Let It Snow...: The Prince who Stole Christmas. Leslie Kelly

walked down the dingy corridor to the back stairway. If he wasn’t mistaken, Mr. Hoffman had said this stairwell led to the first-floor shop and the owner’s apartment.

      Moving carefully down the steps, he frowned, feeling the sag of the boards beneath his feet and hearing their noisy creaks. He reached the bottom level, coming to a long, narrow hallway, shadowy and cluttered. At the far end was a door that led outside to a back alley. In the opposite direction was the front entrance to the building. In between were two other doors, the nearest marked Private. Another, closer to the front, was marked I Want Candy: Deliveries.

      From behind it he could hear music. The sound grew louder as he approached, so he knocked once, then pushed the door open.

      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?”

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