Let It Snow... Read online

The music was much louder in here, and the smooth-voiced female singer was purring to someone she called Santa Baby, inviting him to leave her gifts. Philip placed the reference, though he was unaccustomed to hearing seductive songs about Santa Claus, a character most thought an American invention. But who, Philip knew, actually resided in one of the icy northern kingdoms of Elatyria.

  Suddenly, that sultry tone was made sultrier by the addition of another female voice. He couldn’t help moving into the main part of the large kitchen, intrigued by the throaty, feminine sound. He didn’t see a duo of women performing, only the one. The instrumentation, and the first voice, emerged from a small electronic box. The other singer stood in front of a tall counter that was laden with sweets, and was singing along as she worked.

  Singing very well. Working very hard.

  Looking utterly beautiful.

  Philip was used to the perfection of princesses who would never be seen without elaborately coiffed hair or elegant, bejeweled gowns. Who would never allow a potential suitor to behold them in a state like this. But never had he seen a woman who so immediately appealed to him on such a deep, visceral level.

  Her mass of dark brown hair strained to free itself from a haphazard bun, a few tendrils brushing her high cheekbones. The face was arresting—not perfect, he supposed, but very attractive, with soft cheeks, a pert nose, and a wide, sensuous mouth. Her eyes were deep-set, green or blue, and ringed with thick, dark lashes, and her high brow furrowed as she concentrated on a tricky bit of work she was doing on a delicacy before her.

  She continued to sing, and as she finished dabbling some icing on a sweet, she added a toss of her head and a swivel of her hips in time with the beat.

  The toss caught his attention, making him wonder if all that glorious hair would tumble down about her shoulders. The swivel kept his attention, for he hoped it would be repeated.

  Because, oh, did the woman have swiveling hips. She was incredibly curvaceous. The smock she wore over her simple clothing emphasized the smallness of her waist compared to the curve of her hips and backside. Not to mention the fullness of her breasts, the tops of which peeked above the apron.

  She was also tall—very tall, compared to most women in his world—and if they were to stand facing each other, their noses would almost touch. Other parts would line up equally well. Some of those other parts reacted to that thought, until his newly purchased “Jean” pants—who Jean was and why men’s pants were named after her, he did not know—began to tighten.

  The stranger crooned even louder, and Philip couldn’t help thinking about what he’d like to slip her under her tree. Before he could clear his throat to warn her of his presence, she turned to retrieve something, and saw him standing there watching her.

  “Oh, my God!” she cried, dropping a chocolate-smeared spoon onto the counter. Immediately backing up, she almost tripped over her own feet, and began looking around the room, as if wanting a sharp implement with which to defend herself.

  “My apologies. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, lifting both hands in a gesture he’d learned meant No harm, no foul, though what that expression meant, exactly, he wasn’t sure. Still, it seemed appropriate for the situation.

  “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m seeking Mr. Hoffman. Freddy Hoffman.”

  She studied him, her gaze dropping to his shoulders and chest, assessing. Well used to female appreciation, Philip allowed a slight smile to begin curving his lips.

  She, on the other hand, began to frown. In fact, a scowl tugged at her beautiful face, as if she were most displeased with his appearance. That, he was not used to. One of his brows shot up in surprise. Though not a vain man, he was certainly not accustomed to disdain from women.

  “You’re him, right?”

  “I believe you mean to say ‘You’re he.’”

  “Are you seriously lecturing me on grammar right now?”

  “’Twasn’t a lecture,” he said, amused by her disgruntled tone. “Merely a correction.”

  “Jeez, I’m being corrected by a thug.”

  “A... What did you call me?”

  “A thug.” She spat out the word. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? Oh, you might call yourself an enforcer, or a bill collector, but we both know the truth, don’t we, Mr. Nutcracker?”

  Nutcracker? What an unusual name.

