Christmas in Paris: a collection of 3 sweetly naughty Christmas romance books 2017

by Alix Nichols

  Straightening up, I looked around. “Maybe he isn’t even here.”

  “Word on the street says he is.” Delphine winked, refilling my flute. “Barb and I have been trying to figure out which Iron Man he is, based on stature and voice.”

  “Personally, I think he’s neither,” a tutu-clad black swan said, planting herself next to us.

  Upon closer examination, the swan was Anya, a junior auditor famous for her illustrious conquests.

  “Personally, I think he’s Père Noël over there.” Anya pointed at the tall, fully dressed Father Christmas stroking his white beard and chatting with two Playboy Bunnies in the corner of the room.

  “You may be right,” Delphine said, contemplating the group. “I’ve heard Raphael’s latest fling was one of those ménage à trois deals that every man dreams about.”

  I smirked. “So you think he’s trying for an encore?”

  “The hell he is.” Anya put her chin up and pulled down her areola-revealing top. “His next fling will be me.”

  With that, she strode toward Père Noël, her head high and her step bouncy. I couldn’t help picturing her firing at will from her jutting boobs, decimating the bunnies, and snagging Le Big Boss.

  At least for the night.

  “Have fun, ma cocotte,” Delphine said to me, moving away to greet a newcomer.

  I marched away from the champagne cork crossfire and imminent Bunny Massacre. Since I hadn’t the slightest intention of locating Raphael d’Arcy, I stayed away from superheroes and Santas the entire evening, gravitating toward the older and more conservatively dressed colleagues. At some point, I danced with a fellow onesie-clad snowman who had an oversized carrot for a nose. But mostly, I sipped champagne and talked politics with the over-fifty crowd.

  The problem was said crowd thinned quickly after midnight. By one in the morning, it became hard to find someone more interested in having a conversation than in making out. Not that anyone—male or female—would want to make out with Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

  My second problem was that I was growing increasingly warm and uncomfortable in my faux-fur costume. I would’ve left—I should’ve left!—then and there, but Delphine and I had agreed to share a cab ride home, seeing as we live in the same arrondissement.

  Unfortunately, by the time I was ready to leave, Delphine was engrossed in an advanced flirtation with The Hulk, who looked a lot like her longtime crush, Alberto.

  There was no way she was leaving now.

  I sighed, refilled my flute, and stepped out onto the dark balcony. Removing my red nose, I turned my face up to let the fresh December air cool it. Five minutes later, I was having a blast all by myself on the balcony, which was more of a terrace, as far as I could make out in the dark. My body temperature had dropped, and my champagne-soaked brain had cleared enough to realize that the random balcony I’d escaped to offered the best view of Paris I’d ever seen.

  My night was beginning to look up.

  Looking out over the parapet, I downed my champagne and admired the brightly lit city when someone stumbled out and came to stand next to me.

  It was the snowman I’d danced with earlier.

  He gave me a nod and touched his beer bottle to my flute. “To your good health.”

  “And to yours,” I said, trying to figure out how drunk he was.

  And if I was peeved or pleased at his arrival.

  Peeved, I decided. Definitely.

  Unlike us staid reindeer, snowmen were fickle creatures.

  They could melt down on you any time.

  Chapter 3

  “Rudolph, buddy, I feel for you,” Snowman said, turning to me. “It’s a fucking sauna in there. Is it always that hot in our offices?”

  I shook my head. “It’s the fairies’ fault.”

  “Er…?”

  “Linda and Cat,” I explained. “They were too cold in their filmy numbers, so they turned up the heat about an hour ago.”

  “I see.”

  Snowman drew a little closer and placed his beer on the parapet. His face was still completely hidden by his headpiece, but judging by his voice, he was at least twenty years younger than I’d thought when we danced briefly. He hadn’t opened his mouth then, so I’d assumed he was older based on his funny costume and wacky dancing style. It reminded me of the snowman in Frozen and demonstrated a level of self-mockery uncommon in men under forty.

