The Magic of Christmas Read online

  As much as he loathed Christmas celebrations, he was no Ebenezer Scrooge. He happily paid for the celebrations, the end of year bonuses and small Christmas gifts. His staff members were first-rate and worthy of the rewards, but it didn’t mean he wanted to be part of the festivities he provided.

  Clamping down on his nausea, he tried to focus on finding ways to stay on the periphery of all the planned merriment without causing offence.

  ‘Kylie,’ he addressed the head of HR, ‘this is a traditional time of the year, and in keeping with tradition, I’d like John to play Santa and hand out the gifts as he’s so ably done every year in my absence.’

  ‘But, Jack—’ John protested.

  ‘No, John. I’ve had it from a reliable source that you make a jolly St. Nicholas and I’d like to see you in action for myself.’ Like hell. He’d be nowhere near a man in a Santa suit. ‘As for the rest of the party, I think it all sounds great.’ Liar.

  ‘It’s fantastic,’ Kylie enthused. ‘We have the biggest Christmas tree, decorations everywhere, carols playing, and the caterers are first-rate.’

  Bloody hell! His skin was already crawling.

  ‘This year, let’s add in something extra.’ They all looked at him expectantly and he had no idea what he was going to say. What he needed was to provide a place for himself away from the main party. But, he could hardly suggest they have a panic room for him for the entire night. He willed himself to relax.

  Grace.

  Her beautiful features imposed themselves in his mind’s eye and the thought of her had an instantly calming effect. Once again, he decided that she was the one who could provide him with the solution to his problem.

  ‘I propose this year, we provide a space away from the revelry of the main party. Let’s have a space off the main area—a more intimate room where people can converse more easily with each other.’ Here goes. ‘Let’s have the usual party room and an additional room with classical music rather than the normal carols.’

  The five committee members exchanged looks, seeming entirely unconvinced. He could hardly blame them, but wasn’t about to tell them it was the only way they’d get him to be on site at all for the function. They shuffled in their seats. Everyone in the room knew that while points were open to discussion, Jack was the boss and had the final say.

  ‘Just somewhere quiet for easier conversation?’ John asked.

  ‘Absolutely. The cocktails would still be served and people could come and go as they please between rooms.’ Jack shrugged. ‘Maybe it’ll be a fizzer or maybe it’ll be popular.’ He’d certainly be there.

  He pressed his point. ‘It’ll be much easier to hold a conversation in there so it’ll provide a better venue for me to converse with and get to know the employees on a more social level.’ It was the perfect excuse for him to be away from the main party.

  ‘What sort of classical music?’ another committee member asked. ‘Something classy like a string quartet?’

  ‘I know of the perfect pianist,’ Jack insisted smoothly. ‘I’ll just have to check her availability.’

  Chapter 8

  By the time five o’clock rolled around, Susan had fielded three calls from Imogene and the Christmas committee had sent him an email with an attachment outlining all the plans they’d made so far.

  There was an unrelenting pounding in Jack’s temples when he arrived home. He didn’t suffer from migraines very often these days, but judging from previous experiences the raging headache threatened to turn into one and the last thing he wanted was to miss out on Grace’s “audition”.

  Pain shot through his temples with each step and he hoped he could make it through his time with Grace without needing to retreat to his room.

  Her music reached him the second he stepped through into the entrance. It really was an antidote to stress and he enjoyed her rendition of ‘I Know Him So Well’ from Chess, despite how wretched he felt.

  So absorbed was she in the piece, he was certain she hadn’t registered his presence. He took the opportunity to watch her and again, the heartfelt emotions he saw on her face echoed through him.

  She played the last chord and gave a small, satisfied smile.

  Jack would’ve clapped but he didn’t think the action or the resounding noise would help his head.

  ‘That sounded fabulous, Grace.’ The shimmer effect of the impending migraine kicked in and he swayed on his feet.

  ‘Mr Mancini? Are you alright?’

