Christmas In The Boss's Castle
Scarlet Wilson
The maid who saved ChristmasChambermaid Grace Ellis loves Christmas, but after losing her beloved grandmother, she’ll be spending this festive season working. So when her boss, Finlay ‘Scrooge’ Armstrong offers her a magical Christmas in Scotland, it’s a welcome distraction from her grief.Widower Finlay is haunted by the ghosts of Christmas past, but snowbound together in his Scottish castle, Grace starts to melt the ice around his heart. He never thought he’d find love again, but maybe finding Grace is his very own Christmas miracle…!Maids Under the MistletoePromoted: from maids to Christmas brides!
The maid who saved Christmas
Chambermaid Grace Ellis loves Christmas, but after losing her beloved grandmother, she’ll be spending this festive season working. So when her boss, Finlay “Scrooge” Armstrong, offers her a magical Christmas in Scotland, it’s a welcome distraction from her grief.
Widower Finlay is haunted by the ghosts of Christmas past, but snowbound in his castle, Grace starts to melt his frozen heart. He never thought he’d find love again, but finding Grace is his very own Christmas miracle...!
Maids Under the Mistletoe
Promoted: from maids to Christmas brides!
Maids Emma, Ashleigh, Grace and Sophie work for the same elite London agency. And with Christmas just around the corner, they’re gearing up for their busiest period yet!
But as the snowflakes begin to fall, these Christmas Cinderellas are about to be swept off their feet by romantic heroes of their own...
A Countess for Christmas
by Christy McKellen
(October 2016)
Greek Tycoon’s Mistletoe Proposal
by Kandy Shepherd
(November 2016)
Christmas in the Boss’s Castle
by Scarlet Wilson
(December 2016)
Her New Year Baby Secret
by Jessica Gilmore
(January 2017)
Dear Reader (#u67602fb1-23d5-5c5b-86a8-8cd5a24b6dbc),
There’s something so nice about writing a story about a heroine and her boss. I was lucky to be asked to take part in the Maids Under the Mistletoe series and given a suitably gruff Scottish hero that only my beautiful heroine could win around.
When I found out my story line included the fact my heroine got to decorate the hotel—and then the castle—for Christmas, I was in my element. It was almost as if the editors knew about my Harrods and Fortnum & Mason ritual every Christmas of buying a new Christmas ornament...
I also added in a few elements of my own. My elderly Alice Archer with her zest for life and her pristine 1940s’ wardrobe was a joy to write.
And as much as I love Christmas, it was useful to reflect on those who find Christmastime tough because of personal circumstances. Because I can’t give every one of you who feels like that a big hug, I just wish you all find a little comfort in this story.
Wishing you all a special Christmas,
Scarlet Wilson
Christmas In The Boss’s Castle
Scarlet Wilson
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
SCARLET WILSON writes for both Mills & Boon Cherish and Mills & Boon Medical Romance. She lives on the west coast of Scotland with her fiancé and their two sons. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached via her website, www.scarlet-wilson.com (http://www.scarlet-wilson.com).
This book is dedicated my favourite little people, Taylor Hyndman, Noah “Batman” Dickson, Lleyton Hyndman and Luca Dickson. Let’s hope you’re all on Santa’s nice list this year!
Contents
Cover (#u16e1fceb-50f6-5078-a3b9-e634faf2f183)
Back Cover Text (#u98944910-e0b5-5bd7-bc5c-bac8ba298480)
Introduction (#u9c3b3a6a-7e62-5fb4-affd-334ef007951d)
Dear Reader (#u8a5a5a23-3194-532a-9518-8219760fbfd9)
Title Page (#u59dac61a-a6f9-5005-b52b-56d13a5577d4)
About the Author (#u44f80511-d789-5849-969b-5892c60d8e92)
Dedication (#u40fa6130-38db-5325-ae26-d5cc68d5205a)
CHAPTER ONE (#ua9c29784-a218-527f-9a38-91fc8405c5ff)
CHAPTER TWO (#u10944a44-9605-57d6-89b7-80e8d258bd7c)
CHAPTER THREE (#u4baaac34-f79d-51e5-a8ea-061691145624)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u67602fb1-23d5-5c5b-86a8-8cd5a24b6dbc)
GRACE BRUSHED THE snow from her shoulders as she ducked in the back door of the exclusive Armstrong hotel in Chelsea, London. It was just after six in the morning, the streets were still dark and she could see her footprints in the snow outside.
Frank, the senior concierge, came in behind her. A wide grin lit up his face as he saw her looking at the snow outside. ‘Finally,’ he muttered as he shook the snow from his coat and started to sing the words to It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas. The words of the song floated from his lips. He gave her a nudge. ‘You’re too young to remember this one.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Frank, you should know, I know every version of every Christmas song that’s ever existed.’
They walked into the changing room. ‘What version do you want to go for? Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, or Michael Buble?’ She started singing alongside him as she wound her long brown hair up into a loose bun and tied on her white chambermaid’s apron over her black shirt and skirt.
Christmas was her absolute favourite time of year. It brought back great memories of the Christmases she’d spent with her grandmother in the little flat they’d shared in one of the poorer parts of London. But what they didn’t have in wealth, they’d certainly made up for in love. This would be her first Christmas without her gran and she was determined not to be sad and gloomy—her gran would never have wanted that for her.
Frank slid his arms into his dark green and gold jacket and started fastening the buttons. ‘I swear this thing shrinks every night when I put it into my locker.’
Grace laughed and closed her locker, walking over to Frank and pulling his jacket a little closer across his wide girth, helping him with the buttons. He kept singing the whole time. She finished with a sigh. ‘I wish those words were true.’
Frank frowned as he glanced at his reflection in the nearby mirror and straightened his jacket. They started walking down the lower corridor of the hotel together. She shrugged. ‘I wish it was beginning to look a lot like Christmas.’ She held out her hands. ‘Because it certainly isn’t in here.’ She gave a shake of her head. ‘I don’t get it. All the other big hotels in London have huge Christmas trees in their reception area and garlands and holly wreaths everywhere.’
The Armstrong hotel was part of a luxurious chain across the world. Locations in London, Paris, Tokyo, Rome and New York were regularly used by statesmen, politicians, rock stars and Hollywood celebrities. They were the epitome of glamour, renowned for their exclusivity, personal touches and attention to detail. It was a far cry from the small flat that Grace lived in and over the past few months she’d secretly loved seeing how the other half lived their lives. She knew one pop star that never laundered their underwear and instead just threw them away. A politician who had a secret interest in romance novels and a statesman that only ate red-coloured candy.
They reached the stairway up to the main reception. Frank held the door open for her and pressed his lips together. But now Grace had started, she couldn’t stop. ‘I mean, I know this place is exclusive, but the minimalist Christmas decorations?’ She gave another shake of her head. ‘They just look—well...cold.’
Frank sighed as he headed over towards his granite-topped desk. He spoke quietly as he glanced around the reception area. Everything was sleek and shades of black or grey. ‘I know.’ His eyes took in the small black and glass sign on the main reception desk.
The Armstrong wishes you
a Merry Christmas.
It was the only concession to Christmas on show. He checked the ledger on the desk in front of him and handed Grace an envelope. ‘The Armstrong used to have beautiful Christmas decorations and lights. All exclusive. All extortionate. But they added colour to the place. Vibrancy.’
Grace started to automatically open the envelope with her day’s assignments. She glanced upwards. ‘So, what happened?’
Frank paused for a second before finally answering. Her gaze narrowed. Although she’d only been working here a few months, Frank had been here for ever. He was thoroughly professional, good at his job and for the guests who returned time after time—a most welcome sight. ‘They had a rebranding,’ he said finally.
