by Serena Grey
More Than Anything
A Christmas Romance
Serena Grey
More Than Anything: A Christmas Romance is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
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MORE THAN ANYTHING
Copyright © 2018 by Serena Grey
All rights reserved
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Sweet Acacia Press
To all the beautiful swans.
Contents
More Than Anything
I. Book One
1. Braden
2. Allie
3. Braden
4. Allie
5. Braden
6. Allie
7. Braden
8. Allie
II. Book Two
9. Allie
10. Braden
11. Allie
12. Braden
13. Allie
14. Braden
15. Allie
16. Braden
III. Book Three
17. Allie
18. Braden
19. Allie
20. Braden
IV. Book Four
21. Braden
22. Allie
23. Braden
24. Allie
25. Braden
26. Allie
Author’s Note
About Serena Grey
Books by Serena Grey
More Than Anything
A chance encounter in an empty stairway leads to a magical Christmas for Hollywood actress Allie Gilbert and enigmatic billionaire Braden Rhodes.
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Now, two years after a whirlwind romance, secret wedding, and an abrupt separation, they would both rather forget that passionate Christmas when they fell in love...
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...but fate has other plans.
Book One
Past
One
Braden
It was a small Christmas Eve dinner with delicious food, expensive wine, tasteful holiday music interrupted every so often by the chink of silver and crystal, and under the polished cherrywood formal dining table, somebody’s foot was stroking my leg.
I was seated to the right of the hostess, Anna Douglas, a former model whose sole occupation after becoming the fourth wife of billionaire Henry Douglas was to give dinners and discuss her efforts on the boards of prestigious charities. Opposite me, my date for the night, Lilianna Arden, supermodel and twenty-sixth sexiest woman alive, was deep in a conversation with Anna.
Lilianna caught my gaze and gave me a wide smile. She was a sweet girl, very vain about her looks, uninterested in anything beyond fashion, the next runway appearance, and the luxuries she enjoyed by dating men like me. There was an extra fullness around her lips I hadn’t noticed earlier, and it made me chuckle. For Lilianna, getting work done was something one did as casually as popping into the salon to get a manicure.
She continued talking, but Anna gave me a meaningful smile, holding my gaze as she inched her foot a little higher.
“Will you be in St. Barts for New Year’s? I hear Oleg Gregovich New Year’s Eve party is going to be all the rave this year. Last year, it was in Dubai, at the Burj, far above the clouds. So marvelous, don’t you think?”
I turned from Anna Douglas’s brazen gaze to the woman seated on my other side, columnist Sally Felton. She had been best friends with Henry’s first wife and quickly switched that affection to the latest wife whenever he went through a divorce. She’d been trying to hold my attention all through dinner, but I wasn’t interested enough to wonder why.
I gave her a polite smile. “I don’t know, Sally. I’m far more likely to be working.”
She frowned, bemused. “You’re a billionaire—surely you don’t need to work on New Year’s Eve?”
“Braden is a workaholic,” Henry Douglas boomed from his place at the top of the table. “He reminds me of myself when I was his age.”
“I’m flattered,” I replied with a chuckle, wondering what he would say if he knew what his wife’s foot was doing under the table. There was no point in arguing about the workaholic part. I didn’t know how to be idle. There was always something to be done, and who better to make it happen than the person I trusted a hundred percent, me.
I worked hard, but I also made a point to play, very hard.
Anna’s leg was now inching up my calf. I met her gaze again, and her red lips parted, lifting in a small, sexy smile. She was beautiful, with porcelain skin, wide brown eyes, and gleaming auburn hair, the kind of woman many men would give their eyeteeth for a chance to fuck.
Right under her husband’s nose too.
But I wasn’t many men. Beautiful women throwing themselves at me was not something that excited me anymore. I chewed some more of the exquisitely prepared food and nodded when one of the waiters appeared at my side to refill my wine glass. I imagined that at some point after dinner, Anna would offer to show me the conservatory or a new painting, some excuse to get me into a corner and try to relieve her boredom with a ride on my cock.
Gently, I eased her foot away from my leg, ignoring the petulant frown that immediately stained her pretty face.
“Excuse me,” I told Sally, who was still going on about the party in St. Barts. I got up and made my way out of the formal dining room.
From the hallway, a beautiful paneled stairway led to the upper floors. At the very top, there was a domed ceiling covered with a colorful fresco from which a crystal chandelier dropped about one story. It was a beautiful house, probably one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in the whole world.
I knew my way around enough to easily find the door to the guest bathroom suite just off the hallway. Inside, I faced a large mirror mounted over gold veined marble sinks, smoothed my hair, and stared at my reflection, reluctant to return to the table.
I was bored.
