Three under the Mistletoe: A Christmas Menage Romance (Christmas Billionaire Menage Series Book 1)

by Tia Siren

“For the last time, Tyra, you will inherit this business.” Someone knocked on the door; it was his wife. “Tell her, Eliana. She doesn't believe me.”

  “How are you, Tyra? We are very worried about you,” she said, ignoring her husband's plea for help.

  “I've been better.” What are they playing at? she thought. Surely Jewish people don't give things away like this.

  “My husband, as you know, isn't given to pranks. We have decided to leave the business to you. Of course, you are young and have only just started in the business, but we see you have what it takes.” She put her hand on Tyra's shoulder and looked into her eyes. “You are intelligent, and you have an enormous appetite for the business. We have never seen anyone with your enthusiasm. We are both sixty next year, and all we have done with our lives is sit in this store.” She looked at her husband and gave him an assertive nod. “In five years’ time we will retire and travel. You will take over as manager, and when we die, it will all be yours. Take the time between now and then to learn all you can about the business.”

  “Are you okay to come back to work?” Radley asked. Tyra looked at him and burst into tears. It was a gesture so great that her emotions overflowed.

  Eliana sat on the chair arm and put her arm around her. “You have been through a lot, but you have us, and we will help you all we can.”

  *****

  Tyra started up Google and typed in “The Hope Diamond.” She read: value $350 million dollars, 45 karats, 9.1 grams. “Three hundred and fifty million dollars,” she whispered under her breath.

  She and Radley had agreed that she would work in the shop four days a week and spend two other days shadowing him. He'd made a list of things he had to teach her. He hadn't realized how long the list would prove to be. One thing he couldn't teach her was diamond cutting. While he was an expert at grading and valuing gems, he'd never enjoyed using tools. Tyra had told him that she'd go to college in her own time and learn.

  “How do you like your desk?” Radley asked as he poked his head into her new office. Tyra wondered if the room had been intended as a broom cupboard when the place was built, but she didn't want to complain. She was grateful it at least had a window and was more than grateful that the Samuelses had seen so much potential in her.

  “Lovely thanks. I was just looking up information on the Hope Diamond. It really is quite spectacular.”

  He stepped into the office and looked at the picture with her. “It sure is. One of the best diamonds in the world, and it's coming here. I can't quite believe it.”

  “Neither can I.” She'd never heard of the program called Diamonds for All before. It was an initiative set up by the National Association of Jewelers with the aim of bringing famous diamonds to places where the public could go and see them. Based on reputation, Radley had been asked if he would like to house the Hope Diamond when it came to New York. His store had the best security of any in the city, and it had a strong room big enough to house a large show cabinet, four security men, and the viewing public.

  “Listen, Tyra, I know I said I'd show you the sales figures this afternoon, but Mrs. Johnson has told me she's feeling ill and would like to go home. Can you fill in for her this afternoon?” Tyra nodded.

  The shop was divided into departments. Not that the clients would notice. To the untrained eye, the store was one large area full of glass cabinets. To the staff, however, it was different. Usually there were four sales people and two security guards on duty at any one time. Each sales person was responsible for six cabinets. Tyra didn't know why, but she enjoyed working on the cabinets where the most expensive ladies’ jewelry was housed.

  “Wow,” she muttered when she saw the man who was talking to Leon. Leon had a great eye for people and was a master at keeping scruffy, drunk, or loud people out of the store. The man Leon was talking to was none of these. He was beautifully dressed, six feet tall, and well built. Tyra wasn't an expert on men's suits, but she knew enough to see that it was expensive. Leon pointed to Tyra, and she watched as the man walked toward her. When he got closer, she saw the dreamiest emerald green eyes. She inadvertently adjusted her hair and checked to see if her blouse was tucked into her skirt.

  “Hi. I have an appointment. My name is Dima Asakov. I'm looking for some jewelry for my mother's birthday.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Although she had never seen him before, he was obviously one of the store's high net worth individuals. Very rich people were allowed to make an appointment, during which they got VIP treatment. Why don't you pamper me instead of your mother? she thought. I could use it right now. She was quick to chastise herself for being unprofessional.

