Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
DOMINIC
I can still smell her perfume in my private collection room.
Something light and floral with an undertone of vanilla—nothing expensive or designer, yet it suits her.
I've dismissed three calls and ignored an urgent email from Tokyo because I can't stop thinking about finding Holly Parker among my treasures, her fingers caressing the Austrian music box like she understood its value beyond the price.
I never allow anyone in that room. Even the cleaning staff are forbidden entry—I dust the collection myself.
Yet finding her there, wide-eyed and appreciative rather than calculating its worth, has occupied my mind for the past hour in a way nothing has in years.
"Sir?" My intercom buzzes with Patricia Winters' voice. "The board is waiting for your decision on the Kyoto acquisition."
"Tell them I'll have it by morning." I disconnect before she can respond. Patricia has worked for me for seven years, and in that time I've never postponed a decision for personal distraction. She'll be wondering what's happened. I'm wondering the same thing.
I rise from my desk and walk to the window overlooking the grounds.
Snow is beginning to fall again, fat flakes drifting past the glass.
Under normal circumstances, finding anyone in my private collection would result in immediate dismissal at best, legal action at worst. Those pieces aren't just valuable—they're extensions of myself, carefully selected over decades for reasons I share with no one.
Yet when I saw Holly standing there, her brown eyes wide with genuine wonder rather than greed, something inside me shifted.
She hadn't been calculating their auction value or looking for something to steal.
She'd been entranced by the craftsmanship, the history embedded in each piece.
The way her fingers had hovered above the music box, almost reverent—I'd watched her through the security feed before approaching, unable to look away from her expressions of delight.
"She noticed the replaced hinge," I murmur to myself, still slightly stunned by her observation. No one has ever noticed that detail, not even the appraiser who evaluated the piece for insurance. Her eye for detail is remarkable.
I turn back to my desk and pull up her file on my tablet.
Holly Parker, 27. Event planner specializing in high-end residential holiday transformations.
Her portfolio had impressed Patricia enough to put her at the top of the list, though I'd barely glanced at it before approving the hire.
Now I scroll through images of her previous work—elegant Christmas displays for wealthy clients, though none with my resources.
Her designs show restraint and sophistication uncommon in holiday decor.
But it's her photo that holds my attention.
The professional headshot doesn't capture what I saw today—the slight flush that crept up her neck when I stood close, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when nervous, the surprising spark of determination when she corrected me ("Event planner, not decorator").
The photo shows an attractive young woman with chestnut hair and large brown eyes. In person, she's mesmerizing.
Her body is lush in ways the current fashion industry doesn't celebrate—full breasts that pressed against her modest blouse, a narrow waist flaring to generous hips, legs that would wrap perfectly around my waist. I grip the edge of my desk, surprised by the visceral image my mind conjures without permission.
My phone rings again. Tokyo won't wait forever.
I should answer, should turn my attention to the hundred-million-dollar deal hanging in the balance.
Instead, I find myself replaying the moment her fingers brushed mine when I took her clipboard.
The jolt of awareness wasn't one-sided—I saw the surprise in her eyes, the quickening of her breath.
"Fuck," I mutter, running a hand through my hair.
I haven't been distracted by a woman in years, certainly not one who works for me.
I've built an empire on control and calculated decisions.
Women come and go in my life without leaving a trace—beautiful, sophisticated women who understand the rules of temporary arrangement.
None have ever made me postpone a board meeting with a single touch.
But Holly Parker isn't like the women I normally entertain.
There's an innocence to her that's as rare as it is intoxicating.
Not naivety—she's clearly intelligent and professionally accomplished—but a genuine quality, an absence of artifice.
When she looked at my collection, she saw beauty rather than dollar signs.
When she looked at me, she saw a man rather than a bank account.
Tokyo can wait. The acquisition will still be there tomorrow.
I close her file but can't dismiss her from my thoughts.
Tomorrow she'll present her design concepts, and I'll see her again.
The anticipation of that meeting burns through me with unexpected intensity.
I want to see her reaction when she enters my office, want to watch her confidence grow as she speaks about her work.
I want to see if her skin flushes the same way when I stand close to her again.
I want her. The realization is simple and absolute.
Patricia buzzes again. "Sir, the Tokyo team is requesting confirmation of your availability for the morning call."
"Confirm it," I reply. "And bring me everything we have on Holly Parker's previous clients. Contact information, project details, everything."
"The event planner?" Patricia doesn't hide her surprise. "Is there a problem with her credentials?"
"No problem. Just do it."
I disconnect and stare out at the falling snow, watching it transform my precisely maintained grounds into something softer, less controlled. Holly Parker has walked into my house and disrupted my carefully ordered world in less than a day. Anyone else would be removed immediately.
But Holly isn't anyone else. She's mine. The thought forms with a certainty that should alarm me. I've never been a man who forms attachments easily—or at all. Attachments are vulnerabilities. Vulnerabilities are unacceptable.
Yet as I return to my desk and force myself to focus on the Kyoto numbers, one thought remains constant beneath the calculations: Holly Parker belongs to me now. She simply doesn't know it yet.
I pull up the security feed from the east wing, watching her measure windows in the guest bedroom, her movements precise and professional.
She tucks her hair behind her ear again, a gesture I'm beginning to recognize as a habit.
My body responds to even this distant image of her, desire pooling low and insistent.
Mine, I think again, the word settling into my consciousness with immovable finality.
By the time the snow stops falling, Holly Parker will be in my bed. Not as a temporary diversion, but as something I've never sought before—something permanent. Something kept.
I close the security feed and turn to the Tokyo proposal. Focus returns with practiced ease, but beneath it runs a current of anticipation unlike anything I've felt in years.
Tomorrow can't come soon enough.
She measures each room twice. I've been watching Holly work for the past hour through the security feeds, fascinated by her methodical precision.
Most decorators I've hired rush through the mansion, dazzled by its grandeur, eager to start hanging expensive baubles.
Not Holly. She documents every dimension in a leather-bound notebook, taking photos from multiple angles, occasionally closing her eyes as if visualizing the finished space.
When she smiles to herself—a small, private expression of satisfaction—something tightens in my chest. I switch off my monitor. I need to see her in person.
"I'll be touring the east wing," I inform Patricia as I pass her desk. "Hold my calls."
She glances up from her computer, her expression carefully neutral despite the irregularity of my announcement. "Of course, sir. Shall I inform Ms. Parker you'll be checking her progress?"
"No," I say, already walking away. "I'd prefer to observe without interruption."
The east wing houses the ballroom where my company's annual Christmas gala is held.
It's the most challenging space to decorate—thirty-foot ceilings, historical architectural details that can't be altered, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the snow-covered gardens.
According to the security feed, Holly has been working there for the past twenty minutes.
I take the less-traveled service corridor, nodding briefly at the housekeeper who passes with fresh linens. The woman looks startled by my presence in this part of the house. I rarely walk these halls, preferring the direct routes between my office, bedroom, and private collection.
The ballroom doors are partially open. I approach silently, positioning myself where I can see without being immediately noticed.
Holly stands in the center of the vast space, her head tilted back to study the ceiling.
Sunlight streams through the windows, catching in her hair and revealing strands of copper among the brown.
She's changed since this morning into a simple gray sweater that hugs her curves and dark jeans that emphasize the generous flare of her hips.
"Fifteen-foot garlands minimum," she murmurs to herself, making a note. "Custom sizing for the window treatments."