Christmas with the Beast (The Fiore Family Book 1)

by C. M. Steele

  “Shit. Sorry. Are you hurt?” I ask, looking her over and running my hands over her upper body to assure myself there isn’t anything major wrong with her. I know you’re not supposed to move accident victims, but this honestly is a small wreck and there’s no way an ambulance is going to make it through here safely and soon. Her winter coat is open, no scarf or hat present. Everything is scattered around. She has a slight cut on her forehead, so I pull off my hat and put it on her head and zipper up her coat.

  “No. Just sleepy and cold,” she mutters, slightly in shock.

  “I’ve got you.” I pull her out of the vehicle and carry her to the snowmobile that I parked just a few feet ahead. Setting her down in front of me, still cradled in my arms, I start the vehicle and head back down the road. I have to be extremely careful not to jostle her, but I can’t go too slow or we’ll get stuck in this shit. It’s getting worse by the second. Finally, we speed through my front gates and into the heated garage. I cut the engine and pull off my goggles. God, she’s fucking perfect.

  “Franco,” she sighs, eyes unfocused as she reaches up and caresses my face.

  I growl, “Don’t.” As if my words are a wake-up call, her eyes shoot open completely and she’s upset. A stone-cold look comes over her face.

  “Sorry, Mr. Fiore.” She attempts to get off me, but it’s not safe yet. I’m not sure she’s even safe with me, but there’s no way I could ever let her go.

  “Hold on. Let’s get you safely inside to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine,” she huffs like we’re not in the middle of a fucking blizzard, miles from civilization. “I was just a little disoriented and cold for a minute.”

  “Don’t argue with me. I won’t tolerate it.” I hop off the snowmobile and then carry her in my arms. Goodness, it feels too damn good.

  “God, you really are a beast,” she huffs, refusing to look at me, and my world deflates. All hopes I had fly right out the window. I take her through the house and up to my bedroom where Rita has prepared the bath.

  “Can you handle getting undressed by yourself?” I grunt as I set her on the bench I had added to the bathroom after my injuries. The bleeding on her forehead has stopped, and her temper proves she’s wide awake now.

  She pales and then says, “Yes.” I leave her there, even though my soul demands I stay and watch to assure myself that she’s all right. Or at least what the noble version of me would do, but like she said: I’m a beast, and that part of me wants to watch her strip naked and take what I desire.

  Shutting the door to my bedroom, I press my head against the cool wood. “Get it together, man. She doesn’t want you.” My phone blares in my pocket, reminding me that Fabio’s probably frantic, waiting for news about Isabelle.

  “Yes,” I snarl, letting my frustration color every word that leaves my mouth.

  “Is she okay?”

  “As best as can be. Why did you tell her to come here?” I bark out, hating and loving that she’s in my home—the home I’ve wanted to share with her for the rest of our days. I’ve pictured so many moments like Christmas with her and our kids by the tree as they dig for their gifts.

  “She was supposed to make our family dinner tonight as a present to you,” my brother explains as if somehow sending her through this shitty weather is justified. What if she’d wrecked and couldn’t call for help?

  “No one asked you to do that. Francois is quite capable of cooking our meal.”

  “You mean the chef you let go on holiday?” Yeah, I just assumed when Fabio said he’d be handling dinner on Christmas Eve, I thought he meant he’d bring food from the restaurant in Rochester not far from here. I had no idea he’d send the love of my life, my obsession, in the middle of a snowstorm.

  “Well, you can do it, then,” I spit out.

  “What is up your ass? Is she hurt?”

  “She doesn’t belong here.” Doesn’t belong here stealing my damn heart and making me long for things that I can never have. “She’s not hurt, or so she says,” I add, remembering his question.

  “Then what the hell? I sent her ahead of us, and you’re upset about it like you don’t want her in your home.”

  “Just drop it. It doesn’t matter. We’re stuck here until the weather improves.” Hearing the water slosh around, I remember that I’m still in here and she doesn’t have any clothes to wear. I dig through some of Mia’s things and also find a gift I’d bought just for Isabelle. I’ve seen her so many times, memorized everything about her, including her favorite color.

