Christmas Angel for the Billionaire Read online

  And Bah! Humbug…to you, she thought as she grabbed her bag from the car and sprinted to the nearest machine, read the instructions, fed in the ticket and then the amount indicated with shaking fingers.

  She returned to the car, calling, ‘Sorry, sorry…’ to the people she’d held up before flinging herself back into the car and finally escaping.

  Moments later, she was just one of thousands of drivers battling through traffic swollen by Christmas shoppers and visitors who’d come up to town to see the lights.

  Anonymous, invisible, she removed the unnecessary spectacles, dropping them on the passenger seat, then headed west out of London.

  She made good time but the pale blue winter sky was tinged with pink, the trees black against the horizon as she reached the junction for Maybridge. A pretty town with excellent shops, a popular riverside area, it was not too big, not too small. As good a place as any to begin her adventure and she headed for the ring road and the anonymous motel she’d found on the Internet.

  Somewhere to spend the night and decide what she was going to do with her brief moment of freedom.

  George Saxon’s jaw was rigid as he kept his silence.

  ‘No one else can do it,’ his father insisted.

  A nurse appeared, checked the drip. ‘I need to make Mr Saxon comfortable,’ she said. Then, with a pointed look at him, ‘Why don’t you take your mother home? She’s been here all day.’

  ‘No, I’ll stay.’ She took his father’s hand, squeezed it. ‘I’ll be back in a little while.’

  His father ignored her, instead grabbing his wrist as he made a move.

  ‘Tell me you’ll do it!’

  ‘Don’t fret,’ his mother said soothingly. ‘You can leave George to sort things out at the garage. He won’t let you down.’

  She looked pleadingly across the bed at him, silently imploring him to back her up.

  ‘Of course he’ll let me down,’ his father said before he could speak. ‘He never could stand getting his hands dirty.’

  ‘Enough!’ the nurse said and, not waiting for his mother, George walked from the room.

  She caught up with him in the family room. ‘I’m sorry-’

  ‘Don’t! Don’t apologise for him.’ Then, pouring her a cup of tea from one of the flasks on the trolley, ‘You do realise that he’s not going to be able to carry on like this?’

  ‘Please, George…’ she said.

  Please, George…

  Those two words had been the soundtrack to his childhood, his adolescence.

  ‘I’ll sort out what needs to be done,’ he said. ‘But maybe it’s time for that little place by the sea?’ he suggested, hoping to get her to see that there was an upside to this.

  She shook her head. ‘He’d be dead within a year.’

  ‘He’ll be dead anyway if he carries on.’ Then, because he knew he was only distressing his mother, he said, ‘Will you be okay here on your own? Have you had anything to eat?’

  ‘I’ll get myself something if I’m hungry,’ she said, refusing to be fussed over. Then, her hand on his arm, ‘I’m so grateful to you for coming home. Your dad won’t tell you himself…’ She gave an awkward little shrug. ‘I don’t have to tell you how stubborn he can be. But he’s glad to see you.’

  The traffic was building up to rush-hour level by the time Annie reached the far side of Maybridge. Unused to driving in heavy traffic, confused by the signs, she missed the exit for the motel, a fact she only realised when she passed it, seeing its lights blazing.

  Letting slip a word she’d never used before, she took the next exit and then, rather than retracing her route using the ring road, she turned left, certain that it would lead her back to the motel. Fifteen minutes later, in an unlit country lane that had meandered off in totally the wrong direction, she admitted defeat and, as her headlights picked up the gateway to a field, she pulled over.

  She found Reverse, swung the wheel and backed in. There was an unexpectedly sharp dip and the rear wheels left the tarmac with a hard bump, jolting the underside of the car.

  Annie took a deep breath, told herself that it was nothing, then, having gathered herself, she turned the steering wheel in the right direction and applied a little pressure to the accelerator.

  The only response was a horrible noise.

  George sat for a moment looking up at the sign, George Saxon and Son, above the garage workshop. It was only when he climbed from the car that he noticed the light still burning, no doubt forgotten in the panic when his father had collapsed.

