by Beth Good
‘I wanted to leave that tale to you, Mamma.’
The way he called her Mamma sounded so Italian, Rose wanted to ask what her nationality was, just to be sure, but did not quite dare. Barbara might be dainty and approachable, but she clearly had her tycoon son firmly under control. No easy feat, and one which suggested a will of iron under that pleasant, smiling exterior.
‘Bene,’ Barbara said with a shrug, confirming Rose’s suspicion with that Italian touch, ‘I shall tell her, then.’ She drank some wine, and then leant towards Rose, her expression conspiratorial. ‘Women are always so much better at telling a story anyway, don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely,’ Rose said firmly, and saw Nick smile. Her nose tickled again, and she wrinkled it. Was she going to sneeze?
‘When I was a young woman,’ Barbara began, staring into her glass of red wine as though lost in her memories, ‘even younger than you, I lived in London. And I used to buy a bouquet of fresh flowers for my grandmother every week. From a little flower shop on Christmas Parade, near where she lived.’ Rose caught her breath, astonished now as Barbara met her eyes, adding, ‘The flower shop was run by a man called Percy Mistletoe, and his son Henry.’
‘My grandad,’ Rose said at once, nodding, ‘and my dad. He still part-owns the shop with me. Dad … doesn’t work there very often these days, after his accident. But he’s still very much involved.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Barbara said, smiling at her, her eyes alight with pleasure, ‘and to know that he is well. But this accident? My son tells me Henry is in a wheelchair.’
‘I’m afraid so, yes.’
His mother put a hand to her face. ‘I’m so sorry to hear you say that. Poor Henry. I remember him so well. He had such a lovely smile.’
‘He still has.’
‘Of course! But it was a … a very serious accident, then? He will never walk again?’
‘Very unlikely.’ Rose was suddenly sombre. ‘Dad was in a collision with a car when he was out cycling one weekend. He tried to come back to work after they released him from hospital, but … Well, the shop work is quite demanding, especially in the winter months, and it’s not a very big space. So in the end Dad decided to work from home instead. He makes up wreaths for us, and dried flower arrangements, and does much of the ordering. But he doesn’t come into the shop more than once or twice a month.’
‘It must be a lonely life for him.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Rose put down her cutlery. ‘But it was his decision, not mine. I did suggest we had some changes made to the shop, to make access easier. But …’
‘The space is too small?’ Nick suggested with unerring accuracy.
‘Unfortunately so.’ Suddenly she bent her head and gave an almighty sneeze, finally giving way to the tickling sensation in her nose. Horrified, she apologised in a mutter, ‘Sorry.’
His eyes narrowed on her face, frowning now. ‘All right, so why resist the acquisition bid? You could afford to buy new, larger premises with that money. Your father could come back to work full-time.’
‘We talked about it when the bid was first made,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘And he’s not unhappy about the prospect of selling up. His care costs can be quite high, you understand, and not everything is covered by his insurance and benefits. But I didn’t want him to give in. There’s so much heritage in the Mistletoe Flower Shop. So many memories.’
‘Yes,’ his mother said softly, nodding. ‘Those can’t be replaced with money.’
Rose smiled at her, surprised by her agreement but clinging to it. ‘That was my argument too. You see, my grandfather opened that shop, and was always so keen to see it continue down the generations of the Mistletoe family. I don’t want to dishonour his memory by selling up now, and allowing Christmas Parade to be demolished to make way for luxury flats.’ She swallowed, aware of Nick’s gaze on her face. ‘Not without a fight, anyway.’
‘Quite right,’ Barbara said, and patted her hand approvingly. ‘Well said, Rose Mistletoe. Your grandfather would have been proud.’
‘Mamma!’
His mother flicked Nick an irritated glance. ‘Well, what? Am I not permitted to have an opinion? Oh yes, all right, it’s your business, your company. And I know it will make money for the family, this redevelopment of the land. But think what will be lost,’ she added passionately. ‘Think of the Mistletoe Flower Shop, and all those other little boutiques I remember from my youth … History like that can’t be replaced. Some things are worth preserving. Worth more than money.’ She sighed, searching his face. ‘Don’t you understand that, Nick?’
