Chapter 4 #2
It's manipulation, pure and simple. I would recognize it as such in a business negotiation and admire the strategy.
I've built an empire on understanding what motivates people and using it to my advantage.
The fact that I'm now employing these tactics for personal reasons should concern me. It doesn't.
Patricia delivers the message exactly as instructed, emphasizing the value of the ornament collection and the need for Holly's personal attention.
I watch through my partially open door as Holly arrives at eleven sharp, her expression professionally neutral though her eyes betray her suspicion.
She knows this isn't coincidental. Not after yesterday's display of jealousy.
She's wearing a simple burgundy sweater today that clings to her curves in a way that isn't deliberately provocative but affects me nonetheless. Her hair is pulled back in a loose knot at the nape of her neck, exposing the delicate line of her throat where I pressed my lips two nights ago.
"Mr. Sterling requested these be incorporated into the library design," Patricia explains, gesturing to the carefully packed boxes. "They're Bohemian glass, some dating back to the late 1800s."
Holly nods, already focused on the task despite her obvious awareness of my nearby presence. "I'll handle them personally. They'll work beautifully with the concept we discussed."
Patricia leaves, and Holly begins unpacking the ornaments with careful hands, examining each piece before setting it aside. I give her ten minutes to become absorbed in her work before I make my appearance.
"Finding everything you need?" I ask from the doorway, enjoying how she startles slightly at my voice.
She looks up, those expressive brown eyes meeting mine with a mixture of wariness and awareness. "Yes, thank you. These are extraordinary pieces." She holds up a hand-painted glass sphere that catches the light. "Nineteenth century Bohemian work, I'm guessing?"
"My grandfather began the collection," I say, moving into the room. "I've added to it over the years."
"You have excellent taste," she says, returning to her unpacking. "These will be perfect for the library display."
I move closer, standing beside the table where she works. "I thought you might appreciate them. Your designs show an understanding of history and craftsmanship that's rare."
"Is that why you've arranged for me to work right next to your office all day?" she asks, not looking up from her task. The directness of her question surprises a laugh from me.
"Perceptive as well as talented."
She glances up, a hint of challenge in her eyes. "I recognize strategy when I see it, Dominic."
Hearing my name on her lips still gives me a rush of satisfaction. "And yet, you're here anyway."
"The ornaments are beautiful," she says simply. "I wouldn't trust anyone else with them either."
I watch her hands as she unwraps another piece—careful, respectful, appreciative of the craftsmanship. The same way she touched the music box in my collection room. The way she touched me in the darkened sitting room.
"Let me show you how they catch the light," I say, reaching for an ornament she's already unwrapped. Our fingers brush, and I deliberately prolong the contact. She doesn't pull away.
I hold the delicate glass piece up to the window, where sunlight transforms it into a prism of colors. "My grandmother used to tell me these capture the essence of winter light. Frozen moments of beauty."
Holly steps closer to see better, her shoulder brushing against my arm. "She was right. They're like captured starlight."
I turn to face her, still holding the ornament between us. Her face is upturned to watch the play of light, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. I resist the urge to bend and press my lips to her pulse point.
"Here," I say instead, placing the ornament in her palm and closing her fingers around it carefully. My hands envelop hers completely. "Feel the weight of it. The balance."
Her skin is warm against mine, her fingers slender but strong. She doesn't pull away from my touch, instead allowing me this extended contact under the pretense of examining the ornament.
"I've been thinking about your design concept for the library," I say, still holding her hand in mine. "The literary Christmas theme. I'd like you to expand on it."
"In what way?" she asks, her voice slightly breathless.
"I want it to be more personal. Incorporate elements that reflect my specific interests, not just generic Christmas literary references."
She nods, finally slipping her hand from mine to place the ornament on the table. I immediately miss the contact. "I can do that. I'd need to know more about your preferences, though."
"Another reason for dinner tonight," I say, watching her expression carefully. "To discuss the more…personal aspects of the design."
A slight flush colors her cheeks. We both know dinner will involve much more than design discussions, but the professional pretense allows her to maintain the illusion of boundaries.
