The Magic of Christmas

by Alyssa J. Montgomery

  That’s Christmas spirit for you! Jack thought with disgust.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ He extended a hand to help the man up.

  ‘I’m okay.’ The bearded guy got to his feet and brushed down his trousers—his green trousers.

  ‘I should’ve been more aware of where I was going.’

  ‘No harm done. I think you’ve come off worse than I have.’ The man pointed to Jack’s shirt. ‘My apologies.’

  The problem of his damaged shirt was temporarily forgotten as Jack looked more closely at the chap. The guy’s beanie was askew and Jack blinked.

  No! Seriously? The guy’s ears looked pointed.

  Jack shook his head as his victim pulled the beanie back down securely over his ears.

  Surely he was mistaken? The guy had to be in some sort of fancy dress costume.

  ‘Would you mind helping me gather up the Christmas balls?’ the man asked.

  Christmas hit a solid blow to Jack’s gut.

  The sight of shining giant baubles and thick rolls of gold and silver tinsel made him break out in a cold sweat but, as it was his fault the decorations littered this part of Oxford Street, the least he could do was help pick them up.

  Stooping down to collect them, Jack shoved them back into the box quickly. Looking at them was bad enough. Having to touch them was even worse. Jack struggled to control all outward signs of his aversion to this supposedly festive season.

  ‘Hope you’re not going anywhere important.’ The man pointed again to the damaged shirt.

  ‘Back to the office.’

  ‘You might have to go home and change first.’

  Jack could easily walk into a shop and buy another shirt, but for some reason the thought of diverting home appealed. Perhaps he needed some time alone to get his head around Amadeo’s news. ‘I will.’

  ‘Oh well—’ the guy shrugged, ‘—these things happen for a reason, you know.’

  What a load of rubbish! There was no reason for this to have happened except that Jack’s mind had been on his lunch time discussion and he’d rounded the corner too quickly.

  Anyway, Jack didn’t believe in fate. He was master of his own destiny.

  As soon as the decorations were back in the box, the man he’d knocked over gave him a broad smile and a wink. ‘Thanks for your help. May the magic of Christmas find you this year.’

  The magic of Christmas!

  Huh! Jack only just refrained from scoffing a ‘Bah Humbug’ at the guy.

  Christmas be damned.

  Chapter 3

  At the front door of his home in Belgravia, Jack stated his name briskly into the speaker.

  ‘Welcome home, Mr Mancini,’ the sexy female voice purred. The computer system recognised his vocal imprint, the door opened automatically in response, and soft lighting illuminated the entryway.

  After taking a couple of steps inside the marbled foyer towards the grand curving staircase, Jack stopped. He barely registered the door closing automatically behind him as he pondered the apparent glitch in the system which piped soft, classical piano music through the entrance-way speakers. The technology of his smart-house was sophisticated, but it wasn’t so advanced it could sense his mood and play music accordingly.

  The haunting music wrapped around him, body and soul. It was a soothing balm to the tension fraying at his nerves after Amadeo’s bombshells and Jack’s strange encounter on Oxford Street.

  Instead of racing up the stairs to change his shirt, he listened more carefully. No. He wasn’t going mad. The music wasn’t coming through the speaker system, and therefore …

  He took a few quick steps, pushed open the door leading into the home’s main reception area and looked over to the far corner.

  A young woman he’d never seen before sat playing the grand piano.

  His first instinct should’ve been to demand her identity and find out how she’d broken into his home without tripping the state-of-the-art alarm system. Yet, the vision of her arrested his movement and only two thoughts dominated his mind.

  She was exceptionally talented and exceptionally beautiful.

  Joints locked rigid by his undeniable attraction to her, he studied her more closely and tried to find some physical fault in her features.

  Impossible.

  Although there was nothing particularly extraordinary about the mouse-brown hair swept up into an unsophisticated ponytail, each of her facial features was perfect. There wasn’t a single blemish on her flawless complexion. High cheekbones, a slightly determined chin, and lush, lush lips combined to form a picture he wanted to study endlessly.

