White Christmas - A 6 Book BWWM & BBW Holiday Romance Collection Of Billionaires, Alpha Males, SEALs, Tycoons & More!

by Cherry Kay

  “That is serious, girl. Sounds like we're talking soul mate or something. And are you sure it's not all about the booty call for him?”

  “Well, he's so kind and gentle with me, Jodie. He hasn't said it yet, but I think he's falling in love with me.”

  “Really? And what did he get you for Christmas?”

  “Well, we never really planned to get each other gifts but when he's back in February, we're going to do Valentines together.”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Jodie? You still there?”

  “Oh, I'm here, all right. I just don't get how he's cutting out at the holidays is all. I mean, you guys been together months now. He couldn't stay a few days more?”

  “Oh, he's got this big family thing he has to be for and it's a real special one for the family and-”

  “Wait a minute. His family knows you’re black, right?”

  “They're not racist, Jo-Jo.”

  “That's not answering my question. But answer me this. Do they even know he has a girlfriend in New York? Does anybody?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It all seems a little too convenient for me.”

  “Listen, I didn't call you up for you to bad mouth my boyfriend. I just wanted to run an idea past you.”

  “And what idea is that.”

  “What would you say if I told you I was thinking of surprising him and flying out there? I could book a hotel nearby, he could do his family thing and I'd still get a chance to see him.”

  “I don't know, Marsha. Seems like a pretty big step to me. What if he doesn't like surprises?”

  “Who doesn't like surprises?”

  2

  She knew it was impulsive to just take off from New York and land in London. But Jodie couldn’t talk her out of it and Marsha wanted to share as many stolen moments with Jonathan as she could over the holidays. She also knew that something more than a physical relationship was happening between them. She could tell by the way he was with her lately, so relaxed and at home and they laughed and joked nonstop. This was a romantic time of year, where else should she be than in the arms of her man?

  It was a mild afternoon when she landed at Heathrow. It was her first visit to London and, she hoped, not her last. She’d booked a small hotel just off Sloane Square and not too far from Jonathan's house in Chelsea.

  The taxi driver pulled up outside the Lanchester Hotel at four o'clock in the afternoon. All she had with her was a medium-sized suitcase. Her ticket was an open one as she wasn't sure if she would stay in London until New Year. That would all depend on Jonathan's plans. She unpacked a few things in the small, but smartly designed hotel room, checking her watch every few minutes because she knew Jonathan would be home by at least seven p.m. from his offices in Knightsbridge.

  With her heart pounding in her chest, she stepped out of a taxi just at the top end of the little mews where Jonathan's three bedroom house was located. She wore black leather boots with a high heel and a cherry red coat with a fake fur collar, pulled up to her ears. The temperature had dropped but she barely noticed it, as she looked at the door numbers along the small mews, trying to find number fifteen. It was quiet, but her heels made a loud clicking sound along the pavement. She could see into several of the houses with their wide front windows and could tell that the people living here had money. Apart from the Christmas decorations and trees, she saw luxurious furniture, modern art hanging on walls and expensive cars parked in the driveways. In one house there was a grand piano.

  Eventually she got to Jonathan's house. She hesitated a few seconds at the front gate, then took a deep breath, pushed it open and clicked up to the front door in her high heels. She rang the doorbell. After several minutes the door opened. Marsha drew her face up to a wide smile but froze when she saw it was a tall, slim woman with long red hair opening the door.

  “Hello?” The woman was beautiful, polite, but had an inquiring look on her face.

  “I'm sorry,” Marsha said. “I think I might have the wrong house.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, I'm sorry to disturb you.” Marsha took a step backwards.

  The aroma of a spicy meal filtered out from the house, and the woman had a half filled glass of red wine in her hand. Marsha looked down at it.

  “Sorry,” the woman laughed. “I don't usually answer the door with a drink in my hand, I was just walking back from the kitchen when the doorbell rang.” She retreated, slightly, about to close the door, as the woman standing there in the red coat had come to the wrong place. “Well, hope you find the right house.”

  Marsha looked up at the sky blue door that, at any second, would close in her face.

  “Wait. Um, this is Warner Close isn't it?” she asked.

  “Yes,” the redhead said. “Who is it you're looking for? I might know them.”

  “I got this address from...” Marsha became uncomfortable. Either Jonathan had lied and given her a fake address or she had misread his sprawled writing. Either way, she would have to call his cell and find out where the hell he was. At least she knew she had his cell number right.

  “I'm looking for Jonathan. Jonathan Howell.”

  “Oh,” said the red head. “Then you do have the right place. Jonathan's my fiancé. I'm Emma.”

  Emma pushed the door wide again and put out a hand for Marsha to shake.

