Page 3 of His for Christmas
He doesn't blink as I ramble, just studies me with an intensity that makes me wonder if he can see right through me to the music box I'd touched, to the private moments I'd intruded upon. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, clenched slightly as he assesses me.
"The door was open," I finish lamely.
"Cracked," he corrects. "Not open. There's a difference." He takes a step closer, and I catch his scent – something woodsy and expensive that probably costs more per ounce than my monthly rent. "You're the decorator."
It's not a question. He knows exactly who I am, which means he's been briefed on my presence. The thought that Dominic Sterling has discussed me, even in passing, sends a strange flutter through my stomach.
"Event planner," I correct before I can stop myself. "I specialize in holiday transformations."
Something shifts in his expression – a barely perceptible softening around the eyes, though his mouth remains firm. He glances over my shoulder toward the partially open door of his collection room.
"And did my private collection inspire any holiday transformations, Ms. Parker?"
He knows my name. The realization sends another jolt through me. "It's a beautiful room," I admit, honesty overtaking my fear. "The lighting design alone is extraordinary. Whoever created that display understands how objects hold stories, not just value."
This earns me a look of genuine surprise, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it. "That would be me."
"You designed the displays?" The question slips out before I can contain it.
"It's my collection." He steps past me, pushing the door open wider. "Since you've already helped yourself to a tour, you might as well see it properly."
I should refuse. Should apologize again and retreat to the authorized areas of the mansion. Instead, I follow him back into the circular room, drawn by something I can't name.
"The music box," he says, noticing immediately which piece had captured my attention. "Austrian, circa 1890. The melody is a rather obscure Chopin nocturne."
"It's exquisite," I say, keeping my hands firmly clasped around my clipboard this time. "Did you restore it yourself?"
His eyebrow arches slightly. "What makes you think it needed restoration?"
"The gears move too smoothly for something that age without expert care. And there's a slight difference in the patina of the left hinge—nearly imperceptible, but it suggests replacement."
He turns to face me fully now, and the full force of his attention hits like a physical touch. "You have a good eye, Ms. Parker."
"Holly," I say automatically.
"Holly," he repeats, and somehow my name in his mouth sounds different—weighted with something that makes my cheeks warm. "You're not what I expected."
I'm not sure if that's a compliment or criticism. "What did you expect?"
He moves closer, not answering my question, until only a foot of space separates us. This close, I can see the faint stubble along his jaw, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that suggest he might smile occasionally, though not often.
"You touched it," he says quietly.
My face flames hotter. "I shouldn't have."
"No," he agrees, but there's no anger in his tone. "Few people appreciate the craftsmanship enough to be tempted, though. Most see only the gold, the monetary value." His gaze drops to my hands, which are twisted around my clipboard. "You have musician's hands. Piano?"
"As a child," I admit, surprised by his perception. "How did you know?"
Instead of answering, he reaches out and takes the clipboard from my grip. His fingers brush mine in the process, and an electric current shoots up my arm. He sets the clipboard on a nearby pedestal without looking away from my face.
"I know many things, Holly." The way he says my name makes it sound like he's claiming it for himself. "Including when someone is somewhere they shouldn't be."
I should be backing away from the intensity in his gaze. Instead, I find myself swaying slightly toward him, like a planet caught in a gravitational pull.
"Are you going to fire me before I've even started?" I whisper.
Something dangerous flickers in his eyes—not anger but something hotter. "I don't think so." His voice drops lower. "I find I'm curious what else you might discover if given access to my home."
