Christmas in Paris: a collection of 3 sweetly naughty Christmas romance books 2017

by Alix Nichols

  The truth is, there’s no point in protecting myself from the future pain of when Anton’s done with me, because I’m already hurting. My whole body’s sore from the intensity with which I miss him.

  OK, there’s also the distinct possibility that he’s already moved on, hooked up with a woman from his circles, and forgotten about me. Or he may simply refuse to talk to me, given how we parted at the end of January.

  Well, that would actually be a good thing. Wouldn’t I prefer outright rejection to a month with Anton ending in a shattered heart?

  I ponder the matter for a few moments and, to my horror and incomprehension, conclude that I’d take the month and the heartbreak.

  Chapter 11

  Taking Chances

  Anton was brief over the phone. Hello… Yes… I’m busy right now… I’ll pick you up at eight. I don’t think he even said good-bye.

  Well, at least he didn’t hang up on me.

  At eight sharp, I’m downstairs and so is Anton’s black Audi. His driver rounds the car and opens the rear door for me. The windows are tinted, and I’m not sure if Anton is inside until I land on the backseat.

  He is—just an arm’s length away from me.

  We greet each other politely. His hazel eyes are impenetrable. What did I expect? A bear hug and a smooch?

  That would’ve been nice, though. Even a tiny brush of his hand against mine would have been wonderful right now.

  But Anton is aloof, so instead of leaning against his chest as I’ve been dying to do, I turn away and stare out the window.

  As we drive through the busy streets, we pass the Ritz. Are we going to a cheaper hotel? Is it an indication of my degraded status? Does it presage the way things will be between us this time round? I guess I’ll find out soon enough.

  The car pulls into a high-end residential compound near the Patriarchy Ponds. I follow Anton into a luxury building, across the foyer, and into the elevator. We get out on the twelfth floor where Anton unlocks a heavy door—the only door on the landing—and ushers me in.

  This must be his apartment.

  Surely, it’s a good sign he’s brought me here?

  He motions me to the immense living room. “Please have a seat. I’ll fetch some food from the kitchen. The housekeeper was supposed to prepare cold cuts and canapé sandwiches.”

  I nod and head to the sofa.

  When Anton reappears, holding a tray loaded with yummy foods, his suit jacket is gone and so is his tie. The sleeves of his pale blue dress shirt are rolled up, and he looks more relaxed than he was in the car.

  I should stop staring at him.

  He places the tray on the large coffee table, sits on the sofa and hands me a plate. “What did you want to tell me?”

  My heart skips a beat. He clearly isn’t going to do small talk so I can ease into my proposition.

  I put my plate on the table and clear my throat.

  OK. All right. Here goes. “Do you still want exclusivity with me?”

  “Why are you asking that?”

  “Because I want it too.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  What, indeed?

  Several things, actually. Failure to become a machine. Seventy-four nights without you. Weakness. Desire. Love. Take your pick, Anton.

  I sigh. “I’ve been miserable without you.”

  “Have you now?” His expression is impenetrable.

  I look down at my plate. “Before I tell you more, you should know that I’ve fought it. I really didn’t mean for it to happen, and I promise I won’t let it turn me into a needy, clingy, silly cow.” I suck in a breath, and blurt out on the exhale, “I’m in love with you.”

  Silence.

  “And I don’t want your money,” I add quickly, eyes still on my plate. “I don’t need gifts or Parisian holidays. I just want to be with you. As your girlfriend, not your escort or your paid mistress.”

  There, I said it.

  My left lid starts twitching, my palms are wet, and my legs are shaking a little. I look up. His gaze burns into mine, but he says nothing.

  Don’t keep me hanging, Anton. Don’t let me come undone.

  He takes my hand and begins to trace little circles on my wrist. Then he moves closer, lifts my hand to his lips, and presses a kiss to the inside of my palm.

