Kelly Hunter
Accidentally educated in the sciences, KELLY HUNTER has always had a weakness for fairytales, fantasy worlds and losing herself in a good book. Husband … yes. Children … two boys. Cooking and cleaning … sigh. Sports … no, not really—in spite of the best efforts of her family. Gardening … yes. Roses, of course. Kelly was born in Australia and has travelled extensively. Although she enjoys living and working in different parts of the world, she still calls Australia home.
Kelly’s novels SLEEPING PARTNER and REVEALED: A PRINCE AND A PREGNANCY were both finalists for the Romance Writers of America RITA® Award, in the Best Contemporary Series Romance category!
Visit Kelly online at www.kellyhunter.net.
CHRISTMAS was commerce and retail excess. Christmas was family and sometimes it was farce.
Add to the day a wide-open wallet and a city bathed in neon and the memory of a Hong Kong Christmas burned brightly for ever. Ruby Maguire—born to riches and living in Hong Kong for over six years now—knew this from experience. Which meant that she should have been able to organise a perfectly splendid Christmas for the children of one of Hong Kong’s foremost investment bankers in her sleep.
A trip to Hong Kong Disney or Ocean Park. A holographic Christmas tree or three. More presents than they knew what to do with, a mad mix of Christmas lanterns and fake winter wonderlands and, if Santa was really on the ball, maybe their charming, handsome, super-important father would put in an appearance and make their day.
Except that the West children were all grown up these days, and, from the snippets of information Russell West’s executive PA had let slip, Russell’s eldest son was unlikely to be in attendance, his firstborn daughter was recovering from serious injury, his other daughter was a reclusive genius, and his fourth-born—another son—was either a crime lord, a charming wastrel or James Bond.
So much for taking them to Disneyland.
Instead, Ruby had decked the halls of Russell West’s pristine marble penthouse with as much high-class folly as she could find. White orchids; real ones. Poinsettias; silk ones. Tapered white candles just waiting to be lit and more fat goldfish for the glass-covered pond. The pond ran beneath the base of the stairs and along the atrium wall until it reached the tiny rooftop terrace where the songbirds reigned supreme. The only thing missing from the scene was a pet cricket in a bamboo cage. For Australian-born Russell West, owning a pet cricket was taking cultural assimilation one chirrup too far.
December twenty-second already, with the three younger West siblings due to arrive tomorrow. Upon arrival they would find immaculately prepared rooms, festive touches in the strangest places, and reservations for one of Hong Kong’s premier restaurants, should they wish to dine out.
Ruby wasn’t a housekeeper or a cook, though her current job strayed into such territory at times. She far preferred to think of herself as Russell West’s social accountant—a position created just for her, out of pity most likely, but she’d tried to make herself useful, and the hefty bonus Russell had just presented her with gave credence to the notion that he thought her service of value.
She wrote Russell’s charity dinner speeches, briefed him on the changes in status of Hong Kong’s elite, and basically made his social engagements as stress-free and fruitful as possible.
Ruby’s latest challenge had been the buying of Christmas gifts for the children of Russell’s employees—an endeavour she had seen to with pleasure. Furthermore, Russell now had an up-to-date database citing the names, birthdates and interests of his employees’ spouses and children. She’d even done one for the wives and children of his major business contacts. Whether Russell would use the information remained to be seen.
Trust a financial wizard to pay absolutely no attention whatsoever to the little things that went such a long way towards the cultivation of solid business relationships in Hong Kong.
As for the choosing of gifts for his own children; be they genius, wounded, idle, or missing … that was Ruby’s job too and she had approximately twenty-four hours to do it in. Russell hadn’t even given her a price range, let alone a guide as to what type of gifts they might enjoy.
‘Not even a hint,’ she muttered to herself as she dumped the box of sparkling mineral water on the kitchen counter and opened the French doors leading out to the terrace. ‘It’s not right.’ She plucked a pair of thin plastic gloves from the terrace cupboard and headed for the songbird enclosure.
No tiny bamboo cages for these little oriental white-eyes but a large bamboo aviary that ran the length of the courtyard wall and incorporated branches and greenery, nesting and feeding areas, and a newspaper lined roll-out litter tray that Ruby refreshed every day. Western, very Western, and a source of no little amusement to many of Russell’s acquaintances, but the birds sang their pleasure, and both Ruby and her employer took pride in the freedom of movement the little birds enjoyed.
‘There should be a rule that says a father should damn well buy Christmas gifts for his children himself,’ she told the flitty little birds who clung to the side of the cage in greeting. ‘Why is that such a stretch?’
‘Beats me,’ said an amused male voice from the direction of the kitchen, and Ruby glanced around, eyes widening at the splendid vision that had just presented for her perusal. A raven-haired blue-eyed stranger stood just inside the terrace doors, wearing nothing but a snowy-white towel that rode low on his hips and clung lovingly to well-packed thighs. His chest was bare, his shoulders impressive. Not an everyday sight in penthouse sixty-one.
‘Who are you?’ she said as she straightened from her crouching position, the roll of bird-dropping stained newspaper still firmly in hand.
‘My thoughts exactly,’ he murmured with a grin that put Ruby in mind of mischief and at least one other thing she really shouldn’t be thinking about if this was indeed one of Russell’s sons.
‘I’m Russell West’s social organiser,’ she said, ignoring that lazy smile as best she could. ‘And you must be one of his sons. Trouble is, which one?’ She let her gaze drift once more over his very fine form. ‘One of you I wasn’t expecting until tomorrow. The other one I wasn’t expecting at all.’
‘I could be the pool boy.’
‘Yes, and I have absolutely no doubt that you’d make an excellent one, but alas there is no pool.’ Ruby continued to study him. ‘You’d think I’d be able to tell the difference between a mission-fatigued special intelligence officer and a feckless rogue by now, but you know what?’ Ruby shook her head. ‘You could be either.’
‘I’ve never had an insult wrapped so skilfully inside a compliment before,’ he murmured, that devilish gaze of his not leaving her face. ‘You must practise.’
‘And you must be Damon,’ she guessed. ‘Russell’s youngest.’
Ruby dumped the soiled newspaper into the mulching bin, peeled off her gloves and brought forth her manners and her hand. ‘I’m Ruby Maguire. I’m looking after Christmas for your father.’