Naughty & Nice Gift Anthology

Chapter 1

The mountain mansion is straight out of a luxury magazine or a pretty Christmas snow globe. Candles glow in the windows. The slate roof looks like it was dusted with sugar. I’d feel like I’m in a winter wonderland if an icy wind wasn’t chasing me up the drive.

Snow is piled up on either side of the driveway in giant white drifts taller than me, and the wind is driving more fluffy white flakes into my face.

Only a madman would be out in this weather.

Or a poor, put-upon employee of Mr. Lord, who is basically The Grinch and Ebenezer Scrooge rolled into one.

Dear Santa, please keep me from dying on this hill.

The drive is made of old-fashioned cobblestones, which is quaint and all, but a nightmare to walk on in high-heeled boots. I would’ve dressed differently if I’d known my boss was going to drag me to the North Pole on the night before Christmas Eve.

I’m going to kill him. All this snow would hide his body until at least May.

The heel of my boot hits a patch of black ice, and I go flying. My body goes one way, my suitcase another, while I squawk like a chicken, bracing for impact.

Out of nowhere, two strong arms catch and lift me upright. For a second, my boss holds me against his powerful body. His body heat seeps into me, and I think, Maybe he’s not the Iceman; maybe he is human, but then he opens his mouth.

“Careful,” he clips in his posh British accent. “If you fall and break a leg, you’ll be useless at work. And then where will we be?”

“Home for Christmas,” I mutter. “Where we should be.”

He sets me on my feet, and I turn in time to see the surprised flick of his dark eyebrows. He’s used to my snark. We snipe at each other like an old married couple, but usually I try to act professional or, at least, tone down my crazy.

But tonight? Six p.m. on the Friday before a holiday weekend? All my fucks are gone.

I don’t feel bad because Piers Lord, a.k.a. the Dread Lord, gives as good as he gets.

“Home? In your tiny apartment with the broken radiator you’re always complaining about?

” His British accent always makes him sound like he’s sneering.

Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s mocking me, but right now it’s clear: he’s mocking me.

“Eating fruit cake and watching cat show competitions on your sad little telly?”

“That sounds perfect.” I glare up at him. He’s still holding me close, so I push at his chest to get some distance between us. He’s packing some serious muscle underneath his wool pea coat, and I fit perfectly in his arms, but I ignore the flush of heat between my legs.

If life were fair, my boss would have green, gangrenous skin and look like a troll to match his repulsive personality.

But the Dread Lord is the result of several generations of wealthy people marrying hot people.

His dad was a British tycoon, and his mom was a Miss World pageant winner turned Bollywood star.

He was destined to win the hotness lottery.

It’s not easy working for a man who has the money of Midas and the face and body of a god. I’m careful not to look at him for too long, lest I get mesmerized by his pouty mouth and pointy cheekbones. After almost five years, you think I’d be used to it, but nope.

He cocks his head, and his silky black hair falls across his obnoxiously perfect brow. “But then you wouldn’t be here. With me.”

“That sounds even better.”

“You’d miss this lovely weather.” He sniffs at the dark gray sky, and I can’t tell if he’s joking. Sometimes I think he prefers it when the world is gloomy, covered in a shroud.

He’s still holding me close, so close I’m warmed by the heat of his body. If I close my eyes, I could pretend that my fantasies are coming true.

Because, let’s face it, I fantasize about my hot boss all the time. It’s a problem.

The hardest part of this job isn’t dealing with the Dread Lord’s razor-sharp tongue or demanding standards. I don’t mind those; I love a challenge. Marty used to say I was the only one who could handle Piers. I’ve lasted longer than all his other assistants combined.

No, the hardest part is how much I’m attracted to him. Not just his gorgeous face and powerful body, but his brilliant mind, his cutting wit. It’s not fair that I’m into someone so mean, but… I like him best when he’s mean.

Dear Santa,

Help.

Right now, my body can’t help but respond to his. But I am not going to give in to my ridiculous attraction and enjoy the moment. I refuse! It’s just that it’s been a long time since I’ve been with a man, or anyone, and my body is hungry for human touch.

“I don’t understand why we needed to come all the way to the North Pole for a work day,” I mutter.

“Vermont is not the North Pole. We’re nearly twenty-five hundred kilometers from the Arctic Circle.”

“What’s that in miles?” I ask because any reference to nonsensical American metrics drives him crazy.

