Let It Snow...: The Prince who Stole Christmas. Leslie Kelly
guy.
While he was very tall, with wide shoulders and a broad, rock-hard chest that she could almost still feel pressed against her sensitized body, he wasn’t at all beefy or brawny. He instead looked and felt like the perfect man should. Powerful but lean, muscular but elegant, somehow. He moved almost gracefully, not a lumbering beast, more a prowling predator.
She’d definitely felt stalked as he’d moved close enough to… sample her chocolate.
But it wasn’t just his body that had sucked her brain cells dry and let her kiss a complete stranger. There was also his face. Oh, Lord, that face. He was perfect, been sculpted from marble… His skin was a bit dark, as if he had just come from someplace sunny, or was of Mediterranean—Italian?—descent. The fineness of his brow was accentuated by the widow’s peak that pierced it. His cheekbones were high and autocratic, his cheeks lean, his nose straight and proud, that jaw strong, with a delicious-looking cleft at the bottom. His thick hair was jet-black, short, but wavy and incredibly finger-tempting. And his eyes—those almost intrusive, assessing, deep-set and heavily lashed eyes—were dark brown… like her favorite semisweet confections.
All that and a chocaholic. The man was simply divine.
Ding-ding-ding, hello in there? He wants to hurt your brother. Remember?
She would never let him get close to Freddy. Claire had promised their mother on her deathbed that she would look out for her baby brother. Allowing him to be… de-testicled wouldn’t just be neglecting her responsibilities, it would be unforgivable.
“Now should I offer my apologies?” the sexy stranger asked, his dark eyes gleaming in the soft glow of the overhead lights. Both amusement and awareness shone in those depths, also revealed by the slight uptilting of his soft, sensuous mouth.
I kissed that mouth? I was held by this man?
Impossible. Those kinds of wild, romantic moments happened to other women. To helpless, small, delicate, beautiful women. Not to blunt, responsible, down-to-earth Amazons like Claire Hoffman.
“Only if you’re sincere,” she mumbled, swallowing.
Considering her words were the volume of a mouse’s squeak, she couldn’t say there was much chance she’d get an apology.
“Let me rephrase that. Do I have anything to apologize for?”
Did he? He hadn’t exactly forced her. Yeah, he’d started the kiss, but he hadn’t grabbed her, pushed her up against the refrigerator and ripped her clothes off.
Oh, wow.
Stop, stop, stop!
Angry at her traitorous body, which demanded he do anything but apologize, she dodged the question altogether. “Look, I’m not letting you touch Freddy. Kissing me isn’t going to work any more than threatening me would have.”
He flinched, as if slapped, and for the first time since he’d entered the kitchen, he looked angry. “Threatening you? I would never threaten a woman.”
How noble. Hence the name? No nuts, no worries? “So you save your threats for young, inexperienced fools like my brother?”
“Your brother?” That fine brow went up and he tilted his handsome head in confusion. “Mr. Hoffman?”
“Yes. Freddy’s my brother. And if you think I’m going to let you hurt him, you’ve got another think coming.”
“Shouldn’t that be another thought coming?”
She growled. “What are you, the freaking grammar police?”
“I’m not from this area, and I am not sure I understand all your colloquialisms.”
“Where do you come from?” she asked, though she cursed herself for doing so. She had no interest in the man, and this conversation was beyond confusing.
“The land of Barcelona,” he declared with a decisive nod.
“Uh… Spain? You sure don’t sound Spanish.”
He waved a hand. “I am well traveled… but, um, but also poor. A student making my way around the world.”
Huh. That was surprising. The guy oozed confidence and self-reliance, looking more like a ship’s captain or a… a sheik—that was it, some oil-rich gazillionaire. Yes, his clothes were casual, and didn’t appear terribly expensive, but he wore them like somebody who had money.
He had the leanest waist and hips, most attractive male butt and strong legs… at least, as far as she could tell. And considering she’d been pressed up against him five minutes ago, she could tell a lot. So, really, anything would look phenomenal on the man.
Or off the man.
She swallowed hard, trying to focus. “So tell me, student, what are you learning from your boss, the bookie? How to swindle people? How to… crack nuts?”
“You keep talking about this nut cracking. I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
There was no disguising the confusion in his voice. For the first time, a hint of uncertainty entered Claire’s mind.
She’d turned around and found a big, strong, dark and mysterious stranger in the shop kitchen, asking for Freddy. Her mind had immediately connected him with the deadly man her brother had warned her about a few days ago.
But what if he wasn’t who she thought he was? What if she’d mistaken him for a mobster, when he was just… Just what? Looking for directions to the Statue of Liberty by slipping in the back door of a closed candy shop on a Sunday evening?
Something didn’t add up. But she had to know for sure.
“Who, exactly, are you?”
“I’m Philip.” He extended his hand. “Philip… Smith.”
She eyed it as if it were poisonous. Not because she didn’t want to touch him, to feel his hand in hers and assess its strength, and imagine how it might feel rubbing against parts of her body. But rather, because she did.
Finally, though, realizing he wasn’t going to drop his arm until she shook, she reached out and grasped his fingers with hers, squeezing lightly, pumping once and yanking away.
No matter how quickly she moved, it wasn’t fast enough. She was still left with curiosity about other squeezing and pumping. Lots of squeezing and pumping.
Pull your head out of his pants. It had obviously been too long since she’d gotten laid if she was thinking about sex with a guy who might or might not be here to neuter her brother.
The stranger was watching her closely, his eyebrows raised expectantly, and she finally remembered he’d offered her his name.
“I’m Claire Hoffman,” she mumbled.
“Claire. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Was he for real? Would a mob enforcer really talk like that?
“And if you run the delightful shop, in which I purchased some festive holiday candies yesterday, it appears I am your upstairs neighbor.”
“Wha-a-a…?”
Good thing she was leaning against the counter, not only because her legs suddenly felt weak, but because there would be something to catch her plummeting jaw as it collapsed downward. She stared at the man, putting the pieces together, remembering how Freddy had cajoled her to rent the upstairs apartments to get him his gambling money. They hadn’t talked about it since; she’d been busy decorating the shop and restocking specific seasonal goodies. Could he—would he—have done it behind her back? Would even weak, spoiled Freddy do something so rotten?
You didn’t. Oh, God, tell me you didn’t.
But she knew he had. Freddy had already had this plan in mind, or perhaps