The CEO’s Christmas Proposition
by Merline Lovelace

Cal stood by the sitting room windows, taking in the frozen cityscape…

Devon’s breath caught as she went to stand beside him. Buildings, trees, the statues on the bridge, the river itself…everything as far as the eye could see lay under a blanket of glistening white. Not a single car or bus or snowplough moved through the frozen stillness.

“Looks like most of the city must be shut down,” Devon murmured, awestruck.

“Guess we’ll have to resort to plan B,” said Cal.

“Which is?”

“We talk politics. We try to guess each other’s favourite movies. We wrap up in blankets and share our body heat. We have wild, uninhibited sex.”

Her jaw dropped.

“We don’t have to follow that precise order,” he informed her solemnly. “We could start with the sex and work our way backwards.”

His Expectant Ex
by Catherine Mann

“You’re pregnant?”

“I’m fairly certain I’m two months along.”

“We’re having a child?” he asked in wonder.

It still seemed surreal to her, too. “If all goes well.”

He pivoted hard and fast toward her. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t think so, but I only just took a home pregnancy test this morning.”

Sebastian sat down beside her and slid his arm along the back of the sofa, almost touching her shoulders. “I still don’t understand one thing.”

She fidgeted, trying to ignore the warmth of him moving closer. She could not, would not let hormones muddle the waters between them. “What’s that?”

“If you took a pregnancy test this morning, why didn’t you tell me before the final divorce decree?”

The CEO’s
Christmas
Proposition

BY

Merline Lovelace
His Expectant Ex

BY

Catherine Mann

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The CEO’s
Christmas
Proposition

by

Merline Lovelace

A retired air force officer, Merline Lovelace served at bases all over the world, including tours in Taiwan, Vietnam and at the Pentagon. When she hung up her uniform for the last time, she decided to combine her love of adventure with a flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her experiences in the service.

Since then, she’s produced more than seventy action-packed novels, many of which have made bestseller lists. Over ten million copies of her works are in print in thirty-one countries. Named Oklahoma’s Writer of the Year and the Oklahoma Female Veteran of the Year, Merline is also a recipient of Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award.

When she’s not glued to her keyboard, she and husband enjoy travelling and chasing little white balls around the fairways of Oklahoma. Check her website at www. merlinelovelace.com for news, contests and information about forthcoming releases.

Dear Reader,

If you’ve never visited Germany or Austria during the Christmas season, you’ve missed something really special. Think Kris Kringle, angelic choirs singing “Silent Night” and outdoor markets crammed with beautiful handicrafts and the most scrumptious eats imaginable. What better place to strand a heroine who’s completely turned off by the way Christmas has been commercialised and a hero who decides on the spot she’s all he wants under his tree!

Here’s hoping you, too, enjoy the beauty of this season and the powerful message of love and joy that comes with it.

And be sure to watch for more HOLIDAYS ABROAD. The Duke’s New Year’s Resolution is coming next month from the Desire™ line, followed by The Executive’s Valentine Seduction.

Best,

Merline Lovelace

To Pat, my college roomie who went off to Germany

without me all those years ago but made up for it with

four decades of friendship. Al and

I still owe you and Norbert for the barn concert and dinner on the Elbe!

One

Shoulders hunched against the icy sleet pounding Germany’s Dresden International Airport, Devon McShay grimaced at the Christmas carols belting from the outdoor loudspeakers.

“Okay,” she muttered under her breath. “Call me Mrs. Scrooge. Call me the Grinchette. Call me the ultimate Krank. I hate this time of year.”

Well, that wasn’t totally true. The hopeless idealist in her still wanted to believe people might someday actually heed the messages of joy and peace the season signified. If they could get past the crass commercialization, that is. Not to mention the hole they dug for themselves every year by splurging on gifts they couldn’t afford.

Her parents’ increasingly bitter arguments over finances had always peaked this time of year and led eventually to an even more bitter divorce. Christmases after that had become a battleground, with each parent trying to outdo the other to win a daughter’s love.

Devon’s own holiday track record was just as dismal. As she sloshed through ankle-deep slush toward the terminal, she shook her head at her incredible idiocy in falling for a too-handsome, toococky newscaster at Dallas’s Channel Six. Silly her, she’d actually thought she’d broken the Christmas curse when Blake caught her under the mistletoe and slipped a diamond on her finger. Exactly one year later, she’d walked into the station to find her husband with his hand under the miniskirt of a female Santa and his tongue halfway down her throat.

Devon had put her jerk of an ex out of her life, but even now, three years later, she couldn’t work up any enthusiasm for colored lights or eggnog. That’s why she’d jumped at the chance to avoid yet another season of forced Christmas cheer when her friend and business partner came down with the flu yesterday, mere hours before she was supposed to leave for Germany.

Devon, Sabrina Russo and Caroline Walters had been friends before they became business partners. They’d met while spending their junior year at the University of Salzburg. Filled with the dreams and enthusiasm of youth, the three coeds had formed a fast friendship.

They’d maintained that friendship long-distance in the years that followed. Until last May, when they’d met for a minireunion. After acknowledging that their lives so far hadn’t lived up to their dreams, they’d decided to pool resources, educational backgrounds and interests. Two months later, they’d quit their respective jobs, relocated to Virginia and launched European Business Services, Incorporated. EBS for short. Specializing in arranging transportation, hotels, conference facilities and translation services for busy executives.

The venture was still at the risky stage. The three friends had sunk most of their savings into start-up costs. EBS now had an office, a small staff and a slew of international advertising. They’d landed a few jobs, but nothing big until the call from Cal Logan’s executive assistant.

Turns out Logan had played football in college with one of Sabrina’s old boyfriends. Said boyfriend had tipped his pal to EBS when Logan mentioned his people were scrambling to lay on a short-notice trip to Germany. Sabrina had worked twenty hours straight on the prep work and had been all set to hop a plane yesterday afternoon when the bug hit.

So here Devon was, her chin buried in a hot pink pashmina shawl, her toes frozen inside her stacked heel boots and her ears assaulted by a booming rendition of “O Tannenbaum,” on her way to meet their first major client.

Again.

He’d been scheduled to arrive earlier this morning, but his assistant had called to say his corporate jet had been grounded due to icing. After considerable effort, she’d gotten him on the last commercial flight out before JFK shut down completely.

Ah, the joys of traveling this time of year! Conditions here in Dresden weren’t much better. Sleet had been coming down all day. Praying her client’s plane made it in before this airport closed, too, Devon hurried into the terminal.

Her breath whistled out in a sigh of relief when Logan exited Customs. She recognized him right away from the newspaper and magazine articles Sabrina had found on the Internet during her frantic prep work.

Caleb John Logan, Jr. Thirty-one. Six-two. With jet-black hair, laser blue eyes and a linebacker’s shoulders under his charcoal-gray cashmere overcoat. His jaw-dropping good looks didn’t score him any points with Devon, however. She’d learned the hard way not to trust handsome heartbreakers like Cal Logan.

But he was a client. An important one. And she was willing to give someone who’d served a hitch in the Marines before earning a B.S. from the University of Oregon, an MBA from Stanford and his first million at the ripe old age of twenty-six the benefit of the doubt.

Right up until he spotted the hot pink pashmina, that is.

Sabrina had indicated she’d be wearing it, and the flash of color was certainly more visible than the sign Devon held up with his name on it. So she wasn’t surprised when Logan picked her out of the crowd and cut in her direction. She’d just plastered on her best EBS smile when he whipped an arm around her waist. The next moment, she was sprawled against his cashmere-covered chest.

“Hello, Brown Eyes.”

Swooping down, he covered her mouth with his.

Sheer astonishment kept Devon rooted to the spot for a few seconds while her mind whirled chaotically. Her first thought was that her client had downed a few too many drinks during the long flight. Her second, that he’d seriously mistaken the kind of escort and consulting services EBS provided. Her third shoved everything else out of her head.

Whoa, mama! The man could kiss!

His mouth moved over hers with a skill that ignited sparks at a half-dozen flash points throughout her body. Devon hadn’t experienced that kind of spontaneous combustion in a while. A long while.

The sparks were still popping when she pushed off his chest, only now they fueled a flush of anger.

“Do you always greet women you don’t know with a lip-lock, Mr. Logan?”

A smile crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. “As a matter of fact, I don’t. That was from Don.”

“Huh?”

“He said he owed you one from New Year’s Eve two years ago and made me promise to deliver it.”

She stared up at him in total incomprehension. Logan hooked a brow and attempted to prompt a nonexistent memory.

“He abandoned you at the Waldorf. Five minutes before midnight. To deliver twins.”

“I don’t have a clue who or what you’re—”

Understanding burst like a water balloon.

“Wait a sec. Are you talking about Sabrina’s old boyfriend? Your buddy, who’s now an ob-gyn doc?”

It was Logan’s turn to look startled. He recovered faster than Devon had, though. His smile widened into a rueful grin.

“I take it you’re not Sabrina Russo.”

“No, Mr. Logan, I am not. And if you’d listened to any of the voice mails we left on your cell phone in the past twenty-four hours,” Devon added acidly, “you’d know Sabrina came down with the flu and couldn’t make the trip.”

“Sorry. I’ve been in the air for twenty-three of those twenty-four hours. I had to make a quick trip to the West Coast before turning right around and heading for Germany.”

She knew that. Still, that was no excuse for his behavior. Or…what was worse…her reaction to it.

“My cell-phone battery crashed somewhere over Pennsylvania,” he said, his smile holding an apology now. “I crashed somewhere over the Atlantic. Any chance we can erase what just happened and start again?”

Oh, sure. As soon as her lips stopped tingling and her nerves snapping. Reminding herself that he was a client, Devon forced a stiff nod.

“Good.” He shifted his briefcase to his left hand and held out his right. “I’m Cal Logan. And you are?”

“Devon McShay. One of Sabrina’s partners.”

“The history professor.”

So he’d done some checking on the small firm he’d hired to work the details of his five-day, three-city swing through Germany.

“Former history professor,” she corrected as she led the way toward the baggage-claim area. “I quit teaching to join forces with Sabrina and Caroline at EBS.”

“Quite a career shift.”

“Yes, it was.”

She left it at that. No need to detail her restless-ness after her divorce. Or her ex’s very public, very mortifying attempt at reconciliation on the six o’clock news. Dallas hadn’t been big enough for both of them after that.

That was when she’d quit her job and joined forces with her two friends. Now Devon the history prof, Sabrina the one-time party girl and Caroline the shy, quiet librarian were hard-nosed businesswomen. With pretty much the future of their fledgling enterprise hanging on how well Devon handled Cal Logan’s trip.

