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One Winter's Night
“Dance with me,” Kit whispered
Only then did Monica hear from the stage “Blue Christmas”—a slow smoky version meant for snuggling close. She opened her mouth to say no, but her lips wouldn’t form the word. Her body was too busy screaming yes. And in the wake of her indecision, he took her hand and led her to the dance floor.
He held her gently at her waist, heat resonating from his palms and tingling down to her toes. He kept at a respectable distance, giving the appearance of a polite dance between associates. But there was nothing polite about the hunger in his gaze or the way it made her feel. That was Grade-A carnal, and as they rocked to the music, a giddy dizziness came over her.
“Spend the night with me,” he uttered quietly. “Come with me tonight and let me wake up with you in the morning.”
Immediately, desire waged war with her reason. This was wrong in so many ways. The man was a client, and though there was no corporate policy against dating one, it broke every personal rule she had.
“I’ve got a number of things we didn’t get to Monday night.” Then he bent close and murmured a sampling, making her change her no to a big fat yes.
Dear Reader,
It was nearly three years ago when I read the very first Harlequin Blaze Encounters, Leslie Kelly’s One Wild Wedding Night (a great story and highly recommended by this author!). My first impression was what a fun concept it was—several short stories all intersecting during one special evening. My very next thought was that an office Christmas party would be another ideal setting for such a concept.
Fortunately, my editors agreed.
I’ve worked in an office for almost thirty years now and have been to more corporate functions than I can count. So this was especially fun for me to spend some time imagining what might have been going on under our noses while we were busy grazing the buffet tables.
I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please drop me a note and tell me what you think of it at www.LoriBorrill.com.
Happy reading!
Lori Borrill
One Winter’s Night
Lori Borrill
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
An Oregon native, Lori Borrill moved to the Bay Area just out of high school and has been a transplanted Californian ever since. Her weekdays are spent at the insurance company where she’s been employed for more than twenty years, and she credits her writing career to the unending help and support she receives from her husband and real-life hero. When not sitting in front of a computer, she can usually be found at the baseball field, playing proud parent to their son. She’d love to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www.LoriBorrill.com.
Contents
Prologue
Here Comes Santa Claus
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Sleigh Ride
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
You’re All I Want for Christmas
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Merry Christmas, Baby
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Epilogue
Prologue
“THERE’S EXCITEMENT in the air. Can you feel it?”
Jeannie Carmichael grinned as she surveyed the ballroom she’d spent all day transforming from a sterile beige shell into a festive holiday wonderland.
And she’d done a spectacular job of it, if she didn’t mind saying.
“I mean, I know it’s just an office Christmas party, but—” she shrugged and took a quick sip of her orange soda “—I don’t know. The night feels electric somehow.”
Her coworker Troy Hutchins followed her gaze across the large room as he swallowed down the last of a sweet-and-sour meatball. “Sure. I know what you mean,” he said, though Jeannie suspected he was only humoring her. Troy tended to be agreeable that way.
In truth, she was probably just suffering from a giddy combination of nerves and anticipation. She’d spent weeks arranging this party single-handedly and on a budget slashed in half from the year before. She’d had to get creative with the food and decorations in order to afford the two things everyone insisted were vital: an open bar and entertainment. When Stryker & Associates cut staff in Operations this year, the task of organizing the annual party fell on Jeannie’s plate—as most jobs with no logical home did. Being her first time at it, she’d wanted to make a good impression, and with the purse strings tightened, she’d feared the drop in amenities would end up reflecting poorly on her.
It had been tough to pull off, but so far so good. As she tapped her foot to a perky version of “Here Comes Santa Claus,” she noted that people were laughing and gobbling the food. From the portable stage, Gordy Goodnite, the disc jockey she’d rented, spun plenty of Christmas swing while trying to coax couples onto the dance floor. And Jeannie was certain after another round of drinks, plenty of them would oblige. For the time being, only Hank Ascona shuffled at the edge of the stage while chatting with some of his fellow brokers.
