Scarlet Wilson - Christmas with the Maverick Millionaire

Dave laughed. ‘Does Mitchell like to ski? Do bees flock around honey? Does some seventeen-year-old try and sweet-talk her way past me at every venue we go to?’ He shook his head and gestured towards the back seat. ‘Why do you think I brought you the ski gear?’

‘To stop me from getting cold?’ Her voice squeaked as she spoke, as the true horror of the situation started to unload. Her one and only skiing trip as a teenager had resulted in her spending most of her time flat on her back—or face down in the snow. Water had seeped through her jeans and down the sleeves and neck of her jacket. She’d finally hidden back down at the ski centre in front of a roaring fire with a hot chocolate in front of her. When the ski instructor had eventually come looking for her to persuade her back onto the slopes, her answer had been a resounding no.

Even the thought of skiing sent a shiver down her spine, which Dave misinterpreted. ‘Better put your jacket on, we’ll be there in a minute and it’s freezing out there.’

She nodded and wiggled her arms out of her grey duffel and pulled the blue jacket over from the back seat. It was pure and utter luxury, evident from the second she pushed her arms inside. Even though they were still inside the car, the heat enfolded her instantly. She tucked her blonde curls under the matching woolly hat and pulled up the zip. ‘It’s lovely, Dave. Thanks very much.’

She eyed the salopettes still lying across the back seat. It was a stand-off. No way was she putting those on.

Dave turned the wheel down a long private road. The warm glow at the end gradually came into focus. A beautiful, traditionally styled Tirol chalet. Okay, maybe it was four times the size of all the others she’d seen. But it was gorgeous, right down to the colourful window boxes, upper balcony and black and red paintwork on the outside.

She opened the car door and almost didn’t notice the blast of icy air all around her. She was too busy staring at the mountain house. She climbed out and automatically stuck her hands in her pockets. The wind started whistling around her jeans. Maybe salopettes weren’t such a bad idea after all.

‘This place is huge,’ she murmured. ‘How many people stay here?’

Dave was pulling her case from the trunk as if it was as light as a feather. ‘Just you and Mitchell.’

She sucked in a deep breath. The air was so cold it almost smarted against her throat. So not what she’d expected to hear. ‘You don’t stay here too?’

Dave laughed. ‘Me? No.’

‘And he doesn’t have any staff?’ She was trying not to think the thoughts that were currently circulating in her brain. Alone. In a mountain retreat. With a gorgeous rock star. She could almost hear her friend Carly’s voice in her ear, along with the matching action punch in the air. ‘Kerching!’

This was really happening.

Wow. Her feet were stuck to the ground. Snow seeped instantly through her flat-heeled leather boots, which had distinctly slippery soles. She should really move, but the whole place looked like a complete ice rink. She wobbled as she turned around and grabbed the fur-lined boots from the car. They had thick treads—obviously designed for places like this. It only took a minute to swap them over.

‘Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.’ Dave strode over towards the entranceway of the house. ‘Mitch is really private. He doesn’t like people hanging around him. There’s no cook. No PA.’ He gave a little laugh as if he’d just realised what she’d be up against. ‘Yeah, good luck with all this, Samantha.’

She blinked. She was going to be staying in a house alone with Mitchell Brody. The hottest guy on the planet. She might even have had a tiny crush on him at some point.

She might have lingered over some picture of him on the internet, showing off a naked torso with a fabulous set of abs, slim-fitting leather trousers and his shaggy, slightly too-long dark hair. The guy made grunge sexy.

She gulped. Her throat had never felt so dry. When was the last time she’d had something to drink? It must have been on the plane a few hours ago. Dave pushed open the door to the house and she stepped inside.

Wow. It was like stepping inside a shoot for a house magazine. The biggest sitting room she’d ever been in, white walls, light wooden floors, with a huge television practically taking up one wall. Sprawling, comfortable sofas and a large wooden dining-room table surrounded by twelve chairs. It screamed space. It yelled money. This place must have cost a fortune.

There was a tinkle of glass breaking off to her right, followed by some colourful language. Dave’s brow wrinkled. ‘Mitch?’

The headlines started to shoot through her brain. Please don’t let her first meeting be with a drunken rock star.

She followed Dave as he strode through to the equally large kitchen. It should have been show home material too, but it was in complete disarray. Every door was hanging open, with food scattered everywhere. The door of the biggest refrigerator she’d ever seen was also open and Mitchell Brody was rummaging around inside—a glass of orange juice smashed around his feet. He didn’t even seem to have noticed.

She glanced at Dave, whose face showed utter confusion at the scene around him. Every part of her body started to react. She moved quickly. ‘Is this normal, Dave?’

‘No, not at all.’ He hadn’t budged. His feet seemed welded to the floor.

Her instincts kicked into gear. She had no idea what to expect. She knew next to nothing about Mitchell Brody—only what she’d read in the press. But right now he wasn’t Mitchell Brody, rock star. He was Mitchell Brody, patient. One who was newly diagnosed with diabetes. ‘Is anyone else here?’

Dave shook his head. There was no one she could ask for some background information. Dave had been with her for the last hour, so Mitchell must have been alone. She hadn’t even had a chance to read the email from the consultant yet. She strongly suspected his actions were to do with his diabetes but, then again, she might just be about to witness a legendary Mitchell Brody tantrum. No matter what, it was time to act.

She moved over next to him, kicking the glass away from around his feet and touching his back. ‘Mitchell, can I help you with something?’

He spun around and she drew in a deep breath in shock. His shirt was hanging open and the top button of his jeans was undone. His face was gaunt, the frame under his shirt thin and the six-pack that adorned teenage walls had vanished, all clinical signs of ketoacidosis. Just how long had it taken them to diagnose him?

‘Who are you?’ he growled, before ignoring her completely and turning back to the refrigerator and scattering some more food around. An apple flew past her ear, closely followed by a banana, and then a jar of jam, which shattered on the grey tile floor.

The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Mitchell Brody was having a hypoglycaemic attack, his blood sugar so low he would probably pass out in the next few minutes if she didn’t get some food into him.

‘Move,’ he hissed, as he nudged her with his hip. She looked around. She had no idea where anything was in this place. She recognised the belligerent edge to his voice. Her sister had had it frequently as she’d hypoed as a child. That fine line where she hadn’t been able to focus or steady her thoughts and had moved into auto-protect mode. It was almost as if the adrenaline fight-or-flight reaction had kicked in and it had been survival of the fittest.

‘What does he like to eat?’ she asked Dave, as she started searching through the cupboards for something suitable. She needed something to give him a quick blast of sugar in his system.