After this rocky start, she thought grimly, things weren’t looking real good.

Cal matched his stride to the staccato pace of the woman at his side. She was pissed, and no wonder. He’d pulled some real boners in his time. This one ranked right up near the top of the list.

He’d never intended to follow through on his buddy’s joking suggestion that he deliver a long-delayed New Year’s Eve kiss. Then he’d exited Customs and spotted the woman he’d assumed was Sabrina Russo.

Tall and slender, with dark auburn hair caught up in a loose twist, she would have snagged any man’s attention. Her high, sculpted cheekbones and the thick lashes fringing her brown eyes had certainly snagged Cal’s.

Brown Eyes. Don’s nickname for the woman he’d dated briefly. Except she wasn’t that woman. And her eyes, Cal saw now, weren’t brown. More like caramel, rich and dark, with a hint of gold in their depths.

Then there was that scarf. The hot color should have clashed with her red hair. Instead, it seemed to shout at the world to sit up and take notice.

Cal had noticed, all right. Now he’d damned well better unnotice.

Fun was fun, but he didn’t need the kind of distraction Devon McShay could represent. Logan Aerospace had too much riding on the delicate negotiations that had forced him to cancel an entire week’s appointments and hustle over to Germany.

“I confirmed your meeting with Herr Hauptmann for two p.m.,” she informed him as suitcases began to rattle onto the baggage carousel. “I also requested early check-in at the hotel if you’d like to swing by there first.”

“Definitely.”

He scraped a palm across the bristles on his jaw. Given the time change, it was late morning here in Dresden but still the middle of the night U.S. time. Cal needed a shower, a shave and a full pot of coffee in him before his two o’clock meeting. As he waited for his leather carryall and suit bag to make an appearance, he gave Ms. McShay and EBS full marks for recognizing that fact.

Great start, Devon thought while her client filled out a search form for his missing luggage. Just terrific.

Logan had shrugged off the inconvenience with the comment that his American Express would cover the expense of delayed or lost luggage. Meanwhile Devon would have to scramble to supply him with everything from a clean shirt to pajamas.

Assuming he wore pj’s. Maybe he went to bed commando. An instant, vivid image leaped into her head and refused to leap out.

Oh, for Pete’s sake! She’d known the man for all of fifteen minutes and already she was imagining him naked. Disgusted, Devon tried to put the brakes on her runaway thoughts. The announcement that blared over the loudspeaker at that moment brought them to a screeching halt.

“Aufmerksamkeit, Damen und Herren.”

Her head cocked, she listened as an official announced in German, English and Japanese that all flights in and out of Dresden were canceled until further notice. A chorus of groans went up inside the terminal.

By the time she escorted her client to the exit, a mile-long line of travelers was huddled in their overcoats at the taxi stand. To make matters worse, pick-up and drop-off traffic had snarled every lane. The limo Devon called on her cell phone couldn’t get through the logjam.

Lord, she hated this time of year!

“The driver says he’s stuck two terminals over,” she related to Logan. “Traffic’s not moving an inch. We can wait inside until he gets here. Or we could walk,” she added with a dubious glance at the sleet still plummeting from a gunmetal-gray sky.

“I don’t mind stretching my legs, but are you sure you’re dressed warm enough to walk?”

“I’m fine.”

Except for her boots, she admitted silently as she wove a path through the lines of frustrated travelers. Served her right for choosing style over practicality. The stacked heels and slick leather soles made for treacherous going on the icy pavement. Logan caught her as her foot almost went out from under her.

“At the risk of making an ass of myself for the second time in less than a half hour,” he said solemnly, “may I suggest you hang on to me?”

Devon was only too glad to hook her elbow through his. She was also all too aware of the strength in the arm covered by layers of wool and cashmere.

He was her client. He was her client. He was her client.

She chanted the mantra over and over again as they dodged icy patches. When she finally spotted a stretch limo up ahead and confirmed it was theirs, her nose and ears tingled from the cold but Logan’s solid bulk had shielded the rest of her from the worst of the knifing wind and sleet.

Devon sank into the limo’s soft leather and welcome heat. Wiggling her frozen toes inside her boots, she offered Logan an apology. “I’m sorry about this hassle.”

“You can’t control the weather.”

Or the traffic. It crawled along with the speed of a snail on Prozac. Seemingly unperturbed, Logan extracted a charger from his briefcase and plugged his cell phone into one of the limo’s ports.

“Excuse me a moment while I check my calls.”

He had a slew of them. The rueful glance he sent her confirmed that several were from EBS. He was still on the phone when the limo finally reached the airport exit. The slick roads made Devon grateful for the fact that Sabrina had somehow managed to wrangle last-minute reservations at the Westin Hotel across the river from the oldest part of Dresden. With any luck, efficient road crews would have the roads sanded before she and Logan had to tackle the Old City’s maze of narrow, cobbled streets.

Devon had checked into the hotel yesterday afternoon and sunk like a stone into its heavenly feather bed. Hopefully, Cal Logan would decide on a power nap and do the same while she hit the shops for whatever he would need. She led the way through a lobby decorated with fragrant pine boughs and skirted a twenty-foot Christmas tree, only to have the desk clerk send her hopes crashing.

“I’m very sorry, Ms. McShay. The guest presently occupying Mr. Logan’s suite hasn’t yet departed.”

“But you indicated there would be no problem with early check-in.”

“I didn’t think there would be, madam. Unfortunately, the present occupant’s flight has been canceled, and he’s requested a late checkout pending other arrangements.”

“How late?”

“He’s one of our platinum customers,” the clerk said with a look that pleaded for understanding. “We have to give him until four o’clock.”

Smothering an extremely unprofessional curse, Devon turned to her client. Logan had shrugged off the irritating glitches so far, but the crease between his brows suggested his patience was stretching thin.

Hastily, she dug in her purse for the key card to her room. It wasn’t a VIP suite, but it did have a spacious sitting room, a separate bedroom and that incredible down comforter.

“Why don’t you go up to my room and relax?” she said with determined cheerfulness. “You can give me a list of what you’ll need until your luggage gets here, and I’ll hit the shops.”

If his luggage got here. Judging by his clipped response, Logan considered the possibility as remote as she did.

“All I need right now is a shirt that doesn’t look like it’s been slept in. White or blue. Neck, sixteen and a half, sleeves thirty-two.”

Whatever that translated to in German. Devon had enjoyed several mild flirtations and one serious fling during her year at the University of Salzburg but hadn’t gotten around to purchasing men’s clothing. Sternly, she banished visions of sending Logan into his meeting with Herr Hauptmann wearing a shirt with a collar that choked him or cuffs that dangled well below his suit coat sleeves.

“White or blue,” she repeated. “Sixteen and a half. Thirty-two. Got it.”

Summoning a breezy smile, she handed him the key.

“It’s room four-twelve. I need a few things, too. I’ll look around the shops for a couple of hours. Stretch out and make yourself comfortable, Mr. Logan. I’ll buzz the room before I come up.”

His incipient frown eased. “We’re going to be spending the next five days together. Please, call me Cal.”

Devon hesitated. She and Sabrina and Caroline had all agreed they needed to maintain a strictly professional relationship with their clients. Especially ones as powerful and influential as Caleb John Logan, Jr.

On the other hand, he was the client. Refusing his request wasn’t really an option after the annoying glitches they’d encountered so far.

“Cal it is. See you in a few hours.”

She dragged out the shopping as long as she could and dawdled over coffee in the lobby café until close to twelve-thirty. Just to be on the safe side, she called Herr Hauptmann’s office to confirm the meeting was still on for two o’clock before searching out a house phone. Her client answered on the second ring.

“Logan.”

“I’m sorry to wake you, but we’ll need to leave soon.”

“No problem. I’ve been crunching numbers.”

“I have your shirt.”

“Great, bring it up.”

As the elevator whisked upward with noiseless efficiency, Devon’s thoughts whirled. She’d ordered the limo for one. Hopefully the roads would be sanded and relatively clear. She’d better arrange backup transportation to Berlin tomorrow, too, just in case the airport was still shut down. She’d check the high-speed train schedules, she decided as she rapped on her room door, and…

When the door opened, her thoughts skittered to a dead stop. Cal Logan in cashmere and worsted wool could make any woman whip around for another look. Shirtless and bare-chested, he’d give a post-menopausal nun heart palpitations.

Two

As their limo crossed the centuries-old stone bridge leading into Dresden’s Old City, Devon was still trying to recover. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten up close and personal with that much naked chest.

“What’s going on?”

Logan’s question banished her mental image of taut, contoured pecs and a dusting of black hair that arrowed downward. Blinking, she saw him lean forward to survey the town square just across the bridge.

It was one of the most beautiful in all Europe. Although almost eighty percent of Dresden had been destroyed during two days of intense bombing in World War Two, decades of meticulous restoration had resurrected much of the city’s glorious architecture. The monumental Baroque cathedral with its openwork dome tower dominated a three-block area that included a royal palace, a magnificent state opera house and the world-famous Zwinger, a collection of incredibly ornate buildings surrounding a massive courtyard once used to stage tournaments and festivals.

It wasn’t the architecture that had captured Cal Logan’s attention, though, but the outdoor market in full swing despite the miserable weather. Shoppers bundled in down jackets, ski masks, stocking caps and earmuffs roamed rows of wooden stalls crammed with handicrafts.

“It’s a Christkindlmarkt,” Devon told him. “A Christmas market. Most towns and cities in Germany have one. The tradition dates back to the early 1400s, when regular seasonal markets took place throughout the year. The Christmas market evolved into the major event, where locals would gather to sell homemade toys, ornaments and foodstuffs.”

Thus initiating the commercialization process that had expanded over the years to its present mania. As a historian, Devon admired the medieval atmosphere of this lively town square. The self-proclaimed Grinchette in her had to work to see past the throngs of eager shoppers.

“Dresden’s market is one of the oldest in Germany. And that—” her nod indicated the wooden structure dominating the square “—is the tallest Christmas pyramid in the world.”

Most traditional, multitiered wooden Christmas pyramids were tabletop size. Carved figures depicting the Nativity decorated each of the tiers. Candles sat in holders at the pyramid’s base. When the candles were lit, warm air rose and turned the propeller-style fan at the top, causing the various tiers to rotate.

What had begun as traditional folk art designed to delight children with the dancing shadows cast by the rotating figures was now a multimillion-dollar industry. Wooden Christmas pyramids were sold all over the world, and less expensive versions were machine cut instead of hand carved. Dresden, however, had taken the traditional concept to new and ridiculous heights.

