Christmas Angel for the Billionaire

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Maybridge High School. It was good enough for him. I’ll stay here with Gran. She’ll need help,’ she said. Then, leaping from her chair, she grabbed the bag that George had dropped. ‘I’ll take this upstairs.’

  ‘Where are you rushing off to?’ her grandmother asked as she rushed past her.

  ‘I’m taking Annie’s bag up to her room.’

  ‘I’ve made up the front right bedroom,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to make your own bed.’ Then, giving her a quick hug, ‘Your granddad will be all right.’

  ‘Of course he will,’ she said tightly. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Sleep tight.’

  She turned to Annie with a shake of her head. ‘I suppose this is about her mother getting married again. The woman doesn’t have a thought in her head for anyone but herself.’

  ‘I’d have said it was more to do with her father. She did know he was coming home?’

  ‘I told her when I rang to let her know that her granddad was in hospital. George has always tried to do his best for Xandra, a fact that her mother has used to her own advantage, but it’s never been easy and, since she hit her teens…’

  ‘It’s a difficult time.’

  ‘And they are so alike. George has probably told you that he and his father had a difficult relationship. It’s like watching history repeat itself.’

  ‘I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble when you’ve already got so much on your plate,’ she said, taking the food from the warming oven and placing it on the table.

  ‘What trouble?’ she said with a smile. Then, looking at the food, ‘Actually, I think I’ll pass on that, if you don’t mind. I had a sandwich earlier and there’s something about a hospital that seems to take away the appetite.’

  ‘How is your husband?’

  ‘Like most men, he’s his own worst enemy, but he got treatment very fast. The doctor said he’s been lucky and if he behaves himself he’ll be home in a day or two.’

  ‘And then your problems will really begin.’ They exchanged a knowing look. Her grandfather had never been seriously ill but he could make a simple cold seem like double pneumonia. ‘Could I make you a cup of tea, Mrs Saxon?’

  ‘Hetty, please.’ Then, ‘Actually, what I really need is a bath and my bed. You must be tired too.’ She patted her arm. ‘ Your room is on the right at the top of the stairs. It’s not fancy, but it’s comfortable and it has its own bathroom. There’s plenty of hot water. Just make yourself at home, dear.’

  People kept saying that to her, Annie thought, as Hetty, clearly exhausted by long hours at the hospital, took herself off to bed.

  She smiled to herself as she got stuck into the dishes. This wasn’t anything like being at home, but that was good. Just what she wanted, in fact. And she was happy to help, to be able to repay in some small way this unlooked for, unexpected kindness, hospitality.

  And she could think while she was working.

  The loss of Lydia’s car had thrown her simple non-plan off the rails and now she needed a new one.

  A new plan, a replacement car and a haircut, she decided, pushing her hair back from her face.

  She should make a list, she thought, twitching her nose to keep the glasses in place.

  Or maybe not.

  Her life had been run by her diary secretary for years. A list of monthly, weekly, daily engagements had appeared on her desk, each month, week, morning without fail.

  Everything organised down to the last minute. Even her escape had been meticulously planned. The how. The where. The when.

  She’d still been doing things by the book until the wheels had come off. Literally.

  At the time it had seemed like a disaster. Now it seemed like anything but. Hadn’t kicking back, taking whatever life threw at her, been the whole point of this break from reality? Cooking and washing up hadn’t figured on any list of things to do, but it certainly came under the heading of ‘different’.

  George hadn’t reappeared by the time she’d finished, put the dishes away, wiped everything down, so, remembering his aversion to instant coffee, she made a pot of tea and then ventured into the main part of the house to find him.

  The front hall had that shabby, comfortable look that old houses, occupied by the same family over generations, seemed to acquire. It was large, square, the polished floor covered by an old Turkish rug. There was a scarred oak table along one wall, piled with mail that had been picked up from the mat and left in a heap. Above it hung a painting of an open-topped vintage car, bonnet strapped down, numbered for a race, a leather-helmeted driver at the wheel.