Grace frowned. She wanted to ask more, but, like most good concierges, Frank had always been the soul of discretion. It was unlikely she’d get any more out of him.
She waved her assignment at him. ‘I wish they’d let me do the rebranding around here. I could sprinkle some Christmas fairy dust.’ She held out her hands and spun around. ‘Some silver lights up here, some red ones over there. A tree near the glass doors. How about some garlands at the reception desk? And a huge pile of beautifully wrapped presents in the little alcove, just as you go through to the bar.’ She stopped spinning, closed her eyes and held her hands to her chest. For a few seconds she could actually see in her head what this place could look like. The welcome. The warmth. The festivities.
Frank let out a wry laugh. ‘Keep dreaming, Grace.’
Her eyelids flickered back open. Grey. Sleek. Blackness everywhere. She leaned forward across Frank’s desk. ‘I could even make this place smell like Christmas. Cookies. Cinnamon sticks. Cranberries. Pine trees and Christmas spices. And not from some tacky candle.’
Frank arched an eyebrow and leaned over towards her. ‘There’s a lot to be said for candles. And I’m sure we’ve got a whole host of those things packed up in the basement somewhere.’ He shook his head. ‘But I doubt very much we’ll ever see them again.’ He gave her a careful nod. ‘You should take some home with you. Make good use of them.’
She gave a half-smile. He knew. He’d heard from some of the other girls that she was on her own. Grace didn’t like people feeling sorry for her. But Frank had only the best of intentions. She knew that. So, she couldn’t be offended by his good intentions. In fact, she was quite sure that some time, some place he might actually dress up as Santa.
Truth was, while The Armstrong hotel was opulent, its biggest asset was actually the staff. There were no ‘bad pennies’ as her gran used to call them.
Everything here was luxurious. From the bed sheets, to the furnishings, the Michelin-starred restaurant, even the heavy-duty stationery that her daily work assignment was printed on.
It was a world away from what she’d been brought up in. Working with the Maids in Chelsea agency had been a blessing in disguise. When her grandmother had died almost a year ago after a long battle with cancer, Grace had realised it was time to stop putting her own life on hold. Her gran had been the biggest part of her world. For a few years she’d only managed to take temporary part-time jobs that fitted in around being full-time carer for her gran. Working as a chambermaid might not be many women’s dream job, but the salary was good and her work colleagues had turned into the best bunch of friends a girl could have.
As it was one of London’s exclusive hotels, work at The Armstrong varied. There were a few guests that stayed here permanently. Some of the city’s big businesses always had rooms on hold for their overseas visitors. A few of the suites seemed to be permanently vacant. Then, there were the celebrity guests.
In the space of a few months Grace had seen enough scandal and impropriety to keep the tabloid presses in headlines for the next year. But confidentiality was part of the contract for Maids in Chelsea—and she would never have breathed a word anyway.
Today’s assignment was a little different. She headed over to the reception desk. ‘Anya, can I just check? I’ve to clean the Nottingdale Suite? The penthouse? No one has stayed there in the whole time I’ve worked here.’
Anya checked the computer system. ‘Yes, it’s going to be used later. We’re expecting the guest around five.’
‘Who normally stays there?’
Anya smiled. ‘I’m not sure. I did hear a rumour it was the reclusive tycoon who owns the whole chain.’
Grace tried not to let her mouth hang open. ‘Really? Is it a man or a woman? What’s their name?’
Anya held up her hands. ‘You tell me. You’ve worked here longer than I have.’
Grace shook her head. ‘I haven’t paid that much attention. And I’ve never been in the penthouse.’ She winked at Anya. ‘This could be fun.’
* * *
The morning flew past. And it was fun. She cleaned a few rooms. Made a few special request orders for guests. Unpacked seven giant cases for a guest who was staying for only two nights. Then spent nearly an hour with Mrs Alice Archer, her favourite long-term guest who was eighty-nine going on twenty-one. Mrs Archer needed special soft sheets for her bed due to a long-term skin condition that affected her back, legs and arms. Grace was happy to give her a hand applying cream to spots she couldn’t quite reach and helping her into whatever fabulous outfit she’d picked for the day. Alice’s walk-in wardrobe was every girl’s fantasy. It was full of original nineteen-forties clothes—all completely immaculate. Gorgeous full skirts, waist-cinching jackets, gingham dresses, a rainbow array of neckerchiefs, fitted sweaters and a few rarely worn satin evening gowns. There were a handbag and shoes to match every outfit.
Alice Archer had her hair styled twice a week, was fastidious with her make-up, favouring bright red lipstick, and drank lemon tea that Grace prepared for her most mornings, once she’d been helped into her clothes. In a way she reminded Grace of her grandmother. Oh, her grandmother had certainly never had the lifestyle that Alice had experienced. But both had the same quick wit, sharp minds and big hearts. Grace finished fastening Alice’s shoes as she sipped her lemon tea.
‘What are you doing today? Lunch or afternoon tea?’
Alice patted her hand. ‘Thank you, Grace. It’s Thursday. So it’s afternoon tea at the Ritz. I’m meeting an old colleague.’ She nudged Grace. ‘He proposed to me once, you know.’
Grace looked up. ‘He did? Now that sounds interesting. Why didn’t you marry him?’
Alice let out a laugh. ‘Harry? Not a chance. Harry was a cad. A man about town. He would have broken my heart. So I had to break his first.’
Grace blinked. It was the throwaway way that she said it. There was a trace of something else behind those carefully made-up eyes. Did Alice regret her choice?
She hoped not. A man about town. Definitely not the type of guy that Grace was looking for. She’d never want a relationship with a man who only wanted a fling, or something meaningless. She’d suffered rejection enough. It was pretty much the worst thing in the world to be abandoned by your mother; hers had moved to another continent, married another man and created the family she’d really wanted, instead of the unexpected teenage pregnancy she’d ended up with.
Grace had always been determined that would never be her. She wasn’t prepared to hand her heart over to anyone. Least of all a man that wouldn’t value and respect her. She wanted everything: the knight on the white horse, the total commitment and someone with eyes only for her.
Hence the reason she was still on her own.
She rested back on her heels and looked up at Alice. ‘Well, I’m sure that you couldn’t have broken his heart too much, or all these years later he wouldn’t still be meeting you.’
Alice sighed and leaned back in her chair. ‘Or maybe we’re the only ones left,’ she said wistfully. Grace reached up and put her hand over Alice’s frail one, giving it a gentle squeeze. ‘I bet he’ll be delighted to see you.’
After a second Alice seemed to snap out of her thoughts. ‘What do you have planned? Tell me you’ve finally decided it’s time to say yes to one of those nice young men that keep asking you out.’
Grace felt her cheeks flush. Alice’s favourite hobby seemed to be trying to pair her off with a ‘suitable’ young man. She wasn’t quite sure any of the men that had asked her out recently would be Alice’s definition of suitable though. Lenny, the biker, had been looking for somewhere cheap to stay and thought asking Grace out might solve his problems. Alan, the banker, had earned another nickname in her head—as soon as darkness had surrounded them he’d turned into the eight-handed octopus. Ross from college had merely been looking for someone who might do the shopping and make him dinner. And Nathan? He’d seemed perfect. Handsome, hard-working and endearingly polite. But when he’d leaned in for that first kiss they’d both realised there was absolutely no spark.
She was still searching for her knight on a white horse.
In a way it made her sad. Her friends at Maids in Chelsea seemed to be pairing off at an alarming rate. Emma had just reunited with Jack—the husband nobody had known she had. Ashleigh seemed to have fallen under the spell of her gorgeous Greek, Lukas. Even Clio, their boss, had just announced her engagement to her old boyfriend Enrique and was currently planning an intimate New Year wedding. Then two nights ago her fellow singleton Sophie had mysteriously disappeared. Grace was beginning to feel like the inevitable spare part.
