Winter's Gift: A poignant, funny and sizzling-hot billionaire romance (Bistro La Bohème Series) Read online

  Winter’s Gift

  (Bistro La Bohème Series)

  Alix Nichols

  Other books by Alix Nichols:

  You’re the One

  What If It’s Love?

  Falling for Emma

  Under My Skin

  Amanda’s Guide to Love

  The Devil’s Own Chloe

  Find You in Paris

  Copyright © 2015 Alix Nichols

  SAYN PRESS

  All Rights Reserved.

  Editing provided by Write Divas.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

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  Details can be found at the end of the book.

  Table of Contents

  Part I: Anton

  Rhapsody in Blue

  The Ritz

  Fourth dimension

  Peredelkino

  Snowman

  Part II: Anna

  Piroshki

  Paris

  Bubbles

  Spring thaw

  Picnic on the Garden Ring

  Taking chances

  Bonus Chapters

  About the Author

  Part I

  Anton

  Chapter One

  Rhapsody in Blue

  The blonde waves at me again with a coquettish smile on her lips. I turn away and feign interest in the huge painting in front of me. But I can’t help wondering if I’ve met her before—she does look vaguely familiar. Someone must have introduced us at a function or a Bolshoi premiere. If I concentrate, I might even remember her name… Daria. No, Dina. No, definitely, Daria.

  Gary prods me with his elbow. “Did you notice the young nymph standing by that enormous landscape?”

  “I’m trying not to look at it. The color combination hurts my eyes.”

  “Well, if I were you, I’d make an effort. Her legs are endless, and I bet you she’s naked under that skimpy dress.”

  “Seriously, Gary?” I shake my head. “What am I, sixteen?”

  “No, but you’re Moscow’s best catch, and she seems desperate for your attention.” He winks and singsongs, “A juicy, yummy, low-hanging peach…”

  I continue to stare at the canvas. I believe what I’m looking at is a face. It’s green and contorted, and the sign under it says Number 2: Sadness. Flanked by two other spasmodic mugs, it forms a triptych titled Ephemeral Emotions.

  It should have been called A Group of Constipated Trolls.

  Coming to this vernissage was a mistake. I let the title of the exhibit—Rhapsody in Blue—and the reviews lure me here, forgetting that Moscow’s art critics would praise anyone who pays them. They’d even call these god-awful daubs “masterpieces of modern art,” and their author “Russia’s next Kandinsky.”

  Kandinsky, my foot.

  Gary furrows his brow in an effort to concentrate. “I’m sure I’ve met her before… What was her name, dammit?”

  “Daria, wannabe art dealer,” I say.

  “Of course!” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “She’s coming over.”

  I brace myself for a bout of small talk and a sales pitch. As soon as she’s done, I’m out of here.

  “Gentlemen,” Daria says from behind my back. “It’s such a pleasure to see you again!”

  “The pleasure is all ours,” Gary says.

  I turn around, stretch my lips into a semblance of a smile, and nod.

  Daria points at the triptych. “What do you think? The artist is a personal friend.” She pauses for effect before whispering in my ear, “I could get you a deal on any of these pieces. It’s a great investment.”

  “I’ll pass,” I say and step back.

  “Ah, Anton Malakhov’s legendary tough talk!” Daria hooks her arm through mine. “I’m sure I can make you change your mind if you give me ten minutes of your time.”

  I shake my head and unhook our arms.

  She bats her eyelashes. “Forget about these paintings. Why don’t we sneak out, find someplace private, and discuss our love of art… and other passions?”

  “I have a previous engagement.”

  She trails her fingers up and down my arm. “Forget about the passions. They’re so last century. We could compare our perversions instead. What say you?”

  Stupid, misguided child, that’s what I say. Go home, sober up, and reflect on your behavior.

  I sigh and shake her hand off me. “I’m not interested.”

  “I am.” Gary’s eyes light up.

  I open my mouth to say No, you’re not. You’re married with children, but I shut it again before I utter a sound. Gary is one of the handful of people I call friends. All others have eventually used their connection to me for personal gain. Some have done it out of greed, others from jealousy. But not Gary. He may not be faithful to his wife—which, given my history with Stacia I strongly disapprove of—but he’s loyal to me. He has been so for almost three decades now, since our nerdy high school days.

  And that trumps everything else.

  Daria looks him over. “I don’t do sidekicks.”

  I press my lips together to stifle a smile. The “peach” isn’t so low-hanging after all.

  She turns to me and jabs my chest with her index finger. “As for you, let me tell you something, Mr. Snooty Tycoon. You may be in great shape, but not for much longer. I know your age.”

  I widen my eyes in fake shock. “You do?”

  “You’re forty-five.”

  She gives me a triumphant look, as if she’s just revealed a horrible truth I’ve been hiding from everyone.

  Somehow, I manage to maintain a serious face. “Seeing as you’re so well informed, you should know I have a twenty-two-year-old daughter.” I pretend to appraise her looks. “About your age, I’d say.”

  Daria rolls her eyes, turns on her heel, and storms away.

  I glance at Gary’s sour countenance. “I’m done here. What about you?”