  Using the keys his mother had given him, he unlocked the side door. Only two of the bays were occupied.

  The nearest held the vintage Bentley that his father was in such a state about. Beautiful, arcane, it was in constant use as a wedding car and the brake linings needed replacing.

  As he reached for the light switch he heard the familiar clang of a spanner hitting concrete, a muffled curse.

  ‘Hello?’

  There was no response and, walking around the Bentley, he discovered a pair of feet encased in expensive sports shoes, jiggling as if in time to music, sticking out from beneath the bonnet.

  He didn’t waste his breath trying to compete with whatever the owner of the feet was listening to, but instead he tapped one of them lightly with the toe of his shoe.

  The movement stopped.

  Then a pair of apparently endless, overall-clad legs slid from beneath the car, followed by a slender body. Finally a girl’s face appeared.

  ‘Alexandra?’

  ‘George?’ she replied, mocking his disbelief with pure sarcasm. ‘Gran told me you were coming but I didn’t actually believe her.’

  He was tempted to ask her why not, but instead went for the big one.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ And, more to the point, why hadn’t his mother warned him that his daughter was there when she’d given him her keys?

  ‘Mum’s away on honeymoon with husband number three,’ she replied, as if that explained everything. ‘Where else would I go?’ Then, apparently realising that lying on her back she was at something of a disadvantage, she put her feet flat on the concrete and rose in one fluid, effortless movement that made him feel old.

  ‘And these days everyone calls me Xandra.’

  ‘Xandra,’ he repeated without comment. She’d been named, without reference to him, after her maternal grandmother, a woman who’d wanted him put up against a wall and shot for despoiling her little princess. It was probably just as well that at the time he’d been too numb with shock to laugh.

  Indicating his approval, however, would almost certainly cause her to change back. Nothing he did was ever right. He’d tried so hard, loved her so much, but it had always been a battle between them. And, much as he’d have liked to blame her mother for that, he knew it wasn’t her fault. He simply had no idea how to be a dad. The kind that a little girl would smile at, run to.

  ‘I have no interest in your mother’s whereabouts,’ he said. ‘I want to know why you’re here instead of at school?’

  She lifted her shoulders in an insolent shrug. ‘I’ve been suspended.’

  ‘Suspended?’

  ‘Indefinitely.’ Then with a second, epic, I-really-couldn’t-care-less shrug, ‘Until after Christmas, anyway. Not that it matters. I wouldn’t go back if they paid me.’

  ‘Unlikely, I’d have said.’

  ‘If you offered to build them a new science lab I bet they’d be keen enough.’

  ‘In that case I’d be the one paying them to take you back,’ he pointed out. ‘What has your mother done about it?’

  ‘Nothing. I told you. She’s lying on a beach somewhere. With her phone switched off.’

  ‘You could have called me.’

  ‘And what? You’d have dropped everything and rushed across the Atlantic to play daddy? Who knew you cared?’

  He clenched his teeth. He was his father all over again. Incapable of forming a bond, making contact with this child who’d nearly de
stroyed his life. Who, from the moment she’d been grudgingly placed in his arms, had claimed his heart.

  He would have done anything for her, died for her if need be. Anything but give up the dream he’d fought tooth and nail to achieve.

  All the money in the world, the house his ex-wife had chosen, the expensive education-nothing he’d done had countered that perceived desertion.

  ‘Let’s pretend for a moment that I do,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She coloured slightly. ‘Nothing much.’ He waited. ‘I hot-wired the head’s car and took it for a spin, that’s all.’

  Hot-wired…

  Apparently taking his shocked silence as encouragement to continue, she said, ‘Honestly. Who’d have thought the Warthog would have made such a fuss?’

  ‘You’re not old enough to drive!’ Then, because she’d grown so fast, was almost a woman, ‘Are you?’