  My fellow workplace-warming victim held out his hand. “I’m Olaf the Snowman. You can call me Olly.”

  Ah, so I’d been right about Frozen.

  “I’m Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” I said. “And you absolutely cannot call me Rudy.”

  We shook hands, my brown mitten against his white one.

  Olaf removed his mittens and took a swig of his beer. “Ooh, this is good. I was melting in there.”

  I gave him a sympathetic smile.

  “I dare not ask how you felt.” He pointed an unexpectedly attractive hand at me. “What with all that fur on your chest.”

  I shrugged. “Like a Laplandic reindeer parachuted to Africa.”

  “You’re new at DCA, right?” he suddenly asked.

  “Uh-huh. You?”

  “Not anymore.” He tilted his head to the side. “Auditor?”

  “God forbid. I’m terrible with numbers.”

  “What then?”

  “Editorial assistant.”

  He didn’t offer a comment, but I could almost hear his brain hum as he tried to figure out my purpose at DCA.

  “The news bulletin,” I prompted.

  He lifted his chin in comprehension. “Of course! Stupid me. I read it every day!”

  “And so you should,” I said primly. “Especially the global politics section compiled by this reindeer.”

  He fake tipped his hat off to me.

  “What is it you do for a living, Olly?” I asked.

  “I audit.”

  “Smart career choice.”

  “I guess.” He shrugged slightly. “What did you study?”

  “History.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “Do you?”

  “It’s one of those fun subjects that won’t fetch you a well-paying job.”

  I sighed. “And yet I persist on my path to economic marginalization.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m enrolled in a doctoral program.”

  “What’s your topic?”

  “Prostitutes in medieval Paris.”

  “Wow,” he said. “Can you give me some fun facts?”

  “Prostitution isn’t exactly a fun topic…”

  “Oh, come on!” He gave me a small nudge. “Don’t go all priggish on me. I’m sure you’ve dug up things that are at least a little bit entertaining.”

  “OK, let me think.”

  I racked my brain for a piece of information that would qualify as entertaining. OK, here goes. “Harlots were required by law to wear special clothing to distinguish them from honest women.”

  He propped one elbow on the parapet and turned to me completely. “Like miniskirts?”

  “Yeah, right.” I curled my lip. “It could be a cloak, a belt of a specific color, or a certain type of headdress.”

  “What else?”

  “Hmm…” I pinched my chin. “OK, here’s one more. Decisions on which neighborhoods should host the maisons closes were sometimes made at the highest level. In Paris, for instance, it was Louis IX who chose to put them in the Beaubourg neighborhood.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a street off rue de Rivoli named after bad boys—rue des Mauvais-Garçons.”

  “Actually, the name of that street has nothing to do with harlots.”

  “How disappointing.”

  “But that of rue Petit-Musc does! The original name was rue Pute-y-Musse. A whore hides here.”

  “How fascinating.” His gaze lingered on the uncovered lower half of my face. “One more?”
>
  “All right,” I said. “Last one.”

  “It better be good, then.”

  “Olly.” I arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you go all cocky on me. It doesn’t work when you’re dressed as a snowman.”

  “Good point, Rudolph.” He tugged at his carrot nose so it pointed downward. “I stand humbled.”

  I tucked my bottom lip in with my teeth to hide my smile. “So, by popular request, here’s one more fun fact: foreign guests of state were taken to luxurious brothels for a special treat as late as the nineteenth century.”

  “Oh, I can so imagine their official program,” he said, hilarity tinting his voice. “Three p.m.: briefing at the Foreign Ministry; Seven p.m.: dinner at the Elysée Palace; Eleven p.m.: French-kissing in Beaubourg.”

  I chuckled, noting how deep and velvety Olaf’s voice was. Actually, it was really handsome, his voice.

  For a snowman, that is.

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” I said, “but the official program didn’t mention any kissing. Those outings were usually marked down as ‘a visit with the president of the Senate.’ ”

  He threw his head back and whooped with laughter.

