Cinderella's Christmas Secret - Sharon Kendrick Page 0,3
way. As he’d held her papery hand with its dark tracery of veins, he had felt a deep sorrow welling up inside him. He had been overwhelmed by a sense of something lost, which now eluded him for ever.
And he didn’t do that kind of emotion. Not now and not ever.
But he had to carry on. To brush off pointless grief and make like it had never happened. What other choice was there for someone who had turned indifference into an art form? He would get over it because he always did. And he would forgive himself for that rare foray into the saccharine world of sentimentality, because that was a place which held no allure for him.
He would continue with his inexorable rise to the top. He would keep on making a fortune from fundamentally changing the infrastructure of different countries. Building roads and building railways and creating a turnover which caused his competitors to shake their heads with frustration and awe. He had added a luxury hotel chain to his portfolio now and was surrounded by the kind of wealth which, strangely and rather disturbingly, had not brought him the satisfaction he’d sought. But it certainly made women’s eyes grow wide whenever they stepped over the threshold of one of his homes or slid into the leather-bound luxury of his private jet. And just because he had more money than he would ever need in several lifetimes, didn’t mean he wanted to slow down. Because he liked success. He liked it a lot. Not because of the material rewards it reaped, but for the glow of achievement it provided, no matter how fleeting that feeling proved to be. It was as if he was intent on proving himself over and over again, if not to the father and mother who had rejected him, then maybe to himself.
‘Can I tempt you with something to eat, Señor Diaz?’
A soft voice broke into Maximo’s reverie and, glad to have the dark tangle of his thoughts interrupted, he turned his head to see a woman standing there, a tray of food in her hands. But it wasn’t the unappetising fare which caught his attention and held it, as much as her appearance.
Tempt him? She most certainly could.
His narrowed his eyes, because the thought came out of nowhere, especially as she looked faintly ridiculous in her fancy-dress costume. A sudden pulse beat at his temple and he felt the inexplicable drying of his mouth. Ridiculous, yes—but kind of sexy, too. No. Scrub that. Very sexy.
For a moment he thought she seemed faintly familiar, but the thought instantly left him because he was finding it difficult not to stare. And difficult to breathe. Who wouldn’t when she looked so...spectacular? He swallowed as he continued with his silent scrutiny. Rich green velvet emphasised the porcelain paleness of her skin and a band of white fur at her shoulders drew his attention to her creamy flesh—which was unfashionably soft and abundant. Maximo allowed his gaze to move down, distracted by long legs which seemed to go all the way up to her armpits, an illusion no doubt helped by her teetering shoes. Sexy, scarlet shoes—and most men didn’t bother denying their reaction to that kind of footwear.
Yet, in direct contrast to the provocation of those killer heels, she wore not a scrap of make-up on her milk-pale face and the healthy sway of hair which gleamed beneath the fairy lights made Maximo experience something he hadn’t felt in quite a while. A stealthy but insistent tug of desire, which pulsed through his veins like sweet, dark honey.
His mouth twisted self-deprecatingly. Surely the healthy libido which seemed to have deserted him of late hadn’t been stirred by something as off-the-wall as a woman in fancy dress? Maybe his sexual appetite had become so jaded that he was being tempted by a little seasonal role play.
‘Um...we have a selection of delicious canapés on offer,’ she was saying, her words tumbling over themselves, and something about the softness of her voice made his skin prickle with recognition once more. ‘We’ve got pineapple and cheese on sticks and vol-au-vents—or there’s mini quiche, if you prefer.’
‘Mini quiche?’ he echoed sardonically, dropping his gaze to survey something unrecognisable which was stabbed unappetisingly onto the end of a cocktail stick, and maybe she picked up on his tone because when he looked up again, her face had turned very pink.
‘I know they’re not to everyone’s taste—’
His mouth twisted. ‘You can say that again.’
‘But