  I let out a ragged breath as relief washes over me. It’s a yes. He still wants me. Giddy and emboldened by his response, I close the remaining distance between us. He sits back and pulls me onto his lap. I stroke his cheek and then his jaw, remembering the feel of him. I’m so hungry for his kiss I can barely think straight.

  So I give up on thinking and kiss him instead.

  Ooh, the bliss. His warm lips open around mine and his tongue pushes inside my mouth. I close my eyes, and the world falls away except for his delicious taste, his strong arms around me, and his muscular thighs under me.

  We kiss until I’m dizzy and so aroused that he need only touch me to make me come.

  Right on cue, he sets his hand on my knee, slips it under my skirt and begins to move it up. He squeezes and kneads the sensitive flesh on the inside of my thigh, his hand climbing slowly and purposefully. His pace is exquisite and excruciating at the same time.

  I can’t help moaning against his mouth when the tips of his fingers finally brush my center. A second later his large hand settles exactly where I need it to be. For a few moments he just holds me through the thin fabric of my panties, his grip firm, warm and possessive.

  I stop kissing him, stop moaning, stop breathing. All my consciousness focuses on one spot. His primal gesture—the age-old impulse of a man lusting after a woman—feels acutely, breathtakingly intimate. It arouses me more than the most sophisticated caresses I’ve ever known.

  I stare into his eyes.

  He stares back, his gaze dark with desire—and it’s my undoing. The aching need inside me becomes unbearable, overriding every other thought and sensation. I press myself into his hand, and that tiny friction sends me over the edge.

  He begins to stroke me. My bones are already soft with pleasure, but I want more. I stand up and remove my panties. He unzips his trousers and slips a condom on in record time.

  And then I grip his shoulders and straddle him.

  A host of delicious sensations courses through me as I lower myself onto him. But beyond the sweetness, the thrill and the soothed ache, there lurks something deeper, something I can no longer deny. Connection. Belonging. The joy of having found my way home.

  I close my eyes to savor the moment. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  He grabs my hips, lifts me up and then pushes me down as he thrusts from underneath. A guttural noise escapes from his chest. I don’t need further encouragement. We rock in a frantic rhythm until he throws his head back and growls his release. Seeing him like that sends my primed body into another blissful climax.

  After we’ve cleaned ourselves up and resumed our meal, it occurs to me that I may have misinterpreted what just happened. Anton didn’t actually say yes to my proposition. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all.

  He stroked, kissed and fucked me instead.

  Panic twists my stomach. Why hasn’t he voiced his consent? Is he still angry with me? Does he despise me? What if he doesn’t want me as a girlfriend? What if all he wants from me is sex?

  I watch him work through his plate with an obvious appetite, and I force myself to calm down. He’ll talk, eventually. If I know him at all and if I’m not as wrong about him as I was about Stan, he won’t play with me.

  He’ll tell me what he wants.

  Anton devours another canapé, washes it down with a big gulp of water, and turns to me. “You know, if you’d waited one more day, I’d planned to come over to talk some sense into you.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “I have a confession to make.”

  I stiffen a little and wait for him to continue.

  “In February, after I came home from a string
of business trips, I asked Moscow’s best private eye to dig into your past.”

  “What?”

  “That’s how I found out about your mother’s illness. And about the child you gave up for adoption.”

  I’m too dumbfounded to respond.

  “I’m sorry for intruding into your life like that, but knowing those things helped me understand a lot about you.”

  Maybe. But the end doesn’t justify the means. “Anton, you shouldn’t have.”

  “I disagree. Had I not done it, I wouldn’t have found out why you sold your body.”

  He gives me a defiant look.

  I ponder his words. Hmm. Maybe hiring a PI wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

  “Another thing I learned is that you hadn’t been given to bed hopping before your ingenious buddy Filip set you up in business.”

  I hold his gaze.

  “And finally,” he continues, “I know that everything you’ve told me about yourself was true. You withheld some information, which is understandable considering the nature of our relationship at the time. But you’ve never attempted to deceive me or lie to me.”

