Wrapped Up in a Beau

Sometimes the best-laid plan is a change of plan.

For the past five years, Mason Renclair has been anywhere but home for Christmas. He can't wait to escape Swan's Crossing, New York, for more exotic climes. Nothing short of divine intervention will keep him from jumping on that plane. That is, until divine intervention appears in the form of Greta Marcum, his sister's friend who just flew in from London. Suddenly he's got a whole new itinerary in mind—at home.

Greta has traveled all over the world, but she's looking forward to spending Christmas in a quiet, homey American town. Getting naughty with one of the locals isn't part of her plan, but Mason's infectious laugh and irresistible kisses melt the ice right off her Italian boots.

What starts out as a holiday fling has them checking their list twice for what they really want for Christmas.

Warning: Contains hot love scenes between a man who cherishes his freedom, and a woman who would give anything to have what he takes for granted—a real home.

Wrapped Up in a Beau

Angelita Gill

Dedication

To Nick, the best brother a girl didn't ask for but got anyway. I love you so much.

Here's to all those amazing Christmases growing up.

Chapter One

On the other side of Mason Renclair's office door, there was a holiday party going on. One of his staff laughingly bellowed out “It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas” with his signature baritone voice while gingerbread cookies were passed around, Tampico punch was poured in mini Dixie cups and Secret Santa presents were handed out.

Mason remained in his office. Not because he disliked parties. He just didn't have much time to socialize, anxious to flee the office without interruption. In less than six hours, he'd be on a jet plane to Bali. No frozen tundra for him; he'd be spending his holiday vacation in balmy paradise. Miles of terraced rice paddies, an amazing sunset on the island temple of Tanah Lot and a Christmas meal of tangerine-glazed foie gras, spiced rack of lamb with garlic mashed potatoes and Kaffir lime jus…and best of all, peace and quiet. All this and more had been promised to the small group of friends he'd be joining there.

As he leaned back in his squeaky but comfortable desk chair, linking his hands behind his head, he swiveled around. Looking out his floor-to-ceiling window, he regarded the snowflakes swirling within the wind, landing on the city of Swan's Crossing, New York. He had to admit once the snow collected enough to blanket the historic buildings, the elm trees and antique streetlights, the town transformed into a winter fantasy even a cynic like him appreciated.

A knock on his door. He turned. Before he could answer, his younger sister Sophie stepped in with her designer military-style coat and a bright red scarf dangling around her neck. “I'm here to change your mind.”

He sighed, moving to his mini-bar to grab the coffee pot. Sophie's attempt to persuade him to stay home for Christmas was as much a tradition as his holiday vacation. The night he was scheduled to leave, she always made a play to convince him to cancel his plans—using various guilt ploys and clever arguments that he had to admit were getting better with time. Though he gave her an A for effort, he always got on that plane.

“Want some?” he asked.

Sophie flounced on a chair, flicking strands of her dark blonde, bob-cut hair from her eyes. “No, thank you. I just drank a Red Bull. I'm up to my neck in last-minute things to do for tonight.”

“And you're here to cross off ‘Harass Mason' from your list. About something I've done every Christmas for five years in a row.” He gingerly set down his mug on the desk, kissed the top of her head and sat in his chair.

Sophie pouted, lowering her brows. Man, she never looked more like their mother when she did that. “This isn't fair.”

Here it comes
…

“Every year you jet off to some exotic
foreign
country for two whole weeks, on Christmas for crying out loud, while I stay here.”

“Sophie—”

“While you're off counting palm trees and chasing babes—”

“Listen.”

She didn't. “I have to host the Christmas party of the year. Hide my cringe when Mom tells her friends how she wouldn't mind if I just adopted children and didn't get married at all, just because I've been single for two years. I have to make sure Dad doesn't embarrass himself by talking about Civil War conspiracies. Annnnd I'm there to listen to Grandfather tell me how I'm part of a useless generation, while I'm secretly paying the housekeeper extra so she doesn't quit because he drives her crazy.”

Mason sighed, unmoved by her complaints. “You choose to plan that party with Mom, and she only makes those remarks to appear cool and modern. Harmlessly flirt with one of the Peyton boys, kiss him under the mistletoe, and Mom will feed on that for months. As long as Dad doesn't start loading his shotgun and shooting dishes, let him be the proud Southern gentleman in his own house. People think it's funny.” He took a sip of coffee, the hot liquid searing down his throat. The way he liked it. He couldn't wait until he was sipping on something much stronger. “As for Grandfather, yelling-slash-picking on you is his unique way of showing he cares.”

