12 Stocking Stuffers

by Beverly Barton

  Austin propped himself up on his elbow and stared down at his wife, amazed that one woman could make his life so incredibly rich. She looked beautiful, and entirely too pleased with herself. He knew the reason why.

  “You do realize, don’t you, that your parents are going to hit the roof when they get your ‘wedding announcement’ in the mail.”

  “Yeah.” Amusement threaded her husky voice and sparkled in her eyes. She’d asked the minister’s wife to take a Polaroid snapshot of the two of them after the ceremony, then on a piece of the hotel’s stationery she’d written, “Teddy and Austin announce their wedding to one another,” along with the date. She’d sealed both in an envelope, and sent it to her parents in San Francisco so they’d receive the news before Austin and Teddy arrived back home.

  She rolled to her back and smiled up at him, looking tousled, and thoroughly satiated. Her breasts were tipped in fragrant orchids, and a few crushed petals clung to her still-damp skin. “I have to admit that it felt good to buck convention.”

  He laughed. Leave it to Teddy to indulge in one final act of rebellion with her parents. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

  “Absolutely,” she assured him, touching her hand to his jaw. “I couldn’t be happier, or more in love, and I don’t need a huge ceremony or reception to validate how I feel about you.” Then a small frown creased her forehead. “My parents will survive this little catastrophe, though I’m a little worried about Jordan.”

  “Jordan?” he questioned, wondering what his brother had to do with all that. “Why?”

  Her hand absently caressed his chest, and the diamond on her finger caught the light, glittering like a brilliant star. “Well, I know you’re trying to sell Fantasy for Hire, but he didn’t seem too thrilled about handling the business while you’re away.”

  “He’ll be fine.” Austin grinned with wry humor. “It’s not as though he’s got to worry about fulfilling anyone’s fantasy. I only need him to book the dancers.”

  “I guess you’re right, but wouldn’t it be great if he found someone like we found each other?” The hopeful quality in Teddy’s voice attested to the fondness she seemed to have for Austin’s brother. “I mean, I’m sure he’s some woman’s ideal fantasy.”

  Austin thought about the possibility of Jordan shedding his conservative image to play some woman’s fantasy, but knew his brother would never go for that kind of public performance. Jordan tolerated Fantasy for Hire, but he’d never personally advocate being hired out as someone’s fondest desire.

  He shook his head at Teddy. “Naw, it’ll never happen.”

  Moving over Teddy, he fitted himself snugly between her thighs, his need for her already fierce and rampant. “Now, what do you say we forget about Jordan, and your parents, and enjoy our honeymoon. I want you, wife.”

  Smiling a sultry, seductive smile, she lifted the lei of orchids from around her neck and placed it over his head, letting the fragrant flowers fill the air between them. “Consider yourself laid, husband.”

  A Christmas Marriage Ultimatum

  By Helen Bianchin

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHANTELLE transferred the last bag of groceries into the boot and closed it, then she returned the shopping trolley to a nearby bay. Minutes later she eased her mother’s Lexus out from the car park and joined the flow of traffic heading north.

  Handling left-hand drive after a four-year absence didn’t pose any problems at all, and she slid her sunglasses down to shade her eyes from the glare of the midsummer sun as she headed towards Sovereign Islands, a top-end luxury residential estate on Queensland’s Gold Coast, comprising numerous waterways where boats and cruisers lay moored adjacent waterfront homes.

  It was an idyllic setting, and she approved of her parents’ move from their frenetic Sydney lifestyle. Mother and stepfather, she mentally corrected, although Jean-Paul had taken on the role of father when she’d been nine years old. Too long ago for her to regard him as anything other than a much-loved parent.

  The past few years had wrought several changes, she reflected musingly.

  Who would have thought at twenty-four she’d have thrown up a position as pharmacist in an exclusive Sydney pharmacy, a modern apartment, family, friends…for a small villa owned by her parents in northern France?