Okay, maybe not so ridiculous. As the limo inched along the jam-packed street leading past the market, Devon had to concede the fifty-foot pyramid with its life-size figures was a pretty awesome sight.

Cal Logan evidently thought so, too. He twisted around for another glimpse of the busy square.

“I’d like to hit some of those stalls after the meeting with Herr Hauptmann.” He settled back in his seat and caught her surprised expression. “I have nine nieces and nephews,” he explained.

Nine? Devon made a mental adjustment to reconcile Cal Logan’s public image as a jet-setting playboy with that of a doting uncle.

“How old are they?”

“Beats me. The littlest one is…little. The oldest just started high school. I think.”

So much for the doting uncle!

“You’ll need a better fix on their ages if you plan to shop for Christmas gifts.”

“My executive assistant usually takes care of that,” Logan admitted. “She’ll have names, ages and personal preferences in her computer.”

Devon got the hint. A quick glance at her watch confirmed it was still early back at Logan Aerospace corporate headquarters in eastern Connecticut. She’d bet the boss’s executive assistant would be one of the first ones in, though. Luckily, Devon had added the woman’s phone number and e-mail to her personal-contacts list.

“I’ll e-mail her,” she said, digging in her purse for her iPhone. “By the time we get out of the meeting with Herr Hauptmann, she should be at work and have access to the information.”

With something less than enthusiasm, Devon worked the iPhone’s tiny keyboard. She’d counted on this trip to provide an escape from the shopping frenzy back home. Now she’d have to brave the nasty weather and wade into a mob of shoppers to help her client find gifts for a whole pack of nieces and nephews. Thank goodness she’d had enough experience with German and Austrian winters to have worn her warmest coat.

Hauptmann Metal Works was located southeast of the Old City, in a section of Dresden that had been reconstructed along depressingly modern lines.

Remnants of East Germany’s long domination by the Soviet Union showed in seemingly endless rows of concrete-block buildings. Some attempts had been made to soften their stark utilitarianism with newly planted parks and pastel color schemes, but the area held none of the old-world charm of other parts of the city.

Herr Hauptmann was awaiting their arrival. Big and beefy and ruddy cheeked, the German industrialist came out of his office to greet them. Devon had confirmed that he spoke fluent English, so she wasn’t required to translate as he shook hands with his visitor.

“Welcome, Herr Logan. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you, sir. This is Ms. Devon McShay. She’s assisting me during my visit to Germany.”

“Ms. McShay.”

Devon had intended to make sure her client had everything he needed before fading into the woodwork with the other underlings, but Logan ushered her to a seat beside his at the long conference table.

Ten minutes of chitchat and a welcoming toast of schnapps later, she had plunged feet first into the world of high finance. The numbers Logan and Hauptmann lobbed back and forth like tennis balls left her breathless. They weren’t talking millions, but billions.

The main issue centered on the massive, joint-European venture to build the Airbus, touted as the world’s biggest passenger jet. A number of American companies were involved in it as well, including Logan Aerospace. Devon had to struggle to follow the discussion of the incredibly complex global aerospace industry. She grasped the bottom line, though, when Logan leaned forward an hour later and summed it up with surgical precision.

“We can argue the numbers all day, Herr Hauptmann, but we both agree your company is dangerously overleveraged. You borrowed heavily to hire additional people and invest in new production facilities to win your big Airbus contract. With Airbus behind schedule and facing major cost overruns, its potential customers are dropping like flies. You can go down with them, or you can accept my offer of a buyout, which will not only save your Airbus contracts, it will give you greater access to American aerospace giants like Boeing and Lockheed.”

“At a significantly reduced profit margin.”

“For the first three years, until we’ve recouped your investment outlay.”

The tension in the conference room was almost palpable.

“This company has been in my family for four generations, Herr Logan. It goes very much against my grain to relinquish control of it.”

Devon held her breath as the two men faced each other across the conference table. She saw no trace of the even-tempered client who’d shrugged off the irritations of travel delays and lost luggage in the steely eyed corporate raider who went straight for the jugular.

“You’ve already lost control, sir.”

Hauptmann’s ruddy cheeks took on an even darker hue. Devon gulped, hoping he didn’t have a stroke as Logan delivered the coup de grace.

“I know you’ve had a similar offer from one of my competitors, Templeton Systems. I don’t know the terms, of course, but I do know Templeton’s standard practice is to replace key managers at every level with their own people.”

The other executives present shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Logan swept a glance around the table before meeting their boss’s gaze again.

“I’m willing to work with you on a restructuring plan that will mesh the skills of your people with any of my own I decide to put in place.”

All eyes shifted to Hauptmann. Frowning, he worked his mouth from side to side for several moments.

“How long is this offer on the table?” he asked finally.

“I leave Dresden tomorrow for Berlin to finalize the financial arrangements. Then I plan to make a quick visit to the Airbus production plant in Hamburg before I fly back to the States on Friday. I’ll need your answer by then.”

“Very well. You shall have it.”

Wow! These guys played hardball. Five days to make a multibillion-dollar decision. Devon was impressed.

With a visible effort, Hauptmann shelved his company’s fate and played the gracious host. “What a shame you have only one night in our beautiful city. Our Boys’ Choir is giving a special Christmas performance at the opera house tonight. My wife and I would very much like for you to join us for the concert and a late dinner. And your lovely assistant, of course.”

Devon fully expected Logan to make a polite excuse. He’d been traveling for twenty-plus hours and had spent the brief respite in her room prepping for this meeting. Surely he wanted to crash.

Or not.

Showing no sign of the fatigue he must be feeling, Logan accepted the invitation.

“Excellent.” Hauptmann pumped his hand again and escorted him out of the office. “I’ll send a driver to pick you up at your hotel at seven.”

Devon waited until they were outside and in the limo to release a long breath. “Whew! That was pretty amazing. My father’s an accountant, so I’m used to hearing him throw around numbers. Never any as big as those, though. Do you think Herr Hauptmann will accept your offer?”

“We’ll know by Friday.”

He was so nonchalant about it. If she hadn’t just seen him going in for the kill, she might not have believed all those news articles Sabrina had found on the Web citing his lethal skills as a corporate raider.

“Do you still want to stop at the Christmas market?”

“If we have time.”

It was almost four now. They would have to hustle to hit the jam-packed market, select gifts for an assortment of kids, check on Logan’s luggage and get him moved into his suite in time to shower and change. Maybe, she thought hopefully, his executive assistant had decided to take the morning off and hadn’t responded to Devon’s e-mail requesting the names, ages and gift preferences of Logan’s nieces and nephews.

No such luck. The response was waiting when she clicked on her iPhone. She scrolled through the list once and was going over it a second time when their limo slowed for the crowded streets of the Old City. Devon caught a glimpse of the market through a narrow alleyway. They could sit in the car while it crawled another quarter mile to the square or cut through the alley and meet the limo on the other side.

“Hier ist gut,” she told the driver.

He pulled over to the curb and his passengers climbed out. The sleet had let up a little, thank goodness, but the air was still cold enough to make her teeth ache.

“I’ll tell the driver to wait for us by the bridge, Mr…Er…Cal.”

He eyed her coat and the hot pink shawl she draped over her head and wrapped around the lower half of her face. “You sure you’ll be warm enough? We can skip the market and go straight back to the hotel.”

Devon was tempted to take the out he offered. Very tempted. All she had to do was fake one little shiver. But they were out of the limo now, and the market was only a short walk away.

“I’m good if you are.”

Nodding, he hiked up the collar of his overcoat and pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket. When they started down the cobblestone alley, he took her elbow with same courtesy he had at the airport.

Devon wasn’t sure how such a simple gesture could be so casually polite and so damned discon-certing at the same time. She made a conscious effort not to lean into his warmth as their heels echoed on the ancient stones.

The narrow walk wound around the back of the great cathedral. Thankfully, the cathedral walls blocked most of the wind. The gusts that did whistle through the alley, however, carried tantalizing scents. Devon’s nose twitched at the aroma of hot chocolate, apple cider spiced with cinnamon and cloves, freshly baked gingerbread and the sticky sweet cake Dresden was so famous for.

“You’ll have to try the stollen,” she told her client. “It’s a German specialty that’s supposed to have originated right here in Dresden.”

Sure enough, when they exited the alley and joined the throng in the main square, the first booth they encountered was selling slices of the cake still warm and steaming from the oven.

“When in Rome…”

Taking her at her word, Logan steered her toward the line at the booth.

Not Logan. Cal. Still struggling to make the mental adjustment, Devon dredged her memory bank for details of the treat so popular throughout Germany and Austria.

“The Catholic Church used to forbid the consumption of butter as part of the fasting in preparation for Christmas. Sometime in the sixteenth century, the Elector of Saxony got permission from the Pope for his baker’s guild to use butter and milk when baking their Christmas bread. Dresden’s stollen became highly prized after that, and every year the baker’s guild would march through the streets to present the first, huge loaf to the prince in gratitude.”

She could imagine the color and pageantry of that medieval processional, with trumpets sounding and the bakers in all their finery tromping through the snow with their thirty-six pound loaves. The tradition still continued, she knew, only now it was a megaparade complete with floats, marching bands, a stollen queen and a five-ton loaf!

“Here you go.”

Logan—Cal—passed her a paper-wrapped slice and a foam cup of something hot and steamy. He retrieved the same for himself before they lucked out and found space at one of the stand-up tables dotting the square.

Devon’s first bite more than made up for the cold nipping at her cheeks and nose. Eyes closed in ecstasy, she savored the rich blend of nuts, raisins candied fruits flavored with spices and brandy and, of course, tablespoons of butter.

The hot chocolate was also spiked, she discovered after the first sip. As a result, she was feeling warm both inside and out when they dumped their trash in a handy container.

“Ready to do some serious stall hopping?” she asked.

“Hang on. You’ve got powdered sugar on your lip.”

He moved closer, and for a startled moment Devon thought he was going to repeat his performance at the airport and kiss away the sugar. Her heart speeded up, and she didn’t know whether she was more relieved or disappointed when he tugged off a glove and brushed his thumb along her lip.

Then she looked up and caught the lazy half smile in his eyes. For the most absurd moment, the cold and the crowd seemed to fade away. She held her breath as his thumb made another pass. Warm. Slow. Caressing.

“There.” He dropped his arm. “All clear.”

With the brandy heating her stomach and his touch searing her skin, the best Devon could manage was a gruff “Thanks.”

