Christmas with the Billionaire ; A Tiara for Christmas

by Niobia Bryant

  There was talk around ADG that Jake Cooley, president of the hotels/resorts division, was hinting at retiring in the very near future. Samira wanted his position and had worked privately during her personal time to come up with a solid business plan to expand the division by selling larger, underperforming resort properties and setting up small luxury boutiques with much less overhead. She’d done the research, run the numbers, constructed a firm rollout plan and even personally searched and scouted new sites around the world for each of the twenty properties she wanted to build. She’d identified each possible problem that could financially or logistically affect the project and now felt prepared to deliver her business plan to her brother and sister-in-law to gain their approval.

  The last minor setback?

  Getting the owner of location twenty to show any interest in selling.

  Samira owned a glamorous duplex apartment in the same posh Manhattan apartment building as her mother, but with the influx of Ansahs into Passion Grove over the years, she found herself in the small, affluent town more and more. Alessandra and Alek and her adorable chubby-cheeked niece, Aliyah, lived here. Her brother Naim and his wife, Marisa, with her soon-to-be a year-old nephew, Kwesi. Even her brother’s best friend, Chance Castillo, whom they all loved like family, had moved to the small town with his wife, Ngozi Johns-Castillo.

  Passion Grove was an it spot to live for the young and affluent. All the luxuries without the hustle and bustle of a large metropolitan area.

  The perfect locale for a luxury boutique hotel.

  Unfortunately, every attempt she’d made to reach out to the owner about an interest in selling the land was rebuffed. Using public tax records, she discovered an Emerson Millner to be the owner.

  She reached for her iPhone from her back pocket and pulled up his contact info now saved in her phone. Perhaps the third time’s the charm.

  Samira paced on the street as the line rang several times. The fall winds were beginning to creep through the warmth of her fur.

  “Yeah,” a male voice said, gruff and filled with his annoyance.

  “Mr. Millner, this is Samira Ansah, sir—”

  “Again?” he asked, his tone reprimanding.

  She closed her eyes and squeezed the bridge of her nose between her slender fingers. “Yes. Again,” she added, stiffening her spine and notching up her chin. “And I still would like to speak with you about the land on Baby’s Breath Lane.”

  He just grunted and said nothing else. “Shocker, Mrs. Ansah.”

  Samira held the phone from her face and looked down at it in bewilderment. The man was uncouth. Keep it cool, Samira. Do not lose it. You need him.

  “Ms.,” she supplied.

  “Excuse me?” he asked.

  “It’s Ms., not Mrs.,” she explained.

  He grunted. “If you remain so dogged, it will never be Mrs.”

  She arched a brow even as she bit down on her bottom lip to still her tongue from giving him a sharp retort that she was well-known for. She could easily think of a few:

  “Does a man with your temperament have a Mrs.? I doubt it.”

  “If it took marrying a man like you, I would stay single. Forever.”

  “My life doesn’t rotate around the opinions of a man like you.”

  And those were polite and lacking the profanity needed to really put him in his place.

  “Perhaps I should call back at a better time,” she said after putting the call on speakerphone, finding his deep voice grating so close to her ear.

  “Or not at all,” he offered, his tone sardonic.

  She stiffened. Her childhood days of etiquette training restrained her from giving him a lecture on decorum. Instead, she released a small and soft laugh that was forced. “Enjoy your day,” she said, deciding to let it go at the moment. “I apologize for interrupting—”

  Click.

  Her mouth fell open in shock. “No, he did not,” she said, even though she knew he absolutely had.

  Shaking her head, she gave the land one last look as she walked back around her vehicle and climbed into the driver’s seat. “Butthole,” she muttered as she started the ignition and accelerated forward smoothly to make the short drive to Alek and Alessandra’s estate. “Absolute complete butthole. Period!”

  What could possibly make one human being so dang grumpy?

