One Winter's Night Read online

  “Dance with me,” Kit whispered

  Only then did Monica hear from the stage “Blue Christmas”—a slow smoky version meant for snuggling close. She opened her mouth to say no, but her lips wouldn’t form the word. Her body was too busy screaming yes. And in the wake of her indecision, he took her hand and led her to the dance floor.

  He held her gently at her waist, heat resonating from his palms and tingling down to her toes. He kept at a respectable distance, giving the appearance of a polite dance between associates. But there was nothing polite about the hunger in his gaze or the way it made her feel. That was Grade-A carnal, and as they rocked to the music, a giddy dizziness came over her.

  “Spend the night with me,” he uttered quietly. “Come with me tonight and let me wake up with you in the morning.”

  Immediately, desire waged war with her reason. This was wrong in so many ways. The man was a client, and though there was no corporate policy against dating one, it broke every personal rule she had.

  “I’ve got a number of things we didn’t get to Monday night.” Then he bent close and murmured a sampling, making her change her no to a big fat yes.

  Dear Reader,

  It was nearly three years ago when I read the very first Harlequin Blaze Encounters, Leslie Kelly’s One Wild Wedding Night (a great story and highly recommended by this author!). My first impression was what a fun concept it was—several short stories all intersecting during one special evening. My very next thought was that an office Christmas party would be another ideal setting for such a concept.

  Fortunately, my editors agreed.

  I’ve worked in an office for almost thirty years now and have been to more corporate functions than I can count. So this was especially fun for me to spend some time imagining what might have been going on under our noses while we were busy grazing the buffet tables.

  I hope you enjoy reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please drop me a note and tell me what you think of it at www.LoriBorrill.com.

  Happy reading!

  Lori Borrill

  Lori Borrill

  ONE WINTER’S NIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  An Oregon native, Lori Borrill moved to the Bay Area just out of high school and has been a transplanted Californian ever since. Her weekdays are spent at the insurance company where she’s been employed for more than twenty years, and she credits her writing career to the unending help and support she receives from her husband and real-life hero. When not sitting in front of a computer, she can usually be found at the baseball field, playing proud parent to their son. She’d love to hear from readers and can be reached through her website at www.LoriBorrill.com.

  Books by Lori Borrill

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  308—PRIVATE CONFESSIONS

  344—UNDERNEATH IT ALL*

  392—PUTTING IT TO THE TEST

  430—UNLEASHED

  484—THE PERSONAL TOUCH

  548—INDISCRETIONS

  Contents

  Prologue

  Here Comes Santa Claus

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Sleigh Ride

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  You’re All I Want for Christmas

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Merry Christmas, Baby

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  “THERE’S EXCITEMENT in the air. Can you feel it?”

  Jeannie Carmichael grinned as she surveyed the ballroom she’d spent all day transforming from a sterile beige shell into a festive holiday wonderland.

  And she’d done a spectacular job of it, if she didn’t mind saying.

  “I mean, I know it’s just an office Christmas party, but—” she shrugged and took a quick sip of her orange soda “—I don’t know. The night feels electric somehow.”

  Her coworker Troy Hutchins followed her gaze across the large room as he swallowed down the last of a sweet-and-sour meatball. “Sure. I know what you mean,” he said, though Jeannie suspected he was only humoring her. Troy tended to be agreeable that way.

  In truth, she was probably just suffering from a giddy combination of nerves and anticipation. She’d spent weeks arranging this party single-handedly and on a budget slashed in half from the year before. She’d had to get creative with the food and decorations in order to afford the two things everyone insisted were vital: an open bar and entertainment. When Stryker & Associates cut staff in Operations this year, the task of organizing the annual party fell on Jeannie’s plate—as most jobs with no logical home did. Being her first time at it, she’d wanted to make a good impression, and with the purse strings tightened, she’d feared the drop in amenities would end up reflecting poorly on her.

  It had been tough to pull off, but so far so good. As she tapped her foot to a perky version of “Here Comes Santa Claus,” she noted that people were laughing and gobbling the food. From the portable stage, Gordy Goodnite, the disc jockey she’d rented, spun plenty of Christmas swing while trying to coax couples onto the dance floor. And Jeannie was certain after another round of drinks, plenty of them would oblige. For the time being, only Hank Ascona shuffled at the edge of the stage while chatting with some of his fellow brokers.

  She eyed two people from Accounting pointing to the glittery snowflakes Jeannie had hung from the ceiling. It had been a good idea to dim the lights over the dance floor. It seemed to make them sparkle more, almost as if they were giving off a glimmer all their own.

  As she sat at a table and scanned the room, it looked as though everyone was having a good time. Dinner conversations were focused on Leonora’s homemade lumpia and the steamed pork buns from Alan Chan’s family bakery, two treats that took the edge off the fact that the food was potluck this year in lieu of the usual caterer. Jeannie had fretted over it all for weeks, and now felt rather silly for losing so much sleep.