She shook her head at Alice and stood up. ‘No men for me, I’m afraid. Maybe we can make a New Year’s resolution together to try and find some suitable beaus.’
Alice let out a laugh. ‘Now, that would be fun.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘What are you doing next?’
Grace glanced at the clock too and gave a start. Where had the time gone? ‘Oh, I’ll have to rush. I’m going to make up the penthouse suite—the Nottingdale. I’ve never even been in it before. I heard it belongs to the owner.’
Alice stared at her for a second with her bright blue eyes.
‘What? Do you know him? Or her?’
Alice pressed her lips together. She seemed hesitant to speak. Finally she gave a little smile. ‘I’ve stayed here a while. I might know him a little.’
Grace grinned. She was instantly intrigued. ‘Go on, then. Tell me about him. He’s a bit mysterious. No one seems to know much about him.’
Alice shook her head. ‘Oh, no, Grace. Sometimes mystery is good. I’m sure you’ll meet him in good time.’
Grace narrowed her eyes good-naturedly as she headed towards the door. ‘Alice Archer, I get the distinct impression you could tell me more.’ She shook her head. ‘But I’d better get on. Have fun with your afternoon tea.’
She closed the door behind her and took out her staff key for the elevator to the penthouse.
The elevator didn’t just move. It glided. Like something out of the space age. It made her want to laugh. The rest of the hotel used the original elevators and Grace actually loved them. The little padded velvet love seat in the back, the panelled wood interior and the large brass button display inside. This private elevator was much like the front entrance. Shades of smooth black and grey. So silent that even her breathing seemed to disturb the air. When the doors slid open she almost jumped.
She stepped outside pulling her little trolley behind her. The entrance to the penthouse was different from the rest of the hotel. Usually the way to guest rooms was lined with thick carpet. The entrance way here was tiled, making the noise of the trolley bumping from the elevator echo all around her.
There was a huge black solid door in front of her with a pristine glass sign to its right: ‘The Nottingdale Suite’.
She swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. It was ridiculous. She was nervous. About what?
She slid her staff card into the locking mechanism at the door. An electronic voice broke the silence. Grace Ellis, Housekeeping. She let out a shriek and looked around. In the last few months that had never happened anywhere in the hotel. It took a few seconds for her heart to stop clambering against her chest. Her card had actually identified her?
She pulled it out and stared at it for a second. Her befuddled brain started swirling. Of course, her staff card probably identified everywhere she went in the hotel. That was why she had it. But it had never actually said her name out loud before. There was something quite unnerving about that. Something a little too futuristic.
Hesitantly, she pushed open the door. It swung back easily and she drew in a breath. Straight in front of her were the biggest windows she’d ever seen, displaying the whole of Chelsea—and lots of London beyond around them. Her feet moved automatically until her breath misted the glass. The view was spectacular.
Kings Road with its array of exquisite shops, Sloane Square. If she looked in the other direction she could see the Chelsea embankment with Battersea Park on the other side and Albert Bridge. The view at night when everything was lit up must be spectacular.
Beneath her were rows of beautiful white Georgian town houses, mews cottages, streets lined with cherry trees. Houses filled with celebrities, Russian oligarchs and international businessmen. Security at all these houses probably cost more than she earned in a year.
She spun around and began to tour the penthouse. The still air was disturbing. Almost as if no one had been in here for a long time. But the bedroom held a large dark travel case. Someone had been here. If only to drop off the luggage.
She looked around. The bed was bare—waiting to be made up. It took her a few minutes to find the bedding—concealed inside a black gloss cupboard that sprang open as she pressed her fingertips against it. It only took a few minutes to make up the bed with the monochrome bedding. Underneath her fingertips she could feel the quality but the effect still left her cold.
She opened the case and methodically unpacked the clothing. It all belonged to a man. Polished handmade shoes. Italian cut suits. Made-to-measure shirts. She was almost finished when she felt a little lump inside the case. It only took a second to realise the lump was from something hidden in an inside pocket.
She pulled out the wad of tissue paper and unwrapped it carefully as she sat on the bed. The tissue paper felt old—as if it had wrapped this item for a number of years. By the time she finally peeled back the last layer she sucked in her breath.
It was gorgeous. A sparkling Christmas angel, delicately made from ceramic. Easily breakable—no wonder it was wrapped so carefully. She held it up by the string, letting it dangle in the afternoon light. Even though it was mainly white, the gold and silver glitter gave it warmth. It was a beautiful Christmas tree ornament. One that should be decorating a tree in someone’s house, not being hidden in the pocket in a case.
Her heart gave a little start as she looked around the room. Maybe this businessman was having to spend his Christmas apart from his family? Maybe this was the one thing that gave him a little hint of home?
She looked around the cold, sleek room as ideas started to spark in her brain. Frank had told there were decorations in the basement. Maybe she could make this room a little more welcoming? A little bit more like Christmas?
Her smile spread from ear to ear as her spirits lifted a little. She didn’t want to be lonely this Christmas. She certainly didn’t want anyone else to feel that way either.
She hurried down to the basement. One thing about The Armstrong, it was super organised. She checked the ledger book and quickly found where to look. Granted, the room she entered was a little cluttered and dusty. But it wasn’t impossible to find all the cardboard boxes. The tree that once stood in the main entrance was twenty-five feet tall. How impressive it must have looked.
She found some more appropriate-sized decorations and put them into a box to carry upstairs.
Two hours later, just as the sky had darkened to shades of navy blue and purple, she’d finally achieved the effect she wanted.
Tiny white sparkly lights lit up a tree in the corner of the main room. A gold star adorned the top. She’d found other multi-coloured twinkling lights that she’d wrapped around the curtain pole in the bedroom. She’d even strung a garland with red Christmas baubles above the bathroom mirror.
Each room had a little hint of Christmas. It wasn’t overwhelming. But it was cute. It was welcoming. It gave the room the personal touch. The thoughtfulness that could occasionally be missing from even an exclusive hotel like this.
She walked around each room once again, taking in the mood she’d created. The Christmas style potpourri she’d found added to the room, filling it with the aroma of Christmas spices and adding even more atmosphere. She closed her eyes for a second and breathed in. She just loved it. She just loved everything about it.
Seeing the sky darkening with every second and snow dusting the streets outside, she gave a little smile.
Just one more touch.
She lifted the Christmas angel from the tissue paper and gently placed it on the pillow in the bedroom. She hadn’t felt this good in a long time.
‘Perfect,’ she whispered.
‘Just what do you think you’re doing?’ The voice poured ice all over her.
* * *
Finlay Armstrong was tired. He was beyond tired. He hadn’t slept in three days. He’d ping-ponged between Japan, the USA and now the UK, all while fending off concerned phone calls from his parents. It was always the same at this time of year.
When would they realise that he deliberately made things busy at this time of year because it was the only way he could get through the season of goodwill?
He’d already ordered room service in his chauffeur-driven car on the journey from the airport. Hopefully it would arrive in the next few minutes then he could sleep for the next few hours and forget about everything.
He hadn’t expected anyone to be in his penthouse. Least of all touching something that was so personal to him—so precious to him.
And the sight of it filled him with instant anger.
He hated Christmas. Hated it. Christmas cards with happy families. Mothers, fathers and their children with stockings hanging from the fireplace. The carols. The presents. The celebratory meals. All yearly reminders of what he had lost.
All reminders of another year without Anna.
The tiny angel was the one thing he had left. Her favourite Christmas decoration that she’d made as a child and used to hang from their tree every year with sentimental pride.
It was the one—and only—thing that had escaped the purge of Christmas for him.