Sweating a little under her heavy wool coat, she edged her way into the crowd that snaked through lanes of brightly decorated stalls. Thanks to her client’s efficient assistant, picking out gifts took little effort.

Four-year-old Andrew got a hand-carved train on wooden tracks. Seven-year old Jason scored a two-foot-tall nutcracker in a smart red coat. For the twins, Julia and Bethany, Devon recommended denim skirts lavishly trimmed with filigree lace from Plauen. The more studious Janet received a glass globe of the world handblown and painted by a local artisan, while baby Nick got mittens and a stocking cap in a downy yarn that sparkled like spun gold.

Dusk was falling and the strings of lights illuminating the market had popped on by the time Cal and Devon rounded out the purchases with a doll in a furtrimmed red dress, a wooden puppet and a chess set featuring incredibly detailed Prussian soldiers. Their arms full, they had started for the bridge and the waiting limo when a ripple of eager anticipation raced through the crowd. They turned just in time see the giant fir next to the wooden Christmas pyramid light up.

A chorus of collective ooooohs filled the square. It was followed by the sound of young voices raised in a joyous rendition of “O Tannenbaum.”

Second time today, Devon thought. Strangely, though, the song didn’t produce quite the same level of cynicism as when she’d heard it blasting through the loudspeakers at the airport.

Maybe because these voices were so young and angelic, or because she still felt the glow from the spiked hot chocolate. Certainly not because her lip still tingled from Cal Logan’s touch.

“There’s the car.”

The driver had pulled into a cul-de-sac beside the bridge spanning the Elbe and was sitting with the engine idling. He jumped out to relieve them of their packages, but the magical view drew his passengers to the wall fronting the river’s bank. Completely enchanted, Devon leaned both hands on the wall.

The ancient stone bridge spanned the Elbe in a series of graceful arches. Below the bridge, the river was a solid sheet of dark, glistening ice. Atop it, the statues of saints and kings along both sides had acquired a coating of frost that glittered in the glow of the street lamps, while the trees lining both banks were strung with white lights that turned the icy nightscape into a winter wonderland.

“Now that,” Devon murmured, “is a sight.”

Cal shifted his gaze to his companion’s profile. The instant attraction that had prompted him to make a fool of himself at the airport this morning returned with a swift and unexpected kick.

“Yes,” he agreed, “it is.”

Interesting what a difference a few hours could make, he mused as he leaned an elbow on the cold stone of the wall. He’d arrived in Germany intent on acquiring a subsidiary that would cost him billions but make Logan Aerospace one of the top U.S. players in the European market.

He was still determined to acquire Hauptmann Metal Works. Betting on the outcome, he’d finalize the financial details when he met with his bankers in Berlin tomorrow. But the heat that stirred in his belly as his gaze lingered on Devon McShay was fast convincing him he should acquire her as well.

Three

“Logan kissed you?”

The question shot from Devon’s two partners almost simultaneously. She nodded in response, wondering how the world had survived before digital videoconferencing.

“He did.”

Her partners’ images filled her laptop’s split screen. She’d caught Sabrina at home, still flushed and feverish but on the road to recovery. Caroline was at the office. Devon knew without being told she’d been up since dawn and hard at it.

The two women couldn’t have been more different. Sabrina Russo came from a privileged background and had partied her way through college. Caroline Walters was quiet and withdrawn and had worked part-time jobs to earn spending money even during their shared year at the university. At this moment, however, their faces wore almost identical expressions of surprise.

“Logan thought I was you, Sabrina.”

“Huh?”

“That was pretty much my reaction, too.”

Swiftly, Devon explained about the long-delayed New Year’s Eve kiss.

“That sounds like Don Howard.” The blonde shook her head in mingled amusement and exasperation. “So how did you handle it?”

“I didn’t slug our client on the spot,” Devon drawled, “but I came close.”

After she’d recovered from her near total meltdown, that is. She couldn’t explain the ridiculous reaction to herself, let alone her partners. Nor did she mention the way her nerves tingled every time Logan took her arm. Shelving her completely irrational sensitivity to the man’s touch, she ran through the string of disasters that had begun with his long-delayed flight and ended just minutes ago, when she finally moved him into his suite.

“At least I got him to his meeting with Herr Hauptmann on time. Believe it or not,” she added with a grimace, “at Cal’s request we also squeezed in some post-meeting Christmas shopping.”

“Uh-oh.”

Instant sympathy filled Caroline’s forest green eyes. She knew how this time of year scratched at Devon’s old wounds. Sabrina had zoned in on another aspect of her comment, however.

“Cal?” she echoed.

“He insists we proceed on a first-name basis.”

Devon glanced at her bedroom window. She hadn’t even had time to draw the drapes before she dashed into the bathroom to freshen her makeup and change. Ordinarily, she would have found the illuminated spires across the river magical. Their coat of glistening ice instilled a less enthusiastic response tonight.

“On the negative side,” she told her partners, “there’s still no sign of his luggage, and the weather reports are grim. Everything’s shutting down. The airport, the trains, the autobahn. We may be stuck in Dresden indefinitely.”

“Logan can’t hold you responsible for the weather,” Caroline protested.

“Or EBS,” Sabrina added briskly. Despite the party-girl persona she projected to the rest of the world, she was the partner with the most business sense. Only Devon and Caroline knew the personal hell she’d gone through to gain that knowledge.

“Has he made any noises about being dissatisfied with EBS’s services?” she wanted to know.

“No complaints so far. That could change real fast, though. Between getting ready for this concert and dinner tonight and giving you guys an update, I didn’t have time to work backup transportation and hotel reservations.”

Caroline jumped in, as Devon had hoped she would. “I’ll take care of that. We’ve got Logan’s schedule and current itinerary on the computer. I’ll work up a list of alternative options and have them waiting for you when you get back from the concert.”

“Thanks, Caro. I didn’t plan on an evening out.”

“Good thing I talked you into packing your long velvet skirt.”

That came from Sabrina, who firmly believed appearance and flexibility were as important in their business as organizational skills. All three were getting a real test tonight.

“What are you wearing with it?”

“The gold lamé number you also made me pack.”

Devon leaned away from the computer’s built-in camera to display the scoop-necked, cap-sleeved top in glittering gold. Lightweight and silky, it could jazz up a suit for an after-five cocktail meeting or provide an elegant stand-alone for an evening function like this.

“Perfect,” Sabrina announced. “Now go eat, don’t drink and be merry.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cal escorted her to the lobby and the car Herr Hauptmann had sent. His hair was still damp from his shower and the tangy lemon-lime scent of his aftershave teased her senses.

The two-hour concert provided another banquet for her senses. Dresden’s opera house had been leveled during World War Two and damaged again when the Elbe flooded its banks in 2002. But huge infusions of funds had restored the theater to its former glory. Pale green walls, magnificent ceiling paintings and the ornate molding on its tiers of boxes made an incredible backdrop for the Dresden Boys’ Choir. The ensemble rivaled Vienna’s for the purity of the voices. The singers’ notes soared high, sounding as though they flew on angels’ wings

Dinner afterward was smaller and more intimate but every bit as elegant. Herr Hauptmann had reserved a corner table at Das Caroussel, located in a recently restored Baroque palace. Mindful of Sabrina’s parting advice, Devon feasted on braised veal accompanied by a sauerbraten ravioli that made her taste buds want to weep with joy, but limited her alcohol intake to a few sips of a light, fruity Rhine wine.

Madam Hauptmann was a surprise. Vivacious and petite next to her husband’s bulk, she spoke flawless English and was delighted to learn Devon had studied in her native Austria. She was also very impressed with Cal Logan. As dinner progressed and the waiter refilled her wine glass, Lisel Hauptmann’s playful flirtation began to include seemingly accidental touches and sidelong glances her husband failed to note.

Devon noticed them, however. The beauty of the concert and the luxurious restaurant evaporated bit by bit. By the time coffee was served, her dessert of Jerusalem pear and artichoke vinaigrette tasted more like chalk with every bite.

She’d had to endure countless scenes like this during her short-lived marriage to Blake McShay. Tall and trim and salon-tanned, her husband had played his flamboyant good looks and TV-personality role for all they were worth. But only for PR purposes, or so Blake would argue when Devon objected to the way he let women fawn all over him.

To Cal Logan’s credit, he appeared completely oblivious to Madam Hauptmann’s less-than-subtle signals. That should have won him some brownie points with Devon, but the bad taste stayed with her after the Hauptmanns dropped them off at their hotel. She returned short, noncommittal responses to her client’s comments during the walk through the lobby and said even less in the elevator.

The plush, patterned carpet lining the hall muted their footsteps as they approached Cal’s suite. He stopped beside the double doors but didn’t insert the key. Tapping the key card against his hand, he raked a glance over her face.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she lied.

In fact, she was anything but. Watching Lisel Hauptmann’s performance had stirred too many nasty memories. All Devon wanted was to crawl between the sheets and let sleep wipe them away. Her client’s long day gave her the perfect out.

“But you must be exhausted,” she said. “I’ll check the weather and call you in a few minutes with our revised itinerary for tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you bring me a printed copy? We can have a cognac while we go over the details.”

“I don’t care for cognac.”

He cocked a brow at the stiff response. “I’m sure we can fine something else to suit your tastes. See you in a few minutes.”

“Fine.”

Devon could feel those blue eyes drilling into her back as she marched the few yards to her room and knew she had to get a grip here.

So Cal Logan was too damned hot for his own—or anyone else’s—good? So he and this crazy time of year combined to throw her off balance? She’d darn well better get her head on straight before she trotted back to the man’s suite.

The e-mail from Caroline didn’t help in that regard. Her heart sinking, Devon skimmed the meager contents. European weather experts had already labeled this the ice storm of the century. Many airports had closed until further notice. Trains were running hours behind schedule, if at all. Road conditions were expected to worsen overnight. The experts predicted widespread power outages as trees groaning with the weight of ice cracked and toppled electrical lines.

Caroline’s advice was to hunker down right where they were and wait out the storm. With great reluctance, Devon called down to the desk to check on room availability should they have to extend.

“It should not be a problem, madam.”

Ha! She’d heard that before.

“If you and Herr Logan cannot depart because of this storm, our other guests most likely cannot arrive. In either case, we will work out suitable arrangements.”

Vowing to hold them to that promise, Devon printed the e-mail and headed back down the hall.

“It’s not looking good for travel to Berlin tomorrow,” she announced when Cal opened the door.

“I heard.”

