Page 1 of A Billionaire for Christmas
1
AN EXCEPTIONALLY BAD START
Billionaires aren’t like buses. Which is unfortunate because talented chef Molly Johnson needed one. And not just any old billionaire. She was after a nice one that she could drink champagne with. In a hot tub. Overlooking the Alps. While naked. Very, very naked.
Her best friend and late business partner, Ava, had written a will leaving Molly sole ownership of their restaurant and the apartment above it, along with a request to complete the bucket list she’d never got to finish. But because of some unfortunate wording, the request and the bequest seemed to have got entangled in the eyes of the law and Molly was set to lose everything if she didn’t complete the list before the end of the day on Christmas Eve. And this was no ordinary set of tasks. Ava had been outrageously specific. Which was how Molly found herself spending the festive season preparing high-end cuisine for the rich and fabulous at a very glamorous ski resort in France, while she looked for an incredibly handsome yet (and this was crucial to her plan) incrediblyblindbillionaire to tick off the list.
Molly glanced once more at the letter in her hand, forwarded from Paris. Only Ava’s solicitor sent letters to her these days, and they were never good. She reread the (heart-stopping, panic-inducing, gut-wrenching) reminder that she had twelve days left to comply with the legal requirements before all her and Ava’s company assets were due to be liquidated and the deeds to their beloved restaurant along with them. With the words blurring on the page, she sagged against the industrial steel kitchen bench. ‘I’m so stupid,’ she groaned to herself. ‘How did I let this happen?’ She knew how. She’d left the unopened letters to pile up for months.
She deeply regretted not getting round to formalising the business partnership with Ava. It was always on their to-do list but once their quaint little restaurant, Le Petit Ange, nestled in the heart of the French Alps, took off, they were so incredibly busy, seven days a week, that there never seemed any time. And then when Ava was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, it was the last thing on their minds.
Molly pulled out her phone and dialled the solicitor’s number. He picked up on the third ring. ‘Hello, Monsieur Fournier. It’s Molly Johnson here… Yes, again. It’s about the letter… Yes, of course I’ve read it properly. I’m doing my best, but it just doesn’t seem fair that—’ Molly bit her tongue.
Monsieur Fournier was prone to reminding her of the obvious.
‘Yes, I’m aware that we didn’t write a transfer of ownership into the contract before Ava died. Yes, I know the bank accounts are frozen, because I ran out of money to pay the bills and the staff two months ago. Why do you think I’m working two jobs? I’m running the restaurant single-handedly during the dayandworking in a hotel kitchen every night.’ Molly heard the irritation rising in her voice. She took a deep breath in before continuing. ‘Look. Let’s be reasonable. I own half of the business. How am I supposed to—? I’m not angry with you. If I’m angry, it’s at the French legal system. It’s ludicrous. No one in their right mind could achieve even half of the things on that bucket list, never mindwantto!’
Molly was almost screeching down the phone as panic soared through her veins. ‘I know I’ve had months to try and complete them. But in case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve been running myself ragged! Ava is…’ The words caught in her throat. ‘Avawasmy best friend. More than a friend. My soulmate. There’s no way she would have foreseen this happening.’
Molly wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. How was this her life now? Desperate, broke and about to lose her home and livelihood?
‘Sorry. Sorry, I just… Okay. I understand. It has just beenthetoughest time and to be honest, I’m not coping very well… Oh. You’re busy… Okay, thank you for your time, Monsieur—’ He hung up before she could say goodbye.
So that was that. Thanks to spending the best part of the year grieving and staring into space instead of just getting on with it, Molly’s only option was to work her way down Ava’s bucket list in the next twelve days, ticking off every bonkers thing Ava had left her to do while somehow collecting proof in the form of signatures and selfies. To be quite honest, she wasn’t a million miles away from giving up completely so that she could enjoy a catastrophic breakdown in peace, watching back-to-back tearjerkers on Netflix while squeezing cheese down her throat.
Footsteps across the cold stone tiles dragged Molly from her thoughts.
‘Molly, can you drive this lot up to the Cigar Lounge before you finish your shift, please?’ Petra, the hotel kitchen manager, asked, pointing to a stack of crates. ‘Sorry to ask but apparently things are getting a little wild up there, and the porters have clocked off. Looks like it might go on through till morning, so the boss wants the place fully stocked, just in case.’