"I should get back to cataloging these," she says, gesturing to the remaining boxes.
"Of course." I step back, giving her space. "I'll be in my office if you need anything. Anything at all."
She returns to her work, but I notice her hands aren't as steady as before. Satisfaction curls through me at the physical evidence of my effect on her. I move to the connecting door between the antechamber and my office, leaving it partially open.
Throughout the day, I find reasons to check her progress.
Each time, I stand a little closer, touch her hand a little longer, let my gaze linger on her mouth a bit more obviously.
By mid-afternoon, the tension between us is palpable.
She drops an ornament hook when our fingers brush reaching for the same piece, her composure visibly fracturing.
"Sorry," she murmurs, bending to retrieve it at the same moment I do.
Our heads nearly collide. I catch her shoulders to steady her, my hands lingering longer than necessary. She looks up at me, her pupils dilated, her lips slightly parted.
"Careful," I murmur, my voice dropping to a register I reserve for bedrooms. "These are irreplaceable."
"The ornaments," she says, almost to herself. "Right."
But we both know I'm not talking about the ornaments. I'm talking about this moment, this building tension between us that grows with each hour she spends in my orbit.
By late afternoon, she's arranged a trial display on a small table—the antique ornaments nestled among leather-bound books and sprigs of evergreen. The effect is stunning—elegant, thoughtful, a perfect blend of history and seasonal warmth.
"Beautiful," I say, genuinely impressed. "You understand how to highlight the essence of each piece."
"Thank you," she says, her professional pride evident despite the undercurrent of tension between us. "I'll recreate this arrangement in the library tomorrow, with some additional elements."
"You've finished just in time," I note, glancing at my watch. "It's nearly six. You should go home and change before dinner."
"Change?" She looks down at her outfit, suddenly self-conscious.
"Not that you don't look lovely," I assure her, my eyes deliberately traveling the length of her body. "But I thought you might want something…special for tonight."
The implication hangs between us. This isn't just a business dinner, and we both know it.
"What should I wear?" she asks, surprising me with her directness again.
"Whatever makes you feel beautiful," I reply honestly. "Though I've always been partial to green."
She nods, gathering her things. "Eight o'clock. Your private dining room."
"My driver will collect you at seven-thirty," I inform her. "The address in your employee file is current?"
She pauses, obviously surprised by this arrangement. "Yes, but I can drive myself."
"I insist," I say, my tone making it clear this isn't negotiable. "I don't want you concerned with driving home afterward. We have much to discuss, and the evening may run late."
The implications of my words aren't lost on her. Her cheeks flush again, but she nods. "Seven-thirty, then."
As she leaves, I allow myself a moment of anticipation. Tonight, the pretense of purely professional interaction will be set aside. Tonight, I'll make it abundantly clear to Holly Parker exactly what I want from her.
And judging by the way she responded to my touch all day, she wants the same thing.
Dinner is still an hour away, and my patience has worn thin.
I've changed into a charcoal suit that my tailor assures me is particularly flattering, had the private dining room prepared with candles and flowers, approved the menu, selected the wine.
Yet time refuses to move at an acceptable pace.
I find myself prowling through the mansion, ostensibly checking on the decoration progress but actually seeking a glimpse of Holly.
I instructed my driver to pick her up at seven-thirty, giving her time to return home and change.
But there's always the chance she might still be here, finishing some detail, making notes for tomorrow.
The thought quickens my steps as I turn down the west corridor, where most of the decorating work has been concentrated today.
The sound of movement draws me toward the small alcove near the service stairs—a tucked-away space that most visitors never notice. I slow my approach, silencing my footsteps on the thick carpet. When I reach the archway, I pause, satisfaction curling through me at the sight before me.
Holly stands with her back to me, reaching up to adjust a sprig of holly berries tucked into a garland wrapped around a column.
She's still wearing the burgundy sweater from earlier, the material stretching across her back as she extends her arm.
Her hair has come loose from its knot, falling in soft waves down her back.