Chapter 4
Chapter
Four
DOMINIC
I don't like the way he looks at her. The lighting contractor—Ryan or Bryan, some interchangeable name—has been reviewing Holly's design plans for thirty minutes, and he's spent at least twenty of those minutes staring at her rather than the blueprints.
I'm supposed to be on a conference call with Singapore, not watching from my office doorway as another man visibly appreciates what's mine.
But I dismissed Patricia five minutes into the call when I spotted Holly in the main hall with a stranger.
A male stranger who keeps finding reasons to stand too close to her.
A male stranger whose eyes linger on her curves when she turns to indicate something on her sketch.
His company came highly recommended—specializing in custom lighting installations for high-end properties. I approved the hire without much thought, delegating the details to Patricia. A decision I'm now regretting as I watch him smile too widely at something Holly says.
"So for the main staircase, I'm thinking cascading lights intertwined with the garlands," Holly explains, pointing to her detailed sketch. "Almost like stars falling."
"Beautiful concept," the contractor says, leaning closer than necessary. "I can already visualize it. Your designs are extraordinary, Holly."
The familiarity of using her first name sends a cold spike of irritation through me. He's known her for half an hour at most. The way her name sounds in his mouth feels like trespassing.
"Thank you, Brian," she replies with a professional smile. "The custom programming will be key. Each section needs to twinkle in sequence to create the falling effect."
So it's Brian. I file away the name, though I have no intention of using it. In my mind, he's already categorized as "soon to be removed."
He nods enthusiastically. "We can definitely make that happen. I've done similar effects for commercial installations, but never in a private residence. This will be a showpiece."
His gaze drops to Holly's mouth as she speaks, then lower to where her simple blouse hints at the curves beneath.
A primitive possessiveness surges through me—an unfamiliar and unwelcome emotion.
I don't get jealous. I've never had reason to.
Women come to me, stay as long as I wish, and leave when I'm done.
I don't pursue, don't compete, and certainly don't feel this burning rage at another man's appreciative glance.
Yet here I stand, calculating exactly how quickly I could terminate this contractor's services and how much the breach of contract would cost me.
Holly turns to indicate the chandelier, unaware of his wandering eyes or my murderous thoughts.
She's entirely professional—her voice steady, her gestures precise as she explains her vision.
Nothing in her demeanor invites his attention.
But she doesn't need to invite it. She draws eyes naturally, with her genuine enthusiasm, her quiet confidence in her work, the way her body moves with unconscious grace.
Last night's interlude in the sitting room replays in my mind—the feel of her pressed against me, the soft sounds she made when I touched her, the way she yielded and responded with a passion that matched my own. Twelve hours later, and I can still taste her on my tongue.
"If you'd like, I could come by after hours sometime to show you some of our specialty lighting effects," Brian suggests, his hand touching Holly's arm in a gesture that's supposedly professional but lingers too long. "Some things are better demonstrated in person."
My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. Holly steps back slightly, putting professional distance between them.
"I think regular business hours will work fine," she says politely. "We're on a tight schedule with Christmas approaching."
Her response soothes some of my rage, but not enough. She shouldn't have to deflect his advances at all. Not in my house. Not when she's—
Mine. The word forms with complete certainty.
Holly Parker is mine, whether she fully realizes it yet or not.
Last night confirmed what I've known since finding her in my collection room.
She responds to me in ways she's never responded to anyone else.
Her body recognizes its owner, even if her mind is still catching up.
I step fully into the hallway, my footsteps deliberately audible on the marble floor.
Both Holly and the contractor turn toward the sound.
Her eyes widen slightly when she sees me, a flush immediately coloring her cheeks.
The contractor straightens, sensing authority without knowing exactly who I am.
"Ms. Parker," I say, my voice cool and controlled despite the heat of rage still simmering beneath the surface. "I need to speak with you about the ballroom concept."
"Of course, Mr. Sterling," she replies, her professional mask sliding back into place, though I can see the quickening pulse at the base of her throat. "Brian and I were just wrapping up."