She brightened and pointed at him. “See! You know how to handle them all without pausing for a breath. I need you home this year, Mason.”

“Not a chance.”

“How about a snowball's chance?” She fluttered her lashes.

“Don't be cute,” he warned lightly. “It hasn't worked since you were in prep school.”

Her shoulders slumped. Already admitting defeat. “Look at you. Sitting there so supremely smug. I don't understand why you've got to go. It's as if you enjoy ditching me year after year.”

He set down the steaming cup. No matter how many times he'd explained this in the past, he always had to come full circle on Christmas and repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. “You know it's not you. Christmas at home is overrated. Mom and Dad stopped caring a long time ago. It's not that I like leaving you to fend for yourself, but I deal with the family drama on a daily basis. This is the only time of year I can get a real vacation. I need the break.”

“You
need
to stay home.”

“You handle this kind of stuff all year, not just on the holidays. With or without me. What's the difference between this and me leaving on business?”

“Christmas is the difference.” She cast her hazel eyes to the window, shrugging. “I know this sounds childish, but I keep hoping every year will be different from the last. I hate we haven't spent a Christmas as a family in so long. Mom and Dad basically spend it with their friends, you fly off to the tropics or wherever and I'm always working because I have no excuse not to. For once, I'd like to have one normal Christmas again, with everyone together. Getting along like…well, like—”

“The Brady Bunch?” he sneered. “Come on, sis. So we're not the typical All-American family standing around the fire with eggnog in our hands. I've embraced it. You should too. Going away for Christmas is my thing. And when I come back, the estate is still standing and everyone is still alive and judging. You'll be fine.”

“Ugh, this is so pointless. Why do I bother?” She fiddled with her scarf, tucking the tail inside her coat.

“Beats me. Nice scarf, by the way. I like red.”

“It's pretty, isn't it? It was a gift. Made in India and pure silk.” She ran her fingers over the accessory. “From Greta. She has the most beautiful taste. Thank God for her! At least I'll have someone here to keep me company.”

Greta? His brows drew together. This name sounded familiar, but he couldn't pinpoint why.

“Don't tell me you forgot,” Sophie chided at his look of speculation.

He pressed his lips together in guilt. Uh…

She rolled her eyes. “I mentioned this weeks ago. Greta Marcum has been a good friend of mine for years. I've told you about her. She flew in from London yesterday. I've been begging her to come out here all year and she finally agreed. She doesn't have any family to spend Christmas with. Bless her heart! So she's staying in the guesthouse for a week.”

“A week?” He rummaged through his memory to recall this information, but came up blank. “How the heck did you talk her into it?'”

“What do you care? You'll be gone. And Greta is tough as a Highlander sword. She's befriended everyone from orange-tree farmers to royal dignitaries. She'll fit right in.”

“Is this the friend you met when you were studying abroad? The nanny?”

“That's the one. She quit the au pair gig a few years ago. Now she would call herself more of a…” She made a sweeping gesture with her arm, smiling. “A citizen of the world.”

Interesting. Any other time he'd like to meet this friend, but his schedule was tight. “Does Ms. Marcum know what she's getting into in this town? Not much around here to impress.”

“I briefed her. She'll get a taste of things to come tonight.” She snapped her fingers. “Speaking of, you
are
going to at least make an appearance at the party, right?”

Did he have a choice? He gave a single nod. “I promise to be there, do the obligatory round, take a few pictures and wish everyone a
very
Merry Christmas. Ho. Ho. Ho.”

“Great. You can take your sarcasm when you go, too. I'll see you tonight.” Rising, she lifted her chin and snatched her purse.

He gave her a wink before she closed the door, and shook his head. Despite her pleas, his sister had more spirit and strength than anyone he knew. She was more than capable of getting through another holiday without him.

Now that
that
tradition was out of the way, he could move on with his day. All he had left to do was show his face at the party and get the heck out of Dodge.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart!” At the Renclair Christmas party, Mrs. Porter landed her full, red lips on Mason's cheek and squeezed him so tight he gave a little “oof” from the pressure.