She eyed two people from Accounting pointing to the glittery snowflakes Jeannie had hung from the ceiling. It had been a good idea to dim the lights over the dance floor. It seemed to make them sparkle more, almost as if they were giving off a glimmer all their own.
As she sat at a table and scanned the room, it looked as though everyone was having a good time. Dinner conversations were focused on Leonora’s homemade lumpia and the steamed pork buns from Alan Chan’s family bakery, two treats that took the edge off the fact that the food was potluck this year in lieu of the usual caterer. Jeannie had fretted over it all for weeks, and now felt rather silly for losing so much sleep.
This whole night was going off without a hitch, a fact that tickled her pink. And…well…something really was in the air tonight, adding a special sizzle that mixed with the beat and mingled with the crowd.
“Where’d you get the Santa Claus?” Troy asked.
She glanced back toward the windows where a man in a red tailored suit chatted casually with their CFO, Monica Newell. Though the suit wasn’t the classic fur-trimmed ensemble, and he’d traded in the shiny boots for polished black oxfords, there was no mistaking the man for St. Nick. He had the cherry-red cheeks and snow-white beard, a bag of presents tossed over one shoulder and a candy cane in his hand.
And if that wasn’t enough, he simply looked…jolly.
The man was definitely brought in to spread some cheer, though by whom, she had no idea. He wasn’t in Jeannie’s budget that was for sure.
“I didn’t,” she said, watching the man converse with their executive.
Gordy Goodnite had eaten up all she’d allotted for entertainment, and even if she’d had enough left over to rent a Santa, she couldn’t have gotten someone as pricey-looking as the man standing across the room. She’d seen the standard rental agency hires, and Kris Kringle over there wasn’t one of them. He’d cost someone some serious money, but so far she hadn’t been able to think of who. Whenever she’d spotted the man, by the time she’d made her way through the crowd, he’d disappeared. It was almost eerie the way he could be there one minute, then suddenly vanish like snowflakes on asphalt the next.
“I’ve got no idea what he’s doing here,” she added. But certainly before the evening was over, she intended to find out. Though she hadn’t seen him so much as sneak a cookie, she knew he was either a party crasher or someone’s special guest. If he was the former, she’d get rid of him. And if he was the latter, she’d like to know who to thank for the unexpected help.
Troy shrugged it off and went back to his plate. “Stryker probably hired him.”
“That doesn’t seem likely. If he wanted a Santa he would have had me arrange it. It’s strange.” She picked up a carrot stick and nibbled it absently. “He’s not an employee. That beard is most definitely for real. But I can’t see who would have hired him. Do you think maybe he’s related to someone?”
“Why don’t you go over and ask him?”
Jeannie made a face. “Not while he’s talking to Monica. That woman scares me.”
“Monica Newell?”
“Yes. I only go near her when I absolutely have to.”
Troy scoffed. “She’s just a little stiff. She’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad? You heard she wouldn’t let anyone in Finance wear shorts to the company picnic. She said it wasn’t professional and wouldn’t be tolerated as long as she was in charge.”
Troy smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I heard that.”
“And then Mr. Stryker himself shows up in cargo shorts.”
Troy chuckled as she studied the woman, standing straight as a soldier, not a hair out of place in her cream-colored wool slacks and red turtleneck sweater. The outfit was exactly Monica—festive but perfectly understated without a solitary adornment that might be mistaken for frivolity. Or fun. In Jeannie’s opinion, the ensemble would have been much improved with a colorful Christmas-tree brooch or maybe some jingle-bell earrings. With Monica’s short cropped hair and sharp angular face, jingle-bell earrings would have made her look cute. Human. Like she might actually be approachable or something.
“I heard she fired someone for being three minutes late to a meeting,” Jeannie added.
Troy winced. “I don’t think that’s true.”
“Well, I don’t intend to find out firsthand. I avoid that woman like bleach on jeans. I’ll catch up with Santa later.”