  “I’ll stay a little longer.”

  I begin to make my way toward the exit. As I pass the centerpiece titled Night on the River Volga, I can’t help wincing.

  That’s when a clear, exceedingly pleasant female voice says, “The artist should’ve called this painting Black Stripe I Drew with My Ruler. Then, at least, I could give him a point for honesty.”

  I stop in my tracks, turn in the direction of the voice, and stare. I can’t stop staring. My kindred spirit is in her early to mid-thirties, slim, dressed in elegant black pants and a cream cashmere turtleneck. Her brown hair is gathered at her nape into a soft, loose bun. Her makeup is subdued except for the crimson-red lipstick that brings out her flawless skin. The way she’s dressed, the way she holds herself and smiles at her giggling friend—everything about her speaks easy elegance and confident wit.

  I backtrack to her. “My idea was Dark and Darker, but your version is much better.”

  She nods, and the tiniest smile wrinkles the corners of her gray eyes.

  My breath catches. I need to find something to say quickly, before she turns to her friend. “I wonder how you would dub the entire exhibit.”

  “Bullshit in Blue,” she says without batting an eye.

  I burst out laughing.


  She laughs too, and it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard in a long, long time.

  “It’s the title that brought me here in the first place,” I say. “I love—”

  “Gershwin. Me too. Especially Rhapsody in Blue.”

  I grin like an idiot. Not only is she funny and classy, but she also has great taste in music. Anyone who loves jazz does.

  “I expected something jazzy from this artist, but what I see here is just…” I pause as I search for a good qualifier.

  “Pride, pomp, and circumstance.” She winks, and I nearly jump for joy at her apt quote.

  My eyes dart to her graceful hands. No wedding band or engagement ring in sight. Excellent. I’ll get her one soon.

  Whoa. Where did that come from? I’ll be doing no such thing. I don’t even know the woman’s name, for heaven’s sake. Yet, the image of me slipping a huge rock on her delicate finger refuses to leave my mind.

  I don’t think I’ve felt this way about anyone before. Not even Stacia. When I fell in love with her over twenty years ago, I knew she wasn’t like me. Our interests were worlds apart, and we could never agree on anything, big or small. I wish I’d known at the time we didn’t share the same values, either. But I was naive and overly optimistic, and I convinced myself we’d work it out.

  God knows I tried—for a whole decade.

  And now as I look at this woman, I don’t doubt for a second we’ll get along famously. She looks right, sounds right, even smells right. And from what I’ve heard so far, I’m sure I’ll enjoy her mind as much as I’ll enjoy her body.

  I hold out my hand. “Anton Malakhov. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “Anna.” She grants me a brief, but intense, joy of her touch. “The pleasure is mine.”

  I go on to shake hands with her friend without taking my eyes off Anna for a second. There’s no point in hiding how much she’s impressed me.

  Anna. It’s a beautiful name… even if a touch too formal.

  “Does anyone call you Annushka?” I find myself asking.

  “Only my mom.”

  She smiles, and I debate whether I should invite her for a drink right now or ask for her number. One thing is certain. I must see her again. In fact, I need to see her as soon as possible, and as often as possible. Preferably, every day.

  And every night.

  She resolves my quagmire by ripping a page out of her notebook and scribbling something on it. Why am I not surprised she carries a notebook and a pen in her purse? I bet she also has a book or an e-reader somewhere in there. Although I just met her, I feel like I know her. I can see her inner core, her fundamental essence. It shines through.

  She hands me the sheet, and I glance at what she’s written. There’s a phone number, her name, and a meaningless figure under it. I look up at her, about to ask if it’s an extension.

  “This,” she says, pointing her slender index finger at the top line, “is my agent’s number. And below is my hourly rate.”

  My jaw slacks.

  The woman of my dreams is a hooker.

  Chapter Two

  The Ritz

  I hand the car keys to the parking valet, nod to the porter who opens the door for me, and walk into the spacious lobby of the Ritz-Carlton. I can’t believe I’m doing this—me who’s only ever felt pity and revulsion for the pea-brained Barbie dolls who fancy themselves glamorous seductresses.

  When Russia plunged into a crisis that followed the collapse of the communist regime, the majority of the population fell on very hard times. I was in my freshman year. Three of my classmates were selling their bodies so they could buy stylish clothes. They were the “it” girls. They sported Walkmans and Levi’s jeans when the rest of us mended our socks over and over again, until they disintegrated beyond repair.

  At the end of the year, one of those girls was beaten to death and tossed into a dumpster. Her best friend became a heroin junkie. I can only hope the third one made it into adulthood without suffering irreparable damage…

  I halt in the middle of the lobby.

  What the fuck am I doing here, going against all my principles, preparing to spend the night in the arms of a call girl? Have I gone crazy?

  I spin around, make a beeline for the exit—and freeze a few meters short of my target, as Anna steps in. She’s wearing blue jeans tucked into pretty leather boots, a down jacket with a fur-trimmed hood, and a fluffy red scarf around her neck. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes bright from the cold. She pushes back her hood, removes her earmuffs and gloves, and rubs her frozen hands together.