  I don’t know what to say to that.

  He leans forward. “And there’s more.”

  His voice is grave and his stare hard. I don’t like where this conversation is going.

  “After the PI gave me the lowdown on your past, I asked him to keep tabs on you. I had him take pictures of you getting into your clients’ cars and entering hotels with them. Those photos were supposed to be my bitter medicine.”

  I smirk. “Were they?”

  “Bitter, yes. Medicine, no.”

  Oh, Anton.

  “But a month ago, the photos stopped, and three days ago he confirmed you had quit your escort business.” He gives me a probing look.

  “That’s correct. Mom responded so well to the initial regimen that her treatment turned out to be a lot cheaper than we expected.”

  He grabs both my hands and holds them for a long moment. The expression on his face is intense.

  “Anna,” he says at last, his voice tinted with emotion. “Will you marry me?”

  My jaw drops.

  He frames my face with his hands. “I need you in my life as much as I need you in my bed.”

  “You don’t have to marry me to have me in your life,” I say.

  He smiles. “I’m forty-five and I know what I want. I also know who I want. And since we’ve just established you want me too, I don’t see why we should waste time on… dating.”

  “Anton, darling, I’ve been a call girl for five months. It’s a small world. People will talk. They’d say, ‘Anton Malakhov married a hooker.’ ”

  He shrugs. “Let them. I can deal with it.”

  I stare at him, incredulous. “I’m not sure you’ve thought this through.”

  “I love you, Annushka,” he says.

  I gasp—and then burst into tears. It’s too much joy, too much hope, too much everything. I sob uncontrollably, rub my eyes, smear my mascara and blow my nose. It’s all very inelegant and unladylike.

  He cases my face again and wipes away my tears with his thumbs.

  When I finally calm down and have the waterworks under control, I smile, expecting him to continue.

  But he just stares at me, his gaze warm and infinitely comforting. And I realize he won’t say more. He has nothing to add to what he’s just said.

  Because to a man like Anton, telling a woman he loves her doesn’t require additional qualifiers. He either loves her or he doesn’t, and when he does, it’s the most natural thing for him to want to bring her into his inner circle, to make her family. When a man like Anton loves a woman, his love is loyal and undaunted.

  It won’t falter. It won’t doubt itself, lie, or betray.

  His is the love of a wolf.

  << <> >>

  The LA BOHEME Series continues with WHAT IF IT’S LOVE?

  Amazon #1 bestseller, Dante Rossetti First Place 2015 Award Winner.

  When the hottest man in Paris - Rob Dumont - shows interest in geeky, introverted Russian heiress Lena, she suspects something fishy... And so she should.

  CHAPTER ONE

  The man, who spoke mostly Russian, had remained glued to his cell phone throughout his meal. When he finished, he collected his change and placed a ten euro bill on the table.

  “Merci, monsieur! It’s a very generous tip!” Rob grinned.

  The service being included by default in all checks in Paris, the locals tipped scantily if at all. With the recession, even the tourists were beginning to heed the advice of guidebooks and do like the French.

  “No trouble.” The man stood to leave, then turned to Rob, and said in unexpectedly decent French, “Listen, would you like to make some extra cash?”

  Has God finally heard my prayers? Rob tried to subdue his enthusiasm. “Depends . . . What’s the gig?”

  “Nothing difficult. There’s this rich kid—”

  Rob shook his head. “Sorry, monsieur, but I don’t think I’m interested in hearing the rest of it.”

  On second thought, maybe he should hear it—and alert the police.

  The man tut-tutted. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to interrupt people when they speak? Let me start again. There’s this Russian kid—she lives in this very building. Her father is my main competitor in business. I just want you to make friends with her, be around her as much as you can, and keep me informed of anything that may be of interest.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like when during his phone calls or visits they discuss something related to his business. Or his travel plans. Or any kind of plans.”