  Though Philip was very confused now, he had to admit the sparkle in the woman’s eyes and the flush of color on her cheeks were most becoming. If anything, she was even prettier now that she was indignant. Though what had caused the indignation, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was the aforementioned Mr. Nutcracker.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she said, moving closer as she scolded. Close enough for him to see her eyes and note they were neither blue nor green, but rather a combination of the two. They brought to mind the color of the Great Elatyrian Sea under a sunny, clear sky. Beautiful.

  “Why should I be ashamed, exactly?”

  “Because you take advantage of people.”

  “I most certainly do not,” he said, his shoulders stiffening in rising annoyance. “I would never dream of forcing someone to do anything he or she hadn’t agreed to.”

  “Agreed to. Right. Like anybody agrees to get wiped out.”

  Wiped out? He wasn’t familiar with that expression. But before he could ask her about it, she jabbed an index finger in his direction. “How do you people live with yourselves?”

  “We people?” He was about to explain that royals rarely lived by themselves, that there were lots of people in the palaces and castles. His was a large family; though Philip was an only child, he had many cousins and other relations.

  But he remembered at the last moment that he was supposed to be a poor student from another land—he’d even picked one out of an atlas—and shook his head sadly. “Only with great difficulty.”

  “No kidding. I don’t know how you can sleep at night.”

  “I sleep very well,” he told her, wondering how she slept. And where she slept. And who she slept with.

  Oh yes, he wanted very much to know that. Especially because, despite the fact that she was scolding him for some reason, and that her accusations had begun to annoy him, he couldn’t deny that he quite adored the passion in her eyes and the way her glorious lips pursed when she was angry.

  “I don’t see how, considering the way you people prey on naive, brainless twenty-one-year-olds.”

  “Brainless?” he asked, unaccustomed to the slang here. He didn’t imagine she meant that literally, but one never knew. There had been, of course, that straw man in his world.

  “Yeah. He’s not smart enough to deal with the likes of you and your boss.”

  “I don’t have a boss.”

  “Strictly contract work, huh?”

  More confusing by the moment. But it seemed safe to simply agree. “I suppose you could say that.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  Well, that had been the wrong answer. But Philip didn’t persist, nor did he question her. In honesty, he was barely paying attention anymore to the strange things she said. He was focused only on the strength in her voice, the stiffness in her posture, the belligerence of her words. And the way all those things combined to make her one dazzlingly exciting female.

  He stepped closer, drawn to the fire in her, the fervency in her tone—the disrespect, the near dislike—shocking and attracting him all at once. Very rarely had a woman spoken to him in such a manner. In fact, he could recall only one, a feisty historian he’d met a few months before. This woman reminded him of her in some ways. She had...spirit.

  His tread quiet on the floor, courtesy of his new, rubber-soled shoes—supposedly a staple of college students—Philip continued to move toward her. He heard her tiny gasp and knew she was alarmed. But he also saw the way her lips parted, her small tongue slipping out to moisten them. Her pulse fluttered in her throat as her breathing quickened, and the warm pink color
in her cheeks deepened to crimson the closer he came.

  So, the fiery stranger was not immune to him, as much as she might wish otherwise.

  “Don’t come any closer,” she ordered, though her voice quavered. She reached down and picked up the spoon she’d dropped, leaving a thin trail of gooey, liquid chocolate on the countertop. Ignoring that, she waved the spoon at him threateningly, sending a few tiny droplets his way. One landed on his shirt, another on his lower lip.

  Philip had always had a weakness for chocolate. As a child, he’d often sneaked into the kitchens and filched desserts, which his father had said was unbecoming of a prince. There was just something decadent about chocolate, something forbidden, dark, slick and luscious. It appealed to all his senses.

  He licked his mouth, tasting this concoction, which was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t as sweet or milky as he was used to. It was dark and strong, with enough sweetness to soothe the palate, and the tiniest bite of peppery spice to arouse the senses. He groaned with pleasure as he swallowed.

  “By the gods, that’s incredible.”

  “Huh?” She sounded thoroughly confused.

