Winter's Gift: A poignant, funny and sizzling-hot billionaire romance (Bistro La Bohème Series)

by Alix Nichols

  Boris smirked. “Trust me, you won’t have to try for very long. I’ve watched her from afar for a week now. She’s always by herself. Doesn’t seem to have any friends in Paris.”

  “How come?”

  “She’s new here. She’s shy. And here comes a handsome educated boy like you offering friendship? Oh, I think she’ll be interested.”

  “Give me a day to think about it.”

  Boris nodded and pushed a photo in front of Rob. “Her name is Lena.”

  Rob looked at the picture, then at Boris. “That’s her? I’ve seen this girl down here a couple of times, with her books and laptop.” He paused before adding, “Are you sure it’s her?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Rob shrugged. “She just doesn’t look like a Russian minigarch to me. Where are the oversized sunglasses, tons of makeup, extravagant shoes, and the flashy Louis Vuitton handbag? She looks like the girl next door.”

  “Must be her Swiss boarding school education. Then again, Anton Malakhov isn’t your stereotypical Russian oligarch either.”

  * * *

  Stepping out of the cheese shop, Lena eyed the stately—albeit a little worn—limestone building on the other side of rue Cadet.

  My new home.

  Her gaze lingered on the café, Bistro La Bohème, that occupied part of the ground floor. It had all the requisite attributes of a Paris café: red awnings, wicker chairs, and tiny round tables overflowing onto the sidewalk. Over the past week, the bistro had become her stomping ground.

  She crossed the street, keyed in the code and pushed the green gate that creaked open onto a cobbled courtyard. Across the way, she had to enter a second code to gain access to a glass door before she stepped into the foyer. The building smelled of old floorboards and something much less enchanting.

  Trash.

  What a change after her sterile student residence in Geneva!

  A few minutes later, Lena and her grocery bags were safely inside her apartment. She went straight to the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, tired after her long walk and grocery shopping. But it was “good tired.” She liked the 9th arrondissement, or le neuvième, for its diversity. Quintessentially French, le neuvième was also Jewish, Armenian, Greek, and Arabic. Its arched passages cutting through handsome buildings were lined with antique shops and secondhand bookstores. Its streets ran in wayward directions, forming a web rather than a grid. She would do something celebratory, she resolved, the day she managed to find her way around the 9th without a map.

  Originally, Lena was supposed to move into a high-end apartment complex in the posh 16th arrondissement. But having spent the past seven years of her life in Switzerland, she refused to live in a place that would remind her of its eerie neatness.

  Not that she’d been unhappy in Switzerland. She’d had absolutely no reason to be. She was the pampered heiress to an oligarch. Like many minigarchs, she’d been sent to one of the best European boarding schools at the age of sixteen. When she decided to continue her education at the University of Geneva, she got her father’s full support. She’d been happy in Switzerland, Lena repeated to herself, even as her mind flashed an image of her last picnic with Gerhard. The one that put an end to their relationship.

  “I’m moving to Paris,” she had announced as soon as they sat on the campus lawn, with their croissants and paper coffee cups.

  “Oh,” Gerhard had said.

  As she waited for him to say something more, she began to feel the dampness of the grass through her jeans. She shifted to sit on her heels. An early morning picnic in April, without a blanket to buffer the dew, had been a dumb idea.

  As the silence stretched, and the dark sky threatened to burst out sobbing any minute, Lena wished they’d picked a spot by the wall.

  So that she could bang her head against it.

  “Why now? It’s only a couple of months until our graduation,” Gerhard said at length.

  “I want to write my thesis there.”

  “Isn’t it easier to write it on campus?”

  “It is. But I’d rather do it in Paris.”

  Come on, get mad. At least annoyed. Anything.

  He shrugged. “OK, then.”

  Her throat hurt. It was amazing she could still breathe given the size of the lump that had formed there. She’d been stupid to think she could provoke him into an emotional outburst. This was Gerhard—a paragon of self-control.

  “After I get the degree,” she said. “I’ll probably go back to Moscow. Or maybe stay in Paris for a year. I haven’t decided yet.”

