All She Wants for Christmas

His gaze captured hers, the keys forgotten. Their breath mingled in the night air, but Holly no longer noticed the chill. As he helped her up, the warmth seeped even deeper, weakening her knees. He unlocked the door and handed her the keys once they stepped inside the foyer.

As they took the stairs to the third floor, Holly tried to remember if she’d left laundry piled on the couch or fast-food wrappers on the table. Opening the door, she flicked on the light and breathed a sigh of relief. Only a pair of discarded shoes cluttered the living room.

Holly sensed more than she saw Clay evaluating the apart ment. It had come furnished with well-worn, utilitarian furniture. The beige couch and chair matched the walls and carpet. She supposed her place looked like every other apartment in the building.

She pointed to the bathroom and said, “You can change in there.”

Holding up the hat he’d pulled off back at Hopewell House, he raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Last chance to make that wish…”

“Go,” she said on a laugh as she snatched the hat from his hand and watched him stride toward the bathroom. She wasn’t one for making wishes, but if she were…

Could Clay Forrester really be as perfect as he seemed? She set the hat aside to straighten the pillows on the couch and pick up her shoes. Eleanor had complimented her for finding the perfect man to play Santa, but she’d had little to do with it.

Hearing the bathroom door open, Holly realized he’d finished changing before she’d finished her musing or looked for something to wear. She turned to face him, and the shoes she’d picked up fell from her hands.

Adjusting the cuff on his tuxedo, he glanced up at her. “Is everything all right?”

Holly stared, barely managing a nod. The black tux fit him perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders and long legs. The same lock of hair she’d tucked under his Santa hat earlier fell across his forehead. Blue eyes watched her from beneath straight black brows. Chiseled bone structure emphasized a straight nose, prominent cheekbones and a strong jaw.

If a Hollywood movie star had stepped out of the TV and into her living room, Holly couldn’t have been more impressed—or dismayed.

“Holly, is something wrong?” He took a step toward her, and she waved aside his concern.

“No, no, everything’s fine. Except—” she gestured to his tuxedo “—you look ready for the inaugural ball!”

“Well, the party is at the Lakeshore Plaza.”

His words called to mind the elegant hotel, which boasted celebrity visits, views of Lake Michigan and penthouse suites rumored to cost ten thousand dollars a night. Holly had never dared to set foot inside the imported marble foyer, fearing management would throw her out for breaking some “no shirt, no shoes, no six-figure income, no admittance” rule.

“I can’t go to the Lakeshore Plaza. I have nothing to wear!” Not only would she make a fool of herself, but she’d embarrass Clay as well. Her wardrobe would be a dead giveaway that she didn’t belong.

He 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?”