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For Bron,
my mentor, my friend,
and
in memory of Delia Bridgens,
who introduced me to the joy of reading romance.
Thank you both for the impact you
have made on my life.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Coming Next Month
One
Bile rose in his throat. Hot, bitter, acrid bile.
Connor Knight dashed the investigator’s report violently across the mahogany surface of his desk, scattering papers like giant confetti through the air where they hovered briefly, before floating to the thickly carpeted study floor.
Through the open French doors behind him he heard the drone of the launch’s engines as it pulled away from his private jetty, taking the bearer of bad tidings back across the harbour to Auckland city.
The vile taste in Connor’s mouth rivalled the malevolence of his ex-wife’s actions. He swallowed against it, but the irrefutable proof of her betrayal could not be as easily diminished.
As if her insatiable partying and gambling hadn’t been enough, now he knew that six months into their marriage she’d knowingly destroyed their baby—the child she knew he’d wanted—and had then been sterilised rather than ever bear another child again.
If not for a careless comment from one of her friends at a recent fund-raiser he’d have been none the wiser. Yet the throwaway remark had been all he needed to start the investigation and to confirm that she’d lied about the miscarriage.
A tearing pain clawed at his chest.
The proof of her treachery now lay scattered on his floor—information that had come at a hell of a price, but which was worth every last cent.
A copy of her admission to a private hospital four years ago, the bills from the anaesthetist, the surgeon, the hospital. The procedures. Termination. Sterilisation.
And through it all he’d been oblivious.
So now she wanted more money? He’d have paid it just to be rid of her—until he’d received today’s information.
It had been bad enough to realise back then that she’d emasculated him with her deceit, her avaricious need to grasp at everything in her path during their brief union, but this? This went way further than that.
The grandfather clock chimed the hour. Nine o’clock. Damn! The meeting had made him later in to the office than he expected.
He punched the quick dial on the speakerphone on the desk, connecting immediately to his office in the city.
“Holly, I’m running late. Any messages or problems?”
“Nothing urgent, Mr. Knight, I’ve rescheduled your conference call to New York.” His personal assistant’s gentle, well-modulated voice washed over him like a calming wave of sanity in the madness of his morning. Thank goodness he could still rely on some people.
Connor slipped into his suit jacket, adjusted his tie and, oblivious to the crunch of the report underfoot, stalked out the open French doors and towards the chopper waiting to take him from his island home and into Auckland’s central business district.
If Holly Christmas received one more tartan-beribboned poinsettia she would scream.
So what if her birthday fell on Christmas Eve? She was used to that. After all, it was the same day every year. She blinked back the unbidden rush of tears that pricked her eyes, and gave herself a mental shake. Toughen up, she growled silently. Self-pity was so not her style. Survival—whatever it took—that was her key. Then why did she feel different this year? Empty. Alone.
At least her colleagues had remembered today was her birthday, and not just the last day of work before Knight Enterprises closed for the Christmas break. She straightened her shoulders, stiffened her spine and, with the plant clutched tightly to her aching chest, summoned a smile.
“The poinsettia is beautiful, thanks. I really appreciate it.” The words sounded normal, thank goodness, coloured with just the right amount of enthusiasm.
“See you at the party tonight, Holly?” one of the girls asked.
“Oh, yes, I’ll be there,” she confirmed with a wry twist of her lips. Someone had to see to it that the annual bash ran smoothly, that the grossly inebriated were tactfully withdrawn from the proceedings and inserted into taxis and that spills and breakages were swiftly dealt with. For the third year in a row she was that someone.
She loved her job and she was darned good at it. No, she was better than good. She was the best. And that’s why, after working her way through the secretarial pool here at Knight Enterprises she’d risen to Executive PA to Connor Knight, head of the corporate law department.
