‘I’m sure you would have managed well enough without me, hired someone else to …’
‘That’s the whole point, Sophie.’ Max straightened as he looked down at her intensely. ‘I’ve realised this last few days that I don’t want anyone else. That managing is exactly what I’ve been doing for so many years. Without you.’
She shot him a nervous glance from beneath lowered lashes. ‘I don’t understand.’
He smiled at her with sympathy; after the shock and, yes, he admitted it, anger of realising that Sophie had hidden from him that she was Sally’s cousin it had taken him twenty-four hours of soul-searching to reach his own conclusions as to why he felt so angry. He couldn’t expect Sophie to understand how he felt after just a couple of minutes of conversation. Or expect her to feel the same way about him as he now felt about her.
The only encouragement he had was that he knew Sophie responded to him on a physical level, at least. The rest would have to be worked at.
Which was a pretty scary thought for a man who had never in his life felt the least inclination to work at a relationship with a woman before now.
Before Sophie.
He smiled slightly. ‘I love the book you bought me for Christmas, by the way. I’ve been meaning to buy it for months, I just never got around to it, was always too busy doing something else.’
‘I’m glad you like it.’ She still eyed him warily. ‘As you can see, I love my pashmina.’ She was wearing it about her neck right now, the russet and brown colours looking wonderful against the red of her hair.
‘I’m glad.’ Max nodded. ‘Sophie …’ He gave a grimace as he paused impatiently.
‘Yes?’
Max straightened his shoulders determinedly. ‘I may as well come straight out with it and just tell you how I feel.’
‘How you feel about what?’ Sophie looked completely bewildered by his intensity.
She might look even more bewildered in a moment, but it was a risk Max had to take. That he was determined to take. ‘Everything you’ve said and thought about me was correct. I’ve avoided celebrating Christmas for years because of my parents’ deaths on Christmas Eve sixteen years ago. I found it an irritation; I even resented having to organise Christmas here this year for Janice and Amy. And I have a reputation when it comes to women. Have never so much as contemplated a serious relationship with one.’
‘Max …’
‘Until now,’ he completed firmly. ‘Until you,’ he added huskily as he reached out to take both her hands in his. ‘Sophie—’ He drew in a deep steadying breath. ‘Being with you these past few days, feeling my apartment become a home rather than just a place for me to sleep. Laughing with you, arguing with you, kissing you …’
‘Oh, please don’t!’ She groaned her embarrassment.
He gave a wide smile. ‘I love kissing you and touching you, Sophie. Just as I love laughing and arguing with you. In fact, I love it all so much, I love you so much, I want to go on doing it for the rest of my life.’
Sophie had ceased breathing as she gazed up at Max searchingly, wonderingly, sure she must be dreaming. Or that she had somehow fallen over and bumped her head and was imagining all of this. Because Max—Max Hamilton, billionaire CEO and owner of Hamilton Enterprises, a man who had avoided emotional involvement for all of his adult life—couldn’t possibly have just told her that he loved her. Could he?
She gave a disbelieving shake of her head. ‘You were so angry with me last night.’
‘I was angry with myself,’ he corrected. ‘And totally confused by the depth of that anger. It’s taken me until now to admit why that was. Sophie, I’m no good at this sort of thing, have no idea how to go about courting you, wooing you, winning you, let alone persuading you into loving me as I love you.’ He drew in a deep breath. ‘But I would dearly like you—in fact, I’m begging you—to give me a chance to at least try.’
Sophie couldn’t speak, could still barely breathe, as she felt the hot tears gather in her eyes. Tears of happiness, not sorrow. Because, miracle of miracles, Max had just told her that he loved her.
Max loved her!
It was too huge, too immense, too intense for her to be able to fully take it in.
‘Sophie, please,’ Max groaned throatily at her continued silence. ‘At least tell me you’ll give me that chance. I couldn’t bear it if—These past few days, being here with you, coming home to you, have shown me that it, and you as my wife, are what I want for the rest of my life.’ He stared down at her intently.
‘You want to marry me?’ she gasped breathlessly.
‘Of course I want to marry you.’ Max looked down at her sternly. ‘What did you think I meant by courting, wooing and winning you?’
‘I didn’t think—Didn’t know—Oh, yes, Max, I’ll marry you!’ She threw her arms about his neck as she launched herself into his arms. ‘I love you too, Max. I love you so very much.’ She beamed up at him. ‘I didn’t dare to hope, to dream, that you would ever feel the same way about me.’
Max looked down at her searchingly, his face lighting up with joy as he saw the truth of that love shining in the warmth of her eyes and her expressive face.
Miracles did happen, Max realised emotionally.
And Sophie was his own personal miracle.
A miracle he fully intended to love and cherish for the rest of his life.
EXACTLY A YEAR LATER, Sophie’s main Christmas present to Max was to tell him that in approximately seven months’ time they would be bringing yet another miracle to the happiness of their married life together. That she was expecting a cousin for Amy and her six-month-old brother, Barney …
* * * * *
Maisey Yates
USA TODAY bestselling author MAISEY YATES lives in rural Oregon with her husband and three children. She reels the epic trek she takes several times a day from her office to her coffee-maker is a true example of her pioneer spirit. In 2009 Maisey sold her first book to Mills & Boon® Modern™. Since then it’s been a whirlwind of sexy alpha males and happily-ever-afters and she wouldn’t have it any other way. Maisey’s favourite time of year is Christmas, when she can focus on family and friends. Visit her website at www.maiseyyates.com and look for her on Facebook.
“PLEASE, SIR. WE NEED just one more shovelful of coal for the fire. Only, the bookkeepers are freezing, even with their fingerless gloves and stocking caps.”
“What are you talking about, Amelia?” Luc Chevalier looked up from his desk at his assistant, who appeared, if possible, more doe-eyed than usual, her dark brows crinkling in the middle, her hands clasped in front of her chest.
“Embellishing my request for time off.”
“It is not cold in this office. Neither do I have a … fireplace