  This whole night was going off without a hitch, a fact that tickled her pink. And…well…something really was in the air tonight, adding a special sizzle that mixed with the beat and mingled with the crowd.

  “Where’d you get the Santa Claus?” Troy asked.

  She glanced back toward the windows where a man in a red tailored suit chatted casually with their CFO, Monica Newell. Though the suit wasn’t the classic fur-trimmed ensemble, and he’d traded in the shiny boots for polished black oxfords, there was no mistaking the man for St. Nick. He had the cherry-red cheeks and snow-white beard, a bag of presents tossed over one shoulder and a candy cane in his hand.

  And if that wasn’t enough, he simply looked…jolly.

  The man was definitely brought in to spread some cheer, though by whom, she had no idea. He wasn’t in Jeannie’s budget that was for sure.

  “I didn’t,” she said, watching the man converse with their executive.

  Gordy Goodnite had eaten up all she’d allotted for entertainment, and even if she’d had enough left over to rent a Santa, she couldn’t have gotten someone as pricey-looking as the man standing across the room. She’d seen the standard rental agency hires, and Kris Kringle over there wasn’t one of them. He’d cost someone some serious money, but so far she hadn’t been able to think of who. Whenever she’d spotted the man, by the time she’d made her way through the crowd, he’d disappea
red. It was almost eerie the way he could be there one minute, then suddenly vanish like snowflakes on asphalt the next.

  “I’ve got no idea what he’s doing here,” she added. But certainly before the evening was over, she intended to find out. Though she hadn’t seen him so much as sneak a cookie, she knew he was either a party crasher or someone’s special guest. If he was the former, she’d get rid of him. And if he was the latter, she’d like to know who to thank for the unexpected help.

  Troy shrugged it off and went back to his plate. “Stryker probably hired him.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely. If he wanted a Santa he would have had me arrange it. It’s strange.” She picked up a carrot stick and nibbled it absently. “He’s not an employee. That beard is most definitely for real. But I can’t see who would have hired him. Do you think maybe he’s related to someone?”

  “Why don’t you go over and ask him?”

  Jeannie made a face. “Not while he’s talking to Monica. That woman scares me.”

  “Monica Newell?”

  “Yes. I only go near her when I absolutely have to.”

  Troy scoffed. “She’s just a little stiff. She’s not that bad.”

  “Not that bad? You heard she wouldn’t let anyone in Finance wear shorts to the company picnic. She said it wasn’t professional and wouldn’t be tolerated as long as she was in charge.”

  Troy smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I heard that.”

  “And then Mr. Stryker himself shows up in cargo shorts.”

  Troy chuckled as she studied the woman, standing straight as a soldier, not a hair out of place in her cream-colored wool slacks and red turtleneck sweater. The outfit was exactly Monica—festive but perfectly understated without a solitary adornment that might be mistaken for frivolity. Or fun. In Jeannie’s opinion, the ensemble would have been much improved with a colorful Christmas-tree brooch or maybe some jingle-bell earrings. With Monica’s short cropped hair and sharp angular face, jingle-bell earrings would have made her look cute. Human. Like she might actually be approachable or something.

  “I heard she fired someone for being three minutes late to a meeting,” Jeannie added.

  Troy winced. “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “Well, I don’t intend to find out firsthand. I avoid that woman like bleach on jeans. I’ll catch up with Santa later.”

  Jeannie turned her attention back to all that was fun and exciting about the evening, opting not to worry about Ice Queens and Santa Clauses for now. In a way, tonight was her night, her chance to shine after spending three years working hard to keep the company’s engine running while her coworkers took the spotlight. At a seemingly endless stream of company functions and quarterly meetings, she’d smiled, cheered and clapped as the agents celebrated sales, as accountants were applauded for successful audits and year-end closes, as IT lauded new system releases. As an admin in Operations, her work was never celebrated even though it was the clerical staff like her that helped the others be so successful.

  Jeannie’s father would probably tell her a job is a place to earn money, not praise, but just once, she wanted to know what it was like to be on the receiving end of that simple recognition. That wasn’t selfish, was it?

  “Speaking of catching up later, I, um, was wondering if one of these days you’d like to—” Troy began, but she didn’t hear the rest. At that moment, Gordy stopped the music and announced that their CEO, Mr. Stryker, was taking the stage to make a speech.

  Jeannie smoothed her hair and checked her clothing, wanting to make sure she didn’t have brownie crumbs on her reindeer sweater when Mr. Stryker turned all eyes to her in thanks for arranging the party.

  “Are Rudolph’s noses blinking?” she whispered to Troy, turning her face close to his so he could get a good look at her earrings.

  He blushed and stuttered before finally understanding what she was talking about. “The earrings,” he said. “Yeah, they’re blinking.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered then turned her attention back to Stryker and his speech.