A “ping” from the elevator bank down the hall heralded the tall, imposing figure striding along the carpet-lined corridor, and sent the small group of women scurrying back to their respective workstations. Holly turned and put the lush red-leafed poinsettia on the credenza behind her desk—next to the one from the finance department and the two that had come up from security and personnel. She caught her lower lip in between her teeth, tugging at its fullness. How on earth was she supposed to get them home on the bus?
“Good morning, Holly.” His voice, as rich and dark as sinful chocolate, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. From the day she’d interviewed for her position as his personal assistant, her reaction to him had always been this painfully immediate, although she’d schooled herself to hide it well.
She’d given up asking herself why his presence made every nerve ending in her body stand on full alert, and learned instead to knuckle down and do her job, masking the flush of warmth that suffused her body. Some people didn’t believe in love at first sight, but Holly knew from sudden and lasting experience that it happened.
She clenched her jaw slightly then slowly released it and the tension that bound her muscles, and turned to face him secure in the knowledge he’d never have an inkling as to the thoughts that raced through her mind or the sharpened awareness that brought her senses to screaming attention when he was around.
“Mr. Tanaka from the Tokyo office called about the negotiations. He sounded tense.”
Connor didn’t break his stride on his way through the open polished-rimu double doors that led to his corner office. “He must be. It’s about five-thirty in the morning there. Get him on the line for me.”
For the briefest moment Holly allowed herself the luxury of inhaling the lingering scent of his cologne—crisp, fresh and expensive yet with an underlying hint of something forbidden, especially to someone like her. With a mental shake she lifted the receiver of her phone, automatically punching in the numbers that would connect his private line to Japan. She waited until he picked up, then she stood to unlatch the hooks that held the doors open to his interior office. Absorbed in the conversation, his Japanese flawless, he didn’t so much as acknowledge her.
Holly indulged in a tiny sigh. Well, love at first sight on her part or not, Connor Knight was oblivious. Newly divorced from his socialite wife when Holly had started working for him, he’d looked right through her, and every other woman who’d crossed his path since, as if she didn’t exist. She was a highly dependable machine to him, period.
Confident the call with Mr. Tanaka would tie him up for some time, she made one last check through the details for the staff and children’s Christmas parties. This year she’d excelled herself. The cafeteria, transformed into a fairy grotto, looked stunning, and at six-thirty Connor would be playing Santa Claus.
A wry smile played around Holly’s lips as she eyed the glaring red Santa suit that hung on the antique brass hat stand in the corner. Mr. Knight, Sr. had insisted Connor play Santa this year, claiming his arthritic knee made it difficult for him to attend to the task, and saying how important it was someone from the family took on the role. Oh, Connor had argued against it, but once his father made up his mind there was no denying it—especially not from his youngest son.
It was probably the only time she’d witnessed her boss at a total disadvantage.
“Hell.” A deep voice from behind made her spin around in her chair. “He doesn’t really expect me to wear that, does he?”
“I think you’ll make a wonderful Santa, Mr. Knight.”
The disgust on his face was self-evident. He thrust a dicta-tape at her together with a clutch of papers. “Transcribe this for me straight away. Oh, and before you do, check the boardroom is free and tell the team we need to meet in half an hour.”
“Trouble?” Holly enquired, mentally shifting his appointments to free him up for the rest of the morning. It had to be serious if the whole legal team was being called in.
“Nothing we can’t handle. Timing’s a bit of a blow, though.” He cast a baleful glance at the Santa suit, draped limply on the hanger. “I don’t suppose…”
“He’s not going to let you get out of it.” She shook her head sympathetically.
“No, he won’t.” Connor huffed out a breath and pushed a hand through his immaculately cut and styled hair, sending several strands into unaccustomed disarray.
Holly stifled another smile. This whole Santa thing had sent the cool, calm and sophisticated Connor Knight for a loop, and this from a man she’d seen face down battalions of international lawyers over land and property deals.
