J. Critch - A Sinful Little Christmas

“Alana,” Gabe started again. “Michael and I went to school together in London. He started and ran one of the hottest erotic clubs in London for several years. He’s an asset to us. He can really help us out over here. Especially with all the time you’ve been putting in at the hotel, the restaurants, and everything else you do. He could run Di Terrestres, take it off your plate with no problem at all. He knows what he’s doing.”

Alana forced her gaze away from the Brotherhood, her friends and business partners, closing her eyes against the sunlight pouring in from the large panoramic windows. She remembered the bottle of medication in her desk drawer, and how she could use a pill now. Ever since she’d been prescribed them, she had a hard time remembering to take them. “How long have you guys been planning this?”

“We met up with him in Dublin for my bachelor party,” Alex explained. “He was looking for a change, and we all thought he would be a good fit here. And you don’t have to worry about anything. We took care of all of the human resources and visa paperwork.”

“How considerate of you.” Alana’s laugh had no humor. “Funny, we used to make all the decisions together. What happened to that?” None of her friends looked at her, nor did they budge. She was furious. But her head pounded and she was tired, and felt too poorly to fight with them. “Fine,” she relented. “I’ll talk to the guy. But that doesn’t mean anything. I’ll try to find something for him to do here.”

She put her palms on the table and pushed herself up. On wobbly legs, Alana reached for her bag, and the room tilted a little on its axis. She steadied herself, hoping her friends didn’t notice, and without another word, she walked out the door. “Assholes,” she muttered to herself as she made her way to her office. How dare they bring in another man to work for them? They’d gone over her head and made a major business decision without her. Of everything she did for the Brotherhood and their businesses, running Di Terrestres was her favorite. The erotic club they’d opened was the most profitable of all of their ventures. The club was her baby, she’d come up with the idea and the concept, and she absolutely did not want to hand over control to some stranger.

She walked into her office, and in the reception area she smiled at her assistant, Cameron. “Any messages?”

Cameron handed her a small stack. “Just a few.” Alana flipped through them. Contractor, inspector, payroll administrator, city officials…the usual suspects. “Thanks.”

After grabbing a Sanpellegrino from the bar fridge, she made it to her desk. She pulled out the bottle of pills, shook one into her hand and swallowed it with a mouthful of water. Alana was new to taking the medication. But her doctor had insisted on it when she couldn’t seem to lower her blood pressure or reduce her anxiety or panic attacks through the usual methods. The medication wasn’t at all necessary, and she knew it. It was only a precaution, really , and her doctor was overreacting. Neither her anxiety, nor her blood pressure, was the issue. Alana ate well and exercised regularly. It was just stress from work. That was all, she told herself.

Alana spun around in her chair and closed her eyes against the light coming from the large window, willing her heart rate to slow and her breathing to relax, meditating, as she waited for the room to stop spinning. Cameron buzzed in, interrupting her relaxation, and she sighed, not in the mood to see or talk to anyone. At least until the episode was over.

“Yes?” she asked, trying to remove all traces of fatigue from her voice.

“Alana, there’s a Michael Paul here to see you. He says he’s here to discuss his new position.”

He’s here? She didn’t want to deal with him today; she’d assumed that it would at least be next week before she had to talk to him. She put the pill bottle she was still holding into the drawer and slammed it shut. In a quick attempt to compose herself, she gulped back the rest of the water and pushed her hair back behind her shoulders. “Send him in,” she told her assistant.

A few seconds later the door opened, and Alana prepared her best thousand-yard stare. The one that shriveled the balls of many a man who dared cross her—in the boardroom, the bedroom, on the street and anywhere else. But her eyes widened when she cast them on the man who walked in the door.

Well, hello.

Alana wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting, but the man who entered her office certainly wasn’t it. He was tall, dark, sinfully sexy—exactly how she liked them. Black hair, closely shaved to his head, and a beard framed his strong jaw and the fullest, softest-looking male lips she’d ever seen. In a royal blue suit and a white shirt, open at the collar, which contrasted nicely against his dark skin, he was quite the picture. In response to his physical appearance, she flicked an eyebrow upward with interest, before she could remind herself that she was at work and that Michael Paul was her newest employee—whether she liked it or not.

“Ms. Carter?” he asked, approaching her desk. His British accent got her attention as he towered over her.

“Yes, that’s me.”

Still standing, he extended his hand to her. “I’m Michael Paul.”

She blinked, but quickly recovered to cover her physical attraction to him. She had discovered only a few minutes ago that the man even existed, and now he was standing in front of her, introducing himself. “Yes, I’ve been expecting you,” she lied, not willing to let him know that her partners had just ambushed her with the news of his hiring, and that he’d caught her off guard, at a weak moment.

Remaining sitting, so he was forced to lean over her desk, she put her hand in his, and the size of it completely dwarfed hers. His were strong hands, capable. Lightly calloused, not at all as smooth as she would have expected. Working man’s unmanicured hands. Their eyes connected, and a spark snapped between them as their palms flattened together.

Hands had always been a turn-on of hers, and she could tell a lot about a man by his hands, by how he used them, moved them, and by how he shook hands. His confidence and strength. What kind of work he did, how he held himself. And Michael’s handshake told her quite a bit. For a second time in just a few minutes, she about lost her breath and her equilibrium, and such an immediate reaction to a man shocked her. Alana was normally in complete control over her emotions, and to have that control slip, well, that sort of thing didn’t happen to her.

When Michael released her from his grasp, Alana was grateful that she was able to mentally compose herself. “Please, sit down,” she told him, waving at the sleek couch on the other side of her desk. But when he stepped back, he removed his jacket, tossing it over the back of the couch, and she almost sighed at his form. Michael’s shoulders were broad, and his arms, back and chest were strong, as evidenced by the bulges of muscle that showed through the fine material of his white shirt. Alana was barely hanging on, and when he unbuttoned his shirt at the cuffs, she almost fell out of her chair.

Attempting to seem oblivious, she watched with keen interest as he rolled the cuffs of his shirt up, exposing corded forearms, more dark skin, soft hair on his wrist, the expensive gold watch. At least Michael was getting comfortable, because all Alana could do was squirm in her chair to alleviate the pressure growing between her thighs.

He smiled, showing a row of brilliantly white teeth behind those full lips. “I was hoping that we could talk about my new job a bit before I get down to work,” he said, settling back onto the low, plush couch. It was a feature she’d thought of when she designed her office, after one too many meetings with men who looked down at her. Her desk sat above the couch, placing her slightly above anyone sitting opposite her. But Michael’s height, which she’d pegged at around six foot five, put him more or less at eye level with her.