Ushering her inside, he gestured to the plasma TV mounted on the wall. The screen showed a scene of almost eerie beauty. Like slender, long-limbed ballerinas, a row of ice-coated linden trees bowed almost to the ground.

“I caught the tail end of a CNN Europe broadcast. Evidently this front isn’t expected to move any time soon. We need to discuss options.”

He’d shed his suit coat and loosened his tie. He’d also popped the top buttons of his blue shirt and rolled up the cuffs. As he reached for the doors of the highboy that housed the suite’s well-stocked bar, Devon caught the gleam of a thin gold watch on his wrist, all the more noticeable against skin tanned to dark oak.

It was a deep, natural color that couldn’t have come from a bottle or the cocoon of a tanning bed. Devon should know. Her ex had spent megabucks on the latter. And those white squint lines at the corners of his eyes weren’t the result of peering at spreadsheets. Cal Logan might run a corporation that employed thousands, but he didn’t do it exclusively from the confines of a corner office.

“You said you’re not a cognac devotee. What would you like?”

The dazzling array of bottles beckoned. She’d been careful to take only a taste of schnapps during the welcome toasts at Herr Hauptmann’s office and a few sips of wine at dinner. With her client’s trip coming apart at the seams, though, she decided on a shot of something stronger than the diet Sprite she started to ask for.

“Baileys would be good. On the rocks.”

“One Baileys coming up.”

While he splashed the creamy liqueur into a brandy snifter, Devon took a quick glance around. Since the suite’s previous occupant had delayed his checkout, she hadn’t been able to inspect it before Cal moved in. She needn’t have worried. From what she could see, the King’s Suite more than lived up to the hotel’s proud claim that royalty had slept here, not to mention presidents, prime ministers and a good number of rock stars.

The luxurious apartment consisted of four rooms, each filled with what looked like priceless antiques. In the sitting room, gas-fed flames flickered in a marble fireplace with a mantel so ornate she guessed it had once graced a prince’s palace. The adjacent dining area boasted gilt-edged wainscoting and a chandelier dripping crystal teardrops. Separate bedrooms flanked the two central rooms.

Through the open double doors of one, Devon caught a glimpse of a stunning headboard carved with hunting scenes and topped by a life-size wooden stag’s head. Pale gold brocade covered the walls of the second bedroom. Bed curtains in the same shimmering silk were draped from the crown-shaped medallion centered above a magnificent four-poster.

“Wow,” Devon murmured. “I’ve toured castles that weren’t as richly appointed.”

“Me, too.” Cal came to stand beside her. Amusement laced his voice as he surveyed the decadent splendor. “Kind of makes you wonder what went on behind those bed curtains on cold, dark nights like this one.”

Devon’s back stiffened. She sent him a sharp glance, but there was nothing suggestive in the look he turned her way.

Or was there?

She was still trying to interpret his lazy half smile when he handed her the Baileys and retrieved his snifter of cognac from the marble-topped coffee table. With a ping of crystal on crystal, he tipped his glass to hers.

“Here’s to Mother Nature. For better or worse, she’s calling the shots.”

“For the foreseeable future, anyway.”

Devon lifted the snifter to her lips. Her first sip of the cool, creamy liqueur went down like a chocolate milkshake. The second hit with a little more punch.

“I called the front desk,” she told Cal as she moved toward the high-backed sofa angled to face the fire. “If necessary, we can hole up here until the storm breaks.”

His gaze went to the sitting-room windows. The drapes were drawn back to showcase Old City’s illuminated spires and turrets. The sleet blurring the world-famous view gave it an impressionistic, almost surreal, quality.

“Looks like holing up is becoming more necessary by the moment.”

Devon had to agree. “I’ll call the people you were supposed to meet with in Berlin and Hamburg first thing in the morning and try to reschedule. Do you have any flexibility in when you need to return to the States?”

“I would prefer not to spend Christmas Day in Germany. Or in the air,” he added with a wry smile. “As the only non-dad in the family, my sisters usually make me play Santa for my nieces and nephews.”

“Beard and all?”

“Beard and all.” He sank into the cushions at the other end of the sofa and stretched his feet toward the fire. “I’d hate to miss Christmas with my family and certainly wouldn’t want to deprive you of being with yours.”

“Not a problem for me.”

Evidently Devon’s shrug didn’t come across as careless as she’d intended. Cal eyes held a question as he regarded her from a few feet away.

“No close family?”

“No brothers or sisters, and my parents divorced when I was a kid,” she explained. “It wasn’t an amicable parting of the ways.”

To say the least. Devon hid a grimace behind a swallow of smooth, chocolaty liqueur.

“They fought over where I’d spend every holiday and vacation. I got so I dreaded school breaks.”

“The fighting hasn’t let up now that you’re an adult?”

“If anything, it’s worse. Now they lay the decision on me, along with the guilt. That’s one of the reasons I was more than happy to step in and take this trip when Sabrina got hit with the flu.”

“What about someone else?” Cal asked casually. “Someone special to catch under the mistletoe?”

Devon squirmed, remembering Blake’s proposal under that damned sprig of green. No way she intended to relate the fiasco that had followed. Or her ridiculous, starry-eyed belief she’d finally broken the Christmas curse.

“No one special.”

“Good.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been wondering about that since you picked me up at the airport this morning.”

Calmly, he set his brandy snifter on the coffee table, reached across the cushions and removed hers from her hand. Devon went from surprised to instantly wary as he laid his arm across the back of the sofa.

“I’ve also been wondering if that kiss hit you with the same wallop it did me.”

Oh, boy! Where had that come from? Hastily, Devon scrambled to get things back on a less personal basis.

“How it hit either of us is completely irrelevant, Mr. Logan.”

“Cal.”

“This is a business trip, Mr. Logan. For me as well as you.”

“We took care of business this afternoon. Even hard-charging professionals are entitled to some downtime.”

“You took care of business this afternoon. I’m still on duty.”

His mouth curving, he rendered a snappy salute that reminded her that this sophisticated multibil-lionaire had once been a lowly private or lieutenant or whatever.

“Now hear this,” he intoned. “This is your captain speaking. All hands are officially at liberty.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” she said stubbornly.

“Sure it does. So answer the question, McShay. Did you feel the same kick I did?”

Every shred of common sense Devon possessed shrieked at her to lie like hell. Despite his blithe assurances to the contrary, her gut told her she should not mix business and pleasure. Especially with someone like Cal Logan. He was too powerful, too charismatic. Too damned sexy.

On the other hand…

Stop right there! There was no other hand. She’d been burned once by a handsome, charismatic charmer. She’d be a fool to stick her hand in the fire again.

“I repeat, Mr. Logan, how it hit either of us is completely irrelevant. I don’t intend to—”

She broke off, blinking as the cityscape that had filled the windows behind Cal suddenly went black. Dresden’s beautiful spires and turrets disappeared before her eyes. In almost the next second, the luxurious King’s Suite plunged into darkness broken only by the flames leaping in the marble fireplace.

Four

“A major substation went down.”

Cal hung up the house phone and confirmed what he and Devon already suspected.

“Power is gone to half the city, with more outages being reported as we speak.”

The flickering flames from the fireplace painted his face in shades of bronze as he crossed the room. His shadow loomed large against the pale walls.

“The desk clerk says the hotel has a backup generator, but…”

Devon’s heart sank. She had a feeling the “but” was a lead-in to something she didn’t want to hear. Sure enough, Cal delivered the grim news.

“It provides only enough power for emergency-exit lighting.”

Leaving the rest of the hotel in the dark.

“How long do they think the power will be out?”

“They have no idea. They’re hoping it’ll just be a few hours.”

Terrific! What better way to end a day characterized by more screwups and miscues than she wanted to count? Suddenly weary beyond words, Devon ached to sink into her featherbed and sleep right through this latest disaster.

“I think we should pack it in,” she suggested. “There’s nothing more we can do tonight.”

Cal accompanied her to the door but leaned an elbow against the ornate molding. “Actually, there is. You could answer my question. Did you feel the same punch I did?”

As if she was going to admit he’d rocked her back on her heels at the airport this morning!

“I don’t intend to answer it,” she said primly.

“Coward.”

The soft taunt held as much amusement as speculation. Devon responded to both with a lift of her chin.

“The kiss was a mistake. Or more correctly, a case of mistaken identity. Your friend asked you deliver it to someone he no doubt described as a good-time girl.”

Which Sabrina Russo most definitely had been. Only Devon and Caroline knew how hard their friend had to work now to maintain her laughing, effervescent facade.

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Devon said coolly, “I’m not that woman.”

“Trust me, I’ve noticed.”

This far from the fire, the room was in deep shadow. She couldn’t read Cal’s expression, but the amusement was still there, lacing his deep voice.

“So here’s the deal,” he said. “I’m thinking we should try it again.”

“What?”

“No mistakes or mistaken identities. Just you and me this time. We’ll test the waters, see if we experience the same punch.”

Devon gave an exasperated huff. Despite her every effort to maintain a businesslike attitude, her client wasn’t going to let go of that ridiculous incident at the airport unless and until she killed it stone-cold dead.

Assuming she could. With him leaning over her, his features a contrast of light and dark, she had the mortifying suspicion she could lose herself in Cal Logan’s arms.

The mere thought tightened the muscles low in her belly. For a dangerous moment, she indulged the fantasy of popping the rest of his shirt buttons. Sliding her palms over the contours of his chest. Locking her arms around the strong column of his neck.

Summoning every ounce of willpower she possessed, Devon wrapped her hand around the gilttrimmed latch and yanked the door open.

“Good night, Mr. Logan.”

Cal let her go. He’d heard the rusty edge of exhaustion layered under the irritation in her voice. She had to feel almost as whipped as he did.

He knew damned well his tiredness would have evaporated on the spot if she’d taken him up on his challenge. But would hers? His rapidly evolving plans for Devon McShay didn’t include a sleepy, halfhearted seduction. He wanted her wide awake, her breath coming in short gasps, her body eager and straining against his.

Cal scraped a hand across his chin, trying to remember the last time a woman had roused this kind of hunger in him, this fast. From the first glimpse, Devon had stirred his interest. From the first taste, she’d dominated his thoughts. All during the meeting with Hauptmann, Cal had had to work to keep his attention on the acquisition details and off the woman sitting next to him.

He was damned if he understood why. Even with Alexis—beautiful, sensual, avaricious Alexis—a part of him had always remained detached. And more than a little cynical. He’d known from day one that the glamorous blonde had been more attracted to his millions than to him.

