SNOWED IN WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘I don’t want anything dusted,’ Angus told her.

  ‘I’m not serving my food on dust.’

  ‘Forgive me.’ He was starting to feel bemused. This woman looked a waif but she was a waif with attitude. ‘And forgive our cavalier treatment of you. But you don’t look like a cook to us.’

  ‘That’s because I’m a chef,’ she retorted. Her cheeks were flushed crimson and he thought it wasn’t just the cold. Stanley’s rejection was smarting.

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘Of course.’ She hauled a couple of typed sheets from the pocket of her greatcoat, handed them over and waited while he unfolded and skimmed them.

  He felt his brows hike as he read. This was impressive. Really impressive. But...

  ‘You’re asking us to believe you’re a chef from Australia—yet your résumé is typed on letterhead paper from the Craigenstone Library.’

  ‘That’s because Doris, the librarian, is a friend of my grandmother,’ she said patiently. ‘I’m here on holiday, visiting my Gran, and Gran doesn’t have a printer. For some weird reason, I failed to bring copies of my résumé with me.’

  ‘So why are you applying for a job?’

  ‘It seems I’m not,’ she said. ‘Lurch here has told me you’re not interested, so that’s it. Meanwhile, I’m freezing. You’ve made me stand in six inches of snow while you’ve checked out my résumé and I’ve had enough. Merry Christmas. Gran was right all along. Bah, humbug to you both.’

  And she turned and stalked off.

  Or she would have stalked off if she had sensible shoes with some sort of grip, but the canvas trainers she was wearing had no grip at all. The cobbles were icy under the thin layer of freshly fallen snow. She slipped and floundered, and she started falling backward.

  She flailed—and Angus caught her before she hit the ground.

  * * *

  One minute she was stomping off in righteous indignation. The next she was being held in arms that were unbelievably strong, gazing up into a face that was...that was...

  Like every fairy tale she’d ever read. This was the Lord of Castle Craigie. She could see why the old Earl had been able to coerce women to marry him, she thought, dazed. If Gran was right, if the acorn hadn’t fallen far from the tree, if this guy was like all the Earls before him...

  Tall, dark and dangerous seemed an understatement. This guy was your quintessential brooding hero, over six feet tall, with lean, sculpted features, hard, chiselled bone structure, deep grey eyes, strong mouth and jet-black hair.

  He was wearing a gorgeous soft tweed jacket. What was more, he was wearing a kilt! Oh, my...

  But Gran had told her the current Earl was American. What was an American doing wearing a kilt?

  According to Gran, he’d been an indulged but lonely child. Apart from some scandal with a dead fiancée, he seemed only interested in making money. He’d sounded aloof, alone, like his father before him.

  She’d been prepared to dislike him on sight, but sight wasn’t being very helpful right now. None of his background stood out on his face. None of those things seemed important.

  Oh, that kilt...

  ‘Are...are you really the Earl?’ He was cradling her as if she were a child, and for some reason it was the only thing she could think of to say. Are you really the Earl? How stupid was that?

  ‘Yes,’ he said and the edges of his wide mouth quirked into what was almost a smile. ‘But only for a few weeks.’

  ‘You’re American.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why are you wearing a kilt?’

  What was she doing? She should be saying, Thank you for stopping me falling but you can put me down now. She should say any number of things regarding the way he was holding her, but he’d scooped her up, he was holding her against his barrel-strong chest and, for a moment, for just a moment, Holly was letting herself disappear into fantasy.

  She’d tell this to Maggie. He swept me up into his arms, Gran, and oh, he was gorgeous...

  Maggie would toss a bucket of cold water over her.

  Reality hit as hard as her grandmother’s imaginary water, and she wriggled with intent. Reluctantly, it seemed, he set her onto her feet again, but he didn’t let her go. The ground was still slippery and his hands stayed firmly on her shoulders.

  ‘American or not, for now I’m Laird of the Castle,’ he told her, smiling down at her. It was a killer smile. It made her insides...

  Well, enough. She had enough to tell Maggie without letting her imagination take her further.

  And Maggie would remind her sharply—as she’d told her last night, ‘He’s not our Laird. Most owners of estates in Scotland are referred to as Lairds or Himself, because they care for the land, and for the people they employ. Not him. We’ve never had a Lord who came close to being Himself. Don’t you trust him an inch, lass. Not one inch.’

  ‘We’ve been showing buyers over the estate,’ he was saying, cutting over her thoughts. ‘International buyers. For some reason, the realtor thinks it’s important for me to look Scottish. My father has a room full of family tartan, kilts for all sizes, so I’ve been striding along beside would-be buyers, grunting, trying not to sound American, while Stanley here has been answering questions in his broadest Scottish brogue. Which is why I’m looking like the Lord of All He Surveys, off to round up my trusty men for a spot of pillaging of the surrounding villages. Pure fantasy.’ He grinned. ‘Right. I’ve told you mine, now it’s your turn. Holly McIntosh, if you’re a skilled chef, why are you standing on my doorstep asking for a job wearing sodden canvas trainers and a greatcoat that looks like it was worn during World War One?’

