As soon as she swung the door open she started upwards instead of down. Her chest was tight. She needed some air and she must be only seconds away from the roof. The grey door loomed in front of her. Was everything in this place black or grey? She pushed at the door and it sprang open onto the flat roof.
The rush of cold air was instant. She walked across the roof as she tried to suck some in.
She hadn’t even thought about the cold. She hadn’t even considered the fact it might still be snowing. The hotel was always warm so her thin shirt was no protection against the rapidly dipping temperatures on a late December afternoon.
But Grace couldn’t think about the cold. All she could think about was the man she’d just met—Finlay Armstrong.
The expressions on his face. First of anger, then of disgust, a second of apparent amusement and then the soul-crushing, heart-ripped-out-of-his-chest look.
She’d done that to him. A stranger.
She’d caused him that amount of pain by just a few actions—just a few curious words.
She shivered involuntarily as the tears started to stream down her face. He’d implied that he’d sack her.
It was Christmas. She’d have no job. How could she afford to stay in the flat? As if this Christmas weren’t already going to be hard enough without Gran, now she’d absolutely ruined whatever chance there was of having a peace-filled Christmas.
Her insides curled up and tumbled around. Why had she touched that angel? Why had she thought she had a right to decorate his room? And why, why had she blurted out that question?
The look on his face...the pain in those blue eyes. She shivered again. He’d lost his wife and because of that he couldn’t bear Christmas. He didn’t want to celebrate, didn’t want to be reminded of anything.
The little things, the little touches she’d thought he might like, the tree, the decorations, the lights and the smells had all haunted him in a way she hadn’t even imagined or even considered. What kind of a person did that make her?
She knew what it was like to find Christmas hard. A hundred little things had brought tears to her eyes this year—even while she was trying to ignore them. The smell of her gran’s favourite perfume. The type of biscuit she’d most enjoyed at Christmas. Even the TV listing magazine where she used to circle everything she wanted to watch. But none of that—none of that—compared to the pain of a man who’d lost his wife.
Her gran had led a good and long life. His wife? She could only imagine how young she must have been. No wonder he was angry. No wonder he was upset.
She squeezed her eyes closed. She hadn’t managed to find someone she’d made that special connection with yet. Someone she truly loved with her whole heart. Imagine finding them only to have them ripped away. How unfair must that feel?
The shivering was getting worse. Thick flakes of snow started to land on her face. She stared out across London. The views from the penthouse were already spectacular. But from the roof? They were something else entirely.
It was darker now and if she spun around she could see the whole of Chelsea spread out in front of her. The Armstrong’s roof was the highest point around. The streets below looked like something from a Christmas card. Warm glowing yellow lights from the windows of the white Georgian houses, with roofs topped with snow. There were a few tiny figures moving below. People getting excited for Christmas.
The tears flowed harder. Battersea Power Station glowed in the distance. The four distinctive chimneys were usually lit up with white lights. But this time of year, the white lights were interspersed with red—to give a seasonal effect.
Every single bit of Christmas spirit she’d ever had had just disintegrated all around her.
Perfect Christmas. No job. No family. A mother on the other side of the world who couldn’t care less. And probably pneumonia.
Perfect.
* * *
The realisation hit him like a boxer’s right hook.
What had he just done?
There was a roaring in his ears. He didn’t behave like this. He would never behave like this. What on earth had possessed him?
All thoughts of eating, pulling the blinds and collapsing into bed vanished in an instant.
He rushed out into the hall. Where had she gone? Her chambermaid cart was abandoned in the hall. His eyes went to the panel above the elevator. But no, it wasn’t moving. It was still on this floor.
Something cut into the palm of his hand. He looked down. The plastic identity card. Of course. He’d taken it from her. She couldn’t use the elevator.
He strode back into his room and picked up the phone. He hadn’t recognised the new receptionist. Officially—he hadn’t even checked in.
The phone answered after one ring. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Armstrong?’
‘Frank? Who are the Maids in Chelsea?’
There was a second of silence. The question obviously caught the concierge unaware.
He could almost picture the way Frank sucked the air through his teeth when he was thinking—he could certainly hear it.
‘Staff from the Maids in Chelsea company have been working here for the last four months, Mr Armstrong. There were some...issues with some of our chambermaids and Mr Speirs decided to take a recommendation from a fellow hotel.’ Frank paused and then continued, ‘We’ve had no problems. The girls are excellent. Mrs Archer, in particular, really loves Grace and asks for her whenever she’s on duty.’
He cut right to the chase. ‘What were the issues, Frank?’
The sucking sound echoed in his ear. He would have expected Rob Speirs to tell him of any major changes in the way his prestigious hotel was run. But Speirs was currently in hospital after an emergency appendectomy. That was part of the reason that he was here at short notice.
‘There were some minor thefts. The turnover of staff was quite high. It was difficult to know where the problem lay.’
‘And Rob—where did he get the recommendation?’