  This was no gradual build up anymore. It was hitting with full force. ‘A migraine, Grace. I get them from time to time.’ He lifted his hand and waved it in a slight, dismissive gesture. ‘I have to lie down for a while, so we’ll need to postpone your official audition for another time. Please, carry on with your playing.’

  Damn! Damn!

  ‘But, you have a headache.’

  ‘Your music is soothing.’ Not that he’d hear it from his bedroom.

  Jack turned to walk out and actually bloody-well stumbled.

  ‘Mr Mancini! Can I help you upstairs to bed?’

  He wished.

  Through the dancing shimmer of his vision he looked down to where she’d rushed to his side. Her concern marred her beautiful brow with a frown. If he wasn’t feeling revolting with this headache, and if she hadn’t been in his employ, he would’ve jumped at the opportunity for her to help him to his bed—but he’d want more than he could have. He’d want her to stay there with him so that when he emerged from the pain, they could find pleasure together.

  Shit. She’d be horrified if she could guess the direction of his thoughts when she was being so concerned for him.

  ‘I’ll manage, thank you. Please keep playing.’

  He managed to make it up the stairs, even though every step jarred through his head like he’d stepped on and detonated a landmine. He was a few paces down the hallway when the shimmer intensified. Dark spots danced on the periphery of his vision.

  Jack swayed to his left and reached out towards the edge of a hall stand to steady himself. Next thing he knew, his hand had overshot the edge, his knees weakened and he sent a priceless, porcelain Chinese vase tumbling off the table and smashing onto the polished timber floorboards.

  ***

  Even knowing she could keep up her playing, Grace decided to close the piano and go home now Jack was unwell.

  Crash!

  The sound sent her flying out of the room and sprinting up the stairs towards the source of the breakage.

  ‘Mr Mancini!’

  His only response was a groan as he stood clutching at the edge of the hall stand. Jagged bits of porcelain lay on the floor around his feet.

  Despite his earlier protests, it was obvious he needed help.

  Thank goodness she was still here.

  ‘Come on, sir.’ She stepped between the broken bits of vase and went to his side. ‘Here, put your arm up over my shoulder.’ One hand helped him to lift his arm, while she positioned herself closer and put her other arm around his waist. ‘Lean on me and let’s get you to bed.’

  A guttural thanks was all he managed before he leant his considerable weight against her and they shuffled along the hall towards his bedroom.

  Oh God. At times when she came into his room to make his bed, Grace fantasised how good he’d look stretched out against those sheets. Now, she was about to help him into them.

  ‘Let’s sit you down.’ She steered him over to a chair. ‘Just stay there for a sec.’ Hastily, she turned back the bed. ‘Can you manage to get your coat and shoes off?’

  He shook his head slightly then looked like he instantly regretted the action as his features pinched in pain.

  Oh Lord! She was going to have to help him undress!

  Keep this objective, Grace, her common sense warned. He’s sick and you’re the only one here to help him. It’s not as if he has any choice but to let you undress him. He’d never have any designs on you so you have to keep your fantasies under control.

  But, oh,
it was impossible not to enjoy the sensation as her fingers made contact with the rock-hewn shoulders while she eased his coat off them. No woman in her sexual prime would’ve been able to prevent the spike in her heartbeat when she removed his tie and undid the top couple of buttons of his business shirt to reveal tanned skin with a smattering of crisp, masculine hair. And how could any woman be expected to exert control over an automatic response such as the drying of the mouth when she crouched before him to remove his shoes and socks?

  Trying to keep a grip on her spike of lust, Grace decided it was probably better her mouth dried. The alternative would’ve been salivating all over his shiny and very expensive pair of Berluti shoes.

  Swallowing to help lubricate her rapidly drying throat, she forced out, ‘Do you think you can stand up and I’ll help you into bed?’

  A moan of agreement assured her he was still conscious even though his eyes were closed.

  ‘Should I phone for a doctor?’

  ‘Just—a—migraine. It’ll pass.’

  ‘Do you have any medication, Mr Mancini?’