He finished his stew and set aside his fork, his mouth flattened to a thin line. ‘Of course I do. Which is why I held an emergency board meeting earlier today, and outlined new plans for the Christmas Parade redevelopment.’
Rose held her breath, staring at him in sudden fascination. ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded, pushing back a mass of red hair that had tumbled in front of her eyes while she was eating. ‘What new plans?’
His gaze flicked to her face, then back to his mother’s. She read frustration in that hurried glance, but something else. Something deeper, more nagging. The same attraction she had for him? No, that would be impossible. She was a lowly florist. A flower girl, for goodness’ sake. And he was practically a ‘laird’ out here, with his big Scottish castle, and his expensive suits, and his butler.
Though the way he had looked at her on the short flight out here …
‘That’s what I brought Miss Mistletoe here to discuss,’ Nick said shortly, then took up his glass and drank. Two quick swallows and the exorbitantly-priced wine was gone. He reached for the bottle, rising slightly from his seat to do so, and she caught a glimpse of that hard stomach, neatly outlined by his black silk cummerbund.
Abruptly, he turned his head and looked straight at her, still on his feet. And she knew he had seen her studying his physique. Oh, how embarrassing. Why did she have to be so transparent? Yet there was no amusement in his face as he asked her, ‘More wine?’
She nodded mutely, even though she had told herself not to drink too much.
He topped up her wine, offered some to his mother – who shook her head and covered her glass with a hand – then poured himself a generous glassful.
Sitting down again, he toyed with the fragile stem of his glass, staring down at the ruby-red wine. ‘What you said to the newspapers about the lack of affordable housing in London, and the tragedies that follow when certain sections of society are side-lined and neglected … That struck a chord with me, Rose. It made me search my conscience. And I decided to change my mind about the project.’ He straightened, looking at her properly. ‘It means taking a serious hit financially on this project, so the board were hard to win over. But when I brought in my lawyers, and they explained the benefits, not to mention the importance of such provision, I was able to sway the vote my way.’ His mouth quirked. ‘So you get your way after all.’
‘Sorry, I don’t understand,’ she said, frowning, and then was caught by another unexpected sneeze. ‘Excuse me.’ She rummaged for a tissue in her evening bag and discreetly blew her nose. ‘But does this mean you don’t want to buy my shop? That you’re not going to pull down Christmas Parade?’
‘Good God, no,’ Nick said, running a hand through his short spiky dark hair as though it was irritating him. He bent his head, perhaps too annoyed by her sneeze to look at her. ‘I still need to acquire your shop. And all the others too.’
‘Then what are you talking about?’
His mother was smiling, a wonderful happy smile that lit up her face. She laid a pale hand on Rose’s arm. ‘My dear,’ she said softly, ‘I think what my son is struggling to say is that he’s no longer planning to replace Christmas Parade with luxury residential apartments for London’s elite, but housing for London’s workers instead. A block of affordable housing. Isn’t that right, Nick?’
He sat very still in his high-backed chair, not look
ing up at them but studying his empty bowl intently. ‘Yes, that’s it precisely. Affordable housing for workers, with a range of traditional shops, a resident’s gym and a day care centre underneath the block. Independent shops, just as there are now, but redesigned, brought up to date, with proper access for the disabled.’
She stared, her heart beating fast, unable to say a word.
‘Including your own shop, Rose,’ he continued, ‘if you’re interested in being a part of this project. The Mistletoe Flower Shop, but in new premises at the base of our apartment block, reborn for the twenty-first century.’ He took another quick swallow of wine, then glanced at her from under dark brows. As though afraid what her reaction would be, which was simply ridiculous. ‘What do you think?’
Rose jumped up from her seat, her napkin falling to the floor, and skipped round the table on impulse. His eyes widened as she approached, and she saw his sharp intake of breath. It was almost as though he were afraid of her.
