Billionaire's Christmas Vixen Page 3

  The bathroom door swung open, with a slight squeak from hinges that hadn’t been oiled in years. Light footsteps moved down the stairs. George stood in the doorway as she moved down the stairs. She’d dropped her hair down over her shoulders, thick, reddish brown waves framing her face and draping halfway down her back. She’d ripped off the oversized sweater and wore a simple black tee underneath, tight against her small, firm body. The dying firelight glittered across her features, and small wire-frame glasses now sat over the bridge of her nose, framing her jade green eyes. He was shocked when he felt a flame run through his body, and quickly averted his eyes from her.

  He stalked past her and towards the stairs, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. “Thank you,” she said, her chin tilted upwards towards him, her eyes meeting his in genuine appreciation.

  He carefully removed her hand and, ignoring her words, began the ascent to his bedroom. “Good night,” was all he offered.

  He thought they were done, that there was no more need for conversation, but she startled him as, from the base of the stairs, she called up to him. “Mr. Clark?” Reluctantly, he turned to face her. “I understand that this is an inconvenience for you, but is it completely necessary to show your disdain with me in every word you speak?”

  “Ms. Nelson, you are in my home, because I have allowed it. You ate my food, because I allowed it. You will be sleeping on my couch, because I’ve allowed it. If I choose to show displeasure in this, in sharing my home, then I believe I have earned that right, as I have not tossed you back onto the street to figure this out for yourself. I believe that I have been more than accommodating, and would appreciate it if you do not expect things of me that I am not required to give.” He turned to walk back up the stairs, but her voice stopped him once again.

  “I understand that it isn’t required of you. I just…I only think that it would make my stay here a bit more pleasurable for the both of us if you did more than just tolerate me.” She paused for a moment, letting her words sink in with George.

  Of course being kind to her would make things a bit easier for her, but what about him? “We aren’t friends, Ms. Nelson. You are in my home temporarily, but if you are not satisfied with my hospitality, then feel free to take your chances with the storm. However, if you would like to take advantage of the generosity that I do offer to you, then in the morning, when my…” He paused, searching for the word. He didn’t want to call them bodyguards though, technically, they were. He couldn’t say friends, because they certainly weren’t that. He wouldn’t disillusion himself into believing that they cared for him in any way other than for their paychecks. “When my associates return, they can assist you with getting back on the road, and you will no longer have to concern yourself with my inhospitality. Until then, good night.”

  He could feel her searching for something more to say, but he gave her no opportunities. He slammed the bedroom door behind him, feeling the wood of the aged home quake from the force. He had a moment of regret for the old house, his family home. He wouldn’t admit that it held sentimental value, but it had always been the place to go when things became too hectic. This was his refuge, and he had done everything over the years to keep the home in top condition while maintaining her integrity. Then he cursed the woman for getting under his skin and causing him to slam the door to begin with. It was her fault.

  The sheets were cold against his skin, but the fire crackled from across the room. He knew that the heat would soon fill the room and the cool sheets would become a relief. Until then, he shivered against the silk, his naked body relishing the caress. He stretched, allowing his muscles to feel the tension, before pulling a pillow beneath his head and watching the dancing fall colors on his ceiling. He thought of the woman below, on his couch, under his blankets. He wondered if she was as naked as he and then quickly shoved those thoughts aside. He wasn’t going to think of her in that way. As he felt the tug at his abdomen, the stretch of thin skin as his cock grew hard, he knew that it was too late.

  He didn’t make commitments, didn’t make friends, didn’t have relationships, and that was just how he liked it. He had no time for concerns other than his business and had no remorse for his actions outside of it. This was what he had wanted out of his life, and he was more than happy with it. He’d made it a point to avoid women such as Brea. Women who were too kind for their own good. It was too much depth for him. His women weren’t like that. His women lived for the moment and wanted nothing more from life than what he could give to them in their short time together. They used him, he used them.

  So why then was he stiff as a bone for her right now? Why were thoughts of her lying naked against his couch making him ache? Why did the image of her watching him over the rim of her glasses make him want to grab a fistful of her hair, yank her head back, and take her mouth into his?

  George groaned involuntarily as he shoved back the sheets, covered in a cold sweat, and yanked his pants back on, willing his erection down. He opened the door and walked back down the stairs to the woman that he was determined to convince himself that he didn’t want.

  Chapter 6

  She pulled the blanket from behind her head and wrapped it around her body. The wind howled around the house, shaking at the shutters, slamming against the front door. A draft pulled in from somewhere and seemed to hunt Brea down, chilling her inside and out. She shivered involuntarily, her fingers frozen so that it made each turn of the page difficult. She tossed the book onto the coffee table, along with her glasses, and yanked her hands under the plush plaid quilt. Footsteps creaked overhead as George paced from one room to another. She was ready for the night to be over so she wouldn’t have to share a roof with the cocky bastard any longer. She only wanted to get home to her family, to somehow win Eric back, and show her parents that she wasn’t a complete failure.

