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

Personally? Not so much.

It wasn’t just Philip. Claire also hadn’t seen or spoken with her idiot, soon-to-be-seriously-smacked-if-she-had-anything-to-say-about-it brother. Freddy hadn’t been coming around, nor had he returned any of her dozen messages. Probably because he knew she would, A) want to do violence on his person; and B) demand that he give her the five thousand dollars he’d scammed off Philip so she could pay back the man’s security deposit when he moved out.

She had no idea how she was going to do that, and found herself half hoping they’d decide to stay another month so she could tell him he didn’t have to pay, that she’d take the rent out of the deposit. Then she could write it off and call it even. Even if they stayed, that wouldn’t allow her to recoup the money she’d had to pay to get the utilities turned on upstairs, but it was better than trying to come up with five “large.”

That, she promised herself, was the only reason she wanted Philip Smith to stick around. It had nothing to do with his looks or his smooth voice, his sexy smile, or, oh, God, that incredible kiss.

“Are you okay?” asked Jeannie, who, like Claire, had been working like a madwoman during the late afternoon rush on Tuesday. Word was spreading about I Want Candy and people were constantly calling or coming in to place orders for specialized holiday gifts. Claire had gone through so much red and green icing, she wished she owned stock in Dixie Kane sugar. “You’re so quiet.”

“I’m fine, just thinking,” Claire admitted. “I’ve barely had time to do that lately.”

She’d looked at the clock during a lull that afternoon, and then three hours had passed in a blur of customers and phone calls. It was nearly six now, almost closing time and already dark out, if Midtown Manhattan could ever be called dark. Especially at this time of year, with all the twinkling lights and holiday decorations brightening even the gloomiest of nights.

“Hey, I finally met one of the new guys.”

“New guys?”

“One of the dudes from upstairs. Talk about a hottie.”

Claire immediately turned and busied herself filing some cleared order forms. “Oh?”

“He’s very gentlemanly, too. Treated me like I was all highbrow and stuff.”

Jeannie cracked her gum. So highbrow.

Claire had already talked to her about that habit, among others, but the young woman, while a hard worker, and smart, sometimes seemed to have the attention span of a three-year-old on Pixy Stix. Which was a good thing when it came to her energy level and enthusiasm, but a bad one about stuff like follow-through.

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Is he single?” Jeannie asked.

Claire’s hand tightened on the top receipt and she found herself crumpling it, then forced her fingers to relax. “I have no idea.”

If not, he’s got some explaining to do about that kiss.

“I mean, I assume he is, since it’s just guys up there. Unless they’re… You don’t think they’re gay, do you?”

She barked a laugh. “Definitely not.”

“Yeah, didn’t think so. He’s supergentlemanly and all, but he didn’t set off my gaydar.”

What a joke. The man’s testosterone had testosterone. He was utterly male, masculine, confidently sexual, sensual and dangerous as hell to any woman who was the least bit susceptible to dark, mysterious strangers.

Which Claire wasn’t. Right?

“Oh, wow, there he is now,” Jeannie said, pointing toward the front of the shop.

Her heart lurching, Claire glanced at the door and saw a dark-haired man entering. But it wasn’t the one who made her pulse race and her underwear dampen.

“Hey, handsome,” said Jeannie with a simper.

“Good evening,” the stranger replied, his voice slightly accented, as Philip’s was. He was also similarly featured, and good-looking, but something about the way his chin and nose were held higher than absolutely necessary told Claire he wasn’t much like the man she’d met in her kitchen.

Still, better this man—who didn’t confuse and attract her—than his friend—who did.

Claire had just breathed a sigh of relief that she wasn’t going to come face-to-face with the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about when the door swung open again, sending in a blast of cold air and hot man.

Oh, boy, here we go.

It was him. Big, strong, so unbelievably handsome, his hair windswept, his mouth curved in a smile that could stop traffic.

Panty-dampening time. Damn it all.

She turned and began shoveling chocolates molded into wreath, bell and Santa shapes from one tray to another. Then she put them back. Busy hands made a clean mind, or something like that. Actually, all her busy hands made was smeary chocolate.

“Hello, Claire,” he said, his voice smooth, silky. Close.

She spun around, to find him standing directly in front of her on the other side of the counter. “Uh, hi. How’s it going?”

“How is what going?”

She took a deep breath and tried again, wondering why this guy so easily flustered her. She’d never had trouble talking to a man before, but Philip left her unsure of herself and a little dizzy.

“How are you doing? Is everything all right upstairs?”

He nodded once. “All is well. Quite comfortable, though I did have to bring someone in to fix the heating apparatus.”

Oh, great. Something else she owed him for.

“Shelby is most happy that it is working now.”

“How could anyone survive this climate without it?” called Philip’s companion—Shelby?—obviously overhearing. Then he went back to flirting with Jeannie, whose attention appeared to have drifted from her original hottie to the inferno who was now speaking to Claire. She was staring back and forth between them like a kid in a… well, whatever.

“Sorry about that,” Claire said. “If you give me the receipt for the service call, I’ll pay you back.”

“No need, it was quite inexpensive. And I wasn’t truly bothered by the cold, though we do come from a warm climate,” Philip said, that purr in his voice making her think of all kinds of warm, sweaty things.

“Oh. Well, I can see how that would be different. It does get pretty cold here,” she mumbled.

Reduced to talking about the weather? Was this really the best she could do? Her late mother, once a noted femme fatale, would be rolling over in her grave.

Her mom had given up on Claire having any grace or feminine wiles by the time she was ten and hit five-eight. Claire had been all lanky build, clumsy feet, gangly arms and legs. Nothing like her petite, delicate mother, the ballerina, who’d been adored by men all over the country once upon a time. That was when Claire had finally been allowed to quit ballet lessons—which she’d loathed. She’d then focused on the one thing she’d loved to do since she’d been old enough to beg her grandmother to let her help in the kitchen: bake.

“And you? You are well?” her tenant asked.

“I’m fine.”

“There have been no… incidents?”