She’d never have dreamed that the prospect of a steady procession of children queuing to take their turn seated on his knee would elicit such a nervous response. Still, who was she to ponder? Children made her nervous, too, and, unlike so many of her peers, Holly had put her biological clock firmly on hold. At twenty-six the rest of her life stretched long and lonely ahead of her. There’d be no kids in her future, at least not until she had some answers about her past.
She hated this time of year. All the fun and gaiety of the festivities served to remind her of everything she didn’t have—had never had. Knowing she’d ensured everyone else’s fun tonight would have to be sufficient to buoy her through the harrowing, bleak emptiness of the holiday break until she could bury herself back in work.
Holly sighed again, and bent to the task at hand. Regretting her decision was not a possibility. Maybe she’d grow old in this chair, or one just like it in another office in another city, but she’d be the best executive PA on the planet. That would have to be enough.
Shrieks of laughter echoed around the room as the clown she’d hired made a fool of himself yet again. Holly took a quick look at her watch. Five minutes until Santa time. He should be here by now. Maybe he was having trouble with the suit.
She turned to her assistant, Janet, a quiet young woman not long out of business college but already showing every sign of making a great PA herself in time.
“If I’m not back in five minutes with Mr. Knight, give the clown the nod to carry on a little longer, will you?”
“Is there anything else I can do to help?”
“No, I’m sure we’ll be fine. Santa probably got a phone call.”
In the elevator Holly mentally ticked off the order of the evening, everything had to run like clockwork. Irritation drummed at the back of her mind. As much as she sympathised with Connor’s reluctance to play Santa tonight, he had an obligation to the kids. An obligation he had no business putting off. If he’d bailed on those excited children downstairs she’d be giving him a piece of her mind, boss or not.
She covered the distance from the elevator bank to his corner office in record time and knocked sharply before pushing through the doors. The head of anger she’d built up propelled her into his office with a flurry. But her words stalled in her throat, and she halted midstride.
Connor Knight stood, half-dressed, in the middle of his office. The garish red trousers of his suit hung loosely on his hips, threatening to drop lower if he so much as moved a muscle.
Holly dragged her eyes upwards, her throat as dry as the Sahara, and a deep-seated throb pulsed through her body. Lord have mercy, she thought as her gaze swept across the disturbingly bare tanned expanse of his chest, to the powerful width of his shoulders above it and to the strong column of his neck. It was amazing what Armani could hide, she thought as she forced herself to look him in the eye, hoping the surge of energy that rocketed with heated awareness through her wasn’t apparent on her face. If her internal temperature was anything to go by, she should be glowing like a beacon.
She took a steadying breath. What was she here for again? Oh, yes, that’s right. Santa.
“Five minutes, Mr. Knight.”
“Yeah, I know. Damn suit’s too big. Help me stuff some cushions in here. I’m sure the kids of today still expect a bit of meat on their Santas.”
“I imagine so,” she agreed, and swept up an armful of cushions from the sofa in his office. “Will these do?” she asked.
“As good as anything. Here,” Connor slid his hands behind the band of the trousers and held them away from his waist. “You stuff, I’ll hold.”
He had to be joking. Holly hesitated and swallowed against the constriction in her throat.
“What are you waiting for?” He shot her a glance, a tiny frown pulling his dark brows together briefly, his impatience clear.
Of course he had no idea of his effect on her. To him she wasn’t a woman with needs and desires. She was just his PA. Besides, as his PA, why wouldn’t she be called upon to stuff cushions in her boss’s trousers?
“I suppose this is what you meant in my job description, when you said ‘and other duties as required from time to time.’” Keep it light she told herself. Just keep it light.
Surprise skated over his features at her words. Holly inwardly groaned. Why on earth had she said that?
His eyes suddenly crinkled at the edges and he laughed—a rusty sound, as if he didn’t do it often enough. “Yeah, something like that. Although, I don’t think HR had this scenario in mind.”