  Leaving the room, I head downstairs to prepare for the potential loss of power. I have backup generators and also the fireplace to light when the time comes.

  The clock slowly ticks by as I wait for her to come downstairs. It’s nearly an hour, and then a panic sets in that she might have fallen asleep in the tub. I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring the rush of pain running through my leg. Throwing open the bedroom door, I see my sweet Isabelle sleeping on the bed in just a towel. Her face is marred by tear stains. Shit. Is she hurting?

  I reach out and press my hand to her forehead. It’s not hot or cold, so that’s good news. Her breathing is steady, but then she turns just slightly and her towel slips. I stand frozen for a moment, mouth gaping like a fool, wanting to strip the rest of the cotton from her body and lick her all over. She’s fucking perfection.

  “Get enough of a show?” she hisses.

  I spin around and attempt to apologize. “Um… I’m sorry. I was just checking on you, and well, you just turned.”

  “Isn’t your girlfriend going to be pissed, knowing I’m here?” she asks. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she sounds jealous.

  “I don’t have a girlfriend,” I grunt. Never had, although not for a lack of interest when I was a teen, but I helped with the family business here a lot after school, which was my father’s intent. He didn’t want us chasing girls and experimenting with drugs like so many boys did. He’d worked hard to have the American dream and wanted the same for us. After a while, that ambition coursed through our veins as well, and we didn’t look anywhere besides building our wealth.

  I stare at the wall as I wait for the next words out of her mouth that shoot out like venom. “So you just have women’s clothes lying around?”

  “No. Those are my cousin’s.” I tell a half-truth because the panties and bra with the tags on them are brand new that I bought just for Isabelle. I knew they’d be sexy on her, and I selfishly pictured her in them many nights.

  “Oh.” I can’t see her reaction, and I shamefully want to turn around.

  “Well, get dressed. I’ll find you something to eat.” My voice is hoarse with need.

  “I’m not hungry.” I can almost picture Isabelle’s arms crossing over her chest with a grumble.

  “Are you going to fight me on everything?” I’m losing my mind because she’s being difficult when she probably just needs to eat.

  “Are you going to be rude as hell?”

  “Rude?” Have I been rude? Scared, worried, protective—but rude? My phone takes that moment to ring so I don’t answer her question. Why does her attitude strangely turn me on? Do I feed off her attitude, or just having her this close, speaking to me at all?

  “I need to change. I really need my bag from the car. Shit,” she mutters to herself.

  “Excuse me.” I walk out of the room without looking back so she can’t see my massive cock stretching my pants.

  “Sir, are you well?” Rita asks as I don my outerwear for another battle with the snow. The gas in the snowmobile is still almost full and there is a storage container under the seat, so hopefully I only need to make one trip.

  “Yes, Rita. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Could you make some hot cocoa?” I know she can’t cook for the life of her, but maybe that would be easy. My brother bought tons of it for this week.

  “Yes, Franco.” I throw open the front door or maybe the wind does, but Rita closes it behind me as I trudge down my s
tone steps to the garage. I start the vehicle and head back down the road as icy winds slap my face repeatedly until I’m numb from the cold pain.

  About a foot of snow surrounds her car, blocking the door, but I yank on it several times, grateful that the snow hasn’t hardened just yet. If it had been compacted, I’d have to figure out another way in. Her keys are in the cup holder because she has a push-start ignition, and I hit the unlock button, but leave them in place because no one’s coming to steal it and maybe it’ll be easier for the tow truck to get it once they clear the roads.

  Her phone pings, so I see it light up and pocket it. Then I go looking in the back seat to see a pretty pink duffle bag. Throwing it over my shoulder, I reach for the keys and pop the trunk. Damn it, two trips it is. I hurry back and forth.

  Once I step back into the house, I take the food to the kitchen. As I approach the door, I hear what I don’t want to hear.