Yet prickly, stubborn Devon, who insisted on maintaining a professional distance, had Cal plotting all kinds of devious ways to get her in his bed. He had several in mind as he crossed the darkened room, intending to toss down the rest of his cognac before he hit the sheets. A sharp rap brought him back to the door.

When he opened it, his pulse spiked. Devon stood in the hall. For a wild moment, Cal was sure she’d come back to conduct the experiment he’d suggested.

“The key to my room doesn’t work.”

So much for his misguided hopes, he thought wryly.

“I used the house phone to call the front desk. They think the sudden power outage sent a jolt through the computer that electronically resets the hotel’s door locks.”

The only lighting came via the red emergency-exit signs. It was more than enough for Cal to note her thoroughly disgusted expression.

“Until they get the computer back online, not even security or housekeeping can let me in. So I thought…Since you have two bedrooms…Maybe we could…”

“Share?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. Come in.”

He stood aside, careful to keep his expression neutral as she swept by him. She was clearly upset by this latest turn of events. That didn’t stop him from feeling a whole lot like the big bad wolf when Red Riding Hood appeared with her basket of goodies.

She halted in the sitting room, her slender figure silhouetted against the glow from the fireplace. “Which bedroom are you using?”

He gestured to the one on the right. “I went for the stag’s head instead of the crown.”

“Okay.” She hesitated. “Well, uh, I guess I’ll turn in.”

He had to fight a grin. He shouldn’t be enjoying her predicament so much. “’Night, Devon. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night.”

He waited to see if she’d tack on another Mr. Logan. She didn’t.

When the door closed behind her, a fierce satisfaction gripped Cal. He was halfway home. He had Devon here, in his lair. That was progress enough for tonight.

Or so he thought.

An hour later he was forced to admit he’d made a serious error in judgment. With the electric heat out, the room temperatures had gone down like the Titanic. The thick comforter provided sufficient protection against the cold, but all Cal could think of was how much warmer he’d be with Devon curled up beside him. The fact that she slept less than a dozen yards away kept him awake and aching long into the cold, dark night.

Devon woke to sunlight so bright and dazzling she had to put up an arm to shield her eyes. Squinting through her elbow, she saw she’d neglected to draw the pale gold brocade drapes. No surprise there. She’d whacked a shin on a chair leg and bumped into the dresser while stumbling around in the inky blackness last night.

Still squinting, she lowered her arm. That’s when she discovered that dazzling sunlight didn’t necessarily equate to warmth. The elegant bedroom was as cold as the inside of an Eskimo’s toolshed. Each breath brought icy air slicing into her lungs. It came out a second later on a cloud of steamy vapor.

Gasping, Devon dragged the covers up to her nose. Obviously, the hotel’s power was still out. She knew zero about substations and transformers and such, but suspected the city that had gone dark right before her eyes last night was probably still powerless.

So where did that leave her? More to the point, where did it leave her client? Until she had a fix on the situation, she wouldn’t know how to handle it.

She huddled under the covers, trying to work up the nerve to make a dash for the bathroom. The mere thought of planting her bare feet on the icy bathroom tiles kept her burrowed in.

“Devon?”

Her startled gaze flew to the door. “Yes?”

“You decent?”

“I…Uh…” She scrunched down until only her eyes showed above the fluffy comforter. “Yes.”

The door opened and a man she almost didn’t recognize entered the room. The cashmere overcoat and hand-tailored suit were gone. So was the boardroom executive.

This Cal Logan looked more like a cross-country Nordic skier. He wore a cream-colored turtleneck and bright blue ski jacket with the collar turned up. Matching ski pants emphasized his muscular thighs. The pants were tucked into microfiber boots cuffed by thick thermal socks Devon would have killed for at that moment.

Luckily, she didn’t have to resort to murder. Cal carried a shopping bag across the room and dumped it on her bed.

“Good thing the hotel caters to the winter sports crowd. I had the manager open the ski shop. I figured we’d both need some cold-weather gear if the power stays off for more than a day or two.”

“A day or two?” Gulping, Devon tugged the covers down a few inches. “Surely they’ll restore it before that.”

“Maybe, maybe not. The manager said at least two-thirds of the city and most of the surrounding countryside have been affected. And it’s still happening. Lines are coming down right and left.”

Her gaze went to the uncurtained windows. The suite was on the sixth floor, too high up to afford more than a glimpse of the ice-coated trees lining the Elbe. From what Devon could see of them, however, most had bent almost to the ground under the unrelenting weight of the ice.

“I had to guess at your size.” Cal’s blue eyes skimmed down the covers and back up again. “If anything doesn’t fit, I’ll take it down and exchange it.”

“Thanks. Er, I don’t suppose you were able to scrounge some hot coffee along with the ski clothes.”

“Sorry. The hotel kitchen is temporarily out of operation. The staff was scrambling to put together a cold breakfast for the guests, though.” He headed for the door. “We’ll go down as soon as you’re dressed.”

Devon dove into the shopping bag and extracted a thick pair of socks. Only after her toes were encased in thermal warmth did she grab the bag handles and make a run for the bathroom.

The toilet seat almost gave her freezer burn. The icy stream that gushed from the water taps made washing her hands and face a challenge of epic proportions. Thankfully the hotel’s amenities included spare toothbrushes and a complimentary tube of toothpaste. Shivering and hopping from foot to foot, she brushed away the overnight fuzz, then shimmied into black-silk long johns so thin and sheer she wondered how the heck they could retain any heat. Her bikini briefs showed clearly through the almost-transparent silk. So did her demi-bra.

A V-necked sweater in pale lavender went on over the thermal silk undershirt. The ski pants and jacket were a darker shade of amethyst trimmed with silver racing stripes. Cal, bless him, had thought to include gloves and a headband in the same rich purple.

Ears, fingers and toes all warm and toasty, she zipped on a pair of microfiber boots and left the bathroom with a last glance at the woman in the mirror. She could use some lip gloss and a hairbrush. Hopefully, the hotel’s computer whizzes would figure out some way to operate the door locks so she could get back into her own room soon. If not, she’d have to conduct another raid on the downstairs shops.

After she got some coffee in her. Preferably hot, although she’d take an injection of caffeine however she could get it right now. And food. Any kind of food. With her body’s basic need for warmth satisfied, her stomach was starting to send out distress signals.

Cal stood by the sitting-room windows, taking in the frozen cityscape across the Elbe. Devon’s breath caught as she went to stand beside him. Buildings, trees, the statues on the bridge, the river itself…everything as far as the eye could see lay under a blanket of glistening white. Not a single car or bus or snowplow moved through the frozen stillness, although a few brave pedestrians were making their careful way across the bridge into the Old City.

“The manager didn’t exaggerate,” Devon murmured, awestruck. “Looks like most of the city must be shut down.”

“Looks like.” He didn’t sound particularly concerned as he turned and skimmed a glance over her new uniform. “How does everything fit?”

“The boots are a little loose, but you did good otherwise. Very good, actually.”

The comment was more of a question than an endorsement. Logan responded with one of his quicksilver grins.

“That’s what comes of having four younger sisters. We’ll exchange the boots downstairs.”

“We don’t need to exchange them. I’ll fill the space with another pair of socks.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“You’d better bring your purse with you,” he advised. “With the electronic locks on the fritz, we can get out but the keys won’t get us back in. We’ll have to leave the door propped open.”

There went her lip gloss and hairbrush.

“What about your laptop and briefcase?” she asked. “Are you just going to leave them?”

“I took them downstairs earlier. They’re secured behind the desk.”

“We might need them to work your revised schedule if I can’t get to mine.”

“I think we’d better shelve any idea of work until we know the extent of the storm.”

“But—”

“No buts. I’m declaring today an official holiday. All set?”

Since she didn’t appear to have much choice in the matter, Devon stuffed the little evening bag she’d taken to dinner last night inside a jacket pocket and pressed the Velcro flap closed. This, she predicted silently as she and Cal descended six flights of cold, dank stairs, was going to be a looooong day.

Long, she amended some ten hours later, and in-explicably, incredibly magical.

Looking back, she saw that she and Cal had shed their respective roles with their business suits. No longer travel consultant and client, they became co-conspirators in a determined effort to beat the cold.

Their first act was to down a surprisingly lavish breakfast. With a fervent murmur of thanks, Devon accepted a mug of the hot cocoa the hotel staff had brewed over a can of Sterno. The rich, frothy chocolate paved the way for a cold buffet of cheeses, fruits, yogurt, smoked salmon and thick slabs of Black Forest ham. Smoked over pine and coated with beef blood to give it a distinctive black exterior, the moist ham tasted like heaven slapped between two slices of pumpernickel cut from a wheel-size loaf.

After breakfast Cal insisted they don knitted ski masks and get some exercise. Devon had her doubts when the ice crusting the snow broke under her weight and she sank to her ankles. To her relief, the water-resistant microfiber boots kept her feet dry. What’s more, the depressions provided just the traction she and Cal needed to join the other hardy souls who’d ventured out into the winter wonderland.

They’d gone only a few yards when what sounded like a rifle shot split the air. Instinctively, Devon hunched her shoulders and grabbed Cal’s arm. He stopped her before she could drag them both facedown in the snow.

“It’s just a tree cracking under the ice. Look, there it goes.”

She followed his pointing finger to one of the graceful lindens lining the Elbe’s banks. It was bent almost double, its branches sweeping the frozen earth. As Devon watched, the trunk groaned and split right down the middle. One half crashed to the ground. The other stood mutilated, a wounded sentinel silhouetted against the blue sky.

“Oh, how sad.”

“Even sadder when you think how many other trees have split like that and brought down power lines.” Cal shook his head. “Crews will have to clear tons of debris before they can repair the lines.”

Keeping her arm tucked in his, he steered clear of any trees that might crack and come down on them. They made it as far as the bridge and were thinking of turning back when a lone snowplow cleared a path across the ancient stone spans.

Cal and Devon followed in its wake, as did dozens of others. They were drawn by the unmistakable tang of burning charcoal and the yeasty, tantalizing scent of fresh-baked stollen.

They followed their twitching noses to Dresden’s oldest bakery. Only a block off the main square, Der Kavalier had already drawn a crowd of resilient natives and tourists determined to make the best of the situation.

Munching on the sweet, spicy bread baked in a wood-fired brick oven, they wandered down the Long Walk. The columned promenade had been erected in the sixteenth century to connect Dresden’s castle with the building that had once housed the royal stables. The history buff in Devon felt compelled to point out the incredibly detailed, hundred-yard-long frieze depicting a progression of Saxon kings and nobles.

