All She Wants for Christmas
Stacy Connelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

About The Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Copyright

Stacy Connelly has dreamed of publishing books since she was a kid, writing stories about a girl and her horse. Eventually, boys made it onto the page as she discovered a love of romance and the promise of happily-ever-after.

When she is not lost in the land of make-believe, Stacy lives in Arizona with her two spoiled dogs. Stacy loves to hear from her readers at stacyconnelly@cox.net.

Thank you to Susan Litman and Gail Chasan for giving me this chance and for all the hard work that went into my first book.

To the Loaded Pencils - Karen, Dana, Teri, Pam and especially Betty (for assigning the short story that eventually became this book). Thanks for letting me be one of the “piñatas” all these years.

To Kris - For asking when my book was coming out years and years before I was published!

To Kathy - I’d need a whole book to list all the reasons why!

Chapter One

“Got some bad news, boss.”

Clay Forrester looked up as his assistant ducked beneath the painter’s scaffolding and played hopscotch over the electrical cords crisscrossing his office. Wallpaper swatches hung from a wall streaked with paint samples. Drop cloths protected his leather couch and chairs, but a fine layer of construction dust covered his mahogany desk. “What is it, Marie?”

Marie Cirillo opened her mouth just as the electrician started a high-powered drill. For a brief moment, the earsplitting electrical squeal seemed to emanate from his assistant. Clay choked back a laugh as she shot the construction worker an exasperated look.

The drilling stopped, and Clay asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you have a promising future as a ventriloquist’s dummy?”

“You know, walking in here, I felt bad having to tell you this, but I’m feeling better about it now.” She smirked. “Doug Frankle’s sick.”

His smile faded. “Our office Christmas party is in less than two hours, and our Santa is sick?”

The company party was being held two weeks before the holiday so it wouldn’t interfere with family gatherings and vacations. The event was the culmination of a long, difficult year, and Clay was determined nothing would go wrong.

“Tell me we have a backup,” he pleaded.

“His wife dropped off the costume if you want to substitute,” Marie offered, with a cheeky grin.

Unfolding his six-foot frame from his leather chair, he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “Do I look like a fat old man with a beard?”

“If Christmas was for the naughty instead of the nice, you’re exactly what Santa Claus would look like.”

“Very funny.” Pulling out his wallet, Clay tossed two one-hundred-dollar bills onto his desk. “Go steal some supermarket Santa.”

“You dare to bribe St. Nick?” Marie gasped in mock horror.

“Why not? Good ole St. Nick has been putting the thumbscrews to overworked parents for years. Accepting a bribe would be a step up from consumer extortion and emotional blackmail.”

“You know, for a guy about to host a holiday party, you don’t sound very festive.” As the electrician left the office, mumbling something about splitters, she added, “You really haven’t been yourself since—” She shut her mouth so quickly, her teeth clinked together. That his outspoken assistant even tried to curb her tongue was proof of her worry.

“Since my father died,” he filled in for her. “You can say it, Marie.”

She stepped closer. “You’ve changed, Clay. Back when your father was running the company—”

“He’s not running the company anymore. I am.”

Marie drew back slightly. “That’s right. And you’re doing a damn good job. So don’t you think it’s time you start living in the present again?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?”

“You’re locked on the future and where you want the company to go, as if you can erase where it’s been.”

Clay flinched at the reminder of where the company had been—held tight within his father’s hands. Only after Michael Forrester passed away had Clay realized how ruthless and relentless those hands could be.

“This is business, son,” his father had once explained. “And business is all about the bottom line.”

Growing up, Clay had accepted that statement, the same way he’d accepted that his father often missed the big game or the science fair, phoning in an excuse and leaving Clay and his sister to pretend to understand. It was business, after all, and business came first.

But not to everyone, Clay thought grimly as he recalled a confrontation several weeks after his father passed away. He’d been leaving for the day when an older man wearing a beatup trench coat stopped him in the lobby. Taking one look at the man’s bloodshot eyes and unkempt hair, Clay had assumed some bum had wandered in from the streets. Until the man called him by name.

“Where are your promises now, Forrester?” the man had demanded. “All the lies my grandchildren were foolish enough to believe about how you would ‘turn the company around’? With a little more time, the loan would have come through, and I would have turned it around. But thanks to you, I never got the chance. You went behind my back, bought out the company from my own family and sold it off piece by piece until there was nothing left. Nothing.” His voice had broken on the word, and he’d pushed past Clay to rush out onto the sidewalk.

He hadn’t tried to stop the man, hadn’t said a thing. What was there to say? That time wouldn’t have made a difference? That no bank would give a struggling company a loan? That his father had been the one to decimate the man’s business?

It was only later, on the long drive home, that Clay realized that he had no idea who the man was. That his business could have been any one of dozens.

Slowly, he was reversing the company’s philosophy, from tearing down troubled companies to building them back up. His first move had been to give Kevin Hendrix, the CEO of Hendrix Properties, some practical business advice and infuse the company with capital, saving it from certain bankruptcy and assuring them both an impressive profit. He’d built on that success, certain he could change the company and his father’s legacy.

“I’m trying to do what’s right,” Clay finally said to Marie. “And in case you’ve missed it, not everyone agrees.”

Marie waved aside his comment. “Albert Jensen thinks only the bottom line counts.”

Clay’s smile twisted. “He wasn’t my father’s right-hand man for nothing.” And while he didn’t give a damn what Jensen thought, Clay couldn’t escape the knowledge that his father would have disapproved.

Shaking off the dark thoughts, he said, “Look, no more business tonight. We’ve got a Christmas party to save. Go find someone to play Santa, and I promise to enjoy myself at the party.”

“Sorry, Tiny Tim, but no can do,” she responded.

“Oh, come on!” he exclaimed. “Don’t tell me I’ve insulted your Christmas spirit.”

Marie laughed. “Not quite. The caterers called. Their delivery truck broke down. I’ve got two dozen red-and-green cheesecakes to pick up.”

“So it’s a toss up between Santa and dessert?”

“Exactly. And I’m saving the cheesecake.” She tossed the words over her shoulder as she strode from the office. “See you tonight.” And then, as if to assure them both all was forgiven, she turned back, with a challenging glance. “And it better be in a red velvet suit.”

You’ve changed, Clay. The accusation echoed in his mind long after Marie left. It was the same one Victoria had hurled at him the night she stormed out of their apartment—and out of their marriage.

She’d been furious that he’d missed some party. “I was working,” he’d argued, the excuse uneasily familiar. And even though he and Victoria had lived like strangers for the last months of their relationship, at one time she’d known him very well. Well enough to make sure her pointed comments hit their mark.

“For a man so determined not to walk in his father’s shoes, you’re covering some well-worn ground.”

As much as Clay wanted to argue, the proof was there—in the forgotten parties, the late dinners, the missed holidays.

Ever since the divorce, he’d kept his life simple, with no one to disappoint, no one to let down. No one…

The office door opened again, interrupting his thoughts. The electrician reentered, toolbox and several wires in hand. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Forrester.”

The office remodeling had taken so long, Clay had grown accustomed to the ever-present construction workers. With a sigh of frustration, he asked, “I don’t suppose you know where I can find a Santa Claus?” Hearing how stupid he sounded, he vowed he would fire the electrician on the spot if the man said “The North Pole.”

Setting his toolbox on the floor, the man said, “There’s been a Santa in the lobby all week. In front of that flower shop.”

“You’re kidding.” Clay walked by the flower shop on his way to the elevator every day. How had he missed a fat man in a velvet suit? Maybe Marie was right. He had focused too much on work lately. He glanced at his watch. Floral Fascinations closed at six. He still had a few minutes. “Thanks for the tip.” Grabbing his jacket from the back of his chair, he said, “Are you almost finished for today?”

“I’ll be done in a few minutes.” A shower of sparks flared from the Christmas-colored wires. Clay shook his head and left his office, with the man’s curses following him out the door.