  With blinding clarity he realised she was different from the other women he’d dated. There was a warmth making her glow. It was there in the depth of emotion playing across her face, and by the way her body leaned into the piano as her fingers moved lovingly over the keyboard. Every note communicated that she was a sensitive woman.

  The sort of woman to be avoided at all costs.

  Hell. He needed to tell her to get out of his home. Now. Before he followed the dictates of his hormones and suggested she join him in bed for the rest of the afternoon.

  Yet he couldn’t summon his voice to interrupt the evocative music. It was so entrancing he wanted to sink into one of the deep, comfortable armchairs and relax so he could simply drink in her appearance and let the notes flow over him.

  Her touch against the keys was delicate then firm in a sudden show of strength and drama before subsiding again, drawing out every nuance of a piece he didn’t recognise. Each note was seeking. Yearning. It was the sort of piece that pulled the listener into it and made them forget everything else.

  Bloody hell. Had he suddenly turned into a damned music critic?

  Enough!

  It didn’t matter how therapeutic he found her music. It didn’t matter how much he wanted to get naked with her and lose himself in her body. She had no right to be here and he had to get back to the office. The questions remained—

  ‘Who the bloody hell are you and how did you get in?’

  The intruder’s fingers flew off the keys and her body snapped upright.

  ‘Oh my God!’ She sprang up off the stool and stood facing him.

  Her eyes were wide. They were also the most exquisite moss-green colour he’d ever seen. But it was far more than the unusual shade that captivated him.

  Jack’s survival on the streets in his childhood had depended on being able to read peoples’ characters. She might’ve broken into his house but her eyes revealed honesty, and an unsophisticated guilelessness. He liked what he saw. What he didn’t like was this indefinable yet profound connection he felt with her.

  ‘You’re home early!’

  He raised one eyebrow at the indignant, almost accusatory tone of her voice.

  ‘I mean … that is …’ Her fingertips flew to her cheeks as if to stem the crimson tide sweeping over her face. ‘I thought you’d still be at work.’

  A memory assailed him.

  Almost eighteen years ago, he’d uttered similar words when Amadeo had returned from work early and found him in his kitchen, uninvited, making a sandwich.

  Her gaze fixed on his torso, reminding him of his torn shirt. ‘Have you had some sort of accident, Mr Mancini?’

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded again.

  ‘Oh! I’m Grace.’ Her voice was a whispery thread before she squared her shoulders. ‘I clean your house.’

  She was stunning enough to be a model and played the piano as well as any concert pianist he’d heard. It hardly seemed feasible she was his cleaning lady. Belatedly, he registered the embroidery on her shapeless overalls, just above her left breast: Clean as a Whistle.

  His cleaning lady.

  It explained how she’d managed to get in without tripping the security system.

  ‘You have an unconventional way of dusting the piano keys.’

  Her gaze dropped to the carpet in front of her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Mancini. I’m afraid the lure of
your grand piano was far too great a temptation for me.’

  Even the soft lilt to her voice was musical.

  Letting out an audible breath she met his eyes again as she confessed, ‘I’ve finished all the house cleaning. Sitting down and playing for an hour or so before I leave has become something of a habit.’ She shifted from one foot to the other and her gaze implored him to forgive her transgression. ‘I know I don’t have permission to play, but I didn’t think it would do any harm.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I know I shouldn’t be in your house but I was so hungry and cold. The window to your basement was open and I haven’t done any harm. I haven’t taken anything except food for myself and my dog.’ The words he’d uttered to Amadeo when he’d been twelve years old replayed through his memory.

  ‘How long have you been cleaning my house?’

  He lost sight of her lush, lower lip as she bit down on it with perfect, white teeth.

  ‘Four years.’

  All that time and they’d never met. ‘You’ve made it a habit to play my piano?’