Jeannie turned her attention back to all that was fun and exciting about the evening, opting not to worry about Ice Queens and Santa Clauses for now. In a way, tonight was her night, her chance to shine after spending three years working hard to keep the company’s engine running while her coworkers took the spotlight. At a seemingly endless stream of company functions and quarterly meetings, she’d smiled, cheered and clapped as the agents celebrated sales, as accountants were applauded for successful audits and year-end closes, as IT lauded new system releases. As an admin in Operations, her work was never celebrated even though it was the clerical staff like her that helped the others be so successful.
Jeannie’s father would probably tell her a job is a place to earn money, not praise, but just once, she wanted to know what it was like to be on the receiving end of that simple recognition. That wasn’t selfish, was it?
“Speaking of catching up later, I, um, was wondering if one of these days you’d like to—” Troy began, but she didn’t hear the rest. At that moment, Gordy stopped the music and announced that their CEO, Mr. Stryker, was taking the stage to make a speech.
Jeannie smoothed her hair and checked her clothing, wanting to make sure she didn’t have brownie crumbs on her reindeer sweater when Mr. Stryker turned all eyes to her in thanks for arranging the party.
“Are Rudolph’s noses blinking?” she whispered to Troy, turning her face close to his so he could get a good look at her earrings.
He blushed and stuttered before finally understanding what she was talking about. “The earrings,” he said. “Yeah, they’re blinking.”
“Thanks,” she whispered then turned her attention back to Stryker and his speech.
“Did everyone survive the snowstorm?” Mr. Stryker asked the crowd. “I don’t know about you, but every day that I have to shovel snow makes me wish I had a shorter driveway.”
Laughter swept through the room and someone behind her muttered, “Like Stryker actually shovels his own snow.”
A couple people chuckled to themselves but Jeannie ignored it and listened intently.
“Although, some of us are smarter than others,” Stryker went on. “Monica got stuck in Florida, the poor thing, having to deal with all that sunshine while we were snowshoeing our way through Chicago.”
About half the crowd laughed while Monica stood there, a pasted smile chiseled on her face. It looked as though she’d lost the pricey Santa, but was quickly inheriting his rosy red cheeks.
“They’d closed O’Hare,” she defended, apparently not understanding that he was only making a joke, but Jeannie didn’t think Mr. Stryker heard her. Instead of responding he started in about a holiday trip from hell his family had taken back when his son, John Junior, was in grade school.
John, now grown and second in command at Stryker & Associates, stood near the stage, interjecting occasionally as his father told the story, and while they spoke, Jeannie smiled and waited patiently.
“Anyway,” the man finally concluded, “I don’t want to ruin a good party by talking too much. But we are only a couple weeks from year-end, and there are some people I want to recognize tonight.”
Jeannie folded her hands in her lap and straightened in her seat.
“Where’s Nick Castle?” Stryker said, and from a spot near the bar, Nick called back, “Right here, Chairman!”
Nick was one of the few sales agents daring enough to give Mr. Stryker a nickname. And from what Jeannie understood, he was one of the few who got away with it. Looking at the man, she suspected he got away with plenty. Nick had the charm, good looks and sharp wit to make a fast path directly to the head of the line. Some people even gossiped that he was better equipped than John Jr. to take over the company, but of course, Jeannie would never repeat it. John Jr. was sweet and kind. He always smiled and said hi when she passed him in the halls, and she liked that he was part of the company even though sometimes it didn’t look as though he wanted to be.
“Does this make three years in a row or four?” Mr. Stryker asked, and Nick shrugged as though he had no idea what the man was referring to.
“It seems to keep happening, anyway,” Mr. Stryker went on. “Nick Castle is ending another year as our top selling insurance agent.”
People clapped and cheered as Nick took a bow, accepting the pats and handshakes he’d worked hard for—and Jeannie recalled a trip to Maui was also part of the prize. The sales force had always been the crown jewel of the company.