The reception area was empty. Marie was already en route to rescue the stranded cheesecakes. A small stack of files lined the edge of her otherwise bare desk. For all her teasing remarks, she was an amazing assistant. He couldn’t have managed this last year without her. No doubt the files were ones he needed first thing Monday morning.

As Clay stepped inside the elevator car, he vowed to put work aside. He needed a night to relax, and the party promised to be a good time. He’d invited the employees to the elegant Lakeshore Plaza Hotel ballroom. He had caterers and a band lined up, gifts to raffle. All he needed was a substitute Santa.

Moments later, the elevator bell chimed, and the doors slid open to reveal the elegant gray and white marble lobby. Green garlands trailed down either side of the black granite water feature. Red bows and mistletoe decorated the floor-to-ceiling marble columns. Piped-in music played Christmas carols.

And, sure enough, a red-suited St. Nick stood outside the flower shop. After a quick greeting, Clay cut to the bottom line. “I have a holiday party tonight and a sick Santa. How about a hundred dollars to fill in?”

He pulled the money from his wallet and watched the man’s eyes widen above his snowy beard. Looking far more greedy than jolly, the man protested, “I already got another gig lined up.”

Recognizing the negotiating tactic, Clay pulled a second bill from his wallet. “Does it pay two hundred dollars and include a meal catered by one of Chicago’s finest restaurants?”

Santa snatched the money from Clay’s hand.

Holly Bainbridge flipped the hanging sign to Closed, slipped out of the flower shop, and locked the door behind her. Six o’clock. She had a half an hour to get to the foster home. Pocketing the keys, she turned and was surprised to see Clay Forrester talking to the storefront Santa.

Working in the same building as Forrester Industries, even if it was thirty some floors below his skyscraping offices, Holly knew his company’s reputation as an avaricious giant, gobbling up small businesses. And she’d seen for herself how ruthless Clay Forrester could be. Months ago, she’d watched, unnoticed, as he stared down some poor old man whose company he had destroyed. Forrester hadn’t bothered to say a single word; his features—and his heart—could have been carved from the same stone that filled the lobby.

Holly had dealt with that kind of ruthlessness before, with the kind of hardball businessmen who cared more about turning a profit than turning foster children out of their home. Fury filled her, but Holly buried the useless emotion and the ache of tears that accompanied it.

She watched Forrester hand the Santa a piece of paper. Was he donating to charity? Perhaps the holiday spirit had the power to touch even the most cynical hearts. Forrester smiled, but the twitch of his lips reflected the look of a man who accepted victory as his due.

Holly waited until he strode away before approaching. “We’ll have to hurry to get there on time, Charlie,” she told the costumed Santa.

A bad feeling crept into her stomach the second he glanced toward Clay Forrester’s departing figure. “Uh, Miss Bainbridge, something’s come up. I’ve got another party to go to.”

She couldn’t believe it. “I have half a dozen kids waiting for Santa, and you’re going to disappoint them?”

“Sorry, Miss Bainbridge.”

Sorry. People always said they were sorry. But apologies didn’t make heartaches heal any faster or hurt any less. She had promised the foster kids at Hopewell House a Santa, and she was not going to disappoint them! Especially this year, when the group home would soon be closing its doors for good.

Determined, Holly marched toward the elevators where Clay Forrester stood waiting. A bell chimed, and the gilded mirrored doors slid open. The rapid tattoo of her boots striking the marble floors increased as she ran toward the elevator. She squeezed through the doors, with inches to spare.

He glanced at her with a touch of curiosity as the elevator rose. Holly had seen the handsome businessman before; a woman would have to be blind not to notice six feet of black-haired, blue-eyed perfection. But she’d never had the chance to study him up close. Never noticed the straight, serious eyebrows, the stubborn jaw, his sculpted, sensuous mouth…

“Mr. Forrester…” Flustered by the huskiness in her voice, Holly stopped speaking.

He looked again, charting a course from the top of her dark hair, to her sweater and jeans, to her ankle boots. By the time his lingering gaze made its way back to hers, curiosity had turned to interest, and somehow the elevator reached high enough altitude to steal the breath from Holly’s lungs.

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

It should have put her at an advantage, knowing who he was when he didn’t know her. Instead, Holly felt insignificant. “Holly Bainbridge. I work at the flower shop, and you stole my Santa.”

“Excuse me?”

She flushed. If only he weren’t so darn good-looking, maybe she could complete an intelligent sentence. “Charlie promised me he would make an appearance tonight.”

“He did mention another job, but—”

His words cut off as the elevator jerked to an abrupt halt. Holly gasped, losing her balance and falling against Clay. He caught her body with his as the elevator went dark. She couldn’t see a thing.

But she could feel. Oh, yes, she could feel. The imprint of each finger grasping her upper arms. The slight catch in his breath as her breasts grazed his chest, the quickening of his heartbeat. His rock-solid chest beneath her hands. And his belt buckle, hard and cold against her stomach, a sharp contrast to the rest of him, which was definitely hard and warm.

Awareness skittered along nerve endings, and her own heart beat double time, nearly drowning out the sound of their combined breathing.

“What happened?” she asked when she found her voice.

Holly felt the slight shaking of his chest a split second before laughter filled the small space. Jerking away, she demanded, “What’s so funny?”

“I’ve got the Three Stooges remodeling my office, and my guess is that Larry just blew a fuse.”

Adrift in the darkness, without his touch to anchor her, she reached back for the elevator wall. “The building’s lost power?”

“With the luck I’ve had recently,” he said wryly, “all Chicago’s probably lost power.”

A faint electronic hum punctuated his words, and after a tense moment hanging in space, the car resumed its ascent. Giving a sigh of relief, Holly closed her eyes and sank against the side of the car.

“Are you okay?”

Opening her eyes to find Clay standing inches away, Holly thought the elevator might have fallen after all. She certainly felt like she’d lost touch with solid ground, her heart hovering somewhere in her throat. She grasped hold of the handrail to keep from swaying closer. “I’m—I’m fine.”

He searched her expression as if looking for the truth, and Holly purposefully held his gaze instead of allowing her attention to slip to his lips, hovering above her own.

In a voice deeper than moments before, Clay said, “I’m sorry about the Santa thing.”

His words dimmed the rush of attraction as Holly imagined using that brush off with the disappointed children. Hey, kids, sorry about the Santa thing.

The casual crushing of hopes and dreams reminded her of her ex-boyfriend’s easy defection. Even after she’d trusted Mark enough to share the truth about her painful childhood, he’d let her down in the worst possible way. “Sorry, Holly, but I don’t even know if I want kids of my own, let alone raise someone else’s kid.”

Those words, spoken by the man she thought she loved, the man she thought she wanted to marry, had instantly dragged her into the past. Into her old insecurities about her self-worth.

She wasn’t like other people. She didn’t have biological ties to bind her to another living soul. She wasn’t Bob and Carol’s daughter or Jimmy’s little sister.

Holly had truly thought she’d escaped those stigmas, until Mark’s insensitive remark brought them all back. Now she couldn’t escape the fear that her rootless past might haunt her yet again. What if the system decided a nobody like her wasn’t good enough to be a foster mother?

“Look, maybe there’s something I can do,” Clay offered.

It took a second for Holly to refocus on the conversation and realize he was talking about the Santa-less Christmas party. “I don’t know what,” she said, not putting much hope in the offer as the elevator bell announced their arrival at the top floor.

“Let’s call Charlie.”

Slipping through the doors the moment they opened, Clay didn’t look back as his long strides carried him into the reception area. Completely focused on what he wanted, he didn’t wait to see if she followed. Holly gazed at the button for the lobby. It would be so easy to push the button and slip away from Clay Forrester, hopefully leaving her disconcerting attraction behind….

“I don’t have his number,” she said as she stepped off the elevator and into the plush office. Her heels sank into the patterned carpet, and she glanced at the leather chairs and a circular work-station. Double doors barred the way to Clay’s inner sanctum.