  He stared at her.

  Ask me to stay. Please. Just ask.

  “I don’t like Paris,” he said. “It’s noisy and dirty. And polluted.”

  She gave him a long unblinking stare, and then shifted her gaze to the vast lawn. So much for her brilliant idea to shake him up a little.

  This is it—the end.

  “I’ll visit you,” he said with the enthusiasm of a child in front of boiled broccoli.

  “No you won’t,” she said with a sad smile.

  He didn’t argue.

  Over the next week, she packed up, found a place in Paris, and left.

  And now look at her! How could she feel so content only two weeks after breaking up with her boyfriend of two years? Must be this city, operating its magic. Even the embryonic state of her thesis couldn’t bring her down.

  Lena looked forward to her dad’s usual seven o’clock call so that she could share her high spirits with him.

  When he called, she had just arrived in the downstairs bistro.

  “So, how was your eighth day in Paris?” Anton asked.

  “Fantastic. But then again, how could it be otherwise?”

  “I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you. Haven’t you heard about these poor Japanese tourists?” he asked.

  “I thought they were rather rich.”

  “Poor as in unfortunate. They arrive in Paris with such an idealized image that they can’t handle its dirty streets, rude waiters, and aggressive pigeons. There’s a special agency now that repatriates them to Japan before they completely lose it and jump from the top of Notre Dame.”

  Lena laughed. “I may have arrived here from Switzerland, but let’s not forget I’m a Muscovite. I’m sure I can handle dirty streets and rude waiters. As for the pigeons, I already have an arrangement with the ones on my street.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “I share my croissant with them, and in exchange they protect me from other pigeons. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Yeah, I wish the pigeons were my only worry, Lena.” Anton’s tone had grown too serious for Lena’s liking. “You’re all alone in Paris, with no one to go to if you need help.”

  Oh please, not again. Next, he’d bring up her heart condition and how she couldn’t be too careful. He made a huge deal out of her arrhythmia. Even when her cardiologist didn’t. All the good doctor had asked her to do was avoid strenuous effort and saunas.

  Anton took an audible breath. “In Geneva, you had Marta and Ivan. They’re like family. They know what to do, should you . . . feel unwell.”

  “Dad, I too know what to do, should I feel unwell.”

  “Of course, you do. But it’s not just that. Marta and Ivan had you over for dinner every week, you enjoyed playing with their kids, they took care of you when you had the flu.”

  All of it was true, and she didn’t know how to argue with that.

  “I don’t have anyone in Paris whom I could ask to watch over you like that,” he said.

  “I don’t need—” she started.

  “I’m going to hire someone, Lena. Besides everything else, I’m worried about your safety. There are people who may want to harm me and . . .”

  Anton didn’t finish the sentence, but Lena knew it was about his haunting fear that someone might kidnap her for ransom. Or worse—hurt her as a way of hurting him. She didn’t want to make light of his fears. But she also knew that if she didn’t nip
this idea in the bud, she would find herself encumbered with a chaperon for the rest of her stay in Paris.

  “Dad, I wasn’t yet seventeen when you sent me off to Switzerland,” she said patiently. “I’m twenty-three now and I’m capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Hmm.”

  Lena chose to ignore that. “Besides, nobody knows I’m in Paris. To anyone outside our closest circle I’m still in Geneva.”

  Anton didn’t argue with that, which was a good sign. Lena continued with as much conviction as she could muster. “I’m perfectly safe here, don’t you see? I’m a Miss Nobody. And if I ever get lonely, I can just jump on the train and go to Marta and Ivan’s.”

  Thankfully, her mention of the family friends reminded Anton to give Lena their regards, after which he told her about her grandparents’ Black Sea vacation. The conversation ended on an upbeat note, and Lena hung up relieved.

  “Ready to order, mademoiselle?”