Holly returned a nervous smile and forced herself forward. Warmth radiated from his bare torso, or was that just the flush of heat in her cheeks? She fought to quell the tremor that threatened to vibrate through her and, with a stern silent warning to herself not to look down, she carefully eased the first cushion between his ridged abdomen and the red satin.
“It’s okay, Holly. I won’t bite.”
Oh, great. Now he was laughing at her. Fine, she’d show him she wasn’t scared. She shoved in the next cushion with more haste than finesse, her fingers accidentally grazing against the fine row of dark hair that feathered from his belly button and down. She heard the hitch in his breathing as she touched him and snatched her hand back as goose bumps rose on his skin.
“That should do the trick.” Darn, was that a quaver in her voice? Worse, had he heard it?
“I need more.”
More? Her hand still burned from its fleeting touch against his skin—the texture of the hair beneath his belly button a tactile impression against her fingers—she needed more, too, although she knew with painful honesty they weren’t thinking about the same thing.
With her lower lip caught between her teeth, Holly edged another cushion into the waistband. The urge to let her fingers linger against the heated surface of his belly tempted her like a candy shop window did a sugar addict. Determined not to give in to her baser instincts she gave the padded mass a gentle, dehumanising pat. “There, that’s it.”
She reached for the red jacket, yanked it off its hanger and held it out for him. She allowed herself the brief luxury of letting her gaze stroke across his back and shoulders, mesmerised by the play of his muscles as he shrugged into the garment and cinched the broad, black belt around his now-expanded waistline.
He grabbed the hat and beard from his desk and hastily arranged them before turning to face Holly again.
“So, how do I look?”
Her breath caught. How did he look? She blinked, searching for the words to describe him. He certainly wasn’t like the Santas that had filled her with terror as a child, and caused her to drag free of her caregiver’s hand to tearfully hasten as far away as she could get.
Despite the padding at his waist and the ridiculously fluffy beard that obscured the strong lines of his jaw, she couldn’t erase the half-naked picture of him that burned on her retinas. She barely trusted herself to speak.
“You’ve forgotten the eyebrows,” she eventually managed. Well done, she congratulated herself, that almost sounded like her usual cool, composed self.
“I don’t have to wear those white caterpillars, do I?”
“Of course you do, you wouldn’t be Santa without them.”
Holly clenched and unclenched her fingers in a vain attempt to stem the trembling that threatened to give away her nerves before she peeled the stick-on brows from the backing paper. She leaned nearer and reached up to smooth them above his eyes, trying desperately not to let her fingers linger on his face. He bent his head slightly to assist, and suddenly his lips were level with hers—the warmth of his breath caressing her cheek.
So close, yet so far. All she had to do was step in, just one tiny step, and press her lips against his. To give life to the dreams that invaded her sleep and caused her to wake, tangled in her sheets, filled with a want she could never assuage.
Hastily she quelled her rampant thoughts and concentrated on applying the strips of white fluff. She’d be on the fast track to unemployment if she gave in to her desires, and no way could she afford that. Not with Andrea’s medical fees to consider. The reminder was as chilling as an Antarctic winter.
Finally, the job done, she stepped away to safety—to where she couldn’t give in to impulse. “You look great,” she said softly.
“Well then, that’s all that matters. Let’s go.”
They travelled in silence to the eighth-floor cafeteria where Holly put a steadying hand on his red sleeve. She tried to ignore the waves of heat that emanated through the fabric to her fingers.
“Wait here,” she ordered, although her voice came out like a strangled croak and earned her a strange look from the dark eyes that burned under bushy white brows. “I need to let your warm-up act announce you first.”
Was it her imagination or had he suddenly become paler? Surely he wasn’t scared? Not Connor Knight. Under the fluffy beard, she discerned small lines of tension bracketing his lips, and the urge to comfort him stilled her in her tracks.
“You’ll be fine,” she murmured softly, as reassuringly as she could. “The kids will love you.”
“You’re staying, aren’t you?”