“Okay.” Her words barely slowed his stride. “I’ll call the hotel where my party’s being held and tell Charlie to go to yours instead.”

His determination knocked the legs out from under her earlier anger. After all, Charlie was the one who’d broken his promise, but Holly couldn’t forget that Clay’s money had been the deciding factor. As always, money talked, and Holly went through life unheard.

“What time does your party start?” she asked.

Clay twisted his wrist to check his watch, and Holly caught a glimpse of gold and the expensive wink of diamonds. “In an hour and a half.”

An hour and a half before they could reach Charlie—if he showed on time—then the ride from the hotel to Hopewell House…Holly shook her head. “That would be too late.”

The children at Hopewell House were no strangers to disappointment, a feeling Holly recalled all too well from her own childhood. But how she had wanted their last Christmas together to be one to remember!

“Too late?” Clay echoed. “Where are you supposed to be tonight?”

“At a party at Hopewell House.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a group home for foster children.”

He stared at her. “You mean to tell me that I stole Santa Claus from a bunch of foster kids?” Regret etched a line between his eyebrows as he sank back against the reception desk, and Holly had the odd desire to make him feel better.

“I’ll think of something.”

Maybe the two women who ran the group home had kept Santa’s arrival a secret. Perhaps she could arrange for a different Santa to entertain the kids. It would have to be soon, though, before the children were separated and placed in new homes. Before Hopewell House closed forever.

She was turning to leave when Clay called out, “Wait.”

He caught her hand for a brief second, and a tingle of warmth shot up her arm, even after she pulled her hand from his grasp. Holly longed to wipe her palm against her jeans to dull the sensation. But the sudden intensity in his blue eyes indicated he’d experienced the same flare of attraction. Her mouth suddenly went dry, and she couldn’t look away, the sexual connection far harder to break than the physical one.

“Miss Bain…Holly,” he hesitated. “If there’s anything I can do…”

She shook her head. “I don’t know how much it cost you to buy my Santa, but this isn’t a problem money can solve.”

Holly pulled her beat-up Volkswagen Bug to a stop in front of Hopewell House. Looking at the house, with its cheery Christmas lights and welcoming glow, she took a deep breath.

Normally, she loved volunteering at the group home. With the impending closure, she’d spent every spare moment inside its warm, loving walls. The children never failed to lift her spirits, but tonight she dreaded the thought of entering the two-story brownstone.

After leaving Clay in his office, Holly had gone back to the flower shop. She’d worked her way through the directory listings for costume shops. Most of her calls had gone straight through to voice mail; those that had been answered had ended in disappointment, with all the Santa suits already rented.

Her breath began to fog the windows, and Holly couldn’t put it off any longer. Bundled up against the chilly Chicago night, she climbed from the car, slammed the door, and ran up the walkway to the steps.

The second she set foot on the porch, the front door opened, and Eleanor Hopewell waved her plump hands, urging her inside. “Come in! Come in! You’ll catch your death.”

The sixty-something woman gathered Holly’s knitted scarf and jacket and hung them on waist-high, bright plastic hooks. “The children are so excited!” Eleanor’s faded blue eyes sparkled behind her glasses.

Holly held back a groan. “Eleanor—”

Before Holly had the chance to break the bad news, Eleanor’s sister, Sylvia, bustled into the foyer. “What are you doing keeping Holly in the doorway? Bring her into the parlor! Mary Jane can’t wait for you to hear her songs!”

Flanked by the two women, Holly dragged her feet but still wound up in the parlor. A half a dozen kids, ranging in age from three to seven, looked up as she entered.

“Holly, do you want to hear ‘Frosty the Snowman’ or ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’?” Mary Jane called out, her small hands poised above the piano’s keys.

“That’s not a Christmas song!” a know-it-all voice shouted.

“Is too!” Mary Jane argued. “’Cause there’s a star on top of the tree.”

“Miss Holly?” Holly felt a tug at her sweater and looked down. Bright blue eyes stared up at her from beneath a fringe of blond bangs. She knelt down until she was face-to-face with the three-year-old boy. Longing and hope rushed through her. Would she be given the chance to adopt Lucas? To be more than Miss Holly to this little boy she adored? “Hi, Lucas.”

A look of concern crossed his face. “How can San’a come down the chi’ney now?”

Holly followed the chubby finger he pointed toward the fireplace. Homemade stockings hung from the mantle, and a cheery fire blazed in the hearth. The mention of Santa sent disappointment surging through her. “Lucas, about Santa—”

Eleanor interrupted before Holly could break the news. “Now, Lucas, don’t worry. Santa Claus has to be very clever to get toys to all the good boys and girls. He’ll figure out something.”

Eleanor had no more than said the words when the doorbell rang. The children and the two older women gasped in anticipation. Mary Jane jumped up from the piano. “It’s Santa!”

“No, wait.” The stampede of tiny shoes pounding the wood floors drowned out Holly’s protest. The weight of disappointing the children pressed down on her, and she sank into a chair, not bothering to follow everyone to the foyer.

Holly heard the front door open and Eleanor’s exclamation, “Children, look who’s here!”

Cries of “Santa!” combined with a deep belly laugh. “Ho-ho-ho! Merry Christmas!”

Holly jumped up. Was it possible? Had Charlie changed his mind? Amazed, she walked to the doorway and watched as Eleanor and Sylvia introduced the children one by one to the bearded man in the red velvet suit. The children gazed up in adoration. Santa spoke to each child in turn, calling them by name and tousling their hair.

Holly frowned. After nearly two weeks in front of the flower shop, Charlie rarely remembered her name. How was it that he suddenly recalled the names of half a dozen children?

When it came to Lucas’s turn, he took one look at the white-haired, overstuffed man and ran in the opposite direction. As the little boy took refuge behind Holly’s legs, Santa glanced her way for the first time.

Holly barely kept an astounded gasp from escaping as she looked into Clay Forrester’s unmistakable blue eyes.

Chapter Two

Stunned, her heart pounding, Holly could only stare. With Clay decked out in full Santa regalia and surrounded by children, the scene looked like a Christmas card come to life.

As long as no one looked too closely at the flirtatious gleam in his eyes or the sexy smile the fake beard and mustache failed to hide.

“Come on, Lucas,” Eleanor Hopewell encouraged. “Come meet Santa. You’ve been so excited all week.”

Lucas tightened his arms on Holly’s legs, and Holly felt just as reluctant to approach the man in the red velvet suit. Unfortunately, she had no one to hide behind, and both Eleanor and Clay were waiting. Eleanor, with her hands clasped together in excited anticipation; Clay, with one bushy white eyebrow arched in challenge.

Taking a deep breath, Holly reached for the boy’s hand and squeezed reassuringly. “Let’s go, Lucas.”

Lucas stayed mostly hidden behind one of her legs, but she coaxed him out long enough for him to mouth a silent “Hi.”

Then, as if Holly were one of the children, Eleanor said, “Santa, this is Holly.”

“Well, hello, Holly.” Clay’s eyes sparkled. “Come give Santa a hug.”

With all eyes focused on them, she had no choice but to step forward. Clay immediately wrapped his arms around her in an exaggerated embrace. She stumbled against him, but thanks to the pillow stuffed inside the velvet jacket, she was saved the body contact that had robbed her breath in the elevator.

Even so, his hands found the thin strip of bare skin where her sweater pulled away from her waistband. Had she really thought of him as being cold? Heat emanated from his touch, and a small shiver raced through her. His fake beard tickled her nose, and the enticing hint of his aftershave made Holly desperate to create some space between them. Or bury her nose deeper to search out more of the scent on his skin.

“Mr.…Claus, please!” she protested.

“Tell me, Holly—” his deep murmur sent another shiver down her spine “—have you been naughty or nice?” With that rakish lift of one eyebrow, he flashed a very naughty grin.

She managed a flustered smile and said, “I’ve been good.”

“Thought so.” He winked. “I can always tell.”

