by Jennie Lucas
When she didn’t move, he said mockingly, “Surely you’re not afraid of me, Miss Cannon?”
Biting her lower lip, she glanced up at his handsome face. She was afraid of him. Afraid of his wealth, his power and well-known ruthlessness.
But even more than that, she was afraid of the sensual reaction that overwhelmed her body every time he touched her. Every time he even looked at her.
She shook her head uneasily. “No,” she lied. “I’m not afraid of you at all.”
He held the door wider. “Then get in.”
Flurries of sleet swirled around Grace in a sudden gust of wind. Wet tendrils of blond hair whipped against her cheek, sticking to her skin. But she didn’t feel the chill. His gray eyes seared through hers, sapping her will.
And she made her choice—which was really no choice at all. She climbed into the back seat of his Rolls-Royce.
He closed the door behind her.
Once released from his basilisk gaze, alone in the back seat, Grace was as suddenly shocked as if she’d just woken up sleepwalking in Buckingham Palace. What was she doing here? It wasn’t a dream. She was really in Prince Maksim’s limo. She was consorting with the enemy.
But he’s not my enemy, she thought in confusion as she watched his dark shadow walk around to the other side. He’s Alan’s enemy. And what do people say? The enemy of my friend is my enemy? Or is it that the enemy of my enemy is my friend?
The door opened, and the most handsome, ruthless man in London climbed in beside her with a dark glance that made her feel hot and sweaty all over.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” she asked.
“Am I being nice?”
“If it’s to get secrets about my boss—”
“It’s Christmas. The season of joy.” Festive lights from the nearby shops glinted off his wolflike teeth as he gave her a sharp smile. “And I’m going to give you joy.” He turned to his chauffeur. “Davai.”
The shadowy Rolls-Royce swept away from the curb. And just like that, Prince Maksim Rostov took her away from the drudgery and crowds and cold, and swept Grace up into his lavish world.
CHAPTER TWO
MAKSIM glanced down at the girl’s lovely, dazzled blue eyes as his chauffeur drove east through the crowded traffic on Knightsbridge Road towards Mayfair. She’d called him “nice.” He repeated the word in his mind as if he were trying to comprehend it.
Nice?
Prince Maksim Ivanovich Rostov had not become powerful by being nice.
His great-grandfather had been nice during his Paris exile, spending money as if he were still Grand Duke with his own fiefdom in St. Petersburg, giving largesse freely to every hard-luck story that walked into his pied-à-terre.
His grandfather had been nice, spending what little remained of the Rostov fortune down to the last penny in London as he waited impatiently for the Russian people to kick out the Soviets and beg him to return.
His father had been nice, hopelessly trying to support his young, sweet American wife by taking increasingly humiliating jobs until he’d finally followed his father’s lead of suicide-by-vodka, leaving his gentle wife, eleven-year-old son and baby daughter to fend for themselves in her native Philadelphia.
But Maksim…
He was not nice.
He was selfish. He was ruthless. He took what he wanted. It was how he’d built a billion-dollar fortune out of nothing.
And now…he wanted Grace Cannon.
For the past hour, he’d been waiting for her. His chauffeur had driven back and forth on Brompton Road, waiting to catch the girl as she came up from the Knightsbridge Tube stop on the way home to her basement flat in Barrington’s town house.
This young American secretary was the key to everything.
She would help him finally crush Barrington. The man had been a thorn in his side for far too long, and now he’d finally crossed the line by taking both the deal—and the woman—that rightfully belonged to Maksim.
Barrington thought he’d saved himself from ruin by taking Francesca as his fiancée. He’d soon find it was his last mistake. He would get neither the bride nor the merger.
Maksim would destroy him. As he deserved.
And Grace Cannon would help him. Whether she wanted to or not.
Maksim turned to her with a smile. Unfolding a soft cashmere blanket, he draped it over her shivering body.
“Thank you,” she said, her teeth still chattering.
“It’s my pleasure.”
