Holiday Bound - Page 3

“Angeline Kastakis.”

“That’s right. I thought… I thought you knew it was me when you first saw me,” she said, even though it was clear he’d just now realized she was his father’s girlfriend. She could read his expression in the dim light as easily as she could interpret hieroglyphics. She glanced down, made uneasy by his relentless stare. Mitchell had the manners of a prince. How could his son possibly be so rude…so rough?

“My father’s girlfriend is Angeline Kastakis,” he said in a deadpan voice. Her confusion amplified when his rock-like expression broke. White teeth flashed in his swarthy face. The abrupt alteration—

the sheer power of his sudden smile—made her take a step back.

His brows rose at her show of wariness and he gave a sharp bark of laughter.

“He said you weren’t his type.”

Angeline froze. “What?”

His glittering eyes swept down over her body. “Not a petite little doll,” he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Angeline couldn’t believe his nerve…his meanness. “Are you trying to imply that Mitchell has been talking about me behind my back? To you?”

His expression went cold once again. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. He said it four years ago. The old man’s had plenty of time to change his mind and decide he likes ’em built like an Amazon. Come on. I’m gonna have a hell of a time keeping Daddy’s girl warm for the next few days.”

Chapter Two

He knelt before the fireplace, building a fire. Angeline stood with her arms crossed beneath her breasts, taking the opportunity to study him while his back was to her. She’d already checked out his house as they made their way through the kitchen and into the large family room—or at least as much as she could examine, given the fact that the only light came from the first kerosene lantern from the garage, and then a second Alex’d lit in the kitchen. It was a rustic ranch house, nice…comfortable without being ostentatious. She’d have described it as a bachelor’s house, given all the natural wood, austerity and lack of decoration, if it weren’t for the fact that it was neater than her condo in downtown Chicago.

By a long shot.

She still wasn’t quite sure what to make of his oblique reference to what Mitchell had supposedly once said about her. She’d started working at Littleton, Marks and Carradine four years ago, so it was possible for Mitchell to have noticed her before they began dating.

But Mitchell had certainly acted like he was casting his first glance on her at that business dinner at the University Club just two months ago. Angeline recalled how flattered she’d been by his attentions—such an urbane, accomplished man. Every female at Littleton, Marks and Carradine, from the youngest administrative assistant to the most seasoned attorney, swooned a bit when Mitchell was near. He reminded Angeline of some combination of Richard Gere and Sean Connery. He didn’t have a Scottish accent, of course, but Mitchell was every bit as smooth as Connery’s portrayal of 007.

Angeline had grown up on a farm, the daughter of Greek immigrants. Truth be told, she felt proud to know that a man like Mitchell—a man who practically exuded class and sophistication—found her attractive.

Or did he? She’d wondered repeatedly about Mitchell’s apparent lack of interest in getting her into bed.

No. She wouldn’t believe Alex. Mitchell’s son was clearly hostile. Because he had such an abysmal relationship with his father, he wanted her to doubt her new relationship with Mitchell, as well.

What had she done in a past life to warrant spending Christmas with such a terse, nasty individual?

There were no Christmas decorations, Angeline noticed as she glanced around the dim room. The only exception to the Spartan furnishings was several woodcarvings on the timber mantel. She couldn’t quite make out the figures in the deep light, but she guessed they were carvings of animals.

Alex had picked up a flannel work shirt off a hook in the entry way and slung it on carelessly without buttoning it before he’d gone to work lighting the second kerosene lamp and adding wood to the dying fire. He hadn’t uttered a single word to her in the past several minutes, and his lack of manners was starting to grate on Angeline’s nerves.

“You never answered me. About your father. Has he called?”

He turned his head, the licking flames casting his hard profile in an orangish-red glow.

“No. Did you expect him to?”

She made a disbelieving sound. “Well…yeah. You did know your father and I were supposed to be staying at your ski resort for Christmas, right?”

“He might have said something about it,” Alex mumbled, turning back to his task.

“Well then?”

He sighed and shoved the poker back into the holder. The metal clanged jarringly in the still, cold room. “How long have you been dating Mitchell?”

“Two months,” she said slowly, a little taken aback that he called his father by his first name.

“You’re an attorney at Littleton, Marks and Carradine, isn’t that right?”

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