  She just raised her eyebrows, leaving him to work it out for himself. He was right. He’d been nineteen when she was born, which meant that his daughter wouldn’t be seventeen until next May. It would be six months before she could even apply for a licence.

  ‘You stole a car, drove it without a licence, without insurance?’ He somehow managed to keep his voice neutral. ‘That’s your idea of “nothing much”?’

  He didn’t bother asking who’d taught her to drive. That would be the same person who’d given him an old banger and let him loose in the field out back as soon as his feet touched the pedals. Driving was in the Saxon blood, according to his father, and engine oil ran through their veins.

  But, since she’d hot-wired Mrs Warburton’s car, clearly driving wasn’t all her grandfather had taught her.

  ‘What were you doing under the Bentley?’ he demanded as a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature ran through him.

  ‘Just checking it out. It needs new brake linings…’ The phone began to ring. With the slightest of shrugs, she leaned around him, unhooked it from the wall and said, ‘George Saxon and Granddaughter…’

  What?

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked, reaching for a pen. ‘Are you on your own…? Okay, stay with the car-’

  George Saxon and Granddaughter…

  Shock slowed him down and as he moved to wrest the phone from her she leaned back out of his reach.

  ‘-we’ll be with you in ten minutes.’ She replaced the receiver. ‘A lone woman broken down on the Longbourne Road,’ she said. ‘I told her we’ll pick her up.’

  ‘I heard what you said. Just how do you propose to do that?’ he demanded furiously.

  ‘Get in the tow-truck,’ she suggested, ‘drive down the road…’

  ‘There’s no one here to deal with a breakdown.’

  ‘You’re here. I’m here. Granddad says I’m as good as you were with an engine.’

  If she thought that would make him feel better, she would have to think again.

  ‘Call her back,’ he said, pulling down the local directory. ‘Tell her we’ll find someone else to help her.’

  ‘I didn’t take her number.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. She won’t care who turns up so long as someone does,’ he said, punching in the number of another garage. It had rung just twice when he heard the clunk as a truck door was slammed shut. On the third ring he heard it start.

  He turned around as a voice in his ear said, ‘Longbourne Motors. How can I…’

  The personnel door was wide open and, as he watched, the headlights of the pick-up truck pierced the dark.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, dropping the phone and racing after his daughter, wrenching open the cab door as it began to move. ‘Turn it off!’

  She began to move as he reached for the keys.

  ‘Alexandra! Don’t you dare!’ He hung onto the door, walking quickly alongside the truck as she moved across the forecourt.

  ‘It’s Granddad’s business,’ she said, speeding up a little, forcing him to run or let go. He ran. ‘I’m not going to let you shut it down.’ Then, having made her point, she eased off the accelerator until the truck rolled to a halt before turning to challenge him. ‘I love cars, engines. I’m going to run this place, be a rally driver-’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Granddad’s going to sponsor me.’

  ‘You’re sixteen,’ he said, not sure whether he was more horrified that she wanted to race cars or fix them. ‘You don’t know what you want.’

  Even as he said the words, he heard his father’s voice. ‘You’re thirteen, boy. Your head is full of nonsense. You don’t know what you want…’

  He’d gone on saying it to him even when he was filling in forms, applying for university places, knowing that he’d get no financial backing, that he’d have to support himself every step of the way.

  Even when his ‘nonsense’ was being installed in every new engine manufactured throughout the world, his father had still been telling him he was wrong…

  ‘Move over,’ he said.

  Xandra clung stubbornly to the steering wheel. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Since you’ve already kept a lone woman waiting in a dark country lane for five minutes longer than necessary, I haven’t got much choice. I’m going to let you pick her up.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You. But you’ve already committed enough motoring offences for one week, so I’ll drive the truck.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  A NNIE saw the tow-truck, yellow light flashing on the roof of the cab, looming out of the dark, and sighed with relief as it pulled up just ahead of her broken-down car.

  After a lorry, driving much too fast along the narrow country lane, had missed the front of the car by inches, she’d scrambled out and was standing with her back pressed against the gate, shivering with the cold.