  A small brass plate on the frame read: ‘George Saxon, 1928’. It was full of life, energy, glamour and she could see how it might have caught the imagination of a teenage girl in much the same way as photographs of her mother working at a clinic in an African village had inspired her to follow in her footsteps.

  Despite George’s misgivings, she hoped Xandra was more successful in achieving her dreams.

  The living room door stood ajar but George wasn’t there. The next door opened to reveal the dining room and, after tapping lightly on the remaining door, she opened it.

  The study was a man’s room. Dark colours, leather furniture.

  There was an open Partner’s desk against one wall, but George was sitting in a large leather wing chair pulled up to the fireplace, head resting against one of the wings, long legs propped on a highly polished brass fender, cellphone held loosely in his hand, eyes closed.

  Fast asleep.

  ‘George?’ she murmured.

  He didn’t stir but the soft cashmere of his sweater was warm to the touch and she left her hand on his broad shoulder long after it became obvious that he wasn’t going to wake without more vigorous intervention.

  Eventually, though, she took it away, eased the phone from his long fingers and put it, carefully, on the table, then stood watching him for a moment, wondering whether to try harder to rouse him.

  He looked exhausted and, instead, she reached out as if to smooth the strain lines from his face. But the intimacy of such a gesture made it unthinkable and she curled her fingers into her palms before they quite touched his skin.

  She wouldn’t have done that to a man she’d known for years and George Saxon was practically a stranger.

  But then that was the difference.

  He didn’t know who she was. Didn’t feel the need to treat her with kid gloves. He’d kissed her because something in her face had told him that was what she wanted, and he’d been right. For the first time in her adult life she didn’t have to be guarded, careful about how everything she said, did, would be interpreted. Didn’t have to worry about reading ‘all about it’ in the morning paper.

  The sheer dizzying freedom of that hit her in a rush and she knelt at his feet, uncurled her fingers and let them rest lightly against his face.

  Fingertips against the smooth skin at his temple, palm against the exciting roughness of a day-old beard. And then she leaned forward and touched her lips to his.

  Not a wake-up-and-kiss-me-back kiss, but a promise to herself to be brave enough to embrace life, embrace every new experience that offered itself.

  To be wholly and completely herself.

  He didn’t stir and after a moment she leaned back on her heels, then, leaving him to sleep, stood up and let herself quietly out of the room before taking the stairs that rose through the centre of the house.

  She followed Hetty’s directions and opened the first door on the right. Her bag was at the foot of an ornate wrought iron bed and, reassured that she was in the right room, she switched on the light and closed the door.

  The house was old and the room was large, with high ceilings. The en suite bathroom, a more recent addition, had taken a bite out of the room and the bed was tucked into the larger section of the remaining L.

  The walls were decorated with old-fashioned flower-strewn wallpaper that went perfectly with the bed, the patchwork comforter, the dark oak antiq
ue furniture. The velvet button-back nursing chair, oval cheval mirror.

  A moss-green rug that matched the velvet curtains lay in front of a dresser on the wide oak boards and she drew them to shut out the winter dark before taking a look at the bathroom.

  The huge roll-top claw-footed bath with its brass fittings was, like everything else in the house, gleaming with care.

  She turned on the taps and then, leaving the water to run, returned to the bedroom to open her bag, see what Lydia had packed for her.

  She’d sent her a cheque to cover the basics. Underwear, a nightdress, toiletries. Just enough to see her through until she could buy what she needed. There was a pink T-shirt nightie, plain white underwear, a couple of brushed cotton shirts, socks.

  Basic as you like, she thought with a smile. Perfect.

  But, when it came to toiletries, the clean, simple lines of the packaging disguised a world of luxury and she clutched the bag to her, hoping that her lookalike would get as much pleasure from the special treats she’d packed for her.

  Smiling, she picked up a towel from a pile on the chair and then returned to the bathroom.