  Marsha reached out but her hand went limp and her heart was pounding in her ears as Emma asked if she would like to come in. Marsha shook her head to say, 'No' and suddenly caught a glimpse of Jonathan coming towards the door. Emma turned to him and smiled.

  “Someone for you, darling.” Emma gave a warm smile to Marsha and walked back to the living room.

  Jonathan's face was burning red when he faced Marsha.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he rasped through clenched teeth.

  Marsha was speechless. Jonathan grabbed her elbow and walked her with quick paces back to the front gate.

  “You better go. I'll call you later.”

  “Jonathan.” Marsha could hardly speak. “You...you bastard.” She looked back at the house.

  “Fiancée?”

  “Look, I need to explain this. I can't do it here. I'll call you in the morning. We'll meet. We'll talk.”

  “What's there to talk about?”

  She shook his hand from her elbow and opened the gate. With one last look at him she began to walk.

  “I'll call you,” he repeated in a hushed voice, then went back inside.

  There were tears welling in Marsha's eyes as her heels clicked with purpose out of the mews and onto a main road. She had no idea where she was going to or what she'd find once she got there. She only knew that she had to get as far away from that lying bastard as she could.

  How could he do that to her.? He was engaged? She wondered for how long. The beautiful red head seemed very trusting of Jonathan. She did not hover by the door to inquire about an unknown black woman turning up and asking for Jonathan. Marsha was sure he was able to make up some lie when the redhead eventually asked, as she sipped her red wine, who on earth it was calling round unannounced like that.

  By now tears were streaming down Marsha's face and the cold air was making her more and more aware of them. She wiped her face with her gloved hands.

  “You alright, love?” someone asked her as she made her way down yet another street. She was close to the Thames but did not know it. She was feeling colder and, as she was about to turn left, she came upon a warm and lively looking pub on the corner. The windows were large and the people inside all looked to be having a good time. They were smiling and joking. There was an L-shaped bar and an open fireplace where yellow and red flames set off sparks and left an amber glow around it. There was a sofa opposite the fire that was unoccupied. Marsha thought it strange. It was a friendly, welcoming fire and without thinking, she pushed open a side door and walked straight in.

  Behind the bar she saw a short girl with hair so
blond it looked white. It was cropped short to her head and her lips were painted with bright red lipstick. She smiled as she served her customers. Marsha looked around and automatically went toward the sofa by the fireplace. No one seemed to notice her come in. She flopped onto the sofa and bent over so her arms were leaning on her knees.

  She wasn't sure how long she sat there, staring into the fire or how many people came into or left the pub because all she thought about was Jonathan.

  He had been the reason she smiled in the morning. God knows she was getting bored with her job at the advertising agency. It was a great place to work and the money was good but her role in administration was dull and no longer interested her. She had only taken it because she was desperate when she first came to New York but she had stayed for three years. It was while working at the agency she met Jonathan. He came for a meeting with one of her bosses and she was asked to make Jonathan a drink. She felt a connection with him the second she handed him the cup of coffee he'd politely asked for.

  The next day she received a call from him, asking if she wanted to have dinner and she'd said yes straight away. Since then, she met up with Jonathan whenever he came to New York on business and, though she never expected it to happen, she began to fall in love with him. After the shock of Emma, the redhead, opening the door to her earlier, she no longer knew who Jonathan really was and was angry with herself for falling for all the English charm and good manners. He was just a lying snake and with every second she sat staring at the dancing flames she wanted to march straight back and tell Emma all about Jonathan's visits to New York.

  Only problem was, she had no idea how to get back to Warner Close, neither did she have any idea where she was now.

  “Can I help you?”

  A voice filtered into her thoughts but she did not turn around.

  “Are you okay?”

  The voice was male, she knew it wasn't an English accent, she knew those very well because of her dealings with the London office. This accent was Irish, she had a feeling, but it was certainly very friendly.

  Marsha turned around to see a pair of striking green eyes staring down at her.

  “It's okay,” the man with the Irish accent said. “You can stay where you are. It's just, you haven't moved an inch in ten minutes and I wondered if perhaps you needed a drink?”

  He was a tall good looking man, over six feet, she thought. He was wearing black jeans and a black shirt. His body was slim with an athlete’s build. His hair was very dark, his skin was slightly olive in color, and he was exceptionally good looking. His lips were full and there were creases at the corners of his eyes caused by the enormous smile on his face.

  “I'm sorry,” Marsha said. “I just got a nasty shock and I just stumbled in here.”

  “American are you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Holiday?”

  “Well it was an impromptu vacation that I'm probably going to cut short.”

  “That's a shame.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I hear London can be a lovely place at Christmas.”

  “You're not a Londoner.”

  “No, I'm from Dublin but I know London fairly well. I just bought this pub, so.”

  “So?”

  “Sorry, that's an Irish expression, you'll get used to them.”

  “I will?”

