Christmas With The Billionaire (2 page)

She loved Christmas too, and this was the first Christmas she’d spent away from home, but she wasn’t going to sit here moping. She was going to hold that party whatever happened—and if no one turned up, she would raise a glass and eat herself stupid instead.
 

Chapter Two

Jason Kent hated Christmas. He explained this away as a heritage issue. He’d grown up in an orphanage where the best that could be said for Christmas was that the temporary staff drafted in over the holidays got too drunk to beat the children.

But now he could do as he pleased, which meant no Christmas. He planned to avoid the festive season here in his new penthouse at the top of the building he owned.
 

He glanced up at his latest acquisition as he turned his steel grey Aston Martin onto Oxford Street, and felt a glow of satisfaction at a deal well done. He occupied the entire penthouse floor. It was the epitome of solitude and quiet. Acoustic glass had been installed as standard, so there wasn’t a chance of Christmas noise, or any other noise, intruding from outside.
 

One of the first things he’d learned when he made money was that it bought the type of freedom he craved, and that a lot of money bought the seclusion he considered vital to thinking up his next deal. He had started making his money by selling what other people considered rubbish and had never looked back. He had bought his first run-down property in his early twenties, and had renovated it himself. That same work ethic drove him to provide accommodation for those who needed a leg-up in life, and many had ended up working for him. He’d been lucky and he liked to share his luck, but he was an impatient man who couldn’t tolerate any form of boundary or ruckus after his years of enforced confinement in the chaotic children’s home.
 

He was impatient now as a seemingly endless stream of pedestrians blocked his way, forcing him to wait with the rest of the traffic. Thankfully, his Christmas was done. He’d spoiled his staff, wanting them to have the best of times and just leave him out of it. Christmas was the one time of year he got to be alone, and everyone respected that. He had a stack of invitations in his office, but could no more crash someone else’s party than he could don a red robe and beard.

At last! Traffic was on the move again. He indicated left and prepared to turn into 1, Royal Buildings, noting with satisfaction the helipad on the roof that made it an easy ride to the airport, and the many excellent restaurants within a stone’s throw. The building contained a state of the art leisure center, with a gym and swimming pool, and there was a full concierge service available too. Maybe this Christmas wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

He opened his window as he approached the security booth, and then he saw the girl. It was the same girl who had taken him on in the lobby—the girl who didn’t give a toss who he was. Leaning over the balcony outside the second floor gym, she was taking photographs, her long black hair rippling like a banner in the wind. From her attitude he guessed she was smiling—
 

“You’re clear to go in, sir.”
 

The guard on duty, having recognized him, had opened the sleek steel doors that led into the underground garage. Everything was going to plan—except for the girl. He would investigate her. The last thing he needed was for this building to become famous for its resident snoop.
 

He went straight to his penthouse and let himself in. He glanced around with satisfaction. His designers had followed his brief to the letter. The space was vast and light, fitted with every conceivable home comfort. Clean lines predominated. Modern art was his preference, but the wall of books in the main salon particularly pleased him. He’d chosen each one and had them shipped, and then fitted precisely into the schematic. He liked precision too. His kitchen was pristine and would remain that way. He doubted it would ever be used, as ordering in or eating out was his preference. There were several bathrooms, each one a high-end example of what could be achieved with Makrana marble and polished steel. There were double rain-showers and tubs big enough for two. His shoulders relaxed as the tension of the day left him. Everything was perfect.
 

Except for that girl...
 

He’d attend to her later.
 

The crowds, the Christmas carols blaring from the stores and the chestnut stands glowing on the street, were all very well, but they could make some people feel lonelier than ever, Kate reflected, frowning over her supper of super delicious, and ultra calorific take-out Chinese, which she had managed to splatter all over the pristine kitchen surfaces. Was Lily next door really content to stand on her balcony watching the world go by? Would Neville have spoken to her at all, if it hadn’t been Christmas? And what about Keith, the kitchen fitter? Was he alone in that apartment over the holidays? And what about the cleaners? They kept the building spick and span for everyone else, but when did they get time off to enjoy themselves?

And what was she going to do about it with hardly any money?

But if everyone contributed something—a plate of food, or a bottle—and she hit the market stalls just before closing time, surely some of the traders would let her buy for cheap because they must have over-stocked for Christmas. Then she’d be able to put on a really good spread—then it could work.
 

It was time for a reality check, Kate concluded, frowning as she stared around the apartment. It had been impeccably styled. Nothing seemed to have been used, especially not the kitchen—until she’d gotten busy baking. But she’d cleared it up. No one would ever know she’d spilt egg yolk on the Aubusson rug. And who put one of the world’s most expensive rugs in the kitchen, anyway?
 

If she added a little glitz and tinsel to the chic French scheme, together with the wooden hearts she’d painstakingly carved at school with the names of her brothers and sisters, she could have it looking like a good old, home-style country Christmas in no time.
 

Her first problem didn’t take long to show its Scrooge-like head. There were no Christmas decorations in the apartment. Zero. Zip. Zilch. She sat back on her heels, having just investigated the last possible place: the cupboard in the spare bedroom. All she’d found were stinky old fur coats and hatboxes.
 

At home, decorating for Christmas was a serious business, starting in late November. How many clashing colors could they stick up in one room? More than last year? Hooray! Garish tinsel? Fantastic. Cheap plastic stars in Day-Glo colors? Better still. Cheesy music? Naturally. Tatty old decorations that Kate and her three brothers and two sisters had made years ago at school? Absolutely fundamental to their non-existent scheme. And if one should go missing all hell would break loose—

Well, all that was great, but there was nothing here, so what was she going to do?
 

