Page 74 of Bound by Their Christmas Baby

His tone suggested that he fully expected to be obeyed. Edie’s hackles went up. As if she needed reminding that he was a man used to issuing orders...

There’s nothing for you here...run along.

She crossed her arms over her chest and saw his eyes drop there momentarily, before rising to meet hers again. She hated feeling self-conscious, but it was hard when she knew she was...lacking. Small breasts, slim hips. And she’d been even skinnier four years ago.

Edie h

ad put on weight and filled out since that time, but she’d never be able to compete with the kind of woman he evidently preferred, if the tall buxom woman he’d kissed that night had been an example of his tastes. No wonder he’d told Edie to run along.

That whole weird connection thing she’d felt? Clearly it had all been in her head...and it was even more mortifying to think of it now. She was thankful he didn’t remember her.

‘I’m afraid that’s just not possible. I’m contracted to work here.’

‘I’ll match whatever your pay is for a year and triple it.’

Edie’s breath stalled for a moment at the audacious offer—and the prospect of making more money than she’d ever made in her life. But then she shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Rivas. I can’t just leave and work for you... I’d lose my job if I left them in the lurch at Christmas.’ She saw an obdurate expression come over his face and blurted out, ‘Why do you want me to decorate your house? There are companies that hire out staff to do that specific job every year.’

She could see the flare of irritation in his pewter eyes—more evidence that he wasn’t used to being questioned. She had the curious urge to stand up to him at all costs, not even sure why it was so important. Maybe because she didn’t want to be so dismissable this time?

‘I have a large house in Richmond, where I’m due to host some social functions in the run-up to Christmas. I saw your work. I like the level of detail you’ve put into a window that—let’s face it—not many people will even see.’

Edie flushed, not expecting the compliment, nor that he would have recognised that their efforts were largely in vain. ‘I’m trained to dress windows and spaces around the store. I’ve never dressed an entire house before.’

Edie knew a couple of her colleagues did work on the side for some clients—decorating their Christmas trees and the like. But not a whole actual house. And he’d mentioned that it was in Richmond, where houses were mansions.

He shrugged that aside. ‘I just need to dress the rooms being used for the functions and the exterior. I have no desire to decorate the entire property.’

His mouth tightened, as if in distaste at the very thought, and Edie had to push down her curiosity to know why. ‘But it’s just three weeks to Christmas—’

‘And I have my first function the week after next. So you can see why speed is of the essence.’

Edie felt bewildered. ‘Why me?’

He countered, ‘Why not?’

Copyright © 2018 by Abby Green

Read on for a sneak preview of Clare Connelly’s

The Season to Sin

part of the festive, sexy miniseries Christmas Seductions.

CHAPTER ONE

THERE IS ONLY one word to describe the way he’s looking at me. With disdain. There is a hint of boredom that curves his lips, lips that I have looked at far too often in the five minutes since Noah Moore walked into this bustling café, just around the corner from my office.

I’ve heard of him, of course. Who hasn’t? Self-made billionaire, one half of the tech empire that’s completely taken over the world as we know it. In the last ten or so years he’s gone from strength to strength, his professional successes only outdone by his frequent outings in the society papers—for all the wrong reasons. Along with his business partner, he’s renowned for his ruthless instincts and fast-paced lifestyle. Luxury. Glamour. Wealth. Success. Wild parties on yachts in the Mediterranean, the after-party they throw every year at the Cannes Film Festival that draws all the big-name celebrities. They might have made their money in the tech industry, but they’re the epitome of Hollywood cool—the gritty, bad boy kind.

Yes, Noah Moore is a quintessential bad boy and, as if I needed any further proof of that, he arrived at our meeting in a leather jacket, black jeans, his dark hair a little longer than it should have been, stubble on his angular and symmetrical face, his brows thick, his lashes thicker, and with a hint of alcohol lingering around his very buff, very distracting frame. And it is distracting me. All six and a half feet of him, all muscled, big and tanned all over—or so I imagine—is making me forget that I am a professional.

‘This isn’t an appointment. I don’t need a shrink. I just…want to talk.’

It had been a confusing declaration, given that he’d called me—a shrink—but I’d made the appointment with him regardless, despite my growing waiting list. Curiosity, you see, got the better of me.

I didn’t get to be twenty-eight and divorced without learning that I have a predilection for bad boys. Specifically one—and he burned me, badly. Bad boys are my sinkhole, my quicksand. The longer Noah Moore looks at me with that scathing contempt, the more my pulse flutters at my wrist, hammering me in a way that makes me uncomfortably aware of the way he’s sitting, his legs spread wide, one arm bent at the elbow supporting his head, the other resting close enough to his cock that I know I can’t look anywhere near his hand. His gaze doesn’t waver from my face. He has a magnetic quality. He’s drawn the attention of most of the women in this place, and not because he’s well-known. It’s purely because of him.

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