  Footsteps again, this time on the stairs behind her, making their way to the first floor. Brea huddled under the blanket and quickly lay down. She didn’t want to face him, so maybe if she just pretended to be asleep, he would ignore her. He seemed the type that could ignore someone like her so easily. She was sure that he hadn’t had a concern for another human being in quite some time, and that was what she was counting on right now.

  He moved closer to the couch, and she could feel him lean over the back and linger above her for a moment. Brea squeezed her eyes tightly and willed her body to be still, but it had a mind of its own and she shuddered.

  “Are you cold?” She nearly rolled from the couch, startled by his voice. “I could build a fire for you, if you’d like.” It wasn’t a question, but merely a statement. He’d already moved to the fireplace and thrown open the mesh screen and tossed in two logs. It

  “I’m fine, thank you.” She couldn’t help but to sound smug and proud. She’d make it just fine without him, and certainly didn’t want him thinking otherwise. She knew that his sudden concern had nothing to do with her. There was something more there, something deeper and more selfish than actual worry over her. She wouldn’t let his sudden kindness get to her. She wasn’t that naïve.

  “It’s freezing down here, and you’re shivering. I’ll be quick and let you get back to sleep.” He almost sounded sincere, but like it was strained and unnatural for him.

  She laughed to herself. He’d likely never shown a bit of concern for anyone other than himself in his life. He was probably alone and probably always would be. She couldn’t imagine him having a family or any true friends. Likely anyone that was in his life was there for one reason, and one reason only; what they could get out of him.

  She wasn’t going to tell him that she couldn’t sleep. A strange man, strange house, on a strange Christmas. She wasn’t going to get any sleep, no matter how warm and cozy he made it for her. She just needed morning to get here so that, whether with Mr. Clark’s ‘associates’ or by the tow truck driver, she could get out of here.

  “Would you like another blanket?” The fire had sparked behind him, and
even without her glasses sitting against her nose, she could see the firm outline of his chest, his broad shoulders, his toned stomach naked in the chilled, winter air. She wouldn’t allow her eyes to linger, thought she found herself searching him, even in the dark, for scrapes or burns as she imagined a bullet grazing his skin. There was something that felt dangerous about being here with a man who had been shot at only hours before.

  She casually glanced away, but the image was burned into her mind as she mentally trailed her fingers across his lightly tanned skin, her fingertips stumbling nervously over hard nipples, her nails tracing down, down to his hips and under than stretchy band of his plaid pajama pants. Squeezing her eyes tightly, she willed the image away. She wasn’t going to waste her thoughts on this man.

  That was it. Something was going on, and she couldn’t stand just lying there. “What are you getting at, here, Mr. Clark? I was perfectly decent to you earlier, and you scoffed at me. So why the sudden change of heart? Why the sudden concern for my well-being?”

  She could see him struggling with his words as he sat at the far end of the couch, as far from her as he could manage. She scowled.

  “I’m sorry. It has been a rather long day for me.”

  “So I’ve heard,” she muttered under her breath. The silence hung between them like a wall of stone. She was unsure of what to say, just as she could see that he struggled with it as well. They had nothing in common, she was sure, and she couldn’t imagine him having any interests other than money and fast women, both of which had nothing to do with her.

  She sat up, pulling the blanket to her chin and holding it tightly around herself like a shield, not from the cold, but from him. She suddenly felt very uncomfortable with him in the room. She was beginning to sweat beneath the layers, but the fire was barely a flicker. She wished he would put a shirt on already. Whether he intended it or not, he was awfully distracting. She faced forward, avoiding the figure that was on the farther end of the couch. She pressed herself into the armrest, wishing she could put more distance between them.

  “This is the first time I’ve shared the cabin with anyone since I was a teen.”

  She was unsure if he was speaking to her or more to himself, making a self-observation. She chose not to answer and to allow the silence to hang between them again. The first was roaring now, the flames stretching up through the chimney, occasional tendrils lapping out towards them but getting nowhere close to where they sat.

  After a few minutes, George spoke again. “I’ve thought of having a furnace installed, but I think it would take away from the character of the home.” He paused for a moment, but Brea said nothing. “Besides, nothing beats the warmth and glow of a fireplace, don’t you agree?”

  She was shocked at his nearly romantic words, never having thought him capable of such thoughts or feelings, but she certainly wasn’t going to crush him either. She smiled, cocking her head in his direction before realizing he was still shirtless, and then quickly snapping her head forward again. “Yes, I do agree. It makes me think of happy times, family, love.” She stopped, not having meant for the last word to slip out. It felt odd that she should say such a thing in front of him, even if there were no implications that she meant him. She certainly did not mean George Clark. She was sure that the man was incapable of such an emotion. He could feign romance, but not love.

  “Happy times,” the man grunted to himself. “Yes, I suppose that you grew up in a very close, loving family and have many wonderful memories to hold on to.”

  Was she imagining it, or was his tone mocking and condescending?