“You’re not what I expected,” she whispered, pressing the blanket against her cheek. “You’re not like everyone says.”
“What do they say?” He carelessly placed his arm on the leather seat behind her. She was still shivering. He moved closer. Even though she was now covered with a blanket, her shivering only increased when he touched her.
“They say…you’re a…ruthless playboy,” she said haltingly. “That you spend half your time conquering business rivals…and the other half making conquests of women.”
He laughed. “They are right.” He moved closer, looking down into her face. “That is exactly who I am.”
His thigh brushed against hers, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She scooted away from him as if he’d burned her.
She was skittish. Very skittish.
There were only three possible explanations.
One—she was afraid of him. He dismissed that idea out of hand. She wouldn’t have agreed to get in his car if she’d been truly afraid.
Two—she had no experience with men. He dismissed that idea, as well. A twenty-five-year-old virgin? Almost impossible in this day and age. Particularly since she not only worked for Alan Barrington, she lived in his house. He surely had seduced her many times over.
That left only the third possibility. She was ripe for Maksim’s conquest.
He slowly looked her over. She wasn’t a girl that any man would immediately notice. Compared to fiery bird-of-paradise Francesca, who had bright-red hair, sharp red nails and a vicious red mouth, Grace Cannon was a drab sparrow, pale and frumpy with barely a word to say for herself.
And yet…
Now that Maksim really looked at her, he saw that the girl wasn’t nearly as plain as he’d first thought. Her ill-fitting coat and wet ponytail had made her seem so, but now he realized his mistake.
The fact that she wore no makeup only revealed the perfection of her creamy skin. Her eyelashes and eyebrows were so light as to be invisible, but that proved the glorious pale gold of her hair came from nature, not a salon. She wore no lipstick and her teeth hadn’t been bleached to blinding movie-star whiteness, and yet her tremulous smile was warmer and lovelier than any he’d seen. She wasn’t stick thin as the strange fashion for women dictated, but her ample curves only made her more lushly desirable.
He suddenly realized the dowdy secretary was a beauty.
A secret beauty, disguising herself away from the world. Beneath the unattractive clothing and the frumpy, frizzy hairstyle, her loveliness shone bright as the sun.
She hid her beauty. Why?
“What’s wrong?” She frowned up at him suddenly, furrowing her brow in alarm.
Had she guessed his plan? “What, solnishka mayo?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“You’re beautiful,” he said simply. “Like sunshine in winter.”
She blushed, biting her tender pink lip as she looked away. Clutching the luxurious cashmere like a security blanket against her wet, threadbare coat, she scooted further away from him on the car’s leather seat. With a swallowed sigh, she stared out through the window at the passing Christmas lights beneath the thickly falling sleet. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know I’m not pretty.”
She didn’t know, he realized. She had no idea. She wasn’t purposefully hiding her beauty. She didn’t know.
“You are beautiful, Grace,” he said quietly.
At the use of her first name, she gave him a sudden fierce, sharp glance. “Don’t wast
e your flattery on me, Your Highness.”
He gave her an easy smile. “Call me Maksim. What makes you think it’s flattery?”
“You might be London’s most famous playboy, but I’m not that gullible. A few false compliments won’t make me blurt out details about the merger with Exemplary Oil. Alan has Lord Hainesworth’s support now. You won’t be able to win.”
So she was intuitive, as well as lovely. He was growing more intrigued by the moment. “I wasn’t lying.”
“I’m not a total fool. I know I’m not beautiful. There’s only one reason you’d say I am.”
“And that is?”
“You want me to betray Alan.” She lifted her chin. “I won’t. I’d die first.”
“Loyalty,” he said, staring at her with even greater interest. The girl felt something for her boss beyond what he’d expected. Was it possible she was in love with Alan Barrington?
A pity if the little secretary believed herself in love with him, Maksim thought. He’d just been starting to respect her.
Would money be enough to convince Grace to turn on her lover? Or would Maksim have to seduce her away from him?
