Christmas with the Billionaire ; A Tiara for Christmas

by Niobia Bryant

  Samira’s heart pounded. “Millner? He’s Lance Millner?” she asked.

  The woman shrugged. “I guess,” she said before giving a little jerk that freed her door from Samira’s hand before she soundly closed it.

  Samira was stunned at the revelation.

  Her downtime outside work and dates and family was reading. Her genre of choice was crime fiction and mysteries, and her favorite author was Lance Millner. “Wait. What?” she asked, knowing her face was incredulous.

  Lance Millner lived in Passion Grove?

  Lance Millner was Grumpy Grouch?

  Of course he was. Emerson L. Millner and the L was for Lance.

  How the hell did the dots not connect?

  She didn’t know whether to be excited to meet him, worried to reveal her intention to him or disappointed to discover her favorite author was an a-hole.

  “Are you here to see me or not?”

  Samira stiffened in surprise at his voice from behind her, but she quickly released a breath and stiffened her spine as she turned. “Yes, I am—”

  The doorway was empty.

  She wished for something to kick. Anything. A ball. A rock. The imaginary tumbleweed she envisioned bounding across the property.

  His head.

  The thought of his head flying across the sky made her smile as she crossed the courtyard and climbed the wide steps to the front door. He was standing just inside the foyer. The shadows of the dimly lit space covered most of him. She could tell he was tall and fit in the black V-neck T-shirt he wore with denims, but it was the bucket hat he wore low over his face that she found vaguely familiar. She could barely make out his face, except for his strong jawline, dimpled chin and full mouth.

  Her eyes lingered there for a moment, finding the man nothing as she imagined. Nothing at all.

  She took another step closer. “Mr. Millner—”

  “I’m sure Annalise explained to you that I need an assistant for the weekends only. Your main priority would be typing my handwritten book, updating my social media accounts and running errands,” he said, turning to stride across the room to stand next to the lit fireplace.

  “You write by hand?” she asked, unable to hide her amazement and forgetting the reason for her visit.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice deep.

  “And you’ve finished your new book in the Mayhem series?” she asked.

  “So, you’re familiar with my books?” he asked, his attention locked on the crackling fire.

  Samira wished she could see his face. She felt almost like he was hiding it from her intentionally. “Yes,” she finally answered. “My favorite is Vengeance.”

  He grunted.

  She eyed him. There was something so powerful but still sad about his stance. The way he moved. The way his stare was downcast. She was surprised at how strongly she needed to know what gave him such a demeanor. It, plus the dark interior of the home and neglected exterior, was all so mysterious—maybe even more so than one of his novels.

  The man was an enigma. How could someone so abrupt and insolent write with such emotion and rhythm that she was forever transformed by his words? The two did not match.

  “I assume since you’re here you made Annalise’s round of cuts,” he said.

  Annalise? As in Annalise Ray?

  “Absolutely,” she lied, completing winging this unexpected interaction.

  “I like that you don’t talk much.”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “Do you want the job?” he asked, crossing his strong arms over his chest.

  She didn’t miss the way the thin material stretched with the move. “Wait. What?” she asked, forcing her attention from his fit form framed by the light of the fire and onto his words.

  A billionaire heiress working as an author’s weekend assistant. The thought actually made her smile.

  But I would get a first read of his new book.

  The smile widened.

  And maybe a better chance to get to know him and just what his reservations are about selling the land.

  She contemplated all the pluses and minuses of the ruse. Some work related.

  Samira eyed the fine lines of his taut body and her body instantly responded to him.

  Some not.

  “Yes or no?” he asked, his tone brusque.

  Is this crazy? Am I?

  “Yes, Mr. Millner, and thank you,” she said.

  Will this work?

  “Good. Ms...?”

  She opened her mouth but closed it as she almost supplied him her real name. He might very well know the Ansah name. “Samantha Aston,” she lied, pulling the name out of the air.

  Ding-dong.

  She briefly looked over her shoulder at the front door at the sound of the doorbell.

  “Your first duty is sending away all the other applicants,” he said, turning and leaving the room with long strides.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 3

  Two weeks later

  Lance slowed down his run on the treadmill, clocking in at five miles as he decelerated to a brisk walk before eventually coming to a stop. He grabbed the towel hanging over the padded handlebar and wiped the sweat from his bared upper body before draping it around his neck. In the winters, running replaced fishing for relaxation. Motion to help forget the darkness of his life outside of the moments he sank himself deep into the world he created in his novels.

  He showered and completed his morning rituals, dressing in a sweater and denims, leaving his feet bare. Grabbing one of his dozens of bucket hats, he pulled the oversize headwear on as he left his suite and made his way down the long hall. He was about to step on the elevator when a distant noise from downstairs made him pause. He turned his head and cocked it, listening for the noise again.

  He frowned as it sounded off again and turned to walk back down the length of the hall and down the wooden stairs at a rapid pace. After letting her in this morning, he’d thought his new assistant was upstairs in his office, typing away and awaiting his arrival. He came to a stop in the doorway of his massive kitchen.