  He noted her features with interest. Black, beautiful, tall, thin, lovely curves, perfect breasts, and beautiful face. His mother always said it was the sign of a classy man when the man kept eye contact with a woman despite the size of her breasts. Whenever he met a woman, he reminded himself of this. Most days it was easy, but today it required Herculean effort.

  “Follow me, Mr. Asakov.” The VIP suite was the most comfortable place Tyra had ever been in, but it lacked atmosphere. It wasn't used nearly as often these days. The financial crisis had seen to that.

  “Please take a seat,” she said. He chose the sofa. In the room, there were two armchairs and a sofa. Made of velvet, they were red, which gave the room a regal feel. Radley had spent a small fortune getting the lighting right. The ceiling was dotted with tiny spotlights, but around the sales table they were larger. The sales table was a small glass affair between the sofa and the armchairs, just a coffee table really. Radley had been advised that displaying jewelry in a homely setting would lead to more sales.

  “I'm Tyra. It's lovely to meet you. Tell me about your mother, about what kind of woman is she.” Tyra was the only sales assistant who bothered asking questions about the intended recipient. She thought it allowed her to make better choices on behalf of the clients.

  “Yes. Where shall I start?”

  “Well, how old is she?”

  “She's twenty-two years older than me,” he said.

  “Thirty-eight then,” she said, playing his own game.

  He laughed. “That would make me sixteen. “No. She's forty-nine.” Twenty-seven, Tyra calculated instantly.

  “Sorry, I know it's a lot to ask, but can you tell me what color eyes and hair she has? Is her skin light or dark?”

  “She's got blond hair, like mine, and her skin color is the same. Her eyes? Do you know, it's amazing how you think you know somebody so well and still don't know things like eye color.” He looked embarrassed. “Is it very important?”

  She nodded. “Have you got a sister?” He nodded. “Call her; she'll know.” After a very short conversation in Russian, he hung up.

  “Green,” he said. “Do you know what color eyes your mother has?” When her eyes dropped, he felt awkward. “Sorry. It's none of my business.”

  “She's dead. But most black people have brown eyes, so it's not so difficult in my case. How much do you want to spend today?”

  “My budget is five hundred thousand.” He said it without flinching, as if it was the kind of impulse buy mothers made to pacify their whining kids at the supermarket checkout.

  “Great. Well thank you for choosing Samuels. I hope we can find you just what you're looking for.” Tyra smiled at him. It wasn’t the usual friendly smile she reserved for people she liked, but the smile she hadn't used since she had fallen in love with her English teacher when she was sixteen.

  “Of course, if you really want to make me happy, you can sell me the Hope Diamond at a knockdown price,” he jested.

  “I would, but it won't be here for a few weeks,” she quipped. They both laughed. There was a silence as they looked at each other. It was one of those settling looks that left the participants at ease with each other. “Where did you read we are hosting the Hope Diamond?”

  “It was in the New York Times. They wrote a fascinating story about the life of the diamond, who'd owned i
t and where it had traveled to. It's been worn by some of the most beautiful women in the world. It would look really good on you.”

  He's looking at my breasts, she thought. Get some jewelry in front of him to look at. “All right, let’s get down to business. How about a matching necklace and earrings?” When he nodded, Tyra called security and got them to fetch the set Tyra herself admired more than anything in the store.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Tyra,” he said. She could tell it was genuine interest, not just conversation filler.

  “There isn't much to know really,” she said.

  “That can't be true. I'm sorry if this embarrasses you, but you are very attractive. A woman like you must have a lot of stories to tell. I bet you get hit on every day.”

  I do, she thought. In the subway, on the street, in restaurants, almost everywhere. “No, not really.”

  “You're kidding me. In that case, the male population of New York must be blind.”

  “All right, I lied. I do get comments all the time. I can't go anywhere without someone looking at me in an inappropriate manner or whistling at me.”

