Page 2 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

I grab my phone from my handbag, switch on the flashlight. A beam of light illuminates the way. I walk toward the patio, take the steps up to the front door, shove my hand into my handbag and scrounge around for the key. Where is it? Where the hell is it? There! I pull out the key and insert it into the lock. The door unlocks. Woo!

I push against the door, walk into a spacious living room. Switching off the light, I drop the phone into my handbag. Then I take stock.

There’s an unlit fireplace in the center, a settee beyond that, facing the door, complete with a rug in front of it. To my right are big French windows, to my left is a bookcase, with floor to ceiling shelves, filled with books. Yay, that’s another point for this place. Next to it is a small table with liquor bottles.

I walk to it, place my handbag on the bar counter, next to a wall clock that’s turned face down. I turn it face up; realize it’s stopped. Huh? Guess it ran out of batteries. I replace it on the counter, turn around. That’s when I hear the low sound of whistling again. I gulp. Guess I hadn’t imagined it then?

It’s a whistling, and of the human variety. This is not from an animal or a bird. The hell? I glance around the comfortable space. Everything looks undisturbed, though how would I know? I hear the sound of something sloshing from the direction of the back door… What the—? Did the intruder decide to take a bath?

Is there a hot tub of some kind on the patio at the back?

I take a step forward, then stop. I need a weapon. I am not going out there alone. Shit, why had I thought it was a good idea to come here on my own, remind me again? I hadn’t been running away, I hadn’t… Yeah, right. I’d needed to take myself away from all of those shiny, happy, faces celebrating bloody Christmas, which honestly, I do love… I do… Just not this year. This year, I need to catch a break… And hell, if I haven’t caught something, alright. A burglar, more like it. I unclasp my satchel of baking tools, reach in and remove a—spatula? The humming sound increases in pitch, then a full-blown song reaches me. The hell? I squeeze my fingers around my weapon… Don’t laugh; a spatula can do plenty of damage when it connects with someone’s balls.

I lower my chef's satchel to the ground, then unbutton my coat and shrug it off. I stalk toward the door at the far end.

The sounds of water splashing reaches me through the patio door. Huh? Maybe there is a hot tub out there...

Then a male voice breaks into a rendition ofNothing Else Mattersby Metallica. What the—? There's someone out there, all right, and the singing’s not bad, actually. My thief, has a thing for classic rock, and can carry a tune. I hum the lyrics in sync with him…The hell?I pause, draw in another breath.Now or never. Do it, Amelie. Go for it. Whoever it is, he has no right to be here. Shit, should I have called the cops?

The singing stops abruptly.What the—? Did he hear me approaching?

I half angle my body, turn to leave; the door to the patio flies open.

I pivot around, raise my weapon, and find I am confronted with a wall of muscle. Naked chest, water running in rivulets down those sculpted abs that narrow into a concave belly which points to his thick, long—

"My face is up here," he drawls.

Heat flushes my cheeks; I jerk my gaze up. Grey eyes clash with mine—stormy clouds that boil in a sky which hints at oncoming snow. Sleet. Hail. An uncompromising will to get his way, no matter what. A shiver runs down my spine and moisture pools between my legs.

The skin between his eyebrows crinkles and his nostrils flare.No way.He can’t smell my arousal, can he?

That mean upper lip thins further. His pouty lower lip juts out above a chin that wears days’ old growth of beard. Thick dark hair covers his jaw.How would it feel to have him draw those rough whiskers across my inner thighs? Right before he dips his head, darts out his tongue, and licks my innermost secret place.Goosebumps dot my skin.Shit, what’s wrong with me? Why did my mind go there? You know why… Because this handsome piece of 100% male goodness is, quite simply, the most wickedly delicious piece of dessert I’ve ever laid my eyes on.My throat dries. Also, I happen to know him.

"You?" my voice comes out breathless.

"What are you doing here?" he snaps at the same time.

"What areyoudoing here?" I retort. "And in a hot tub, on the patio of this house, no less?"

"I am not in the habit of answering queries posited by women who look like they’ve been dragged in from a storm."

"What?" My jaw drops. I am gaping, and it’s not only because the words complete the image of the man I’ve loathed from the moment I first saw him at the wedding of one of my best friends. "Dr. f'ing Weston," I snarl.

"That’s Doc Kincaid to you." He yawns.

Of course, his surname would have to have the word kink in it in some form. "And are you?" I scowl.

"What?"

"A real doctor?"

He raises his hand, stabs the air with a cigar I only now realize he holds between his fingers. "Do you want to find out?" He looks me up and down, waggles his eyebrows. "I could give you a thorough examination." His gaze settles on my breasts, slides down to my core. "Make sure everything is in working order.” He snickers.

Heat fizzes low in my belly. Hell, with that kind of hotness, this man could clearly get my cake batter to rise in seconds…Wait, did I just think that?

I make a gagging noise in my throat, "Does that line actually work?"

"You’d be surprised." His lips curl.