Page 3 of Silver Fox's Christmas Scandal
Crystal-clear liquid splashed across the front of his tuxedo, soaking into the expensive fabric and sending droplets cascading down to pool on his perfectly polished shoes.
The decorations tumbled from my arms as I instinctively reached forward, as if I could somehow catch the spilled champagne and return it to his glass.
Garland unfurled across the elevator floor, ornaments rolled into corners, and the scent of mothballs intensified as decades-old holiday cheer scattered around our feet.
"Oh, God. Oh, no. Mr. Cross, I am so sorry—" The words tumbled out in a breathless rush as I stared at the damage I'd inflicted.
His tuxedo was ruined, not just damp or slightly stained, but thoroughly soaked across the chest and lapels, the dark fabric now bearing the unmistakable evidence of my clumsiness.
This was it. The final nail in the coffin of my career at Cross Capital. I'd managed to destroy the Christmas party and assault the CEO with champagne in the span of one evening.
HR would probably have my desk cleared before the elevator reached our floor.
But when I finally worked up the courage to meet his eyes, expecting to find the cold fury that I'd seen him direct at underperforming executives and incompetent business partners, I found something entirely unexpected.
Lucian Cross was laughing.
Not the polite chuckle he might offer during a business dinner, but genuine laughter that transformed his entire face.
The stern lines around his eyes softened, and for a moment he looked younger, more approachable, startlingly human ina way that made my chest tighten with awareness that had nothing to do with professional anxiety.
"Mr. Cross, I can pay for the dry cleaning—or replacement—I know it's expensive, and I'm so sorry, I don't know how I?—"
"Tessa." My name again, spoken with enough quiet authority to cut through my panicked babbling. "It's a tuxedo. I own several."
"But the party—your appearance…" I gestured helplessly at his soaked shirt front, my mind racing through the implications. How could he return to the gala looking as though he'd been caught in a champagne rainstorm? What would the board members think? The clients?
"I have a better question," he said, bending to set his empty champagne flute carefully on the floor before straightening to face me again. "How would you feel about saving Christmas together?"
I was dumbfounded by his question. I stared at him, certain I'd misheard or misunderstood, waiting for the punchline that would reveal this was some elaborate joke at my expense.
"I don't understand."
"My penthouse has an extensive wine cellar," he said, as casually as if he were discussing quarterly reports. "Champagne, wine, spirits—more than enough to replace what the caterer would have provided. If you come with me, we can retrieve enough bottles to salvage the evening."
The elevator doors opened with their soft chime, revealing the chaos of the forty-second floor beyond.
But I couldn't move, couldn't process what he was suggesting.
Go with him. To his penthouse.
Just the two of us.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I tried to understand what this offer meant, what it would cost me, what he expected in return.
Because men in Lucian Cross's position didn't make generous offers without expecting something in exchange, and I was suddenly, acutely aware of how vulnerable I'd become.
"I feel like a fool," I whispered, the words escaping before I could stop them.
His expression grew serious, and when he spoke, his voice carried a note I'd never heard before—something warmer than his usual professional tone, but with an undercurrent that made my pulse quicken.
"Then let me help you fix it.”
2
LUCIAN
Snow pelted the windows of my stretch limo while my driver navigated Chicago's streets at a crawl. The powder created a blanket of insulation, drowning the sound of traffic and swallowing it whole.