  Philip didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and clasped her wrist. As if stunned, she didn’t protest. He drew the hand—and the spoon she held—closer, until he could flick out his tongue and taste the dark, gooey substance that drenched it.

  The woman—this strange, beautiful, fiery woman—watched him raptly. As if she’d never seen a man take such pleasure in eating.

  Philip enjoyed indulging his senses, and he wasn’t sure which delighted him more right now—tasting the decadence gliding down his throat or watching the woman stare in fascination as he did so. “This is remarkable,” he said as he delicately licked off every drop. “Did you make it?”

  “I’m melting it for a recipe. You...like to eat chocolate?”

  “I like to eat your chocolate.”

  She coughed into her fist, then yanked her hand away. Seeing the way her eyes had dropped to his mouth, and she’d pressed her other hand into her middle, as if she needed to grab on to something, he suspected he knew why.

  “That was suggestive, wasn’t it?” he asked, hearing the unintentional purr in his tone. Something about the eroticism of licking his favorite delicacy off a spoon held in the hand of a strange and seductive woman had sent warm waves of sexual pleasure through him. They’d obviously translated to her.

  “Very.”

  “Should I apologize?”

  “Only if you’re sincere.”

  He didn’t apologize. Because though he’d only been telling the truth about how much he enjoyed her tasty concoction, he couldn’t deny that he liked the idea of tasting her, as well.

  Silence descended. She was waiting for the words—sincere or not—but he didn’t speak. As her breathing became more audible, the electric spark between them intensified, until it seemed like a tangible thing. It enveloped them, shifted back and forth between them, drawing him to her as if with magnetic force.

  He knew things were different in this world. In some ways more free, in others more rigid. He also knew he had no right to take anything this woman hadn’t freely offered, in any world.

  She might not have said it aloud, but her eyes were offering. Her lips were offering. Her body was offering, considering the way she swayed toward him as if against her will.

  So he took.

  Without a word, he slid his hands into her thick hair, sending glossy strands tumbling, and dragged her to him for a deep, hungry, chocolate-flavored kiss.

  2

  HE WAS KISSING HER.

  Claire registered that much, accepted the fact that a complete stranger—one who should be in the dictionary defining tall, dark and handsome—had his lips on hers and was, oh, God, plunging his warm, delicious tongue into her mouth.

  Then reality left. Just walked out the door, taking a huge chunk of her common sense with it.

  She responded. Heaven help her, everything else just faded away and she could focus only on the strength of his magnificent body pressed against hers, and the taste of his mouth.

  Chocolate had always been her favorite flavor, but she had never realized that it was missing something, some vital, intrinsic ingredient. Not until now, when she finally got to taste decadent melted Godiva spiced with powerful, devouring man.

  She dropped the spoon, hearing it clatter to the floor, as if from a very far distance. Lifting her hands, she put them on his shoulders, while a voice inside screamed at her to push him away. But those traitorous things at the ends of her arms clung to him instead, her fingers digging into the thick muscles as she held tight and kissed him back.

  She liked kissing. She loved it, actually. And considering she’d been single for more than a year, she’d missed the intimacy. Especially because this...well, this went beyond anything she’d ever experienced.

  Their tongues twirled together, hot and hungry. Time and place fell away and there became nothing but this moment, this man, this kiss. They shared each breath, shared the same space as their bodies melded, her hands going around his neck, one of his dropping to the small of her back to pull her hard against his groin.

  She gasped, feeling the rigid erection pressed against her. Part of her leaped for joy, wanting it—wanting that. But the smart, rational Claire, who’d been gagged and shoved in a mental closet for the last ninety seconds, finally came barreling out and screamed Stop!

  “No,” she exclaimed, pulling her mouth away. Sanity required her to also take a full step back, ignoring the look of disappointment that appeared on his oh-so-handsome face. That not being far enough, she hopped back another step, colliding with the counter and wincing in pain.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern as he reached for her.