His question caught her by surprise. She hadn’t planned on sticking around for this part of the proceedings. Seeing a line of children waiting to sit with Santa still had the power to fill her with dread.
“No, I have some other things to attend to. I’ll be back just before the party finishes.”
“Stay.”
Holly looked away. He had no idea. But then, of course, why should he? Everyone loved Christmas. Everyone but the little girl who’d grown up saddled with a surname chosen by Social Services that linked her irrevocably to the most traumatic experience of her life. It was one of the reasons she never disclosed her background or years in foster care. No one wanted to admit they’d been abandoned. As far as Holly was concerned, her life had begun the day she’d turned eighteen and been released from the state’s control.
“Holly?”
Her teeth were clenched so hard she was amazed they didn’t shatter in her jaw, and her throat ached with years of suppressed tension. She couldn’t explain, not even to him. Some things you kept buried. She gave him a tight nod. “Let’s get it over with.”
The children didn’t give him the slightest opportunity to be nervous. Their vigorous excitement and squeals of pleasure energised the room to such an extent Holly felt as though her nerves would shred into ribbons and scatter all around her. Why on earth had she agreed to stay? It was madness.
Seated on his special throne, Connor lifted a little girl with a gleaming cap of dark hair onto his lap. The child, no more than three or four, scanned the room, her bottom lip starting to tremble.
Despite the constant temperature of air conditioning, tiny beads of perspiration prickled along Holly’s spine. A wave of dizziness made her press her body against the hard wall behind her—trying to connect with something solid, something real. Anything other than the dread that built within her and threatened to swamp her mind. She dragged a deep breath into deflated lungs, struggling to push the fear back down—down to where she could control it—but it was too late.
An image flashed, sharp and clear in her mind, and in a heartbeat she was lost. She was that little girl. Sitting on Santa’s knee, her eyes nervously—futilely—raking the crowd of shoppers for her mother. Nervousness becoming fear. Fear becoming absolute terror when she couldn’t find her mother’s face anywhere in the swirling mass.
The authorities had been summoned as soon as someone could make any sense out of her hysterical sobbing. But not quickly enough to find her mother in the crowd of stunned onlookers. Even now the overwhelming sense of desertion and loss left Holly shocked and vulnerable.
Resentment lanced through her, swift and searing, before she determinedly crushed it. She’d given up trying to work out what kind of mother walked away from her child the night before Christmas—abandoning a three-year-old to strangers and an uncertain future.
She forced herself to find an anchor, something she could focus on and that would help her bring her rapid breathing back under control and calm the tremors that shook her frame. That anchor was Connor Knight as, with infinite patience, he pointed out the little girl’s parents in the crowd and cajoled a smile from her worried wee face.
Holly uncurled her fisted hands, feeling the sharp sting of sensation as blood eked its way back to her fingertips. Across the room the little girl was smiling and waving to her mother. And Connor, instead of paying attention to the child on his lap, was staring straight back at her. She watched as his lips, outlined by the absurdly fluffy beard, framed the words, “Are you all right?” Had he noticed her panic? She gave a weak smile and lifted her chin with a small nod. He held her gaze a moment longer, then turned his attention back to the child in his care and handed her a cheerfully wrapped gift.
This was how it was meant to be for kids. Each one with their own special gift and a chance to impart their deepest desires for Christmas morning to Santa, and the steady assurance of a loving parent waiting in the wings. Hadn’t she wished that for herself so many times?
When the last parcel was distributed, it was time to call the children’s party to an end. Santa had other obligations, and Holly’s half-hour window between the children’s party and the staff party was closing.
With a small announcement she brought the celebrations to a close and judging by the overwhelming round of applause, from both parents and children, Connor was a hit. As everyone filtered out, Holly finally allowed herself to relax, the knot of tension that kept her operating at maximum performance efficiency all day, all year for that matter, slowly untangling. Only one more party to get through, then it was all over for another year, she consoled herself.