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  The Russian’s Christmas Present

  Dani Wyatt

  Copyright © 2021

  by Dani Wyatt

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places,

  events and incidents are either the products

  of the author’s imagination

  or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  www.daniwyatt.com

  Editing Nicci Haydon

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

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  The Russian’s Christmas Present

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Other Titles By Dani Wyatt

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  The Russian’s Christmas Present

  What you can expect:

  **An over the top alpha hero

  **Always safe, swoony, no cheating

  **A happily ever after age-gap, holiday romance with all the feels

  **Super sexy times with a jealous possessive stalking hero

  **Smart heroine who can take care of herself…but maybe

  it would be nice to have someone take care of her for a change.

  It’s been years since there was any holiday spirit in Bria Driscoll’s life. For this curvy, budding fashion designer, December 25th is just another day come and gone.

  With the holidays behind her, it’s back to work and her first order of business is to take the measurements of one enormous, sexy Russian named Mr. Martel Kozlov. When this burly loner takes one look at Bria, he knows he’s found his own personal sugar plum.

  He’s willing to drop some serious cash if the young beauty from the formal wear shop will agree to win him at a charity bachelor auction the next night. Bria could sure use the money, so it’s game on. But, before the bidding can begin, things heat up faster than a couple of roasted chestnuts.

  Can Bria believe that her happy ending could be delivered at the speed of Santa’s sleigh, even if it is two weeks overdue? Or will she and Martel’s Russian Christmas miracle be over before it has a chance to begin…?

  Author’s Note: Russian Christmas is January 7th! When this pull-no-punches heroine measures this over-the-top alpha’s inseam, she gets a look at one very large holiday package. These two may be from different sides of the tracks but that doesn’t stop this obsessed older hero from claiming his sweet, young prize. This is insta-love on steroids, always safe, no cheating ever and a happily ever after guaranteed.

  Chapter 1

  Martel

  I’m on my second shot of Stoli and if I don’t get away from my mother soon, I’m going to start chugging straight from the Baccarat carafe.

  “Roan, please.” She gives my best friend her most imploring smile. “Tell him.”

  “You need a new suit.” Roan tosses back his own amber liquid shot from a crystal highball glass and gives me an amused look.

  “Why are you even here?” I snap at Roan who snort-chuckles and shrugs toward my mother.

  “He’s a regular Jolly Old St Nick.” He walks over to the bar and pours himself another finger of scotch.

  “And you’re a regular—"

  My mother interrupts. “He’s here because I invited him, Martel. Otherwise you were going to check into your hotel and God knows when I’d see you. We have twelve bedrooms for goodness sake. And a guest house. You could stay out there.” My mother implores. “If it wasn’t for your Grandfather living here, we’d never see you. Holidays, weddings and funerals…”

  “I hope you’ll come for my funeral.” Roan smirks, stepping from the bar to take a seat on the royal-blue velvet sofa next to my mother, who is tapping away on her phone. She’s wearing her classic two-piece Chanel suit, with three layers of pearls and her makeup and hair looking straight out of the salon, as usual.

  “I may cause you to have a funeral sooner than you’d like.” I grit out at my friend, clearing my throat as I look around the living room where I grew up.

  As it is every year, the entire twelve thousand square feet of this preposterous home is professionally decorated for Christmas with red and white everything everywhere and so many twinkling white lights I’m about to have a seizure.

  It’s January 5th, and for most people Christmas is over. Not for us. Both sides of my family are Russian, third generation here in the U.S. but in our world, January 7th is the day of the celebration, not December 25th like it is for most everyone else.

  The headache that started as soon as I packed my truck to head here now feels like spikes driving into my temples. The unfortunate thing is, I like Christmas. For the bulk of my youth, we spent traditional Russian Christmas Eve and Christmas morning at my maternal grandparents’ house in Townley, PA.

  I own the house now, that’s how much I loved it there. I bought it from my Grandfather ten years ago after my grandmother died and his Parkinson’s advanced to the point he couldn’t live alone. Soon after, my mother didn’t think two single men could take care of themselves and she moved her father to our family home, then hired a team of caregivers and nurses to be sure she wouldn’t have to do any of the dirty work herself.

  Well-meaning, if a little cold, but that’s my mother.

  “You’re always so contrary.” My mother puts her phone down and folds her perfectly manicured hands in her lap. “Besides, Roan has already agreed.”

  I dart my eyes between them, and I already know I’m not going to like the answer to my next question. “Agreed to what?”

  Roan sniffs as he and my mother exchange a glance. “The charity event tomorrow. That’s why you need a new suit.”

  The Russian tea cakes my family’s cook brought out just a minute ago are beginning to smell pretty fishy.