  For the next five minutes or so, Olly and I watched the festive lights of Paris in companionable silence. When the Eiffel Tower launched into its hourly dancing-lights show, I found myself growing disturbingly aware of Olly’s physical presence. He still looked just as comical in his incongruous costume as I did in mine. But his sexy baritone and beautiful hands had made me notice other things about him, such as his tall frame and broad chest.

  It was very disconcerting.

  “Who knew being a climate refugee was fun,” he said, breaking the silence.

  “In my case, it’s climate and crossfire.”

  “How so?”

  “Champagne.”

  He furrowed his brow.

  “Whenever someone pops a bottle,” I said, “I expect the cork to hit me in the eye.”

  “Even when the bottle is directed at the opposite wall?”

  I nodded. “I expect the cork to ricochet off that wall and hit me in the eye.”

  “Has that happened before?”

  “No,” I admitted. “Which increases the statistical probability it would.” Guilt kicked in before I’d finished that sentence, making me regret the inappropriate analogy.

  How dare I compare myself to real refugees fleeing armed conflict?

  Then I heard Olly’s soft chuckle, and something weird happened. The shame and guilt withdrew into some faraway recess of my brain, leaving me wonderfully giddy. Soon enough, those feelings would come back with a vengeance in all their sticky glory. The Poison Duo never left me alone too long, not since the calamity. But right there on that enchanted terrace, the Duo was offering me a Christmas gift—a rare moment of genuine, unmarred fun.

  And I was taking it, no questions asked.

  “Is it just me, or is it getting warmer out here, too?” Olly asked.

  It wasn’t just him. I was definitely feeling it.

  Was it because of the costume? If that was the case, I should ditch my useless wool blend coat and wear Rudolph all winter. Or maybe we were experiencing a bout of real global warming that had nothing to do with fairies, heaters, or faux fur.

  “You’re right,” I said. “The air is abnormally warm for late December. If you were a real snowman, you’d be a puddle at my feet by now.”

  “If you were a real reindeer,” he retorted, “you would’ve said ‘at my hoofs.’ ”

  Oops.

  He cocked his head. “Actually, if you were a real reindeer, you wouldn’t have said anything at all. You would’ve lapped me up and noshed on my carrot.”

  Was there a sexual innuendo in his words, or was it just my dirty mind?

  I couldn’t see Olly’s expression, but I could feel his eyes boring into me.

  That’s when I realized how much I itched to see his face.

  “Aren’t you too hot with your headpiece on?” I asked.

  He snorted. “You’d like me to go headless, Rudy?”

  “I’m just concerned about your comfort.” I put my hands on my hips. “And it’s Rudolph to you.”

  Am I flirting? How unlike me.

  “Nah, you’re Rudy,” he said, making “Rudy” sound like a super-sexy endearment… unless it was my dirty mind again.

  And then he removed the headpiece.

  In the dark, I couldn’t make out his precise features or the color of his eyes, but I could discern his wavy hair, high cheekbones, firm jawline, and the shape of his nose. All of that suggested Olly’s face was as handsome as his voice.

  Besides, he looked vaguely familiar, even if I couldn’t place him. On the other hand, we were colleagues. I might have ridden the elevator with him several times over the past few months.

  “Your turn,” he said, taking a step toward me.

  He flashed his teeth in a sweetly innocent smile, but his voice and posture communicated something a lot less innocent. I half expected him to grow fangs and sink them into my neck.

  God help me, I craved that bite.

  “And what big mouth you have, Grandma!” I said, widening my eyes for effect.

  He blinked and then laughed.

  I loved his chuckle.

  Kudos, Mia, on saving yourself from a wolf!

  Then why the frustration?

  I tugged on my hood, baring the upper half of my face to him.

  He stopped laughing and drew closer.

  “Your eyes are green,” he said, leaning toward me.

  His mouth was so close.

  It was big, but in a clean, masculine, super attractive kind of way. And did I mention he smelled as if sex appeal were his middle name?

