A Mistletoe Kiss with the Boss (9 page)

“If Mrs. Flannigan ponies up anything over five hundred grand, it will be a subtle indicator that she wants on that board.”

She stopped walking. “Five hundred thousand dollars?”

He shrugged. “As I said, she might be angling for a seat on that board. I'd give it to her.”

“You better believe I will.”

Her silly answer made him laugh and she slid her arm beneath his to nestle against him, whispering, “This is for authenticity.”

He glanced down at her. “Oh.”

Their gazes held. His dark orbs held a wisp of longing that tugged at her soul, but he said nothing. So she took that for agreement and stayed close as they made the few blocks' walk to Rockefeller Center.

When she saw the enormous Christmas tree, she gasped. “It's beautiful.”

Decorated with multicolored lights, the huge tree was festive and happy, and again filled Kristen with a longing for home. She knew she'd be back in Grennady for the holidays, but right now she was missing all the fun of prepping. All the cookie baking. All the decorating.

“This tree is why Rockefeller Center is a big tourist attraction.”

She saw people ice-skating in the huge sectioned-off center. Her longing for home doubled. “There's skating!”

“That's reason two that this is a tourist attraction.”

“Do you count everything?”

His head tilted in confusion. “Count?”

“Keep track.”

He laughed. “I suppose I do. I think it's the way my brain files things.”

She said, “Interesting,” but her attention was again caught by the skaters. The snow picked up, but she didn't feel cold. Having grown up in a Scandinavian country, she was more than accustomed to snow and temperatures much colder than what New York City offered. The swish, swish, swish of the skaters as they whirled by filled her with homesickness.

“I think we should skate.”

He blanched. “No way in hell.”

“Why not?” She glanced at him and the leather jacket over his warm sweater and jeans. “We're both dressed for it. There's a sign over there that says they rent skates.” She bumped his shoulder with her own. “It'll be fun.”

“Not with three reporters following us. I do not want a bunch of guys with access to important media outlets to see me fall on my ass. I don't want to look like an idiot.”

“You won't look like an idiot. You'll look like someone who likes me enough to try something new. Then speculation will go from ‘did he pay her?' to ‘who is this woman who has him trying new things?'”

He shook his head. “You know they're about to investigate you, right?”

She shrugged. “You did.”

He sighed.

“And what did you find? That I'm a nice, simple girl. Your search didn't hurt me. Didn't affect me. So I let it go.” She smiled. “Not everything has to be life-or-death. Let's just have fun. The photographers following you will see that. They'll investigate me and find nothing and poof they'll disappear.”

“You're such an optimist.”

She turned to him and studied his face. “You know, I'd say you're a pessimist but I don't think that's true. I think so many crappy things happened to you that you're just careful.”

“Careful enough not to break my ankle.”

“See? There you go. Deflecting again because that's how you stay away from subjects that are too painful. But you don't have to worry. I won't ask you to talk about Nina anymore. I won't ask about your childhood. But I do want to skate. I'm in a new country unexpectedly, for longer than I thought, and I'm just a little homesick.”

* * *

If she'd argued or tried to get her own way, Dean would have easily beaten her. But what kind of a Scrooge would he have to be to deny her the chance to get over her homesickness?

He sighed. “I'll check out the skating schedule and see about skate rental.”

Her entire face brightened. “Really?”

“Yes. But don't think I'm trying anything fancy. And no holding my hand.”

“We're supposed to be dating.”

“I don't want to look weak on the ice.”

With that he walked away. Because it was an odd time of the day, they could actually get into the next round of skating. He called her over. They rented skates. Within twenty minutes they were on the ice.

After a few minutes of wobbling, working to get his balance, knowing photographers were documenting his efforts, Dean finally found his footing. The first time he glided along for more than a few feet, he burst out laughing.

“All right. It's fun.”

She skated a circle around him. “I told you.”

“You actually use the same core muscles to balance yourself as you do for snowboarding.”

She gaped at him. “You snowboard?”

“Used to. I had to learn to do a lot of things to be in the places where I could accidentally run into the wealthy people I thought most likely to invest in Suminski Stuff.”