  Her blush intensified as her gaze wandered again over the exposed flesh of his abdomen. ‘Yes. Since the very first day.’

  There it was again—honesty.

  Jack crossed his arms over his chest and pinned her to the spot with his scrutiny. His gaze raked over her in assessment. She had a model’s height at around six feet one inch, but was still a good four inches shorter than he was. It was clear she was nervous as she continued to shift her weight from one foot to the other.

  ‘What would your employer think about this?’

  ‘Er … It’s certainly against company policy to make use of anything in the houses we clean.’

  ‘So, if I reported this, what would your boss have to say?’ He didn’t know why he taunted her when he had absolutely no intention of filing a report. Maybe he just wanted to keep talking to her while he tried to untangle the knot of foreign feelings that washed through him each time he looked at her. ‘Would you be out of a job?’

  A small self-deprecating smile tugged at her lips and impishness lit her eyes. ‘Probably not, considering I own the company.’ Holding out her hand, she took a step towards him and delivered a friendly smile. ‘I’m Grace Robertson, and you’re right, I shouldn’t have played your piano.’

  The second their hands touched, Grace’s pupils flared and he heard her breath hitch. The physical spark was mutual, arcing between them and causing an electrical current to shoot up his arm and earth right in his groin. The physical contact only strengthened his perception of an inexplicable, invisible, innate connection between them.

  He wanted to go on holding her hand but she pulled hers away. ‘Although I wouldn’t fire them for it, I wouldn’t encourage any of my staff to do what I’ve done. Please accept my apologies and my assurance that I won’t do it again.’

  The light caught her hair and Jack caught his breath.

  Far from having mouse-brown hair, there were gorgeous auburn highlights that looked completely natural. Damn it all! There wasn’t a single thing about her that didn’t absorb him.

  His gaze ran over her again, trying to work out what sort of figure she had under those shapeless overalls. Despite the loose fit of her clothing, it was obvious she had lovely breasts. What the overalls concealed, his imagination and experience revealed, and his mouth ran dry.

  An errant impulse made him want to step forward, reach out, hold her close, and release her hair from the confines of its ponytail so he could run his hands through it.

  He held himself in check.

  The Grace Robertsons of this world were few and far between—beautiful and warm. Not only was she the sort of girl who seemed unlikely to agree to a one-night stand, but it was unrealistic to imagine she wasn’t already involved in a steady relationship.

  A quick glance at the ring finger on her left hand revealed it was bare.

  Perhaps she removed her rings while she cleaned?

  He cleared his throat and conceded, ‘There’s no harm done, Grace.’ Except maybe to his state of mind.

  He hadn’t realised how stiffly she’d held herself until her body sagged at his pronouncement. ‘Thank you, sir. I really appreciate you saying so.’

  Used to sensing any weaknesses in his opponents on the rugby field and in the boardroom, Jack noted her profound relief and sensed she’d been worried he might cancel her cleaning contract. Had it bothered her because it would damage her reputation or because she needed the money? He tucked the thought away then surprised himself by saying, ‘I’ve no objection to you playing each time you’ve finished your work here.’

  ‘Really?’ There was a hint of suspicion underlying the disbelief in her voice—an almost weary cynicism that was at odds with the friendliness he’d seen in her eyes.

  ‘I’m not an unreasonable man, Grace.’ Why did she still look at him as though she didn’t believe him?

  ‘Thank you.’ Her eyes lit as an incredulous smile spread across her face. The action was like the sun breaking out from behind a cloud—blinding in its intensity. It looked as though she’d throw herself at him any second now and give him a huge hug in her excitement.

  Ordinarily he’d be exceedingly uncomfortable with such a show of demonstrative behaviour. He normally didn’t ‘do’ hugging but now he found himself willing her to reach out. When she didn’t, a sharp pang of loss hit him squarely between the ribs.

  Feeling all sorts of awkward but still reluctant to walk away, he said, ‘The piano hasn’t been used since my father’s wife died.’ When Amadeo had wanted to downsize to an apartment in Chelsea, he’d sold Jack the home but insisted the piano remain and be kept tuned. ‘It’s probably good for it to be played.’