She bent, and kissed him on the cheek. Right on his scar. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed, then hugged him tightly. He smelt so good too, so warm and masculine, it was hard to let go. Especially when his hand came up, pulling her body closer, cradling her in a less than platonic fashion. But his mother was watching, and besides, her cheeks were growing hot. ‘Thank you so much, Nick Grimsby.’
She pulled away, breathing fast, and went back to her seat, grinning like an idiot. She was imagining how happy her dad would be, not only able to keep the flower shop but probably work there again. ‘Sorry about that. But it’s just so marvellous that you … ’
She bent to retrieve her napkin from under the table, still speaking, and somehow managed to sneeze and overbalance in the same moment. Too much wine? All she knew for sure was that she was bending one minute and in a crumpled heap on their rug the next, lying with her head under the dining table. She could see his mother’s legs to her left, and Nick’s too if she turned her head … Except his legs were moving now.
The rug was a bit hairy and smelt of dog, she realised, and sneezed loudly, a little allergic to dogs though she loved them.
‘Oh, you have dogs,’ she said happily, her voice muffled by the vast table above her.
A hand twitched back the tablecloth, and then Nick was staring down at her under his dinner table. ‘Rose, what on earth … ? Are you all right?’
‘Sorry, I lost my balance. I think you must have … ’ She sneezed again. ‘Dogs.’ Sneeze. Sneeze. Even bigger sneeze. ‘I’m … allergic … to dogs.’
The next thing she knew, someone had grabbed hold of her legs, and was dragging her out unceremoniously from under the table. Then Nick pulled her back to her feet, her wild hair everywhere, a clean but rather thick linen napkin being pressed to her nose.
‘Yes, we have dogs,’ he said briefly. ‘Two greyhounds.’
Sneeze.
His mother was on her feet too, looking horrified. ‘I didn’t think to ask if you were allergic to dogs. I’m so sorry. Can I fetch you anything, Miss Mistletoe? Maybe an antihistamine?’
Sneeze.
‘Dose, prease,’ she said through the napkin, a trifle congested.
‘Sorry?’
Nick made an impatient noise. ‘She says to call her Rose.’
Sneeze.
‘Das wight,’ Rose agreed, deeply pleased for some reason that he was able to understand and translate her Sneezese so readily. ‘Antihistamine … Dat would be gooth, dank you.’
Sneeze.
When his mother had left the room, Nick parted the tangle of red hair lying over her eyes. ‘Are you in there?’ he asked softly.
Her eyes grew wide at the expression on his face, so intent, so mesmerising. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, and had no idea why they were both speaking in low voices. ‘I’m here. I’m …’
She stopped speaking as his finger traced her cheek to the mouth which had only recently kissed his own skin. The memory of that impulsive kiss left her breathless. Unless it was his touch making her heart race insanely.
‘Rose,’ he murmured, as though her name was a question. Or perhaps he was completing her sentence from before. She did not know and did not care. All she could focus on was that he was saying her name, and it sounded perfectly right on his lips.
Nick Grimsby did not look so much like an ogre tonight, she thought, still dazed from falling over. Even with the scar, he looks more like a … a guardian angel. Only much hotter and infinitely tastier.
Sneeze.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When she woke the next morning, snuggled up warm under thick covers, it was to a sense of disbelief at where she was. A wood-panelled guest room in a Scottish castle, for goodness’ sake, with a tapestry on the wall beside her, and vast windows hung with elegant gold and white curtains. She leapt out of bed like a child on Christmas morning and dashed barefoot to the window, dragging back the curtains to reveal a breath-taking vista of snow-laden forests and hills. She had slept in her underwear, since abductees rarely packed nightwear, refusing Barbara’s kind offer of a nightdress. Anyway, Ben Glassie Castle was surprisingly snug upstairs, a state-of-the-art heating system keeping the old stone walls warm. And there was no time to feel cold, since she heard steps on the winding stair that led to her turret room and swiftly dragged on her dress again.
A knock on the door made her heart jump. ‘Y-Yes?’ She turned hurriedly to the mirror and checked that she was decent. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest, but that was nothing new. ‘I mean, come in.’
The door opened.
It was Nick.
