The CEO's Christmas Proposition / His Expectant Ex: The CEO's Christmas Proposition. Merline Lovelace

for the jugular.

      “You’ve already lost control, sir.”

      Hauptmann’s ruddy cheeks took on an even darker hue. Devon gulped, hoping he didn’t have a stroke as Logan delivered the coup de grace.

      “I know you’ve had a similar offer from one of my competitors, Templeton Systems. I don’t know the terms, of course, but I do know Templeton’s standard practice is to replace key managers at every level with their own people.”

      The other executives present shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Logan swept a glance around the table before meeting their boss’s gaze again.

      “I’m willing to work with you on a restructuring plan that will mesh the skills of your people with any of my own I decide to put in place.”

      All eyes shifted to Hauptmann. Frowning, he worked his mouth from side to side for several moments.

      “How long is this offer on the table?” he asked finally.

      “I leave Dresden tomorrow for Berlin to finalize the financial arrangements. Then I plan to make a quick visit to the Airbus production plant in Hamburg before I fly back to the States on Friday. I’ll need your answer by then.”

      “Very well. You shall have it.”

      Wow! These guys played hardball. Five days to make a multibillion-dollar decision. Devon was impressed.

      With a visible effort, Hauptmann shelved his company’s fate and played the gracious host. “What a shame you have only one night in our beautiful city. Our Boys’ Choir is giving a special Christmas performance at the opera house tonight. My wife and I would very much like for you to join us for the concert and a late dinner. And your lovely assistant, of course.”

      Devon fully expected Logan to make a polite excuse. He’d been traveling for twenty-plus hours and had spent the brief respite in her room prepping for this meeting. Surely he wanted to crash.

      Or not.

      Showing no sign of the fatigue he must be feeling, Logan accepted the invitation.

      “Excellent.” Hauptmann pumped his hand again and escorted him out of the office. “I’ll send a driver to pick you up at your hotel at seven.”

      Devon waited until they were outside and in the limo to release a long breath. “Whew! That was pretty amazing. My father’s an accountant, so I’m used to hearing him throw around numbers. Never any as big as those, though. Do you think Herr Hauptmann will accept your offer?”

      “We’ll know by Friday.”

      He was so nonchalant about it. If she hadn’t just seen him going in for the kill, she might not have believed all those news articles Sabrina had found on the Web citing his lethal skills as a corporate raider.

      “Do you still want to stop at the Christmas market?”

      “If we have time.”

      It was almost four now. They would have to hustle to hit the jam-packed market, select gifts for an assortment of kids, check on Logan’s luggage and get him moved into his suite in time to shower and change. Maybe, she thought hopefully, his executive assistant had decided to take the morning off and hadn’t responded to Devon’s e-mail requesting the names, ages and gift preferences of Logan’s nieces and nephews.

      No such luck. The response was waiting when she clicked on her iPhone. She scrolled through the list once and was going over it a second time when their limo slowed for the crowded streets of the Old City. Devon caught a glimpse of the market through a narrow alleyway. They could sit in the car while it crawled another quarter mile to the square or cut through the alley and meet the limo on the other side.

      “Hier ist gut,” she told the driver.

      He pulled over to the curb and his passengers climbed out. The sleet had let up a little, thank goodness, but the air was still cold enough to make her teeth ache.

      “I’ll tell the driver to wait for us by the bridge, Mr…Er…Cal.”

      He eyed her coat and the hot pink shawl she draped over her head and wrapped around the lower half of her face. “You sure you’ll be warm enough? We can skip the market and go straight back to the hotel.”

      Devon was tempted to take the out he offered. Very tempted. All she had to do was fake one little shiver. But they were out of the limo now, and the market was only a short walk away.

      “I’m good if you are.”

      Nodding, he hiked up the collar of his overcoat and pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket. When they started down the cobblestone alley, he took her elbow with same courtesy he had at the airport.

      Devon wasn’t sure how such a simple gesture could be so casually polite and so damned discon-certing at the same time. She made a conscious effort not to lean into his warmth as their heels echoed on the ancient stones.

      The narrow walk wound around the back of the great cathedral. Thankfully, the cathedral walls blocked most of the wind. The gusts that did whistle through the alley, however, carried tantalizing scents. Devon’s nose twitched at the aroma of hot chocolate, apple cider spiced with cinnamon and cloves, freshly baked gingerbread and the sticky sweet cake Dresden was so famous for.

      “You’ll have to try the stollen,” she told her client. “It’s a German specialty that’s supposed to have originated right here in Dresden.”

      Sure enough, when they exited the alley and joined the throng in the main square, the first booth they encountered was selling slices of the cake still warm and steaming from the oven.

      “When in Rome…”

      Taking her at her word, Logan steered her toward the line at the booth.

      Not Logan. Cal. Still struggling to make the mental adjustment, Devon dredged her memory bank for details of the treat so popular throughout Germany and Austria.

      “The Catholic Church used to forbid the consumption of butter as part of the fasting in preparation for Christmas. Sometime in the sixteenth century, the Elector of Saxony got permission from the Pope for his baker’s guild to use butter and milk when baking their Christmas bread. Dresden’s stollen became highly prized after that, and every year the baker’s guild would march through the streets to present the first, huge loaf to the prince in gratitude.”

      She could imagine the color and pageantry of that medieval processional, with trumpets sounding and the bakers in all their finery tromping through the snow with their thirty-six pound loaves. The tradition still continued, she knew, only now it was a megaparade complete with floats, marching bands, a stollen queen and a five-ton loaf!

      “Here you go.”

      Logan—Cal—passed her a paper-wrapped slice and a foam cup of something hot and steamy. He retrieved the same for himself before they lucked out and found space at one of the stand-up tables dotting the square.

      Devon’s first bite more than made up for the cold nipping at her cheeks and nose. Eyes closed in ecstasy, she savored the rich blend of nuts, raisins candied fruits flavored with spices and brandy and, of course, tablespoons of butter.

      The hot chocolate was also spiked, she discovered after the first sip. As a result, she was feeling warm both inside and out when they dumped their trash in a handy container.

      “Ready to do some serious stall hopping?” she asked.

      “Hang on. You’ve got powdered sugar on your lip.”

      He moved closer, and for a startled moment Devon thought he was going to repeat his performance at the airport and kiss away the sugar. Her heart speeded up, and she didn’t know whether she was more relieved or disappointed when he tugged off a glove and brushed his thumb along her lip.

      Then she looked up and caught the lazy half smile in his eyes. For the most absurd moment, the cold and the crowd seemed to fade away. She held her breath as his