She beamed her perfect veneers, pinched his chin and went off to hug the life out of another victim. Chuckling, he rubbed the back of his hand on his cheek and righted his tuxedo jacket.

As he walked through the crush, nodding his season's greetings here and there, shaking hands and patting backs, he was pleased to see Sophie had nothing to worry about. The gala appeared to be going off without a hitch. Low lighting, lively holiday music, lots of laughter and smiles, jewels sparkling, champagne flowing. The orchestra performed superbly, the drinks were served like an assembly line and the packed dance floor presented the picture of a flawless soiree. Not that his mother would settle for anything less.

“Hey, George,” he greeted, sauntering over to the bartender. “Jameson and ginger, please.”

“Coming right up, Mr. Renclair.”

“What's with the mister stuff? You've known me since I pooped my pants under the Christmas tree.”

George grinned as he poured the liquor. “Hard to believe I'm serving you whiskey now.” He set the drink on the bar.

“Hard to believe I'm still here,” Mason murmured before taking a sip.

As George smiled and moved to serve another guest, he roamed his gaze over the room.

Five more minutes, a quick good-bye to Sophie and I'm
…

A woman caught his eye. She stood near the back of the room, laughing, with a wine glass in her hand.

Mason didn't recognize her.

Her shiny, medium-brown hair was swept up loosely; light tendrils had fallen around her face. She wore a burgundy silk gown that grazed the floor. When she turned, he noticed her dress was enticingly backless, a drape of material dipping below her shoulders.

He squinted, thinking. Maybe she was the new girlfriend of one of the guests. Perhaps a wife he'd never met. Or, hopefully, she belonged to no one.

Intrigued, he tracked her, noticing all the pairs of eyes that did the same. Every man she passed spoke to her as if she were an old friend. She gave polite nods to male guests who'd boldly checked her out—some of whom were very married—but she didn't seem to be interested in any of them.

He had to know who she was.

Setting down his half-full glass, he cut through clusters of partygoers, keeping his gaze on the mystery woman. He stopped to give quick greetings to several local business owners and friends, and as soon as he broke free, realized he'd lost her.

Damn. Where did she go?

Checking right, then left, he caught a glimpse of her as she disappeared around the corner toward the hall.

By the time he made it to the hallway, she'd stepped in the library.

Alone.

Checking behind him to make sure no one was on his heels, he strolled to the room and entered.

With her back to him, she was gazing at the enormous painting above the mantel, not acknowledging his entry. As he strolled toward her, he had a feeling she knew she'd been followed. Coming up beside her, he kept his eyes ahead and caught a whiff of a seductive scent. Darkly floral. Clean soap. And warm woman. It fired his blood, and his heart pumped curiously fast.

“This is a first,” he began, breaking the silence, his voice echoing off the high ceiling.

She turned her head. “What is? You following a woman, instead of a woman following you?”

He smiled. “Something like that. I thought I knew everyone at this party. Then I see you and realize I'm wrong.”

“Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No. Just unable to go the rest of the night without knowing who you are.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smile. “Don't worry. I didn't crash the party.” Her voice was incredibly sexy, smooth. Cultured. No pronounced accent, but she articulated like a woman who chose her words carefully. She glanced behind them.

He followed her gaze then rested on her profile. “You seem disappointed.”

She met his eyes. “Disappointed?”

“I'm getting the impression you were hoping someone else followed you in here.”

“No, not at all.” Her lips curved, and her soft beauty struck him. Chestnut-brown eyes, surrounded by dark lashes. A small nose. The barest dent in her chin.

“Good, because I made sure no one was following me.” Her nude lips enticed him; they weren't quite full, but enough for him to linger and imagine their texture, their taste. She added drolly, “I thought no one would notice I'd left. I have this insatiable curiosity and love to wander. Especially in a home this grand. Who could blame me?” She gave a small sigh. “I'm not as stealthy as I used to be, I guess.”

“It's difficult to be stealthy when someone can't keep his eyes off you.”

His compliment didn't elicit surprise or flattery. In fact, she gave no reaction other than a slight lift of a perfectly arched eyebrow. “And that man is…?”

He held out his hand. “Mason Renclair.”

She accepted it with a gentle squeeze, recognition and warmth in her gaze. “Greta Marcum.”

He had to check his astonishment. Sophie's friend. He should've guessed. No wonder she stood out like a rare flower in the snow. “So you're the traveling savant staying in the guesthouse.”