  Chapter Eight

  Isabelle

  I look at the fabric in front of me. The expensive tags are still on them, so that’s good to know. I have a million questions, but I don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Although I suppose I already did that when I snapped about having a girlfriend. God, how pathetically jealous did I sound? I could kick myself, still I need to get dressed before he comes back.t

  Slipping on the lace panties, I love the color mauve and the way it looks against my pale skin. I clasp the bra in the back, slide the straps over my shoulders, and adjust my breasts, which are nearly spilling out. So this is what money feels like? Nice.

  I make good money, but not the kind that can buy this kind of underwear. The bra itself is a dream; although it has an underwire, for some reason it doesn’t dig in or feel uncomfortable. I’ll have to Google this brand and see if they make a cheaper knock-off or maybe check one of the outlet stores for last season’s things.

  I wince as I slide the pretty sweater blouse over my body. My already sore shoulder is definitely a little tender after my accident. Everything of mine is still in the car, including my cell phone. I wonder if Anabelle’s freaking out because I promised to call or text as soon as I got here.

  I get dressed, but there are no socks and shoes—luckily the floor in this room feels heated. Is this one of his guest bedrooms? I pull open one of the drawers, and it strikes me. No, this is his bedroom. I took a bath in his tub and practically sprawled out naked on his bed. Reaching over, I straighten the covers and then bring his pillow to my nose. It’s selfish and weak, but if this is all I get, then I’ll just have to take that moment.

  Franco doesn’t want me here. That thought runs through my head, and I toss the pillow back down. I heard what he said to his brother. “She doesn’t belong here.”

  There’s no two ways around it: he has no interest in me. Maybe I misunderstood Fabio or something. It’s also possible that he read more into his brother enjoying my cooking. The man has isolated himself for a reason and clearly would have preferred to keep it that way.

  I leave the room before I do something stupid, like cry again. I’ve wasted two good years crying over someone who doesn’t see me as anything other than a chef. To him I’m no different than Gordon Ramsey or Bobby Flay.

  Once I exit the massive bedroom, I have no idea where I’m going in this grand estate. Taking the stairs, I stop when I see two large dogs wagging their tails at me. I cross over to them and stick out my hands. They lick them and try to jump on me, but I stop them almost immediately with a wag of my fingers. The huge dogs sit, continuing to swing their tails happily.

  “Good boys.” I pet them a bit longer and then I move around to find Franco with the two following behind me.

  As soon as I enter the grand living room with the most beautifully decorated Christmas tree that nearly kisses the fourteen-foot ceilings. This one rivals the majesty of the one at Rockefeller Center. My heart warms with the holiday spirit and I wonder if I can get him to change his mind about me being here.

  Tears fill my eyes again and I attempt to swipe them away, but they continue to fall and then my nose gets a whiff of something in the air. I follow the smell of burnt chocolate. My nose stings, but I head toward the pungent odor until I reach a swinging door.

  “Oh my goodness,” a woman’s voice sounds behind me with the click of her heels. “I forgot about the hot cocoa.” I step out of her way before she runs me over, but then I rush behind her into the insanely beautiful and enormous kitchen that’s hazy from the charred pot on the stove. She quickly turns off the burner.

  “Don’t touch,” I call out, but it’s too late. She touches the handle without gloves and sends the saucepan to the floor, screaming.

  I rush around, grabbing the oven mitts and pick up the pan, tossing it in the sink. Then I turn on the cold water, letting the faucet run in the other side of the double sink. “Soak your hands. I’ll look for a medical kit.” The room wafts with smoke, so I turn on the exhaust and then rush to the windows nearby, opening them to clear the air.

  I dig through the usual spots and right where I expect it, there’s a first aid kit. “Great. We need to put some cream on the burn, and then you can sit back and relax without touching anything for a long while.” It’s nothing new that I haven’t dealt with in the kitchen over the years. People lose their common sense when things get chaotic.

  “Thank you. I’m the housekeeper, Rita Watkins, and if you can’t tell, I’m a terrible cook. So bad that I can’t even make hot cocoa,” she says, half-smiling, half grimacing from the pain.