  No response but she guessed he was probably one of those men who would only go to a doctor if he’d lost a limb and was in danger of bleeding to death.

  Okay. She had to get him into bed.

  Grace stood directly in front of him, positioned her legs to brace her body for his weight, and looped each hand under his armpits. ‘Stand up, Mr Mancini.’ With what appeared to be a huge amount of effort, he got to his feet and put his arms around her. ‘It’s not far.’

  They progressed a few steps then he stumbled, threw her off balance and Grace ended up toppling backwards and landing on the bed with his weight crashing on top of her. Momentarily winded, she struggled to take a breath, then became aware of the pain from her nose.

  Holy hell!

  Had the force from the impact of his breastbone broken her nose?

  Her employer groaned.

  He was groaning? He should try her level of discomfort!

  In all her wildest imaginings, this was not how she’d visualised being in bed with this divinely handsome man. ‘You—have—to—move!’ she grunted out, but every word was muffled and he made no response.

  Geez. It took superhuman effort to get her right leg out from under the dead weight of his and bend it up for some leverage. Freeing her right hand to push at his shoulder, she used her body to roll him over. For a moment the situation was made even more awkward as she rolled with him and landed on top of him. Oh dear.

  ‘So-rry,’ he choked out.

  Grace was not true to her name as she pushed herself up off him—in fact, there’d probably never been any movement less graceful in the history of mankind.

  ‘Need—to—sleep.’

  But he looked far from comfortable the way he was lying across the bed and she couldn’t bring herself to leave him this way, especially knowing he was in pain. Doing the only thing she could do in good conscience, she struggled to help him up against the pillows and he muttered his thanks.

  Remembering her grandmother had suffered from light sensitivity when she’d had migraines; Grace closed the curtains and plunged the room into semi-darkness before going through to the ensuite and wetting a flannel.

  Poor man.

  Poor absolutely stunningly, sinfully handsome man.

  Grace grappled with her conscience as she took the wet cloth back through to his bedroom and folded it in half. ‘Just lie still,’ she told him as she arranged it across his forehead and closed eyes.

  ‘You’re an angel,’ he mumbled.

  No. She was far from an angel.

  An angel would’ve tiptoed out from the room and let him sleep. Instead, a little gremlin rose to the fore and argued that it wouldn’t be right for her to go and leave him alone when he was so unwell.

  The gremlin refused to acknowledge that she moved around the bed, shuffled onto the other side of it and sat back against the pillows watching the rise and fall of his very male chest in order to indulge her own senses.

  It denied any inner admission that her fingertips made their way to the buckle of the belt at his waist and released it because it was what she longed to do, rather than because she wanted to make him as comfortable as possible. And, when he gave a small wince of discomfort, the little imp urged her to pluck the cool cloth from his brow and to use her fingertips to soothe along his brow, over his eyelids and all the way to his temples in gentle, barely-there strokes to ease away his pain.

  The tactile delight was for his comfort. The delicious discovery of the hardness of his cheekbones, the prickle of masculine stubble along his jaw, and the contrasting softness of the dark lashes that fanned out from his eyes was merely a bonus.

  Hm. Grace may not be an angel, but then, Jack Mancini was such a sexy man, being in close proximity to him would surely cause the most reverend angel’s halo to slip.

  Chapter 9

  Through a heavy haze of drowsiness and some dull pain in his head, Jack tried to focus his thoughts.

  Something wasn’t right.

  There was an unfamiliar noise. A snuffling little snore from somewhere on the bed next to him that reminded him of his one-time scruffy companion.

  Eyes still closed, Jack frowned. He must be dreaming. It couldn’t be Kippy. His dog died years ago.

  There it was again!

  This time, Jack woke up fully.

  What the—? It was a woman. There was a woman lying next to him on the bed. On his bed.

  Reaching over, he snapped on the bedside light.

  Oh blast! It was Grace.

  A furrow appeared between her eyebrows. She muttered something incoherent and turned away from the light—still fast asleep in her baggy overalls.