  She uncapped a bottle and poured a little oil into the bath and the scent of lime blossom rose with the steam, enveloping her as she stripped off, piling up the cash she’d stowed about her body.

  Not just the thousand pounds in her bra, but the rest of her running-away money that, on Lydia’s insistence-who seemed to believe she’d be mugged the minute she stepped outside the hotel-she’d tucked around her waist inside her tights. Fortunately, Lydia hadn’t felt the need to lose weight to keep the likeness true, so there had been ample room in the baggy jeans she’d been wearing.

  Bearing in mind George’s reaction to the thousand pounds she’d produced, it was probably a good thing that it had been safely out of reach, she thought as she sank beneath the water and closed her eyes, letting the warmth seep into her bones.

  He’d been suspicious enough as it was. If she’d let him see just how much she was carrying on her, he would have called the police on the spot. Unless she’d owned up to her real identity, she’d be languishing in a police cell right now, up to her neck in hot water, instead of lying back in this deliciously scented bath.

  Her mind drifted to the image of how she’d left him, dark head resting against the leather wing of his chair. The unfamiliar feel of the day-old beard shadowing his chin.

  Her smile faded into a sigh of longing as she wondered how it would feel against her cheek, her neck, the delicate skin of her breast.

  George stirred, opened his eyes, for a moment not sure where he was, only that something had disturbed him. A touch, a faint familiar scent. Then, as he focused on the paper and wood laid in the grate, waiting only for a match to bring the fire blazing into life, it all came flooding back. Where he was. And all the rest.

  His father was in hospital.

  His daughter had been suspended from the school he’d chosen with such care-a place apart from the pressures of family, where she could be whoever she wanted to be.

  And the scent belonged to Annie Rowland, a woman with lips like the promise of spring who was on the run from something. Someone.

  He was three times in trouble, he decided as he raised his hand to his own lips, wiping the back of it hard across them as if he could erase the disturbing thought that while he’d been sleeping Annie had been there. Had kissed him.

  He shook his head. That had to be a figment of his imagination.

  And yet the image of her kneeling at his feet was so vivid that he stood up abruptly, bumping against the table, sending a mug flying.

  He made a grab for it, swearing as hot liquid slopped over the rim, scalding his fingers. Proof that someone had been there in the last minute or two. Someone who wouldn’t have left him sleeping in a chair, but would have put her hand on his shoulder. Brushed her fingers across his cheek.

  And, if he’d woken, would he have tumbled her in his lap, taken up where they’d left off? Finished what he’d so nearly started earlier that evening when he’d slipped the fake glasses on her nose? When he’d kissed her, wanting her to know that he wasn’t fooled by her disguise, that he’d caught her out, only to discover himself snared by a woman who, just hours earlier, he’d dismissed as not worth a second glance.

  Kidding himself.

  Not that her first impression of him would have been particularly flattering. He’d been sarcastic, angry, torn. Wanting to be anywhere else in the world. Wanting only to be here.

  And yet there had been something. A recognition, a dangerous edge, a challenge that had sparked between them from the moment she’d cannoned into his arms, fitting the empty space like a hand coming into a glove.

  Damn Xandra for getting him involved, he thought as he carried the mug through to the kitchen and grabbed his jacket from the hook. A woman was a complication he could do without right now. Any woman.

  This one…

  He caught his breath as he stepped outside. It was already close to freezing and his breath condensed and glowed in the concealed lights that lit the path to the gate and in the security lights that floodlit the garage. But he didn’t hurry.

  Cold air was exactly what he needed to clear his head and he took his time about checking that everything was safely locked, the alarms switched on before he fetched his holdall from his car.

  He did the same inside, checking windows, sliding home bolts, setting the alarm, yawning as the warmth of the house stole over him.

  He’d been fighting off sleep for hours, but it was long past time to surrender and, as he pushed open the bedroom door, he kicked off his shoes, pulled his shirt and sweater over his head in one move as he reached the bed, clicked on the bedside light.