Stryker continued down the list of sales awards then moved on to announcements in the middle market, a few milestone anniversaries and some preliminary year-end results, before finally finishing with, “So that’s it. There’s good food, music, plenty of drinks. Let’s get on with the celebration!”
Then she watched as he handed the microphone back to Gordy Goodnite and stepped down from the stage.
As the voice of Bing Crosby filled the room with Christmas cheer, the words repeated in her thoughts.
A job is where you go to make money, not praise.
It did little to ease the lump in her throat or the weight of disappointment from her shoulders, and as she sat there still holding her hands in her lap, she fought the urge to run out of the room in tears.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself. After all, it wasn’t like people didn’t know who organized the party. She’d sent out questionnaires and was the recipient of the RSVP list. Everyone in this room knew she was the one to make all this happen, so she really hadn’t needed Stryker to restate the obvious.
She took a breath and the lump eased a little.
Of course, everyone appreciated her efforts, she reassured herself. The night was young, and she’d spent most of it either handling the last-minute details or sitting on the sidelines watching it go by. If she just got up and mingled a bit, she’d get plenty of the thanks she’d hoped for.
“So, anyway,” Troy began, “as I was saying. I was wondering if—” He cleared his throat.
“Jeannie, the bartender’s asking for you.” Jeannie looked up to see one of the accounting managers standing over her. “He’s got questions as to how much to serve, things like that. You might want to get over there.”
“Sure.” She glanced at Troy as she rose from her seat. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
Troy shook it off. “I’ll catch up with you later.” He smiled. “Go do your stuff, Chairman.”
She studied his face for a moment—he was handsome, in a shy, clumsy kind of way. Troy was a nice man and she appreciated his cute words of support.
“Thanks, Troy,” she said, forcing a smile on her face to drown out the remnants of disappointment. And then she went off to do what she did best.
1
“OUR FAMILY PHOTO IS scheduled for Thursday afternoon, so I’ll need you at the house by twelve at the latest.”
Monica Newell sat at her big mahogany desk in her office on the thirty-seventh floor of Chicago’s Willis Tower listening to her mother go over the holiday plans.
“Remember, we’re all wearing green this year,” her mother went on. “You got the color swatch I sent, right?”
“Yes, it came in the mail last week.”
“Make sure you find the right shade.” Her mother added hopefully, “Or you could let me pick out a sweater for you. Really, that would be so much easier.”
“I can pick out my own sweater,” Monica affirmed, though it was likely pointless. She suspected her mother had already bought the perfect green sweater for the family photo and had it on hand in case whatever Monica showed up with was deemed unsuitable. Perfection was Phyllis Newell’s way. Monica may have earned the position of chief financial officer for one of Chicago’s oldest insurance agencies, but that title held no rank when pitted against the Newell family matriarch.
“If you must,” Phyllis said through a sigh. “Just make sure you don’t buy a V-neck. You know how unflattering they look on you.”
Monica smiled tightly. “Of course.”
She made notes as her mother continued to jot off the holiday schedule—five days of meticulously arranged events that would keep the entire family busy through the holidays. The way Phyllis treated the Christmas season one would think the earth would implode if a single toast was so much as missed. Everything had to go a certain way and everyone had to be there. If not—well, up to this point, no one had dared to find out what would happen.
“On Friday we have to move up Christmas Eve brunch an hour because your father has a call to China he apparently can’t get out of,” Phyllis went on, the disappointment clear in her tone. “And did I tell you that Michael didn’t get that big account he’s been working on?”
“No, I hadn’t heard.”
Monica’s brother owned a commercial real estate firm in Manhattan and had been spending the past six months trying to nail down a sales contract with a large downtown developer.
“Be a dear and don’t mention it,” Phyllis said. “It’s a sensitive subject and the holidays are a time for cheer.”
“I won’t.”
