The Boss's Christmas Seduction. Yvonne Lindsay
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Holly returned a nervous smile and forced herself forward. Warmth radiated from his bare torso, or was that just the flush of heat in her cheeks? She fought to quell the tremor that threatened to vibrate through her and, with a stern silent warning to herself not to look down, she carefully eased the first cushion between his ridged abdomen and the red satin.
“It’s okay, Holly. I won’t bite.”
Oh, great. Now he was laughing at her. Fine, she’d show him she wasn’t scared. She shoved in the next cushion with more haste than finesse, her fingers accidentally grazing against the fine row of dark hair that feathered from his belly button and down. She heard the hitch in his breathing as she touched him and snatched her hand back as goose bumps rose on his skin.
“That should do the trick.” Darn, was that a quaver in her voice? Worse, had he heard it?
“I need more.”
More? Her hand still burned from its fleeting touch against his skin—the texture of the hair beneath his belly button a tactile impression against her fingers—she needed more, too, although she knew with painful honesty they weren’t thinking about the same thing.
With her lower lip caught between her teeth, Holly edged another cushion into the waistband. The urge to let her fingers linger against the heated surface of his belly tempted her like a candy shop window did a sugar addict. Determined not to give in to her baser instincts she gave the padded mass a gentle, dehumanising pat. “There, that’s it.”
She reached for the red jacket, yanked it off its hanger and held it out for him. She allowed herself the brief luxury of letting her gaze stroke across his back and shoulders, mesmerised by the play of his muscles as he shrugged into the garment and cinched the broad, black belt around his now-expanded waistline.
He grabbed the hat and beard from his desk and hastily arranged them before turning to face Holly again.
“So, how do I look?”
Her breath caught. How did he look? She blinked, searching for the words to describe him. He certainly wasn’t like the Santas that had filled her with terror as a child, and caused her to drag free of her caregiver’s hand to tearfully hasten as far away as she could get.
Despite the padding at his waist and the ridiculously fluffy beard that obscured the strong lines of his jaw, she couldn’t erase the half-naked picture of him that burned on her retinas. She barely trusted herself to speak.
“You’ve forgotten the eyebrows,” she eventually managed. Well done, she congratulated herself, that almost sounded like her usual cool, composed self.
“I don’t have to wear those white caterpillars, do I?”
“Of course you do, you wouldn’t be Santa without them.”
Holly clenched and unclenched her fingers in a vain attempt to stem the trembling that threatened to give away her nerves before she peeled the stick-on brows from the backing paper. She leaned nearer and reached up to smooth them above his eyes, trying desperately not to let her fingers linger on his face. He bent his head slightly to assist, and suddenly his lips were level with hers—the warmth of his breath caressing her cheek.
So close, yet so far. All she had to do was step in, just one tiny step, and press her lips against his. To give life to the dreams that invaded her sleep and caused her to wake, tangled in her sheets, filled with a want she could never assuage.
Hastily she quelled her rampant thoughts and concentrated on applying the strips of white fluff. She’d be on the fast track to unemployment if she gave in to her desires, and no way could she afford that. Not with Andrea’s medical fees to consider. The reminder was as chilling as an Antarctic winter.
Finally, the job done, she stepped away to safety—to where she couldn’t give in to impulse. “You look great,” she said softly.
“Well then, that’s all that matters. Let’s go.”
They travelled in silence to the eighth-floor cafeteria where Holly put a steadying hand on his red sleeve. She tried to ignore the waves of heat that emanated through the fabric to her fingers.
“Wait here,” she ordered, although her voice came out like a strangled croak and earned her a strange look from the dark eyes that burned under bushy white brows. “I need to let your warm-up act announce you first.”
Was it her imagination or had he suddenly become paler? Surely he wasn’t scared? Not Connor Knight. Under the fluffy beard, she discerned small lines of tension bracketing his lips, and the urge to comfort him stilled her in her tracks.
“You’ll be fine,” she murmured softly, as reassuringly as she could. “The kids will love you.”
“You’re staying, aren’t you?”
His question caught her by surprise. She hadn’t planned on sticking around for this part of the proceedings. Seeing a line of children waiting to sit with Santa still had the power to fill her with dread.
“No, I have some other things to attend to. I’ll be back just before the party finishes.”
“Stay.”
Holly looked away. He had no idea. But then, of course, why should he? Everyone loved Christmas. Everyone but the little girl who’d grown up saddled with a surname chosen by Social Services that linked her irrevocably to the most traumatic experience of her life. It was one of the reasons she never disclosed her background or years in foster care. No one wanted to admit they’d been abandoned. As far as Holly was concerned, her life had begun the day she’d turned eighteen and been released from the state’s control.
“Holly?”
Her teeth were clenched so hard she was amazed they didn’t shatter in her jaw, and her throat ached with years of suppressed tension. She couldn’t explain, not even to him. Some things you kept buried. She gave him a tight nod. “Let’s get it over with.”
The children didn’t give him the slightest opportunity to be nervous. Their vigorous excitement and squeals of pleasure energised the room to such an extent Holly felt as though her nerves would shred into ribbons and scatter all around her. Why on earth had she agreed to stay? It was madness.
Seated on his special throne, Connor lifted a little girl with a gleaming cap of dark hair onto his lap. The child, no more than three or four, scanned the room, her bottom lip starting to tremble.
Despite the constant temperature of air conditioning, tiny beads of perspiration prickled along Holly’s spine. A wave of dizziness made her press her body against the hard wall behind her—trying to connect with something solid, something real. Anything other than the dread that built within her and threatened to swamp her mind. She dragged a deep breath into deflated lungs, struggling to push the fear back down—down to where she could control it—but it was too late.
An image flashed, sharp and clear in her mind, and in a heartbeat she was lost. She was that little girl. Sitting on Santa’s knee, her eyes nervously—futilely—raking the crowd of shoppers for her mother. Nervousness becoming fear. Fear becoming absolute terror when she couldn’t find her mother’s face anywhere in the swirling mass.
The authorities had been summoned as soon as someone could make any sense out of her hysterical sobbing. But not quickly enough to find her mother in the crowd of stunned onlookers. Even now the overwhelming sense of desertion and loss left Holly shocked and vulnerable.
Resentment lanced through her, swift and searing, before she determinedly crushed it. She’d given up trying to work out what kind of mother walked away from her child the night before Christmas—abandoning a three-year-old to strangers and an uncertain future.
She forced herself to find an anchor, something she could focus on and that would help her bring her rapid breathing back under control and calm the tremors that shook her frame. That anchor was Connor Knight as, with infinite patience, he pointed out the little girl’s parents in the crowd and cajoled a smile from her worried