He let her go, and Holly took a grateful step back, wondering how the parlor fireplace managed to give off so much heat in the foyer.

“Santa Claus, do you want to hear me play ‘Frosty the Snowman’?” Mary Jane asked.

“In a minute, my dear. Wait while my little helper—” he grabbed Holly’s hand “—and I bring in a surprise for all of you.”

“Don’t forget your coat.” Sylvia draped the jacket around Holly’s shoulders, and before Holly knew what had happened, she found herself outside, alone, with Clay Forrester.

The scent of snow tinged the air, along with a hint of chimney smoke drifting in the night sky. The street was silent and still, breathless with anticipation. It was only as she had to suck in a quick breath that Holly realized she was the one who’d forgotten to breathe. “What…How—”

Ignoring her stumbling words, Clay pushed the hat back far enough for his dark hair to fall over his forehead. He blew a cloud of air upward, ruffling his bangs. “You wouldn’t believe how hot this costume is.”

Gathering her wits and the edges of her jacket together, she asked, “How did you know where to find me?”

“You told me you were coming to Hopewell House.” He gestured to the brass placard near the front door.

Holly stepped back and took in the sight of the successful businessman in his full St. Nick glory. She still couldn’t believe her eyes. “Where on earth did you get that costume? I called all over and couldn’t find one.”

Looking uncomfortable, he confessed, “I already had it.”

Holly frowned. “If you had the costume, why’d you need Charlie?”

“I had the costume. I didn’t have anyone to wear it. No way was I going to make a fool of myself dressing like Santa at my company party.”

“But you’re here.” She waved a hand, gesturing to the costume and Hopewell House, glowing brightly behind them.

“Yeah, I am.”

Holly told herself not to read too much into his words, but how could she miss what his actions were saying? He’d been willing to make a fool of himself to do her a favor….

Swallowing, she tried to lighten the moment with a nod to the black limo waiting by the curb. “What happened to the sleigh and reindeer?” she asked as the two of them walked toward the car.

“Traded them in for four hundred horses.” He waved at the driver, who was hidden behind the tinted windows, and the trunk popped open.

The uniformed driver climbed from the limo. “Need any help with that, sir?”

“We’ve got it, Roger. Thanks.” Clay pushed the trunk open all the way.

If his arrival had shocked her speechless, the sight of the overloaded bags of toys sent words spilling from her mouth. “Look at all…Where did you…How did you have time to buy all this?”

“I had some help,” he confessed.

With a laugh shaky enough to reveal the tears she was trying not to cry, she asked, “Elves?”

“Close. Personal shopper.” His knowing gaze caught hers as he pulled out the first bag and passed it to her. “I thought about what you said and decided you were right. There are problems money can’t solve, but there are times when it works miracles.”

Heated embarrassment rushed to her face. “Mr. Forrester—”

“I think you can call me Clay.” He grabbed the other two bags of toys and closed the trunk.

“I’m sorry about what I said back at your office,” she told him as they walked back toward the house.

“You were right.” He slanted her a glance. “Don’t apologize.”

But she’d been wrong. Had anyone asked that morning, Holly would have sworn the successful businessman cared only about profit margins and saw people in terms of black and red: what they contributed in comparison to what they cost.

After their elevator mishap, she had thought perhaps she’d misjudged him but hadn’t expected him to give a second thought to the children waiting for a Christmas that might not come. Yet he’d taken time away from his own party to show up and play Santa. She felt as giddy and amazed as the children waiting inside.

Clay started to walk through the front door, but Holly grabbed his arm. “Wait.”

Setting her bag on the porch, she reached up, straightened the hat he’d pushed back, and carefully smoothed his dark hair beneath the white trim. Only when his surprised gaze locked with hers did she realized what she’d done. Stepping back, Holly cleared her throat. “Can’t have the kids figuring out you’re not really Santa.”

He reached up to adjust the hat, and she turned away, grateful to escape before doing something even more foolish. She opened the front door, and together they walked back to the parlor.

“Now, children, step back! Give Santa some room to breathe!” Sylvia admonished the kids who danced around him as they tried to peek inside the bags he carried.

Clay purposely lowered the bags to give the children a glimpse of gleaming tow trucks, blocks, and dolls before lifting them out of sight once more. Bobbing up and down on tiptoe, Mary Jane turned to the little girl beside her. “I saw a Barbie doll!”

Clay must have heard the exaggerated whisper. Once he settled into the parlor’s wingback chair, the fireplace and Christmas tree on either side, he motioned the two girls forward and pulled out a Barbie for each of them. Their eyes bright with excitement, they had the boxes open and were exchanging accessories within minutes.

The children’s happiness was contagious, and Eleanor and Sylvia seemed just as excited. Clay’s belly laugh filled the cozy room, and the blue eyes that had given him away in the first place danced.

If Holly had taken the job of matching the toys up with the children, she couldn’t have done better. Some, like Mary Jane, were easy, but for shy toddlers like Lucas, picking the perfect toy was more difficult. And even then, Holly couldn’t fault Clay’s choice.

Prompted by Holly, Lucas ran over just long enough to grab the yellow fire truck Clay held out. Holly tried to show Lucas how the battery-operated vehicle worked, but he wouldn’t let go of the toy to set it motoring across the floor.

As Eleanor walked toward the kitchen for refills of the fragrant, steaming cider, she stopped at Holly’s side. “That man is a wonder,” the older woman whispered. “When he called for directions, he asked about the children’s Christmas lists, but I never expected this.”

So that was how Clay had known what to buy. The knowledge didn’t lessen Holly’s amazement. She was touched he’d thought to research which presents would mean the most to the children. “I never expected it, either.”

“Wherever did he come from?” Eleanor asked.

Still awed that Clay Forrester was playing Santa for their party, Holly shook her head and mumbled, “Fortune 500.”

“Excuse me, dear?”

“I said I was fortunate to find him.”

He picked that moment to glance her way, and the distance separating them did little to dim the effect his appraising gaze had on her. The rest of the room faded away, leaving only the two of them.

Dressed in the Santa Claus suit, he should have looked silly. Sweet, at best. So how was it that she found him every bit as sexy as when she’d seen him in his designer suit?

“I can see how this might turn out very fortunate, indeed,” Eleanor said, with a delighted chuckle.

The older lady’s thoughts weren’t hard to follow, but Holly shook her head. “It’s not what you think.”

“This isn’t about what I think. This is about facts. Like the fact that your Mr. Forrester is the first man you’ve ever invited here.”

“He isn’t the first man I’ve invited,” Holly refuted softly. “He’s just the first to actually show.”

She’d asked Mark to visit the group home with her several times while they were dating, hoping to ease him into the idea of fostering Lucas. But there’d been nothing easy about it.

At first glance, Mark had been everything a woman hoped for: handsome, smart, charming. Only later did Holly realize he’d been playing a part to get what he wanted. Before long, their entire relationship was based on his needs.

And one thing he hadn’t wanted was to even consider the possibility of raising someone else’s kid.

But it didn’t matter whether or not Clay was anything like Mark. Clay Forrester had a pedigreed family history; Holly had never even found out who her parents were.

The differences that started at birth had continued throughout their lives. He was the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company; she struggled to make ends meet working at a flower shop. He was champagne and caviar. She was soda pop and tuna fish. A chauffeur-driven limousine compared to a VW Bug.

And Holly knew better than to fantasize that any of those things mixed, no matter what Eleanor thought.

Clay hadn’t sung Christmas carols in years, but even he knew Mary Jane and her fellow singers were a good octave off. Standing beside the piano, having been given the important job of page turning while Mary Jane played, he couldn’t help smiling. Traditions that had gotten lost in overcommercialization came back to life in the children’s happiness.

If Marie could see me now. He’d meant what he said to Holly. No way would he have put on the costume and made a fool of himself in front of his employees. But the second he’d seen the disappointment in Holly’s eyes, he’d known he was going to make a fool of himself, after all. All for a woman whose mysterious green gaze quickened his heartbeat.

