All She Wants for Christmas. Stacy Connelly

rolled his eyes. “I have never met a woman who thought she had enough clothes. Come on.”

      “Where are we going?” she asked when he grabbed her hand.

      “Your bedroom.”

      “What!”

      He tossed her a grin over his shoulder. “To find you something to wear.”

      “I work in a flower shop!” Holly protested as he pulled her through the doorway. The intimacy of Clay invading her bedroom sent heat rushing to her cheeks. She determinedly adverted her gaze from the tousled bed a mere three feet away. “I don’t have nice clothes.”

      He turned to face her. His appraising look swept her from head to toe. “I like that.”

      Holly glanced down to see if her clothes had been magically transformed. “A sweater and jeans?” she asked, arching her eyebrows in disbelief.

      “Hanging on a rack, that’s a sweater and jeans. On you, it’s something else entirely.”

      A delicious shiver raced through her at his husky words and the sexual appreciation darkening his eyes. She longed to give in to the attraction, but her survival instinct raged against it. “I can’t wear this to the Lakeshore Plaza.”

      Undaunted, he pulled open her closet door. “So we’ll find something else.”

      Holly watched him sort through the garments, his masculine hands a sensual contrast against the feminine fabrics. When he ran a hand down an empty sleeve, she swore she felt the intimate caress along her arm.

      Eventually he pulled out a black satin and lace garment. “What about this?”

      Holly fought an irrational blush. “That is a slip.”

      “Really?” He took a closer look. “With dress styles these days, it’s hard to tell.” His eyes glowed as he held the slip up to her body, and she felt as exposed as if he’d caught her wearing nothing more than the intimate lingerie. “Although that does explain why I like it.”

      “Great.” She took the slip and shoved it back in the closet. “If I let you pick the outfit, I’ll end up going to the party in my underwear.”

      Almost desperately, she flipped through her clothes. She had to find something before her entire wardrobe was touched with Clay’s memory. Finally, a long black skirt caught her attention.

      Holly held it up for him to see. “How about this?”

      “That’s good for a start. Now, all we need is this,” Clay said as he brought the slip out again.

      She shook her head. “Clay, I told you—”

      Ignoring her, he pulled a black cropped jacket from the closet. “And this.”

      Holly started to protest until she took a look at the separate items he’d selected. With its spaghetti straps and lace trim, the top of the slip could pass for a camisole. Fashioned from similar materials, the skirt and jacket looked like a matched outfit.

      Handing the hangers to her, he said, “Get dressed, and we can arrive at the party fashionably late.”

      The moment he left the room, Holly kicked off her shoes. If not for her, Clay would already be at the party. She dressed quickly and swept her hair into a twist before adding a hint of color to her lips and cheeks.

      Taking a deep breath, Holly stepped back and scrutinized her image. She searched for any telltale sign that would reveal she didn’t belong at a high-class party and found it in the insecurity swirling in her eyes.

      “I’ll be right out.”

      Clay heard Holly’s voice drift through the bedroom’s closed door. By the time they arrived, the party would be in full swing, and he’d seriously owe Marie for covering for him.

      Walking around, he studied the living room, trying to glean some information about the intriguing woman who lived there. Nothing. No hint of friends, family, no insight into Holly’s personal life. Even more curious was the lack of a Christmas tree. The woman who had staged such a wonderful evening for the foster children hadn’t decorated her own home.

      In the kitchen, Clay found a few personal details. A windowsill above the sink housed a variety of thriving plants, and crayon drawings and finger paintings plastered the refrigerator.

      “Those are from the kids at Hopewell House.”

      He turned. Holly stood in the kitchen doorway, and he forgot all about the artwork. He’d known the long, straight skirt and simple jacket would compliment Holly’s slender figure, but he hadn’t expected the jeans and sweater she’d worn earlier to conceal such alluring curves. His eyes followed the slit in her skirt as it inched up her long legs. The skirt clung to her hips, and his hands itched to outline the shapely silhouette. Silk hugged her breasts beneath the jacket, and the edging of lace hinted at enticing cleavage.

      Holly had piled her chestnut hair atop her head, leaving a few tendrils to curl around her face. The elegant style emphasized her cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes.

      “The older kids drew the giraffe and the clown,” she was saying.

      Clay tore his gaze away to refocus on the artwork. He’d mistaken the giraffe and clown for a dog and a flower. “And what about…” He didn’t have the slightest idea what the splotchy paintings were supposed to be. “The rest?”

      “Lucas did the finger painting. The Hopewell sisters won’t let him use crayons.” When Clay raised a questioning eyebrow, Holly explained, “He eats them.”

      She reached over and straightened one of the pictures. Tenderness filled her gaze. Clearly, volunteering at the foster home wasn’t something Holly reserved for the holidays. She cherished the drawings they gave her, yet she had no mementos of her own.

      “We should probably get going,” Holly said as she walked toward the living room. “I’ve made you late enough as it is.”

      “You were worth the wait.”

      Holly glanced over her shoulder as he helped with her coat, but the lift of her eyebrow revealed more doubt than pleasure.

      In the back of the limo, Clay couldn’t help studying Holly’s elegant profile in the flickering shadow and light as they drove through the city streets. In those stop-action flashes, the slope of her forehead, the tilt of her nose and the curve of her lips could have been carved from marble, but there was nothing hard or cold about Holly.

      She had a warmth and softness about her, but Clay sensed that circle of welcome didn’t extend to everyone. Right now, she’d allowed him inside because of the night Santa had given to the kids she loved. But it would take more than that if he wanted to stay within that sphere.

      If he wanted to…

      He shouldn’t even think about starting a relationship. Not now. Not when he had his family business to right and his father’s legacy of decimating struggling companies to rewrite.

      But it’s only one night, argued a voice that sounded suspiciously like his assistant’s, Marie’s. And he wasn’t quite ready to step outside Holly’s circle.

      Heat blew from the vents, tantalizing Clay with the flower fresh scent of her perfume, and he reached out to brush a tendril of hair back from the curve of her cheek. “You look amazing.”

      She offered him a quick smile as she shifted toward him on the seat, the curl slipping from his grasp. “I know what you’re doing.”

      Clay knew what he was doing, too, though not as deftly as usual if Holly was ready to call him on his seduction. “What’s that?”

      “You’re trying to convince me I’m not going to stick out like a sore thumb.”

      Even in the shifting light, he read the sincerity in her expression. She really didn’t know how beautiful she was.

      “Holly.”