Page 14 of His for Christmas
"The lighting contractor will deal with my staff from now on," I say, my voice softening slightly. "Consider it a condition of your continued employment here."
"That's not professional," she protests, but weakly.
"I don't particularly care about professional right now." I drop my hand, forcing myself to step back. "I have a meeting in ten minutes. We'll continue our...discussion...later."
She nods, gathering her composure. "Was there actually something you wanted to discuss about the ballroom concept?"
"Yes," I say, returning to my desk. "But not now. Tonight. Dinner in my private dining room at eight. We can review your progress without interruptions."
It's not a request, and we both know it. Holly studies me for a long moment, then nods again. "Eight o'clock."
As she turns to leave, I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. By tonight, I'll make it abundantly clear to Holly Parker exactly who she belongs to. And no contractor—lighting or otherwise—will ever look at her that way again, if he values his continued employment.
The small antechamber adjacent to my office hasn't been used in years. Once a smoking room for my grandfather's business associates, it's been largely forgotten—a beautifully proportioned space with mahogany paneling and a view of the east gardens. This morning, I instructed the staff to clean it thoroughly and bring in the boxes of rare ornaments from storage. Ornaments that require careful handling and expertplacement. Ornaments that only the head decorator should be entrusted with. By eleven, Holly will have no choice but to spend hours working within twenty feet of my office, where I can watch her, speak to her, keep her away from contractors with wandering eyes and transparent intentions.
It's manipulation, pure and simple. I would recognize it as such in a business negotiation and admire the strategy. I've built an empire on understanding what motivates people and using it to my advantage. The fact that I'm now employing these tactics for personal reasons should concern me. It doesn't.
Patricia delivers the message exactly as instructed, emphasizing the value of the ornament collection and the need for Holly's personal attention. I watch through my partially open door as Holly arrives at eleven sharp, her expression professionally neutral though her eyes betray her suspicion. She knows this isn't coincidental. Not after yesterday's display of jealousy.
She's wearing a simple burgundy sweater today that clings to her curves in a way that isn't deliberately provocative but affects me nonetheless. Her hair is pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, exposing the delicate line of her throat where I pressed my lips two nights ago.
"Mr. Sterling requested these be incorporated into the library design," Patricia explains, gesturing to the carefully packed boxes. "They're Bohemian glass, some dating back to the late 1800s."
Holly nods, already focused on the task despite her obvious awareness of my nearby presence. "I'll handle them personally. They'll work beautifully with the concept we discussed."
Patricia leaves, and Holly begins unpacking the ornaments with careful hands, examining each piece before setting it aside. I give her ten minutes to become absorbed in her work before I make my appearance.
"Finding everything you need?" I ask from the doorway, enjoying how she startles slightly at my voice.
She looks up, those expressive brown eyes meeting mine with a mixture of wariness and awareness. "Yes, thank you. These are extraordinary pieces." She holds up a hand-painted glass sphere that catches the light. "Nineteenth century Bohemian work, I'm guessing?"
"My grandfather began the collection," I say, moving into the room. "I've added to it over the years."
"You have excellent taste," she says, returning to her unpacking. "These will be perfect for the library display."
I move closer, standing beside the table where she works. "I thought you might appreciate them. Your designs show an understanding of history and craftsmanship that's rare."
"Is that why you've arranged for me to work right next to your office all day?" she asks, not looking up from her task. The directness of her question surprises a laugh from me.
"Perceptive as well as talented."
She glances up, a hint of challenge in her eyes. "I recognize strategy when I see it, Dominic."
Hearing my name on her lips still gives me a rush of satisfaction. "And yet, you're here anyway."
"The ornaments are beautiful," she says simply. "I wouldn't trust anyone else with them either."
I watch her hands as she unwraps another piece—careful, respectful, appreciative of the craftsmanship. The same way she touched the music box in my collection room. The way she touched me in the darkened sitting room.
"Let me show you how they catch the light," I say, reaching for an ornament she's already unwrapped. Our fingers brush, and I deliberately prolong the contact. She doesn't pull away.
I hold the delicate glass piece up to the window, where sunlight transforms it into a prism of colors. "My grandmotherused to tell me these capture the essence of winter light. Frozen moments of beauty."
Holly steps closer to see better, her shoulder brushing against my arm. "She was right. They're like captured starlight."
I turn to face her, still holding the ornament between us. Her face is upturned to watch the play of light, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. I resist the urge to bend and press my lips to her pulse point.
"Here," I say instead, placing the ornament in her palm and closing her fingers around it carefully. My hands envelop hers completely. "Feel the weight of it. The balance."
