Page 23 of His for Christmas
"Mmm. A business associate from Milan." I deliberately leave the nature of our association ambiguous. "She has very refined tastes. Very demanding about getting exactly what she wants."
Holly nods, her expression carefully neutral now as she takes a too-large bite of pastry. "It's nice that your chef is so accommodating."
"Henri knows how to please me," I say, letting innuendo color the words. "As do all my staff. Satisfaction is paramount in my household."
Her cheeks flush again. She's remembering last night's satisfaction, as I intended. But there's also uncertainty in her eyes now, a question about her place in the hierarchy of women who have shared my bed. Perfect.
"My assistant will be arranging several details today," I continue, changing subjects with deliberate abruptness. "She'll need your measurements for the gala."
"The gala?" Holly looks genuinely confused.
"The Sterling Enterprises Christmas Gala. You're decorating for it, remember?" I take a bite of eggs Benedict, savoring both the perfect hollandaise and her obvious confusion. "You'll be attending as my guest, of course. Patricia will arrange for suitable attire."
"I can dress myself," she counters, a spark of independence flaring. "I have appropriate clothing for formal events."
I raise an eyebrow, letting skepticism show. "The gala requires something beyond appropriate, Holly. It's the social event of the season. Everyone who matters in this city will be watching us."
The implications land exactly as intended. Us. A public declaration of her status in my life.
"Is that wise?" she asks quietly. "I'm working for you. People will talk."
"People always talk," I dismiss her concern with a wave of my hand. "Let them. I've never particularly cared what others think of my personal choices."
"And is that what I am?" she challenges, finally meeting my eyes directly. "A personal choice?"
I hold her gaze, letting her see the intensity of my interest. "You are many things, Holly. Employee is rapidly becoming the least significant of them."
She swallows hard, dropping her eyes to her barely-touched food. "This is happening very fast."
"When I recognize what I want, I don't waste time," I reply simply. "Unlike Henri's eggs Benedict, some opportunities don't keep well if left unattended."
A text chimes on my phone—Patricia with an update on the Tokyo acquisition. I check it briefly, then set the phone aside. "Speaking of opportunities, I have a dinner meeting tonight with the head of Vantage Media. Celia Williams—brilliant woman, absolutely ruthless in negotiations." I pause, watching Holly's expression carefully. "She's also exceptionally beautiful. Former model."
The jealousy flashes again—stronger this time, less controlled. Holly takes a sip of water, buying time to compose her features. "Sounds like an interesting evening," she manages.
"It could be," I agree, letting the possibility hang between us. "Unless I had a reason to reschedule."
Her eyes fly to mine, understanding dawning. I'm offering her a choice—stake her claim or allow me to spend the evening with another beautiful woman. It's manipulative, yes, but effective. I want to see how much she's willing to fight for this connection between us.
"Your business meetings are your own affair," she says finally, attempting dignity despite the hurt visible in her eyes. "I'll be working late on the library installation anyway."
Not the answer I was hoping for, but revealing nonetheless. She's still clinging to professional boundaries, still afraid to admit how deeply she's already involved. No matter. I have time to break down those remaining walls.
"Perhaps I'll check your progress when I return," I say, letting the matter drop for now. "The library is important to me. I want it perfect."
She nods, relief evident in the relaxing of her shoulders. She thinks she's maintained some control, some distance. She doesn't yet understand that this momentary retreat is merely strategic on my part. By Christmas, there will be no boundaries left between us—professional or otherwise.
And as for Celia Williams? I'll have Patricia cancel before Holly even leaves the house this morning. There was never any dinner meeting. But Holly doesn't need to know that. Not yet.
Meetings drain my patience on the best of days. Today, with Holly's scent still clinging to my sheets and the memory of her body beneath mine fresh in my mind, the parade of lawyers and accountants seems particularly pointless. I've built an empire that runs efficiently without my constant oversight—a fact I appreciate now more than ever as I find myself checking the time every fifteen minutes, calculating how soon I can reasonably end this discussion of quarterly projections.
By six, I've had enough. I dismiss the financial team with curt instructions to revise their proposal and exit my office before anyone can raise further questions. Patricia gives me a knowing look as I pass her desk without stopping for my usual end-of-day briefing. She's been with me long enough to recognize thesigns of my focused interest in something—or someone—beyond work.
The household staff informed me earlier that Holly was working in the kitchen, consulting with the chef about the gala menu and decoration integration. An unusual choice of location for the event planner, but Holly's thoroughness is one of her many qualities I admire. She leaves nothing to chance, considers every detail that might enhance the overall experience. It's a trait we share, though I apply mine to corporate takeovers rather than Christmas ornaments.
I find her exactly where expected, alone in the massive kitchen, papers spread across the center island. She's changed from the blue dress into clothes from her own collection that must have been delivered at some point—simple black trousers and a cream sweater that somehow manages to be both modest and enticing. Her hair is pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, exposing the curve of her throat where I left a small mark last night. The sight of it—my mark on her skin—sends a surge of satisfaction through me.
She doesn't hear me enter, absorbed in whatever notes she's reviewing. A half-empty mug of tea sits at her elbow, long forgotten judging by the lack of steam. I watch her for a moment, appreciating the furrow of concentration between her brows, the way she absently tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she works. Such a simple gesture, yet endearing in its unconscious repetition.