“You make me feel like I should be grateful Mrs. Flannigan invited me to dinner.”

He stopped skating. “You should.”

“I am.”

Silence stretched between them as they studied each other. Skaters glided around them, reminding him that he was stopped, staring at her, taking in that earnest face and those beautiful eyes, and reporters were probably noticing.

She quickly caught his hand and pulled him into the fray. “Let's get out of everybody's way, and then I'll drop your hand.”

He almost wished she wouldn't. The connection to her felt so nice, so normal, that it should have scared him. Instead, it filled him with the sense that he could trust her to take him places he'd never been.

They skated into a rhythm and she dropped his hand, but he scooped hers up again.

Her gaze flew to his.

“We are supposed to be dating.”

She nodded and smiled as she skated in front of him. “Wanna do a trick?”

“Getting bored with just plain skating?”

“Sort of. But I also think I'd rather get my picture in the paper for doing something cool, than for looking like two spectators who didn't know what they were doing.”

He laughed nervously. “Seriously? You're going to make me do a trick?”

“A simple one.” She grabbed his other hand so they stood facing each other, both hands tightly clasped. Then she shifted them so they were skating sideways and that movement became a circle.

He imagined that from the spectator area they looked cute, fun. And they probably did pose a much better picture. But as the world whizzed by and he grew more comfortable, with her and with his skates, he started to laugh. For the first time in weeks, he wasn't thinking about his company or his troubles. He wasn't thinking at all.

Except to realize that he really did trust her.

* * *

Kristen noticed the change in him immediately. She stopped their circle and dropped one of his hands so she could pull him behind her. When they got enough speed, she led him into a figure eight.

He called, “Now I think you're showing off.”

“Nope. Showing off would be teaching you how to do a spin or maybe a lift.”

She expected his face to freeze in horror. Instead, he said, “I could probably spin.”

She pulled him out of their third figure eight and guided him to stand beside her. “You like being good at things.”

“Don't you?”

She shrugged. “I like doing the best I can.”

“Same thing.”

She said, “I suppose,” but she understood what he meant. As a genius, his version of doing the best he could undoubtedly meant that he had to be perfect. It was why he didn't want to fall on his face in front of reporters, why he stayed out of the public eye. People were always watching him. Maybe hoping he'd make a mistake.

When their ninety minutes were up, they left Rockefeller Center, walked a bit more around that section of the city and had dinner at an out-of-the-way Mexican restaurant.

She buttoned her jacket as they walked out onto the now snow-covered sidewalk. Christmas lights decorated shop-front windows and doorways. Snow sat on evergreen branches like icing on sugar cookies. Without hesitation, he took her hand and she couldn't stop a smile.

It was one of the best dates of her life.

Still, she knew it didn't mean as much to him as it did to her. He might be having fun. He might even be enjoying her, but having heard the story of Nina, she more than suspected he'd vowed never to let himself get close to a woman again. He'd probably even made a rule.

When they reached her hotel lobby, she expected him to say goodbye at the elevator. Instead, he stepped inside with her.

Wonderful hope filled her tummy with butterflies. “Walking me to my door?”

“There were three photographers in the lobby.”

Disappointment rumbled through her. “Oh.”

But when they got to her door and she turned to say good-night, he had the most baffling expression on his face. She recognized the longing. The end of this date should be a kiss. But the confusion in his eyes told her he wouldn't even kiss her cheek.

“What's wrong?”

He drew a long breath and looked away. “Nothing.” But when he turned back to her again, his dark eyes had sharpened. The muscles of his broad shoulders tensed beneath his smooth leather jacket. He took a fraction of a step toward her.

Her breath stalled. He
was
going to kiss her.

She took a fraction of a step toward him, drawn by an unknown instinct inside her that seemed to know exactly what to do.

His eyes stayed on her face. One of his hands came up, as if he were going to put it on her shoulder or maybe her waist to nudge her closer.

Her heart did a rumba in her chest. She smiled hopefully.

But his hand stopped. He took a step back and ran his fingers through his hair.

“Good night.”

Disappointed, she whispered, “Good night,” but he just stood there. She thought for a second that he might be hanging around because he didn't want to leave and did want to kiss her. Then she realized he was just being a gentleman, waiting for her to go into her room.

