Christmas with Consequences
Sharon Kendrick
CHAPTER ONE
HER HEAD THUDDINGwith worry about the days ahead—even though Christmas was supposed to be ahappytime—Flora was more preoccupied than usual as she pushed open the door.
She looked around, frantically trying to work out what was different, apart from the newly purchased strands of tinsel and the artificial tree she’d brought from the market because Julian had demanded it (although this year mistletoe had been banned in the workplace). She gave a little nod. So far, so seasonal.
It was only as she ventured further into the cavernous interior of the huge room that she noticed what was missing.
Like, just abouteverything.
Gone were the silver-framed photos of the neglected wife of her boss, and the children he never really saw. Gone was that expensive painting of London which had dominated the wall behind the desk and which she’d never really liked. The heavy paperweight which had looked like an instrument of assassination had also disappeared and so too had the hat which had always hung—pristine and unworn—on the coat stand. The place looked bare—almost as if it had beenransacked—and the untidy spill of expensive pens lying scattered over the floor only added to that impression, as if their owner had left in a hurry.
But before she’d even had a chance to bend and pick them up, Flora heard a sound behind her and turned around, her heart clenching beneath her thin blouse when she saw the man who was framed in the doorway.
Reality took another strange shift, because instead of the corpulent frame of her boss, before her stood a vision of…
Of what?
She blinked. She, who was normally so exacting, had found what she had never expected to find.
Perfection.
Six foot two and eyes of blue.
Flora’s throat grew dry and suddenly she was having difficulty swallowing because she’d never seen anyone like him.
The man’s physical beauty was so bright that you almost wanted to cram on a pair of sunglasses to protect your eyes from the incandescence he radiated. But someone had once told her that you should never trust first impressions and Flora had believed them. Because beneath his flawless exterior there was something which hinted at hidden depths and danger—and she was someone who ran a million miles from danger. He reminded her of one of those prowling jaguars you sometimes saw on wildlife programmes—strong beasts which dominated their surroundings, no matter how hard they tried to blend into the background.
And this was not a man whoblended.
The sophisticated cut of his suit did nothing to disguise the hard body beneath and his shadowed jaw was firm and uncompromising. His skin gleamed like burnished gold—contrasting with coal-black hair and matching lashes, which framed eyes of the most incredible shade of blue. Eyes like chips of aquamarine were studying her with a cool and not particularly friendly appraisal.
Flora gave a jolt as she found herself reacting to him on a weird and purely physical level. She could feel it prickling hotly over her skin, like the start of a fever. Pushing through her veins like honey. A tug of something sweet and warm and forbidden low in her belly.
Suddenly, she became painfully aware of the fact that her hair was unflatteringly damp from the shower and her cheeks were burning from the physical exertion of getting here. She knew she was staring at him like an idiot and yet somehow she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away, even as she watched the sensual curve of his lips hardening into a cynical slash.
As if he were used to women finding him fascinating.
As if the predictability of such behaviour bored him.
‘Didn’t your mother teach you it was rude to stare?’ he taunted softly.
His mocking words punctured her unwanted fantasy and Flora was grateful to be able to focus on something other than the bizarre effect he was having on her. Her mother had taught her plenty of things—just not the kinds of things that mothers weresupposedto teach. She’d known all about excitement and living on the edge. And danger, of course. She had excelled at that. She just hadn’t been very good at showing her daughters the most sensible way to navigate your way through life.
Everything Flora knew, she had learnt herself, the hard way—and the most important lesson of all was that actions had consequences. So although instinct made her want to answer this distractingly gorgeous man with a flippant retort, experience made her bite it back. Was that because there was something awfullyimperiousabout his manner which was making her feel apprehensive, though she couldn’t work out why?
‘Why wouldn’t I stare?’ she questioned reasonably. ‘You scared me. Creeping up on me like that.’
‘Creeping?’ he echoed furiously. ‘You are inferring that I am some kind of stalker?’
‘Perhaps that was the wrong word,’ she amended quickly. ‘I just wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.’
‘But it is almost nine o’clock,’ he observed, glancing at the gold watch which gleamed beneath one pristine cuff, his richly accented voice sounding like iron shavings shot with silk. ‘What time does your boss usually start work?’
That would depend on what he’d been doing the night before, Flora thought, though she didn’t say so. For someone who looked like a walking health hazard and never bothered to remove the golden wedding band which dug into his fleshy finger, Julian Wootton was surprisingly successful with the opposite sex—probably because he was prone to spending obscene amounts of money on them. How many times had Flora been instructed to send flowers or air tickets as farewell gifts to his discarded lovers, or—if the woman was being particularly tricky and demanding he get a divorce—costly jewels?