Not that he’d jumped at the chance to play Santa. He’d spent a good ten minutes pacing his office, trying to convince himself he wasn’t at fault. But the excuse rang hollow.

Because even though he hadn’t known Charlie was headed to the foster home, the man had said he was booked for another job, and instead of accepting that, Clay had negotiated a deal where he came out the winner, loser be damned. He hadn’t thought twice about making Charlie a better offer, and if not for Holly, he wouldn’t have thought about it at all.

So he’d donned the Santa outfit to salvage Christmas and his conscience, totally ignoring the mocking voice that laughed over the stupid things a man would do for a beautiful woman.

“Wonderful job, children,” Sylvia complimented, her clapping signaling an end to the sing-along before Mary Jane could launch into yet another round of “Frosty the Snowman.” Holding up a camera, she said, “How about a picture with Santa?”

Seated once more in the parlor chair, Clay posed with each child on his knee while Sylvia coaxed them to say “Cheese.” As he held Lucas on his lap, with the little boy tugging on his beard, Clay noticed Holly watching. For a brief second, he thought he saw tears in her eyes, but then the flash blinded him. She was smiling by the time she bent to lift Lucas from his lap.

She straightened and perched Lucas on one hip, but the little boy swung his booted feet, a silent demand to get down. The minute Holly released him, Lucas dropped to his knees and was off, pushing his fire truck across the braided rug.

Clay caught her wrist, claiming her attention with a slight tug. He ran his thumb across the back of her hand and smiled when her pulse leaped beneath his fingers. Thoughts of discovering even smoother skin and more intimate pulse points sent his own blood pumping.

“Come on, Holly. Don’t you have any Christmas wishes?”

The color in her cheeks brightened as she tucked her dark hair behind one ear. Despite the uncertainty in her green eyes, her tone of voice was composed and dry as she said, “I’ll drop a letter to the North Pole.”

He shook his head, careful not to dislodge the hat and white wig. “It works better in person. So tell me. There must be something you want.”

Despite the teasing question, Clay hoped for a serious answer. He wanted to know about Holly. She was different from Victoria. So selfless and giving.

Oh, he knew plenty of people, himself included, who made donations this time of year. He wrote checks for numerous charities, but Holly obviously did more than give money. She gave a part of herself.

He sensed she was the kind of person who never put her head before her heart. A woman who led with her feelings, accepting the risk of ending up emotionally bruised. But as much as Clay admired her for that, he’d learned his lesson when it came to leaving his heart unprotected. Some risks weren’t worth repeating.

As Holly gently tugged her hand from his, her gaze sought out Lucas. Keeping her voice a low murmur, she said, “I’m sorry, Clay, but I don’t believe in Santa Claus.”

“Miss Holly! You’re doing it wrong.” Mary Jane’s exasperated voice rose above the parlor’s cheerful din. “You’re supposed to sit on Santa’s lap.”

“That’s just for boys and girls,” Holly answered quickly, with a reproachful glance at Clay, as if disapproving of whatever he might say. “It’s different for grown-ups.”

Her narrowed gaze expressed her doubt, but the little girl said, “But you still get your wish, right?”

“Well?” Clay prompted, knowing Mary Jane had Holly trapped. “There must be some long-ago wish Santa never granted you as a child.”

Emotions flickered across her expression, and longing filled her green eyes. In that moment, Clay vowed that anything she wanted, anything she asked for, he would give her.

“Holly—”

“A pony,” Holly blurted out. Her forced smile couldn’t erase the shadow from her eyes as she turned to Mary Jane. “Don’t all little girls ask for ponies?”

“Barbie has a pony,” Mary Jane added, with a not-so-subtle look at Santa.

“Then a pony it is,” Clay agreed, realizing his own wish to get to know Holly better was going to go unanswered. At least for now.

After another round of pictures, including ones of Eleanor and Sylvia, Clay had the feeling he was overstaying the kids’ bedtime. Earlier, Lucas had climbed into Holly’s arms and fallen asleep, his fire truck cradled against his chest and her cheek pressed to the top of his head. When she’d caught Clay watching, she gently pried the truck from Lucas’s hands and stood, carrying the little boy from the parlor as the Hopewell sisters rounded up the older kids to brush their teeth.

He should say good-night. He’d done what he’d come to do, and his employees were waiting for him at the party. Even though he’d called Marie to tell her he’d be late, she wouldn’t be able to cover for him for long.

He should go.

Pushing to his feet, Clay eyed the front door, then the hallway where Holly had disappeared. The hall light gleamed, but the sound of her voice guided him. Singing “Silent Night,” her soft, sweet voice called to him like a siren. Standing in the doorway, he watched, unseen.

Holly sat on the small bed. Leaning forward, she brushed Lucas’s hair back and pressed a kiss to the sleeping boy’s forehead. Every gesture spoke of caring and compassion. Volunteering at the foster home clearly wasn’t something she did out of duty or responsibility. She did it for love.

His fingers itched to sink into Holly’s hair as he pressed his lips to hers and…well, to do more than simply tuck her into bed.

The surge of desire took him by surprise. After watching Holly all evening, he knew she wasn’t his type. She had home and family written on her soul. He had a divorce in his past and a business to run in his future. No woman would settle for what little he could offer. Victoria certainly hadn’t, not when there were men who could offer so much more.

He’d already lost his marriage to the company his father had started. No point in trying and losing again. At least, not as long as business was his main focus and his nemesis, Albert Jensen, fought to block his every move.

He’d made up his mind that it was time to go when Holly looked up. She pressed a finger to her lips, warning him to be quiet, but there was little chance of him speaking. He couldn’t get a word past his suddenly dry throat as he stared at her mouth. She would taste sweet, like the candy canes hanging from the Christmas tree, but with a hint of spice from the hot cider she’d drunk earlier. Most of all, though, she would taste like soft, warm woman, and it was all Clay could do not to pull her into his arms when she brushed by him in the doorway.

She eased the door shut and whispered, “He’s out like a light. Probably dreaming of fire trucks and reindeer.” Her sweet smile revealed she didn’t have a clue as to the hungry, heated thoughts tempting him.

Clay lifted a hand toward her face and caught sight of the white-trimmed cuff attached to the red velvet sleeve. No wonder Holly had no idea what he was thinking. There was something just plain wrong about Santa Claus making moves on a woman!

But he couldn’t bring himself to lower his hand without brushing Holly’s hair back from her shoulder. The silken strands teased his knuckles, adding to his torment as he imagined her hair brushing against his face, his chest.

Damn, he really needed to go. Now.

Keeping her voice low as she led the way back to the parlor, Holly said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen the kids so happy. You’ve made this their best Christmas ever.”

With the Hopewell sisters settling the older children into bed, the parlor was empty. The fire had died down, and the piano was silent.

“I’ll walk you out,” Holly offered. She bundled up once more and followed him to the front porch. The outside light cast a golden glow around her, adding to her innocent aura. “I don’t know how to thank you for everything you did.”

Clay was starting to brush off her gratitude when an idea came to him, overriding his earlier vows. After all, it was just a few more hours, and if Holly really wanted to pay him back, he knew the perfect way.

“Funny you should mention that,” he said. “I know just how you can thank me.” He read the surprise on her face and laughed. “Shame on you, Miss Bainbridge. My intentions are completely honorable.” When she still gave him a doubtful look, he held his hands out to his sides. “If you can’t trust Santa Claus—”

Her lips tilted in a hint of a smile, which faded just as quickly. “I don’t know how I could possibly repay you.”

“Come with me tonight.”

“What?” Her eyes widened at the impulsive request, and he could read the hesitation written there. If that were all he’d seen, he would have let it go. But he’d also noticed a spark that told him his attraction wasn’t one-sided.

As he stepped closer, he felt the blood in his veins heat up as he watched that spark flare a little bit brighter. Pulling off the hat and beard that covered his face, he said, “I’m asking you to be my date at my party.”

