Meet Me Under the Mistletoe Read online

  Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

  Skye Warren, Amelia Wilde, Giana Darling, Theodora Taylor, Sam Mariano, Pam Godwin, Claire Contreras, Katee Robert, M. O’Keefe, Jenika Snow, Maria Luis, Sienna Snow, Jade West, M. Robinson, Alta Hensley

  Contents

  Title Page

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  Hallelujah by Skye Warren

  O Come All Ye Faithful by Amelia Wilde

  Baby, It’s Cold Outside by Giana Darling

  This Christmas by Theodora Taylor

  Wrapped in Red by Sam Mariano

  O Holy Night by Pam Godwin

  Santa Baby by Claire Contreras

  Last Christmas by Katee Robert

  Little Drummer Boy by M. O’Keefe

  It Came Upon A Midnight Clear by Jenika Snow

  Carol of the Bells by Maria Luis

  Silent Night by Sienna Snow

  Away in a Manger by Jade West

  All I Want for Christmas Is You by M. Robinson

  Silver Bells by Alta Hensley

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  About Midnight Dynasty

  Copyright

  Download the Dangerous Press anthology, Dark Fairy Tales, for FREE.

  In a castle adorned with gems, coated in gold, and dusted with luxury, the youngest of the Constantine Family will be introduced to the elite of New York. But the party isn’t all glamor. Villains lurk in dark corners, evil deals are struck, and star-crossed lovers are born.

  Attend the ball, wear a red cloak, lose your shoe, spin straw to gold, or fall prey to a witch. In these fairytale retellings from bestselling authors, you will find a prince, but you might choose your happily ever after with the beast.

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  Hallelujah

  Skye Warren

  Chapter One

  Eva Morelli

  The offending desserts steam from the counter. Two thousand miniature mince pies line up in neat rows. My mother stares at them as if they spit on her heritage.

  I pick one up, flaky pastry warm between my fingertips. A delicious mixture of currants and apples blooms on my tongue. A candied orange peel on top provides a pleasant bite.

  “It tastes good,” I say, knowing that won’t matter.

  “Nutmeg,” my mother says with haughty indignance. “There isn’t nearly enough. It’s mostly cinnamon.”

  Sarah Morelli may have married an Italian man, but her family came over on the Mayflower.

  Along with this recipe for mince pies.

  She won’t let anyone forget it, even if it means throwing away two thousand canapés.

  “I’ll fix this,” I say with more confidence than I feel.

  She doesn’t ask how. She just gives me a serene smile. “I can always count on you, Eva.”

  The Morelli Christmas Gala is legendary in Bishop’s Landing. Our mince pies are an annual tradition, along with the fleet of horse-drawn carriage rides and mistletoe-filled maze. If we don’t serve these, my mother will hear about it for months at the high-society committee meetings she attends.

  “I should get back out there,” she says. “Or they’ll ask after me.”

  I obediently kiss my mother’s cheek when she turns to the side. She’s the host of this event. But I’m the one who works with the caterers, the decorators, the waitstaff.

  Every single person in a white dress shirt and black pants has a job tonight. They bustle efficiently through the large service kitchen, dropping off empty glasses of champagne and leaving with fresh trays of canapés. I can’t take them off their current jobs—and besides, this is too important to pass to someone else. I’ll need to fix the mince pies myself.

  Whipped cream, I decide. With plenty of nutmeg. I can pipe it into a neat swirl on top of the pies. No one will even know they were altered from how the caterer made them.

  “What’s wrong?” My younger sister Daphne looks grown up in a black sheath dress. Her expression, however, is anxious. Sarah Morelli has that impact on us. We may be adults now, but we still obey our mother.

  “The mince pies. I need to make about two tons of whipped cream for them.”

  She makes a face. “I’ll help you.”

  “No, go back out there. The more of us missing, the more people will notice.” I’m already pulling out jugs of whole milk from the industrial sized fridge.