Seducing a woman who was in love with another man would be an interesting challenge, he thought. And poetic justice.
But Maksim’s interest in Grace was no longer just about revenge. It was no longer just about rivalry or honor.
He suddenly wanted to peel away the deceptive layers of the little secretary’s plain clothing. To see her true beauty. To see her naked in his bed. To feel her lush curves against his body and see her bright, unadorned face breathless in the soft pink light of dawn.
Beneath his gaze, her pale cheeks went slowly red, like the blood-colored sun burning through the thick morning mist on the wide snowy fields of his Dartmoor estate. He watched as she nervously licked her full, pink, heart-shaped lips. Her white, even teeth nibbled at her lower lip, followed by a small dart of her tongue to moisten each corner of her mouth.
He felt himself go hard watching her.
He prayed she’d refuse his honest offer of money. Then he could just take her. Without conscience. Without remorse.
“The Leighton boutique is on Bond Street,” she stammered, caught in his gaze.
He gave a predatory smile. “My driver knows the way.”
“Of course he does. You date so many women, I bet you go there a lot.” She turned away, blinking fast as she stared out the window. Beneath her breath, she added wistfully, “It must be nice to never worry about money.”
A sudden memory went through Maksim of the bone-chilling winter when he’d turned fourteen. There’d been no heat in their tiny apartment; his mother had been laid off from her temp job. Three-year-old Dariya had been shivering and crying, and their desperate mother had taken her to a shelter to get warm. Wanting to help, he’d cut school to sell newspapers on the street in Philadelphia. Freezing rain soaked through everything. It had taken three days afterward for Maksim’s coat to dry—three days of winter so cold it left his skin the color of ash. Three days of a wet, icy wind that seeped beneath his clothes and left him shaking till his teeth chattered.
Three days of hiding the wet coat from his mother, knowing that she would insist on giving him her own, that she’d go without a coat herself as she trudged the distance between employment agencies, desperate to find a job, any job.
Those three days had taught him the most valuable lesson of his life.
Money made the difference between a good life and no life at all.
Money fixed anything. Money fixed everything.
And you didn’t get it by being nice.
“What a fairy-tale life,” the girl whispered, staring out the window at all the well-dressed shoppers on Bond Street, the expensive cars, the festive decorations and lights of Christmas. “A perfect fairy-tale life.”
Looking at her wistful beauty, Maksim suddenly had the strong desire to tell this naive girl the truth about his ruthless soul.
But he didn’t. She’d learn it soon enough.
She’d learn it the hard way.
Grace Cannon would tell Maksim what he needed to know. He would try to buy the information. If that didn’t work, he’d seduce it from her.
Or maybe, he thought suddenly as he looked down at her, he would seduce her anyway.
He would show this little secretary a kind of romance she’d never seen before. Luxury on a grand scale. He would be lavish. He would kiss her senseless. And like every woman before her, she would fall.
He would make her talk.
He would take her body.
Then…he would drop her.
A man didn’t get rich—or win—by being nice.
CHAPTER THREE
ELEGANT shops always made Grace uncomfortable, and the Leighton boutique was the snootiest shop on Bond Street.
She could feel herself tensing up the moment she walked through the door, past grim-jawed security guards in suits like FBI agents. They gave her a hard stare, and she had the sudden feeling they were waiting for her to make one false step so they could take her down as a warning to other broke secretaries who might try to venture inside this rarefied, exclusive world.
Grace swallowed, looking around the elegant primrose-colored boutique. Buying the lingerie the first time had just about killed her. Buying it on behalf of the man she loved, as a gift for another woman—in such a teensy, tiny size, to boot—was just another painful reminder of the fact that Alan had chosen Lady Francesca Danvers over her. The moment Alan had met the beautiful, wealthy aristocrat, he’d forgotten all about the drunken kiss he’d given Grace just the previous night.
It had been Grace’s very first kiss. But for him it had been instantly forgettable.