  ‘Because I’m indulging in my fantasy of not freezing for Christmas,’ she said, so flustered she let honesty hold sway. Don’t trust, Gran had told her. She should have added, Keep twenty feet away. ‘Can you let me go? I need to get home before my feet drop off from frostbite.’

  ‘Come in,’ he said, gently now, almost seductively, and she shivered.

  ‘I need...’

  ‘To get warm. You came to apply for a job. Let’s think about both. I have a blazing fire inside, hot tea or whisky if you prefer, cake—bought fruit cake admittedly, but at least it’s cake—and Stanley will drive you back to the village when we’re finished.’

  ‘Finished what?’ she demanded, maybe stupidly, but, to her astonishment, his smile broadened. The twinkle in those dark eyes seemed pure mischief. Dangerous mischief.

  ‘When I’ve had my wicked way with you. Of course, being Lord of Castle Craigie, I’ve had my wicked way with every maiden in the village.’ And then he chuckled, a lovely deep chuckle that matched his smile exactly. ‘Sorry,’ he said as he saw her expression. ‘there’s my fantasies running away with me again. That’s the man in the kilt speaking, not me.’

  ‘You’re...’ She could barely get her voice to work. ‘You’re not usually into wicked ways?’

  ‘Nope. That’s my kilt-wearing dark side. The normal me wears chinos, and I swear I’m not into pillaging at all.’ He held up his hands as if to say, Look, I’m unarmed and innocent—which he didn’t look at all. ‘But I’m leaving my dark side out in the snow for now. I’ll change back into Angus Stuart, Corporate Financier from Manhattan, if it reassures you. It’s what I’ve been up to now and I’ll be again soon. But please, Miss McIntosh, come in and get warm and let me reread your résumé.’

  Whoa. She took a deep breath, trying to recover from the way his arms had felt—were feeling. From the way that beguiling smile made her feel. From the sheer size and presence of the man. And the way that kilt...

  Aagh. Stick to your guns, she told herself, desperately. Don’t trust. You’re here to apply for a job—two jobs—and you’re useless unless you stick to what you intended.

  Useless.

 
The adjective swirled, bringing her back to reality with a sickening thud. Useless was the word that had been hanging over her for months. That and stupid.

  Stick to what you need.

  ‘It’s two jobs or nothing,’ she managed.

  ‘Sorry?’ Angus said, confused.

  ‘I said, this is two jobs. I’m only interested in one, and I’m only interested if you accept us both. I won’t clean. I’ll cook all you like but nothing else. Gran’s attending a funeral or she’d be here with me but she’s applying as well. I have her résumé with me, too.’

  ‘It’s just the one job!’ All this time Stanley had been standing to the side, glaring at this intrusion to his territory, but now he’d decided it was time to intercede. ‘We advertised one position, My Lord. I’m sure we can find some other woman to take the role.’

  ‘Not before Christmas, we can’t,’ Angus said. ‘No one’s applied since we’ve had the advertisement up.’

  ‘It’s still the one job,’ Stanley said flatly.

  ‘Right,’ Holly said, reality slamming back. Oh, her feet were cold. ‘That’s that then. Thank you for your offer of whisky and fruit cake—and even taking your kilt off!—but we’re wasting each other’s time. Merry Christmas to you both and goodbye.’

  And with that she hauled away from Angus’s hold, turned and stomped—gingerly—away.

  * * *

  ‘If you’d really wanted a cook you should have used the newspapers,’ Stanley said dourly as they watched her go.

  He should have, he conceded. If he’d really wanted a cook.

  He didn’t want a cook. If he found a cook he’d be obliged to have his half-siblings here for Christmas. He’d be obliged to turn this castle into a home, even if it was only for three weeks.

  He didn’t want to.

  Why?

  Because, kilt or not, this place wasn’t fantasy as much as tragedy. Black tragedy. His mother had pleaded with him not to come, and she’d be devastated if he extended his stay.

  And he did not want a family Christmas. He didn’t do Christmas. Had Louise’s death and his mother’s tragedy taught him nothing?

  He was watching Holly stomp back across what had once been the site of a drawbridge but was now a snow-covered cobbled path and something inside him was twisting. He watched the determined set of her shoulders and he thought how she’d walked all the way from the village in canvas trainers to apply for a job he didn’t want to give.

  He should have said no to Ben.

  He shouldn’t even have come himself. He’d been stunned by his mother’s reaction, her emotion as raw as if the tragedy had happened last week rather than over thirty years ago.

  ‘Don’t go near that place. Sell it fast, to the highest bidder. You don’t need it. Give the money to charity—I don’t care—just get rid of it, Angus.’

  But he’d wanted to see.