  “And do you like it when a man whistles at you?” he asked in a lower tone of voice.

  This isn't the kind of conversation you should be having with a client, she told herself. Not able to help herself, she continued. “Sometimes. It depends on who's whistling. If it's a group of guys on a building site, I don't mind because I know it's just a bit of fun. If it's a guy on the street next to me, it's too close and I feel threatened.”

  “And if I whistled at you now? How would that make you feel?”

  Don't answer that; he's flirting with you. “I'd like it,” she said as her eyes rolled away in embarrassment.

  “Let's see.” He looked around to make sure the door was still closed and then made a wolf whistle. “There. Did you enjoy that?”

  She was ashamed to say she had. It had been months since she'd had any real attention from a man. Just before her parents had died, she had talked with Natalie about it. Natalie told her it was because she was so beautiful and most men felt intimidated by her. She remembered telling Natalie she was mad.

  “It was nice. Flirty,” she answered.

  “Flirty? That's an interesting word.” He was about to say more, but security arrived with the jewelry.

  “There, what do you think?” she asked when the magnificent pieces were lying on the table in front of him.

  “Why are you so sad?” he said, ignoring what was in front of him. He saw her look into his eyes and then down at the jewelry. The speed with which she did it implied she wanted him to concentrate on what was in front of him, not on her. “Why?” he insisted.

  “My mom and dad died in a horrific car crash a few weeks ago.”

  “Jesus, I'm sorry. That's awful. How are you coping?”

  She admired him. Most people would have changed the subject, but he didn't. “Not very well.”

  “I'm not surprised. Can you talk about it?” Tyra had once read a book about body language, and the way he was sitting said to her that he was interested in her well-being and not after a cheap disaster story.

  “I don't know if I can talk about it. To be honest, I haven't really tried too much. I've mentioned things to Natalie, my best friend, and to Mr. Samuels, but really talk to someone about it, no. I haven't done that.”

  “What happened?” he asked directly.

  “Well, first of all, it was my fault.”

  “Were you driving?” he asked logically.

  “No. My father was driving. It's a long story.” She suddenly felt tired and alone. She realized she didn't want to talk about it.

  “Tell me. I want to help you. How do you expect to get better if you never tell anyone about it?”

  She was sick of feeling the way she did, and she desperately wanted to feel like she had before the accident, but she was afraid to let go. She was holding on to the pain because she felt she should be punished for what she had done.

  She decided she would try to open up. “I moved to New York from a small town just outside the city seven months ago. I applied for and got this job. I was so happy. I got a tiny apartment in Queens and decorated it just how I liked it. Pink everywhere.” She rolled her eyes at the ceiling in a display of irony. It should have been black, she mused. “Mom was forty-two when she had me. They had tried for twenty years to have a baby, and it finally happened.”

  Dima reached into his pocket and pulled out a clean tissue. Tyra dried her eyes and cleared her throat. No, I'm going to tell him, she told the voice of doubt in her head. “They were so happy with me. They weren't rich, but they worked hard to give me a good childhood. I wanted for nothing, and I felt their love, every single day. How many people can say that?”

  Dima nodded and thought about his own family—the polar opposite of Tyra's. Back in the days when he'd lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Moscow, his drunken father had beaten him black and blue for the slightest misdemeanor. His mother had tried to protect him, but when she had, his father had thumped her so hard, she'd had no choice but to cower away. What his father had forgotten was that little boys had good memories, and when they grow up they became strong. The look on the old bastard’s face when Dima had throttled him still amused him.

  Tyra continued. “When I left home, they were gutted. Of course, I was twenty-two and it was time. They realized that, but I could see how upset they were. What I couldn't understand was why they didn't come and visit me in my new home. I went to them most weekends, but they didn't come to me. I don't know why.”

  “Maybe they were afraid?”

  “Why?”

  “Because they didn't want to let go of their child, the child they so loved and cherished. Perhaps seeing you as a young adult, not needing them anymore, was too much.” He noticed that the look on her face had changed. Exploring her feelings seemed to have lifted a cloud, albeit a tiny one. “They tried for twenty years to have you. Surely it would have been hard to let go, no matter how old you were.”

