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  The Wedding Night Before Christmas

  Kati Wilde

  THE WEDDING NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  Copyright © 2019 by Kati Wilde

  Cover Photo by Sara Eirew www.saraeirew.com

  Cover Design by Kati Wilde

  Lines quoted from “A Visit from St. Nicholas” by Clement Clarke Moore; the poem is in the public domain.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  The Wedding Night Before Christmas

  1. Audrey

  2. Caleb

  3. Audrey

  4. Caleb

  5. Audrey

  6. Caleb

  7. Audrey

  8. Caleb

  9. Audrey

  10. Audrey

  11. Caleb

  12. Caleb

  13. Audrey

  14. Caleb

  15. Epilogue

  Holiday Romances by Kati Wilde

  Newsletter

  Also by Kati Wilde

  The Wedding Night Before Christmas

  When an opportunity to take everything from the powerful family who destroyed his mother’s life falls into Caleb Moore’s lap, he needs help from the one person with more power and money than they have—business mogul, Audrey Clarke. The trick is getting her attention. So he approaches the infamous ice queen with an unusual proposition: marriage.

  The odds of a snowball surviving in hell are better than the chances of a rich, classy lady like Audrey Clarke marrying a mechanic from the wrong side of the tracks. He only hopes that she might consider a business partnership when she’s finished laughing at his marriage proposal.

  He never expects her to say yes—or that the ice queen could burn so hot. Because Audrey Clarke isn’t cold at all. And if Caleb’s not careful, the only thing he’ll give her for Christmas…is a broken heart.

  1

  Audrey

  Here is what’s supposed to happen: The elevator doors open to Clarke, Incorporated’s executive level, and I walk through them, trading the noisy disorder of the outside world for the calm efficiency of my private offices.

  Here’s what really happens: I stride out of the elevator and stop dead, because everything’s off-kilter. A man is taking up too much space in the reception area. And he’s standing in the wrong place.

  He unbalances everything.

  Visitors have a clearly designated waiting area opposite the reception desk. Yet he eschewed the comfortable chairs, instead choosing to stand in front of the plate glass window overlooking the lake. And even that’s all wrong. Because with his immense height and broad shoulders, his proportions overwhelm the window frame and the enormous body of water that lies beyond it.

  It’s unsettling. In the place where I most need to be settled.

  Damn him. The incongruity of it all is bothering me. So much. And I can’t look away. His presence seems to tilt the entire room in his direction, as if he’s not just tall and broad, but massive enough to create a perceptible gravity well.

  A familiar voice comes from the opposite direction. “Miss Clarke?”

  With effort, I tear my gaze from the man’s back and give the rubber band around my wrist a sharp tug before releasing it.

  Snap.

  The sting against my inner wrist helps yank my focus away from the man and the mess he made of my equilibrium. Now I have to be careful not to look that way again.

  My boot heels click over bamboo flooring as I approach the sleek reception desk. Jessica currently mans the station, her dark curls and lively eyes giving her a girlish appearance that seems at odds with the seductive, buttery voice that emerges every time she speaks. I once told her that she could have made a fortune as a phone sex worker, but Jessica only laughed for a few minutes before stating that she’d rather work for Clarke, Inc. I don’t know why she didn’t take my advice—I pay her very well, yet it’s hardly a fortune—but I’m not sorry she stayed. Personal assistants who are smart, efficient, and who don’t make me want to hurl rocks at their heads are hard to come by.

  Fortunately, I’ve found two. Jeremy was in the elevator with me and I assume he’s following close behind. Judging by the way Jessica’s gaze settles on him and her eyes widen, she’s silently asking what distracted me for those few seconds, and he’s wildly gesturing his answer.

  Which must have been “I don’t know,” because Jessica asks me, “Are the holiday decorations okay?”

  I don’t even notice the white lights and pine boughs hanging along the edge of the reception desk until she mentions them. And I’m not going to look around at the rest of the decorations now, because I might get stuck on him again.

  The fact that I didn’t already notice the decorations, though, means that I don’t need to look. “They’re fine.”

  “And everything went okay at the rezoning hearing?”

  That was also directed to me, but Jeremy jumps in. “Approved, seven to zero,” he tells her with a triumphant grin. “So now there’s just the two-week comment period, followed by the city council vote. Then, bam! We’re good to go.”

  That isn’t quite accurate, but I let it slide and pass a manila folder to Jessica. “The planning commission gave me these forms to fill out and submit to the city council. Please re-staple them properly so that I can look at them.”

  Because I can still see them. Even hidden safely away in their folder. Two documents, exactly the same—except one was stapled on the diagonal, and the other stapled vertically.

  Who does that? Only a monster.

  “Oh no,” Jessica breathes, accepting the folder. She glances at Jeremy, who shakes his head.

  “It wasn’t too bad,” he says easily. “I didn’t even notice that she’d spaced out until she started snapping her band. That was when Commissioner Melbourne began speaking.”