  Yet four years ago it had seemed the perfect place to escape to following an end to a brief, passionate affair.

  A month after her arrival, she’d discovered she was pregnant. So she’d stayed, gaining work in the local pharmacie, and had the baby, a beautiful dark-haired, dark-eyed boy she’d named Samuel. It had become a matter of pride to be self-supportive, and her parents visited twice a year.

  Now, after a four-year absence, she’d brought Samuel to Australia for him to sample his first southern-hemispheric Christmas.

  ‘No snow,’ she’d explained when the jet touched down in Brisbane two days ago, and rejoiced in her son’s wonderment at the switch in climates as he embraced his grandparents.

  How simplistic life was to a child, Chantelle mused as she traversed the first of three bridges leading to Anouk and Jean-Paul Patric’s home on one of seven islands linked to form the suburban Sovereign Islands estate.

  Children responded to love and affection, and her son was no exception. Bilingual, he was equally conversant in French and English. Tall for his tender years, thick dark hair, beautiful dark eyes, with a melting smile, he was his father in miniature.

  Chantelle shook off the whisper of ice slithering down her spine at the thought of the man who’d fathered her child.

  Dimitri Cristopoulis. Undeniably Greek, American educated, tall, dark and attractive, an entrepreneur in his mid-thirties who dealt in the buying and selling of hotels and apartment buildings in several major cities worldwide.

  Even now, his image was as vivid as it had been four years ago. Broad sculpted facial features, olive textured skin, dark gleaming eyes, and a mouth to die for.

  Sexy, sensual and incredibly lethal, she’d mentally accorded when she’d first caught his gaze in a Sydney city restaurant.

  She hadn’t been wrong. He was all three, and more…much more. She, who was incredibly selective in sharing her body, had gifted hers willingly after one night.

  For one month they’d enjoyed life and each other with a passion that captured her heart. Only to have it torn apart with the arrival of an actress claiming to be his fiancée.

  Confrontation involved accusations and argument, and Chantelle had walked away…out of his life, her own, invoking her parents’ promise not to divulge information as to her whereabouts. In a bid for a new life, a new identity, she had reverted to her legal birth-name of Chantelle Leone.

  Now Chantelle turned into the boulevard housing the elegant home her parents had retired to last year from their mansion in Sydney, used the remote modem to open the gates, and garaged the car.

  Jean-Paul appeared as she opened the boot, and together they caught up the grocery bags and took them indoors.

  ‘Maman, Maman!’

  Chantelle deposited the bags on the kitchen table and opened her arms wide to scoop up her son. ‘Hello, mon ange. Have you been good for Grandmère?’

  ‘Excellent,’ Samuel assured as he wrapped his arms around her neck. ‘Tonight we’re having a party.’ He pressed kisses to her cheek. ‘Grandmère says I am an important guest.’

  ‘Very important,’ she confirmed, hugging him close. He was the most precious person in her life, and she never failed to ensure he knew just how much he was loved. ‘After lunch you must have a long nap, hmm? So you will be at your best, and everyone will think you totally adorable.’

  ‘Totally.’

  Chantelle chuckled and buried her lips into the cur
ve of his sweet neck. He was developing a delightful sense of humour, and his smile…it bore the promise of having the same devastating effect as the man who’d fathered him.

  Which tore at her heartstrings more than she cared to admit. Already, the likeness between child and father was fast becoming apparent. Too apparent, she perceived, making it difficult to dismiss Dimitri Cristopoulis from her mind.

  A silent derisive laugh rose and died in her throat. As if that was going to happen any time soon. His image was just as powerful now as it had been four years ago.

  Worse, he invaded her dreams…teasing, taunting, enticing in a way that brought her awake heated, restless and wanting.

  ‘We’ll have an early lunch,’ Anouk relayed as she began unloading the grocery bags. ‘Then we begin preparations, oui?’

