A Champagne Christmas. Кэрол Мортимер

that word!”

      “How else would you describe it?”

      Tears filled her eyes. “I’d describe it as being helplessly infatuated with a boss who’s barely noticed I’m alive, except for one kiss.”

      “He kissed you?” he demanded. The ferocity of his sudden jealousy surprised Maksim. He’d never felt jealous before, not even when Francesca had delivered her little ultimatum and taken off with another man as promised. But then, Maksim’s claim on Francesca had always been territorial. His possession of Grace felt…personal.

      Very personal.

      She looked at him, surprised. “Why are you so upset?”

      Yes, why? “Because…because it’s sexual harassment,” he stammered furiously. “He’s your boss. It’s illegal!”

      “Sexual harassment?” Grace laughed, then shook her head with a tearful little hiccup. “One drunken kiss before he passed out on the office couch? Then he met Francesca, who I’m sure is perfect at everything. That’s why I wanted you to know,” she said in a rush. “In case…in case I’m not so perfect. I’m sure I’m very clumsy.”

      Clumsy?

      That explained her restraint. Her hesitation. She was a virgin. A shudder of hard desire went through him when he thought about how close he’d been to just ripping off her clothes and brutally taking her.

      “Maksim, please. The fact that I’m—that word—doesn’t mean anything,” she pleaded. “It truly doesn’t.”

      Clenching his jaw, he shook his head.

      “You’re wrong.”

      She was a virgin. She was doubly innocent.

      He couldn’t use her in his vicious power play.

      He’d been prepared for anything but this. He could fight anything…but this.

      Her naive faith had conquered the would-be conqueror.

      “Maksim, nothing has changed between us.” As she timidly reached for him, he grabbed her wrist.

      “No, Grace. No.”

      He pulled her up from the bed and straightened her clothes. He wrapped her coat around her shoulders. Within two minutes he’d led her down the elevator, through the hotel lobby and out onto the street.

      “Where are you taking me?” Grace whispered.

      He hailed a passing black cab. When the cab pulled to the curb, he turned to face her.

      “You’re going home,” he said tersely. “Alone.”

      He pushed her into the cab, then leaned forward to speak to the driver, giving him Grace’s address and a very large tip with the fare.

      “Wait!” Blinking out of her trance, Grace protested, “No. Maksim, please—”

      He slammed the door. “Just go.”

      “But—”

      “Go!” he ordered the cabbie.

      The man pressed on the gas. Maksim watched her go. Grace turned around in the back seat to stare at him through the back window. She looked hurt and bewildered.

      Then the cab turned a corner, and she was gone.

      And for the first time that night, Maksim felt the chill in the air.

      Oh my God, he thought suddenly. What had he done? Why had he let her go?

      Why had he shown mercy?

      He’d always laughed at the word. Mercy. Another name for weakness! And he’d let her go. He’d been weak.

      He clawed back his hair. He wanted Grace so badly it hurt. Knowing she was an untouched virgin made him ache, wanting her still more. He wanted to take her in his soft, wide bed, to teach her everything he knew, to fill himself inside her again and again and watch her face slowly shine with the joy of discovery. To take her hard. To take her slow. To take her any way he could get her, and be her first.

      Growling a curse that made the doorman’s eyes nearly pop out of his head, Maksim strode into his hotel to his penthouse. He undid his tuxedo tie and tossed it on his desk before he poured himself a short vodka. Every ounce of his body was howling for him to take Grace…take her now…take her hard and deep.

      Why had he let her go?

      Mercy. Staring down at the swirling clear liquid in his shot glass, Maksim said the word aloud with derision. He gulped the rest of the vodka, but his body still hurt with need for her. He glanced across the room to his vast, empty bed. He could have had her, but he’d let her go.

      Tomorrow, he promised himself grimly. Tomorrow he would regain control. He would show no mercy. He would be ruthless.

      Virgin or not, Grace would be his.

      The next morning Grace stared forlornly out the small window beside her desk at work.

      The snow that had made London so magical had melted, turning to rain. And the rest of last night’s magic had melted right along with it.

      From their suite of offices on the thirtieth floor, where the Cali-West Energy Corporation had leased space, Grace looked down at the people on the street, far below the other high-rise office buildings of Canary Wharf. The city seemed foggy and sad.

      Or maybe that was just her today. Foggy. Sad. With a deep breath, Grace tried to turn her attention back to her computer screen, but her focus on work kept getting interrupted by her painful memories of last night.

      She’d sworn she wouldn’t surrender to Maksim.

      Then she’d not only surrendered, she’d thrown herself at him—and he’d rejected her!

      She rubbed her temples, then tried to straighten her wrinkled beige skirt and oversize brown cardigan. She’d planned to iron them this morning but she hadn’t had time. She’d tossed and turned all night, then fallen asleep around dawn and had nearly slept through her alarm. Now she felt exhausted. Every time she thought about last night, she writhed inside. Her cheeks burned hot with shame.

      She’d tried to resist him.

      She’d really thought she could.

      But then when he’d shown such unexpected gentleness, allowing himself to be vulnerable in front of her when he spoke of his family, she’d been helpless to fight him.

      But she must have overestimated Maksim’s desire for her. Big surprise there. What did she know about men? He’d wanted her—she was still sure about that. Then he’d changed his mind. One moment he’d been kissing her senseless, peeling her clothes off, his hands roaming all over her as he’d pushed her back against his bed.

      The next minute he’d been shoving her into a taxi without so much as a good-night.

      She swallowed. The reason for the change was obvious. He’d been turned off by her virginity. What man would want to initiate a twenty-five-year-old virgin?

      It was all too horrifying.

      Sometime before dawn, she’d gotten up from bed and packed up the Leighton dress and coat and the platinum tiara. She would send them to his penthouse tonight and be done.

      Even now she could hardly believe that she’d worn them to a society party, where she’d been lavished with kisses by the most devastating man in the city, probably the world.

      She was lucky he’d rejected her, she told herself. She stared blankly at the screen.

      She’d thought she was invulnerable, but she’d utterly lost herself in the winter moonlight. He’d stolen her soul away, evaporating it from her body like mist under his power.

      The intoxicating force of his touch had done such strange things to her, made her weak inside, made her melt in his