  “I’m Isabelle, and I’m a fabulous cook. Who normally does the cooking around here?” This place is meant to be enjoyed, and a sense of jealousy overcomes me. He let someone else feed him; it’s stupid and petty, but the hurt burns in my chest.

  “He has a personal chef, but he’s visiting family.” He? At least it’s not another woman.

  “Oh. That makes sense. It’s Christmas Eve, after all,” I say absentmindedly staring out the window. The snow falls heavily, and it would be picturesque if it weren’t for the ache in my chest. “I suppose the rest of the family isn’t coming tonight.”

  “No. They’ll be here tomorrow if the plows can make it through this mess. If not, Christmas will be postponed. The Fiore family doesn’t miss the Christmas holiday for anything, even if it takes a while to get all of them together. Although, with his accident a couple of years ago, Christmas was delayed until February. The weirdest Valentine’s Day ever,” she says with a giggle. “Singing Christmas carols around a large Christmas tree. That’s a very nice tradition to have as a family.”

  “How many family members are there?”

  “Not many. There is Franco, Fabio’s parents along with Mia, Soren, and their parents. That’s about the extent of the family, unless they start having babies.”

  “I’m sure Franco would have kids now if it wasn’t for the accident. It’s a shame he doesn’t have a girlfriend or wife, but I’m not surprised.” I lean in and whisper, “He’s got a very bad attitude.”

  “Well, some scars are hard to overcome.” I nod because my heart hasn’t recovered since either.

  His temper shows it. He’s like a beast with a thorn in his paw, not letting anyone in to rip it out.

  My heart skips a beat, thinking there’s no other woman in his life. Could I get him to want me?

  Chapter Nine

  Franco

  I hear her words, and my heart sinks further into the ground; if there’s any way she’d want me, those few syllables said it all. I barrel through the kitchen with the coolers, setting them on the kitchen island. “Here.”

  “Oh my God. Tell me you didn’t go out there in this,” Rita says, seeing me covered from head to toe in snow.

  I stare between the two women and then to the room where there are two windows open and the smell of burnt something assaults my nose. I’d almost prefer to be out in this blizzard. “What does it look like? What happened in here?”

  “I burned the hot cocoa.” Rita gives me a shrug, li
ke I should have known better than to put her anywhere near a stove, which is more than true.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have left you to your own devices in the kitchen.” I walk to the window and close one, then move on to the next, dusting the snow off my head.

  I don’t look at Isabelle as I strip out of my coat and scarf. “Your bag is in the front hall. Most of the staff is off to be with their families, so we’ll just have to make do.”

  “That’s fine, but you didn’t have to go out there,” she huffs, sounding annoyed that I’d do something kind for her. I shoot my gaze to hers and shake my head.

  “Well, you needed your meds, right?”

  “Yes, but I could have managed.”

  The thought of her suffering in any way guts me, hitting me hard and pissing me off. “Isabelle, just forget about it,” I bark out, knowing I’d do anything to ensure her safety.

  “Look, I get that you don’t want me here ruining your holiday, but at least stop being so damn rude.” She’s shaking in anger, or something else. Still, it’s her words that catch me off guard and confuse me.

  I tilt my head, eyes narrowing as I inch closer. “You think I don’t want you here?”

  “You said it to Fabio.”

  “He told you?”

  “No. I didn’t have my phone, but I heard you before I climbed into the tub. I don’t know what I did, other than agree to make you and your family dinner, but if you’re going to be an ass, I’ll quit working at Fabio’s unless he promises never to bring you a meal of mine again.”

  “Leave us,” I growl toward Rita, tilting my head slightly, but I keep my eyes on Isabelle.

  “I’ll go clean up.” She quickly and quietly leaves the kitchen.

  “Now, where were we?” I stalk around the counter, stepping closer to Isabelle, but she doesn’t back down. She stands her ground, her breathing grows harsher. “Oh, yes, I remember. You’re threatening to take away my favorite meal. I can’t have that, Bella mia. You have no idea how much I want you to stay right where you are.”