  The driver jumped down and swung a powerful torch over and around the car, and she threw up an arm to shield her eyes from the light as he found her.

  ‘George Saxon,’ her knight errant said, lowering the torch a little. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Y-y-yes,’ she managed through chattering teeth. She couldn’t see his face behind the light but his voice had a touch of impatience that wasn’t exactly what she’d hoped for. ‘No thanks to a lorry driver who nearly took the front off the car.’

  ‘You should have switched on the hazard warning lights,’ he said unsympathetically. ‘Those sidelights are useless.’

  ‘If he’d been driving within the speed limit, he’d have seen me,’ she replied, less than pleased at the suggestion that it was her own fault that she’d nearly been killed.

  ‘There is no speed limit on this road other than the national limit. That’s seventy miles an hour,’ he added, in case she didn’t know.

  ‘I saw the signs. Foolishly, perhaps, I assumed that it was the upper limit, not an instruction,’ she snapped right back.

  ‘True,’ he agreed, ‘but just because other people behave stupidly it doesn’t mean you have to join in.’

  First the car park attendant and now the garage mechanic. Irritable men talking to her as if she had dimwit tattooed across her forehead was getting tiresome.

  Although, considering she could be relaxing in the warmth and comfort of Bab el Sama instead of freezing her socks off in an English country lane in December, they might just have a point.

  ‘So,’ he asked, gesturing at the car with the torch, ‘what’s the problem?’

  ‘I thought it was your job to tell me that,’ she replied, deciding she’d taken enough male insolence for one day.

  ‘Okaaay…’

  Back-lit by the bright yellow hazard light swinging around on top of the tow-truck, she couldn’t make out more than the bulk of him but she had a strong sense of a man hanging onto his temper by a thread.

  ‘Let’s start with the basics,’ he said, making an effort. ‘Have you run out of petrol?’

  ‘What kind of fool do you take me for?’

  ‘That’s what I�
�m trying to establish,’ he replied with all the long-suffering patience of a man faced with every conceivable kind of a fool. Then, with a touch more grace, ‘Maybe you should just tell me what happened and we’ll take it from there.’

  That was close enough to a truce to bring her from the safety of the gate and through teeth that were chattering with the cold-or maybe delayed shock, that lorry had been very close-she said, ‘I t-took the wrong road and t-tried to-’

  ‘To’ turned into a yelp as she caught her foot in a rut and was flung forward, hands outstretched, as she grabbed for anything to save herself. What she got was soft brushed leather and George Saxon, who didn’t budge as she cannoned into him but, steady as a rock, caught her, then held her as she struggled to catch her breath.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked after a moment.

  With her cheek, her nose and her hands pressed against his chest, she was in no position to answer.

  But with his breath warm against her skin, his hands holding her safe, there wasn’t a great deal wrong that she could think of.

  Except, of course, all of the above.

  She couldn’t remember ever being quite this close to a man she didn’t know, so what she was feeling-and whether ‘okay’ covered it-she couldn’t begin to say. She was still trying to formulate some kind of response when he moved back slightly, presumably so that he could check for himself.

  ‘I think so,’ she said quickly, getting a grip on her wits. She even managed to ease back a little herself, although she didn’t actually let go until she’d put a little weight on her ankle to test it.

  There didn’t appear to be any damage but she decided not to rush it.

  ‘I’m in better shape than the car, anyway.’

  He continued to look at her, not with the deferential respect she was used to, but in a way that made her feel exposed, vulnerable and, belatedly, she let go of his jacket, straightened the spectacles that had slipped sideways.

  ‘It was d-dark,’ she stuttered-stuttered? And when I backed into the gate there was a bit more of a d-drop than I expected.’ Then, realising how feeble that sounded, ‘Quite a lot more of a drop, actually. This field entrance is very badly maintained,’ she added, doing her best to distance herself from the scent of leather warmed by a man’s body. From the feel of his chest beneath it, his solid shoulders. The touch of strong hands.