  She hesitated. She might be in his home and sharing his couch, but she didn’t know him well enough to share the tortures of her childhood.

  But who was she trying to fool? George Clark was the last person on earth to understand the pain and struggles she went through as a child, and even now. If by some chance he did understand, though, she didn’t expect any sympathy from him. She didn’t expect to be consoled or to be given words of encouragement. She expected that he would be hard and callous towards her. That he would tell her something along the lines of ‘emotions sabotage success’. It made her sad to think of him in such a way.

  She chose to avert the conversation to him and his childhood, instead. Not much of his youth had been in the media, so she was curious if she was right in her assumption that he had grown up in a privileged home with parents that were detached and emotionally unavailable for their only child. That was the only thing that she did know of his childhood; that he had been the only one. She couldn’t imagine having grown up alone.

  “What about your childhood?” she prodded. “What are your parents like?”

  She could feel him looking at her, but couldn’t read his expression through the dark and the blurriness of still not having her glasses on. She reached for them now, but when she looked back at him, he had turned away again, staring into the flickering flames.

  Maybe there was a reason that the only personal life that anyone knew of was flamboyant and extreme. Maybe the truly personal things, the things that he held close and dear, he refused to let anyone touch, friend of foe. Mr. Clark suddenly became a mystery that Brea wanted very badly to crack.

  Chapter 7

  Why did she care? Why was she asking about him, about his family? He wasn’t going to say a word, wasn’t going to tell her of what he had left behind. That was his past and it had nothing to do with the present, the here and now. It had nothing to do with the man that he was.

  Had it been up to his parents, he would be working in a factory making car parts, spending his weekends with his wife and their two kids. Joanie, six, and Nicholas, nine. After eight years with the company, he would get ten vacation days that he would use to visit his family for a week during Christmas, a week with his wife’s family during the summer, and vice versa the following year. He would drive an old Toyota Camry, half-rusted and in the shop at least once a month, while the wife drove a mini-van to tote their kids and all of their friends from soccer games to dance lessons. That was the life his parents had wanted for him. To live just above paycheck to paycheck. There was no reason to share these details of his past with this stranger, not when they were irrelevant to the man he was now.

  He could feel her eyes on him as she sighed into the silence, relenting to whatever inner battle she was going through. “Okay, I’ll go first. My childhood sucked, to put it nicely.”

  He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, her head dropping so that she was looking at her hands folded in her lap. He said nothing, giving the woman encouragement to continue. It wasn’t that he was curious about her life, or that he cared about her past and how she’d come to this point in her life; it was that, well, he hadn’t a real, honest conversation with anyone in years. Jim and John weren’t conversationalists.

  “My father is a neurologist who firmly believes that he is superman and that everyone must be as accomplished as he, if not more so, to even be considered a human being. He served ten years in the Marines, the last four being spent earning his bachelors’. My mother, who was originally a receptionist at the hospital that my father did his internship with, is an alcoholic who, upon meeting my father, became a housewife who leeches off of his funds. Her thoughts on life are that a woman should marry into the upper classes and do nothing with her life. She’s accomplished nothing except creating every vodka concoction you could imagine and singlehandedly keeping Advil in business.

  “My sister and I are best friends, bonded together through the criticism from both our mother and father. For dad, it was our education that was most important. Our home became a military-style boot camp to keep us on track. Pursuing anything other than our education had to in some way benefit a career in the medical field or law, or something just as reputable. Art, sports, dance; all of these were considered a waste of time and were therefore banned from our household.

  “For mom, it was being desirable that she demanded, even at a young age. We were pr
actically pimped out to other families with young boys our age or a year or two older, as our parents tried to find a suitable match for us. Our marriages weren’t arranged, per se, but our parents were very adamant on who they expected us to wed.” She paused as she struggled with her inner conflict.

  Now he was genuinely interested. Her family seemed the opposite of his in almost every way and, in part, he wished that his father had been as ambitious as Brea’s father was and had been. Still, he couldn’t imagine his parents having expected him to marry, much less choosing the woman for him.

  When she didn’t continue, much to his own surprise, George urged her to continue. “What happened? Did you marry?” He hadn’t planned on the next question leaking from his lips, but it suddenly mattered; suddenly mattered very much that he know the answer to the question. “Are you married?”

  Brea laughed, a sweet, lyrical sort of laugh that made George want to join in, though he couldn’t remember the last time he had genuinely felt the pull to laugh about anything.

  “Married?” she exclaimed. “Oh God, no!”

  This time, George couldn’t contain himself from snorting at her response. The mention of marriage would have made him react in much the same way. “I said they had expectations, not that I did as they wanted,” she huffed lightly. “Honestly, I almost married.”

  George was unsure if she stopped because the thought of this man still hurt, or if she thought George uninterested, but he was very interested. He was afraid to make an attempt at pulling more information from her, for fear that she would close up and decide that she had told enough, but as they sat there in silence, he realized that she likely already had.

  “This man that you were to marry, what happened to him? Was it a great disappointment to your parents when the wedding was called off?”