Doing nothing wasn’t an option.

About to embark on the shopping expedition of the century with very few funds, she met up with a troop of cleaners coming into the building. They would work overnight on Christmas Eve, Kate discovered, getting everything ready for the residents to enjoy, and then they’d go home exhausted to their families, she presumed. That didn’t sound like much fun to her.
 

“Why don’t you come up to suite forty-four when you’ve finished on the twenty-fourth, and we’ll have a party?” she suggested. “Bring your families. You won’t have to do anything. I’ll do it all,” she explained when they looked at her as if she were mad.
 

“If you’re sure?” they chorused, exchanging glances that plainly said, who is this crazy woman?
 

The more the merrier as far as Kate was concerned.
 

She stopped on her way out of the building to chat with Jack, who had softened considerably towards her since she’d made him mince pies, and who now promised to tell the concierge on duty what she had planned.
 

“And there’s that geek with the big Adam’s apple,” Jack remembered, casting his eyes skywards as he thumbed his chin. “And that old guy with the cat. I don’t think he has any relatives left...”
 

“Right. The second I get back I’m going round the apartments again, asking everyone if they would like to come. And if I miss anyone, will you invite them for me, Jack?”

“Of course.” Jack tipped his hat. “Lady’s Vallender’s apartment. Christmas Eve, eight o’clock?”

“Correct.” Decision made, Kate stood a little taller. “See you, Jack. Ask them to bring a bottle or a plate of food, will you? What?” she asked when Jack gave her a look.
 

“Most people in this building don’t cook for themselves,” he explained carefully. “And they certainly don’t indulge in get-togethers, or kitchen suppers.”
 

“Then it will be something new for them for Christmas.” Kate shrugged and smiled. “What’s the worst that can happen? They can only say no. But please don’t put pressure on anyone. We don’t want any reluctant guests. I’m sure there’ll be enough food without contributions—”

If she could have seen Jack’s expression Kate might not have felt quite so confident as she flung her scarf around her neck and hurried out the door.
 

He had secured a last-minute reservation at his favorite chef’s table. An impossible task during Christmas week, except for Jason Kent, the maître d’ had told him in a groveling manner that almost made him change his mind. But he was hungry, and so he showered and changed out of casual clothes into the London look: black suit, white shirt, black diamond links and a grey silk tie.

He left the apartment a contented man, confident he had steered clear of Christmas for another year, and could sit it out without fear of interruption. He was pleased with the penthouse, and with the general appearance of his building. He was pleased with Jack the doorman, who shared his sense of humor, and to whom he now gave a generous tip. “Goodnight, Jack—”
 

Barely had the words left his mouth, when the revolving doors got stuck on a high-pitched squeal and a drumroll of oranges came tumbling out, followed by Ms.
Black.
 

“For the punch,” she explained breathlessly, as she somehow managed to extricate herself, her scarf, and her multitude of shopping bags, after a frenzy of yanking and tugging and heaving.
 

She scrabbled around his highly polished shoes as she tried to collect the escaping oranges, forcing him to pause. He used the moment to appreciate a deliciously disheveled Ms. Black. She was like a battering ram to his senses. For a moment, at least.

“No. Leave it,” she exploded when he dipped down to help. Springing to her feet, she insisted, “You’re all dressed up.”

While she was in an even wilder state of disarray than the last time he’d seen her.
 

“I insist.”
 

Her eyes widened at his tone, but she soon recovered and, brushing herself down, exclaimed, “Fine. Get on with it.”

This was a second novel encounter with the delectable Ms. Black.
 

“Here.” Swooping down to pick up the fruit that had escaped her, he pressed the oranges into her outstretched hands.
 

“Thank you.” Darkening eyes met his stare, and he had the satisfaction of seeing her cheeks fire red.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Kent.”

“To you too, Ms. Black. ”
 

She frowned, as if chewing over a problem, and then said, “And if you’re at a loose end on Christmas Eve—”
 

“I won’t be.”
 

“No. Of course not,” she said with a change of tone. “You wouldn’t be.”

The attitude in her voice held his interest. He was accustomed to women fawning over him, but knew instantly that there would never be any fake adoration where this woman was concerned.
 

“I just thought,” she said, staring at him as if trying to judge his mood, “That if you felt like coming along to a party—”
 

“Here?” His voice was low and menacing.

“Just drinks for a few friends,” she tempered. “Nothing noisy,” she added with what he suspected was wholly insincere sincerity.

“I don’t do parties.”
 

“You don’t do parties?” she challenged.
 

He stopped at the door and slowly turned to face her. “I hope you remember what we discussed in the elevator?”

“I remember you mentioning something about being the landlord.” Staring skywards, she pretended to think about this.

“No parties, Ms. Black.”

“Of course not,” she shouted after him. “I just thought if you were alone—”

Did she ever give up?
 

“I don’t do Christmas drinks, either.”
 

“What do you do?”

He turned and stared at her long enough for her cheeks to blaze red. If she had thought of including him in some rowdy celebration, she now knew that the only party he could possibly be interested in would be a party strictly confined to two.
 

Chapter Three

Arrogant man. Insufferable egotist. She didn’t want him coming to her party, anyway. She had only asked him for a drink, for goodness sake. Anyone would think she had invited him to take part in a BDSM orgy. Perhaps he would have accepted that.