  He was wrong.

  Samantha looked up from pouring a glass of orange juice and smiled at him. “Good morning, Mr. Millner,” she said.

  His frown deepened.

  The curtains were all open and admitting light. The round table in the nook was set with a vase of fresh flowers in the center. There was a plate of food awaiting him with the folded paper beside it atop a stack of typed pages. When she opened his fridge to replace the juice, he found the shelves fully stocked.

  The hell?

  She eyed him as she moved back to the table to pull his chair back.

  He shifted his gaze from hers. She was so direct. So unapologetic. Always. Her demeanor was not like that of any other assistant he had.

  “I ordered you breakfast, and I have the next fifty pages typed and ready for you to edit,” she said, pulling a red fine-point Sharpie from her back pocket to sit atop the pages.

  His eyes darted from the open curtains and beaming sunlight to the flowers, table and pages of his manuscript. “I don’t eat breakfast,” he said before striding across the room and picking up the newspaper and pages, ignoring the fresh fruit, pastries and bagels with smoked salmon and cream cheese.

  “Are you a vampire?” she asked when he strode away.

  He paused in the doorway but did not turn. “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “You seem to be afraid of sunlight, and I wondered why is that?”

  He scowled. “And you seem to do everything except what you’re hired to do,” he countered.

  “Not true,” she volleyed back. “And you know it.”

  He frowned. She was right. She did her job exceptionally well. It was the extracurricular butting in
to his life that he could do without.

  He turned. She was sitting at the table, calm as she pleased, spreading cream cheese onto her bagel.

  She glanced up at him, tucking her long hair behind her ear before taking a small bite. “I am ahead of schedule with the typing—loving the story, by the way—and I did more than everything you asked,” she supplied before wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin.

  So refined. Graceful even.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, inclining her head and just barely hiding a smile behind the glass of juice from with she sipped.

  Lance grunted and turned again to walk away, not slowing his barefooted steps until he reached the elevator and rode it up to his attic office. The fact that his stomach grumbled annoyed him further. Normally he didn’t eat a full meal until lunch. He actually wished he’d eaten the bagel.

  Ten minutes later when she entered the office, he barely glanced up from the pages he was reading and making notes on until she silently set a plate with bagel and cream cheese on the corner of his desk. She then just as silently claimed her seat at the other end of the large space. When he dropped his pen and reached for the bagel, he heard her chuckle as he took a bite.

  Lance barely noticed his new assistant and pointedly ignored any attempts at engaging him in conversation. He was content that she was competent to transcribe his handwriting, run errands, answer emails and keep up with his social media accounts. She rarely got in his way as they stayed on their opposite ends of the attic.

  Very often he even forgot she was there.

  He liked it that way.

  He turned and retrieved a bottle of juice from his mini fridge, twisting the cap to open it.

  Pop!

  After a long and satisfying swallow, he set the bottle down and reached for the newspaper, deciding to take a morning break before his day even really began. Not his normal routine. He grunted at that as he flipped the page and reached for his bagel. His hand stopped midway as he picked up the paper and leaned in closer to it as he stared at a photo.

  His gut clenched.

  There was an article on a local charity event with a photo of the billionaire Ansah and Dalmount families. He looked at the face of one of the women in the photo, then down the long length of the office at his assistant with her mouth slightly ajar and her chin tucked in her hand as she read from his notebook. Samira Ansah. The very same Samira Ansah who was reaching out to him about purchasing his land on Baby’s Breath Lane.

  He recalled her seemingly innocent questions about properties. Questions he avoided.

  But a billionaire heiress working as his assistant? For what gain? It all made no sense.

  He scowled.

  Samira Ansah and Samantha Aston. Very similar. Too similar. Almost one and the same.

  Can’t be. That wouldn’t make sense.

  His heart pounded as he looked back at the picture of the woman in a glamorous, strapless red dress that glowed like fire against the deep mocha of her smooth complexion. “Samantha,” Lance called down to her, even as his writer brain conjured up a thousand different scenarios to explain it all.

  She looked up from the notebook with reluctance, pressing one slender finger against the page as if to mark her place. “Yes?” she asked.

  Again, her grace and composure stood out to him. He blinked and looked at her. Really looked at her. She—Samantha or Samira—was in her midtwenties, with flawless skin as dark as chocolate and wide almond-shaped eyes framed by long natural lashes. Her pug nose and full mouth were centered by her rounded chin. Jet-black hair framed her face, flowing long and thick to her waist. The woman really was quite exquisite.

  Like an African goddess.

  His heart pounded in his chest, surprising him.

  “Yes, Mr. Millner?” she repeated.

  What are you up to...Samira?

  He squinted. “Never mind,” he said.

  She looked curious for a moment before returning her attention to her work.

  Lance tapped his keyboard to wake up his computer and logged in to the banking website. After a quick search, he realized she never cashed the weekly paychecks he gave her.