  I forget who I am and what I intended to do just a minute ago, because right now I ache to pull her close and press a hot kiss to her mouth. After that, I want to hold her hands, bring them to my face and warm them with my breath. And after that…

  Anna looks up and spots me ogling her. “Hi there,” she says with a winsome smile.

  I smile back. Actually, I don’t smile—I grin. “Let me take your coat.”

  “Thank you.”

  A few moments later we’re seated in the coziest, most private corner of the hotel’s bar.

  “What would you like to drink?” I ask when a waiter turns up at our table.

  “A martini would be nice.”

  “Make it two,” I say to the waiter.

  “It’s really nice here,” she says, looking around.

  “You deserve the best.”

  “Did you just flatter me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She hesitates. “You have the reputation of—how shall I put it—someone who’s…”

  “Mildly unpleasant?” I offer.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So you’ve heard about me.”

  “I did my due diligence.”

  I raise my eyebrow. “How very circumspect for a—”

  “Call girl?” She gives me a fleeting smile.

  “Yes.”

  She shrugs. “Well, I’m an elite call girl. I’ve developed the habit of researching new clients while I wait for my nail polish to dry.”

  “Is that when you also listen to Gershwin?”

  Her lips twitch, and tiny laugh lines appear in the corners of her eyes.

  For a second there, I feel like my existence just acquired a new purpose—bringing out those laugh lines in the corners of Anna’s eyes.

  Then I remember who she is and why we’re here.

  “I’ve booked the penthouse suite,” I say. “I am told it offers a great view on the Red Square.”

  Her smile vanishes. She nods and drains her glass.

  I follow suit and we head for the elevator.

  As we walk through the hallway, looking for our room, we’re both silent, and I try to come up with an action plan. The truth is I have no clue how to handle this situation. I’m awkward with women—a deficiency I chalk up to too many years as a computer geek. Even now, having become rich, decent-looking and powerful, I haven’t acquired any of the smoothness that distinguishes a ladies’ man. I’m too brusque and heavy-handed even with my little girl whom I love more than anything in the world. I know she cares for me too, but I suspect she considers me… uncool.

  And now I’m about to find myself alone with a woman whom I’ve paid to have sex with. What do you say in such situations? Do you need to say anything at all?

  We enter the suite, and I open the heavy curtains to verify the manager’s claim. The view is truly spectacular. I take in the masterfully illuminated historical buildings of the Red Square. My eyes glide over the Kremlin’s red bricks and linger on the onion-shaped domes of Saint Basil’s Cathedral. As always, I’m mesmerized by their harmony, by how their twisted stripes of green, yellow, white, and blue form a permanent firework display against the night sky.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” Anna says and disappears into the bathroom.

  Two minutes later, I hear her light steps and spin around. She’s walking toward me, barefoot—a sensual vision in black silk. H
er slip is lace-trimmed, flowy, and sheer enough to suggest she isn’t wearing anything underneath it.

  I swallow and lean back on a console table. With glee, I watch her every step, every little sway of her hips, every tiny swing of her delicious breasts. I’m enthralled. My muscles flex and all my senses heighten.

  I’m also fully and conspicuously erect.

  She halts in front of me and peers into my eyes. I discern a splatter of pale freckles across her chest and shoulders. She smells heavenly. I have no idea what perfume it is, but it’s fresh and sweet and enticing.

  Just like her.

  I don’t move. I’m going to let her lead this dance.

  She stands on tiptoe and whispers, her lips almost touching mine, “Do you have any special preferences or needs that I should be aware of?”

  “No.” My voice comes out so coarse I can hardly recognize it.

  “OK, then.”

  She lowers herself slowly, keeping her head tilted up and her eyes trained on mine. As soon as she’s on her knees, she places her hand on my bulge.

  On an impulse, I grip her shoulders and pull her up to her feet.

  She gives me a quizzical look, but the thing is, I have no idea why I just denied myself an exquisite pleasure. I want it all right, I want everything she can offer, but not like this—not when I’m fully clothed and she’s… exposed and on her knees before me.

  “Later,” I say and brush my lips over her temple, her elegant jawline, her neck, and the hollow between her clavicles. I hook my finger under the right strap of her slip and tug. With the strap out of the way, I kiss every single freckle on her slender shoulder and the spaces between them.

  I love the feel of her skin, and I can’t help wondering what her lips and her tongue would taste like. But I push those thoughts away. I’ve read that sex workers don’t like to French kiss. They find it too intimate.

  When I’m done with her shoulders, Anna leans into my chest, tilts her head up, and locks her gaze with mine. Her expressive eyes betray a host of emotions—incredulity, warmth, sadness… I’m nearly hypnotized when she shuts her eyes and whispers, “Kiss me.”

  I cradle her face with both my hands and press my lips to hers. I nibble at their soft, delectable flesh, tease them apart, and thrust my tongue inside. As I kiss her, it occurs to me that I may be too rough, but I can’t help it. I push in deeper, holding the back of her head, my other hand on her back. She responds with ardor, wrapping one of her legs around my thigh so we can be even closer, touch even more. I drink in her incomparable taste, as my hands slide down to the small of her back and then her derrière.