She quickly slid the key in the lock and let herself inside. She said, “Good night,” again, hoping she didn't look like an idiot, then closed the door behind her.

But no matter how hard she tried to talk herself out of it, she couldn't let herself believe it was okay that he didn't kiss her.

She had wanted him to kiss her.

Very much.

She told herself that was trouble, reminded herself of his story of Nina and how her now favorite genius had probably made a rule to protect himself, and even suggested to herself that no matter how they manipulated this agreement of theirs, they were using each other.

But she still wanted him to kiss her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“D
EAN
TOLD
ME
you need a cocktail dress and that I'm to take you to lunch.”

Eyes squinting, Kristen eyed the time on her cell phone and saw it was already ten o'clock.

She sat up. “Yes. I'm sorry, Stella. I got up late or I'd be dressed by now.”

“No sweat. I'm in the lobby when you're ready.”

“Thanks.”

Kristen got out of bed, showered and put on the red sweater and jeans again. Then she called the front desk and made arrangements to have her black pants, white shirt and underwear cleaned that day. Housekeeping promised her clothes would be back in her room by that evening and she thanked them. Now there'd be no arguments about how she “needed” more jeans and a new sweater. She would fly home in the clothes she'd been wearing in Paris.

She met Stella in the lobby. They took Dean's limo to the boutique and found Jennifer waiting, ready with three red cocktail dresses. She tried on all three and chose a simple red lace sheathe.

Stella said, “Now we just need new jeans and sweater.”

Proud of herself, Kristen smirked and said, “For what?”

“Dean said something about you needing clothes to go home in.”

“The clothes I wore over from Paris are being cleaned by the hotel.” She smiled. “I'm fine.”

Stella gaped at her. “Are you nuts? The man is willing to buy you an eight-hundred-dollar sweater. Take it.”

“I don't need it.”

Stella sighed and looked at the ceiling as if seeking guidance from above.

Kristen firmly said, “I don't need it and I don't want it. End of discussion.”

Shaking her head, Stella said, “Whatever.”

They had Jennifer send the red dress to her hotel and left the boutique for a restaurant.

The snow from the day before had been shoveled away, but steam rose from the grates in the sidewalk, mixing with the frigid air and swirling toward street vendors who stood huddled by food carts.

“Where do you want to eat?”

She pointed at one of the carts. “A hot dog would be fine.”

“No. Dean said to get you a proper meal.”

Kristen laughed. “He's probably the bossiest guy I've ever met.”

Stella snorted. “You don't know the half of it.” She pointed at the door of an Italian restaurant. “Do you like Italian?”

“Everybody likes Italian.”

“Great.” They took the three steps down into the lower-level restaurant and found there was no wait.

Seated at the round table, holding her menu, Stella said, “So you're okay with another date?”

“Are you asking for Dean or are you curious?”

Stella leaned forward. “Dean sounded as if he believed you were perfectly happy with tonight's dinner. That's what makes me curious.”

“The dinner is actually for me. Mrs. Flannigan wants to talk about my charity.”

Stella peered over her menu. “Well, good, then. Dean's a difficult man even for pretend dates. I'm glad to see you're getting something out of this deal.”

“You mean aside from a gown, two dresses, a sweater, jeans, boots, a black coat and two pairs of black heels.” She paused, then cursed. “Damn it! He still hasn't taken back that bracelet.”

Stella laughed. “Lighten up. To Dean that's not even pocket change.”

The waiter, a short Italian man who must have come directly from Italy because he spoke with a wonderful accent, took their orders.

As he scampered away, Kristen refused to let the subject of the bracelet die. “I've got to get that bracelet back to him.”

Stella leaned forward again. “Why do you care? The man's a surly bastard. He fires employees and drops lovers like the rest of us change shoes. The only person he really talks to is Jason.”

“He talks to me.”

Stella gasped. “Oh.” She considered that for a second, then gasped again. “Oh, no! I think I see what's going on here.” She shook her head fiercely. “Sweetie, do not let that man get his hooks into you. You are too nice of a girl. And if you really want to start that charity you told me about the other day, you can't have your reputation sullied by having dated Dean.”

