Billionaire's Christmas Vixen (2 page)

She barely recognized him without his suit and silk tie. His dark hair was mussed about, as if he’d just gotten out of the shower and hadn’t bothered to brush through it yet. He was tall, but built well for his height. He looked as though he’d just returned from somewhere exotic, which, Brea was sure, wasn’t unlikely. His eyes were dark and intense, his skin smooth, his lips full and unsmiling. He wore a plain gray tee and plaid pajama bottoms. “Yes?” he asked with a lack of concern.

She was caught off guard by his question. She’d been counting on the fact that someone would open the door and see her standing there shivering, not far from freezing to death, and that would be enough. Had she known that George Clark was the resident of this home, she’d of just kept walking and waited until she came across something else. But here she was, and now it was too late to turn around. She would never make it to the next house. Still, she managed nothing more than a dumbfounded look and a small groan as the cold cut through her skin like needles. She was sure that as she stood there, her blood was turning to ice.

“Can I help you?” he added, obviously irritated with her standing there, nearly mute.

She was tempted to turn away still, willing to risk the frigid late afternoon than to have to ask anything of this man. Getting freezer burn on her fingers wouldn’t be as much of a nightmare as having to stay with this man, even if for just an hour or two, while she waited for a tow truck. She sighed, resigning herself and sucking up her pride. She could force herself to play nice for just a little while. She just hoped that he would do the same.

“I’m…I’m sorry to…to bother you,” she said through chattering teeth. “But my car broke...broke down and I...I need…need to call someone but…but my phone…there’s no…no service. Do you mind…mind if I use…use your phone?”

He only looked at her, unconcerned and annoyed by her presence. She could see that he had no intention of inviting her into his home, and she suddenly hated him. “P…p…please. I just need…need to make a call. I…I can leave as…as soon as I do.” It killed her to say it, but she still managed to stutter out one more ‘please’ before waiting for his response.

He leaned out the door and glanced around, and Brea wondered if he was paranoid. He then stood there for a moment, and she was beginning to think that he wouldn’t even allow her a phone call. She turned to go when she heard the door creak open further and feet shuffling across the floor. “Well?” he asked from behind her. She turned to face him, seeing that he stood with the door open and waiting for her to come inside. “Do you mind hurrying it up? It’s a bit chilly out there.”

She knew that his concern for the cold had nothing to do with her, but rather his own comfort. She didn’t hesitate in scurrying through the door and into the brightly-lit living area. A fire burned hotly on the far side, heating the entire house. She shuddered violently as the warmth skittered under her jacket and across her face. She noticed that Mr. Clark held a hand out to her, waiting for her to hand over her jacket.
Well, at least he can be a gentleman when he wants,
she thought to herself mockingly. She pulled it from her shoulders and handed it to him, knitted scarf and all.

“Where’s the phone?” She tried to sound confident, but she was still thawing out, and she realized that the trek through the snow had exhausted her. Her words came out almost slurred and drunken, and Brea was shocked to feel herself become embarrassed as he walked past her.

“This way.” He led her into the kitchen, where a phone was mounted to the wall beside a small dining table. “Good luck on getting through to anyone.” He handed her a phone book. “I never thought this thing would get used for anything other than kindling for the fire place.” He chuckled as he grabbed a beer from the fridge and walked from the room, leaving her alone in the cozy, freshly-painted kitchen. The walls were as white as the snow that fell outside, and cabinets were a dark cherry, with marble countertops. The ceramic tiled flooring was done in black, white, and gray swirls. She admired the room for a moment before picking up the phone and dialing the number.

Her jeans were soaked up to her knees, her jacket was oversized, and her hat floppy and wet against her head. She looked like she’d just crawled out from under a bridge. George was tempted to search around the corner for a grocery cart full of cans and all of her belongings. He wasn’t keen on the idea of letting her into his home. With Jim and John (he had no idea what their birth names were and had no desire to learn them, either, so they were always just Jim and John, even when they were replaced) not around, there wasn’t anyone to stop him from letting her in. Nor was he worried that she would turn out to be in coercion with the attempted assassinator, and if she was, well, he could handle her, couldn’t he? He didn’t want to let her in, because he didn’t want her to get the idea that he was going to give her any sort of charity.

She was shivering beneath all of her layers and could barely mutter out the request to use his phone, but even then, he wanted to turn her away. He didn’t bother with responding to her request and he was more than willing to let her walk off of his porch. As she turned to do just that, a gust of air pushed through the door frame and penetrated his thin clothing. Instantly he was chilled. Knowing that he was sending the girl out in it and that she would likely not survive just wouldn’t do. He had enough bad rep as it was, and couldn’t afford headline news mentioning how he’d let the girl walk to her death.