  How had he ended up in bed with Grace when he’d been telling himself for the last three days that it didn’t matter how much he wanted her, he couldn’t have her?

  In the middle of admonishing himself, he vaguely recalled stumbling up the stairs, the broken vase and this sweet, caring woman helping him into his room.

  What had happened afterwards? Had he acted dishonourably?

  Relief washed through him. Of course he hadn’t. He’d been too bloody incapacitated by the migraine to do anything. He was still in his shirt and trousers, lying under the covers.

  She was fully clothed lying on top of the covers. Unless it’d been in his dreams, he definitely hadn’t made love to her. And, if she’d had seduction on her mind, she would’ve at least slipped naked under the sheets.

  No. She wasn’t the type.

  He recalled the cool press of a wet flannel to his forehead, then the soft stroking of fingertips which had distracted him from the throbbing pain at his temples and behind his eyes.

  Logic and instinct told him this was nothing more than a case of his cleaner having felt the need to play nursemaid, being exhausted and ending up falling asleep on the bed next to him.

  Shifting a little bit against the pillows, Grace unwittingly resumed a very fine impression of his former canine pal.

  Jack smiled. He’d never heard a woman snore before. Then again, sleep had never been on the agenda when he’d shared a woman’s bed.

  Should he wake her?

  A louder snort followed the snuffling snore and Grace’s body jarred into wakefulness. A second later, he was looking into her exquisitely sleep-dazed, moss-green eyes.

  ‘Oh!’ She jerked upright, her confusion and disorientation morphing into sheer alarm. ‘Jack.’

  He raised one eyebrow. A few hours lying together and she’d dropped the formality of his surname, but he liked the sound of his name on her lips. ‘Grace.’

  Her gaze dropped away from his at the same time her cheeks stained pink. Hastily, she rubbed at her eyes.

  She really had the cutest, slightly upturned nose.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to stay so long,’ she told him as she scrambled to her feet. Her hands were all agitation as she wrung them together. ‘You had a migraine, r
emember? I thought I should—’

  ‘I remember.’ He hastened to calm her near-panicked explanation even while he was enchanted by her awkwardness. ‘It hit hard as I got up the stairs and I accidentally smashed the vase.’

  ‘Oh! I haven’t cleaned up the mess yet.’

  It could definitely wait. ‘You helped me into bed.’ It was all coming back to him now. He’d fallen on top of her!

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘I kept applying a cool cloth to your forehead—which I remember helped my grandmother when she had migraines. I thought someone should stay with you in case you got worse. It got late. I was tired and …’ She waved a hand in the air by way of explanation.

  ‘You fell asleep.’ A quick glance at the bedside table revealed it was three am. ‘I know you said you live alone, but is somebody likely to be worried about you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, Grace. You’ve worked some kind of miracle because I’ve never recovered so quickly from the onset of a migraine and it didn’t actually reach the point where it developed into a fully blown one, so thank you.’

  ‘I’m glad I was here to help.’ Her full lower lip disappeared again under the agitation of her teeth and he recognised it was her ‘tell’—the sign she was incredibly nervous.

  ‘It’s rather late for you to be leaving, so might I suggest you retire to one of the guestrooms until morning?’

  The pink stain along her cheekbones transformed into a bright red. ‘Oh, no. I think it’s best if I leave straight away.’

  ‘I insist you stay.’ Her eyes were deep pools of green that a man could drown in. Before he could divert down such a dangerous pathway, he levered himself up off the bed and away from her. ‘You insult me if you think I’d let you leave at this hour when you’ve been so concerned about my well-being.’

  The tips of her upper teeth nibbled again at her lower lip in indecision and he badly wanted to reach out and trace the soft flesh of her lip with the pad of his finger. Hell! He wanted more than that. He wanted to go to her, draw her back down onto the bed, sink down next to her and hold her to his body. He wanted to kiss her. Deeply. Endlessly. To taste her and …