Annoyed, Kristen said, “First of all, he's not that bad. From what I saw at the Christmas party and our lunch with his friends, he talks when he has something to say. At yesterday's lunch he was a virtual chatty Cathy. Second, dating one guy isn't going to ruin my business reputation.”

Stella put her elbow on the table and rested her head on her closed fist. “Okay, I take the reputation thing back. And change it to the reality that he
could
ruin you with a broken heart. He is as hard-nosed as a businessman gets. Do not let a few nights out fool you into thinking he's nice or he likes you.”

Fiddling with her napkin, Kristen said, “I'm not that stupid.” But she'd wanted him to kiss her the night before. Really wanted it. And from everything Stella was saying, she didn't know him. She had been dealing with a guy who was at first grouchy, then standoffish, then nicer and nicer, more open, willing to take a risk ice-skating. A guy who was either growing comfortable with her or changing...or something.

The picture of Dean, sitting in the limo beside her, saying,
Maybe you bring out the best in me
, popped into her head.

What if she did bring out the best in him?

But what if she didn't? What if he really was a snarky guy who needed her, so he was acting the way he had to, to keep her here in New York, available for appearances at his beck and call?

Oh, that made so much more sense than to think a farm girl from Grennady could tame the New York City genius superstar.

* * *

When Dean came to Kristen's hotel room to pick her up at seven, she was ready to go. Wearing a red lace dress, with her yellow hair swirling around her in big, loose curls, she looked amazing.

But he'd almost kissed her the night before, so tempted he nearly lost the war inside his head, even though he knew kissing her was wrong. They had a deal. They weren't really dating in spite of the fact that they'd set it up to look that way. He could not kiss her.

Tonight, he would be smarter.

He picked up her black wool coat from the back of the sofa and opened it so she could slide it on.

“Thank you.”

Was it just him, or had that thank-you seemed a little clipped?

He opened the door for her. She stepped into the hall. “Thanks again.”

That one was definitely stiff, too polite. Not Kristen at all.

“You're welcome.” He paused, then said, “Is something wrong?”

“I'm fine.”

She wasn't fine.

“Did Stella say something?”

The elevator arrived. They stepped inside. Standing face forward, Kristen said, “Stella and I had a great time.”

“Well, you certainly picked out a nice dress.”

“Jennifer picked it.”

The chill of her voice and the way she wouldn't look at him sent a sprinkle of apprehension up his spine. Stella could have told her a million things, all of which would make Kristen back off.

But she should back off. He didn't date. He took lovers. She didn't fit that category. She'd be wise not to get close to him.

And he would be wise to let her do whatever it was she felt she needed to do to protect herself.

They drove to the Flannigans' in complete silence, and, for once, it felt odd. He almost pointed out the decorated storefront windows, remembering how she'd loved the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center, but held back, respecting her obvious wish to keep her distance. But the more he held his tongue, the more the decorations popped out to him. Fat Santas in store windows. Elves. Bright Christmas ornaments. He hadn't really looked at decorations since the year his grandmother gave him fifty bucks and told him to buy himself a gift. She didn't want to decorate. Didn't want to bake. Didn't want to go out at all. Because Christmas was a holiday created by stores to get people to spend money.

So he'd taken his fifty bucks to a pawnshop and bought some poor sap's old computer. To stave off the sadness of missing his parents and wishing Christmas was real, he told himself his grandmother was right. Christmas was a sham. For foolish people who could be duped.

The limo pulled up to the Flannigans' building. Dean and Kristen said nothing walking into the building lobby, nothing as the doorman—who had them on an expected-visitors list—walked them to the elevator and used a key card to allow the elevator to take them to the upper floor and the Flannigan residence.

As the elevator opened on the stunning foyer and a beaming Mrs. Flannigan and Arthur, Dean started to sweat, worried how Kristen's unhappiness might affect the evening. And her charity. If she was quiet with Mrs. Flannigan, the potential donation could go sailing out the window.

Worse, it was his fault because Stella had probably told her he was a bastard.

Because he was.

She stepped out of the elevator into Mrs. Flannigan's hug. “Let John take your coats.”