Reluctantly, George pushed back against the door and called her inside, all the while vowing that she would stay no longer than it would take for someone to come get her and for her to become their problem. He hung the girl’s coat and turned to lead her to the phone, but was caught off guard as he faced her.

He’d assumed this was a girl of just twenty years old, perhaps a year or two older, but now he realized that she was much closer to his age, and carried it well. Her face was pale, with the exception of the tip of her nose and the rims of her eyes, where the cold had stung at her. Her features were small and naturally adorable. Her brown hair had been tied in a bun and stuffed under her hat, but now several strands fought to be free. Her green eyes had met his defiantly, as if it didn’t matter that he’d allowed her into his home. He smiled internally at this, intrigued by the fact that she didn’t seem intimidated by nor interested in him.

He pointed her to the phone and handed her a phone book before walking out with a beer in hand. He settled in the living room as he overheard her conversation with the towing company.

“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me?” She was nearly yelling now. There was a pause as the woman waited for a response. “Yes, I’m sorry, there is an awful connection. I’m in need of a tow.” Pause as someone spoke on the other end of the line. “My car is on Route 4, about 2 miles east of Highway 65.” George could hear the woman shuffle in the kitchen. “Yes, I understand, but I really need to have it towed. It only needs to be pulled from the ditch, not taken anywhere.” Pause again, and more shuffling as the woman found a chair and made herself comfortable. “Please. I know it’s Christmas Eve, and I know the weather is awful, but don’t you have family that you’d like to spend Christmas with?” Short pause. “I have family too, and I’d like to get home to them.”

He wasn’t sure why, but something about the woman’s last sentence sounded a bit off. Not dishonest, but wrong, as if she were dreading something. “Please!” Her voice was lowered to nearly a whisper, but he could hear the desperation in it. “Isn’t there anything you can do tonight?” Silence as the person on the other line responded. “Yes, I understand. Thank you. Tomorrow?” Pause. “Yes, thank you. I’ll be there.” Pause. “Yes, Merry Christmas to you as well.”

The phone clicked into the cradle as the woman released an exasperated sigh. He lounged back into his chair and sipped on his beer, waiting to see what the woman would do now. It took several minutes for her to drag her feet into the doorway of the kitchen. He looked up to her, and forcing down a smile, asked, “any luck?”

Her eyes narrowed at him, but she kept her cool. “No, thank you.” She turned on her heels and walked towards the coat rack, snatching her jacket, wrapping her scarf around her, and tugging down her hat. George watched inquisitively, wondering if the woman was stubborn and proud enough that she’d risk the cold rather than ask his assistance. She faced him as she zipped up her large coat and slipped into her gloves. “I appreciate you allowing me to make a call. I hope you have a Merry Christmas.”

Her hand was on the handle, turning it and pulling the door open. “Would you like some dinner? It seems I’ve prepared more than I have an appetite for.”

The door closed slowly, quietly, but the woman kept her hand on the handle, as if she was prepared to sprint at any moment. As if she was afraid that if she turned around, she would never be able to leave. It wasn’t that he wanted her to stay, and if Jim and John were to show up, they’d give him hell for letting her stay, especially after the events of that afternoon. He was supposed to be in hiding, but he’d heard enough of the conversation to know that she would be sitting in her car for the entire night. He couldn’t allow that.

Not that he cared, but maybe it would award him a bit of good publicity. ‘Even with a bounty on his head, Mr. Clark is still the knight in shining armor’. Oh, the press would just eat him and the story up.

She didn’t know if it would be worse to freeze to death or to stay in the cabin and endure the presence of Mr. Clark. Both would be slow and torturous, but at least she was most likely to survive Mr. Clark. Or so she hoped. She slowly turned to face him and read his expression, but there was nothing except contempt. That was fine with her, because she felt the same about remaining. Still, she was hungry, and her body was already cold with the thought of being back out in the blizzard. Brea removed her jacket, her eyes never leaving George’s. He watched her closely, making her uncomfortable, but she wouldn’t back down from his challenging glare.

Moments passed, and as she realized that George wasn’t going to back down either, Brea grew uncomfortable. She had to break the silence, or she would go mad. “Would you mind if I called my family?” She folded her hands together awkwardly.

“Go ahead.” He waved her towards the kitchen nonchalantly. She didn’t hesitate to take her leave of him, grateful to be out of view of his eyes. She snatched the phone off of the wall and slumped into a chair. For the first time, she noticed the chicken alfredo that still steamed from the stove top, her stomach growling in response. She shook her head. The only thing she wanted right now was to figure out how to get out of here.

