Cinderella's Christmas Secret - Sharon Kendrick Page 0,37

were removed and Maximo grew still as he stared at the scene in front of him, unable to believe what he was seeing. He shook his head a little, but nothing altered. What the hell had happened? The previously bare room now seemed like a distant memory, replaced by a glittering and shimmering spectacle. Because Hollie had decorated the long table in the castle library for a late Christmas lunch. No. She’d done much more than that. She had actually decorated the whole damned room so that it resembled something you might see on the movie channel throughout the month of December.

Gleaming silver discs and squares hung from the ceiling, suspended by almost invisible pieces of thread. More dangled from a large branch of conifer, which somehow managed to resemble a miniature Christmas tree. And there were sprigs of holly just about everywhere—lying on empty bookshelves and decorously placed on the mantelpiece—plus an enormous bunch which had been stuck into a pottery jug as a centrepiece for the table.

As for the table...

Maximo been entertained many times during his life with no expense spared, because when a woman made you dinner, she seemed to think she was auditioning for a permanent role in your life.

But this was different.

He narrowed his eyes. Echoing the bright holly berries, the table was spread with what looked like the scarlet velvet throw which had adorned her naked body that very morning. Matching red ribbons were tied in festive bows around two snowy linen napkins and everywhere there were candles. Tall candles and squat candles. Some which were near the end of their natural life and others which were clearly brand-new. Their flames flickered upwards and wove intricate shadows against the walls, while more flames came from the fire which was burning brightly in the grate. His gaze moved to the window where outside dusk was falling on the pristine snowy scene, and the contrast with the illuminated interior of the ancient room made the place look almost...magical.

‘What have you done?’ he husked.

She shrugged. ‘I played around with what we had. The candles I found in the scullery. The shiny things hanging from the ceiling are cardboard, covered with silver foil which I discovered in a drawer in the kitchen—and the cotton comes from a sewing kit in my handbag. The napkins were in those hampers you ordered, as were the ribbons—and I found the rest of the stuff in the garden.’ She chewed on her lip, anxiety suddenly creasing her brow. ‘You do like it?’

‘It’s...it’s a surprise,’ he admitted at last. ‘It’s...well, it’s remarkable.’

She looked at him a little uncertainly, as if unsure whether or not that was a compliment. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ she suggested. ‘And I’ll bring the food in.’

‘I’ll help.’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You won’t. Humour me, Maximo. You waited on me at dinner last night and now it’s my turn. I’m perfectly capable of carrying a dish or two. You can open the wine if you like and pour yourself a glass. I’m just having water—obviously. So let me go and fetch the food.’

Maximo uncorked the bottle and walked across to the fire to hurl an applewood log onto the already crackling blaze, more to distract himself from the spiky carousel of his thoughts than for any other reason. This was the reason he always turned down every damn Christmas invitation which ever came his way, because this kind of homely festivity mocked him. Every single time. It reminded him of the lives of others and all the things he’d never had. It made him think of families who cooked and ate together, laughing and talking as they sat around the table. And his discomfort was amplified by Hollie’s presence, by her newly discovered sexuality coupled with the fact that she was pregnant with his child.

She returned to the room, carrying a large tray which he took from her, waving away her protests, and he watched while she left for a final journey to the kitchen. Her hips were swaying in unconscious invitation, and she looked almost unbearably sexy in a borrowed sweater of his, which came down to mid-thigh. When he had finally released her from his bed that morning she had bemoaned aloud the fact that she didn’t have a change of knickers.

‘Then don’t wear any.’

‘I can’t do that!’

‘Why not?’ His query had been casual, but his heart had been racing like a schoolboy’s. And she had looked at him, and he at her, and somehow their getting