And he couldn’t even bear to look at it. He kept it tucked away and hidden. Just knowing it was there—hidden in the folds of his bag—gave him a tiny crumb of comfort that others clearly wouldn’t understand.
But someone else touching it? Someone else unwrapping it? The only colour he could see right now was red.
Her head shot around and her eyes widened. She stepped backwards, stumbling and making a grab for the wall. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I was just trying to get the room ready for you.’
He frowned. He didn’t recognise her. Didn’t recognise her at all. Her shiny brown hair seemed to have escaped from the bun it was supposed to be in with loose strands all around her face. There was an odd smear across one cheek. Was she dirty?
His eyes darted up and down the length of her body. An intruder in his room? No. She was definitely in uniform, but not quite his uniform. She had a black fitted shirt and skirt on, a white apron and black heeled shoes. There was a security key clipped to her waist.
‘Who are you?’ He stepped forward and pulled at her security badge, yanking it from the clip that held it in place. She let out a gasp and flattened against the wall, both hands up in front of her chest.
What? Did she think he might attack her in some way?
He waved the card. ‘Who on earth are the Maids in Chelsea? Where are my regular housekeeping staff?’
She gave a shudder. A shudder. His lack of patience was building rapidly. The confused look on her face didn’t help. Then things seemed to fall into place.
It was easy to forget how strong his Scottish accent could become when he was angry. It often took people a few seconds to adjust their ears to what he was saying.
‘Maids in Chelsea is Clio Caldwell’s company. I’ve worked for her for the last few months.’ The words came out in a rush. She glanced around the room. ‘I’ve been here for the last few months. Before that—I was in Knightsbridge. But I wasn’t here.’ She pointed to the floor. ‘I’ve never been in here before.’ She was babbling. He’d obviously made her nervous and that hadn’t been his intention.
He pointed to the angel on the pillow. He could hardly even look at it right now. ‘And is this what your work normally involves? Touching things you have no business touching? Prying into people’s lives?’ He looked around the room and shook his head. He couldn’t help himself. He walked over to the curtains and gave the annoying flickering lights a yank, pulling them so sharply that they flickered once more then went out completely. ‘Putting cheap, tacky Christmas decorations up in the rooms of The Armstrong?’ The anger started to flare again. ‘The Armstrong doesn’t do this. We don’t spread Christmas tat around as if this were some cheap shop. Where on earth did these come from?’
She looked momentarily stunned. ‘Well?’ he pressed.
She seemed to find her tongue again. ‘They’re not cheap. The box they were in said they cost five hundred pounds.’ She looked at the single strand of lights he’d just broken and her face paled. ‘I hope that doesn’t come out of my wages.’
The thought seemed to straighten out her current confusion. She took a deep breath, narrowed her gaze at him and straightened her shoulders. She held up one hand. ‘Who are you?’
Finlay was ready to go up like a firework. Now, he was being questioned in his own hotel, about who he was?
‘I’m Finlay Armstrong. I’m the owner of The Armstrong and a whole host of other hotels across the world.’ He was trying hard to keep his anger under control. He was tired. He knew he was tired. And he hadn’t meant to frighten her. But whoever this woman was, she was annoying him. ‘And I take it I’m the person that’s paying your wages—though I’m not sure for how much longer.’
She tilted her chin towards him and stared him in the eye. ‘I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Armstrong, but we both know that wouldn’t be true.’
He almost smiled. Almost. Her dark brown eyes were deeper than any he’d seen before. He hadn’t noticed them at first—probably because he hadn’t been paying attention. But now he was getting the full effect.
He still wanted to have something to eat, crawl into bed, close the curtains and forget about the world outside. But this woman had just gained his full attention.
The tilt of her chin had a defiant edge to it. He liked that. And while her hair was a little unkempt and he still hadn’t worked out what the mark was on her cheek, now those things were fading.
She was quite beautiful. Her hair must be long when it was down. Her fitted shirt showed off her curves and, although every part of her body was hidden, the white apron accentuated her slim waist and long legs.
She blinked and then spoke again. ‘Clio doesn’t take kindly to her staff being yelled at.’
‘I didn’t yell,’ he replied instantly.
‘Yes, you did,’ she said firmly.
She bent down and picked up the broken strand of lights. ‘I’m sorry you don’t appreciate the Christmas decorations. They are all your own—of course. I got them from the basement.’ She licked her lips for a second and then spoke again. ‘I often think hotels can be a little impersonal. It can be lonely this time of year—particularly for those who are apart from their family. I was trying to give the room—’ she held up her hands ‘—a little personality. That’s all. A feeling of Christmas.’ It was the wistful way she said it. She wasn’t trying to be argumentative. He could tell from the expression on her face that she meant every word.
His stomach curled. The one thing he was absolutely trying to avoid. He didn’t want to feel Christmas in any shape or form. He didn’t want a room with ‘feelings’. That was the whole point of being here.
He wanted The Armstrong to look sleek and exclusive. He’d purposely removed any sign of Christmas from this hotel. He didn’t need reminders of the time of year.
For the first time in a long time he felt a tiny pang of regret. Not for himself, but for the person who was standing in front of him who clearly had demons of her own.
She pressed her lips together and started picking up the other decorations. She could move quickly when she wanted to. The red baubles were swept from above the bathroom mirror—he hadn’t even noticed them yet. She stuffed the small tree awkwardly into the linen bag on her trolley. The bowl with—whatever it was—was tipped into the bin.
Her face was tight as she moved quickly around the penthouse removing every trace of Christmas from the room. As she picked up the last item—a tiny sprig of holly—she turned to face him.
‘What is it you have against Christmas anyway?’ She was annoyed. Upset even.
He didn’t even think. ‘My wife is dead and Christmas without her is unbearable.’
No one asked him that question. Ever. Not in the last five years.
Everyone tiptoed around about him. Speaking in whispers and never to his face. His friends had stopped inviting him to their weddings and christening celebrations. It wasn’t a slight. It was their way of being thoughtful. He would never dream of attending on his own. And he just couldn’t bear to see his friends living the life he should have with Anna.
The words just came spilling out unguarded. They’d been caught up inside him for the last five years. Simmering under the surface when people offered their condolences or gave that fleeting glance of pity.
‘I hate Christmas. I hate everything about it. I hate seeing trees. I hate seeing presents. I hate seeing families all happy, smiling at each other. I don’t need any reminders of the person missing from my life. I don’t need any at all. I particularly don’t need some stranger digging through my belongings and taking out the last thing I have of my wife’s—the only thing that I’ve kept from our Christmases together—and laying it on my pillow like some holy talisman. Will it bring Anna back? Will it make Christmas any better?’ He was pacing now. He couldn’t help the pitch of his voice. He couldn’t help the fact that the more he said, the louder he became, or the broader his Scottish accent sounded. ‘No. No, it won’t. So I don’t do Christmas. I don’t want to do it. And I don’t want to discuss it.’
He turned back around to face her.
She looked shell-shocked. Her eyes wide and her bottom lip actually trembling. Her hand partially covering her mouth.
He froze. Catching himself before he continued any further.
There were a few seconds of silence. Tears pooled in her eyes. ‘I’m s...sorry,’ she stammered as she turned on her heel and bolted to the door.
Finlay didn’t move. Not a muscle. He hadn’t even taken his thick winter coat off since he’d arrived.
What on earth had he just done?
He had no idea who the Maids in Chelsea were. He had no idea who Clio Caldwell was.
But he didn’t doubt that as soon as she found him, he could expect a rollicking.
CHAPTER TWO (#u67602fb1-23d5-5c5b-86a8-8cd5a24b6dbc)
ONCE THE TEARS started she couldn’t stop them. They were coming out in that weird, gasping way that made her feel as if she were fighting for every breath. She stopped in front of the elevator and fumbled for her card.