“Brandy?” She asked as her sister drunkenly answered the phone. Brandy spent more time with their parents than Brea did, and she had learned that the best way to deal with them was to have a glass of wine. Or five.

“Brea!” Her sister exclaimed. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“I’m stranded. Can you let Mom and Dad know that I’m not going to make it tonight?”

“Well,” she hesitated for a moment, “I think they thought you were here already.”

Brea wasn’t entirely surprised that her lack of presence hadn’t really been noticed. She rolled her eyes as she answered. “I’m about two hours away. I got caught in the blizzard on Route 4 and ran my car off the road.”

“Oh God! Are you okay?” At least someone back home cared about her. Had she told her parents, they’d have commented on her horrible driving, scolded her for being irresponsible for leaving so late, for not preparing better, and anything else they could think of. She’d been trying for most of her life to do something they could be proud of, but everything she did ended up in failure.

“I’m fine, but my car is stuck in a ditch. I’ve called for a tow truck, but they won’t send anyone out into this storm, so I have to wait for morning.” She heard her mother’s voice in the background, muffled and barely audible, asking who was on the phone. Brandy answered, and Brea cringed, waiting for the insults to begin.

Brea heard a cruel laugh and then her mother muttering under her breath. “Well, what happened this time? Couldn’t pull herself from that coffee pot? Too busy slaving around?” Brandy interrupted her mother, but Brea had already heard enough to bring the tears burning to her eyes.

Brea bit her lip and refrained from saying what she truly wanted to say, even though she didn’t have to defend herself to her sister. She knew that she didn’t have the highest paying, most respectable of jobs, but it was what she loved doing, and she only wished that her parents were more supportive of her. It was one of the many decisions that her family saw as disappointing and one of the many things that made spending time with her family uncomfortable. “Just please tell them that I won’t be able to make it until tomorrow,” she said solemnly.

“Don’t let her get to you. She’s a few glasses in, so you know how she gets.” Brea didn’t reply, trying to wipe the tears from her eyes and to forget her mother’s words. “I’m drinking all of your eggnog, then!” Brandy said lightheartedly.

Brea sighed. “That’s fine, Brandy. Just tell them, please.”

Brandy relented. “Okay, don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of them. So,” she paused for a moment, “I’m actually glad that you called. Mom has a surprise for you, but I’m not sure it’s a very good one.”

“What do you mean? What kind of surprise?”

“Um, well she kind of invited someone.” Brea didn’t respond, forcing her sister to continue. “She invited Eric.”

“What?” she shrieked into the phone, lowering her voice so George wouldn’t be able to hear about how horrific her Christmas had just become. “Why would she…how could she?” It wasn’t that she didn’t want Eric to be there. Really, it was quite the opposite. The problem was her mother getting involved and trying to win Eric back for her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t find out about it until I got here this morning, or I’d’ve given you a heads’ up. I thought she’d’ve told you, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“It’s okay. I guess it’s a good thing that I have a bit of time to figure out what I’m going to say to him, then.” There wasn’t much of a silver lining to this, but at least there was something. She’d have enough time to plot her plan of attack. 

“Well, where should I tell them you are?”

Brea hesitated on what to tell her. She couldn’t say that she was with the one and only George Clark. She wasn’t entirely sure that her sister would believe her anyway. “I stopped at a house when the car got stuck.”

“A house? As in, a
stranger’s
house?”

“Yes, Brandy. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Oh no, you’re not getting off that easily. Is he hot?”

“What are you talking about?” She knew her voice would give her away, but she had to try.

“Not a guy?” she replied in disappointment. “You know, stranded in the middle of nowhere during a snowstorm and you end up at a stranger’s house? It has to be a hot guy, right?”

Brea was reluctant to respond. She had always been a horrible liar and knew that if she tried to lie now, the conversation would go on much longer than she wanted. She already risked George overhearing. “Yes, okay. It’s a guy, but it’s nothing like that. He’s only letting me use his phone.”

“But, he’s hot, right?”

Brea sighed. “It’s just a guy, Brandy. Not every guy is hot.” She realized she was talking louder than intended and peeked around the corner to be sure that George hadn’t heard her words. “I have to go.”

“Oh, I bet you do! Go get you some before you come home. Maybe it’ll actually help you to get over Eric.”

She couldn’t help but to crack a smile, though, even if she knew she would never get over him. She told her sister she loved her before hanging up.

She wasn’t particularly anxious to join George in the living room, but she was his guest, sort of, and she needed to find out just what the limits would be to her staying in his house. She had no intention of overextending her welcome when she didn’t want to be here to begin with.