  She tried to visualize Mr. Emerson Millner. His voice was that of a man far younger than seventy years or more, even though his demeanor said otherwise. She chuckled at a vision of a wizened, elderly man with a bent figure and fingers as twisted by arthritis as his mouth was with derision. “Grumpy Grouch,” she muttered, continuing her drive to Dalmount Lane, named after the one-of-a-kind hybrid rose Alessandra’s father had commissioned in honor of her mother.

  The private mile-long length of paved street led to the sprawling twenty-five-acre Ansah-Dalmount estate, where Alessandra and Alek had set up their home together once they wed. She slowed to a stop before the twelve-foot-tall wrought iron gate and lowered her window to enter her personal pass code to unlock it. Moments later the gates rolled open. It was another half mile down a tree-lined paved road before the three-story, twenty-four-thousand-square-foot stone French Tudor came into view. She eased past the six-car attached garage with the security office above it before following the curved driveway to park in front of the mansion.

  Samira was still thinking of Grumpy Grouch with a shake of her head as she climbed from her car and climbed the steps. The mega-mansion was heavily staffed, and by the time she reached the elaborate front door, a uniformed maid was already holding it open. “Thank you,” she said, removing her fur and handing it to the young woman before following the sound of the voices coming from the family room. As she came to a stop in the doorway, she looked at the dozen people assembled in the grandly decorated room.

  Alek and Alessandra were talking in front of the massive fireplace, sharing a smile and a long look that spoke of naughty thoughts. Samira’s mother, LuLu, was regal as ever in a dark purple head wrap trimmed in gold, remaining true to her Ghanaian heritage. Marisa fed Naim a decadent treat crafted from her homemade chocolate recipe that was well sought after by local bakers and candy makers. Alek’s best friend, Chance Castillo, a self-made tech billionaire, and his wife, Ngozi, a top criminal attorney, were feeding each other hors d’oeuvres in between sharing loving kisses as she sat on his lap. Alessandra’s aunts Leonora and Brunela, both in their mid-to late sixties, were resplendent in vintage Chanel dresses and jewelry as they shared a playful champagne toast and giggled about something together.

  Thoughts of her being the only Dalmount or Ansah heir to be alone rose as she eyed the loving couples again, but she pushed aside any envy and entered the room. Samira was happy to see them all. A gathering at one of Alek and Alessandra’s homes—in Passion Grove, New York, London or otherwise—was commonplace, whether for the upcoming Thanksgiving and Christmas holidays, birthdays, or an upscale barbecue just because they enjoyed each other’s company. “Ciao famiglia. Scusa se sono in ritardo.” Samira apologized for her tardiness in smooth Italian, walking into the room and drawing everyone’s attention.

  They all greeted her warmly as she moved about the room greeting everyone with a hug and kiss to the cheek, beginning with her mother and ending with both her brothers. Moving over to the bar, she poured herself a glass of sparkling water and sipped from it as she stared off outside the tall patio doors at the sun casting a glow against the manicured lawn.

  How can I convince the grouch to sell his land?

  “A dollar for your thoughts.”

  She smiled and eyed her brother Naim over the rim of the glass as she took another sip. “The going rate was a penny,” she quipped.

  “The Ansahs do everything big,” he said, looking tall, dark, bearded and handsome with his white teeth gleaming against his deep brown complexion.


  “Yes, we do,” Samira agreed, setting down her glass and taking his snifter from his hand to pour two fingers of his favorite scotch into it. “Normally.”

  Naim looked pensive. “Anything I can help with?” he asked.

  “If only it were that easy,” she said, reaching to squeeze his free hand.

  “Work or pleasure?” he asked.

  “Definitely work,” she admitted. “My last date spent most of the night talking about his accomplishments.”

  “To impress or to equate?” Naim asked, crossing one strong arm over his chest.

  She arched a brow. “I’m not sure. Good observation, though,” she said, admitting that dating a strong, educated woman who was a billionaire in her own right could be intimidating and make a man feel the need to prove himself worthy...which still made him the wrong man for her regardless.

