Miss Claus and the Millionaire Read online

  “Thanks, Janeane!” he called back.

  Roman located the navy sport coat and found a gray linen button-down to match. He decided to wear them with his only pair of denim jeans and boat shoes and hoped that the overall effect was unassuming, casual, and laid-back. He glanced at his slightly rumpled and disheveled reflection and wondered if it was time to hire a stylist. Resigned and in a hurry, Roman topped off his look with a set of Wayfarers and galloped down the right side of the entryway’s double staircase.

  “How do I look?” he asked, swooping into the kitchen. Janeane was taking her morning coffee with the newspaper, as she had every day for the past thirty years. Her hair, dyed a deep magenta red, was secured high in a bun, and a playful expression was set on her lips.

  “You look like a yuppie heading out to his yacht.” She sniffed, scanning him up and down. “Where are you headed, anyway?”

  “Downtown,” he said, snagging an apple from the counter. “Christmas market.”

  “The morning market?” she asked, her voice rising an octave. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

  “I know. Actually, can I borrow your car?”

  “My Lexus? Why? You have a dozen cars!”

  “I need to look… normal. Please? You can use the Porsche today. Or whichever car you want,” he said, biting into his apple.

  “Okay, but you have to tell me what this is all about,” Janeane sighed, fishing the keys from her purse.

  “I’ll tell you when I get back,” he said, his hand closing around the keys. “You’re a true gem.”

  Roman kissed her on the cheek and dodged a playful swat as he headed toward the door.

  “Don’t forget your phone!” she called after him.

  He turned on his heels and snapped his fingers.

  “See? What would I do without you?” he said, and grabbed his wallet and phone from the valet tray by the garage door.

  Janeane chuckled to herself and shook her head.

  “Maybe someday you’ll finally find out.”

  ***

  “Thank you, merry Christmas!”

  Nicole smiled and passed the brown paper gift bag stuffed with red and green tissue and one of her custom matryoshka sets to a satisfied customer. The Christmas market had only been open for an hour and she had already sold two sets of Russian nesting dolls, one to a sweet couple from Ohio and one to a lawyer from Tarpon Springs. Talisha’s baked goods were flying fast and she and Raquel were only just able to keep a line from forming as they made change and assisted customers.

  Though she had set up her market stall that morning skeptical that her crafts would sell — especially at such a high price — the shoppers at the Christmas market were proving surprisingly generous that day. Both of her sales so far had come from customers who’d read about her in the paper, but she still couldn’t believe her luck. Before she could muse about why people would want to spend their hard-earned money on her quirky hobby any longer, another customer interrupted her train of thought.

  “Are you Miss Claus?”

  Nicole blinked at the good-looking young couple approaching her booth. The woman gave off the effortless beauty of a curvy supermodel, with flawless hair and makeup and a perfect wardrobe to match. Her partner was equally beautiful, clean-cut and chiseled like some kind of Greek statue. An imposing but happy-looking large yellow dog was at their side.

  “Oh um, I guess. Ha ha. How can I help you?”

  “We… read about you in the paper,” the woman said with a warm smile. “How much for one of your nesting dolls?”

  Nicole showed them her selection and explained the process of painting and curing the dolls. They purchased one of her special-edition Christmas sets with cash and then moved on to Talisha’s stand, where they cleaned out the rest of her pumpkin scones. For a moment, Nicole allowed herself to revel in her success and take in the festive surroundings of the morning market. Despite the not-so-chilly Florida winter morning, the hot chocolate and coffee stand across the way kept a constant line of customers. The Gibbs High School choir was singing a contemporary rendition of “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” at the end of the aisle, and a man dressed as Santa wandered in and out of the crowd greeting excited children. She and Talisha had worked plenty of morning market stands before, but none of them had been quite as exciting or well-attended so far as this one.

  “Miss, how much for them dolls?”