‘From Ailsa Hillier. The Maids in Chelsea came highly recommended and we’ve had no problems at all.’ There was another hesitation. ‘Mr Armstrong, just to let you know, I have something for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s from Mrs Archer. She left something with me to pass on.’
Now he was curious. ‘What is it, Frank?’
‘It’s a Christmas present.’
Frank was silent for a few seconds. Just as well really. Every hair on Finlay’s body stood on end. Of course, he’d received Christmas presents over the last few years. His parents and sister always sent something. But Mrs Archer? This was a first.
Frank cleared his throat again. ‘Mr Armstrong, is there anything I can help you with?’
This time it was Finlay that paused. He liked Frank. He’d always liked Frank. The guy knew everything that happened in his hotel—including the fact that his manager had used a company recommended by their rivals at the Corminster—interesting.
‘Keep a hold of the present, I’ll get it from you later, Frank.’ It wouldn’t be good to seem ungracious. Then he asked what he really wanted to know. ‘Have you seen Grace Ellis in the last five minutes?’
‘Grace? What’s wrong with Grace?’
Finlay really didn’t want to get into this. He could already hear the protectiveness in Frank’s voice. He should have guessed it would be there. ‘Nothing’s wrong, but have you seen her?’
‘No, sir. Not in the last hour at least.’
Finlay put down the phone. She could easily have run out but he had the strangest feeling that she hadn’t.
He walked back outside, leaving the penthouse door open behind him and heading towards the stairs. When he pushed the door open he felt a rush of cold air around him.
The roof. She’d gone to the roof.
She was standing at the end of the roof, staring out over London. She wasn’t thinking of...
No. She couldn’t be. But the fleeting thought made him reluctant to shout her back in.
He crossed the roof towards her. As he neared he could see she was shivering—shivering badly.
He reached out and touched her shoulder and she jumped.
‘Grace? What are you doing out here? You’ll freeze.’
She must have recognised his voice but she didn’t turn towards him. Her arms were folded across her chest and more wisps of her hair had escaped from the bun.
He walked around slowly, until he was in front of her, blocking her view.
Her lips were tinged with blue and her face streaked with tears.
Guilt washed over him like a tidal wave.
Him. He’d caused this. He’d made this girl cry.
Why? After five years he’d thought he was just about ready to move on. But Christmas was always the hardest time for him. He was frustrated with the rest of the world for enjoying Christmas when it only brought back what he had lost.
Thank goodness he still had his coat on. He undid the buttons and shrugged it off, slipping it around her shoulders.
She still hadn’t spoken to him. She was just looking at him with those huge brown eyes. The ones that had caught his attention in the first place. The ones that had sparked the reaction he should never have had.
Why was that? He’d always kept things locked inside. His friends knew that. They knew better than to try and discuss things. They spent their lives avoiding Anna’s name or any of the shared memories they had of her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I should never have shouted at you.’
She blinked. Her eyes went down to her feet. ‘I should never have decorated the room. I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
He shook his head. ‘No, Grace. You were trying to do something nice. Something sweet.’ The words made his insides twist a little. Was it really so long that someone had done something sweet around him?
She blinked again. The shivering hadn’t stopped yet and he could tell why. The wind was biting through his thin knit black jumper. It didn’t matter he had a shirt underneath. It had been a long time since he’d felt this cold.
She bit her bottom lip. ‘I...I sometimes forget that other people don’t like Christmas. I should have been more sensitive. I should have thought things through.’ A tear slid down her cheek. ‘Did you come up here to fire me?’
‘What? No.’ He couldn’t believe it. That was the last thing on his mind right now.
She looked confused. ‘But you said...you said—’
‘Forget what I said,’ he cut in. ‘I was being an idiot. I’m tired. I haven’t slept in three days. I’m sorry—I know it’s no excuse.’
‘I’m sorry about your wife,’ she whispered.
It came out of the blue. Entirely unexpected.
Sweeping through him like the brisk breeze of cold air around him.
It was the waver in her voice. He’d heard this a thousand times over the last few years. Most of the times the words had seemed meaningless. Automatically said by people who were sometimes sincere, sometimes not.
This woman—Grace—hadn’t known his wife at all. But there was something about her—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was as if she knew mourning, she knew loss. It was probably the sincerest he’d ever heard those words spoken and it twigged a little part inside him.
He stepped back a little. He stepped back and sucked in a breath, letting the cold air sear the inside of his lungs. She was staring at him again. Something about this woman’s vulnerable eyes did things to him.
He wanted to protect her. He wanted to make sure that no one hurt her. There was something else. It wasn’t sympathy in her eyes.
He couldn’t stand the look of sympathy. It only filled him with rage and self-loathing.
A tear slid down her cheek and the wave of protectiveness that was simmering beneath the surface washed over him completely.
He couldn’t help himself. He reached up with his thumb and brushed it away, feeling the coolness of her smooth skin beneath the tip.