Molly’s heart sank. ‘The Cigar Lounge?’ She’d heard enough rumours about what might go on up there to know that she’d much rather not.
Petra, a pristine-looking woman in her early thirties, not much older than herself, gave her a sympathetic look.
Molly fought the desire to refuse. The Cigar Lounge was for sophisticated rich people, whereas she had grown up on a council estate in the north of England. It was as far out of her comfort zone as the bucket list.
‘You’ll get paid double for the extra hours.’
A prickle of exhaustion crawled up her spine. She quashed it down. With the future of her restaurant hanging in the balance, she desperately needed the extra money to keep it afloat. At the end of a gruelling fourteen-hour day, some food, a hot steaming bath and her soft bed was all she craved, but she would have to wait. She smiled politely at her supervisor. ‘Okay. Sure. I’ll do it.’
‘Thank you so much. I owe you one.’ Petra inspected Molly’s work. ‘These hors d’oeuvres are divine. Take them all with you.’
Molly stuffed the solicitor’s letter into her pocket and gazed longingly at the trays of delicate, mouth-watering canapés that had taken her three hours to create.
‘Shame they’ve been such a huge hit,’ Petra said, holding one up before devouring it. ‘You’ll probably be stuck in this kitchen forever.’
Molly did not need reminding. She nodded weakly at the compliment and reflected on how far she’d fallen in such a short time. Less than a year ago, she’d been juggling running an up-and-coming restaurant with nursing Ava. Sharing in the pain and injustice, raging against the world, and now, here she was, failing to fulfil a promise made on her friend’s deathbed and still raging. It was all so unfair.
Molly snapped to attention as Petra handed her the keys to the snowmobile. ‘And don’t forget, as it’s your first time up at the Lounge, try not to make eye contact with any guests at the parties, no matter what the circumstances. Restock the bars and replace the canapé trays as discreetly as you can. Most of them are famous celebrities, so do not repeat a word of anything you see or hear, okay?’ Petra looked coy. ‘It’s Burlesque Night. The host expects maximum privacy.’ She shrugged by way of explanation.
Molly bristled. Going to the Cigar Lounge was one thing. Going during its annual Burlesque Night was quite another. Especially as she was in the midst of an excruciatingly long dry spell. It had been years since she’d had any physical contact with a man. Her hands felt immediately clammy at the thought of what could possibly be going on up there.
As Petra went to push open the exit doors, both women stared out across the resort’s lively village plaza as thick snowflakes whirled around the many après-ski revellers scampering back to warm, cosy hotel rooms. The Val D’Amore ski resort was one of the most exclusive and breathtakingly beautiful resorts in the world, with an unrivalled reputation and alpine views. It was built around a picturesque square, lined with twinkling lights, exclusive high-end luxury shops and restaurants, infamous rooftop bars with world-renowned DJs that drew crowds from around the world, and a guest list ofseasonnairesto rival any celebrity red carpet. Molly followed Petra’s gaze up to the Cigar Lounge, the infamous members-only club nestled further up the mountain, reached only by a single-track road designed for snowmobiles for staff access. Guests were ferried back and forth in a private velvet-lined gondola ski lift, straight from the Cigar Lounge doors down to the plaza and the luxury suites that only the super-rich could afford.
When she and Ava had decided to move their UK-based catering business to the resort, they’d had no idea that it was a billionaires’ playground. They’d aimed high and worked ridiculously hard to compete with the other Val D’Amore restaurants, neither of them knowing that Ava would die before she got the chance to see the business flourish. And that Molly would be left to run it alone, so soon.
A sadness swept over Molly as she hurriedly piled the crates of canapés onto the trailer attached to the snowmobile. Her friend had loved this place. She had been enthralled at the majestic snowy peaks of the mountains by day and the blaze of stars by night. But none of it sparked joy in Molly any longer. She was too grief-stricken to feel anything but numb.
Her weary thoughts were broken by the steep and treacherous drive up to the Lounge. Much better to travel on the gondola swinging high above her like an ornate royal carriage rather than on this dimly lit, icy track. Especially in this weather. The snow was coming down so heavily and being blown around by a howling gale with such force that she could barely see two feet in front of the snowmobile and had to fight to keep control of it. Molly made it to the top of the track with some effort. She was just able to make out a small covered area, and she pulled up to the back entrance of the Cigar Lounge.