  A grizzled older man sidled up to her booth and began to manhandle a set of purple-and-gold matryoshka. Nicole cringed as she watched him shake the doll and hold it to his ear, listening to the wooden miniatures clack together inside.

  “These are a hundred and fifty dollars,” she said, gingerly motioning for him to set the dolls down. “Please don’t shake them.”

  “That much!” he scoffed, scrunching up his nose. “Will you take twenty?”

  Nicole blinked.

  “Sir, these are hand-painted and one of a kind. The price is one-fifty. Firm.”

  “Yer outta yer dang mind.” He laughed.

  “I’ll pay 200,” a voice said from behind him.

  Nicole and the disagreeable customer turned their heads toward the voice. She blinked again as a rumple-haired but ruggedly handsome man emerged from the crowd and stepped up to her booth. Ten crisp twenty-dollar bills crinkled in his extended hand, but it wasn’t the cash that Nicole was looking at. From his smart sport coat to his crop of haphazardly tousled curls, there was something about this mystery man that made her even more speechless than usual. Her face was already flushed from dealing with the ornery customer, but now she could feel that her complexion was verging on scarlet.

  “That’s… too much,” she stammered.

  “I would say that’s just about right,” Talisha cut in. Sensing the altercation, her friend swooped below the counter and retrieved a paper bag and tissue. “Isn’t it?” Talisha handed the packaging to Nicole with a wink and a nudge of encouragement before turning back to her wares.

  Bored and outnumbered, the cantankerous customer grumbled and trudged away, leaving Nicole and her generous patron alone.

  “Thank you, but this is honestly too much. I’ll make some change for you,” Nicole said, packaging up the purple-and-gold set.

  “No need. I really think that’s what they’re worth. Maybe even more. Your art is exquisite and authentic,” he said, examining a set of Christmas matryoshka. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

  “My mother,” Nicole said, timidly accepting his wad of cash. “She learned it from her grandmother. ”

  The patron nodded, a wayward curl falling into his eye.

  “I have to admit, I’m not here just to buy one doll,” he said, extending a business card. “My name is Roman. Roman Regan. I’m with Ryzhov Enterprises. I’ve been trying to get in contact with you all week.”

  Nicole felt her expression fall as she accepted the small off-white card. On the front in a clean sans-serif font was the name “Roman Regan” and, underneath, “Ryzhov Enterprises,” followed by a local phone number.

  “You’re from around here?”

  “Yes. But we have offices in Tampa, Moscow, and Beijing,” he said, leaning on her counter. He flashed a smile full of straight white teeth set against his tanned complexion and day-old stubble. His warm, inviting grin nearly pulled her back in.

  “Mr. Regan,” she said, breaking her gaze from the too-perfect smile, “I’m sorry but I’m really not interested in working with Ryzhov Enterprises. I want to stay independent.”

  “Roman,” he said. “Call me Roman.”

  Another group of customers edged their way into her stall and began to ogle her wares, their joyful holiday chatter filling the air. Nicole’s eyes darted nervously from the good-looking businessman to the swarm of potential customers steadily streaming in.

  “I’m sorry but I really can’t talk about this right now,” she said, handing him one of her business cards. “Maybe we can discu
ss this another time?”

  “My company sent me down here on a Saturday. We’re very interested in your work. Would you at least agree to meet me for dinner to see what I have to offer?”

  Nicole’s anxiety started to fire off at peak levels as more and more customers filed in to examine her dolls. Roman’s dark eyes crinkled in the corners as he waited for her answer, his face screwed up in an expression that she couldn’t quite read. A sudden cool breeze whipped through the Christmas market, jingling the bells hung at the corner of her booth, and Nicole felt a chill run down her spine. She cleared her throat and eyed the generous, eager man who stood before her, wondering what on earth she had gotten herself into.

  “Okay,” she said, standing tall. “Where and when?”