He was still sipping at his beer as he strolled through the kitchen. Brea blushed, hoping he hadn’t stood outside the door, waiting for her to finish her conversation. “Thank you. For letting me use the phone, I mean.” He glanced at her, and she averted her gaze. She had never been too proud for apologies and thank yous, but she had a hard time admitting that George Clark might ever be deserving of being appreciation for any reason.

George said nothing to her as he walked to the stove, spooned alfredo onto a plate, and dropped it in front of her. “I’m sure you’re hungry, so eat.” He didn’t look at her as he sat across the table and swirled noodles around his own fork.

Brea glanced from him to the plate and then back at him again. She had a few words that she wanted to spit at him, but held them back, because yes, she was indeed hungry. And tired. “Thank you,” she said through gritted teeth. She couldn’t stand sitting there in silence, but she knew that he wasn’t going to be the one to start a conversation with her. “Were you hurt?”

He looked up and locked eyes with her. “What are you talking about?”

“Today, were you shot?”

“Do I look shot?”

“Well no. I just mean, well was it close? Do you know who shot at you?” She suddenly wished she’d said nothing.

“Close?” He laughed lightly. “No, and I’ve no idea who thought they would be good enough to pull something like that off, but they failed miserably at it.”

“Are you just hiding out here until they find the shooter, then?”

“
Hiding
? What in the world makes you think I’m hiding? There is nothing and no one to hide from.” He swayed his arms around to indicate the house. “This is my family home. I come here when I want to be alone.” He cut his eyes at her, and she took that he was done with the discussion. 

She was surprised at how flavorful the alfredo was, and began searching the kitchen for signs of it being a frozen dinner or take out. Everything appeared to be homemade. Suddenly, Brea’s chest burned. Was the blonde he had been seen with  here? Maybe she was upstairs in the shower, or already in bed, and had cooked him dinner before she’d gone up? But then, she found it hard to believe that any woman caught with Mr. Clark was going to be particularly skilled in the domesticated side of life.

“This is delicious,” she prodded. Not that she cared if the blond woman was still here, but she didn’t want to be caught off guard if the woman walked in and found Brea here with her boyfriend.

“Thanks,” he mumbled without bothering to look up at her.

“So, did you make this, or did your personal chef fly in just long enough to whip it up and let you take the credit?” She didn’t mean to come off hostile, but his cold shoulder was getting old already.

He dropped his fork and leaned back in his chair, an unamused quirk on his lips. “Why do you assume that I don’t cook for myself?”

She opened her mouth to respond and then quickly closed it. She didn’t want to be here, but she needed to be. “I just, well, I thought, I guess I figured you wouldn’t have time to cook.” He raised his eyebrows inquisitively, so she continued, “I mean, you’re a busy man, are you not, Mr. Clark? I only assumed that you wouldn’t have the time. And you have the money to, well, to hire someone to do it for you. Right?”

“So you assume that I don’t cook? Or that I don’t know
how
to cook?”

Brea fumbled over her words, and George stopped her before she could get anything out. “It’s impolite to make such assumptions, Miss…what is your name?”

“Nelson,” she softly answered. “Brea Nelson.”

“Okay, Ms. Nelson, it’s inappropriate to make assumptions about a person you don’t know. I happen to enjoy cooking in my free time, and have never had a chef of any sort in my employ, with exception of an occasional banquet or party. Contrary to what you might believe, I happen to be a very self-sufficient individual.”

“I appreciate your little lesson here, Mr. Clark, but I’m sure you’ve made your own assumptions about me, have you not? As for not knowing you, you’ve made a great deal of yourself and your personal life public knowledge. It’s rather difficult to
not
know you. At least my judgments of you have a basis.”

“Oh really? Well, Ms. Nelson, what is it that you know of me, then?” He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee and, folding his fingers together, laid his hands in his lap.

She hadn’t expected to have to explain herself, and was caught off guard by the request. She looked away, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I just…never mind. I apologize.” The man was selfish and entitled, reckless and irresponsible, but he was decent enough to let her into his home and feed her a warm meal. She was ashamed that she would say anything rude to him, even if she did mean it.

She could feel his eyes on her, and after several uncomfortable moments, she finally met his gaze.

He had one eyebrow cocked upwards, his mouth turned down in a frown. “Do yourself a favor and keep your thoughts to yourself from here on. I won’t claim to be the most generous of hosts, but I promise that I’m far more generous than that storm will be to you.” He motioned his head towards the front door before sliding out from the table, snatching up both plates, and tossing them into the sink.