  And then he remembered the sports car she drove the day of the interview. He felt foolish for the clear signs he’d missed.

  He was being duped by Samira Ansah, the billionaire heiress. He grunted. Now he had the upper hand. He leaned back in his chair, setting one ankle on the knee of the other leg as he turned the chair to peer down the long length of the room at her.

  Time for some fun...

  “Samantha, could you walk down to La Boulangerie for me?” Lance asked.

  “Walk?” she asked.

  Humph.

  “Yes, I would like a dozen chocolate turtles,” he said, steepling his fingers together under his chin.

  “I was almost done with this chapter,” she said.

  “It can wait.”

  “I don’t think it’s open yet,” she reminded him as she rose to her feet.

  She was tall and shapely, with a long-sleeved T-shirt and wide-leg jeans emphasizing that. As she walked toward him, he forced his eyes away from her, feeling suddenly nervous.

  He glanced at the time on his watch. “You’re right. While you’re waiting for it, if you could grab my leaf blower from the garage and clear the courtyard,” he said, sitting forward and turning back to his desk to pick up his pen and focus on the manuscript before him.

  He felt the warmth of her presence as she came to a stop by his desk. His sudden nervousness both surprised and annoyed him. It felt like a betrayal. Gritting his teeth, he paused in his reading. “Yes?” he asked, without looking up at her.

  “I just wanted to make sure we’re on the same page,” she said.

  He squinted, just hearing the slightest hint of an English accent.

  “A walk to the bakery and leaf blowing?” she asked, her tone tinged with annoyance.

  For the first time in a very long time, Lance felt the desire to chuckle. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from doing so. “Exactly,” he said.

  She turned and walked across the office to the elevator.

  “And,” he began.

  She paused in the now-open entry of the lift.

  Her silhouette was distracting.

  Lance looked away from the temptation, his grip tightening on his pen so hard that he feared he would snap it. “After that, if you could take a couple of fish out of the deep freeze, thaw and clean them,” he said, feigning nonchalance.

  “I thought you didn’t eat fish?” she asked.

  True.

  “It’s not for me,” he said, offering no further explanation.

  “And the typing?” she asked.

  “That needs to be done as well...of course,” he added.

  She turned with one finger pointed and vibrating as if she could barely contain her emotion.

  “Yes?” he asked calmly.

  Her supple mouth, lightly painted with a peachy gloss, opened and closed several times, but finally, she pressed her mouth shut and hit the button for the elevator to descend.

  Good.

  Lance wasn’t one for games of any kind, but if she wanted to play, he would be the master.

  * * *

  Bzzzzzzzzz...bzzzzzzzzz...bzzzzzzzzz...

  As she stood in the center of the courtyard, Samira turned off the vibrating noise of the leaf blower and reached for her iPhone from the back pocket of her jeans. “Bonjour, Maman,” she greeted her mother, reverting to her mother’s preferred language.

  “Bonjour. Où es-tu, ma poupée de chocolat?” LuLu asked.

  As her mother asked where she was, using her childhood pet name—Chocolate Doll—Samira smiled. She turned and looked up at the mansion, scowling a bit at the fall sun beaming in her eyes and the sudden closing
of one the attic’s curtains. “Mon propre enfer spécial,” she replied.

  “Your own personal hell?” LuLu asked in English. “What does that mean, Samira?”

  “I’m fine, and I’ll explain later,” Samira said, knowing her family’s curiosity had to be piqued because she had spent the last few weekends not in their presence.

  LuLu’s pause was palpable. “Tonight,” she insisted after some time.

  That one word was enough. LuLu Ansah was a loving and giving mother but also a formidable one. All three of her children gave her the respect she demanded after just a stern look or even a soft demand. “Ce soir,” she repeated in French.

  “Je vous remercie,” LuLu said, thanking her.

  Samira was still staring up at the window as if paused in time and caught him when he opened it and looked down at her. She could just barely make out his hard frame and that ridiculous hat he wore all the time. He was more vigilant about his hats than LL Cool J.

  Does he shower in it?

  There were odd moments of her workday when she thought of that hat and smiled at the vision of taking all his headgear and tossing them into a fire blazing so strong and hot that it would melt the sun. They would all go up in flames.

  Poof!

  She tilted her chin up. He remained in the window, his arm raised as he held the curtain back. Watching her. She didn’t look away even as her heart galloped and she felt the pulse at the base of her neck pound. In truth, even with his silly hats covering the top portion of his face, there was something in the way Lance Millner moved that drew her eye. With the power and presence of a sleek animal. It was magnetic. And the allure of his writing was an added level of magnetism she could not deny.

  “Alessandra is supposed to contact the paper to get a digital copy of that picture,” LuLu said.

  “Huh? What picture?” Samira said, turning away from the window when Lance did the same.

  “Samira, I emailed you a link to the news article the newspaper in Passion Grove did on the ADG charity event last week,” LuLu said. “We’ve done plenty of press, but I really liked the photo of the entire family the photographer took that night.”