Chapter Three

Shocked, Holly protested. “I don’t know anything about corporate parties!”

“It’ll be like this one, only with alcohol and worse manners.” He shrugged. “Besides, I went to your party.”

“I wouldn’t have needed you to come to my party if you hadn’t stolen my Santa.”

His hand cut through the chill night air, dismissing her argument. “Details.”

Holly ducked her head. The thought of trying to fit in at a party filled with wealthy, successful businessmen and women sent her into a panic. The idea was preposterous, but not nearly as preposterous as Clay showing up dressed as Santa Claus.

“All right,” she agreed slowly. She looked down at the red sweater and black jeans she wore. “But I’ll have to stop by my apartment to change clothes.”

“Yeah.” Clay hooked his thumbs into the wide black belt circling his enlarged stomach. “Me, too. I knew I’d be pressed for time, so I brought clothes along. If I change at your place, my driver can take us to the party together.”

She didn’t live far, and Holly certainly didn’t want to arrive at the party alone. “Okay. Do you want to follow me?”

“Roger can follow. I’ll ride with you.”

After Clay notified the driver of their plans, he joined Holly in her car. She chuckled when he unbuttoned the red jacket and pulled out the pillow he’d used for stuffing. As she drove, she glanced at Clay, catching glimpses of his profile in the passing streetlights. “What’s the party going to be like?”

“Well, I know we’ll have cheesecake.” His teeth flashed in the shifting light. “Music, dancing. This year has been…Well, it’s been a transition of sorts.” His voice sounded tight, different from his usual teasing tone. “I hope the party will bring everyone together.”

Holly parked her car in front of her apartment building, the limo behind her. After retrieving a black garment bag from Roger, Clay and Holly walked up the steps to the five-story, redbrick building, the winter wind pushing them forward. Holly drew her keys out of her purse, but the key ring slipped from her cold fingers. She bent down, but Clay was faster, and her fingers tangled with his. Unlike her own icy hand, his was warm, and she didn’t want to pull away.

His gaze captured hers, the keys forgotten. Their breath mingled in the night air, but Holly no longer noticed the chill. As he helped her up, the warmth seeped even deeper, weakening her knees. He unlocked the door and handed her the keys once they stepped inside the foyer.

As they took the stairs to the third floor, Holly tried to remember if she’d left laundry piled on the couch or fast-food wrappers on the table. Opening the door, she flicked on the light and breathed a sigh of relief. Only a pair of discarded shoes cluttered the living room.

Holly sensed more than she saw Clay evaluating the apart ment. It had come furnished with well-worn, utilitarian furniture. The beige couch and chair matched the walls and carpet. She supposed her place looked like every other apartment in the building.

She pointed to the bathroom and said, “You can change in there.”

Holding up the hat he’d pulled off back at Hopewell House, he raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Last chance to make that wish…”

“Go,” she said on a laugh as she snatched the hat from his hand and watched him stride toward the bathroom. She wasn’t one for making wishes, but if she were…

Could Clay Forrester really be as perfect as he seemed? She set the hat aside to straighten the pillows on the couch and pick up her shoes. Eleanor had complimented her for finding the perfect man to play Santa, but she’d had little to do with it.

Hearing the bathroom door open, Holly realized he’d finished changing before she’d finished her musing or looked for something to wear. She turned to face him, and the shoes she’d picked up fell from her hands.

Adjusting the cuff on his tuxedo, he glanced up at her. “Is everything all right?”

Holly stared, barely managing a nod. The black tux fit him perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders and long legs. The same lock of hair she’d tucked under his Santa hat earlier fell across his forehead. Blue eyes watched her from beneath straight black brows. Chiseled bone structure emphasized a straight nose, prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw.

If a Hollywood movie star had stepped out of the TV and into her living room, Holly couldn’t have been more impressed—or dismayed.

“Holly, is something wrong?” He took a step toward her, and she waved aside his concern.

“No, no, everything’s fine. Except—” she gestured to his tuxedo “—you look ready for the inaugural ball!”

“Well, the party is at the Lakeshore Plaza.”

His words called to mind the elegant hotel, which boasted celebrity visits, views of Lake Michigan and penthouse suites rumored to cost ten thousand dollars a night. Holly had never dared to set foot inside the imported marble foyer, fearing management would throw her out for breaking some “no shirt, no shoes, no six-figure income, no admittance” rule.

“I can’t go to the Lakeshore Plaza. I have nothing to wear!” Not only would she make a fool of herself, but she’d embarrass Clay as well. Her wardrobe would be a dead giveaway that she didn’t belong.

He rolled his eyes. “I have never met a woman who thought she had enough clothes. Come on.”

“Where are we going?” she asked when he grabbed her hand.

“Your bedroom.”

“What!”

He tossed her a grin over his shoulder. “To find you something to wear.”

“I work in a flower shop!” Holly protested as he pulled her through the doorway. The intimacy of Clay invading her bedroom sent heat rushing to her cheeks. She determinedly adverted her gaze from the tousled bed a mere three feet away. “I don’t have nice clothes.”

He turned to face her. His appraising look swept her from head to toe. “I like that.”

Holly glanced down to see if her clothes had been magically transformed. “A sweater and jeans?” she asked, arching her eyebrows in disbelief.

“Hanging on a rack, that’s a sweater and jeans. On you, it’s something else entirely.”

A delicious shiver raced through her at his husky words and the sexual appreciation darkening his eyes. She longed to give in to the attraction, but her survival instinct raged against it. “I can’t wear this to the Lakeshore Plaza.”

Undaunted, he pulled open her closet door. “So we’ll find something else.”

Holly watched him sort through the garments, his masculine hands a sensual contrast against the feminine fabrics. When he ran a hand down an empty sleeve, she swore she felt the intimate caress along her arm.

Eventually he pulled out a black satin and lace garment. “What about this?”

Holly fought an irrational blush. “That is a slip.”

“Really?” He took a closer look. “With dress styles these days, it’s hard to tell.” His eyes glowed as he held the slip up to her body, and she felt as exposed as if he’d caught her wearing nothing more than the intimate lingerie. “Although that does explain why I like it.”

“Great.” She took the slip and shoved it back in the closet. “If I let you pick the outfit, I’ll end up going to the party in my underwear.”

Almost desperately, she flipped through her clothes. She had to find something before her entire wardrobe was touched with Clay’s memory. Finally, a long black skirt caught her attention.

Holly held it up for him to see. “How about this?”

“That’s good for a start. Now, all we need is this,” Clay said as he brought the slip out again.

She shook her head. “Clay, I told you—”

Ignoring her, he pulled a black cropped jacket from the closet. “And this.”

Holly started to protest until she took a look at the separate items he’d selected. With its spaghetti straps and lace trim, the top of the slip could pass for a camisole. Fashioned from similar materials, the skirt and jacket looked like a matched outfit.

Handing the hangers to her, he said, “Get dressed, and we can arrive at the party fashionably late.”

The moment he left the room, Holly kicked off her shoes. If not for her, Clay would already be at the party. She dressed quickly and swept her hair into a twist before adding a hint of color to her lips and cheeks.

Taking a deep breath, Holly stepped back and scrutinized her image. She searched for any telltale sign that would reveal she didn’t belong at a high-class party and found it in the insecurity swirling in her eyes.

“I’ll be right out.”

Clay heard Holly’s voice drift through the bedroom’s closed door. By the time they arrived, the party would be in full swing, and he’d seriously owe Marie for covering for him.

Walking around, he studied the living room, trying to glean some information about the intriguing woman who lived there. Nothing. No hint of friends, family, no insight into Holly’s personal life. Even more curious was the lack of a Christmas tree. The woman who had staged such a wonderful evening for the foster children hadn’t decorated her own home.

In the kitchen, Clay found a few personal details. A windowsill above the sink housed a variety of thriving plants, and crayon drawings and finger paintings plastered the refrigerator.

