Читать книгу The Christmas Love-Child - Дженни Лукас, Jennie Lucas - Страница 8

MAKSIM glanced down at the girl’s lovely, dazzled blue eyes as his chauffeur drove east through the crowded traffic on Knightsbridge Road towards Mayfair. She’d called him “nice.” He repeated the word in his mind as if he were trying to comprehend it.

Nice?

Prince Maksim Ivanovich Rostov had not become powerful by being nice.

His great-grandfather had been nice during his Paris exile, spending money as if he were still Grand Duke with his own fiefdom in St. Petersburg, giving largesse freely to every hard-luck story that walked into his pied-à-terre.

His grandfather had been nice, spending what little remained of the Rostov fortune down to the last penny in London as he waited impatiently for the Russian people to kick out the Soviets and beg him to return.

His father had been nice, hopelessly trying to support his young, sweet American wife by taking increasingly humiliating jobs until he’d finally followed his father’s lead of suicide-by-vodka, leaving his gentle wife, eleven-year-old son and baby daughter to fend for themselves in her native Philadelphia.

But Maksim…

He was not nice.

He was selfish. He was ruthless. He took what he wanted. It was how he’d built a billion-dollar fortune out of nothing.

And now…he wanted Grace Cannon.

For the past hour, he’d been waiting for her. His chauffeur had driven back and forth on Brompton Road, waiting to catch the girl as she came up from the Knightsbridge Tube stop on the way home to her basement flat in Barrington’s town house.

This young American secretary was the key to everything.

She would help him finally crush Barrington. The man had been a thorn in his side for far too long, and now he’d finally crossed the line by taking both the deal—and the woman—that rightfully belonged to Maksim.

Barrington thought he’d saved himself from ruin by taking Francesca as his fiancée. He’d soon find it was his last mistake. He would get neither the bride nor the merger.

Maksim would destroy him. As he deserved.

And Grace Cannon would help him. Whether she wanted to or not.

Maksim turned to her with a smile. Unfolding a soft cashmere blanket, he draped it over her shivering body.

“Thank you,” she said, her teeth still chattering.

“It’s my pleasure.”

“You’re not what I expected,” she whispered, pressing the blanket against her cheek. “You’re not like everyone says.”

“What do they say?” He carelessly placed his arm on the leather seat behind her. She was still shivering. He moved closer. Even though she was now covered with a blanket, her shivering only increased when he touched her.

“They say…you’re a…ruthless playboy,” she said haltingly. “That you spend half your time conquering business rivals…and the other half making conquests of women.”

He laughed. “They are right.” He moved closer, looking down into her face. “That is exactly who I am.”

His thigh brushed against hers, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. She scooted away from him as if he’d burned her.

She was skittish. Very skittish.

There were only three possible explanations.

One—she was afraid of him. He dismissed that idea out of hand. She wouldn’t have agreed to get in his car if she’d been truly afraid.

Two—she had no experience with men. He dismissed that idea, as well. A twenty-five-year-old virgin? Almost impossible in this day and age. Particularly since she not only worked for Alan Barrington, she lived in his house. He surely had seduced her many times over.

That left only the third possibility. She was ripe for Maksim’s conquest.

He slowly looked her over. She wasn’t a girl that any man would immediately notice. Compared to fiery bird-of-paradise Francesca, who had bright-red hair, sharp red nails and a vicious red mouth, Grace Cannon was a drab sparrow, pale and frumpy with barely a word to say for herself.

And yet…

Now that Maksim really looked at her, he saw that the girl wasn’t nearly as plain as he’d first thought. Her ill-fitting coat and wet ponytail had made her seem so, but now he realized his mistake.

The fact that she wore no makeup only revealed the perfection of her creamy skin. Her eyelashes and eyebrows were so light as to be invisible, but that proved the glorious pale gold of her hair came from nature, not a salon. She wore no lipstick and her teeth hadn’t been bleached to blinding movie-star whiteness, and yet her tremulous smile was warmer and lovelier than any he’d seen. She wasn’t stick thin as the strange fashion for women dictated, but her ample curves only made her more lushly desirable.

He suddenly realized the dowdy secretary was a beauty.

A secret beauty, disguising herself away from the world. Beneath the unattractive clothing and the frumpy, frizzy hairstyle, her loveliness shone bright as the sun.

She hid her beauty. Why?

“What’s wrong?” She frowned up at him suddenly, furrowing her brow in alarm.

Had she guessed his plan? “What, solnishka mayo?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply. “Like sunshine in winter.”

