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PROLOGUE

“Iexplained the situation, but he was quite insistent.”

A frown crossed Chloe Merry’s expression, a divot forming between her brows as she regarded her generally unflappable assistant. At sixty-one years of age, a refugee from the finance sector, Helen Gray had dealt with all sorts in her time. She was efficient, capable and a bit of a pit bull, which, given the demand for Chloe’s services, and the sense of entitlement her clients tended to exhibit, certainly came in handy.

“Insistent…meaning?”

“He’s refusing to leave until you’ve spoken to him.”

Chloe’s frown deepened. “What did you say his name was?”

“Dimitrios Konstantino. You know the guy—born into some Greek shipping family, but struck out on his own⁠—”

“Into tech, yeah, I’ve heard of him.” She stood and ran her palms down the side of her pencil skirt. When she’d started Very Merry, she’d been a one-woman band, responsible for taking bookings, sourcing supplies and installing them herself. But after the success of her first year, her phone had been running off the hook. Over the following seven years, she’d turned her Christmas-loving idea into a bona fide success story.

Her role, these days, was mostly confined to management. She oversaw operations, met with clients as needed, and did publicity for the business. Not because she didn’t love—and miss—the decorating side of things, but because she chose to employ other people in this incredibly satisfying, creative job.

“Okay,” she said, remembering how hard she’d fought to make this company a success. One of her primary rules was not to alienate or offend people. “It won’t change anything, but I’m happy to explain that myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Helen muttered, and Chloe could tell she really meant it. The other woman prided herself on keeping Chloe’s life running like clockwork.

“If he’s got the better of you, I know he must be a piece of work—that’s not your fault. Send him in.”

Helen strode from the office, her resentment communicated by the tappety tap of her no-nonsense shoes on the polished timber floorboards. While Chloe waited, she let her gaze fall on the tree that sat in her office year-round. Artificial but incredibly realistic looking, its boughs adorned by her own selection of irreplaceable ornaments from childhood. But there were only moments between Helen’s departure and her would-be client’s arrival.

At the sound of the door opening once more, she wrenched her gaze sideways, then straightened slightly at the sight of the man who walked with such confidence and command into her office.

It was impossible to say what it was about him she noticed first. Rather, she was hit with a freight train of impressions. His height—easily six and a half feet tall. His broad shoulders—he looked like someone who could absorb the onslaught of a bomb and shield you from harm. His swarthy complexion—a deep tan that spoke of time spent outdoors, eyes that were so dark they were almost obsidian, rimmed in naturally curling lashes. Brown hair, thick and trimmed neatly at his nape. His hands, capable and strong-looking. It was the way he was put together, though, that made her breath feel all funny in her lungs. There wasn’t just a single feature—or even two—that made him memorable. It was as though he’d been lovingly hand-crafted to break the mold of male beauty.

But Chloe had been inoculated for life. Having her heart broken once by a tall, dark and handsome guy had been quite enough for her. She knew she was vulnerable—having grown up on a diet of nineties rom coms and romance novels, with two parents who were the picture of loved-up, she’d been a sucker for the idea of a happy ending. Until she’d learned the full extent of her fiancé’s deception.

The thought speared through her mind and landed with a thud, shaking her out of her reverie so she realized she’d been standing there staring at him for a full ten seconds, connecting the dots from ‘gloriously handsome’ to ‘definite heartbreak potential’.

“Mr…” she offered, to buy time.

His lips, perfectly shaped above a square jaw and a chin with a thumb-shaped indent, flickered with what might have been a derisive smile.

“Konstantino. Dimitrios,” he supplied, moving closer, so she caught a hint of his ultra-masculine aftershave and felt her insides clench.

She pressed her fingertips into the timber top of her desk, trying to draw calm from within.

“Mr Konstantino,” she said, moving her hand to gesture to a seat. “Please,” she invited, pressing her fingers back into the desk when she realized they were shaking betrayingly.

He held his ground though, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Despite the excellent quality of his tailored suit, she couldn’t help imagining the tanned, muscular abdomen beneath. “Your assistant says you’re booked out.”

This, at least, was moving back onto steadier ground. “We are.” She infused her tone with apology. “We have a set list of clients and generally only the scope for an additional two or three new properties each year. If you’d like to discuss next Christmas,” she offered, aware her waitlist was a mile long and she couldn’t really jump this man to the top.

“No.” He interrupted her with easy command. “It must be this year. This Christmas.”

Her lips tugged to the side as her eyes studied his. Dark, they also seemed unusually communicative, swirling now with obvious determination. She understood what Helen had meant. He was intractable: there was no way he intended to go anywhere until she’d agreed to his request.

“It’s already October,” she said, gesturing to the window of her Canary Wharf office. The clouds were thick and leaden, the afternoon already giving way to evening despite it being just past four. “Our schedule is utterly jam-packed. If we were to receive a cancellation,” she offered, again, thinking guiltily of her waitlist.

“No.” His eyes bore into hers. “I need this to happen.”

Need. It wasn’t how people generally considered her services. Yes, she was hugely in demand, and she knew it was because of her taste and professionalism, but still. Decorating a property for Christmas wasn’t exactly a necessity in life.

“There are other companies,” she suggested.