No! She didn’t have it. He still did.
She looked around. Fire exit. It was the only other way out of here. There was no way she was hanging around.
As soon as she swung the door open she started upwards instead of down. Her chest was tight. She needed some air and she must be only seconds away from the roof. The grey door loomed in front of her. Was everything in this place black or grey? She pushed at the door and it sprang open onto the flat roof.
The rush of cold air was instant. She walked across the roof as she tried to suck some in.
She hadn’t even thought about the cold. She hadn’t even considered the fact it might still be snowing. The hotel was always warm so her thin shirt was no protection against the rapidly dipping temperatures on a late December afternoon.
But Grace couldn’t think about the cold. All she could think about was the man she’d just met—Finlay Armstrong.
The expressions on his face. First of anger, then of disgust, a second of apparent amusement and then the soul-crushing, heart-ripped-out-of-his-chest look.
She’d done that to him. A stranger.
She’d caused him that amount of pain by just a few actions—just a few curious words.
She shivered involuntarily as the tears started to stream down her face. He’d implied that he’d sack her.
It was Christmas. She’d have no job. How could she afford to stay in the flat? As if this Christmas weren’t already going to be hard enough without Gran, now she’d absolutely ruined whatever chance there was of having a peace-filled Christmas.
Her insides curled up and tumbled around. Why had she touched that angel? Why had she thought she had a right to decorate his room? And why, why had she blurted out that question?
The look on his face...the pain in those blue eyes. She shivered again. He’d lost his wife and because of that he couldn’t bear Christmas. He didn’t want to celebrate, didn’t want to be reminded of anything.
The little things, the little touches she’d thought he might like, the tree, the decorations, the lights and the smells had all haunted him in a way she hadn’t even imagined or even considered. What kind of a person did that make her?
She knew what it was like to find Christmas hard. A hundred little things had brought tears to her eyes this year—even while she was trying to ignore them. The smell of her gran’s favourite perfume. The type of biscuit she’d most enjoyed at Christmas. Even the TV listing magazine where she used to circle everything she wanted to watch. But none of that—none of that—compared to the pain of a man who’d lost his wife.
Her gran had led a good and long life. His wife? She could only imagine how young she must have been. No wonder he was angry. No wonder he was upset.
She squeezed her eyes closed. She hadn’t managed to find someone she’d made that special connection with yet. Someone she truly loved with her whole heart. Imagine finding them only to have them ripped away. How unfair must that feel?
The shivering was getting worse. Thick flakes of snow started to land on her face. She stared out across London. The views from the penthouse were already spectacular. But from the roof? They were something else entirely.
It was darker now and if she spun around she could see the whole of Chelsea spread out in front of her. The Armstrong’s roof was the highest point around. The streets below looked like something from a Christmas card. Warm glowing yellow lights from the windows of the white Georgian houses, with roofs topped with snow. There were a few tiny figures moving below. People getting excited for Christmas.
The tears flowed harder. Battersea Power Station glowed in the distance. The four distinctive chimneys were usually lit up with white lights. But this time of year, the white lights were interspersed with red—to give a seasonal effect.
Every single bit of Christmas spirit she’d ever had had just disintegrated all around her.
Perfect Christmas. No job. No family. A mother on the other side of the world who couldn’t care less. And probably pneumonia.
Perfect.
* * *
The realisation hit him like a boxer’s right hook.
What had he just done?
There was a roaring in his ears. He didn’t behave like this. He would never behave like this. What on earth had possessed him?
All thoughts of eating, pulling the blinds and collapsing into bed vanished in an instant.
He rushed out into the hall. Where had she gone? Her chambermaid cart was abandoned in the hall. His eyes went to the panel above the elevator. But no, it wasn’t moving. It was still on this floor.
Something cut into the palm of his hand. He looked down. The plastic identity card. Of course. He’d taken it from her. She couldn’t use the elevator.
He strode back into his room and picked up the phone. He hadn’t recognised the new receptionist. Officially—he hadn’t even checked in.
The phone answered after one ring. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Armstrong?’
‘Frank? Who are the Maids in Chelsea?’
There was a second of silence. The question obviously caught the concierge unaware.
He could almost picture the way Frank sucked the air through his teeth when he was thinking—he could certainly hear it.
‘Staff from the Maids in Chelsea company have been working here for the last four months, Mr Armstrong. There were some...issues with some of our chambermaids and Mr Speirs decided to take a recommendation from a fellow hotel.’ Frank paused and then continued, ‘We’ve had no problems. The girls are excellent. Mrs Archer, in particular, really loves Grace and asks for her whenever she’s on duty.’
He cut right to the chase. ‘What were the issues, Frank?’
The sucking sound echoed in his ear. He would have expected Rob Speirs to tell him of any major changes in the way his prestigious hotel was run. But Speirs was currently in hospital after an emergency appendectomy. That was part of the reason that he was here at short notice.
‘There were some minor thefts. The turnover of staff was quite high. It was difficult to know where the problem lay.’
‘And Rob—where did he get the recommendation?’
‘From Ailsa Hillier. The Maids in Chelsea came highly recommended and we’ve had no problems at all.’ There was another hesitation. ‘Mr Armstrong, just to let you know, I have something for you.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s from Mrs Archer. She left something with me to pass on.’
Now he was curious. ‘What is it, Frank?’
‘It’s a Christmas present.’
Frank was silent for a few seconds. Just as well really. Every hair on Finlay’s body stood on end. Of course, he’d received Christmas presents over the last few years. His parents and sister always sent something. But Mrs Archer? This was a first.
Frank cleared his throat again. ‘Mr Armstrong, is there anything I can help you with?’
This time it was Finlay that paused. He liked Frank. He’d always liked Frank. The guy knew everything that happened in his hotel—including the fact that his manager had used a company recommended by their rivals at the Corminster—interesting.
‘Keep a hold of the present, I’ll get it from you later, Frank.’ It wouldn’t be good to seem ungracious. Then he asked what he really wanted to know. ‘Have you seen Grace Ellis in the last five minutes?’
‘Grace? What’s wrong with Grace?’
Finlay really didn’t want to get into this. He could already hear the protectiveness in Frank’s voice. He should have guessed it would be there. ‘Nothing’s wrong, but have you seen her?’
‘No, sir. Not in the last hour at least.’
Finlay put down the phone. She could easily have run out but he had the strangest feeling that she hadn’t.
He walked back outside, leaving the penthouse door open behind him and heading towards the stairs. When he pushed the door open he felt a rush of cold air around him.
The roof. She’d gone to the roof.
He ran up the stairs, two at a time, pausing when he reached the top.
She was standing at the end of the roof, staring out over London. She wasn’t thinking of...
No. She couldn’t be. But the fleeting thought made him reluctant to shout her back in.
He crossed the roof towards her. As he neared he could see she was shivering—shivering badly.
He reached out and touched her shoulder and she jumped.
‘Grace? What are you doing out here? You’ll freeze.’
She must have recognised his voice but she didn’t turn towards him. Her arms were folded across her chest and more wisps of her hair had escaped from the bun.
He walked around slowly, until he was in front of her, blocking her view.
Her lips were tinged with blue and her face streaked with tears.
Guilt washed over him like a tidal wave.
Him. He’d caused this. He’d made this girl cry.
Why? After five years he’d thought he was just about ready to move on. But Christmas was always the hardest time for him. He was frustrated with the rest of the world for enjoying Christmas when it only brought back what he had lost.
Thank goodness he still had his coat on. He undid the buttons and shrugged it off, slipping it around her shoulders.
