Christmas in the Boss's Castle

by Scarlet Wilson

  ‘Really?’

  Alice smiled. ‘Just call me the Christmas fairy. Come and see me on the day of the party.’

  * * *

  Finlay wasn’t quite sure what he should be doing. His inbox had three hundred emails. There was a thick pile of mail on his desk. His PA had left some contracts to be reviewed. A few of his other hotels had staffing issues over Christmas. He’d also had an interesting email from Ailsa Hillier at the Corminster, asking how things were working out with her recommended company, Maids in Chelsea.

  She’d probably already heard about the Christmas decorations. Someone at The Armstrong seemed to tell their rivals all they needed to know. Just as well it was a friendly rivalry. Ailsa had lost her sister to cancer some years ago and when Anna had died she’d sent a message with her condolences and telling Finlay she would take care of The Armstrong until he was ready to return. In the end, that had only been eight days—the amount of time it had taken to bury Anna—but he always remembered the kindness.

  He picked up the phone, smiling as Ailsa answered instantly.

  ‘I hear you’ve gone all purple.’

  He choked out a laugh. ‘It’s a very nice colour.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘I’m glad, Finlay. It’s time.’ Her voice was filled with warmth so the words didn’t make him bristle. ‘I might need to steal your designer though.’

  Now he did sit straight in his chair. Ailsa couldn’t possibly know about that, could she? He didn’t give anything away. ‘Your designer didn’t pick purple this year?’

  She sighed and he imagined she was putting her feet on the desk at this point. ‘No. If they had then I could accuse you of copying. We are all white and gold this year and it already feels old. Tell me who you used and I’ll poach them next year—after all, I did give you the Maids.’

  He could sense she had a pen poised already. She was serious. And she didn’t realise the connection. ‘The Maids have worked out well, thank you. I’ll ask Rob to have a look in the New Year about recruiting more permanent staff.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Or maybe I won’t.’ He drummed his fingers on the table as he thought. ‘Some of our permanent residents seem to really like the Maids in Chelsea.’

  ‘I think the truth is, Finlay, we get what we pay for. The Maids might cost more, but, in my experience, they are a polite, friendly, well-mannered bunch of girls. They want to do a good job and most of them seem to hide their light under a bushel. One of the girls I met yesterday has a degree in marketing, another has worked with four different aid agencies across four different continents. I like that.’

  He liked that too. Hiding her light under a bushel seemed to fit Grace perfectly. The work she’d done here was great. Maybe it was time to find out a little bit more about the woman he’d invited to the staff party?

  ‘You still haven’t given me the name of the interior designer,’ Ailsa reminded him.

  He smiled. ‘Her name is Grace Ellis, but you can’t have her, Ailsa, she’s all mine.’

  He put down the phone with a smile, imagining the email he’d get in response.

  He stood up and walked through to the main reception; Frank was just waving off some guests. ‘Frank, do you know where Grace is?’

  Frank gestured off to the left. ‘Back down in the basement. She’s had some more ideas.’

  Finlay looked around. Even though it was daytime the decorations still looked good. He could smell something too, even though he had no idea what it was. It reminded him of walking into one of those winter wonderland-type places as a child.

  Grace was still working on this? He’d have to pay her overtime. And bonuses.

  He walked down to the basement. It was well lit and everything stored was clearly labelled. But that didn’t help when he walked into the room he heard rustling in and found Grace upended in a large storage barrel. All that was visible was black kicking shoes and a whole lot of leg.

  ‘Grace?’ He rushed over to help.

  ‘Eek! Finlay! Help.’ He tried not to laugh as he reached inside the barrel and grabbed hold of her waist, pulling her out.

  ‘Finlay,’ she gasped again as she landed in a heap on the floor. Blue. She was wearing a blue shirt today. Not as cute as the pink one. But she’d just managed to lose a button on this one so he might like it even more. Her hair must have been tied with a black satin ribbon that was now trailing over her shoulder.

  He burst out laughing. And so did Grace.

  She thumped her hands on the floor. ‘Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen.’ She followed the line of his vision and blushed, tugging at her skirt.

  He peered into the barrel. ‘What was supposed to happen?’

  She pointed to the label. ‘As I left the hotel last night I realised that although it was gorgeous when people walked inside, there was nothing outside. Frank told me there used to be lights outside. I was looking for them.’

  He frowned, trying to remember what the lights had looked like. They’d been made by some American company and had cost a fortune. ‘We did have. Is this where they’ve been stored? What makes you think they even work any more?’

  She shrugged. ‘I figured it was worth a try. I can always check them first. Then I was going to try and order some purple light bulbs—you know, carry the theme outside.’

  Wow. She thought of everything.

  He held out his hand to help her up. ‘Grace, can I ask you something?’

  He pulled a little harder than he should have, catapulting Grace right forward crashing into his chest. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, placing both hands on his chest. She looked up at him. ‘What is it you want to ask?’

  He couldn’t remember. Not for a second. All he could concentrate on were the warm palms causing heat to permeate through his shirt. Grace lifted one finger. ‘Oops,’ she said as she stepped back.