Not just here, with the people at the table. I was bored in the way that couldn’t be relieved by a night with a willing, sexy woman. I was bored in a way that knew there was something more but hadn’t yet gotten a handle on just what it was.
I wasn’t surprised by the knock on the door. I’d known Anna would follow me. She wouldn’t be married to Henry Douglas if she was the kind of woman who gave up easily. The door opened, and there she was, leaning on the doorjamb, her surgically enhanced breasts rising beneath her décolletage like pale, soft cream.
“We’re missing you at the table, Braden.” Her voice was light but husky, artfully cultivated to be sexy and irresistible.
It annoyed me.
“And you came to find me?” I lifted an eyebrow. “What a dedicated hostess you are.”
She slid into the room and closed the door behind her, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “Anything for my guests,” she said lightly, coming to stand right in front of me. “I’m just checking on you. Weren’t you enjoying yourself at dinner?”
There were only a couple of inches between us, and I moved forward, closing the distance. Her chest rose, and the tips of her breasts touched the front of my jacket. “The food was delicious, Anna,” I said softly. “However, I’m afraid I have to leave now. Give your husband my apologies.”
She raised her face to mine, one slim hand finding its way onto my lapel. Her skin was flushed, her breathing fast. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “I can make you feel better.”
It wouldn’t even take much time, I thought. If I wanted, I’d have her moaning and climaxing in a few minutes, and tomorrow she’d have a diamond necklace or bracelet to show my appreciation.
If I wanted.
I d
idn’t.
“Would you prefer for me to bend you over the sink, or maybe you don’t mind the floor?” I drew my fingers lightly over her arm, and she shuddered, her lips parting. With my other hand, I lifted her hem, letting my fingers travel all the way to the top of her thighs. “How about we go back to the table and do it in front of your husband? Maybe he’d like to watch.”
Her glazed expression turned into a frown, and she shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Braden.”
“Sweetheart, the only ridiculous person here is you.” I stepped around her and opened the door. “Go back to your guests. I’m not feeling very much like company tonight.”
I didn’t wait to hear her reply. I strode to the entrance foyer, where one of the house staff handed me my coat. I muttered my thanks and shrugged it on, pulling on my gloves before stepping out into the cold.
There was an awning over the front steps, and I stood there for a moment, looking at the decorations along the street and listening to the faint sounds of tinny Christmas music from speakers I couldn’t see.
Dashing through the snow…
In the few seconds since I’d collected my coat, my driver, McGuire, had been alerted that I was leaving. My car rolled down the street, stopping right in front of me. I walked toward the gleaming black Audi, stopping McGuire with a wave of my hand as he started to exit the car.
“Boss?” His voice always sounded like something out of an eighties western.
“I’m walking,” I told him. “Stay and take Lilianna to her apartment when she’s ready to leave.”
He nodded. “Yes, boss.”
I raised the collar of my coat, pushing my hands into the pockets as I walked. It wasn’t snowing now, but there was a scattering of white on the edge of the sidewalk. I turned a corner and was met with the bright displays of high-end stores. A group of carolers sang beside a nativity scene and last-minute shoppers hurried past me.
I paused to admire the nativity scene, and a man walking behind me slowed too. I recognized him as one the hires from my security team. Of course, it was impossible that McGuire would let me out of his sight without an alternative arrangement.
I kept walking, amused at the effort my bodyguard was making to remain unobtrusive and yet alert. It was almost endearing.
I passed a couple kissing passionately, both bundled up in coats and scarfs. That’s one way to keep warm, I thought, a little jealous of their passion.
Just before I reached the entrance of my building, a marble residential edifice that had marked my arrival on the Manhattan real estate scene, a drunk Santa staggered close to me.
“Merry Christmas!” he roared.
“Merry Christmas,” I replied with a chuckle, edging around him. Across the street from the building, a few people were standing in the cold, armed with cameras. A couple of lazy flashes greeted my arrival, and I ignored them, heading straight for the doors, which opened from inside as I approached.
The lobby was warm and bright, with a large tree twinkling and winking in a prime position opposite the reception desk.
“How’s it going, Will?” I asked the night doorman.
He held up his hands and shrugged. “So-so. David Hurst is having a party, and I have never seen so many movie stars in the flesh all at once.”
“Good for you,” I replied, pulling off my gloves. So that was why there were paps camped outside. David Hurst was an award-winning Hollywood producer with at least three successful franchises to his name. He lived on the floor just below my apartment and liked to have parties whenever he was in the city. “The paps will be here all night,” I observed.
“I don’t like them,” Will said, “but it’s a rough way to spend Christmas Eve.”