She blushed, biting her tender pink lip as she looked away. Clutching the luxurious cashmere like a security blanket against her wet, threadbare coat, she scooted further away from him on the car’s leather seat. With a swallowed sigh, she stared out through the window at the passing Christmas lights beneath the thickly falling sleet. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know I’m not pretty.”

She didn’t know, he realized. She had no idea. She wasn’t purposefully hiding her beauty. She didn’t know.

“You are beautiful, Grace,” he said quietly.

At the use of her first name, she gave him a sudden fierce, sharp glance. “Don’t waste your flattery on me, Your Highness.”

He gave her an easy smile. “Call me Maksim. What makes you think it’s flattery?”

“You might be London’s most famous playboy, but I’m not that gullible. A few false compliments won’t make me blurt out details about the merger with Exemplary Oil. Alan has Lord Hainesworth’s support now. You won’t be able to win.”

So she was intuitive, as well as lovely. He was growing more intrigued by the moment. “I wasn’t lying.”

“I’m not a total fool. I know I’m not beautiful. There’s only one reason you’d say I am.”

“And that is?”

“You want me to betray Alan.” She lifted her chin. “I won’t. I’d die first.”

“Loyalty,” he said, staring at her with even greater interest. The girl felt something for her boss beyond what he’d expected. Was it possible she was in love with Alan Barrington?

A pity if the little secretary believed herself in love with him, Maksim thought. He’d just been starting to respect her.

Would money be enough to convince Grace to turn on her lover? Or would Maksim have to seduce her away from him?

Seducing a woman who was in love with another man would be an interesting challenge, he thought. And poetic justice.

But Maksim’s interest in Grace was no longer just about revenge. It was no longer just about rivalry or honor.

He suddenly wanted to peel away the deceptive layers of the little secretary’s plain clothing. To see her true beauty. To see her naked in his bed. To feel her lush curves against his body and see her bright, unadorned face breathless in the soft pink light of dawn.

Beneath his gaze, her pale cheeks went slowly red, like the blood-colored sun burning through the thick morning mist on the wide snowy fields of his Dartmoor estate. He watched as she nervously licked her full, pink, heart-shaped lips. Her white, even teeth nibbled at her lower lip, followed by a small dart of her tongue to moisten each corner of her mouth.

He felt himself go hard watching her.

He prayed she’d refuse his honest offer of money. Then he could just take her. Without conscience. Without remorse.

“The Leighton boutique is on Bond Street,” she stammered, caught in his gaze.

He gave a predatory smile. “My driver knows the way.”

“Of course he does. You date so many women, I bet you go there a lot.” She turned away, blinking fast as she stared out the window. Beneath her breath, she added wistfully, “It must be nice to never worry about money.”

A sudden memory went through Maksim of the bone-chilling winter when he’d turned fourteen. There’d been no heat in their tiny apartment; his mother had been laid off from her temp job. Three-year-old Dariya had been shivering and crying, and their desperate mother had taken her to a shelter to get warm. Wanting to help, he’d cut school to sell newspapers on the street in Philadelphia. Freezing rain soaked through everything. It had taken three days afterward for Maksim’s coat to dry—three days of winter so cold it left his skin the color of ash. Three days of a wet, icy wind that seeped beneath his clothes and left him shaking till his teeth chattered.

Three days of hiding the wet coat from his mother, knowing that she would insist on giving him her own, that she’d go without a coat herself as she trudged the distance between employment agencies, desperate to find a job, any job.

Those three days had taught him the most valuable lesson of his life.

Money made the difference between a good life and no life at all.

Money fixed anything. Money fixed everything.

And you didn’t get it by being nice.

“What a fairy-tale life,” the girl whispered, staring out the window at all the well-dressed shoppers on Bond Street, the expensive cars, the festive decorations and lights of Christmas. “A perfect fairy-tale life.”

Looking at her wistful beauty, Maksim suddenly had the strong desire to tell this naive girl the truth about his ruthless soul.

But he didn’t. She’d learn it soon enough.

She’d learn it the hard way.

Grace Cannon would tell Maksim what he needed to know. He would try to buy the information. If that didn’t work, he’d seduce it from her. Or maybe, he thought suddenly as he looked down at her, he would seduce her anyway.

He would show this little secretary a kind of romance she’d never seen before. Luxury on a grand scale. He would be lavish. He would kiss her senseless. And like every woman before her, she would fall.

He would make her talk.

He would take her body.

Then…he would drop her.

A man didn’t get rich—or win—by being nice.