As Mrs. Flannigan said the words, her butler stepped forward for Kristen's black wool coat and Dean's charcoal-gray overcoat.

As Kristen slid out of hers, Mrs. Flannigan gasped. “Oh, red! You look so lovely in red. I remember those days. I used to love to wear red.”

Kristen laughed. “Used to? I'm sure you're still stunning in red.”

Mrs. Flannigan hooked her arm through Kristen's and led her down a long hall, into a high-ceilinged living room replete with art. Furnished with simple ultramodern sofas and chairs, the room got its beauty from famous paintings hung on walls and sculptures scattered about. Red velvet bows and evergreen branches hung over paintings, a nod to the holiday.

Kristen said, “Your home is lovely.”

“Thank you. Some people,” she said, her gaze sliding to Dean, “use decorators. I prefer to make my home my home.”

Though Mrs. Flannigan and Arthur looked at him, Kristen kept her gaze averted.

She did that the whole way through dinner, through the discussion of her charity and the promise of a sizable donation from Mrs. Flannigan. Kristen mentioned inviting her onto her board of advisors, and, as Dean had predicted, her eyes sparkled with approval as she happily accepted the position and volunteered to find other board members.

“Who will also make donations,” Mrs. Flannigan promised. She tossed out a few names, people famous enough to make even Dean's head spin, but when that discussion was over she turned to Dean.

“Now that our real business is out of the way, I think you and I need to have a chat.”

The way she looked at him sent fear rattling along his nerve endings. She had too much life and energy to remind him of his grandmother, but she was so influential on Wall Street that one word from her could send his stock into a free fall.

Seated on her sofa, with after-dinner drinks, he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back on the cushion as if totally unconcerned.

“So chat.”

“Winslow was right about you taking your staff somewhere now—right now—to motivate them to get this project done. I've had my assistant investigate Grennady and it's quiet. Peaceful. But the country still has enough things for your employees and their families to do that it could be like a working vacation.”

“It sounds great, but—”

“No buts, Dean. This time next month my word isn't going to be enough to stave off the inevitable.”

“I know that.”

“So you have no choice but to try something different.”

“I'm just not convinced that taking them out of their work environment will jump-start their creativity.”

“Look at it this way, keeping them where they are hasn't worked in three years. I'm going to be bold enough to suggest that you have nothing to lose.”

Kristen unexpectedly reached out and took his hand. It shocked him that she'd think he'd need support for what was, essentially, a simple business conversation. Then he realized how sweet it was—especially considering that she'd been protecting herself all night.

When she thought he needed her, she was there for him.

No one had ever been there for him.

It didn't matter that she mistakenly believed Mrs. Flannigan's stern voice somehow cowed him. It hadn't. No one cowed him. What mattered was she took his feelings into consideration over her own.

An indescribable feeling invaded his chest. A warmth that rose until it filled his blood and every happiness-starved cell in his body.

All the feelings he'd had skating returned. Especially the sense that his world was opening up and he could trust her.

He couldn't follow the feeling. He wouldn't risk hurting Kristen. But for once in his life he wanted to soak it in.

The conversation shifted to a painting over the marble fireplace. Kristen and Mrs. Flannigan walked over to it, with Mrs. Flannigan telling the story behind the purchase.

Though he spoke with Arthur, Dean let his gaze follow Kristen around the room, knowing she wasn't faking her interest in the art, or her immediate love of Mrs. Flannigan.

And he suddenly, desperately wanted to kiss her. Even more desperately than he had the night before.

The evening wound down. As they made their way up the hall toward the foyer with the elevator, John approached them, holding their coats. Dean helped Kristen with hers before putting on his own.

“Oh, look at this,” Mrs. Flannigan said, pointing at a huge spray of flowers on the hall table. “You're not exactly under the mistletoe in that arrangement, but you're beside it.” She nudged Dean. “If you wanted to kiss her, Arthur and I wouldn't mind.”

A rush of need swooshed through Dean's bloodstream. It was the perfectly logical way to get the kiss he'd wanted for nearly two days. He'd already vowed he wouldn't get involved with her, wouldn't hurt her...but didn't he deserve one kiss?