He stepped closer again. ‘Don’t,’ he said quickly, his voice rising above a whisper. ‘I’m sorry I made you feel like this.’ He wanted to glance away—to have the safety of looking out over the capital’s skyline—but Grace’s chocolate gaze pulled him in. His hand was still at the side of her face. She hadn’t pulled away. ‘I meant what I said.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘Christmas brings out the worst in me. It just brings back too many memories. And I know...I know that not everyone feels like that. I know that maybe...just maybe I should be able to get past this.’ A picture swam into his head and he let out a wry laugh. ‘As for the Christmas decorations in the hotel? They might be a little on the sparse side.’
It was the oddest situation. The most bizarre he’d ever found himself in. The irony of it almost killed him. If someone had told him twenty-four hours ago that he’d end up on the roof of his hotel, in the snow, with a strange, enigmatic woman who was causing the shades to start to fall away from his eyes after five years, he would have laughed in their face.
He wasn’t joking about the sparseness of the hotel. Rob Speirs had emailed to say some of the guests were complaining about the lack of Christmas spirit. Rob had also dropped a few hints that it was bad for business.
Grace’s eyebrows arched. The edges of her lips turned upwards. ‘You think?’
He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s freezing out here—and only one of us has a coat. Let’s go back inside.’
She hesitated for the tiniest second then gave a shiver and a nod as they started walking to the door. ‘So you can fire me in comfort?’
‘Less of the firing thing. Are you going to bring this up all the time?’
She nodded. ‘Probably.’
He pulled open the door. ‘How about we go downstairs for some hot chocolate and you can tell me more about Maids in Chelsea? I have it on good authority you’ve got a fan in Mrs Archer.’
Grace nodded. ‘I thought you were tired. You said you hadn’t slept in three days. You don’t need to talk to me. We can just call it quits and I’ll go home now.’
He shook his head as they stepped inside and walked down the stairs. ‘Oh, no. You don’t get off that easy. We have things to discuss.’
‘We do?’
She sounded surprised. He swiped a key fob next to the elevator and the doors swished open. He gestured with his hand for her to go inside. ‘You don’t want to have hot chocolate with me?’
He made it sound light-hearted. He wanted to try and make amends for his earlier behaviour. But the truth was his curiosity was piqued by Grace.
She gave him a cheeky stare. ‘Only if there are marshmallows and cream. I get the impression you might be a bit of a cheapskate.’
He laughed as she walked into the elevator and for the first time in five years something happened.
It had been so long he almost didn’t recognise it.
His heart gave a little leap.
* * *
Grace wasn’t quite sure what to make of any of this. One minute Mr Film Star looks was firing her in his gravelly Scottish voice, the next minute he was apologising and making her heart completely stop when he touched her cheek.
It was the weirdest feeling. She’d been beyond cold—but the touch of his finger on her cheek had been like a little flame sending pulses around her body.
They stood in silence as the elevator moved silently to the ground floor. Frank caught sight of them as they walked out into the foyer, but Finlay didn’t give them time to talk. He ushered her through to one
of the private sitting rooms, speaking to a waitress on the way past.
They sat down on the comfortable black velvet-covered chairs. She ran her hand over the material. ‘Black. Nice,’ she said as she watched his face.
He shook his head. ‘I feel that you might be going to make me pay.’
The strange wariness she’d felt around him had seemed to vanish. She’d seen something up on that roof. Something she’d never seen in another person.
For a few moments it had felt as if she could see right into his soul. His pain. His hurt. His bitterness.
He seemed to be at a point in his life that she couldn’t even begin to understand.
‘Me? Make you pay? Whatever makes you think that?’
He put one elbow on the table and leaned on his hand. He did still look tired, but there was a little sparkle in those blue eyes. When Finlay Armstrong wasn’t being so businesslike and generally miserable, he showed tiny glimmers of a sense of humour.
The good looks were still there. Now she wasn’t so flabbergasted she could see them clearly. In fact, in the bright lights of the hotel his handsome features might even be a bit intimidating.
But there was something about that accent—that Scottish burr—that added something else to the mix. When she’d first heard it—that fierceness—its tone of don’t ever cross me had had her shaking in her shoes. Now, there was a softness. A warmth about the tone.
He held out his arms to the room they were sitting in. ‘I chose black and grey deliberately. I liked the smoothness, sleekness and no-nonsense look of the hotel. White would have been clinical. Any other colour just a distraction that would age quickly. Black and grey are pretty timeless colours.’
‘If you can call them colours.’
The waitress appeared and set down steaming hot chocolates, adorned with marshmallows and cream, and long spoons. The aroma drifted up instantly. After the coldness of outside the instant warmth was comforting.
Finlay spooned some of the cream from his hot chocolate into his mouth and gave a loud sigh. ‘I’m guessing you don’t like my interior design selections.’
Grace smiled and tried to catch some of her marshmallows before they melted. ‘I bet they cost more money than I could earn in ten years.’
Christmas in the Boss's Castle Page 3
