Christmas In The Boss's Castle. Scarlet Wilson

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

      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