  And saw Annie’s bag open at his feet.

  What on earth…?

  He straightened, half expecting to see her staring up at him from the pillow. But there was only a ridiculously girlish nightdress-pink with a cartoon rabbit that was saying ‘Give me a hug’-that she’d thrown on the bed.

  On his bed…

  And then it hit him.

  His mother had walked into her kitchen and found Annie preparing dinner and she’d leapt to the obvious conclusion that she was with him.

  That they were an item. Together. Partners. All those ridiculous expressions used these days to describe a couple who were living together without the blessing of church or state.

  He stooped to pick up his shirt and sweater, get out of there, but as he straightened he heard the door open behind him and there she was, reflected in the tall cheval mirror, with only a bath towel wrapped around her like a sarong, her arms full of the clothes she’d been wearing.

  She dropped her clothes on the chair. Then, catching sight of her reflection, she pulled a face as she lifted her hands to her hair, using her fingers to push the damp strands off her face, tucking it first behind her ears, then pulling it forward, turning her head first one way, then the other, as if trying to decide what kind of style might suit her.

  He’d been given a close-up of that fine bone structure earlier but now, without the distraction of badly cut hair, ugly glasses, he knew without doubt that it was a face he’d seen before.

  But where?

  Tall, skinny, bones that a camera would love, she had to be a model, he decided, but he didn’t have time to think about it. Half hidden in the L, she hadn’t seen him and, as she pulled free the tail of a towel that she’d tucked between her breasts, he said, ‘I wouldn’t do that…’

  Practically leaping out of her skin, Annie spun round and her mouth went dry.

  George Saxon, wrapped up in a soft shirt and cashmere sweater was a man to turn a woman’s head. Now, stripped to the waist, his wide golden shoulders and chest were as bone-meltingly beautiful as a fine Greek bronze.

  She swallowed. Managed to croak out, ‘Your mother said…’ before, realising exactly what his mother must have thought, the words died on her lips and she clutched her towel to her
breast as she felt herself blush pink from head to toe. ‘Oh…’

  George watched, fascinated, as a wave of delicate pink enveloped Annie, not just her face, but her smooth, creamy neck and shoulders, to disappear beneath the towel she was clutching to her breast as she quickly cottoned onto exactly what the mix-up had been.

  He knew he shouldn’t think about that, but whatever she’d used in her bath smelled as inviting as the promise of a warm spring day and the temptation to unwrap her, see just how far that blush had gone, was almost irresistible.

  ‘Oh, indeed,’ he replied, his voice thick, his attempt at briskness failing miserably. ‘It’s entirely my fault,’ he said, trying again. ‘I should have explained.’

  ‘She had more important things on her mind.’

  ‘Yes.’ Then, ‘It’s not a problem,’ he said, moving to pick up his shoes, but Annie reached out and, with her hand on his arm, stopped him.

  ‘Please. Don’t go.’

  He barely registered what she said, instead staring at her left hand, white, perfectly manicured nails painted a deep shade of pink against the darker skin of his arm and, when he finally looked up, there were only two things moving in the room. His heart as it pounded against the wall of his chest and the slight rise and fall of Annie’s breasts as she breathed a little too fast.

  And, as her words finally registered, what had been a simple misunderstanding seemed to become something more. Something that was meant.

  One move, that was all it would take, and if she was looking for a night of forgetfulness in a stranger’s arms, he would have said he was her man.

  But, deep in his bones, he knew that, despite the disguise, the deception, Annie was not a one-night-stand kind of woman. He, on the other hand, had never been interested in anything else and, taking her hand in his, he held it for a moment, wanting her to know that he wasn’t rejecting her but being a friend and discovered that she was trembling.

  ‘What are you running from?’

  Unable to speak, she shook her head and, swearing beneath his breath, he put his arm around her, pulled her against him.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ he said, holding her close, intensely aware of her breath against his naked chest. Her skin, warm and scented from the bath, against his.