A Sinful Little Christmas. J. Margot Critch

Anything else?”

      “No. See Cameron outside, he’ll call you a car.”

      “I have a car.” Michael glared, and turned on his heel. Walking out, he looked over his shoulder. “See you tomorrow,” he promised. It would be a new day to do battle with the woman in front of him. Even though she had the power to destroy him—so help him, God—he was looking forward to it. He’d never been a masochist, but when it came to Alana, he was certain that she could convince him. If he didn’t lower her resistance first, that is.

      “Tomorrow. Bright and early,” she told him, an all-too-sweet smile adorning her cynical lips.

      Michael vowed to revisit the conversation. Another time. Right now, he had some dry cleaning to pick up for the boss lady. If she thought she’d won the battle, however, she was sorely mistaken. He left her office, slamming the door behind him.

      Alana may have won that round. But the war wasn’t over.

      Alana stared at the closed door for a while before she was able to breathe again. And when she did, the air escaped her lungs in a quick rush. “Oh, fuck me,” she said aloud to her empty office. The words shot out, unabated, as they’d been on the tip of her tongue, and were the same words she’d almost found herself saying to Michael Paul, her newest employee. The man was arrogant, imposing, annoying, condescending, thought he could take her down, and he’d even had the nerve to try to manipulate her with sex. But what surprised Alana the most was that she also found him to be completely irresistible.

      The heat returned to her cheeks, and it had nothing to do with her supposed medical issue, but with a pure, carnal desire for a man she knew could make her life extremely difficult. Save his cocky attitude—which was due for a serious adjustment—Michael would have been just her type. And when he’d grilled her on her sex life, which was completely inappropriate in a workplace setting, he’d absolutely nailed her, and what she liked.

      Control. Power. They were the things that she carried with her throughout her life, and not solely in the bedroom. Alana held on to her business with a tight grip, and she wasn’t quite prepared to pass it over to some man she didn’t even know. Who thought he could stroll in and turn her life completely upside down.

      But God. Just his presence had had an effect on her. Clenching her thighs together to alleviate the pressure that had built there, she took deep breaths until she was able to think about anything but him again. What had happened to her? One moment, she was sitting behind her desk, ready to send Michael Paul packing back to London. The next, the tall, dark Adonis had made her melt into a puddle on her chair.

      Inhaling, she could still smell him—his spicy cologne, his essence. Even though he’d gone, he was still in her office. Like he’d invaded the place, and refused to leave. She had to find a way to get him out of her building, and the hell away from her, before she found herself underneath him.

       CHAPTER TWO

      ALANA RUBBED HER temples and rolled her neck. Another tension headache had taken up residence in the back of her brain, neck and shoulders. Her head pounded and she closed her eyes, trying to make the pain dissipate. She’d taken her pill—as prescribed—and a couple over-the-counter painkillers, but no amount of medication would make her feel better. When she felt like this, when the stress and tightness wouldn’t let up, she knew there was only one way to relax—sex.

      It had been a day. Not only had her best friends gone over her head and, without her knowing, brought in a guy to manage her club, but Alana blew out a breath as she admitted she was wildly attracted to the arrogant, gorgeous man they’d hired. Feeling the temperature in the room rise, she pulled back her hair into a loose bun. She was due for a little fun—it had been so long since she’d had any. Heading down to Di Terrestres would be a good cap to a crappy day. She called downstairs to the suite host, Andre.

      “Hi, Andre, is my room ready?”

      Over the phone, she heard his fingers tap on his tablet. “Yes, ma’am, it’s been a while since you’ve used it.”

      “Don’t remind me,” she told him. “I’ll be down shortly.”

      “See you soon.”

      Alana disconnected the call and quickly texted Eric, an acquaintance of hers who was always ready to hook up. Not many men were okay with lying down and letting a woman take control, but he never seemed to mind.

      Finished working for the day, Alana cleared away her desk, and shut her laptop. She stood and picked up her purse, glancing at her phone to see that Eric had responded to her message almost immediately and told her he was on his way. Perfect.

      Alana made her way downstairs. Sure, Eric was a good-looking guy, and always showed her a fun time, but as she used the private elevator from her top-floor office down to Di Terrestres, she couldn’t stop herself from wishing that it was Michael Paul meeting her in her suite. But that was a thought she couldn’t afford to entertain. She’d stared him down, had won the first confrontation, but she knew it wasn’t over. He didn’t even flinch when she gave him her best Head Bitch in Charge stare, and threatened to put his balls in her purse. That showed he was tenacious, sure. But there was no way she was handing over the reins to Di Terrestres—her baby—to just any random guy her idiot friends brought in, no matter how qualified. She pictured the shock on his face when she handed over her dry cleaning stubs, and chuckled as she remembered his outrage at being treated like an errand boy.

      She bypassed the crowd of regulars on the main floor of the club, not even looking up to the Brotherhood’s usual table to see if they were up there, because she didn’t care. She made her way to the suites and smiled at Andre, who stood at the host table at the bottom of the staircase.

      “Eric is on his way, Ms. Carter. You can head on up,” he said, presenting her with the electronic key fob to open the door to her preferred room. Once inside, she went to the small, fully stocked bar, and poured a finger of white tequila into a small glass, and followed it up with a splash of soda water. She took a swallow, and walked into the small en suite bathroom. The liquor warmed her from the inside, and soothed her frayed nerves, and succeeded in loosening her up a little, shaking off her confrontation with Michael.

      In front of the full-length mirror, she shook off her blazer and unbuttoned her shirt then pushed her skirt over her thighs. The need for physical release pulsed through her and she didn’t want to waste any time getting naked once Eric showed up. In her matching black bra and panties, and favorite pair of black stilettos, she liked what she saw.

      She brushed her hair back with her fingers, and did a shimmy in her bra to push her already-ample breasts higher. Checking the time, she guessed Eric would be there soon. She knew he looked forward to their infrequent encounters. She checked out her figure in the mirror as she reapplied her cherry-red lipstick, and she smiled. Hell, can you blame him?

      Michael’s face was set in a frustrated frown as he crossed the floor of Di Terrestres. He’d come to Vegas ready to get to work, to put everything in his past behind him and put down roots in a new city. To start a new successful life. But as he slung the plastic dry cleaning bags over his forearm, he shook his head. There was one thing standing in his way of that. Alana.

      So far, his first day had included pissing off his new boss, then hitting on her, then being sent to pick up her dry cleaning. But he wanted to do more work than that. He was restless.

      Normally, there was a way for him to ease his restlessness—sex. It was plenty available in Vegas, especially at Di Terrestres, but he wasn’t interested in taking part in the activities at the club. He had to focus his time and energy on work, to make a good first impression on his new bosses. He’d