  She looked up. The waiter standing by her table was in his midtwenties and very good-looking. Scratch that, he was jaw-droppingly handsome in that dark, intense and yet wholesome way the ancient gods could be. And it wasn’t just his face. He was tall—well, French-tall, not Dutch-tall—lean, and broad shouldered. He was wearing the same café uniform all other waiters wore: a stark white shirt, black pants, and a long black apron tied around his hips. Lena mentally whistled at how it emphasized the exquisite narrowness of said hips.

  She ordered her dish and a bottle of mineral water.

  “No wine? Are you expecting someone later or will you be dining by yourself?” the black-aproned Adonis asked.

  “It’s none of your business, monsieur,” she said curtly.

  His question made her regret she didn’t have company tonight. It made her want to tell him she was waiting for her boyfriend—no, her two boyfriends. She itched to wipe that grin off his face and tell him to find another victim for his snobbery.

  She composed herself, straightened her back, and said, looking past him, “Would you kindly relay my order to the chef and then tend to your other customers?”

  “So much impertinence in one so young.” He shook his head admonishingly. “I’ll be back with the water as soon as I possibly can. We’re very busy today, you see.” He smiled.

  Was he provoking her? She decided she didn’t care, gave him a cursory nod, and pulled out her iPad. She had a more important matter to consider than the shoulder-to-hip ratio of male servers.

  She had to figure out what to write to her mom.

  ~~~

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  ~~~

  Amanda’s Guide to Love

  (Bistro La Bohème Series)

  Parisian career woman Amanda Roussel lives in denial of her desperate loneliness.

  Gypsy gambler Kes Moreno knows he’s in trouble when he falls for Amanda after a one-night stand.

  Can he convince the snarky belle they’re right for each other?

  ~~~

  Chapter One

  Rock Bottom

  A Woman’s Guide to Perfection

  Guideline # 1

  The Perfect Woman doesn’t do one-night stands.

  Rationale: One-night stands (ONS) are always disappointing, often hazardous, and invariably awkward.

  A word of caution: If you are a frequent ONSer, shut this book right now and give it to someone who may benefit from it. You will never be a Perfect Woman. Ever.

  Permissible exception: A prolonged dry spell between boyfriends or a highly stressful life event.

  Damage control: (a) make sure the sex is safe, (b) make sure your person is safe, (c) leave or kick him or her out before breakfast, (d) wash your body squeaky clean, (e) scrub the memory of the episode from your brain.

  Pitfalls to avoid: (a) giving him or her your phone number, (b) telling your best friend about it, (c) thinking that a one-night stand could ever lead to a relationship.

  ~ ~ ~

  Amanda stared at the typed letter. Neatly strung words zoomed in and out of focus as their meaning sank in. Mademoiselle Roussel . . . I regret to inform you . . . with immediate effect.

  She swallowed hard and slipped the letter into her purse.

  Most of her colleagues would cheer at the news. They’d rush into each other’s offices and say, “Did you hear? Viper Tongue got the sack! Serves her right.” Some of them might send around an e-mail invite for a celebratory drink. Others would just shrug and say good riddance.

  Would anyone feel sorry for her? She furrowed her brow. Karine would. And maybe Paul from accounting. Perhaps even Sylvie from marketing, unless she was on meds again and not feeling anything at all.

  But none of it really mattered.

  What did matter was that the end of the world was upon her. Her personal, localized Armageddon had arrived in an innocent-looking envelope with the Energie NordSud logo on it.

  Amanda grabbed her handbag and marched out the door. Keeping her back as straight as she could, she strode through the hallway, down the marble staircase, and out the main entrance.

  Eyes on the gate, one foot in front of the other.

  She nodded to the security guard and passed through the turnstile.

  “Mademoiselle Roussel?” the guard asked, looking at his computer screen and then at her.

  “Yes?”

  “I must collect your access card.”

  “I’ll come back next week to gather my things,” she said as flatly as she could, handing him her card.

  He nodded. “We’ll let you in. Just make sure your visit is supervised by Monsieur Barre.”

  “Of course.”

  Amanda turned on her heel and marched away, hoping the guard hadn’t seen her grimace. Truth was she’d rather donate her fine glass paperweight and Bodum French press to the company than ask Julien Barre—the bastard who’d fired her—to allow her to clean out her desk.