  Rob furrowed his brow. “How often does he call her? And where is he?”

  “In Moscow. He calls her every day, and from what I’ve seen, they talk for at least thirty minutes. She’s his only child, so my guess is he’s grooming her to join the business.”

  “What business?”

  “IT services.” The man arched an eyebrow as if to say, What did you expect?

  Rob glanced around the room. Things were slow this afternoon, and the other waiters had the situation under control. But he had to get back to work.

  The man shrugged. “Basically, I’m asking you to do corporate espionage of sorts.”

  “But won’t this kid be speaking Russian with her father?” Rob’s asked. The gig didn’t seem to be anything horrible like kidnapping, but it still didn’t sound quite legitimate.

  The man smiled. “And you can understand it, can’t you? I noticed how you smirked at some of my, shall we say, colorful expressions when I was on the phone. Are you part Russian or did you learn it at school?”

  Rob sighed. There went his attempt at polite refusal. He might as well admit to this observant captain of industry that he spoke Russian. “School and evening classes. I’m a business student, so foreign languages are a big asset.”

  “How admirable. Do we have a deal, then? I’ll pay you decently, so you can cut down your working hours and focus on your studies.”

  When the man told him the amount of the “commissions” for each piece of intel, Rob’s mouth fell open. Jesus. If he delivered a dozen reports over the next few months, he’d be able to pay the school fees in full before the end of August.

  And get his MBA.

  “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You want me to spy on some chick in relation to her father’s activity, right? Just pass on whatever I overhear from her in this regard, and no funny business. I need to be sure of it.”

  “That’s right. I’m not a mobster, you know. Do I look like one to you? Where do you think I learned my French? I’m an educated man and a respected businessman.”

  Rob raised his eyebrows, signaling he needed to hear more.

  The man curled his lip. “It just so happens that Anton Malakhov—that’s the girl’s father—has been seriously hurting my business lately. He’s determined to grow even bigger. And he plays dirty: dumping prices, st
ealing clients, and so on. I’ll go bust if I don’t get my act together. And this includes taking some . . . unorthodox measures.”

  “Including a little foul play of your own,” Rob said.

  The man nodded and held out a business card. “My name is Boris Shevtsov. Please go ahead and look me and my company up.”

  Rob took the card. “Will do. I still have a couple of questions though. First, why don’t you have someone spy on the girl’s father directly? Why this roundabout approach?”

  Boris sighed. “Anton Malakhov is spy proof. He’s extremely discrete and not given to excesses of any kind. No wife or known girlfriend. Very few friends. A practically nonexistent social life.”

  “Have you tried through work? A mole intern is a textbook tactic.” Rob tried to hide his sarcasm.

  The man raised an eyebrow. “I’m familiar with it, thank you. And yes, I’ve tried it. But his people do advanced background checks on every recruit, including interns. So I figured spying on his daughter was as close as I could get to spying on him.”

  “What happens if the girl has no inclination to be friends with me? How long would you want me to keep trying?” Used to girls seeking his attention, Rob wasn’t sure how good he would be at making the first steps. Natural-looking first steps.

  Boris smirked. “Trust me, you won’t have to try for very long. I’ve watched her from afar for a week now. She’s always by herself. Doesn’t seem to have any friends in Paris.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s new here. She’s shy. And here comes a handsome educated boy like you offering friendship? Oh, I think she’ll be interested.”

  “Give me a day to think about it.”

  Boris nodded and pushed a photo in front of Rob. “Her name is Lena.”

  Rob looked at the picture, then at Boris. “That’s her? I’ve seen this girl down here a couple of times, with her books and laptop.” He paused before adding, “Are you sure it’s her?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Rob shrugged. “She just doesn’t look like a Russian minigarch to me. Where are the oversized sunglasses, tons of makeup, extravagant shoes, and the flashy Louis Vuitton handbag? She looks like the girl next door.”