  “Does the color of my eyes matter?” I asked.

  Why had my voice gone so raspy all of a sudden?

  Oh, Mia. You know very well why.

  “No,” he said, inching closer still.

  We were almost touching now.

  “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “I’m a lesbian snowman.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “There are so many hunky Santas in there,”—he pointed to the meeting room—“and yet it’s the female reindeer I want to kiss.”

  I swallowed.

  “In fact,” he said, angling his head, “I’ve been dying to kiss her for several hours now, ever since she danced with me.”

  And then he pressed his lips to mine.

  I gasped as his heady scent invaded my nostrils. He slid his tongue between my lips. It tasted like heaven. Behind the faint smack of the beer he’d been drinking and the hint of minty toothpaste, there was the essence of Olly.

  And it was scrumptious.

  His tongue explored my mouth with confident, sweeping strokes, and I couldn’t help kissing him back. With enthusiasm. He pulled me closer while he removed my scrunchy and tangled his hand in my hair.

  Oh oui.

  Suddenly, he let go of me and drew back.

  I stood there, panting, drunk on his taste and completely disoriented.

  “You’re Mia, right?” he asked, putting his headpiece back on and adjusting his nose.

  “How do you—”

  “Someone’s calling for you. They’ve been hollering your name a good five minutes now.”

  With an effort, I focused on my surroundings. Someone—more specifically, Delphine—was, indeed, calling my name.

  “I should go to her,” I said.

  He nodded and pulled the door open.

  As I tumbled into the room, I collided with Delphine, who was about to venture onto the terrace and look for me.

  “There you are!” She grinned with relief. “Ready to go home?”

  “What about Alberto?”

  She shrugged with an exaggerated nonchalance. “Turns out he’s married.”

  “Aww. I’m so sorry.” I gave her arm a sympathetic squeeze.

  “It’s OK.�
� Delphine pulled out her phone and began to scroll. “How long have you been out there freezing your reindeer ass off?”

  I glanced at my watch. More than an hour. It had seemed like fifteen minutes to me.

  Delphine narrowed her eyes. “And what exactly were you doing alone with a snowman?”

  I looked around only to discover Olly was gone.

  Luckily, Delphine found what she was looking for on her phone. She tapped, brought it to her ear, and then gave the cab service operator our details.

  By the time she hung up, I’d come up with a reply. “What do you think a reindeer and a snowman do when they find themselves alone?”

  “No idea.”

  I smiled triumphantly. “Bitch about their boss, Santa, of course.”

  Delphine rolled her eyes but didn’t press further.

  Five minutes later, we climbed into our cab. As we rode home, both of us lost in our thoughts, I realized Olly hadn’t given me his real name. Maybe our chemistry had been one-sided and he hadn’t enjoyed our kiss like I had.

  Getting involved with a coworker isn’t a good idea, I remember telling myself as a consolation.

  How I wish I’d recognized him back then!

  If I had, I wouldn’t have ended up with acute lustium irresistiblum for Raphael d’Arcy four months later. My Alsatian common sense would’ve warned me that getting involved with my company’s womanizing CEO wasn’t just a bad idea.

  It was the mother of all bad ideas.

  Chapter 4

  “How did we, as a nation, come to this?”

  Màma’s green gaze sweeps the room, touching every single person in the congregation with a mixture of fondness and authority only this woman is capable of.

  She drinks from the tall glass on her pulpit and lets her question sink in and foment in our minds. Whenever my mother pauses her sermons to do this, I have the impression everyone can feel her firm hand on their shoulder.

  I, for one, always do.

  When I manage to get to Estheim early enough, or stay long enough, I do my best to attend Màma’s Sunday sermon. “You know you don’t have to,” she always says to Pàpa, Eva, and me. But we insist. Pàpa, because he’s a devout Christian who supports his pastor wife in everything she does. Eva, because she actually enjoys Màma’s sermons. And me… To be honest, I’m not sure why I come along.