  He was the new Earl of Craigenstone. He had no intention of taking up the title, but still he wanted to see what he was letting go—as his half-brother and -sisters wanted to revisit what they were letting go. They’d lived in this place until three years ago. Their father had barricaded the place against them when their mother left, but they’d have memories and they wanted to see.

  Please... The plea had been heartrending.

  This wasn’t about him, he thought savagely. The old Earl had had four children. Why was it just him making the decisions?

  So... He’d just been offered staff. Why refuse? Personal selfishness? Just like his father?

  He was watching Holly McIntosh march away from the castle with as much dignity as she could muster and he was thinking of his father’s reputation. Mean. Selfish.

  He was not like his father. Surely.

  This was only for three weeks and then it’d be done. Surely his mother could cope if he explained. Surely it was time they both rid themselves of demons.

  Decide now, he told himself, and he did.

  ‘Holly...’ His voice rang out over the crisp white snow, and she heard even though she was two hundred yards away.

  She turned and glared, her hands on her hips. This was no normal employee, he thought. If he hired her, he’d be hiring spirit.

  Christmas spirit? Holly. The thought had him bemused.

  ‘It can be two jobs,’ he conceded, but her hands stayed on her hips and her belligerence was obvious.

  ‘Wages?’ she called, not moving.

  ‘What’s the standard wage around here for a cook?’ he demanded of Stanley and Stanley glared at him as if he was proposing spending Stanley’s money instead of the estate’s. The figure he threw at him sounded ridiculously low.

  And...I’m a chef.

  Holly’s words had been an indignant claim to excellence and pride had shown through.

  If he employed her he’d have a chef for Christmas. And a housekeeper. Christmas. He thought of his father’s reputation and he looked at Stanley’s dour face and he thought that some things had to change, right now.

  ‘I’ll pay you three times basic cook’s wages and I’ll hire you and your grandmother as a team,’ he called. And then, as Holly’s expression didn’t change, he added, ‘I’ll pay the same rate to you both.’

  ‘My Lord!’ Stanley gasped, but he was ignored. Holly’s expression was changing. She was trying not to look incredulous, he realised, but she was failing. ‘Each?’

  ‘Yes.’ He grinned, seeing her inner war. ‘Eight-hour days and half days off on Sunday. It’s three weeks of hard work, but the money will be worth it. I can’t say fairer than that.’

  She took a deep breath. He could see she was searching for the indignant, assertive Holly he’d seen up until now, but his offer seemed to have sucked all indignation out of her.

  ‘Are...are meals and accommodation included?’ she ventured, sounding cautious. Very cautious. As if he might bite.

  ‘I guess. But why do you need accommodation?’

  ‘We don’t have a car,’ Holly told him. ‘And, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s snowing and your driveway is a disgrace. It took me half an hour to trudge up here and Gran’s not as young as she used to be.’ She tilted her chin and met his gaze head on. ‘And our accommodation has to be heated.’

  ‘Heated!’ Stanley gasped, as though the word was an abomination, and Angus thought of the freezing, musty bedrooms throughout the castle, and the great draughty staircases and how much effort and expense it would take to get this place warm by Christmas. The snug had the only fireplace that didn’t seem to be blocked.

  But Holly was glaring a challenge and all of a sudden he was thinking of his half-brother and -sisters, who’d lived for years under these conditions, with the old man’s temper as well, and he thought...maybe he could put the effort in. Maybe he could make the place less of a nightmare for them to remember. He was not his father.

  ‘Done,’ he said. ‘With one proviso.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘That you come in now, dry out and tell me why you’re wearing those stupid sodden shoes.’

  ‘I need to get back to Gran.’

  ‘We’ll drive you back in a few minutes,’ he said, goaded. ‘But I’ll dry you out first. I believe I just hired you. You’re therefore my employee. You can sue me if you’re injured on the way to and from work, so I’m looking after my investment. Come into my castle, Miss McIntosh, and we’ll talk terms.’

  ‘And have some of that fruit cake?’ For heaven’s sake, he thought, stunned. She sounded hungry!

  ‘I believe that can be arranged.’

  ‘Then your offer is gratefully accepted,’ she said and trudged back towards them. She reached the front steps and Angus walked down to meet her. He held out his hand to steady her as she climbed the icy stone steps. She stared at his hand for a long moment and then she
shook her head.

  ‘I’ll do this on my own terms, if you don’t mind,’ she said briskly. ‘I need your job. I’d also quite like your fruit cake, but I don’t need anything else.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She peeped a smile at him and he saw the return of a mischief that he suspected was a latent part of this woman. ‘So any thought that you might be having your wicked way with the hired help, put out of your mind right now, Lord Craigenstone. Just leave that dark side you’re talking about outside. I might be coming to live in your castle, but I know my rights. Also, I’ve just been burned. Ravishment isn’t in any employment contract I intend to sign, now or ever.’

  Copyright © 2013 by Marion Lennox

  ISBN-13: 9781460322864

  SNOWED IN WITH THE BILLIONAIRE

  Copyright © 2013 by Caroline Anderson

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