Christmas morning indeed, she thought, and felt her temperature soar several degrees just looking at him.
‘Good morning, Miss Mistletoe,’ he said politely, but his eyes held a deeper message as that dark gaze shifted to her bed, and the crumpled bedclothes. ‘Did you sleep well?’
The billionaire tycoon was looking more relaxed than on the flight up to Scotland, she noticed, the tuxedo gone and a casual cable-knit cream sweater taking its place, his blue denim jeans loose about his hips, and just faded enough to be fashionable. A pair of dark blue trainers completed his outfit, and his short dark hair was damp, as though he had only recently showered.
He looked edible, in other words.
‘Sorry?’ She shut her mouth, which had been gaping. ‘Oh, yes, sleep. Erm … What was I saying? Yes, I slept very well. Brilliantly well, in fact. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in years. There must have been something in that cocoa your butler made.’
‘McTavish.’
‘Bless you!’
Nick blinked. ‘No, that wasn’t a sneeze. I was just … ’ He grinned. ‘McTavish. That’s the name of my butler.’
She felt incredibly foolish. ‘Right, sorry. I forgot.’
‘You make me laugh.’
She folded her arms over her chest. ‘I said that I was sorry.’
‘No, that’s a good thing.’ Nick came closer. ‘When I’m in London, I’m surrounded all day by very serious people. My personal assistant has a joke with me sometimes, but that’s about as far as humour goes in my life. It’s good to meet someone who makes me laugh.’ His eyes locked with hers. ‘It’s relaxing.’
So long as she didn’t relax him so much he tried to get her horizontal, she thought warily, taking a step backwards, and only then realised that the idea was not such a terrible one.
Why shouldn’t she get horizontal with a man like him?
Before his change of heart over the redevelopment of Christmas Parade, it had been a matter of principle. She had not wanted to be seduced just so he could get his grubby tycoon hands on her shop. Not that his hands were particularly grubby, she thought, suddenly studying them. They were clean and strong, perfectly manicured, and with long, beautifully tapering fingers …
‘What’s her name?’ she asked abruptly.
He blinked again. ‘Whose?’
‘Your personal assistant’s name?’
‘Chris.’
‘And how old is C
hris?’
‘Twenty-three, I believe.’
‘Twenty-three.’ She nodded. ‘And incredibly attractive, I bet. Exactly like your Nordic chauffeur.’
‘Ebba?’
‘She made quite an impression on my dad, I can tell you.’ Chagrin bit into her as she continued, painfully aware of her red hair, the bane of her life at school, and her less than perfect figure. She could diet, of course. But there was little she could do about being short. ‘I’m going to guess you like your employees long-legged and stunning. More like models, in fact.’
His brows shot up. ‘I hired Ebba for her skills as a factotum, not her looks.’
‘A fac – fac – ’ she stuttered, then gave up.
‘It means a Jack-of-all-trades, I suppose. Someone who can do everything, and tends to double-up on jobs. Ebba chauffeurs for me, and helps out with my clients – ’
‘And serves you champagne on your private plane.’
His mouth twitched. ‘Sometimes, yes.’
‘So is Chris beautiful too? Like Elegant Ebba?’
‘You sound jealous.’
‘Me? Jealous?’ She threw back her head and laughed rather too loudly, so it came out more like a braying donkey than sarcastic laughter. ‘Why on earth would I be jealous? I only just met you, Mr Grimsby. I don’t care if Chris bounces up and down on your knee every morning while taking dictation …’ She looked at him suspiciously when he made an odd face. ‘What? Too close to the truth?’
‘No, I was trying to imagine Chris on my knee.’
‘I’d rather not imagine it, thanks.’
‘I’m sure Chris wouldn’t, either. Bouncing on my knee wouldn’t be particularly comfortable for him.’
She opened her mouth to continue her jealous little rant, then shut it again.
Him?
‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ Nick grinned at her silence. ‘Chris is short for Christopher. And he’s happily married with two children, and not at all given to crushing on me. Thank goodness. I’m not sure how we would get any work done otherwise.’
What an idiot she was.
‘I’m sorry.’