Standing at the door all night can’t be much fun either, I thought, resolving to supplement the Christmas presents the building manager arranged for the staff with something extra for him, a generous gift card for a bookstore maybe. The doorman loved to read and collect books.
“Merry Christmas, Will,” I told him, shrugging off my coat. As I walked farther inside, my bodyguard entered the lobby, and I gestured to him.
“There’s a Starbucks at the corner,” I told him. “Get someone to order coffee for the photographers outside. Tell them it’s from an anonymous Samaritan.”
He snorted. “They’re vultures.”
I kept my eyes on him, and he stiffened, nodded, and hurried off to carry out my instructions.
People learned very quickly not to second-guess me. He would learn, or he’d be gone.
I passed a few people as I headed across the lobby, residents and guests, a few familiar faces that hinted at movie or TV appearances. Some of the women let their gazes linger. I ignored them and made for the dedicated elevator that went straight to my apartment. In seconds, it had deposited me in my foyer. I left my coat and went to the bar to pour myself a drink.
The apartment was empty. It was Christmas, after all, and most of the people who worked with me were gone for the holidays.
Armed with my scotch, I crossed the living room. It was tastefully decorated, designed by a world-renowned architect and a sought-after interior designer. Every piece of furniture was of the highest quality, every painting beautiful and perfectly suited to the space.
I walked over to a glass-walled nook that housed a gleaming Steinway and gazed at the view, then almost absently, I opened a large panel of glass. Immediately, the cold wind lashed at my face as noise from below floated up to my ears. It came from David Hurst’s apartment, reminding me of the party. There was a large patio attached to his living room. In the summer and spring, it bloomed with a wide assortment of plants; now, it was empty except for two ardent partygoers who’d decided to brave the cold for privacy and were now devouring each other in one corner of the patio.
I turned away. It was Christmas Eve, and I was alone. I felt like was missing something, but I couldn’t put my finger on it, whatever it was.
My eyes went back to the couple a few floors below—they were having sex now, pressed against a wall, and my body hardened just a little, an instinctive response to the wantonness going on below. I thought of Anna Douglas and her invitation, of Lilianna, who would be with me if I’d bothered to ask her to come, ready and eager to satisfy any and all of my desires.
There was nothing exciting about the thought.
I closed the pane of glass and went back to the bar. I started to refill my drink then stopped. I was alone, with no idea what to do. I had planned to work through the holidays, strategizing plans for the new year, but the thought wasn’t palatable anymore.
I went to my closet and stripped off my formal evening clothes, replacing them with black pants and a black sweater over a Henley. On my way to the foyer, I stopped and turned toward the kitchen and the entrance to the stairway. Where I was going, I didn’t need security creeping after me. I didn’t want a helicopter announcing my arrival. A two-hour drive followed by a night of solitude seemed like a better way to spend Christmas than watching people having fun and wondering why I wasn’t.
Two
Allie
I’d been ready to escape the party from the moment I arrived, but my publicist had made me promise to spend a few hours at least. “Talk to people,” he’d begged, his innocent blues eyes earnest. He used that sweet, little-boy expression to deceive the unsuspecting world and got away with it every time, but Sean Collard was anything but innocent and earnest. He was a hound, the best at what he did: crafting public images for famous people.
I still wasn’t convinced I needed any image crafting. I liked to act. I also liked to stay home with trashy novels and entertaining TV shows. My interests were those of most people my age, but apparently, me being a regular twenty-five-year-old wasn’t good enough for the public.
What exactly was good enough for the public?
Across the street, a rabid crowd of paparazzi was camped out, waiting for me to leave the party so they could take more pictures. The required images of
me stepping out of the limo with my co-star and supposed real-life love interest Guy Fletcher had obviously not been enough.
If I went outside hopelessly drunk and flashed them my tits, would they be satisfied and leave me alone for the night? A couple of days? Probably not. They’d follow me all the way to my hotel and bribe the service staff in the hope of finding something more…something the public would devour while deploring my descent from the throne as America’s newest, sweetest sweetheart.
“Sweetheart, have another drink.” It was David Hurst, genius director of many box office hits with two Oscars already under his belt. He was in his late thirties with a thin, hawk-like face and sharp eyes that gave the impression that he never missed a thing. Though I was sure he had missed a lot on this particular night, like his beautiful, surgically enhanced wife disappearing through the balcony doors with a young male model. I wondered if he would care if he knew; he seemed more interested in the champagne and the activity that had left a telltale dusting of white powder around his nostrils.
“I’m good,” I replied. “I just need the bathroom.”
“Over there,” David said, without pointing in any specific direction. I watched him walk a few steps to join a group of guests gathered around a large concert piano where a TV star was singing a slow rendition of a Christmas carol while playing perfect notes on the majestic instrument.