  Chapter Three

  Roman turned the purple-and-gold matryoshka over and over in his hand, admiring the precision and details of the hand-painted nesting doll. He had researched dozens of dolls online over the years, but none of them were just right; they were either obviously mass-produced, inauthentic, or low-quality. But this. This one was truly exquisite.

  “What’s that?”

  Janeane put her box of ornaments down and crossed the expanse of their massive sitting room to where Roman had planted himself on the couch. She was busy putting the finishing touches on their twelve-foot-high artificial Fraser fir, the one and only sign of Christmas on the massive estate. Roman didn’t care to decorate for the holidays, but Janeane insisted on a tree, so he allowed it.

  “This is what I went to the Christmas market for today,” he said, handing her the matryoshka. Janeane examined the wooden doll with a smile.

  “Just like your grandmother’s,” she said, handing it back to him.

  “I went down there to speak to the artist. I was expecting someone that looked like my grandmother, too.” He chuckled to himself, his mind drifting back to the big-eyed artist in the market booth as he fished her business card from his pocket.

  Nicole Myers.

  She didn’t look anything like the kind of woman that usually turned his head. Not a lick of makeup or a hint of cleavage in sight. There was nothing artificial about the busy redhead behind the doll he had been obsessing over for days. Her look and general first impression was effortless and authentic and… refreshing.

  “I’m going to buy the brand,” he announced. “It’s called Miss Claus & Co. I think it will do really well on the international market.”

  “Another acquisition?” She sighed, returning to her decorating. “Roman, you don’t have to own everything that catches your eye.”

  “This is different, Janeane,” he said, rising from his chair. He followed her to the tree, picking up a handmade wooden ornament he had painted with his grandmother long ago. “I want to take Ryzhov in a new direction. I have a good feeling about this.”

  “What makes this so different?”

  “The newspaper article mentioned something about the artist starting a foundation for children and the holidays or something.” Roman shrugged. “Ryzhov doesn’t support any foundations. No charities, no goodwill. This seems like a good opportunity to really make a difference.”

  “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Janeane nodded, knowingly.

  “Yes, but that’s not it,” Roman said, hanging his ornament. “The minute I read the article in the paper it was like… I knew. Her words made me feel something again. It’s something I want to help other people feel too.”

  “That all sounds well and good, but you’re clearly worried about something. The lines on your forehead are giving you away.”

  Janeane had him there. It was hard to get anything past her.

  “She… doesn’t know who I really am,” he admitted, hanging another ornament. “She thinks I’m a marketing executive.”

  Janeane shook her head in disapproval.

  “What will your father think?” she said with one eyebrow arched.

  “Who cares what Sergei thinks?” Roman scoffed. “He isn’t here. He couldn’t care less about what I do and how I run my branch of the business.”

  “Well, I wish you luck,” she said, her eyes soft around the edges. “I for one will be glad to see you putting all of this to good use.”

  Roman’s shoulders slumped. Janeane had seen him at his worst and never stopped treating him with love and compassion just the same. She wasn’t even technically family, but her approval and affection meant more to him than just about anything.

  “Janeane, I don’t think I want to live like this anymore,” he admitted. “I’ve been looking for something else my whole life. This whole way of living is just so false. My friends are fake. My business is fake. I need something real.”

  “And you think you’re going to find that something real by purchasing a small arts-and-crafts company?” Janeane asked, her eyes full of concern. “Under false pretenses?”

  “Of course not,” he sighed, and gazed at the star on top of the tree. “But it's a start.”

  ***

  “Eight hundred and four, eight hundred and five… eight hundred and six dollars!” Talisha exclaimed.

  Nicole’s roommate hovered over a spread of stacked cash on their kitchen island that evening. She and Raquel slapped a double high five and munched on leftover gingerbread men and red wine as they finished tallying up the Christmas-market booth sales. The day had been as long and busy as they anticipated, but the two had nearly sold out of their entire stock. Nicole silently counted her own stash in the living room, bewildered at the contents of her little gray cash pouch.