“Those are Meissen tiles. All twenty-four thousand of them. The originals were fired in the porcelain factory just a few kilometers from Dresden. Most of them had to be replaced after World War Two.”

Cal dutifully admired the frieze and pumped her for more information on the city’s colorful history. He did it so skillfully that Devon ran out of narration before he ran out of patience.

By then it was well past noon. They stumbled on a tiny restaurant tucked away on a side street with a kitchen powered by a loud, thumping generator. It took a thirty-minute wait but they finally feasted on steaming bowls of potato soup and black bread. Stuffed, they strolled back across the bridge only to find a wide swath of frozen river fronting their hotel had been cleared to provide space for an impromptu winter carnival.

Vendors roasted chestnuts and sizzling shish kebabs over charcoal braziers. A one-legged man muffled to the ears in scarves and a lopsided top hat cranked a hand organ. Skaters glided arm in arm to his wheezy beat. Several enterprising youngsters had overturned a wooden box and offered to rent their family’s skates for the princely sum of two euros.

Over Devon’s laughing protests, Cal plunked down the requisite fee. He wedged his feet into a pair of hockey skates at least one size too small and selected a pair of scuffed figure skates for Devon. When he went down on one knee to tie the laces, she made a last attempt at sanity.

“I haven’t been skating since I was a kid.”

“Me, either.” Pushing to his feet, he dusted the snow off his knees. “Ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she muttered.

He gave her a few moments to test her wobbly ankles. The next thing Devon knew, strong, steady hands gripped her waist and propelled her across the ice.

One of those hands was nestled at the small of her back when they finally returned to the hotel a little after five-thirty.

The kitchen staff had pooled its collective ingenuity to prepare another remarkable meal for the guests. Mostly cold meats and salads, with a few hot selections cooked over cans of Sterno. Spicy goulash filled the air with the tang of paprika, while bubbling cheese fondue hinted at the dry white wine and kirsch that had gone into it. For dessert, the guests were offered a choice of prefrozen Black Forest Cake and Bananas Foster flamed at the tableside.

Devon’s taste buds were still sighing in ecstasy over the combination of rum and cinnamon in the flambéed bananas when she and Cal went upstairs.

They’d already been advised the electronic keycard system was still inoperable. Maintenance offered to force the lock on Devon’s door, but Cal suggested she give the system another couple of hours to come online. Meanwhile, she could warm her toes in front of the fire in his suite.

When they entered the King’s Suite, the rooms were as dark and as cold as a witch’s tomb, yet Devon felt as though she’d come home. She couldn’t believe how much she’d enjoyed her day in the bracing fresh air. Almost as much as she hated for it to end.

She could have blamed that bone-deep reluctance for what happened next. Or the hot, spiced wine she’d guzzled after skating. Or the alcohol spiking the cheese fondue and Bananas Foster.

She didn’t resort to any of those excuses, however. All she had to do was look into Cal’s eyes to know the day they’d just spent was merely a prelude for the night to come.

Five

After a day filled with dazzling sunlight, the night brought darkness, isolation and a swift escalation of the sexual tension that had been building between Devon and her client since their first meeting.

An intense awareness of his every move nipped at her nerves as he adjusted the gas fire. Housekeeping had been in sometime during the day and set it to burn low and steady. Cal soon had the flames leaping higher, shedding some light but little warmth beyond a radius of a few feet.

He solved that problem by dragging the heavy sofa closer to the fireplace. While he angled the sofa to catch the maximum heat, Devon lit the candles the hotel had provided its guests, along with extra blankets and a complimentary bottle of schnapps.

The schnapps she left on the sideboard but the extra blankets and two plump pillows came with her when she joined Cal on the sofa. Draping one of the blankets around her shoulders, she eyed a cordless phone nesting in its cradle on a nearby table.

“Do you think the house phones still work? I really should call my office and let them know what’s happening. Or rather, not happening.”

Her cell phone was in the purse stuffed in the pocket of her ski jacket. Unfortunately, she hadn’t charged it before leaving for dinner last night and the freezing temperatures today had drained what little was left of the battery. Cal’s mobile phone had taken a similar cold-weather hit. Between the weak signals and the saturated airways caused by so many landlines going down, he hadn’t been able to place any calls, either.

“You can give it a try,” he replied, “but the cradle charger requires electricity. I’m guessing it’s dead, too.”

He guessed right.

They might have been alone in the universe. No TV blaring the latest financial news. No music to disturb the stillness. No phones or laptops to connect them with the rest of the world. Just the two of them. Together. With hours of quiet isolation ahead.

“This is so weird,” Devon muttered, hiking the blanket up around her ears. “I never realized how much we depend on electricity. Heat, light, cooked food, hot water, every form of communication…They’re all gone or severely restricted.”

“Makes you appreciate the things we take for granted every day,” Cal agreed.

Kicking off his boots, he stretched his stocking feet to the fire. Devon admired his seemingly philosophical acceptance of the situation even as she worried about its impact on his business. And hers.

“You told Herr Hauptmann you need to finalize arrangements with your bankers in Berlin before you fly back to the States on Friday. That’s three days from now. What if we’re still stranded here in Dresden, without any way to communicate with the banks?”

“With this much money on the line, the banks will be more than happy to work with me.”

“So you were bluffing to force his hand?”

“I was taking a calculated risk. As you heard at the meeting yesterday, Templeton Systems also made Hauptmann an offer, but they haven’t locked in the financing yet. I want this deal signed, sealed and delivered before they do.”

She blew out a silent whistle. She’d left that meeting convinced the banks had Logan’s back to the wall.

“Remind me not to get into any high-stakes poker games with you.”

His rich chuckle carried across the crackle and spit of the gas-fed flames. “And here I was thinking a little five-card stud might be one way to pass the time tonight. Guess we’ll have to resort to Plan B.”

“Which is?”

“We talk politics. We try to guess each other’s favorite movies. We wrap up in these blankets and share our body heat. We have wild, uninhibited sex.”

Her jaw dropped.

“We don’t have to follow that precise order,” he informed her solemnly. “We could start with the sex and work our way backward.”

The sheer audacity of it took her breath away. Then she saw the laughter glinting in his blue eyes, and her lungs squeezed again. Despite the wicked glint, she knew he wasn’t kidding.

More to the point, she knew darn well she wanted what he was offering. Devon didn’t even try to deny it. The mere thought of stretching out beside him, of feeling his body press hers into the cushions, had her heart ping-ponging against her ribs.

“What do you think, McShay?” He reached across the back of the sofa. Burrowing under the blanket draped over her shoulders, he curled a palm around her nape. “Are you up for Plan B?”

She swiped her tongue over suddenly dry lips. Her fast-disintegrating common sense shrieked at her to end this dalliance, right here, right now.

Because that’s all it was. All it could be. She’d fallen for a stud like Cal Logan once and still had the scars to show for it. No way she was going to set herself up for another tumble.

So don’t.

The blunt admonition came compliments of her alter ego. The one with shivers rippling down her spine from the slow stroke of his thumb on her nape.

Have some fun, dummy. Enjoy a mind-blowing orgasm or two. Then you and Logan can go your separate ways, no harm, no foul.

Since every hormone in Devon’s body was screaming at her to agree, she wet her lips again.

“I, uh, think we should start with a modified Plan B.”

His thumb stilled. The gaze that had been locked on her mouth lifted to hers.

“I’m listening.”

“We conduct the experiment you suggested last night. See what happens. Take it a step at a time from there.”

A slow grin spread across his face. Devon’s alter ego was whooping with joy even before he agreed to her proposed modification.

“Sounds good to me.”

His hand tightened on her nape and tugged her closer. In the flickering light of the fire, his face was like a painting by one of the old Flemish masters, all strong planes and intriguing shadows. Then Devon’s lids drifted shut, his mouth came down on hers and all thoughts of old masters, Flemish or otherwise, flew out of her head.

This kiss was slower than yesterday’s. More deliberate. Despite that—or maybe because of it—the sensual movement of his lips over hers packed even more of a wallop. Devon angled her head to give him better access before surrendering to the urge she’d been battling since her first glimpse of the man shirtless.

Tugging down the zipper on his ski jacket, she flattened her palms against the broad expanse of his chest. She could feel his pecs under his turtleneck, and the jackhammer beat of his heart.

Or was that her heart pounding like a rock drummer on steroids? At this point, Devon wasn’t sure and didn’t particularly care. All she knew was that her other self almost wept when Cal broke the contact and lifted his head.

To her profound relief, his breath came as hard and fast as hers. The hand at the back of her neck held her steady. His eyes burned into hers.

“Well? What’s the verdict? Do we progress to the next step?”

“Yes!”

She flung her arms around his neck, shedding the blanket draped over her shoulders along with any and all remaining doubts.

Cal made a sound halfway between a growl and a grunt of fierce satisfaction. His free hand tunneled under her hips. With one quick maneuver, he had her flat on her back.

His mouth was harder now, more demanding, but Devon’s hunger matched his. She locked her arms around his neck and strained against him. Hip to hip, mouth to mouth, they explored the feel, the taste, the texture of each other.

He didn’t ask for permission to progress to step three. Probably because Devon was already there. Fighting free of her ski jacket, she relieved him of his, then yanked up the hem of his turtleneck and silky thermal shirt. Her hands were hot and greedy as she planed them over his back and waist and the hard, taut curve of his butt.

He wasted no time in following suit. Her lavender sweater and black silk long-john top came up and over her head with a couple of swift tugs. Her boots hit the floor next. With a speed that left her breathless, Cal peeled off her ski pants and long-john bottoms.

His hot, hungry gaze roamed from her breasts to her belly. The flesh mounded so enticingly by her black lace demi-bra brought an appreciative growl, but the matching thong stopped him cold.

“Were you wearing that thong under your dress when we went to dinner with the Hauptmanns?”

“Yes.”

“And you slept it in last night?”

“Since I couldn’t get back in my room, I didn’t have anything else to sleep in.”

“Good thing I didn’t know that,” he said, his voice rough, “or you wouldn’t have made it out of bed this morning.”

That drew a husky laugh from Devon. She wasn’t any more immune to flattery than the next girl, and the expression in Cal’s eyes as they devoured her nearly naked flesh was extremely gratifying. It almost made up for the goose bumps popping out all over her skin.

Her ensuing shiver could have been caused by the cold air. Or the liquid fire that spread through her when he got rid of his own ski pants and long johns. Or the erection that pushed against the front of his shorts.

Her groan of dismay, however, was most definitely due to the latter. Cal’s startled look prompted another groan from her, this one of embarrassment.