“Those are from the kids at Hopewell House.”

He turned. Holly stood in the kitchen doorway, and he forgot all about the artwork. He’d known the long, straight skirt and simple jacket would compliment Holly’s slender figure, but he hadn’t expected the jeans and sweater she’d worn earlier to conceal such alluring curves. His eyes followed the slit in her skirt as it inched up her long legs. The skirt clung to her hips, and his hands itched to outline the shapely silhouette. Silk hugged her breasts beneath the jacket, and the edging of lace hinted at enticing cleavage.

Holly had piled her chestnut hair atop her head, leaving a few tendrils to curl around her face. The elegant style emphasized her cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes.

“The older kids drew the giraffe and the clown,” she was saying.

Clay tore his gaze away to refocus on the artwork. He’d mistaken the giraffe and clown for a dog and a flower. “And what about…” He didn’t have the slightest idea what the splotchy paintings were supposed to be. “The rest?”

“Lucas did the finger painting. The Hopewell sisters won’t let him use crayons.” When Clay raised a questioning eyebrow, Holly explained, “He eats them.”

She reached over and straightened one of the pictures. Tenderness filled her gaze. Clearly, volunteering at the foster home wasn’t something Holly reserved for the holidays. She cherished the drawings they gave her, yet she had no mementos of her own.

“We should probably get going,” Holly said as she walked toward the living room. “I’ve made you late enough as it is.”

“You were worth the wait.”

Holly glanced over her shoulder as he helped with her coat, but the lift of her eyebrow revealed more doubt than pleasure.

In the back of the limo, Clay couldn’t help studying Holly’s elegant profile in the flickering shadow and light as they drove through the city streets. In those stop-action flashes, the slope of her forehead, the tilt of her nose and the curve of her lips could have been carved from marble, but there was nothing hard or cold about Holly.

She had a warmth and softness about her, but Clay sensed that circle of welcome didn’t extend to everyone. Right now, she’d allowed him inside because of the night Santa had given to the kids she loved. But it would take more than that if he wanted to stay within that sphere.

If he wanted to…

He shouldn’t even think about starting a relationship. Not now. Not when he had his family business to right and his father’s legacy of decimating struggling companies to rewrite.

But it’s only one night, argued a voice that sounded suspiciously like his assistant’s, Marie’s. And he wasn’t quite ready to step outside Holly’s circle.

Heat blew from the vents, tantalizing Clay with the flower fresh scent of her perfume, and he reached out to brush a tendril of hair back from the curve of her cheek. “You look amazing.”

She offered him a quick smile as she shifted toward him on the seat, the curl slipping from his grasp. “I know what you’re doing.”

Clay knew what he was doing, too, though not as deftly as usual if Holly was ready to call him on his seduction. “What’s that?”

“You’re trying to convince me I’m not going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

Even in the shifting light, he read the sincerity in her expression. She really didn’t know how beautiful she was.

“Holly.” He started to deny her words until he saw that stubborn tilt to her chin. Changing tactics, he agreed, “You are going to stick out, but there’s nothing we can do.” Her eyes widened as he leaned forward. “Beautiful women have a way of attracting attention.”

Disbelief lingered in her gaze, and Clay tempted himself with the thought of proving his words with a kiss. Pulse pounding, he lifted a hand toward her face. The bright glare of the dome light caught him off guard, and he looked over his shoulder in frustration. Behind his waiting driver was the welllit Lakeshore Plaza Hotel.

Clay hadn’t even noticed the car stopping. If the ride had lasted a few minutes longer…make that a few hours longer…Shaking off the tempting thoughts, he climbed from the limo and held out his hand to Holly. Her fingers felt cold and fragile in his palm. With a reassuring squeeze, he told her, “Remember, it’s just a party.”

Together they stepped through the front doors, and Holly’s breath caught. She’d heard glowing descriptions of the hotel and even seen a picture or two, but her imagination hadn’t captured the opulence.

Floor-to-ceiling paintings decorated the lobby, and a waterfall cascaded down the wall behind the front desk. Holly had to force herself not to tip her head back and stare at the gold and crystal chandelier. But as incredible as the decor was, nothing compared to her amazement at walking into the Lakeshore Plaza with Clay Forrester.

A uniformed bellhop gave them directions to the ballroom. He tipped his cap to Holly. “Enjoy your evening.”

As Clay led her to the ballroom, music and laughter filled the air, the happy noise punctuated by a cork popping. Several people called out greetings, and Clay grabbed two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. Handing one to Holly, he raised his own in a toast. “To you, Holly, for reminding me of the meaning of Christmas.”

His words sent a giddy rush pouring through her, and Holly didn’t need champagne’s intoxicating promise, but she took a small sip, anyway. Then another, enjoying the way the bubbles danced on her tongue. Smiling at her obvious pleasure, Clay said, “Like it?”

“It’s amazing. I’ve never had champagne before.”

Holly didn’t need to see his eyebrows lift to realize her mistake. Champagne and caviar, Holly reminded herself, embarrassed to have pointed out her own naïveté.

“The first time I had champagne was at my cousin’s wedding. I think I was seventeen.” With anyone else, Holly might have suspected Clay’s story was meant to reveal his own sophistication, but the way he held her gaze reassured her his story held a different meaning. After taking a drink of his own champagne, he said, “I’ll never forget that night or that first taste.”

Holly didn’t need champagne to make the night memorable. Clay had already done that. And as much as she enjoyed the drink, his lips pressed to hers would be a far more unforgettable first taste.

Her gaze lowered to his mouth at the thought, and Clay’s eyes darkened. “Holly—”

“Well, it’s about time you showed up,” a feminine voice called out. Holly looked over her shoulder to see a stunning brunette with close-cropped hair sashay toward them. She wore a red sequined dress that would have done a 1920s flapper proud. “When you said ‘a little late,’ I thought you meant fifteen minutes. I’ve had a heck of a time covering for you.”

Looking around at the party in full swing, Clay said wryly, “I can see I’ve been missed.”

“Okay, so we started without you, but I’m glad you’re here.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Albert Jensen’s started working the room like tonight was his idea.”

Holly saw Clay’s jaw tighten at the words, but then he caught her gaze, and the tension drained away. Relaxing into a smile, he said, “Sounds like we’re just in time. How’s everything else going?”

“Great. Except for the Santa. Where did you find that guy?”

Holly and Clay exchanged a glance. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Except he drinks like a fish and hasn’t moved from the buffet table.”

Holly looked over. Sure enough, Charlie in his Santa suit held a plate piled high with food. His beard was pulled down below his chin as he ate half a piece of cheesecake in one bite.

“I’d say he’s perfect for this group,” Clay joked.

Marie shook her head and held out her hand to Holly. “I’m Marie Cirillo, Clay’s assistant.”

“Holly Bainbridge.”

Marie cocked her head. “You look familiar.”

Holly shot a worried glance in Clay’s direction, unsure how to respond. How would he explain bringing a shop clerk to this elegant party? But Clay didn’t bother with explanations. He simply said, “Holly works at the flower shop in our building.”

“Of course.” Marie’s smile remained; so did the touch of curiosity. “I bought a plant there.”

“An ivy, wasn’t it? They’re one of my favorites,” said Holly.

Marie winced. “Mine, too. But the leaves started to turn yellow, and now they’re kinda brown.”

Clay laughed. “Marie kills plants since the Humane Society won’t allow her to have pets.”

Marie stuck her tongue out at her boss, and Holly laughed. “You could be overwatering,” she said, “and you might try some iron.”

“Thanks. I’ll do that,” Marie said. Then, turning to Clay, she demanded, “Why do I put up with you?”

“Because we’re perfect for each other. No one else will work for me, and no one else will employ you.”

“Is that it?” Marie grabbed a glass from a passing waiter and winked. “I thought it was for the free champagne and cheesecake.”

Nodding at the glass, he toasted, “Then consider yourself well compensated for the evening, and keep Holly company while I go talk to the DJ.” With a quick squeeze to Holly’s arm, he promised, “I’ll be right back.”