  He was right, and she'd never seen it. How could she have been so lacking in understanding? she thought. “Yes, I guess that's it. That makes what happened all the harder to bear. I was being selfish. Have you got another tissue?”

  “Sure. Here.”

  “One weekend I decided I wouldn't go to them. I decided to make a stand and insist they come to me. I called them and started to moan at them.” A tear managed to escape the tissue and trickle down her cheek. “If I remember correctly, I told them they were unfeeling and not interested in me. I asked them why they hadn't been to see me, and I told them to get in their car and come, otherwise I wouldn't go home anymore.”

  “A moment of weakness,' he said.

  “A moment of madness. I don't know why. Suddenly I was lonely and afraid in the big city, and I needed them. It was pure selfishness. Anyhow, that morning it was foggy, so very foggy.” She shook her head. “I knew Dad hated driving in fog, and although he told me it was too foggy, I simply didn't listen. I just kept on moaning.”

  Dima already knew the rest of the story and thought she'd told him enough. “It's okay. I get the picture. You don't need to go on.”

  But Tyra wanted to go on. She wanted to finish. She wanted to confront herself. “Dad and Mom put on their Sunday best, filled the car with food, including three pots of my favorite honey, and set off in fifty-meter visibility.” I don't know if I can go on now, she thought. She took a glass from the table and tried to pour herself some water. When he saw her hand trembling, Dima took over.

  “Dad didn't drive too often. He only worked down the road, and he walked. Mom went on the bus. I don't even know why they had a car. Dad didn't see the slow-moving truck until it was too late.” She stopped and let out a sigh. “He ran into the back of it, bounced off it, and lost control. They found them at the bottom of a ravine. The car was burned out.”

  Dima just stared at her. Even for him, a man who had dispatched his own father, it was a hor
rendous story. “Tyra, I...” She looked at him and saw he was grieving for her.

  “Thank you. Thank you for listening to me.” He was a perfect stranger, and he'd listened to her not because he was curious, but because he—she was convinced— wanted to help. “How do I look?” she asked.

  “Your mascara has run a bit.”

  “Okay. Give me a minute and I'll be back.” She hurried to the restroom to repair the damage.

  Three security cameras here, he noted. Six in the main store. I need to get her to take me into the strong room, he told himself.

  “That's better,” she said when she reappeared. “What about the jewelry?” she asked.

  “I'll take it; it's perfect,” he said, noting how refreshed she now looked.

  “Don't you want to see anything else? You never know, you might change your mind.”

  “No. If I may say so, you chose the perfect gift right from the start. Can you get them wrapped for me?”

  “Sure. That's the least problem. Do you have a sure means of getting them home? We offer a—”

  “No, it's okay. People don't tend to steal from me.” Tyra noticed a flash of brutality in his voice.

  “Talking of security, you must have a lot here if they trust you with the Hope Diamond.”

  “Yes, I suppose we do. It's not really my department, although I guess one day I'll have to learn about it.”

  “Seeing as I spent so much here today, how about you show me where the Hope Diamond will be displayed? I'd love to have a preview.”

  “It's just a blank room with a lot of cameras. It's really not that exciting.”

  “Of course,” he said. Don't push it; you've got her in the palm of your hand, he thought. “Well, maybe I'll buy a ticket and come and see it when it's here. Listen, Tyra, I have enjoyed our chat. You are a fantastic lady. Would you care to go on a date with me?”

  A date? In her state? Nothing had been further from her mind. “Yes, I'd like that.” The words had slipped out before she could help herself.

  *****

  “What do you mean you didn't get to see it?” Sergey demanded. “You told me you had her eating from the palm of your hand.” Sergey was leaning against the wall in his store. Over the door, it said, Russian Store. It was really a front. Sergey used it to wash the cash he earned from his illegal drug dealing. The shop on Brighton Beach was big enough to put plenty of money through it but small enough to stay under the radar of the big boys.