  It proved to be a busy afternoon, and Chantelle stood with Anouk and Jean-Paul for a final inspection before they retreated upstairs to dress.

  The large terrace looked festive with a tracery of coloured lights, lanterns and potted flowers gracing the area. Holly and mistletoe, a tall Christmas tree festooned with decorative ornaments, with wrapped gifts for the guests. Bottles of wine for the men, and handmade chocolates for the women which Anouk and Jean-Paul would hand out at the evening’s close.

  A kindly protestation not to go over the top fell on deaf ears, for Anouk had merely smiled, patted her daughter’s hand, bestowed a fleeting kiss to one cheek, and assured it was just an informal gathering of friends.

  Given her mother’s penchant for entertaining, and the many formal social events Anouk had hosted in Sydney over the years, Chantelle conceded with musing humour that tonight’s soirée fell into informal by comparison.

  Samuel’s delighted enchantment with everything was sufficient reward for the requisite part she was expected to play.

  Consequently she selected a stunning black evening trouser suit, draped a long red silk wrap across her shoulders, added minimum jewellery, and went with subtle make-up before leading Samuel downstairs.

  Jean-Paul greeted guests in the main foyer, directed them through to the terrace, whereupon Anouk ensured they mixed and mingled seamlessly while hired staff offered liquid refreshment and proffered trays of hors d’oeuvres.

  Anouk was a charming hostess, and Chantelle joined her mother as they moved effortlessly from one guest to another, pausing while Anouk exchanged a few words, a smile as she introduced her daughter and grandson.

  Everyone seemed pleasant, and Chantelle silently commended her parents’ circle of friends.

  Samuel was in his element, and determined to illustrate his good manners as he formally offered his hand at each introduction.

  He was a hit, she acknowledged with maternal bemusement, exuding the charm of a child twice his age.

  Just like his father.

  Where did that come from? A hollow laugh rose and died in her throat.

  Not a day went by when she wasn’t reminded of the man who’d fathered him.

  Chantelle was aware of her mother’s voice as she effected yet another introduction, and she summoned a smile as she greeted the guest.

  ‘Andreas recently moved to the Coast,’ Anouk explained. ‘And purchased a mansion in a neighbouring Sovereign Islands boulevard.’

  There was something about the man’s stance, the way he held his head that drew her attention.

  ‘Your parents very kindly included me in this evening’s festivities,’ he informed in a voice that held a faint accent that was difficult to place.

  Andreas…The name was of Greek origin.

  ‘We have something in common,’ he offered. ‘My son is also visiting for Christmas. He’s in the car finishing a call on his cellphone.’

  She envisioned with some scepticism a high-powered entrepreneur digitally available twenty-four by seven, negotiating and closing deals worldwide.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll enjoy his visit,’ Chantelle conceded politely, aware of a momentary intentness evident as the man’s attention focused on her son.

  Was it her imagination, or did she glimpse conjecture before it was quickly masked?

  Then the moment was gone as Anouk steered her towards a young couple who spent several minutes enthusing about their recent trip to Paris.

  Chantelle enjoyed their praise of a city she adored, and they lingered together awhile.

  ‘If you’ll excuse us?’ Anouk inclined with a warm smile. ‘Another guest has arrived.’

  The last, surely? Chantelle mused as she followed her mother’s line of vision to a tall, broad-framed man whose stance portrayed an animalistic sense of power.

  Even from a distance he managed to exude a physical magnetism most men would covet.

  The set of his shoulders beneath their superb tailoring held a certain familiarity, and she fought against the rising sense of panic, tempering it with rationale.

  How many times had she caught sight of a male figure whose stature bore a close resemblance to that of Samuel’s father, only to discover his facial features were those of a stranger?

  As it would prove on this occasion, she mentally assured as she saw Andreas move towards him.

  Father and son. Had to be, she registered as the two men greeted each other with familial ease.

