Page 6 of Snowbound in Her Boss's Bed

“It’s November. In Aspen,” he said, giving her no quarter even as he allowed her stubborn streak to impress him.

In response, her stunning topaz eyes narrowed, flashing against the warm brown backdrop of her skin.

He had never seen eyes like hers before—warm whiskey, rimmed with deep obsidian.

“Forgive me for not packing my skis,” she retorted.

Flushed heat then came to the satiny apples of her cheeks, bringing a subtle duskiness to their warm expanse, and the pressure in Benjamin’s veins ticked up a notch not for the first time since he had been in her presence.

Perhaps that reaction was what was behind the pleasure he found in goading her.

A part of him recognized her as a woman worth romantic pursuit.

The remainder of him, however, was committed to the success of the annual gala.

And attraction to the new events director, after what had happened with the previous, was entirely inappropriate for that goal.

Even if she was nearly six feet tall in the heels she wore and had the curves to carry it.

Benjamin tore his mind away from her body and returned it to her clothing.

Clothing was innocuous and safe.

Her outfit consisted of a blouse buttoned low enough to give hints of what looked like a lace-edged beige satin camisole beneath, both of which were tucked neatly at the narrow waist of her black pencil skirt.

Her heels were skinny and also black. And to bring it all together, she wore her ridiculous, flimsy beige cardigan.

Everything she wore was thin.

And she was carrying a bright teal box.

A faint smile coming to his lips, Benjamin replied smoothly, “I’ve got plenty of skis, if it comes to it. What I haven’t got—” the edge returned to his words “—are spare women’s parkas.”

Though, of course, between the staff and his guest supplies, Benjamin would not have been surprised to learn that he did have spare parkas.

“I’m sure I’ll survive,” Ms. Howard replied smoothly, her voice as dry and cold as the air around them, and Benjamin nearly chuckled.

Her sartorial wisdom might be questionable, but she was funny.

And she had backbone.

The traits could only help her get her job done—as long as she knew how to create the kinds of events that schmoozed wealthy donors like himself into opening their wallets.

Getting started toward that end was why he had driven out to the runway to pick her up himself, rather than send someone.

He had not braved the elements in order to criticize her choice in clothing, but in order to get working.

But with her teeth chattering as they got in the car, he instead turned the heat up and yet again adjusted his expectations.

Ms. Howard was necessitating quite the number of adjustments.

She was nothing like what he had pictured when he’d spoken to her on the phone yesterday.

Her Southern California accent was so reminiscent of the women he’d gone to school with as a suburban kid in Los Angeles that he’d assigned her a figure and persona to match.

Instead, stealing a glance at her through the corner of his eye as he drove them to his home, Benjamin could not remember ever meeting a single woman who looked like the one currently riding in his passenger seat.

Certainly not the entire package she presented—the remarkable eyes, the height, the willingness to push back at him.

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