  “Event?” I already know I’ve been duped.

  “For the Parkinson’s Association.” Roan raises his eyebrows, giving me a knowing look raising his glass to me. “Hard to say no to that.”

  I run my hand through my hair and grip the back of my neck on the way down. As if on cue, there’s the sound of footsteps from behind me and I turn to see my Grandfather being wheeled into the living room by Emily, one of his aides.

  “Little birdie told me you’d landed back in the nest.” He holds out a quivering hand and I hop up and make my way toward him.

  “Grandpa. You’re looking more like Hugh Hefner every day.” I stand back and give him an admiring look. “Where are the bunnies?” I lean over to look behind him as Emily grins.

  “He wore them out.” His caregiver leans down to whisper in his ear. “Some things get better with age.” She squeezes his shoulders and gives me a wink.

  “Sure.” My grandfather rolls his eyes. “I had my one bunny. That was all I ever wanted or needed.”

  The house my grandfather built, where I now live, was simple compared to this stone-walled monstrosity. He built the solid Sears Craftsman House by himself, with the help
of a few friends and family, back when he was in his early twenties. A few years later, he married my grandmother and it’s also where my mother grew up, but you’d be hard pressed to get her to admit that to most of her current circle.

  She always wanted a different life. A tall, thin, Russian beauty, her focus was on her physical appeal, which the genetic Gods conspired to give to her in abundance. That led to her winning local pageants, but also a few bigger titles. She won Miss Pittsburg, and that led to a whirlwind romance with my father. When they got together, his family already owned Countrywide Insurance, one of the largest insurance companies in the country.

  They weren’t always so legit, but by the time my father was in his twenties, he was a second generation immigrant and the family had given up most of the bootlegging, enforcement and darker sides of their underground businesses and traded up for the more acceptable sort of American dream. They started in the steel mills of Philadelphia, then other legitimate businesses followed creating an empire of sorts among the Kozlov’s who arrived here in American with little more than a bag of tattered clothes and a drive to succeed.

  It was the fairy tale my mother always wanted.

  Enter her first and only child, arriving just a short eight months from the date of their wedding. What my parents lacked in love for each other, they made up for in a fierce drive for acceptance into the upper class so their roots of poverty could be forever forgotten.

  I came into the world hell-bent on not following in the family footsteps of three-piece suits and board meetings. Country clubs and golf.

  Expectations and bullshit.

  Instead, after college—which I completed as a favor to my grandparents more than anything—I took a job at a local machine shop and learned to weld.

  Turns out, I fucking loved it.

  I thought my mother was going to have a breakdown. Her only son, heir to a national insurance and investment conglomerate and a fortune into the hundreds of millions, working manual labor? Isn’t that what her parents and grandparents left, to come here to American and make it big?

  I was supposed to want the Mercedes. The cigar and vodka lunches at the downtown steakhouse. The invitations to the upper-crust events of polite society that make us feel like we belong. What was I doing as a welder?

  Doesn’t matter that I’ve made myself into a success on my own terms. I own my business. I have close to a hundred employees. Since I have almost zero social life, I’ve made investing my side gig and if I so chose, I could have all the trappings of what my parents view as success, I just don’t see the point.

  Still, the scandal of it all nearly drove my parents mad.

  “Your grandfather is going to be the guest of honor.” My mother goes for the jugular. “Would be such a shame if his one and only grandson, home for Christmas, didn’t even come to the event honoring him.”

  Roan gives me an amused, sympathetic look, raising an eyebrow on a tight smile. He and I are not blood related, but we’ve been mistaken for brothers more times than I can count. The only big difference between us now is my face is covered with a thick brown beard in contrast to his two-day scruff.

  I rub my forehead, knowing I’ve been bamboozled.

  But there’s no way I’d bring any shame to my grandfather. He’s the one that taught me the values that led me to my life now. Because of him I know how to bait a hook, work a hard day’s labor, fix a carburetor and be proud of my accomplishments, even if they don’t stand up to someone else’s expectations.

  He also taught me to treat women with respect. How waiting for the right one to come along can pay off in spades. I didn’t always believe him, but as time went on my doubt faded away. Unfortunately, inching toward my fortieth birthday, I’m coming to believe the right one may not be in the cards for me.

  Years ago I dated here and there. Thinking if I just gave it time that feeling my grandfather always told me about would suddenly, magically appear. Didn’t happen. I cared for some of them. I liked them. Didn’t wish them ill.

  But, that thing? Nyet, and at least for me, without that, year after year my interest in looking for hidden treasure became less and less.