  “I only missed Jamison’s comments,” I inform them. “And that’s no loss, because he never says anything worth listening to. Did you already show John Holtzmann into my office, or is he running late for our appointment?”

  Because it’s just a few minutes before four o’clock, but Holtzmann isn’t in the waiting area. Only the gravity well of a man is.

  “Oh! He had to reschedule. A weather delay at the airport,” Jessica explains with a slight grimace. “It happened after lunch, so you probably didn’t see the updates to your calendar yet.”

  Obviously I haven’t, or I wouldn’t have assumed he’d be here. “Very well, then. I’ll take my tea and—”

  “But,” Jessica continues in a lower voice and indicates the waiting area with a subtle lift of her chin. “Mr. Caleb Moore called earlier this morning to set up an appointment with you. He claimed to have an urgent matter to discuss and was disappointed when I told him that you had nothing available until February. So when Holtzmann cancelled, I asked Mr. Moore if he could be here at four. And he could.”

  So the big man upsetting the balance of my waiting area is named Caleb Moore. And he probably isn’t looking out of the window now, but facing this direction—it would be the logical response of anyone anticipating someone else’s arrival. Turn and greet them.

  But I dare not turn yet. I can easily gloss over the back of a head and a pair of shoulders—they’re almost featureless in themselves. It was only his proportions within the waiting area that disturbed me. But a face isn’t featureless, and not as easy to look away from. And if his features are as unsettling as his proportions, I might become severely distracted.

&nbs
p; Oh, I’m already distracted, standing here and pondering the effect he might have on me. Unless his face is as bland as the back of his head. Is it?

  I want to look. I want to look so badly.

  Snap.

  But not here. Better to be somewhere his proportions won’t combine with his face—whatever form it takes—and completely distract me. “Very well. Please bring my tea and Mr. Moore to my office at four,” I tell Jessica. “Jeremy, please take over the desk.”

  He flicks a salute while Jessica quickly gathers up her electronic tablet. She catches up with me on the wide spiral staircase leading to my offices.

  I keep my gaze firmly fixed ahead instead of letting it stray down to where the man waits. “What is Mr. Moore’s urgent matter?”

  “He said it’s regarding the Wyndham estate,” Jessica responds immediately. “So I looked him up. Eleanor Wyndham left him everything.”

  Which would include all the property that I approached Eleanor about less than a year ago, hoping to buy it. The woman refused to sell, claiming that she intended to leave everything to her grandson. I assumed that meant Christopher Wyndham, not a man called Caleb Moore. But whatever his name, it’s easy to deduce his reason for coming: to liquify the estate’s assets as quickly as possible.

  Before veering off toward the kitchen, Jessica adds, “I didn’t tell him that you already purchased a different property for your camp project.”

  Good. I don’t need the Wyndham mansion or the surrounding land, but real estate is often a good investment. If Caleb Moore is eager to get rid of it, he’ll likely accept a lowball offer. He’ll get cash and I’ll get an estate that I can unload later for a hefty profit. A win-win.

  I like a win-win. But then, I also like a win-lose. Especially when I’m on the winning side.

  I usually am.

  In my office, I hang up my wool trench and let my gaze skim the room. The decorators were in here as well, but there’s nothing distracting, nothing out of place. No blinking fairy lights or uneven garlands.

  Jessica has already prepared the office to receive a single visitor, removing the second chair that usually faces my desk, so there can be no wrong place for my guest to sit. The desk itself is sleek and seamless, the surface uncluttered. Behind it, sheer glass forms the fourth wall of my office and offers a stunning view of the lake. Today the water is slate gray, darkened by a leaden sky. Even as I cross over to my desk, tiny splatters against the window mark the first snowflakes.

  I watch the falling specks of snow, delighting in the wonderful random eddies and swirls of wind that move through them, and all the while breathing deeply, evenly—trying to will away the last of the tension that lingers from the planning commission hearing. Rooms filled with people are among my least favorite things. Even when meetings are governed by supposed rules of order, people still speak over each other, or cough or shuffle papers or whisper, and in the background doors open and close while phones buzz and chime. And even when people follow the rules of order, speaking one at a time, so many talk without saying anything relevant. Or they repeat what others have already said. Simply sitting through the hearing had been exhausting.

  Now I’d rather have an hour to myself than speak to yet another person—especially since an enquiry of this nature could be sent via email. But people always want a face-to-face, as if the personal interaction might sway me in their favor. All too often, it does the opposite, and people that I could have easily interacted with through email are almost impossible for me to deal with in person.

  But that’s why I have assistants to interact for me, when I need them to. At precisely four, Jessica sweeps through the door carrying the tea tray.

  Caleb Moore follows. Better prepared this time, I meet him at the center of my office, carefully not focusing on his face but on an invisible spot just behind his head. His features are a blur framed by short dark hair as I shake his hand and invite him to sit. He’s no smaller than he was in the reception area—I judge him at about six inches taller than my five-ten in these heels—but my office is so large that even he can’t overwhelm the negative space and throw everything off-balance. Grateful for that, I take the seat behind my desk and, as Jessica arranges the tea service, finally allow myself to study him.

