Christmas Angel for the Billionaire

things were too good to rush and this was going to be very good indeed.

As she took her lips on a slow trail of moist kisses over his chin, down his throat, he held her in the very lightest of touches, his hands doing no more than rest against her ribcage, giving her control, all the time, all the freedom she wanted to explore his body, knowing that his time would come.

Little feathers of silky hair brushed against his skin, a subtle counterpoint to her tongue probing the hollows beneath his shoulders, to the satiny feel of her skin as his hands slid lower over her back, exploring the curve of her waist, learning the shape of her body.

Annie was drowning in pure sensation. The gentle touch of George’s hands as he caressed her back, her waist, slipping beneath the loose waist of her jeans to cup her bottom in his hands, holding her close so that she could feel the power of his need as she kissed and licked and nibbled at his chest, the hollow of his stomach. Came against the barrier of clothes.

Her lips were hot, swollen against his skin and every cell in her body was thrumming with power. For the first time in her life she felt totally alive, warm, vital. This ache in her womb, this need was the essence of life, of being a woman and she wanted him. Wanted all of him.

‘Touch me,’ she whispered as she pulled at the next stud.

Begging or commanding?

It didn’t matter. He’d told her she could do anything that felt good. And this felt…

He released the button at the waist of her jeans, pushed jeans, underwear over her hips.

There were no words to describe what this felt like. All she could manage was his name.

‘George…’

And then her body shattered.

George caught her, held her as she collapsed against him, kissing her shoulder, nuzzling his chin against her hair as she recovered, trying not to think about the look in her eyes, an appeal for something unknown, in that moment before she’d dissolved into his arms.

Because he knew where he’d see it before.

He murmured her name and when she looked up, her eyes filled with tears, he knew it was true. She was the ‘people’s virgin’.

‘Will I get sent to the Tower for that?’ he asked.

‘Not by me,’ she assured him, laughing shakily.

Damn it, she was crying with gratitude.

She sniffed. Brushed the tears from her cheeks with the palm of her hand, lifted damp lashes and finally realised that he wasn’t laughing with her.

‘What?’ she asked. ‘What did I do?’

He didn’t answer and he saw the exact moment when she realised that she answered not to the lie she’d told him when she’d sworn that Annie was her real name, but to Lady Rose.

‘Roseanne,’ she said. ‘My name is Roseanne. I was named for my grandmother but my mother thought I was entitled to a name of my own so she called me Annie.’

Did she think that was all that mattered? That she hadn’t actually lied about that.

Then, when he didn’t answer, ‘Does it matter?’

He picked up the clothes she’d discarded and thrust them at her.

‘George?’

For a long moment she didn’t take them but continued to look at him, those dangerous eyes pleading with him.

All his senses were vibrating with the feel of her, her touch, the musky scent of her most intimate being. They were urging him to say that it didn’t matter a damn before reaching out to take what she was offering him. Pretend that nothing mattered but this moment.

The shattering sound of the timer announcing that the cake was done saved them both.

‘Clearly it does,’ she said, snatching her clothes from his hand, standing up, turning her back on him as she pulled them on.

‘You used me,’ he said to her back. ‘You’re on a quest to lose your virginity before you settle for the guy with the castle.’

‘If that’s what you think then there’s nothing more to say. Pass me the oven gloves,’ she said, sticking out a hand as she opened the oven door.

He got up, passed her the thickly padded gloves, then pulled the overalls back on, fastening the studs with shaking fingers while, still with her back to him, she tested the cake.

‘Is it done?’

‘As if you care,’ she replied, still not looking at him but turning the cake out over the rack his mother had left out. When the cake didn’t fall out she gave it a shake, catching her breath as the hot tin touched the pale skin of her inner arm.

‘You have to leave it to cool for a few minutes,’ he said, taking her hand, turning it to look at the red mark.

‘I get cookery lessons too?’

‘Simple physics,’ he said, not bothering to ask her if it hurt, just grabbing her hand and taking her to the sink, where he turned on the cold tap, holding the burn beneath the running water.

It was icy-cold and he knew that would hurt as much as the burn but she clamped her jaws together. Schooled from the age of six not to show pain, she’d saved her tears for him.

It had taken the new, shocking pleasure of a man’s intimate touch to break down that reserve, reduce her to weeping for herself.

‘Who is she?’ he asked, not wanting to think about how that made him feel. Feeling would destroy him. ‘The girl in the photograph.’

‘Lydia,’ she said.

‘The friend who lent you her car? But she-’

‘Looks just like me? Type “Lady Rose” and “lookalike” into your search engine and you can book her next time you want “Lady Rose Napier” to grace your party.’

‘Why would I want a copy…?’

He managed to stop himself but she finished for him. ‘Why would you want a copy when you rejected the real thing?’

She was shaking, he realised. Or maybe it was him.

‘She’s a professional lookalike?’

‘Since she was fifteen years old. Her mother made her a copy of the outfit I was wearing on my sixteenth birthday and someone took a picture and sent it to the local newspaper. It’s not a full-time job for her, of course, but the manager of the supermarket where she works is very good about juggling her shifts.’

‘You paid a girl who works in a supermarket to take your place?’

‘No. She wouldn’t take any money. We met by chance one day and there was a connection.’

‘I’ll bet there was. Do you really trust her not to sell her story to the tabloids the minute she gets home?’

She looked up at him. ‘Do you know something, George? I don’t really care. I wanted to escape and she was willing to take my place so that I could disappear without raising a hue and cry. Once I go back I don’t care who knows.’

‘But how on earth will she carry it off? It’s one thing turning up at a party where everyone knows you’re not the real thing, but something like this…’ Words failed him.

‘There’s no one at Bab el Sama who knows me. I insisted on going there on my own.’

‘But if you wanted a break, surely-’

‘I wanted a break from being me, George. From my grandfather’s unspoken expectations. I wanted to be ordinary. Just be…myself.’

‘How is that?’ he asked, gently dabbing her arm dry.

‘I can’t feel a thing.’

He nodded. ‘I’ve got a car to fix,’ he said, tossing the towel aside, wishing he could say the same.

He walked from the room while he still could.