  So, I work. Hard. I also weld for the art of it. I do a few big weekend juried art shows each summer. Takes me months to create some of my largest sculptures and I have commissions coming in every week, no matter how high I raise my prices. I’ve taken a different road, but it’s made all the difference for me.

  My bank account is in solid shape, even if I’ve turned down my father’s offer to come work at Countrywide, and by so doing, I would be rewarded with a trust fund that could support a small city.

  It’s coercion at its finest, but I’m not playing my parents’ game. I’m my own man and no one can take that away from me.

  “Fine.” I concede to the event. “I’m doing it for you, old man.” I jerk my head toward my grandfather. “Only, you better be wearing a suit too. Otherwise, I’m sporting silk pajamas and a robe. I may even start smoking a pipe…”

  I pull at my beard as Roan and my grandfather chuckle, but before I can enjoy the moment, my mother is back on task.

  “Very well, it’s settled. Mauricio is waiting for you at the shop.”

  Mauricio is an old friend of the family who has a custom tailor and formalwear shop in town. It’s very high end. He does the suits and his wife does the gowns and women’s formal dresses. He’s taken care of my family as far back as I can remember.

  “Now?” I grouse toward my mother, who comes over and runs her hands down my arms.

  “Yes, now.” She smiles, the lines around her red lips a bit deeper than I remember. Her blonde hair, swept up into a tight bun, glimmers with gray now. “You should look at some other things while you’re there. I swear you were wearing this same shirt last time you were here. Just bill it to our account. Whatever you want.” The disdain in her voice is thinly veiled but I know there’s strings attached to everything she offers so there will be no billing anything to the family tab.

  “Flannel is in this year,” my grandfather chimes in, nodding toward us. He’s lost weight, his skin is dry and gray, and as much as I dislike my family home, I need to find a way to spend more time with him. “It’s all the rage. Think I saw a picture of Warren Buffet on the cover of Forbes dressed like a lumberjack. All he needed was Martel’s beard.”

  “Dad,” my mother quips, shaking her head. “Don’t encourage him.” My mother waves her hand and makes her way toward the archway leading to the main hall. “We will see you back here by eight sharp for dinner. And speaking of dinner, I need to go check on preparations. They never quite make the Marlenka to my standards. If you don’t stay on top of your staff every second…” Her voice fades as she disappears toward the kitchen and I stuff my hands into my jeans’ pockets and look at my grandfather, who gives me a sympathetic smile.

  “You’re going to be fine.” He gives me a wave. “I appreciate you agreeing to come to the event, if that helps at all.” He coughs as Emily comes over and hands him a tissue, but he shoos her off and finishes. “I tried to get her to tell you about it sooner. But, you know your mother. She thinks she knows best.”

  “It’s fine. I’ll be there with bells on.” I nod.

  He and I have more in common than I do with my own father, who right now is on a business trip in New York courting a merger with some other insurance company hell-bent on squashing the little guy whenever the opportunity presents itself.

  My grandfather who was a supervisor at one of the steel mills my father’s family owned, may not have had the financial success that my own father has, but he had the kind of success that most will never have.

  He and my grandmother made a life for themselves that revolved around love, laughter and loyalty, even in the hard times. And, as he would always say, a generous amount of vodka, which my grandmother always said cured just about everything.

  I’ve never had much drive for financial over-abundance, which made me a bit of an outcast in th
e private schools and country clubs where I grew up. I was a loner anyway, Roan is one of my few friends left from around here, probably my only friend besides the ones I have back in Townley, none of which—to my knowledge at least—have trust funds.

  It’s become my home, but I’ve always felt like I was waiting to belong to something. I don’t fit here and don’t quite fit there. Doesn’t help that I spend most of my time at work, and although my parents will never understand, it’s given me a sense of purpose.

  Still, thinking about my grandparents, as much as I’d never admit it to my friends, what’s missing is my person. The one.

  Emily a sturdy Russian woman a decade my senior comes back into the room with my grandfather’s oxygen, her light green scrubs decorated with little unicorns. “We should go back up. A little nap so you can have dinner later and not fall face first into your Solyanka.”

  My grandfather gives her a wave but looks my way. “Sucks getting old.” Then he points at me. “Don’t forget to live first. You never know how much time you’re wasting waiting.”

  Emily wheels him back toward the wing where my grandfather has his own suite of rooms and Roan and I head to the front door.

  Once outside, I punch him in the shoulder. “You could have given me a heads-up, dick.”

  He shrugs as we step toward our vehicles in the early evening chill. “She blindsided me when I got here. Told me she wanted me to surprise you when you got here. She’s got skills, man. What can I say? Besides, your grandfather…” He tips his head back toward the house. “There was no way out of it…”