  It’s a good thing that I didn’t really look earlier, because his features are absolutely fascinating, an arresting mix of symmetrical and irregular. His nose must have been broken once. Sporting a faint bump, it sits just off-center between perfectly matched cheekbones that rise like cliffs above the hollowed planes of his cheeks. A scar bisects one of his eyebrows, which form heavy slashes over the narrowed brown eyes that are scrutinizing me in return. Each side of his firm lips are almost exactly mirrored to each other from left to right, yet his bottom teeth are slightly crooked, the incisors overlapping each other the barest amount.

  Jessica softly clears her throat. “Will that be all, Miss Clarke?”

  Snap. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll let you know if Mr. Moore and I require anything further,” I say, which tells Jessica that I won’t need her to stay as my go-between. Instead I want to interact with a man who’s already proven to be incredibly distracting.

  It’s not a logical decision but…well. Even I have my moments.

  Neither tea nor coffee sits in front of him, though I assume Jessica offered him refreshment while I was lost in my perusal of his face. So he must have declined. Usually that means my visitor hopes this meeting won’t last long, or is nervous and doesn’t want to risk a spill.

  Caleb Moore doesn’t appear nervous. So he likely just wants to get this over with. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Miss Clarke.”

  Another fascinating incongruity—such smooth words from such a rough voice. And the words don’t seem to emerge easily, as if he’s unused to deferring to another person. Yet now he needs something from me…and I don’t think he likes being in this position.

  He might like it less by the time we’re done.

  “You have nothing to thank me for yet,” I reply bluntly, then remember there are social niceties to convey first. “Please accept my condolences regarding your grandmother’s death.” And now I need to say something nice about the deceased, but I can only think of one thing I liked about the woman. “I appreciated that Eleanor always spoke her mind.”

  So few people do. Though, in Eleanor’s case, I might have liked her better if I also appreciated what came out of the woman’s mouth.

  His jaw clenches for an instant before a wry smile quirks those symmetrical lips. “Did she?”

  I wouldn’t have said so if she didn’t. But since I can’t interpret his tone, I move on. “I assume you heard that I once approached Eleanor with an offer for her lakeside property.”

  “That’s right,” he confirms brusquely, apparently as ready to move on from the topic of his grandmother as I am. “And that your offer was for more than the property’s worth—which suggests to me that the project you had in mind is important to you.”

  “It is,” I admit, but won’t give him anything else until I see what he’s brought me.

  “Then I believe we can be of use to each other. I have a proposal for you here.”

  The briefcase that he sets on the desk between us appears new, the bottom free of scuff marks. His suit also appears new, and a little too small—though if he’s uncomfortable, he doesn’t let that discomfort show. As he opens the case, black wool pulls tight around each of his biceps. The sleeves are too short, exposing his wrists and a hint of sinewy forearms. The seams strain at the points of his shoulders, and I’d wager that he can’t properly button the blazer across his massive chest, though he might manage the buttons at his waist. He hasn’t fastened the shirt’s topmost button around the muscular column of his neck, though his neatly knotted tie almost conceals that. His hard jaw is incredibly smooth, as if freshly shaved, instead of shadowed by the whiskers that other men with similarly thick and dark hair tend to sport this time of day. Dark flecks on his snowy whit
e collar suggest that his haircut is also new, and that the barber was either careless or hurried, and didn’t completely brush away the trimmed hairs.

  A jagged swirl of black ink peeks up from the left side of Caleb’s collar. Hardly enough of the tattoo is visible to even begin to guess at the design, yet I can’t stop myself from trying to picture what would complete that artwork. How far down the length of his neck does it extend? Just to his shoulder? Down over his chest? Or was the rest of the tattoo decorating his back?

  Oh no.

  Snap.

  I jerk my focus away as he withdraws a presentation folder from the case. His hands and his long, blunt fingers are roughened by labor—I can still feel the scrape of his thick calluses from when we shook hands.

  How can I make sense of him? “What is your profession, Mr. Moore?”

  His dark gaze clashes with mine as he holds out the presentation folder for me to take. His voice contains a steely note of challenge. “I’m a mechanic.”

  “Ah.” Satisfaction fills me as the pieces slide into place. So he was invited at the last minute to a four o’clock appointment and hastily prepared for this meeting. But he didn’t have time to find a suit that fit his big frame, instead grabbing the nearest size to his own off the rack. Yes, that makes perfect sense. And the ill-fitting suit might have been adorable on someone else. On him, the knowledge of how and why he wore it simply makes him more compelling.

  I take the folder, extrapolating from what his answer told me. He’s the Wyndham heir, yet isn’t named Wyndham. And unlike a Wyndham, he works a blue-collar job. He also doesn’t own a properly fitted suit, which suggests that he doesn’t socialize with the Wyndhams, either. Now he’s here to sell the property Eleanor left him.