  Seconds later they both turned at Anouk’s approach, and Chantelle froze, locked into speechless immobility in recognition of a man she’d hoped never to see again in this lifetime.

  Dimitri Cristopoulis.

  What was he doing here? Here, specifically in her parents’ home?

  Dimitri’s family resided in New York…didn’t they?

  He’d never said, and she hadn’t asked. She choked back a hollow laugh. Had she even given it a thought?

  In seeming slow motion Chantelle witnessed the introduction process, aware of Dimitri’s calculating gaze as it encompassed first her, then her son, before settling with ruthless intensity on her own.

  ‘Chantelle.’

  The sound of his voice sent shivers scudding the length of her spine. How could so much be conveyed in a single word?

  No. The silent scream rose and died in her throat at what she glimpsed in those dark eyes before it was masked.

  With mounting consternation she watched as he sank down onto his haunches and extended his hand to her son.

  ‘Samuel.’

  The similarity between man and child was indisputable. Her son, but undeniably his.

  Everything faded to the periphery of her vision, and she was conscious only of Dimitri and Samuel. Her hand closed over her son’s shoulder in a protective, reassuring gesture.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Samuel offered with childlike politeness.

  Dear heaven, this was the culmination of her worst nightmare. Instinct screamed for her to scoop Samuel into her arms…and run as fast and as far away as she could.

  Except Dimitri would follow. She could sense it, knew it in the depths of her soul. This time there would be no escape…no place she could hide where he wouldn’t find her.

  Chantelle was dimly aware of her mother’s voice, although the words failed to register.

  Did anyone guess she was a total mess? Every nerve in her body seemed to shred and sever, changing her into a trembling wreck.

  Dimitri rose to his full height, and she caught sight of the veiled anger apparent in those dark eyes an instant before he masked it.

  There were questions…several, she sensed he would demand answers to. Yet the most telling one was startlingly obvious.

  Fear closed like an icy fist around her heart. He couldn’t take Samuel away from her…could he?

  Was it her imagination, or did the air fizz with tension? For a wild moment she felt if she so much as moved a muscle, she’d be struck down by its invisible force.

  ‘Maman, may I be excused?’ A small voice penetrated the immediate silence, and brought Chantelle’s undivided attention.

  ‘Naturellement, petit.’ She offered a polite smile, then she turned and led Samuel tow
ards the staircase.

  A reprieve. One she badly needed. It would allow her time to recoup her severely shaken composure, and prepare for whatever the evening held in store.

  For the next hour she could legitimately use Samuel as a shield. But the time would come when she’d have to face Dimitri alone. What then?

  She felt the slight tug of Samuel’s hand and realised she retained too tight a hold on it. A self-derisory sound choked in her throat at such carelessness, and she lifted him into her arms, then buried her lips against the sweet curve of his neck.

  ‘Maman, who is that man?’

  Bathroom duty complete, he studiously dried his hands, his dark eyes solemn as he posed the query.

  Your father. Two simple words which couldn’t be uttered without an accompanying explanation to his level of understanding.

  ‘Someone I met a long time ago,’ she said gently.

  ‘Before I was born?’

  Chantelle bent down and brushed her lips to his forehead. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘He’s very big. Bigger than Grandpère.’ Solemn dark eyes locked with hers. ‘Do you like him?’

  Oh, my. ‘Grandpère?’ she teased. ‘Of course. Grandpère is the best, non?’

  ‘Oui. And Grandmère,’ Samuel added. ‘But the man is scary.’

  Scary covered a multitude of meanings to a child whose vocabulary was beginning to broaden. ‘He would never hurt you.’ She could give such reassurance unequivocally.

  ‘No,’ Samuel dismissed. ‘He had a scary face when he looked at you.’

  Out of the mouths of babes. ‘Maybe it was because we had a disagreement.’ A mild description for the blazing row they’d shared.

  Her son absorbed the words, then offered with childlike simplicity, ‘Didn’t he say sorry?’