

  “Very well.” She stands at the same time I do, and extends her hand over the desk, smiling. “I believe it will be a pleasure doing business with you, Caleb.”

  Yeah. A pleasure. I don’t what the fuck it’ll be, but ‘a pleasure’ isn’t on the list of descriptions that jump into my head.

  But touching her hand? Shit. That feels real damn good. It’s a shame there won’t be more of that. Her fingers are soft and cool and surprisingly strong.

  And because this isn’t just a business arrangement we’re agreeing to, a handshake doesn’t seem like enough. So when it’s over, I bring her hand to my lips, press a kiss to her knuckles. Gruffly, I tell her, “Thank you.”

  For a long, long moment, she only stares at my face. Like she did when I first sprang the proposal on her. But this time her silence doesn’t last three minutes. She abruptly comes back to herself—then yanks her hand away, shaking out her fingers before sliding it into her pants pocket.

  Crisply she says, “I’ll see you at seven, Mr. Moore.”

  All right. Message received loud and clear. Don’t touch me. That message should have felt just fine. Seeing her shake off my kiss shouldn’t dig at my gut and have my teeth gritting in frustration. This marriage doesn’t have a thing to do with touching her. It’s about making sure the Wyndhams get what’s been coming to them for a long damn time.

  Anything else is a whole other pie. A pie that I won’t ever get a bite of. So only a stupid fuck would waste time wondering how it tastes.

  My proposal isn’t about wanting Audrey Clarke. It’s about spite.

  That’s all that I’m here for.

  3

  Audrey

  I’m putting on my lipstick when, in the mirror’s reflection, I see Jessica sweep into the apartment I keep in my office building. She stops dead, her eyes widening.