  “Ugh, if only I knew how to make whipped cream.”

  Neither of us really enjoy the formal events our parents host, but we’re both used to them. The fake smiles. The drunken laughter. “If it were a kind of paint, you could make it.”

  “Or a color.” She eyes the mince pies dubiously. “That shade of brown is not inspiring.”

  She’s always preferred chocolate desserts. “Besides, this is the first Christmas gala that has Constantines. I need someone standing guard in case trouble breaks out.”

  A snort. “What would I do if trouble broke out?”

  The Constantines have been our family’s archenemy forever. None of us know exactly how it started except our parents, and they aren’t talking.

  Then my brother Leo fell in love with Haley Constantine.

  For that reason we extended an invitation to a few of her family members. Reluctantly. Begrudgingly. And we’ve been tense the entire time, wondering if something will go wrong. A verbal altercation would be bad. A physical altercation would be worse.

  Even between high-society billionaires, violence is common enough.

  “Pretend to faint,” I advise. “Someone will have to call an ambulance.”

  “More likely I’d get trampled.”

  “You’re right. If anything sketchy happens, come get me.” I locate a large bottle of nutmeg. If this were the family kitchen upstairs I’d be lucky to find a half-empty jar of dried spices, but we’re downstairs where the staff works so it’s fully stocked. “I’ll be done here soon, and I’ll come out.”

  She sighs. “I’ll make sure Sophie isn’t bothering Mom.”

  We’re the good daughters, according to our mother.

  Meanwhile Lisbetta is spending the holidays at her boarding school in Switzerland, against direct orders from our parents. And Sophia—well, Sophie has always been contrary. If you say go right, she goes left. The dress code for the Christmas gala was formalwear in black, white, gold, and red.

  Naturally Sophie showed up in clashing hot pink.

  After Daphne goes upstairs, I pull out a professional stand mixer.

  In minutes I’m covered in sugar and stray flecks of whipped cream. At least they don’t show up against the black and white lace covering my floor-length gown.

  I use a spatula to move the mixture into a piping bag.

  Footsteps approach me from behind. They’re not the soft tap of my sister’s heels. Or the whisper of my mother’s gown against the floor. They’re the hard, sure steps of a man.

  “Don’t bother talking me out of it,” I say to my brother Leo. He doesn’t understand why I work so hard to keep our mother happy, and he’s probably here to drag me upstairs.

  “I would never dream of it,” comes a low, masculine rumble.

  I whirl in surprise, sending sprays of white cream across crisp black dress pants. The man wearing them is handsome, well-built, and, unfortunately, amused at my expense. “Oh my god,” I breathe.

  “Don’t tell me they have you slaving away in the kitchen? That’s grim, even for a Morelli.” Finn Hughes leans back against a counter a
nd crosses his arms, unconcerned with the whipped cream that’s setting into what’s no doubt a ten-thousand-dollar bespoke tuxedo.

  I grab a dish towel and bend down to wipe the cream from him in fast, efficient strokes. I’m trying not to touch him inappropriately, but I can feel his heat through the fabric. His powerful thighs form a backdrop to my frantic wipes. “What are you even doing down here? This is the service kitchen.”

  He looks down and raises an eyebrow. “I imagined you kneeling at my feet many times, but there was never whipped cream involved. A lack of imagination on my part, to be sure.”

  My cheeks burn. “I can’t send you back upstairs looking like this.”

  “Absolutely not. People would think we’d gotten up to something.” His arms are still crossed, as if he’s unconcerned. As if he’s enjoying this. “If only they were right.”

  I stand and throw up my hands. “If you don’t care about your tux, I don’t know why I’m bothering.”

  He glances back at the throngs of servers. “There isn’t anyone else who could help you?”

  “They’re busy. Besides, this is my mother’s recipe. If it’s not right…”

  I don’t have to finish the sentence. My parents aren’t known for being flexible. Finn Hughes knows that. “And Eva Morelli is the good dutiful daughter.”