  And have him breathe down her neck while she was doing it.

  In the métro car, Amanda’s eyebrows rose at the number of vacant seats before she remembered it was only three in the afternoon—the earliest she’d left the office in four years. As the train stations passed before her eyes, a plan formed in her mind. She’d get home and locate her father’s Swiss Army knife. Then she’d down a few shots of vodka, return to the office, kill Julien, and kill herself.

  It sounded like an excellent plan.

  Twenty minutes later, she pushed open the door to her apartment and went straight to the minibar, praying she hadn’t imagined the bottle of vodka hiding behind her expensive wines.

  Bingo!

  There it was—cold to the touch and as real as the sharp pain in her heart.

  She filled a glass with the transparent liquid and drained it. The beverage burned her tongue. Amanda yelled out a battle cry, jumped up and down a few times while punching the air, and poured herself another glass. She set it on the coffee table and retrieved a tub of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. With her glass in one hand and the ice cream in the other, she kicked off her shoes and settled into her creamy leather sofa—the one she’d bought on credit, like almost everything else in her stylish little apartment.

  By the time she finished her second glass, Amanda’s diabolical plan had begun to lose its appeal. Julien Barre deserved to die, for sure, but murder was a messy business.

  And suicide—even more so.

  She pictured herself on the floor, blood gushing from her punctured stomach and trickling from her mouth.

  Ugh.

  Besides, what if she failed to finish Julien off? Or herself? After all, the biggest creature she’d ever assassinated had been a cockroach. The act had been so disgusting it gave her nightmares for weeks.

  Fine. No killing.

  But then
what? She couldn’t just sit here and do nothing—she was a fighter. Amanda clenched her fists and willed her vodka-soaked gray matter to hatch up a plan B. As soon as her brain obliged, she stomped to the bedroom and dug her crimson femme fatale lipstick from her makeup case. She shoved her most elegant evening gown, a tee, and a pair of panties into an overnight bag and rushed out of her apartment.

  Plan B was insane, but it was carnage-free.

  A few meters down the street, Amanda withdrew as much cash as the ATM would give her, and hailed a cab.

  “Where to, madame?” the driver asked as she slumped into the backseat.

  “Gare Saint-Lazare, please.” She pulled out her phone and added on an impulse, “I’m going to Deauville.”

  “A beach weekend?” He smiled into the mirror.

  “Nope. A night of gambling at the casino,” she said, flashing him her brightest smile.

  The driver’s eyebrows shot up before he returned his gaze to the road. He didn’t offer a comment.

  Amanda sat back and tapped “blackjack rules” into the search engine on her phone.

  She had three hours to master the game.

  * * *

  By the time Amanda stepped into her hotel room, it was getting dark. She switched on the lights and surveyed her room.

  Nice.

  It had better be, considering the price she was paying for it. Royal Barrière was one of the town’s best hotels, as grand and expensive as its name suggested. Was this reasonable? Certainly not. But tonight wasn’t about reasonable. It was about winning big.

  Besides, the thought of staying in a seedy hotel gave her goose bumps. She was no longer a discount-eligible, backpack-carrying student. She was twenty-eight—too old for seedy hotels. And, thankfully, not yet broke enough. Mind you, if everything went according to plan tonight, she wouldn’t be broke at all.

  The plan was simple, as all genius ideas were: exploit her beginner’s luck.

  Amanda was a gambling virgin, so new she still had her price tags. She’d never set foot in a casino or tried a slot machine. She’d never even played cards with friends.

  Seeing as she had no friends.

  She shook her head, brushing that thought away.

  I do have friends. A whole bunch of them—because four counted as a bunch, right? And it was four more than she’d had ten years ago in her fat-padded, acne-decorated teens. Thank God, those days were gone. Now she was as slim, peach-skinned, and honey-blonde as the next self-respecting Parisian it girl. And, most importantly, she’d become the picture-perfect young lady her mother could parade in front of her friends.