  “So, what’s the problem?” he asked, ever concerned about his little sister.

  Samira took another sip of her water as she eyed her brother. She was far closer to him than to their older brother, Alek. Their nearness in age and the feelings of being overlooked in business by their father were something they shared.

  “I’m working on making my big move at ADG,” Samira finally admitted. “It’s my turn.”

  He opened his mouth, and she held up one slender finger. “And no offers of help. Wearing lipstick, heels and skirts does not equate to needing assistance.”

  Naim bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment to both her education and her tenacity, traits they shared.

  “I’m just having a hard time connecting with someone I need to finalize my idea,” Samira said, her eyes squinting a bit as she thought of Emerson Millner. Annoyance rose in her quickly.

  “Connecting?” he asked, looking confused.

  The sounds of tiny running feet echoed along the floor, and moments later her niece, Aliyah, burst into the room, full of smiles and joy. The preschooler went barreling toward her grandmother LuLu, who scooped her right up into her arms. Naim and Marisa’s nanny, LuAnn, held their son, Kwesi, as he promptly dropped the bottle he held and squealed, “Mama!”

  LuAnn set him on the floor, and he instantly crawled at a quick pace over to where Marisa had squatted down to pick him up into her arms and nuzzle her face against the sweet softness of his neck.

  Everyone laughed as Kwesi giggled, tossed his head back and sighed like all was right with the world.

  “Oh, my Chocky-Wocky,” Samira sighed, using her pet name for him because of the deep brown complexion he’d inherited from Naim.

  “Hey, Uncle Naim. Hi, Auntie.”

  Samira looked down into Aliyah’s angelic face, her heart bursting with love for her niece as she stooped to meet her at eye level.

  “Hello, beautiful,” Naim said with warmth.

  “You left me for last. Did you forget your auntie?” Samira teased.

  “No,” Aliyah laughed as she reached and pressed her hand to Samira’s cheek.

  She cared nothing about her flawless makeup as she enjoyed the warmth of her niece’s hand on her face. “I don’t know,” she teased. “Maybe I shouldn’t FaceTime you so much and visit more often.”

  “Face-to-face is better,” Aliyah said before leaning in to lightly rub her nose against Samira’s.

  It was her turn to giggle. “Yes, it is,” she agreed.

  Samira then frowned as she stroked her niece’s cheek and rose to her full height. “Face-to-face is better,” she repeated softly as Naim scooped Aliyah up in his arms to toss into the air and catch as she squealed in delight.

  She pulled her iPhone from her pocket and swiped up her info on Emerson L. Millner. All the properties he owned in the county were public record, and there was just one other address listed in Passion Grove outside the land in which she was interested.

  Dare I?

  She put the address into the GPS on her phone. It was less than ten miles away.

  “Humph.”

  Samira nibbled at her bottom lip and tapped the tip of her boot against the hardwood floors as she weighed her options. Face-to-face is better. And she wanted her answer once and for all.

  Plus, she was very curious about Mr. Emerson L. Millner. “The Grumpy Grouch,” she muttered under her breath.

  Curiosity would have to kill the cat.

  “I’ll be back,” Samira said, striding across the room.

  “Samira, où vas-tu? On va déjeuner!” LuLu said, her French flawless.

  She stopped and turned at her mother’s question about where she was going when they were about to have lunch. Nearly every eye in the room was on her. She gave them a smile. “I have something work related to handle. I should be no more than an hour or so. Everyone enjoy lunch,” she said, maintaining her normal poised demeanor.

  “Work related?” Alek and Alessandra said in unison.

  “Work related?” Aliyah mimicked her powerful parents.

  “Chinese wall. Remember?” Samira reminded them of their insistence to never bring work home so they could maintain some balance between family time and working together all day as co-CEOs of the conglomerate.

  The couple shared a look.