  “Go back upstairs,” I say, exasperated.

  He chuckles, a deep sound that presses straight between my legs.

  He’s from the Constantine family, strictly speaking. His mother is Caroline Constantine’s sister. Geneva married into the infamous Hughes family. Which is why he’s always been invited to the Christmas Gala, even before this year. My mother isn’t going to snub the Vanderbilts. She isn’t going to snub the Kennedys. And she’s not going to snub the Hugheses—regardless of longstanding feuds.

  “I’ll help you,” he says.

  “Absolutely not.” My voice sounds breathless. I have to tilt my head up to look at him. When did he get so close? We’re only inches away. If I leaned forward our bodies would be touching.

  “Why not?”

  “Because my mother would freak out if she found you down here.”

  “I’ll tell her I insisted,” he says with his megawatt grin that has probably gotten him out of trouble more times than I can imagine. Between his irresistible charm, his gorgeous silhouette, and a massive trust fund, this is not a man who’s been told no many times. “I’ll tell her that I want to learn how to bake after watching the Great British Bake Off. And you’re tutoring me.”

  He’s teasing me, and I want to be stern, but I can’t keep a smile from teasing my lips. If I give him actual work to do, he’ll probably disappear. “Fine. You can pipe this while I make more.”

  “Show me how.”

  I lean over the counter to pipe a circle of cream in a simple design on a small mince pie. When I lean back I see that he’s been checking out my backside. Heat flashes through my body. I clear my throat and hand over the piping bag, aiming for an imperious expression I’ve seen my mother employ. “Your turn.”

  His hair is brown, but his lashes gleam almost blonde against his tanned cheeks. He takes the piping bag from me and makes a clumsy circle around a mince pie. A little whipped cream ends up on the side of his hand. He meets my eyes and licks it off. I can read every dirty thought in those mischievous brown eyes. Every promise. Every position that he thinks about when he’s using his tongue.

  My eyes widen. I speak past the knot in my throat. “Right. You can do the rest of the pies now.”

  I whirl back around to face the mixer, my body alight. My nipples must be pressing against the silk lining my dress. Warmth pools between my legs. A husky laugh follows me.

  I’m not sure I could speak again if my life depended on it.

  I busy myself preparing another mixture. I keep my gaze straight ahead, but inside I’m listening behind me. I’m expecting to hear footsteps wander away.

  Instead there’s only a concentrated quiet.

  Who knew that Finn Hughes would actually help me?

  His swirls aren’t as neat as mine, but they’re passable. And he works quickly, so that by the time I’m done with this bowl he’s ready for the fresh piping bag I hand him.

  We cover two thousand mince pies with nutmeg cream.

  Then we’re standing there, surveying our work. I’m aware of his gaze on me.

  He brushes his thumb across my cheek, coming away white with whipped cream.

  My breath catches. I look at him, drawn by some unnamable force. Heat races across my skin, a powerful reaction to the brief caress. It sounds insane, but I want him to touch me again.

  “Eva,” he murmurs.

  I shake my head. “We can’t.”

  I’m not sure what I’m refusing. A kiss. A fuck. I’m refusing to have anything to do with handsome men who murmur promises that I’m weak enough to believe.

  His lips quirk. “I could make you enjoy it.”

  “That’s even worse.”

  A soft laugh. Then his hand lifts my chin. My eyes fall closed. Warm lips descend on mine. I gasp at the contact, and he presses the advantage, opening me, invading me.

  He pulls me flush against his hard body, and I feel the ridge of his erection against my stomach. Instinct makes me pull away, but he holds me—firm and unconcerned. “We have to stop.”

  His lips brush the curve of my ear. “I could sit you on this counter and drag your dress up. I could taste your pussy. Would it taste like nutmeg? Would it be sweet like whipped cream? No, you’ll have your own perfect flavor. The staff would watch, but they wouldn’t stop me.”

