Page 4 of His for Christmas
The double meaning in his words isn't lost on me. My pulse hammers in my throat, and I can feel heat spreading across my chest and up my neck. I've never had a man look at me the way Dominic Sterling is looking at me now—like I'm a rare artifact he's considering adding to his collection.
"I should get back to work," I manage to say.
"Yes," he agrees, but doesn't move to let me pass. "The Christmas preparations. Ms. Winters tells me you come highly recommended."
"I'm very good at what I do."
His eyes darken a shade. "I expect nothing less than excellence in my home."
"You'll have it," I promise, finding my professional voice despite the strange tension humming between us.
He studies me for another long moment, his gaze traveling from my eyes to my lips and back again. Then he steps aside, a deliberate movement that nonetheless feels reluctant.
"I look forward to our meeting tomorrow, Holly," he says as I reclaim my clipboard. "Come prepared to impress me."
The words could be purely professional, but the heat in his eyes suggests otherwise. I nod, not trusting my voice, and slip past him toward the door. His presence radiates heat that I swear I can feel against my skin as I pass.
At the door, some reckless impulse makes me turn back. "Thank you for sharing your collection with me, Mr. Sterling."
"Dominic," he corrects, his eyes never leaving mine. "And I haven't begun to share anything with you yet."
The promise in those words follows me down the hallway, along with the feeling that I've just stumbled into something far more dangerous than a forbidden room. Dominic Sterling looks at me like he's already decided I belong to him, and the most frightening part is the thrill that sends through me.
Chapter
Two
DOMINIC
I can still smellher perfume in my private collection room. Something light and floral with an undertone of vanilla—nothing expensive or designer, yet it suits her. I've dismissed three calls and ignored an urgent email from Tokyo because I can't stop thinking about finding Holly Parker among my treasures, her fingers caressing the Austrian music box like she understood its value beyond the price. I never allow anyone in that room. Even the cleaning staff are forbidden entry—I dust the collection myself. Yet finding her there, wide-eyed and appreciative rather than calculating its worth, has occupied my mind for the past hour in a way nothing has in years.
"Sir?" My intercom buzzes with Patricia Winters' voice. "The board is waiting for your decision on the Kyoto acquisition."
"Tell them I'll have it by morning." I disconnect before she can respond. Patricia has worked for me for seven years, and in that time I've never postponed a decision for personal distraction. She'll be wondering what's happened. I'm wondering the same thing.
I rise from my desk and walk to the window overlooking the grounds. Snow is beginning to fall again, fat flakes drifting pastthe glass. Under normal circumstances, finding anyone in my private collection would result in immediate dismissal at best, legal action at worst. Those pieces aren't just valuable—they're extensions of myself, carefully selected over decades for reasons I share with no one.
Yet when I saw Holly standing there, her brown eyes wide with genuine wonder rather than greed, something inside me shifted. She hadn't been calculating their auction value or looking for something to steal. She'd been entranced by the craftsmanship, the history embedded in each piece. The way her fingers had hovered above the music box, almost reverent—I'd watched her through the security feed before approaching, unable to look away from her expressions of delight.
"She noticed the replaced hinge," I murmur to myself, still slightly stunned by her observation. No one has ever noticed that detail, not even the appraiser who evaluated the piece for insurance. Her eye for detail is remarkable.
I turn back to my desk and pull up her file on my tablet. Holly Parker, 27. Event planner specializing in high-end residential holiday transformations. Her portfolio had impressed Patricia enough to put her at the top of the list, though I'd barely glanced at it before approving the hire. Now I scroll through images of her previous work—elegant Christmas displays for wealthy clients, though none with my resources. Her designs show restraint and sophistication uncommon in holiday decor.
But it's her photo that holds my attention. The professional headshot doesn't capture what I saw today—the slight flush that crept up her neck when I stood close, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when nervous, the surprising spark of determination when she corrected me ("Event planner, not decorator"). The photo shows an attractive young woman with chestnut hair and large brown eyes. In person, she's mesmerizing.
Her body is lush in ways the current fashion industry doesn't celebrate—full breasts that pressed against her modest blouse, a narrow waist flaring to generous hips, legs that would wrap perfectly around my waist. I grip the edge of my desk, surprised by the visceral image my mind conjures without permission.
My phone rings again. Tokyo won't wait forever. I should answer, should turn my attention to the hundred-million-dollar deal hanging in the balance. Instead, I find myself replaying the moment her fingers brushed mine when I took her clipboard. The jolt of awareness wasn't one-sided—I saw the surprise in her eyes, the quickening of her breath.
"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair. I haven't been distracted by a woman in years, certainly not one who works for me. I've built an empire on control and calculated decisions. Women come and go in my life without leaving a trace—beautiful, sophisticated women who understand the rules of temporary arrangement. None have ever made me postpone a board meeting with a single touch.
But Holly Parker isn't like the women I normally entertain. There's an innocence to her that's as rare as it is intoxicating. Not naivety—she's clearly intelligent and professionally accomplished—but a genuine quality, an absence of artifice. When she looked at my collection, she saw beauty rather than dollar signs. When she looked at me, she saw a man rather than a bank account.
Tokyo can wait. The acquisition will still be there tomorrow.
I close her file but can't dismiss her from my thoughts. Tomorrow she'll present her design concepts, and I'll see her again. The anticipation of that meeting burns through me with unexpected intensity. I want to see her reaction when she enters my office, want to watch her confidence grow as she speaks about her work. I want to see if her skin flushes the same way when I stand close to her again.
I want her. The realization is simple and absolute.