Holly opened her mouth to ask him to stay or offer to go with him, then closed it before she could reveal how nervous she was. Without Clay at her side, her insecurities came rushing back, and she glanced around, waiting for everyone to notice she didn’t belong. She didn’t have to wait long.

“You know, I saw Clay right before the party. He didn’t mention bringing a date.”

Holly swallowed. “It was pretty last minute.”

“I guess so.” Marie’s expression softened slightly at Holly’s obvious discomfort, and she said, “Sorry. You must think I’m horribly nosy. It’s just that you’re the first woman Clay’s bothered introducing to me since his divorce.”

“Clay was married?”

Marie winced. “Me and my big mouth.”

“No, it’s okay.” There was no reason for Clay to tell her about his ex-wife. This wasn’t a real date or the beginning of a relationship. Which was a good thing. If it had been real, Holly would have worried about the image in her mind of the woman Clay had married. Someone sophisticated, stylish, with a pedigree to match his own. A woman who would never need help dressing for a party…

But there was no reason to worry, because it wasn’t real, Holly insisted as Clay walked back over, ignoring the flash of attraction that felt 100 percent genuine.

“Sorry about that,” Clay said. “Duty calls. I hope Marie hasn’t been spilling all my secrets.”

“Just one,” Marie confessed, with a guilty glance at Holly. A champagne cork popped nearby, and she added, “That bottle is calling my name. See you!”

As Marie made her escape, Clay looked at Holly. Seeming unconcerned by the secrets his assistant might have revealed, he said, “As incredible as it seems, I don’t know what I’d do without her. She keeps me sane. This past year, that was a full-time job.”

It was the second time Clay had mentioned business troubles. He had such a commanding presence, Holly had a hard time imagining a problem Clay couldn’t solve by force of will alone. A company didn’t gain wealth and reputation like Forrester Industries without a man at the top who could forge through difficulties with the subtlety of a battering ram.

An image of Clay dressed as Santa rose in her mind. Who was he really? A man who cared enough about a group of foster children to give them a Christmas they’d always remember? Or the businessman with a ruthless reputation?

“If it isn’t our fearless leader.”

Tensing at the greeting, Clay turned and nodded at the silver-haired man who strutted toward them, champagne glass in hand. “Evening, Jensen.”

“This is some party,” the man said, his narrowed gaze sweeping the elegant ballroom.

“The employees deserve it. It’s been a challenging year.”

Jensen snorted. “Challenging is right, with all the changes you’ve made. But what the hell?” he added, waving his hand at the surrounding ballroom. “Nothing like buying company loyalty, right?”

He laughed, but the tension crackling between the two men told Holly that Jensen wasn’t joking. No humor existed in the man’s beady eyes, which gleamed with thinly disguised malice.

“I’m not trying to buy anything or anyone. The employees are loyal because they understand the changes I’m making are for the best.”

“The best for whom? Not for the company, that’s for damn sure. Your father understood—”

“My father understood a great many things when it came to business,” Clay interrupted. His words cutting off abruptly, he took a deep breath, his shoulders rolling beneath the crisp tuxedo jacket as he visibly forced himself to relax. “But when it comes people, I know a thing or two my father didn’t.”

Jensen’s ruddy complexion darkened, but Clay never gave the man the opportunity to argue. The band switched to a slow song, and he grabbed Holly’s hand. “If you’ll excuse us, I owe my date a dance.”

Holly had no choice but to follow Clay to the dance floor. The glittering chandelier spun overhead as he twirled her around, leaving her light-headed and breathless. Not just from his dizzying, sure-footed steps, but from intimate contact. With a wobbly laugh, she said, “Being around you certainly keeps a woman on her toes.”

As if the confrontation with Jensen had never taken place, Clay flashed a smile. “Don’t worry. I promise not to step on them.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she chided. “First, you maneuvered me into coming to this party, and now onto the dance floor.”

“Hey, I didn’t maneuver you. I asked. You said yes.” Confidence shone in his blue eyes, as if her answer had never been in doubt.

And, really, what other answer could she have given? The whole night had been filled with magic. Santa had come to Hopewell House, thanks to Clay, but once again Holly warned herself not to let emotion carry her away. She’d seen it before at Hopewell House and throughout her childhood in foster homes, especially around the holidays.

People were filled with good cheer and high spirits. Donations of toys, food, and money rolled in, but by New Year’s, the good cheer, the high spirits, and the needy children were forgotten.

No matter how wonderful Clay might seem, he, too, would disappear. Best to simply enjoy the moment and not to look ahead. And right now, wrapped in his arms, she found the moment so easy to enjoy.

“You did say yes,” Clay reminded her when she remained silent for so long.

Striving for a light tone, she replied, “Of course, I said yes. What was it Marie said? Something about an inability to resist free champagne and cheesecake?”

He gave a mock groan. “I can see I’ll have to keep the two of you apart in the future.”

Clay spun her into an elegant turn, and she caught sight of Jensen on the sidelines. A frown still twisted his face, and he looked to be in a heated discussion with two other men.

She wondered about the changes Clay had referred to and the loyalty Jensen thought he was trying to buy. Did some employees disapprove of the company’s “take-no-prisoners” attitude? Was the party an attempt to bribe his own people?

Only hours before, Holly might have thought so, but now denial rose inside her. She’d seen the respect his employees showed. Respect money couldn’t buy. And even though she couldn’t forget the heartbreak and humiliation written on the old man’s face when he accused Clay of destroying his family’s company, she no longer knew what to believe.

Clay spun her once more beneath the chandelier, and her breath caught as his muscular thighs brushed against hers. The unspoken awareness in his eyes left her feeling weak. Her knees nearly buckled, and her hand tightened on his shoulder.

She knew what she wanted to believe, but she’d put her faith in people before only to be let down. Mark was the latest in a list of disappointments that went back as far as she could remember.

Unbidden, a memory came to mind of the Parkers, smiling at her. “We’ve got a big house and a nice yard where our dog loves to play. There are plenty of kids in our neighborhood you can make friends with. We can’t wait for you to come live with us.”

She’d been five at the time, young enough to still care about things like yards and dogs and kids to play with, but most of all she’d wanted a family, and the Parkers were supposed to be hers. Everyone had promised. The Parkers, her caseworker, her foster family at the time. And she’d believed them, but in the end, the most important lesson learned was that promises, not rules, were made to be broken.

As the music faded away, Holly stepped out of Clay’s arms and pulled her hand from his to applaud the musicians. It was an excuse to reclaim some much-needed distance. His knowing gaze called her on her cowardice, but saving face wasn’t nearly as important as protecting her heart.

Guiding her off the dance floor, Clay stopped at the dessert table. “Here, you have to try this.” He loaded a plate for the two of them, cut off a piece of cheesecake, and held out the fork. “Marie went to great lengths to save these from certain frostbite.”

Holly leaned forward to take a bite. Strawberries topped the dessert, the sweet taste combining with the rich, creamy, melt-in-your-mouth filling. Pulling back, she found Clay watching closely. Her tongue streaked out to catch a stray crumb, and his eyes darkened with undisguised desire. Her skin tingled from that heated look, anticipating his touch. When he brushed his thumb against the corner of her mouth, she almost groaned in longing.

His voice hoarse, he asked, “How was it?”

“It—it was delicious.”

Clay cupped her jaw, but the intensity in his gaze held her motionless. Alarm bells rang, the warning drowned out by her pounding heartbeat, as he bent his head and kissed her. The ballroom faded away until she was aware only of his fingers curving over her jaw and his mouth, warm and persuasive, against her own. Better than cheesecake, better than champagne, better than anything she could imagine. She wanted nothing more than for the kiss to go on and on….

Instead, as Clay drew back, she reluctantly opened her eyes, focusing on his handsome face, backlit by the winking chandelier.

“I have to agree,” he murmured. “Delicious.”

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