“Bonjour,” Laura said, in better French than before.
He sat up to see her walk into the den carrying a tray with brioches, juice and coffee. She wore a navy T-shirt and jeans and was charmingly barefoot.
“Stay where you are. It’s Christmas morning and you deserve to be waited on.”
She put the tray on the coffee table and handed him a mug of coffee. His attention was drawn to her fragrance and the blond hair she’d left long. It hung over one shoulder.
“Joyeux Noël! Your housekeeper has been helping me with the pronunciation.”
Ping went the guilt again, for enjoying this moment with her. He was close to speechless.
“That sounded perfect. But you shouldn’t be waiting on me when you’re the guest.”
“I think we’ve graduated beyond that point.”
Her laughing blue eyes traveled over him, warming him in new places.
At the Chateau for Christmas
Rebecca Winters
REBECCA WINTERS, whose family of four children has now swelled to include five beautiful grandchildren, lives in Salt Lake City, Utah, in the land of the Rocky Mountains. With canyons and high alpine meadows full of wildflowers, she never runs out of places to explore. They, plus her favourite vacation spots in Europe, often end up as backgrounds for her romance novels, because writing is her passion, along with her family and church.
Rebecca loves to hear from readers. If you wish to e-mail her, please visit her website: www.cleanromances.com.
Dedicated to my two wonderful grandmothers, Alice Driggs Brown and Rebecca Ormsby Hyde.
I had these grandmothers in my life until just a few years ago and consider them two of life’s greatest blessings.
Contents
THE FINANCIAL DISTRICT of San Francisco was known as the Wall Street of the West. Nic got out of the limo into sunny, fifty-eight-degree weather and entered the high-rise that housed the headquarters of Holden Hotels on Montgomery.
There might be no snow in this city by the bay, but Americans were big on Christmas trees. The tall one in the foyer decorated with pink bows, pink angels and pink lights was dazzling. The hotel chain started by Richard Holden had become one of California’s finest.
Nic had checked in to one near the airport upon his arrival at 3:00 p.m., a half hour ago. A smaller tree decorated the same way with a giant Santa Claus in the corner had illuminated its foyer. He was impressed by its unmatched American ambience that would enchant children of all ages and nationalities. Once it might have enchanted him, but no longer. These days Christmas was a painful holiday he had to get through.
A security guard at reception in the lounge of the foyer looked up at him. “May I help you, sir?”
“I hope so. I’m here to see Ms. Laura Holden Tate. I understand she’s manager of the marketing department.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No. I’m here on urgent business and must speak to her as soon as possible.”
“Your name?”
“Monsieur Valfort. She’ll recognize the name.”
“One moment, please, and I’ll ring her secretary.”
Nic had to wait a few minutes for an answer. The man gave him a speculative glance before he said, “If you’ll take a seat, she’ll be down shortly.”
So she was in...that was good. Saved him from having to hunt her down.
The name Valfort had probably given Ms. Tate a heart attack. He’d purposely left off his first name to keep her guessing. But Nic wasn’t surprised she was willing to drop everything in order to investigate this undesirable intrusion away from the eyes and ears of her staff. He had to admit he’d been curious about a woman who’d shown no interest or love, let alone curiosity, over her grandmother’s welfare all these years. It demonstrated a coldness he couldn’t comprehend.
“Please help yourself to coffee while you wait.”
“Thank you.” Except that Nic didn’t want coffee and didn’t feel like sitting. He’d done enough of both on the flight from Nice, France, which, being on the Côte d’Azur, showed no signs of snow and coincidentally had been fifty-eight degrees and sunny when he’d left.
The errand his grandfather Maurice had sent him on was one he wanted over. He wasn’t looking forward to this meeting, let alone the other business his grandfather had asked him to carry out.
There would be fireworks, but with so many people coming in and out of the building, he planned to convince Ms. Tate to talk to him away from everyone. If this woman was as bitter and unforgiving as her mother, then he had his work cut out.
He looked in the direction of the bank of elevators, braced for a confrontation. Every time he heard the ding, he watched another group of well-dressed people step out. Though he didn’t have a picture of Ms. Tate, he knew she was a midlevel executive, twenty-seven years old and had been born with blond hair. Not a great deal to go on. At this point all he could do was wait until she approached him.
When he decided something must have detained her,