She still hadn’t spoken to him. She was just looking at him with those huge brown eyes. The ones that had caught his attention in the first place. The ones that had sparked the reaction he should never have had.
Why was that? He’d always kept things locked inside. His friends knew that. They knew better than to try and discuss things. They spent their lives avoiding Anna’s name or any of the shared memories they had of her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I should never have shouted at you.’
She blinked. Her eyes went down to her feet. ‘I should never have decorated the room. I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
He shook his head. ‘No, Grace. You were trying to do something nice. Something sweet.’ The words made his insides twist a little. Was it really so long that someone had done something sweet around him?
She blinked again. The shivering hadn’t stopped yet and he could tell why. The wind was biting through his thin knit black jumper. It didn’t matter he had a shirt underneath. It had been a long time since he’d felt this cold.
She bit her bottom lip. ‘I...I sometimes forget that other people don’t like Christmas. I should have been more sensitive. I should have thought things through.’ A tear slid down her cheek. ‘Did you come up here to fire me?’
‘What? No.’ He couldn’t believe it. That was the last thing on his mind right now.
She looked confused. ‘But you said...you said—’
‘Forget what I said,’ he cut in. ‘I was being an idiot. I’m tired. I haven’t slept in three days. I’m sorry—I know it’s no excuse.’
‘I’m sorry about your wife,’ she whispered.
It came out of the blue. Entirely unexpected.
Sweeping through him like the brisk breeze of cold air around him.
It was the waver in her voice. He’d heard this a thousand times over the last few years. Most of the times the words had seemed meaningless. Automatically said by people who were sometimes sincere, sometimes not.
This woman—Grace—hadn’t known his wife at all. But there was something about her—something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was as if she knew mourning, she knew loss. It was probably the sincerest he’d ever heard those words spoken and it twigged a little part inside him.
He stepped back a little. He stepped back and sucked in a breath, letting the cold air sear the inside of his lungs. She was staring at him again. Something about this woman’s vulnerable eyes did things to him.
He wanted to protect her. He wanted to make sure that no one hurt her. There was something else. It wasn’t sympathy in her eyes.
He couldn’t stand the look of sympathy. It only filled him with rage and self-loathing.
A tear slid down her cheek and the wave of protectiveness that was simmering beneath the surface washed over him completely.
He couldn’t help himself. He reached up with his thumb and brushed it away, feeling the coolness of her smooth skin beneath the tip.
He stepped closer again. ‘Don’t,’ he said quickly, his voice rising above a whisper. ‘I’m sorry I made you feel like this.’ He wanted to glance away—to have the safety of looking out over the capital’s skyline—but Grace’s chocolate gaze pulled him in. His hand was still at the side of her face. She hadn’t pulled away. ‘I meant what I said.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘Christmas brings out the worst in me. It just brings back too many memories. And I know...I know that not everyone feels like that. I know that maybe...just maybe I should be able to get past this.’ A picture swam into his head and he let out a wry laugh. ‘As for the Christmas decorations in the hotel? They might be a little on the sparse side.’
It was the oddest situation. The most bizarre he’d ever found himself in. The irony of it almost killed him. If someone had told him twenty-four hours ago that he’d end up on the roof of his hotel, in the snow, with a strange, enigmatic woman who was causing the shades to start to fall away from his eyes after five years, he would have laughed in their face.
He wasn’t joking about the sparseness of the hotel. Rob Speirs had emailed to say some of the guests were complaining about the lack of Christmas spirit. Rob had also dropped a few hints that it was bad for business.
Grace’s eyebrows arched. The edges of her lips turned upwards. ‘You think?’
He put his arm around her shoulders. ‘It’s freezing out here—and only one of us has a coat. Let’s go back inside.’
She hesitated for the tiniest second then gave a shiver and a nod as they started walking to the door. ‘So you can fire me in comfort?’
‘Less of the firing thing. Are you going to bring this up all the time?’
She nodded. ‘Probably.’
He pulled open the door. ‘How about we go downstairs for some hot chocolate and you can tell me more about Maids in Chelsea? I have it on good authority you’ve got a fan in Mrs Archer.’
Grace nodded. ‘I thought you were tired. You said you hadn’t slept in three days. You don’t need to talk to me. We can just call it quits and I’ll go home now.’
He shook his head as they stepped inside and walked down the stairs. ‘Oh, no. You don’t get off that easy. We have things to discuss.’
‘We do?’
She sounded surprised. He swiped a key fob next to the elevator and the doors swished open. He gestured with his hand for her to go inside. ‘You don’t want to have hot chocolate with me?’
He made it sound light-hearted. He wanted to try and make amends for his earlier behaviour. But the truth was his curiosity was piqued by Grace.
She gave him a cheeky stare. ‘Only if there are marshmallows and cream. I get the impression you might be a bit of a cheapskate.’
He laughed as she walked into the elevator and for the first time in five years something happened.
It had been so long he almost didn’t recognise it.
His heart gave a little leap.
* * *
Grace wasn’t quite sure what to make of any of this. One minute Mr Film Star looks was firing her in his gravelly Scottish voice, the next minute he was apologising and making her heart completely stop when he touched her cheek.
It was the weirdest feeling. She’d been beyond cold—but the touch of his finger on her cheek had been like a little flame sending pulses around her body.
They stood in silence as the elevator moved silently to the ground floor. Frank caught sight of them as they walked out into the foyer, but Finlay didn’t give them time to talk. He ushered her through to one of the private sitting rooms, speaking to a waitress on the way past.
They sat down on the comfortable black velvet-covered chairs. She ran her hand over the material. ‘Black. Nice,’ she said as she watched his face.
He shook his head. ‘I feel that you might be going to make me pay.’
The strange wariness she’d felt around him had seemed to vanish. She’d seen something up on that roof. Something she’d never seen in another person.
For a few moments it had felt as if she could see right into his soul. His pain. His hurt. His bitterness.
He seemed to be at a point in his life that she couldn’t even begin to understand.
‘Me? Make you pay? Whatever makes you think that?’
He put one elbow on the table and leaned on his hand. He did still look tired, but there was a little sparkle in those blue eyes. When Finlay Armstrong wasn’t being so businesslike and generally miserable, he showed tiny glimmers of a sense of humour.
The good looks were still there. Now she wasn’t so flabbergasted she could see them clearly. In fact, in the bright lights of the hotel his handsome features might even be a bit intimidating.
But there was something about that accent—that Scottish burr—that added something else to the mix. When she’d first heard it—that fierceness—its tone of don’t ever cross me had had her shaking in her shoes. Now, there was a softness. A warmth about the tone.
He held out his arms to the room they were sitting in. ‘I chose black and grey deliberately. I liked the smoothness, sleekness and no-nonsense look of the hotel. White would have been clinical. Any other colour just a distraction that would age quickly. Black and grey are pretty timeless colours.’
‘If you can call them colours.’
The waitress appeared and set down steaming hot chocolates, adorned with marshmallows and cream, and long spoons. The aroma drifted up instantly. After the coldness of outside the instant warmth was comforting.
Finlay spooned some of the cream from his hot chocolate into his mouth and gave a loud sigh. ‘I’m guessing you don’t like my interior design selections.’
Grace smiled and tried to catch some of her marshmallows before they melted. ‘I bet they cost more money than I could earn in ten years.’
He stopped stirring his hot chocolate and looked at her.
She cringed. Did she really mean to say that out loud?
The marshmallows-and-cream assortment was all sticking together inside her mouth. Any minute now she would start choking. She took another quick sip of the hot chocolate in an attempt to melt some of the marshmallows before she needed emergency treatment. Seemed as if she’d brought enough attention to herself already.
‘How would you like to earn some more money?’