  Finlay looked down and sucked in a breath. Two hand prints on his white shirt.

  To the outside world it would look amusing. To him?

  A permanent imprint that he was in a place he wasn’t quite sure of.

  What exactly was he doing here? He’d deliberately come down here to find Grace. There was no point in him denying it to himself. He wanted to find out more about her. But was this a betrayal of Anna? He now had another woman’s hands imprinted on his chest. And for a few seconds, he’d liked the feel of them being there.

  He was exasperated. Exasperated that he was drawn to this woman. Confused that he felt strangely protective of her. And intrigued by the person beneath the surface. There seemed to be so much more to Grace than met the eye. But how much did he really want to know?

  Her hands were now clenched in front of her. He’d been quiet for too long.

  ‘Finlay?’

  He met her gaze. ‘Are you free for lunch?’

  ‘What?’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Are you free for lunch?’

  She looked down at her dishevelled clothing and pointed at his shirt. ‘I don’t think either of us can go anywhere like this.’ He actually thought she looked fine.

  He shrugged. ‘I have other shirts.’

  She shook her head. ‘I only have what I’m wearing.’ She bit her lip. ‘But I think I might be able to borrow one of the bartender’s black dresses.’

  He gave her a nod. ‘Five minutes, then?’ He started to walk to the door.

  ‘Finlay?’ Her voice was quite serious.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I pick where we go?’

  ‘Of course.’ He was amused. He had no idea where he’d planned to take her. His brain hadn’t got that far ahead.

  ‘See you in five, then.’

  * * *

  Grace was trying hard not to breathe. The only female bartender she could find was a size smaller. She’d managed to do up
the zip on the dress but there wasn’t much room. Lunch could be an issue.

  Why had he asked her to lunch? Did he want to talk more decorations? And now she was late. After he’d left she’d grabbed the end of the lights to check they worked. They did.

  Then she’d phoned a rush order for purple light bulbs. They would be delivered in a few hours. She’d need to find out how the lights normally got up there. This could be a disaster if she needed scaffolding. Maybe one of those funny little cherry pickers would do the trick?

  Finlay was waiting for her at the front door. She tried not to notice the obviously interested looks they were getting from other members of staff.

  She pulled down her woolly black sequined hat. She’d got it in the bargain bucket at the supermarket and it was the least likely match for her designer pink coat and gloves. But it was all she could afford at the time.

  He smiled at her. He’d changed his white shirt for a blue one. Her stomach gave a little somersault. Yikes, it just made those blue eyes bluer.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you like for lunch?’

  She still hadn’t quite worked out why they were going for lunch. She assumed he wanted to talk about the decorations some more. And that was fine. But she intended on doing it somewhere she was comfortable.

  ‘I’m easy.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What do you like?’

  They started walking along the street. ‘Are you okay with the Tube?’ she asked.

  ‘You want to go someplace else?’

  She licked her lips. ‘I don’t normally eat around here.’ It was best to be upfront. There were lots of pricey and ultra-fashionable places to eat around here. Artisan delicatessens where a sandwich generally cost three times as much as it should.

  She veered off towards the steps to the underground. Finlay just kept pace with an amused expression on his face. She pulled out her card to use while he fumbled around in his pockets for some change and headed for the ticket machine. She shook her head. ‘Just scan your credit card. It will just deduct the payment.’

  He frowned but followed her lead. They were lucky—a train had just pulled into the station. She held onto one of the poles and turned to face him as the train started to move. ‘I’ll give you a choice of the best breakfast around or some fantastic stuffed croissants.’

  He looked at her warily. ‘What, from the same place?’

  She laughed. ‘No, silly. They’re two different cafés. I’m just trying to decide which one we go to.’

  ‘I had breakfast at six. Let’s go for the croissants.’

  She gave him a solemn nod. ‘I warn you—you might get angry.’

  ‘Why?’

  She stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear. ‘Because the coffee in this place is miles better than it is in the hotel.’

  She could see him bristle. ‘No way.’

  ‘Way.’ The train slid to a halt. ‘Come and find out for yourself.’

  * * *

  There was almost a skip in Grace’s step as she led him from the Tube station and across the road to a café much like every other one in London. But as soon as he opened the door he could smell the difference. The scent of coffee beans filled the air, along with whiffs of baking—apple tarts, sponge cakes and something with vanilla in it. If you weren’t hungry before you entered this café, you’d be ravenous ten seconds after crossing the threshold. He’d need to remember that.

  They sat at the table and ordered. As soon as the waitress left, Grace started playing with a strand of hair. ‘I might have done something,’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘What?’ he asked cautiously.

  ‘I might have ordered some purple light bulbs. And some white ones. I figure that if we can get the lights up outside the hotel it will give people an idea of what it looks like inside.’

  He gave a nod. ‘I had a call from the manager of another chain of hotels today. She was asking about you.’

  Grace’s eyes widened. ‘Asking about me?’

