Catherine Mann - The CEO's Christmas Proposition / His Expectant Ex

She rolled over and watched while he gathered his ski jacket, pants and boots. His cream-colored silk long Johns fit him like a second skin, which made the watching a delight. As Devon’s gaze roamed his broad, tapered back and trim backside, her delight ripened to a feeling of intense, almost physical, pleasure.

The front view was even more arousing. The cool, in-command executive looked more like a rough-and-tumble hockey player. His short black hair stood up in spikes. The whiskers that had rasped Devon’s skin showed dark against his cheeks and chin. The spandex ski pants molded his muscular thighs, while the half-zipped jacket showed the strong column of his throat.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, dropping a kiss on the tip of her nose. “I’ll be right back.”

She fully intended to follow his instructions and remain huddled under the blanket until he returned. Unfortunately, the bathroom beckoned with increasing urgency. Dreading the prospect of another session on the icy toilet seat, Devon held off as long as she could. Nature finally conquered the cold. Shivering, she shoved her feet into her boots and dragged on her ski jacket, then sprinted for the bathroom.

When she went to wash her hands and face, the woman looking back at her from mirror gave a small shriek. Her hair was a bird’s nest of dark, tangled red. Her face was devoid of all color. Except, she noted ruefully, for the whisker burn on the side of her chin. She leaned forward and fingered the tiny abrasion, then dismissed it with a shrug.

What the heck. It was small enough price to pay for the mind-bending pleasure Cal had given her last night.

See, her alter ego smirked. What did I tell you? Is the man hung, or what?

“No arguments there,” Devon muttered.

And if the electricity doesn’t come back on, you and El Stud can spend another night or two between the sheets before you go your separate ways, no harm, no foul.

“No harm,” she echoed, frowning at the face in the mirror, “no foul.” Somehow that didn’t sound as bracing as it had last night.

Oh, come on! Don’t get all hung up here. One night does not a commitment make. For you or for him.

Okay, okay! She wasn’t going all gooey over the guy. Well, maybe a little, but not enough to do anything too stupid. Like fall in love with him.

She almost had herself convinced when the bathroom lights blinked on. A half second or so later, the plasma TV in the other room came to life.

“Hallelujah!”

Whooping, Devon happy-danced through the bedroom and into the sitting room. She had no idea how long it would take for the heat to kick in, but relief had to come soon. And hot water! She could shower. She could wash and blow-dry her hair. She could—

The jangle of the house phone interrupted her joyous list making. Thinking it was Cal calling from the lobby, she snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?”

A surprised huff was her only response. Maybe it was a repairman, testing the lines without expecting an answer. Someone who didn’t speak English. Swiftly, Devon switched to German.

“Hallo? Ist jemand da?”

“I’m sorry. They must have put me through to the wrong suite.” The voice was female, the accent decidedly American. “I’m trying to reach Cal Logan.”

“This is Mr. Logan’s suite.”

That produced a sharp silence, followed by an even sharper query. “Who is this?”

Uh-oh. Obviously the caller hadn’t expected another woman to answer Cal’s phone. Then again, Devon hadn’t expected to be here at this early hour of the morning answering it. Scrambling to recover, she infused her reply with crisp professionalism.

“This is Devon McShay. I’m Mr. Logan’s travel consultant.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

The sneering comment had Devon gritting her teeth. “May I ask whom I’m speaking to?”

“Alexis St. Germaine.” The reply was as glacial as the ice coating the trees outside. “Mr. Logan’s fiancée.”

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