  With a slight tilt of her head, Samira turned and quickly strode from the room, retracing her earlier steps back to the front door. She moved so quickly she didn’t retrieve her fur and instantly regretted it as a fall wind whipped around her, lifting the ends of her waist-length weave. She climbed beneath the wheel of her car, feeling comforted by the heat of the seats and the car from her automatic start.

  As she followed the turn-by-turn directions verbalized by the GPS, she wished she had on a more professional outfit but didn’t want to chance a drive home to her Upper East Side apartment in Manhattan. She might lose her nerve and just resort to the phone calls and emails that were fast becoming futile. If one of her staff handled the grouch, she might have more patience, but that was impossible with her holding close to the vest her entire plan for using luxury boutique hotels to revitalize the hotels/resorts/casino division.

  She turned down Aster Drive and pulled to a slow stop on the street in front of the massive cabin-styled mansion on the lake.

  “You have reached your destination.”

  “Have I?” Samira asked, her eyes taking in the forlorn-looking place in the distance. At every window, the curtains were dark in color and closed. Because winter was nearing, the trees were bare of leaves and the spacious lawn in need of cutting. No flower boxes at the window. No potted plants or topiary on the porch. No garden. No holiday decor. There were no vehicles in sight. There were no signs of life.

  She frowned a bit, half expecting a large tumbleweed to blow across the yard, pushed by the fall winds.

  She retrieved her phone to double-check the address but turned to look over her shoulder as a small red compact came driving up the paved road. Is that his car? Samira extended her arm to wave the car down. It pulled to a stop, and she bent at the waist to look through the passenger window at a tall and thin young woman with short curly reddish-brown hair and glasses. She smiled and lowered the window.

  “Hi,” she said. “You’re here for the interview, too?”

  Interview?

  “It’s here, right?” Samira asked, hiding her confusion as she pointed her thumb toward the mansion.

  The young woman looked forward through her windshield at the house and then back at her. “That’s what Ms. Ray said, right?”

  Ms. Ray?

  Samira nodded. “Right,” she said, rising to her full height and walking over to her car. She paused. “Good luck.”

  “Thanks. You, too,” she said, before accelerating forward.

  “Interview?” Samira said as she climbed back in her car and closed the door before speeding up the drive toward the house that was set far back from the street.

  So t
he house isn’t empty.

  Samira pulled her sports car to a stop on the stone-paved courtyard. If it was at all possible, the house looked more lonesome up close. It was in need of the tender loving care and attention that would make the sprawling home majestic.

  She looked on as the other woman climbed from her car. “Oh wow,” Samira said, drawing it out as she took in the short skirt and high heels, and a blazer nearly bursting as her full breasts pressed against the button.

  “An interview for what?” she asked herself aloud.

  The woman, who looked to be in her early twenties, climbed the stairs slowly and rang the doorbell.

  Samira lowered the window of her car as one of the large double doors that was trimmed in metal opened. Her heart pounded as she fought to see him. She failed.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Millner. I’m here to interview for the personal assistant position,” she said, extending her hand.

  Personal assistant?

  “Thank you for your time, but absolutely not. Have a good day.”

  Samira gasped in shock as moments later the door closed shut. She cringed in dismay before she cleared her throat and summoned up all her determination as she climbed from the car. “What happened?” she asked, reaching the other woman just as she opened her car door.

  She shrugged one shoulder and chuckled. “He took one look at these—” She began waving her hand across the air in front of her breasts. “I guess he didn’t want to be distracted.”

  Samira gave her a weak smile. To be honest, the outfit was wholly inappropriate for a job interview. He wasn’t wrong, but he was rude. And insolent. And grouchy.

  So damn grouchy.

  “Excuse me,” Samira said, gripping the car door to keep the other woman from closing it. “What exactly does he do? Why does he need an assistant?” she asked.

  “Some big-time writer... Lance Miller or Muller.”