Too late. She coughed and spluttered everywhere. Did he really just say that?
As quickly as the words left his mouth and Grace started choking, Finlay Armstrong started to laugh.
He did. The guy actually started laughing. He leaned over and started giving her back a few slaps, trying to stop her choking. He was shaking his head. ‘I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean anything like that. It’s okay, Grace. You don’t need to fake a medical emergency and escape in an ambulance.’
The choking started to subside and Finlay signalled over to one of the waitresses to bring some water. He was still laughing.
Her cheeks were warm. No, her cheeks were red hot. Between choking to death and thinking completely inappropriate thoughts she couldn’t be any more embarrassed if she tried.
Because she had thought inappropriate thoughts—even if it had been for just a millisecond.
She hadn’t had enough time to figure out if she was mortally offended and insulted, or just completely and utterly stunned.
A bartender in a sleek black dress came over with a bottle of water and some glasses with ice. She shot Finlay her best sultry smile as she poured the water for them both. Grace got a look of disdain. Perfect.
The water-pouring seemed to take for ever. She could almost hear some sultry backtrack playing behind them.
Finlay was polite but reserved. The bartender got the briefest of thanks, then he turned his attention back to Grace. It was hard not to grab the glass and gulp the water down. She waited until the water was finally poured, then gave her most equally polite smile and took some eager sips.
She cleared her throat. ‘I didn’t think that, you know,’ she said quickly.
Finlay laughed even harder than before. ‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘You did. My bad. The wrong choice of words. I didn’t mean that at all.’
She gulped again. Now they were out in public his conduct seemed a little different. He was laughing but there was more of a formality about him. This was his hotel and right now he was under the microscopic view of all his staff. He had a reputation to uphold. She got that. She did.
And right now his eyes didn’t show any hint of the vulnerability she’d glimpsed upstairs. Now, his eyes seemed like those of a worldly-wise businessman. One that had probably seen and done things she could only ever dream of.
All she knew about Finlay Armstrong was the little he’d told her. But Finlay had the self-assured aura that lots of self-made businessmen had.
The knowledge, the experience, the know-how and the confidence that a lot of the clients she’d met through Maids in Chelsea had. People who had lived entirely different lives from the one she had.
She set down her water and tried to compose herself again. Heat had finally started to permeate into her body. She could feel her fingers and toes.
She finally shook off Finlay’s coat. She’d forgotten it was around her shoulders. That was what the bartender had been staring at.
She tugged at her black shirt, straightening it a little, and put her hand up to her hair, trying to push it back into place.
Finlay was watching her with amusement. ‘Leave it—it’s fine. Let’s talk about something else.’
Grace shifted a little on the velvet chair. What on earth did he want to talk to her about?
His hands ran up and down the outside of the latte glass. ‘I’d like you to take on another role within the hotel.’
She sat up a bit more. Her curiosity was definitely piqued. ‘What do you mean?’
He held out his hands around the room. ‘You mentioned the lack of Christmas decorations and I think you might be right. Rob Speirs, my manager, mentioned there’s been a few complaints. He thinks it could be affecting business. It might be time to have a rethink.’
She tilted her head to the side. ‘You want me to bring up the stuff from the basement?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I don’t want any of the old decorations. I want new. I want you to look around and think of a theme for the hotel, something that gives the Christmas message while keeping the upmarket look that I like for the hotel.’
Grace’s mouth fell open. ‘What?’
He started a little. ‘And obviously I’ll pay you. A designer fee, plus a company credit card to cover all the costs and delivery of what you choose.’
Grace was having trouble believing this. He’d pulled the few decorations she’d put up in the penthouse down with his bare hands. He’d called them tacky. Now, he wanted her to decorate the whole hotel?
She couldn’t help the nervous laugh that sneaked out. ‘Finlay, do you know what date it is?’
He wrinkled his nose. ‘The sixteenth? The seventeenth of December? Sorry, I’ve crossed so many time zones lately I can’t keep track.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing most of the other hotels decided on their Christmas schemes months ago—and ordered all their decorations. They’ve had their decorations up since the middle of November.’
Finlay shook his head. ‘That’s too early. Even the first day of December seems too soon.’
Grace leaned across the table towards him. ‘I’m not sure that what you have in mind and what I have in mind will be the same thing.’
‘What do you mean?’
She sighed and tried to find appropriate words. ‘Less than half an hour ago you told me you hated Christmas and everything about it. What’s changed your mind?’
The hesitation was written all over his face. Just as she’d done a few seconds earlier, he was trying to find the right words. She could almost see them forming on his lips. She held her breath. Then, just when he looked as if he might answer, he leaned forward and put his head in his hands.
Now she definitely couldn’t breathe. She pressed her lips together to stop herself from filling the silence.
When Finlay looked up again, it wasn’t the polished businessman she’d been sitting opposite for the last twenty minutes. This was Finlay, the guy on the roof who’d lost his wife and seemed to lose himself in the process. What little oxygen supplies she had left sucked themselves out into the atmosphere in a sharp burst at the unhidden pain in his eyes.
‘It’s time.’ His voice cracked a little and his shoulders sagged as if the weight that had been pressing him down had just done its last, awful deed.
She couldn’t help herself. She didn’t care about appropriateness. She didn’t care about talk. Grace had always had a big heart. She always acted on instinct. She slid her hand across the glass-topped table and put it over his.
It didn’t matter that the word no had been forming on her lips. It didn’t matter that she felt completely out of her depth and had no qualifications for the position he wanted to give her. She squeezed his hand and looked him straight in the eye, praying that her tears wouldn’t pool again.
He gave himself a shake and straightened up. ‘And it’s a business decision.’ He pulled his hand back.
She gave him a cautious smile. ‘If you’re sure—and it’s a business decision,’ she threw in, even though she didn’t believe it, ‘the answer is yes.’
He leaned back against the chair, his shoulders straightening a little.
‘I have to warn you,’ she continued, ‘that the picture you see in your head might not match the picture I have in mine.’
She glanced across the room and gave him a bigger smile. ‘I can absolutely promise you that no matter how sleek, no matter how modern you think they are—there will be no black Christmas trees in The Armstrong hotel.’
The shadows fell a little from his eyes. ‘There won’t?’
There was the hint of a teasing tone in his voice. As if he was trying his best to push himself back from the place he’d found himself in.
‘My Christmas could never have black trees. I’ll do my best to keep things in the style you like. But think of Christmas as a colour burst. A rainbow shower.’ She held up one hand as she tried to imagine what she could do. ‘A little sparkle on a gloomy day.’
Finlay nodded in agreement. ‘I’ll get you a credit card. Is there anything else you need?’
She licked her lips. Her throat was feeling dry. What had she just got herself into?
Her brain started to whizz. ‘Use of a phone. And a computer. A space in one of the offices if you can.’
Finlay stood up. ‘I can do that.’
It seemed the businessman persona had slotted back into place. Then, there was a tiny flicker of something behind his eyes.
He smiled and held out his hand towards her.
She stood up nervously and shook his hand.
‘Grace Ellis, welcome to The Armstrong Hotel.’
CHAPTER THREE (#u67602fb1-23d5-5c5b-86a8-8cd5a24b6dbc)
‘WHAT’S WRONG WITH you today?’ asked Alice.
Grace was staring out of the window, lack of sleep making her woozy.
She turned her attention back to Alice. ‘Nothing, I’m sorry. I’m just a little tired.’
Alice narrowed her gaze with a sly smile on her face. ‘I’ve seen that kind of distracted look before—just not on you.’
Grace finished making the bed and turned to face Alice. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
The last thing she wanted to do was admit to Alice the reasons that sleep had evaded her. It would be easy to say it was excitement about the job offer. Stress about whether she could actually do the job. But the truth was—while they might have contributed—the main sleep stealer had been the face that kept invading her mind every few seconds.