  “My mother—”

  “She wouldn’t stop me, either. No, she’d be happy enough to land a Hughes. Your father would sell you to me as if you were a plump calf on his farm. How much would you cost, do you think?”

  I squirm away from him, but I’m trapped between his hard body and the counter. “I’m not an animal.”

  A grunt escapes him. He holds tight on my hips. “Don’t move, darling. Not unless you want to be on your back, your ankles locked behind my back.”

  His erection flexes against my hip—a subtle threat. I go still.

  He teases my earlobe gently between his teeth. “You act like the quiet, dutiful daughter, but I think you’re more than that. You have secrets, Eva Morelli. And I’m going to know them.”

  A shiver runs through me. He sounds sure. “Never.”

  “And once I know them, you’ll do anything to keep me from telling the rest of the world, won’t you? I’ll be able to do anything to you as the price for my silence.”

  I stiffen. “That’s blackmail.”

  He presses a gentle kiss to my temple. “Precisely.”

  Then he steps back. I’m sucking in a breath, grasping the counter for balance. He disappears in a blur of expensive linen and wool. God, I’m in way over my head with him.

  Then again, his threat was probably empty. There are a hundred beautiful young women upstairs. Many of them would be willing to go into a dark alcove with him tonight. Despite the religious reason for the season, there are always hookups that happen at the gala.

  The thought of him with another woman makes my stomach drop.

  Which is ridiculous.

  I have no claim on him. And more importantly, he has no claim on me.

  No man will ever have power over me. Not again.

  Chapter Two

  Finn Hughes

  I keep to the fringes of the gala, lingering near the fragrant pine trees adorned with black, white, and gold ornaments. An errant bough drags a small line of wet across the back of my hand. Without taking my eyes off my prey, I suck the sap from my skin. I’m pretending it’s her skin, of course. Pretending it’s her arousal. Pretending the pine-water taste is the sweet, earthy scent of a woman.

  There’s only one woman I want. Eva Morelli. She glides through the crowd, bestowing smiles on drunk old men and stuffy old women, greeting each person by name, asking after
some baby or wedding or retirement.

  Even lined with ten-foot-high Frasier firs, the ballroom easily fits five hundred people. Most of them mingle with champagne. Others dance to the old-timey song Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree crooned by a guy in a white suit. He used to be famous—a few decades ago. Now he probably ekes out a decent living on the private circuit, flashing those veneers to the country club set. Maybe he even makes extra by going home with a rich, lonely widow.

  A few women—and a few men—look more than willing to pay.

  Outside there’s an eight-thousand-square-foot heated tent with a lobster buffet.

  There’s also a North Pole replica complete with a human-size edible Gingerbread house.

  My whole life I’ve attended parties like this one. Extravagant. Over the top.

  It’s as ordinary to me as a family barbeque would be for someone else.

  The fact that Constantines are invited this year… that’s new, but it’s not surprising. Those two families are obsessed with each other. They may pretend they’re getting along for the sake of Leo and Lucian, but the truth is they’re keeping their enemies close.

  Doesn’t matter. The Hughes have always been above that, even though Caroline Constantine is my aunt. My father came from oil money in Dallas. We’ve always been welcome at the Morelli Christmas Gala. Sarah Morelli, in particular, loves me. I catch sight of her stark black dress through the crowd. She murmurs something to Eva, who scurries off to do her bidding.

  I don’t like it.

  I don’t like the way she’s ordered around and overlooked, but it’s not up to me, is it? However people treat Eva Morelli is no business of mine.

  There’s a dark presence behind me. I don’t move, not even when I realize who it is. Especially when I realize who it is. It’s not good to show weakness to Leo Morelli. The Hughes name and status mean nothing to a man with a legendary temper.

  “Don’t.” That’s all he says.

  I could pretend I wasn’t ogling his sister, but that would just waste time. “A man can look.”