I reach for my suitcase, but the Dread Lord lifts it out of my reach. I slip and nearly fall again. He catches me with his free hand, and without any apparent effort, he guides me and my suitcase all the way to the grand oak doors.

“Don’t worry, Wellesley, you’ll be home for Christmas. We’ll be done with the deal with All Cap by midnight. The jet will return you to your hovel, where you can dine on cold Chinese takeout and watch horrible holiday movies to your heart’s content.”

I press my lips together to suppress a grin. Maybe I have some wires crossed, but getting roasted by the Dread Lord only leaves me warm and toasty.

Besides, he’s right about the cold Chinese takeout.

His zingers aren’t just eloquent, they’re accurate, which is why they truly sting.

If I were home, I would be eating leftovers in front of the TV.

I’ll never admit it, but I’d also probably still be on my laptop.

I have to stay on top of my inbox in my off hours, or I’d be buried under an avalanche of emails every Monday morning.

“Thank you, milord.” I feign a Cockney accent. If he wasn’t propping me up, I’d drop into a curtsey just to annoy him.

“Cheeky peasant.”

My insides warm like I’ve drunk mulled wine. I love our inside jokes. Piers pretends he hates them, of course, but that’s part of the fun.

He mutters something under his breath about ‘a poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December.’ I think he’s actually quoting directly from Dickens, so props to him.

Once we’re inside the house, the warmth embraces me, and I can breathe again.

Now that I’m not turning into an icicle, I can appreciate how beautiful the mansion is.

The entryway opens to a sitting room with couches and lounge chairs in front of a wall of windows.

The caretaker must have just left, because a fire is crackling in the huge stone fireplace.

“Wow,” I say. “This is amazing.”

The Dread Lord frowns, looking around like he’s missed something.

I gesture to the cozy-looking couches and the snowy landscape showcased by three stories of glass. “The house. The view. This place is beautiful.”

He stalks forward, facing the big picture windows. In his black pea coat and big leather gloves, his copper skin glowing in the firelight, he looks like a true Dread Lord surveying his kingdom. “I suppose it will do.”

Of course, he’s not impressed. He’s used to this sort of luxury.

He was born into wealth, emancipated from his parents at age seventeen to access his trust and 10xed his net worth since then.

Working for him means travelling via private jet to some of the best and most beautiful cities and buildings in the world, but I hope I never get used to it.

The caretaker also took care to remove any holiday decor, as per my hastily emailed instructions three hours ago. There’s not a sign of a Christmas tree, tinsel, or mistletoe. No signs of Hanukkah, like dreidels or a menorah, either.

I’m patting myself on the back for making sure nothing would incur the Dread Lord’s wrath, when I notice his back has stiffened. He’s staring at something outside the windows, and I hurry over to see what it is.

A huge fir tree stands alone on the slope beyond the oversized wooden deck. It has to be over forty feet tall, and it’s covered in colorful lights that shine against the gray sky.

Oh well. The caretaker removed most of the holiday decor.

My boss’s face has turned to stone. His lips press together as he glares at the tree like his eyes are about to shoot lasers and incinerate the last sign of festive cheer.

“Do you want me to run out there and rip down the lights?” I ask, and hold my breath. Because if he says yes, I’ll have to do it, and I have no idea how to levitate forty feet in the air.

He presses his lips together and shakes his head. Internally, I breathe a sigh of relief.

I love Christmas. My mom and I didn’t have much growing up, but she always made the holidays special.

From what I can gather, the Dread Lord has no fond memories of this time of year.

His parents had a frosty divorce, and once it was done, they immediately started new families and ignored the son they had made together.

I imagine the Dread Lord as a little boy, abandoned at boarding school all winter. Forgotten by his family.

But maybe it’s time to make new memories. That’s where I come in.

“I guess this is as good a time as any for this.” I unzip the front pocket of my suitcase, pull out a Santa hat, and put it on. “Tada! A bit of holiday cheer.”

The Dread Lord looks at me like I just killed a kitten in front of him.

“I got one for you, too.” I pull out a second hat and hold it out to him. I’m risking my life here, but it’s worth it to see him trying to hide his shock.

“No.”

“Oh, come on.” I shake the hat at him. “You know you want to. ’Tis the season.”

For a second, he hesitates. He actually hesitates! Like he’s considering it.