  “How did you do?”

  Nicole frowned and looked across the room at the two cheerful women, still not entirely sure if she should be honest. She didn’t want to spoil their own celebration, but still, the success of her most excellent morning market yet was too good not to share.

  “Two thousand.”

  “What!?” they yelled in unison.

  “I know!” she squealed. “I sold thirteen dolls. Can you believe it?”

  “Girl, I knew you would kill it today!” Talisha said. She crossed over to their living room and wrapped her friend in a hug. “That one beautiful man even paid extra. I think he was sweet on you.”

  “Nah,” Nicole said, retrieving the business card from her pocket. “He was that marketing exec from Ryzhov. He was just there to try and talk me into a business meeting.”

  Talisha took the card from her hand and examined it, a smirk creeping into the corner of her mouth.

  “This is major,” she said, returning it. “Businesses don’t just hunt down little arts-and-crafts companies to acquire their name and product every day. They must really see something in you!”

  “Well, I’m going to find out what it is on Wednesday night, I guess.” Nicole shrugged. “We’re meeting for dinner to discuss his proposal.”

  “Where is he taking you?” Raquel chimed in. She was the head chef at the Library Bar and Grill, a new and super trendy restaurant in downtown St. Pete. Her ears always perked up when it came to restaurant talk.

  “Some chophouse, I don’t know. Rococo something.”

  “Rococo Chophouse?” Raquel said, her mouth hanging open. “This is major. Rococo is expensive.”

  “I’m not going to be impressed if he flashes around fancy dinners and money,” Nicole said, shaking her head. “But I might entertain Ryzhov’s offer if I can get them to meet my demands.”

  “Which are?” Talisha said, crossing her arms.

  “Well, for starters, I don’t want to put my name on a bunch of mass-produced items,” Nicole explained. “I would want to hire artisans like me and train them the way my mom trained me. Then I would want to make sure they get paid a good living wage. Then of course I would want a portion of all of our proceeds to go to the Miss Claus children's fund.”

  “Ooh, that’s a tall order,” Talisha said with a half smile, half frown. “Are you sure about this?”

  “Positive,” Nicole sa
id, looking at the business card again. “I’ve been broke my whole life. I’m not going to sell out now just when I’m about to make it on my own.”

  “Okay,” Talisha said, throwing her hands up. “What are you going to wear?”

  Nicole looked down at her oatmeal-colored chunky-knit sweater and skinny jeans, then back up at her stylish roommate. It was suddenly clear that her typical uniform of casual neutral tops and denim wasn’t going to cut it for a swanky business dinner.

  “Yeah, maybe you can help me with that,” she said, blushing. “Do you think you have something for me to wear?”

  Talisha and Raquel looked at each other knowingly.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Talisha said, rubbing her hands together.

  ***

  Nicole brought her thick stack of cash to the bank that following Monday and added every cent of her Christmas-market earnings to her business savings account. Despite the cold hard evidence in her hands, she was still amazed to have made almost as much money in one day at the Christmas market as she usually did all month working at the craft store. The prospect of making such a huge profit in a short time made her head spin, but the best part was that she had done it all on her own.

  She still wasn’t sure why she had agreed to meet with Roman for a business dinner. His warm, smiling eyes and enthusiasm for her artwork probably had something to do with it. It was always flattering to have someone appreciate her work — particularly if that someone was good-looking. But it would take more than a pretty face and some smooth talk for Nicole to change her entire business plan. It had taken her ten years of building up an online presence for her to get where she was, after all. Ten years of learning how to market herself and perfecting her art to reach this point. How could she let some conglomerate company swoop in, write a check, and just end it all?

  As Nicole got ready for her shift at the craft store later that day, she tried to think of what her mother would have done in her situation. Kristja had been a single immigrant mother, alone in America and bouncing from one place to the next. She was sure that her mother would have taken the offer with no questions asked. So why was the idea of letting go so hard?