“Back again, I see,” the snooty salesgirl sniffed. She looked dismissively from Grace’s worn, wet coat to her scuffed-up boots. “Here to do more Christmas shopping for your boss?”
“I, um, yes.” She swallowed. “I need more lingerie. The same exact one. I lost—”
But as she spoke, the salesgirl’s eyes moved over her shoulder as someone new entered the shop.
Grace didn’t need to look around to know it was Maksim. She knew from the immediate electricity in the room. She knew from the thousand watts that lit up the salesgirl’s face as she nearly knocked Grace over in her haste to cross the marble floor. Reaching toward him. Wanting him like every woman in London.
Every woman except her, Grace told herself. He was dangerous and handsome and powerful, and he was her enemy. She didn’t want him. She didn’t.
“Your Highness! Such a pleasure to see you again,” the brunette cried. “We have plenty of new stock—I’d love to show it to you!”
It was painfully obvious to Grace what the salesgirl would really love to show Maksim. For no good reason she felt herself get tight and tense all over. She turned away, used to feeling invisible. In her job, on the street, living alone in a foreign country…invisible. Alone.
Then she felt a strong masculine hand on her shoulder.
“You will start by getting my beautiful friend a replacement of the lingerie she bought,” Maksim said to the salesgirl. He looked down at Grace. “Then—you will get her anything else she desires in the store.”
“Yes, of course, Your Highness,” the salesgirl gasped, her mouth a round O as she looked at Grace with new respect.
His steel-gray eyes and the touch of his hand caused a flash of heat to spread through her body.
“I splashed you with my car,” he said. “It was an unforgivable rudeness. The least I can do is buy you new clothes. A new coat.”
Grace stared at him, warmth cascading all over her. A moment before, she’d felt so invisible and cold, but with one touch he made her feel alive. With one word he’d made her feel she had value in the world.
“Anything you want, Grace,” he said softly, stroking her cheek. “Anything at all. It will be my deepest honor to provide.”
A shudder of longing went through her. Her
face turned involuntarily toward his touch, and his hand cupped her cheek. She tried to pull away from him, but her feet weren’t working properly. Neither was the rest of her.
Except for her breasts which started to ache, sending sizzles of longing down to her deepest core.
And at that moment Grace started to realize how dangerous the dark prince truly was.
She licked her lips. “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly accept.”
His hand traced lightly down her neck to her shoulder, to her coat. “Why do you hide in these clothes, Grace? Why are you afraid to show the world your beauty?”
He really thought she was pretty? It hadn’t just been flattery? Her mind was spinning a million directions at once, and as long as he kept touching her she couldn’t think straight. “I—”
“This would look lovely on you.”
He touched a lovely pink nightgown displayed on a white headless mannequin. The silk and lace were the blush color of a spring rose, and while the low-cut neckline was covered in lace, the rest of the fabric went elegantly to the floor.
Grace, who normally slept in T-shirts and flannel pants, couldn’t imagine sleeping in anything so sybaritic and luxurious.
Against her will, her eyes traced the shape of Maksim’s muscular fingers against the delicate silk. She had the sudden image of what it might feel like to be in that nightgown with his hands on her. To be touched and caressed and stroked through the silk by his strong, powerful touch.
Grace fiercely shook the evocative image out of her mind.
What was wrong with her? She was growing as headless as the mannequin! No man had ever seen her in nightwear. Not even in her flannel pajamas. And it was likely to remain so!
“I’m not in the habit of letting strangers buy me nightgowns,” she said, pulling her hand away from him and forcibly turning her back on the lovely pink silk.
“No lingerie, then,” he said, sounding amused. “In that case, a coat. This one?”
“A coat?” She turned around, tempted. In spite of the cashmere blanket and warmth of his car, she was still shivering from the melted sleet and slush seeping through her old camel-colored coat. Having never owned a proper coat in California, she’d bought this one at a charity shop in London. It had seemed serviceable enough, and the price had been right. But it didn’t hold up very well to rain, and was terribly ugly in the bargain, though Grace tried not to care.