  “Yes, because you're going to join me for a drink.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Sure, you need a drink. I can tell. I've an eye for these things. Come on.”

  He put out a hand. Marsha looked at it for a split second then slowly rose to her feet. She took his hand and let the tall Irishman guide her to the bar. He sat her in the far corner of the bar and then lifted the hatch so he could go behind it.

  “Now, what'll it be? Something strong, I'm guessing.”

  “Surprise me,” Marsha said. “You seem to be good at knowing what I want.”

  “Okay, one Southern Comfort on the rocks, it is.”

  “Good guess,” Marsha said.

  He tapped the side of his nose and winked. Next he grabbed a glass, while still keeping his eyes on Marsha, and emptied some ice into it. He turned to the shelves behind him but she could see him staring at her from the mirror behind the bar.

  “There you go.” He put the glass in front of her.

  “I thought you were having a drink with me.”

  He pulled out a tall mug with steam coming from it.

  “What's that?” Marsha asked.

  “Something strong and black,” he said leaning across the bar towards Marsha on his elbows.

  “I'm assuming you're describing your coffee?” she asked.

  He nodded.

  “I thought you would have had a real drink,” said Marsha, raising her glass to her lips.

  “Not while I'm working. Besides, I'm not much of a drinker.”

  “Well that's good news.”

  “Why's that?” he said.

  “Because I've known lots of bar owners who drank themselves out of profit and into early graves.”

  “Now there's a somber thought. Cheers!” He raised his coffee cup, took a sip and replaced the cup beneath the counter. He turned away from Marsha to start serving some customers who had just walked in.

  Marsha watched this man as he spoke with comfortable ease to everyone coming up to the bar. He made them laugh, he made them smile and he made Marsha feel that possibly, just possibly, there might be one nice person in all of London. She relaxed, unbuttoned her coat, took off her gloves and put them in her purse.

  Slowly, she finished her drink. The Irish bar owner, who had smiled, waved and winked to her while she sat drinking, finally came back to ask if she wanted another.

  “Sorry, about that,” he said. “I got a bit busy. Now where were, we? Oh yes, you were just about to tell me your name.”

  Marsha couldn't help smiling at how brazen, and at the same time, charming, this man was. She put out her hand.

  “I'm Marsha and I'm going now.”

  “Marsha, you can't go now, the fun has only just begun.”

  “The fun?”

  “Yes, this is the part where you have to guess my name and if you can't, then you stay for another drink. Don't worry, it's all on the house.”

  “So I have to have another drink every time I guess wrong?”

  “That's the idea.”

  “And what happens when I guess right?”

  “Well, then I get to take you out for dinner.”

  “So I end up either extremely drunk or I get fed. Either way, you'll be there so I never get to escape you.”

  “Now you understand my cunning plan.”

  “Well, here's an idea. How about you just buy me another drink, I sit and drink it, you tell me your name and I wish you a Happy Christmas and I get the hell out of here.”

  “I know exactly how you're feeling, Marsha.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. You're homesick. I was homesick when I first moved here. Couldn't wait to go home, but after while I came to realize the English aren't so bad. Some of them even have a sense of humor, you know. So I stayed and I'm glad I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I get to meet some wonderfully, interesting and extremely beautiful people in my line of work and that can't be a bad thing.”

  He leaned on his elbows onto the bar and Marsha found herself giddy as she stared into the deep whirling pools of green in his eyes. There were hazel flecks in his irises that intrigued her but she remembered she had not eaten since the plane and she was light headed.

  “I'm glad you've met some nice people,” she said. “I wish I could say the same for myself but I'm going home tomorrow and then I'll be back with the people who love me and who are honest with me.”

  “Oh dear.” He grimaced.

  “Oh, dear, what?”

  “Now that sounds like a bad break up. Listen. It's time for me to have my supper. Have you eaten?”

&
nbsp; Marsha looked down at her hands.

  “Actually, no, and I'm starving.”

  “Won't you please join me? I can't see you leave on an empty stomach. What would I do if I discovered you collapsed outside my pub in the morning? We'll share a bite and then I'll call you a taxi.”

  Marsha sat and pondered this offer for a moment. She would only be eating by herself back at the hotel if she declined, especially now that she wouldn't be sharing a meal with Jonathan. What did she have to lose? Jonathan had talked about pub food to her a few times when he visited and she'd never tried it before. She might as well take her opportunity to try a pub meal, it was getting late, and in the morning she would try to book a flight home.

  “I will accept your very kind offer,” she said, smiling. “But under one condition.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “That you at least let me know the name of my dinner companion.”

  He opened the hatch and came around to Marsha's side of the bar. He bowed his head.

  “Finn Brady. Pleased to meet you, Marsha.”

  They shook hands. She felt the warmth and smoothness of his skin, his hand surrounded hers and he would not let go until she gave a slight tug.