Brian extends his hand toward me, oblivious to the danger he's in. "Brian Reynolds, sir. Sterling Lighting Solutions is handling the custom installation for the holiday decorations. Your home is magnificent."
I take his hand, applying slightly more pressure than necessary. "Dominic Sterling. And yes, I'm aware of who you are."
His eyes widen at my name, recognition and a hint of fear crossing his features. Good. Fear is the appropriate response.
"We were just reviewing the technical specifications for the lighting sequences," Holly explains, her voice steady though her eyes betray her awareness of the tension.
"I'm sure Mr. Reynolds can handle the implementation without further personal consultation," I say, my eyes never leaving his face. "His team will work under the supervision of my staff going forward."
Brian looks between Holly and me, something clicking into place in his expression. "Of course, Mr. Sterling. We'll coordinate through your team."
"See that you do." I turn to Holly. "My office, Ms. Parker. Now."
She gathers her sketches quickly, nodding a brief goodbye to the contractor before following me.
I feel his eyes on us as we walk away, and take the calculated risk of placing my hand at the small of Holly's back as I guide her toward my office.
The possessive gesture isn't lost on him, judging by his expression.
Once inside my office, I close the door firmly behind us. Holly turns to face me, her arms folded across her chest, her expression a mix of confusion and irritation.
"Was that really necessary?" she asks. "He's the lighting specialist we need for the installation."
"His team can handle it," I reply, moving closer to her. "He won't be working directly with you anymore."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "Because he was being friendly?"
"Because he was imagining you naked while discussing twinkling lights."
Her cheeks flush deeper, but she doesn't back down. "I can handle contractors being occasionally inappropriate. It's part of working in a male-dominated industry."
"Not in my house." The words come out more harshly than intended. "Not with you."
Something in my tone makes her pause, her expression shifting as she studies my face. "Dominic...are you jealous?"
The directness of her question catches me off guard. I'm not accustomed to being so transparent, to having my emotions read so easily. It's unsettling.
"I don't share what's mine," I say finally, deciding honesty is the most efficient path forward.
"I'm not yours," she counters, though her voice lacks conviction. "I work for you."
I step closer until only inches separate us. "We both know it's more than that, Holly. After last night, we can't pretend otherwise."
Her eyes drop to my mouth briefly before meeting mine again. "One make-out session doesn't make me your possession."
"No," I agree, raising my hand to brush my thumb across her lower lip, remembering how it felt against mine. "But it's a start."
She doesn't pull away from my touch, her breathing quickening slightly. This power I have over her body's responses—and she over mine—is dangerous and addictive.
"The lighting contractor will deal with my staff from now on," I say, my voice softening slightly. "Consider it a condition of your continued employment here."
"That's not professional," she protests, but weakly.
"I don't particularly care about professional right now." I drop my hand, forcing myself to step back. "I have a meeting in ten minutes. We'll continue our...discussion...later."
She nods, gathering her composure. "Was there actually something you wanted to discuss about the ballroom concept?"
"Yes," I say, returning to my desk. "But not now. Tonight. Dinner in my private dining room at eight. We can review your progress without interruptions."
It's not a request, and we both know it. Holly studies me for a long moment, then nods again. "Eight o'clock."
As she turns to leave, I allow myself a moment of satisfaction. By tonight, I'll make it abundantly clear to Holly Parker exactly who she belongs to. And no contractor—lighting or otherwise—will ever look at her that way again, if he values his continued employment.
The small antechamber adjacent to my office hasn't been used in years.
Once a smoking room for my grandfather's business associates, it's been largely forgotten—a beautifully proportioned space with mahogany paneling and a view of the east gardens.
This morning, I instructed the staff to clean it thoroughly and bring in the boxes of rare ornaments from storage.
Ornaments that require careful handling and expert placement.
Ornaments that only the head decorator should be entrusted with.
By eleven, Holly will have no choice but to spend hours working within twenty feet of my office, where I can watch her, speak to her, keep her away from contractors with wandering eyes and transparent intentions.