  He nodded. ‘She wanted to know the name of the designer I’d used because she’d heard how good the hotel looked.’

  Grace leaned across the table towards him. ‘Already? But I’ve only just finished.’

  ‘I know that and you know that.’ He held up his hand. ‘But this is London, word travels fast.’

  She shook her head. He could almost see her shrinking into herself. ‘But I’m not a designer. I’m just one of the Maids in Chelsea.’

  ‘We need to talk about that.’

  ‘Why?’

  Finlay reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the cheque he’d written. ‘I need to pay you for your services.’

  Grace looked down and blinked. Then blinked again. Her face paled. ‘Oh, no. You can’t give me this.’

  ‘Do you want to get Clio to bill me, then? I’m not sure why, though—this is different from the work you do for the agency.’

  Her fingers were trembling. ‘You can’t pay me this much.’

  Ah. He got it. It wasn’t how he was paying her. It was how much he was paying her.

  ‘I can increase it,’ he said simply.

  Her eyes widened even further. ‘No.’

  It almost came out as a gasp.

  Ah. Now he understood.

  ‘Grace, I based this on what we paid our last interior designer, plus inflation. That’s all. As far as I’m aware, this is what I’d normally pay for these services.’

  The waitress appeared and set down their plates. She’d caught the tail-end of the conversation—and glanced at the cheque under Grace’s fingertips before making some kind of strangled sound.

  Grace was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Finlay waved his hand and looked at the food in front of him. ‘Take it, it’s yours. You did a good job. You deserve it.’

  He’d decided to follow Grace’s lead. The croissant in front of him was stuffed with tuna and melted cheese. Salad and coleslaw were on the side and the waitress came back with steaming cups of coffee. She winked at him. ‘Try the rhubarb pie after this, it’s to die for.’

  He almost laughed out loud. She’d seen the cheque and would expect a decent tip. He could do that.

  ‘I think I might have to lie down after this,’ he said, taking in all the food on the plate.

  Grace was still watching the cheque as if it would bite her. He picked it up again and looked under the table, sliding it into her bag.

  ‘Let’s lunch.’ He said the words in a way he hoped she’d understand. The amount wasn’t open to debate. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘What?’ That snapped her out of her dreamlike state. ‘Why?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’d like to know a bit more about the woman I’m having lunch with.’

  Didn’t she want to tell him where she lived?

  She lifted her knife and fork. ‘I live in Walthamstow,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Did you go to school around there?’

  She nodded but didn’t add anything further.

  ‘How long have you worked for Maids in Chelsea?’

  Her shoulders relaxed a little. That seemed a more acceptable question. ‘Just for a few months.’ She met his gaze, ‘Truth is, it’s the best job I’ve ever had. Clio, the boss, is lovely and the rest of the staff are like...family.’

  Family. Interesting choice of word for work colleagues.

  ‘What did you do before?’

  She smiled. ‘You name it—I’ve done it.’

  He raised his eyebrows and she laughed. ‘Okay, there are certain things I’ve never done. But I have had a few jobs.’ She counted off on her fingers. ‘I worked in the local library. Then in a few temp jobs in offices. I worked on the perfume counter of one of the department stores. Then I got poached to work on
the make-up counter.’

  ‘You got poached?’ Somehow, he could see Grace with her flawless complexion and friendly personality being an asset to any make-up counter.

  She nodded. ‘But it wasn’t really for me. I had to eventually give up due to some family issues and when I needed a job again Maids in Chelsea kind of found me.’

  ‘Family issues? You have children?’

  She shook her head and laughed. ‘Oh, no. I’d want to find a husband first.’

  He hadn’t even considered the fact she might have children, or a husband! What was wrong with him? He tried to tease out a few more details. ‘So, you haven’t found a husband yet?’

  She shook her head again. ‘I haven’t had time.’ She looked up and met his gaze. ‘I’ve dated casually in the last few years, but haven’t really had time for a relationship.’

  Due to her family issues? He didn’t feel as though he could press.

  ‘I take it you were brought up in Scotland?’

  He smiled. ‘What’s the giveaway?’

  She laughed and took a sip of her coffee. ‘Is Sean Connery your father?’

  ‘Sean Connery wouldn’t have got a look-in. My mum and dad were childhood sweethearts. They lived next door to each other from the age of five.’

  Grace set down her knife and fork. ‘Oh, wow. That’s so nice.’

  It was nice. His mum and dad’s marriage had always been rock solid, even when half the people he’d gone to school with seemed to have more step-parents than grades at school.

  ‘Are they still in Scotland?’

  ‘Always. They’ll never leave.’

  She gave him a fixed stare. ‘Why did you leave?’

  He hesitated then spoke quickly. ‘Business.’ There was so much more to it than that. He had a home—a castle—in Scotland that had been his pride and joy. He hadn’t set foot in it for over a year. The penthouse in The Armstrong was where he now called home. He needed to change the subject—fast.

  ‘Tell me about the Christmas stuff?’

  She quickly swallowed a mouthful of food. ‘What do you mean?’