Maid Under The Mistletoe

Maid Under The Mistletoe
Maureen Child

An upstairs-downstairs affair for Christmas…only from USA TODAY bestselling author Maureen Child!Single mom Joy Curran needs this temporary holiday housekeeping job working for a reclusive billionaire. But her sexy, aloof boss pulls at Joy’s heartstrings—and her long denied desires—in unexpected ways….Sam Henry never got over the loss of his wife and son, and he’s shut himself off from happiness, love…and the holidays. But Joy and her sweet daughter bring laughter into his life. And living with his new maid ignites a passion he can’t ignore. After one glorious night in Joy’s arms, will this beauty be the Christmas miracle to change the beast forever?

An upstairs-downstairs affair for Christmas...only from USA TODAY bestselling author Maureen Child!

Single mom Joy Curran needs this temporary holiday housekeeping job working for a reclusive billionaire. But her sexy, aloof boss pulls at Joy’s heartstrings—and her long-denied desires—in unexpected ways...

Sam Henry never got over the loss of his wife and son, and he’s shut himself off from happiness, love...and the holidays. But Joy and her sweet daughter bring laughter into his life. And living with his new maid ignites a passion he can’t ignore. After one glorious night in Joy’s arms, will this beauty be the Christmas miracle that changes the beast forever?

She hardly noticed when Sam carried her through the main room and dropped her onto her bed.

In a few short seconds, they were both naked. The quilt felt cool beneath her, but he was there, sliding on top of her, to bring the heat.

“Been wanting to peel you out of those sweaters for days now,” he murmured, trailing kisses from her belly to her breasts.

“Been wanting you to do it,” Joy assured him, and ran the flat of her hands over his shoulders.

She hadn’t felt this way in… ever. He shifted, kissing her mouth, tangling his tongue with hers. She lifted her hips into his touch and held his head to hers as they kissed, as they took and gave and then did it all again. Their breath mingled, their hearts pounded in a wild tandem that raced faster and faster as they tasted, explored, discovered.

It was like being caught in a hurricane.

There was no safe place to hide, even if she wanted to. And she didn’t. She wanted the storm, more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.

Maid Under the Mistletoe

Maureen Child

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

MAUREEN CHILD writes for the Mills & Boon Desire line and can’t imagine a better job. A seven-time finalist for a prestigious Romance Writers of America RITA® Award, Maureen is an author of more than one hundred romance novels. Her books regularly appear on bestseller lists and have won several awards, including a Prism Award, a National Readers’ Choice Award, a Colorado Romance Writers Award of Excellence and a Golden Quill Award. She is a native Californian but has recently moved to the mountains of Utah.

To all the moms who are out there right now, making magic

Contents

Cover (#u23b6b15e-a0bc-58cb-9cda-e53d522d6fd1)

Back Cover Text (#uc0b4127e-5300-56f4-9aac-fa23357cb2ac)

Introduction (#u5f2ba1de-0f62-54a6-8045-966812649390)

Title Page (#ub3f97ded-846a-5544-9627-c03a56ff7ed5)

About the Author (#uccd1c7a2-f3cc-5efa-a4e2-e30dfa70a129)

Dedication (#ud0b8a720-211f-53eb-98c5-2f7e9bd7ad5e)

One (#ulink_46655784-1cf2-55c6-ab7f-70de1ee5524d)

Two (#ulink_2b1ff28d-3d4e-59a8-bd00-e2d25e473d1b)

Three (#ulink_8d0dae35-0e59-5b98-8e91-7cf598e49178)

Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

One (#ulink_6156ff60-5a36-5c90-87fe-7bd99207ce37)

Sam Henry hated December.

The days were too short, making the nights seem an eternity. It was cold and dark—and then there was the incessant Christmas badgering. Lights, trees, carols and an ever-increasing barrage of commercials urging you to shop, spend, buy. And every reminder of the holiday season ate at the edges of his soul and heart like drops of acid.

He scowled at the roaring fire in the hearth, slapped one hand on the mantel and rubbed his fingers over the polished edge of the wood. With his gaze locked on the flames, he told himself that if he could, he’d wipe the month of December from the calendar.

“You can’t stick your head in the snow and pretend Christmas isn’t happening.”

Sam flicked a glance at the woman in the open doorway. His housekeeper/cook/nag, Kaye Porter, stood there glaring at him through narrowed blue eyes. Hands at her wide hips, her gray-streaked black hair pulled back into a single thick braid that hung down over one shoulder, she shook her head. “There’s not enough snow to do it anyway, and whether you like it or not, Christmas is coming.”

“I don’t and it’s only coming if I acknowledge it,” Sam told her.

“Well, you’re going to have to pay attention because I’m out of here tomorrow.”

“I’ll give you a raise if you cancel your trip,” he said, willing to bargain to avoid the hassle of losing the woman who ran his house so he didn’t have to.

A short bark of laughter shot from her throat. “Not a chance. My friend Ruthie and I do this every year, as you well know. We’ve got our rooms booked and there’s no way we’re canceling.”

He’d known that—he just hadn’t wanted to think about it. Another reason to hate December. Every year, Kaye and Ruthie took a month-long vacation. A cruise to the Bahamas, then a stay at a splashy beachside hotel, followed by another cruise home. Kaye liked to say it was her therapy to get her through the rest of the year living with a crank like himself.

“If you love Christmas so much, why do you run to a beach every year?”

She sighed heavily. “Christmas is everywhere, you know. Even in hot, sandy places! We buy little trees, decorate them for our rooms. And the hotel lights up all the palm trees...” She sighed again, but this time, it was with delight. “It’s gorgeous.”

“Fine.” He pushed away from the hearth, tucked both hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared at her. Every year he tried to talk her out of leaving and every year he lost. Surrendering to the inevitable, he asked, “You need a ride to the airport?”