“I didn’t mean…It’s not you…Well, it is but…” As flustered now as she was aroused, she blurted out the problem. “Oh, hell! I don’t have a condom. I hope you do.”

“No, I don’t.” His lips twisted in a rueful grin. “I don’t usually pack a supply for short business trips.”

Unlike her ex, Devon couldn’t help remembering. Blake had never left home without an emergency stash.

“I could make a quick trip down to the lobby,” Cal commented. “Or…”

“Or what?”

The wicked glint returned. “We could improvise.”

Devon’s pulse stuttered and skipped. Oooh, boy! She was asking for trouble if the mere thought of taking him in her mouth could turn her on and her common sense off.

“You want to improvise first?” Her voice husky, she rose up on her knees and pressed her palm against his rock-hard erection. “Or shall I?”

His breath hissed out. That was all the answer she needed.

“Me,” she murmured, sliding her hand inside his shorts. “I’ll go first.”

With a small grunt, he reached for the blanket, whipped it around them both and followed her back down onto the sofa cushions.

They were cocooned in darkness and a heat fueled by desire. Devon used her hands and teeth and tongue, licking him, teasing him, driving him almost to the brink.

His salty taste was on her lips when she felt his body go taut. The engorged shaft in her hand seemed to pulse and swell even more. She bent her head, intending to finish what she’d started. Cal stopped her by the simple expedient of pulling free of her hold.

“Not yet,” he rasped. “Not until I have my turn.”

With the blanket still tented around them, he rolled her onto her back and inched downward. Slowly. As Devon had moments ago—or was it hours?—he used his hand and teeth and tongue on her eager flesh. Her nipples ached when he finished with them. Her belly quivered under his nipping kisses.

Then he spread her legs and found her hot, wet center. Once again he moved slowly. So slowly. His tongue rasped her sensitive flesh. His fingers worked sensual magic. Soon waves of exquisite sensation streaked through every part of Devon’s body.

She could feel the climax coming. She tried to delay it, fought to contain the spiraling tension. She might as well have tried to contain the snow and sleet that had stranded them. Despite her determined efforts, her vaginal muscles coiled tight, then tighter still. Her head went back. A groan ripped from far back in her throat. Giving up the fight, she rode the burst of blinding pleasure.

For the second day in a row, Devon woke to dazzling sunlight. Only this time she wasn’t lying in a bed topped by a majestic crown. Nor was she swathed like a mummy in a warm, insulating duvet. This time the warmth emanated from the very large, very heavy body squashing her against sofa cushions.

She lay on her side, she discovered when her sleepy haze cleared. Her back was tucked against Cal’s front, with her knees bent and her bottom cradled on his thighs. Sometime during the night they’d both dragged on their thermal silk long johns. After her second earth-shattering orgasm, Devon thought lazily. As memories of the night just past came rushing back, her mouth curved into a smile. The little huff that escaped her lips was part sigh, part mewl of remembered pleasure.

As soft as it was, the sound produced a rumble in the solid wall of chest pressed against her back.

“’Bout time you woke up, Cinderella.”

The blanket covering them rustled. Calloused fingertips brushed the tangled hair from Devon’s cheek. Prickly whiskers rasped against her cheek as Cal scrunched around to nibble on her earlobe.

“Or was it that Snow White chick who slept for a thousand years?” he muttered between bites.

Laughing, she hunched a shoulder against the invasion of his hot, damp breath in her ear. “Someone with nine nieces and nephews should know that was Princess Aurora, aka Sleeping Beauty. And it was a hundred years, not a thousand.”

“Yeah, well, Disney lost me after I had to watch a talking teapot and candlestick do their thing a half-dozen times one long, agonizing weekend.”

With a final nibble, he disengaged and departed the sofa. A blast of cold air hit Devon’s fanny before he tucked the blanket around her again. Only then did it register that the hotel’s electricity must still be out.

“I waited for you to wake up before mounting a scouting expedition,” Cal said. “Stay here and keep warm. I’ll go downstairs and see if I can scrounge up some hot coffee or chocolate.”

She rolled over and watched while he gathered his ski jacket, pants and boots. His cream-colored silk long Johns fit him like a second skin, which made the watching a delight. As Devon’s gaze roamed his broad, tapered back and trim backside, her delight ripened to a feeling of intense, almost physical, pleasure.

The front view was even more arousing. The cool, in-command executive looked more like a rough-and-tumble hockey player. His short black hair stood up in spikes. The whiskers that had rasped Devon’s skin showed dark against his cheeks and chin. The spandex ski pants molded his muscular thighs, while the half-zipped jacket showed the strong column of his throat.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I’ll be right back.”

She fully intended to follow his instructions and remain huddled under the blanket until he returned. Unfortunately, the bathroom beckoned with increasing urgency. Dreading the prospect of another session on the icy toilet seat, Devon held off as long as she could. Nature finally conquered the cold. Shivering, she shoved her feet into her boots and dragged on her ski jacket, then sprinted for the bathroom.

When she went to wash her hands and face, the woman looking back at her from mirror gave a small shriek. Her hair was a bird’s nest of dark, tangled red. Her face was devoid of all color. Except, she noted ruefully, for the whisker burn on the side of her chin. She leaned forward and fingered the tiny abrasion, then dismissed it with a shrug.

What the heck. It was small enough price to pay for the mind-bending pleasure Cal had given her last night.

See, her alter ego smirked. What did I tell you? Is the man hung, or what?

“No arguments there,” Devon muttered.

And if the electricity doesn’t come back on, you and El Stud can spend another night or two between the sheets before you go your separate ways, no harm, no foul.

“No harm,” she echoed, frowning at the face in the mirror, “no foul.” Somehow that didn’t sound as bracing as it had last night.

Oh, come on! Don’t get all hung up here. One night does not a commitment make. For you or for him.

Okay, okay! She wasn’t going all gooey over the guy. Well, maybe a little, but not enough to do anything too stupid. Like fall in love with him.

She almost had herself convinced when the bathroom lights blinked on. A half second or so later, the plasma TV in the other room came to life.

“Hallelujah!”

Whooping, Devon happy-danced through the bedroom and into the sitting room. She had no idea how long it would take for the heat to kick in, but relief had to come soon. And hot water! She could shower. She could wash and blow-dry her hair. She could—

The jangle of the house phone interrupted her joyous list making. Thinking it was Cal calling from the lobby, she snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?”

A surprised huff was her only response. Maybe it was a repairman, testing the lines without expecting an answer. Someone who didn’t speak English. Swiftly, Devon switched to German.

“Hallo? Ist jemand da?”

“I’m sorry. They must have put me through to the wrong suite.” The voice was female, the accent decidedly American. “I’m trying to reach Cal Logan.”

“This is Mr. Logan’s suite.”

That produced a sharp silence, followed by an even sharper query. “Who is this?”

Uh-oh. Obviously the caller hadn’t expected another woman to answer Cal’s phone. Then again, Devon hadn’t expected to be here at this early hour of the morning answering it. Scrambling to recover, she infused her reply with crisp professionalism.

“This is Devon McShay. I’m Mr. Logan’s travel consultant.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

The sneering comment had Devon gritting her teeth. “May I ask whom I’m speaking to?”

“Alexis St. Germaine.” The reply was as glacial as the ice coating the trees outside. “Mr. Logan’s fiancée.”

Six

Cal balanced a cardboard tray in one hand and inserted a new key card into his suite’s door lock. With the hotel’s electricity restored, the computer that controlled the locks was back in operation.

Cal had mixed emotions about the return to full power. He could certainly use a hot shower and a shave, but he wouldn’t have minded being left in the dark with Devon McShay for another night or two or three.

Just thinking about how he’d left her, wrapped in that blanket with her hair a tangled cloud of red and her brown eyes sleepy, got him rock hard. Which explained why he’d raided the sundries section of the lobby gift shop for condoms. With or without electricity, his plans for Devon included several more sessions under the blankets.

“The hunter returns,” he announced to the woman standing beside the sofa, her arms folded across the front of her ski jacket. “We have coffee. We have fresh, crusty rolls. We have butter and strawberry jam.”

She didn’t leap on the hot coffee. That was his first clue something was wrong.

“We also have electricity,” he said, commenting on the obvious.

“So I noticed,” she said stiffly. “I’ll go downstairs, retrieve a key for my room and get out of your hair.”

When she started for the door, Cal deposited the tray on a side table and stopped her. “Whoa! What’s going on here, Devon?”

“Nothing.”

The look she flashed him said exactly the opposite. Baffled, he couldn’t figure out what had caused her transformation from sleepy and sexy to ice maiden.

“Something was definitely going on last night.” He tried to coax a smile out of her. “I was kind of hoping for more improvising this morning.”

“I’m sure you were.”

The swift retort shot up his brows. She saw his reaction and offered a strained apology.

“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. What happened last night was as much my fault as yours.”

“Fault?”

Well, Christ! Talk about being slow on the uptake. He was dealing with a major case of morning-after regrets here.

“It was a crazy situation.” She refused to meet his eyes. “The cold…The dark…”

“Funny,” Cal said, attempting to smooth away the regrets, “I remember more heat than cold.”

Instead of the smile he’d hoped for, all he got was a lift of her chin and a barbed reply.

“We had some fun while the lights were out, Mr. Logan. Let’s leave it at that. Now it’s back to business for both of us.”

“The hell you say.” He was starting to get pissed. “When you know me better, Devon, you’ll discover I don’t turn it on and off that easily.”

“Don’t you?” Disdain and something very close to disgust darkened her eyes. “Oh, before I forget, your fiancée called a few minutes ago. She heard about the ice storm on the news. She’s been worried about you and wants you to call her back as soon as possible.”

“That’s interesting,” Cal said, his eyes narrowing, “since I don’t happen to have a fiancée.”

“You’d better inform her of that. Now if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Logan, I’ll leave you to make your calls and go make mine.” Her chin came up another notch. “Assuming you still want EBS to work your travel arrangements, that is.”

The realization that she thought he was the kind of slime who would sleep with one woman while engaged to another pissed Cal even more.

“Yes, Ms. McShay, I do.”

“Fine. I’ll work the revised itinerary and get back with you.”

This wasn’t over between them, Cal vowed as she made for the door. Not by a long shot. He’d make that clear shortly. First, he had to deal with Alexis.

His temper simmering, he had the phone in hand almost before the door snapped shut behind Devon. He punched in the country code for the U.S., followed by the number of the Park Avenue apartment he’d leased for Alexis St. Germaine some months ago.

“It’s Cal,” he bit out when she answered.

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