  “I’m fine.” She shoved his hand back and ducked away from him, darting around the counter to watch him from the relative safety of the other side.

  Safety? Hell, three feet wasn’t a safe distance, not from a man this incredibly alluring.

  And dangerous. Don’t forget dangerous. He’s a bad guy, remember? A thug sent here to rough up your kid brother!

  Okay, so sometimes even she felt as if Freddy needed a slap upside the head. But no way was she going to let some dude crack his—er, no way would she let the Nutcracker do his thing.

  It seemed not only impossible but actually criminal that someone this smooth and sexy should be a criminal. Villains were supposed to be brawny and beastly, like something out of a Disney cartoon, complete with broken noses, crooked or missing teeth, bulging foreheads and tree-trunk-size necks.

  Uh-uh. Not this guy.

  While he was very tall, with wide shoulders and a broad, rock-hard chest that she could almost still feel pressed against her sensitized body, he wasn’t at all beefy or brawny. He instead looked and felt like the perfect man should. Powerful but lean, muscular but elegant, somehow. He moved almost gracefully, not a lumbering beast, more a prowling predator.

  She’d definitely felt stalked as he’d moved close enough to...sample her chocolate.

  But it wasn’t just his body that had sucked her brain cells dry and let her kiss a complete stranger. There was also his face. Oh, Lord, that face. He was perfect, been sculpted from marble... His skin was a bit dark, as if he had just come from someplace sunny, or was of Mediterranean—Italian?—descent. The fineness of his brow was accentuated by the widow’s peak that pierced it. His cheekbones were high and autocratic, his cheeks lean, his nose straight and proud, that jaw strong, with a delicious-looking cleft at the bottom. His thick hair was jet-black, short, but wavy and incredibly finger-tempting. And his eyes—those almost intrusive, assessing, deep-set and heavily lashed eyes—were dark brown...like her favorite semisweet confections.

  All that and a chocaholic. The man was simply divine.

  Ding-ding-ding, hello in there? He wants to hurt your brother. Remember?

  She would never let him get
close to Freddy. Claire had promised their mother on her deathbed that she would look out for her baby brother. Allowing him to be...de-testicled wouldn’t just be neglecting her responsibilities, it would be unforgivable.

  “Now should I offer my apologies?” the sexy stranger asked, his dark eyes gleaming in the soft glow of the overhead lights. Both amusement and awareness shone in those depths, also revealed by the slight uptilting of his soft, sensuous mouth.

  I kissed that mouth? I was held by this man?

  Impossible. Those kinds of wild, romantic moments happened to other women. To helpless, small, delicate, beautiful women. Not to blunt, responsible, down-to-earth Amazons like Claire Hoffman.

  “Only if you’re sincere,” she mumbled, swallowing.

  Considering her words were the volume of a mouse’s squeak, she couldn’t say there was much chance she’d get an apology.

  “Let me rephrase that. Do I have anything to apologize for?”

  Did he? He hadn’t exactly forced her. Yeah, he’d started the kiss, but he hadn’t grabbed her, pushed her up against the refrigerator and ripped her clothes off.

  Oh, wow.

  Stop, stop, stop!

  Angry at her traitorous body, which demanded he do anything but apologize, she dodged the question altogether. “Look, I’m not letting you touch Freddy. Kissing me isn’t going to work any more than threatening me would have.”

  He flinched, as if slapped, and for the first time since he’d entered the kitchen, he looked angry. “Threatening you? I would never threaten a woman.”

  How noble. Hence the name? No nuts, no worries? “So you save your threats for young, inexperienced fools like my brother?”

  “Your brother?” That fine brow went up and he tilted his handsome head in confusion. “Mr. Hoffman?”

  “Yes. Freddy’s my brother. And if you think I’m going to let you hurt him, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “Shouldn’t that be another thought coming?”

  She growled. “What are you, the freaking grammar police?”

  “I’m not from this area, and I am not sure I understand all your colloquialisms.”