As her mother went on Monica eyed the crystal clock on her desk. The company Christmas party had started almost an hour ago. By now, even John Stryker would be there taking inventory of the staff. She didn’t want to be the only executive missing from the room. John felt company functions played an important role in fostering teamwork at Stryker & Associates. Employees bowing out—particularly anyone on his senior leadership team—were highly frowned upon.
“So you’ll be flying into LaGuardia when?” Phyllis asked.
“I’m hoping for Wednesday night, but it might be Thursday morning.”
“You should come in Wednesday. I’d hate to have you looking harried for the photo after trying to rush here Thursday morning, and you never know what traffic could be like on 95.”
“I’ll do my best.”
She listened patiently as her mother went over the last few details then promised to call back next week to further finalize the plans, and after the two women shared goodbyes, Monica was done for the day, finally able to head upstairs to the company’s holiday party.
Quickly, she touched up her makeup and made her way to the makeshift ballroom, pleased to see the party was just starting. People were still getting their food and eating, which meant she hadn’t missed anything important. Breathing a sigh of relief, she stepped into the room, tossing off a few casual greetings to her associates and making her presence known.
Her assistant, Laura, slid up beside her. “You made it. I was about to come up and see if you needed a hand.”
“I had to tie up some loose ends, but I think I’m done for the day.”
“Good. Come eat.”
Laura led her to the buffet table, where the two women picked up plates and surveyed the selections.
Laura pointed to various items. “Get some of Leonora’s lumpia before it goes. They’re delicious. The meatballs are sweet and sour, and that custard-looking thing is an egg dish Carol Peterson brought in.”
Monica crinkled her nose. “What’s in it?”
“Vegetables and some kind of meat. Pork, maybe. I’m not sure, but people have said it’s good.”
Monica picked up a lumpia but decided to pass on the custard. Instead, she searched the table for something more recognizable when her eyes zeroed in on a familiar white box with a signature LB logo on top.
She gasped. “Are those petits fours from Lady Baltimore?”
She opened the lid and the little chocolate delights winked back.
“Nick Castle brought those.”
Nick, you prince.
She set one on her plate, bit her lip and dared to take one more. In her world, chocolate was a precious gem and Lady Baltimore petits fours were the Hope Diamond. Her opinion of the buffet table was definitely perking up.
She picked through the rest of the buffet then spent the next half hour mingling with the staff and chatting with her managers. By the time Monica finished eating and swallowing down a glass of white wine, she found herself alone by the windows reflecting on this past week of deadlines and snowstorms and the rush to scramble together preliminary year-end reports she’d be spending her weekend reviewing. It had been a stressful week. But it had sure started out well, hadn’t it?
A faint smile curved her lips as she recalled her trip to Florida and the Chicago snowstorm that had left her stranded at JAX and spending the night in an airport hotel.
In the arms of the sexy cowboy she’d met only hours before.
She tingled just thinking about him, not only from the memory of how he’d masterfully pleasured her body, but also by the sheer lasciviousness of having a one-night stand with a virtual stranger. Her mother would faint at the notion, not to mention the bulk of her staff, most of whom looked up to her as the model of ultraprofessionalism.
Up until Monday night, Monica hadn’t been the type to engage in such a sexual tryst—with a common Texas ranch hand, no less! She’d fit sex and relationships very neatly into her life much like she organized her closets and set aside time for yoga. Men had always been carefully selected from an assortment of business associates and partners in the industry. And while each and every one of them had been logical and well-suited, none had stirred the coals like the Stetson-wearing stranger she’d met in the airport lounge.
It had been such a primal night of lust, unearthing passion so hot it had literally scared her into fleeing in the wee hours of the morning, leaving only a terse note of thanks for the good time.
It was shameless, really. She would never treat an acquaintance so dismissively, much less a man she’d made love to, but she’d panicked. She’d never had stranger sex before, had no idea how to handle the morning after, so instead of tackling the situation with the same confident professionalism she held in the boardroom, she’d ducked out like a frightened teen, too awkward and embarrassed to do anything more.