  ‘Thank you again, Mr Mancini. You don’t know how much this means to me.’ The moment became awkward and she rushed, ‘I’ll be going then.’

  Jack didn’t want her to leave. It didn’t matter he was becoming increasingly later back to his office. ‘I enjoyed your playing. I’m happy for you to stay and play now.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but I really must dash.’

  Sensible girl.

  ‘Another time.’ It wasn’t a question or a request. Jack meant for it to happen.

  ‘Possibly.’ She gathered up her small backpack and coat from the floor next to the piano. ‘Thank you again.’

  Jack merely nodded as she all but raced from the room. By the time he followed her out into the foyer, the front door had closed behind her and all that was left was the faintest trace of her light, lemony perfume.

  He couldn’t put Grace from his mind as he went upstairs to change his shirt and he resolved to be home early again soon to hear her play. He wanted to know why she was cleaning his home when she could either be sashaying down the most celebrated catwalks in Europe or performing at the most famous concert halls.

  You’re playing with fire.

  Inwardly, he groaned. Could the day get any worse?

  If he’d never run into the man, he’d never have come home early and he’d never have met his cleaning lady—a woman everything told him he could never have. Aggravation stirred, making a pulse throb at his temples. The lead-up to Christmas had begun. Every day was bound to become more challenging now.

  Chapter 4

  Grace exited the Mancini home on Belgravia’s exclusive Wilton Place as quickly as she could. She was powerless to stop her heart from its chaotic rap-dance against her ribcage as she walked briskly to the Hyde Park Corner underground. All sorts of emotions swirled inside her after meeting Jack Mancini.

  The man was a workaholic who was in at the office around seven in the morning and not usually home until well after six in the evening. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined he’d come home early and catch her at his piano!

  Eight years ago, when she’d first moved to London, she’d sworn she’d never touch a piano again. All the music that’d come so naturally to her had died—killed by her guilt and devastating losses. Then
, four years on, she’d walked into the Mancini mansion and the Steinway grand piano had called to her.

  Looking back at it now, she realised she’d been in something of a trance as she’d looked at the magnificent instrument. Developing a will of their own, her feet had carried her over and she’d sat at the keyboard and played for over an hour.

  Played and wept.

  It’d been an effort to find the energy to walk back to the underground to catch her train home because she’d been thoroughly emotionally spent. But, the release of dammed up emotions had also been cathartic. Reconnecting with her music had given her a renewed sense of self and allowed her to come to terms with her grief.

  Now she’d met the famous owner of the piano.

  Wow.

  She let out a long breath as she stopped at a corner and waited for one of London’s famous red double-decker buses to drive by. Reaching into her handbag she pulled out her phone to call her younger brother.

  ‘Hi, Grace. What’s up?’

  ‘I just met Jack Mancini!’

  ‘Don’t suppose you thought to get his autograph?’

  Daniel was an avid rugby fan and when Grace had mentioned her new cleaning contract, he’d confessed Jack was his idol and had raved on about Jack Mancini’s skill on the field, then went on to list his meteoric success in the IT world and his seemingly boundless philanthropy.

  Her brother had really only succeeded in capturing her undivided attention when he’d fired up his computer and shown her a picture of the ex-rugby star turned self-made IT billionaire.

  Looking into the piercing, steel-blue eyes in the photo had rendered Grace incapable of speech for at least thirty seconds. Meeting him in person just now had nearly sent her into coronary arrest, and her irregular heartbeats had nothing to do with her having been caught playing his piano!

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Let me guess, you were bowled over by his sheer presence.’

  ‘Let’s just say that if looks were classified in the same way as a hurricane, his would be a category five because he is thoroughly devastating.’ He was the most handsome man she’d ever seen and the damage to his shirt had revealed well-defined abdominal muscles that’d made her parched.