  “Did everyone survive the snowstorm?” Mr. Stryker asked the crowd. “I don’t know about you, but every day that I have to shovel snow makes me wish I had a shorter driveway.”

  Laughter swept through the room and someone behind her muttered, “Like Stryker actually shovels his own snow.”

  A couple people chuckled to themselves but Jeannie ignored it and listened intently.

  “Although, some of us are smarter than others,” Stryker went on. “Monica got stuck in Florida, the poor thing, having to deal with all that sunshine while we were snowshoeing our way through Chicago.”

  About half the crowd laughed while Monica stood there, a pasted smile chiseled on her face. It looked as though she’d lost the pricey Santa, but was quickly inheriting his rosy red cheeks.

  “They’d closed O’Hare,” she defended, apparently not understanding that he was only making a joke, but Jeannie didn’t think Mr. Stryker heard her. Instead of responding he started in about a holiday trip from hell his family had taken back when his son, John Junior, was in grade school.

  John, now grown and second in command at Stryker & Associates, stood near the stage, interjecting occasionally as his father told the story, and while they spoke, Jeannie smiled and waited patiently.

  “Anyway,” the man finally concluded, “I don’t want to ruin a good party by talking too much. But we are only a couple weeks from year-end, and there are some people I want to recognize tonight.”

  Jeannie folded her hands in her lap and straightened in her seat.

  “Where’s Nick Castle?” Stryker said, and from a spot near the bar, Nick called back, “Right here, Chairman!”

  Nick was one of the few sales agents daring enough to give Mr. Stryker a nickname. And from what Jeannie understood, he was one of the few who got away with it. Looking at the man, she suspected he got away with plenty. Nick had the charm, good looks and sharp wit to make a fast path directly to the head of the line. Some people even gossiped that he was better equipped than John Jr. to take over the company, but of course, Jeannie would never repeat it. John Jr. was sweet and kind. He always smiled and said hi when she passed him in the halls, and she liked that he was part of the company even though sometimes it didn’t look as though he wanted to be.

  “Does this make three years in a row or four?” Mr. Stryker asked, and Nick shrugged as though he had no idea what the man was referring to.

  “It seems to keep happening, anyway,” Mr. Stryker went on. “Nick Castle is ending another year as our top selling insurance agent.”

  People clapped and cheered as Nick took a bow, accepting the pats and handshakes he’d worked hard for—and Jeannie recalled a trip to Maui was also part of the prize. The sales force had always been the crown jewel of the company.

  Stryker continued down the list of sales awards then moved on to announcements in the middle market, a few milestone anniversaries and some preliminary year-end results, before finally finishing with, “So that’s it. There’s good food, music, plenty of drinks. Let’s get on with the celebration!”

  Then she watched as he handed the microphone back to Gordy Goodnite and stepped down from the stage.

  As the voice of Bing Crosby filled the room with Christmas cheer, the words repeated in her thoughts.

  A job is where you go to make money, not praise.

  It did little to ease the lump in her throat or the weight of disappointment from her shoulders, and as she sat there still holding her hands in her lap, she fought the urge to run out of the room in tears.

  It doesn’t matter, she told herself. After all, it wasn’t like people didn’t know who organized the party. She’d sent out questionnaires and was the recipient of the RSVP list. Everyone in this room knew she was the one to make all this happen, so she really hadn’t needed Stryker to restate the obvious.

  She took a breath and the lump eased a little.

  Of course, everyone appreciated her effort
s, she reassured herself. The night was young, and she’d spent most of it either handling the last-minute details or sitting on the sidelines watching it go by. If she just got up and mingled a bit, she’d get plenty of the thanks she’d hoped for.

  “So, anyway,” Troy began, “as I was saying. I was wondering if—” He cleared his throat.

  “Jeannie, the bartender’s asking for you.” Jeannie looked up to see one of the accounting managers standing over her. “He’s got questions as to how much to serve, things like that. You might want to get over there.”

  “Sure.” She glanced at Troy as she rose from her seat. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

  Troy shook it off. “I’ll catch up with you later.” He smiled. “Go do your stuff, Chairman.”

  She studied his face for a moment—he was handsome, in a shy, clumsy kind of way. Troy was a nice man and she appreciated his cute words of support.

  “Thanks, Troy,” she said, forcing a smile on her face to drown out the remnants of disappointment. And then she went off to do what she did best.

  Here Comes Santa Claus

  1

  “OUR FAMILY PHOTO IS scheduled for Thursday afternoon, so I’ll need you at the house by twelve at the latest.”

  Monica Newell sat at her big mahogany desk in her office on the thirty-seventh floor of Chicago’s Willis Tower listening to her mother go over the holiday plans.

  “Remember, we’re all wearing green this year,” her mother went on. “You got the color swatch I sent, right?”

  “Yes, it came in the mail last week.”

  “Make sure you find the right shade.” Her mother added hopefully, “Or you could let me pick out a sweater for you. Really, that would be so much easier.”