There was something so enigmatic about Finlay Armstrong. It wasn’t just the traditional good looks, blue eyes and sexy Scottish accent. It was something so much more.
And there was no way she could be the only one that felt it.
A successful businessman like Finlay Armstrong must have women the world over trying to put themselves on his radar.
She had no idea how he behaved in private. Five years was a long time. Had he had any hook ups since his wife died? Probably. Surely?
She didn’t even want to think like that.
It was just...that moment...that moment on the roof. The expression in his eyes. The way he’d looked at her when he’d reached up and touched her cheek.
Grace hadn’t wanted to acknowledge how low she’d been feeling up there. She hadn’t wanted to admit how she was missing her gran so much it felt like a physical pain.
But for a few seconds—up on that roof—she’d actually thought about something else.
She’d actually only thought about Finlay Armstrong.
‘Grace?’ Alice Archer had walked over and touched her arm.
‘Oh, sorry, Alice. I was miles away.’
Alice raised her eyebrows. ‘And where was that exactly?’
Grace bit her lip and pulled some folded papers from her white apron. ‘I’ve to help choose some Christmas decorations for the hotel. I was up half the night trying to find something appropriate.’
Alice gave a little smile and reached her thin hand over to look at the printouts. Grace swallowed. She could see the blue veins under Alice’s pale skin. A few of her knuckle joints were a little gnarled. They must give her pain—but she never complained. Another reminder of how much she missed her gran.
Alice glanced over the pictures, her eyes widening at a few. Grace had spent hours tracking down themes and stockists for particular items. All of them at costs that made her blink.
Alice gave her a thoughtful look as she handed the pictures back. She patted Grace’s hand. ‘I’m sure whatever you choose will be perfect. It will be nice to have some Christmas cheer around the hotel.’
Grace couldn’t help but smile. ‘Christmas cheer, that’s exactly what I’m trying to capture. Something to make people get in the spirit.’
Alice walked over to her Louis XV velvet-covered chair and sank down with a wince.
‘Are you okay? Are you hurting?’
Alice shook her head proudly and folded her hands in her lap. ‘No. I’m not sore, Grace. I’m just old. I’ll have some lemon tea now, if you please.’
‘Of course.’ Grace hurried over to complete their morning ritual. She sliced the fresh lemon and prepared the tea, boiling the water and carrying the tray with the china teapot and cup and saucer over to the table at Alice’s elbow.
Alice gave a grateful sigh. Her make-up was still impeccable but her eyes were tired this morning. ‘Maybe you should have some help? Someone to give you some confidence in your decisions.’
Grace was surprised. ‘Do you want to come with me? You’re more than welcome to. I would be glad of the company.’
Alice laughed and shook her head. ‘Oh, no. I don’t mean me. I was thinking more of someone else...someone else who could use a little Christmas spirit.’
Grace had poured the tea and was about to hand the cup and saucer to Alice but her hand wobbled. She knew exactly who Alice was hinting about.
‘I don’t think that would be appropriate. He’s far too busy. He’s far too immersed in his work. He wouldn’t have time for anything like that.’
She shifted uncomfortably. She had a pink shirt hanging up in her locker, ready to change into once she’d finished her chambermaid duties. Alice was staring at her with those steady grey eyes. It could be a little unnerving. It was as if she could see into Grace’s head and see all the secret weird thoughts she’d been having about Finlay Armstrong since last night.
Gran had been a bit like that too. She’d always seemed to know what Grace was going to say before she even said it. Even when she’d been twelve years old and her friend had stolen a box of chocolates from the local shop. The associated guilt had nearly made Grace sick, and she’d only been home and under Gran’s careful gaze for ten minutes before she’d spilled everything.
Alice Archer was currently sparking off a whole host of similar feelings.
Her eyes took on a straight-to-the-point look. ‘He asked you to get him some Christmas decorations, didn’t he?’
Grace set the cup and saucer down. ‘Yes,’ she replied hesitantly.
‘Then, he’s reached the stage that he’s ready to start living again.’
The words were so matter-of-fact. So to the point. But Alice wasn’t finished.
‘It’s time to bring a little Christmas magic to The Armstrong, Grace, and you look like just the girl to do it.’
* * *
One hour later the black shirt was crumpled in a bag and her long-sleeved deep pink shirt with funny little tie thing at the collar was firmly in place. She grabbed some more deodorant from her locker. She was feeling strangely nervous. A quick glance in the mirror showed her hair was falling out of its bun again. She pulled the clip from her hair and gave it a shake. Her hair tumbled in natural waves. She was lucky. It rarely needed styling. Should she redo her lipstick?
She pulled her plum lipstick from her bag and slicked some on her lips. There. She was done. She took a deep breath, reaching into the apron that she’d pushed into her locker for her array of pictures. Her last touch was the black suit jacket—the only one she owned. She’d used it for her interview with Clio some months ago and thought of it as her good luck charm.
Finally she was satisfied with how she looked. She’d never be wearing designer clothes, but she felt presentable for the role she was about to undertake.
She pushed everything else back into the locker and did her final job—swapping her square-heeled black shoes for some black stilettos. She teetered for the tiniest second and laughed. Who was she trying to kid? She pulled open the locker again and slid her hand into the inside pocket of her black bag. There. Drop gold earrings that her gran had given her for her twenty-first birthday. She usually only wore them on special occasions but in the last few months, and particularly at this time of year, she missed her gran more than she could ever say. She slipped them into her ears and straightened her shoulders, taking a deep breath.
There it was. The little shot of confidence that she needed. She glanced down at the papers in her hand and smiled.
She was going to give this hotel the spirit of Christmas no matter what.
* * *
He could hear a strange noise outside his room. Like a shuffling. After more than a few seconds it was annoying.
Finlay’s first reaction was to shout. But something stopped him. Maybe it was Alice Archer? Could she have come looking for him?
He sat his pen down on his desk. ‘Is someone there?’
The noise that followed was almost a squeak. He smiled and shook his head. ‘Well, it’s obviously an infestation of mice. I’d better phone the exterminator.’
‘What? No!’ Grace’s head popped around the door.
Grace. It was funny the odd effect that had on him.
She kind of sidled into the office. ‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, Mr Armstrong.’
He gestured towards the chair in front of him. ‘It’s Finlay. If you call me Mr Armstrong I’ll start looking over my shoulder for my father.’
She shot him a nervous smile and walked hesitantly across the room towards the chair.
He tried his best not to stare.
Grace had already caught his attention. But now, she wasn’t wearing the maid’s outfit. Now, she had on a black suit and stiletto heels.
Finlay Armstrong had met a million women in black suits and heels. But he’d never met one quite like Grace. She had on a pink shirt with a funny tie at the neck.
And it was the colour that made him suck in his breath. It wasn’t pale or bright, it was somewhere in the middle, a warm rose colour that brought out the colour in her cheeks and highlighted the tone of her lipstick. It suited her more than she could ever know.
Her hair swung as she walked across the room. It was the first time he’d seen it down. Okay, so the not staring wasn’t going to work. Those chestnut curls were bouncing and shining like the latest shampoo TV advert.
Grace sat down in the chair opposite him fixing him with her warm brown eyes. She slid something across the desk towards him.
‘I just wanted to check with you.’ She licked her pink lips for a second. ‘How, exactly, do I use this?’
He stared down at the company credit card. ‘What do you mean?’
She bit her lip now and crossed one leg over the other. Her skirt slid up her thigh and he tore his eyes away and fixed on her eyes.
Big mistake.
‘I mean, do I sign—can I sign? Or do I need a pin number or something?’
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