Under The Mistletoe

He laughed and took her hand to pull her into dance position. “It’s like riding a bike. Just hold on and go where I lead you.”

Heat sang up her arm at the shock of palm against palm. In defense, she rested her left hand against his shoulder. He was close, so close. Close enough for her to see faint flecks of gold in his green eyes.

Close enough to kiss.

“The count is one, two, three. Back, side, touch, basic box step. Smile,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”

The song was “Moon River,” dreamy and slow. His hand pressed against her back; if he pulled just a bit more, they’d be embracing. Suddenly, it felt as outrageous, as daring as dancing must have back in the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries, when women and men barely touched in public.

At first, he counted the steps for her, but with the urging of his hands the old motions came back. The awkwardness evaporated and they began to move, dipping and flowing around the floor. Hadley laughed aloud. “This is wonderful.”

“Didn’t I tell you? You should trust me.” Expertly, he led her into a whirling turn. Then several other couples drifted onto the floor. Aware of the people behind her, she stiffened, stepping forward when she should have gone back, stumbling on his sleek leather shoes.

He stopped for a minute and leaned toward her. His eyes darkened.

Adrenaline sprinted through her veins. A touch? A kiss?

“Look at me,” he murmured instead, his mouth just a breath away from hers. “Trust my lead.”

This time, when they started again, they moved as one. It was like floating, she thought, anchored by his eyes, the light press of his fingertips at her back. When she’d walked into the hotel she’d felt as if she was stepping into another world. And she had. This wasn’t her, this woman being swept around the floor in the arms of a handsome stranger. The rest of the room ebbed away until only his face mattered. The rest of the world—the rest of her life—was irrelevant. In that moment, that glorious moment, all she wanted was him.

She didn’t notice when the music ended. She couldn’t look away. It was as though she was diving into him, seeing the answer that he wanted as much as she did. When he leaned his head toward her it seemed completely natural. Her lips parted. Just a taste, just a touch. She held her breath—

“You are extraordinary,” he murmured. And bowed.

Blinking, Hadley realized the band was on to a new song, a swing tune, and he was leading her off the floor.

It was over.

“You should tell your parents to tip your cotillion teacher,” he said as they walked back to her table. “You did well.”

“Was that before or after I stepped on your toes?” His arm under her fingertips felt natural now. She didn’t want it to end.

“It’s always hard with a strange partner. You slid right into it.”

“You were pretty good yourself,” she said, sitting in the chair he pulled out for her. “Where did you learn all that?”

“During the swing dance craze I dated a woman who wanted to learn ballroom.”

“And you indulged her?”

“We aim to please.”

“I’d like—”

“Nice moves, Mr. Trask,” commented a waiter walking by with a silver-domed tray and Hadley froze.

She knew the name, dear God she knew the name. “Your name is Trask?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“Gabriel Trask,” her dashing stranger confirmed, holding out a hand. “I suppose I should have confessed earlier. I’m not just a dance host. I’m the general manager of the hotel.”

Chapter Three

Hadley’s feet thudded on the treadmill with metronomic regularity as sweat trickled down the side of her face. Idiot, idiot, idiot. The word repeated in her mind in time with her stride. What in the hell was she thinking, flirting with a stranger on a business trip? Losing her focus, getting all doe-eyed over a man she knew absolutely nothing about.

And look where it had gotten her. It was embarrassing, the sort of mistake a rank beginner might make. And on a personal level…

On a personal level it was downright humiliating.

She stifled a groan. That moment at the end of the dance when she’d thought he was going to kiss her, she could only imagine the look on her face. She’d been thinking romance; he’d been the hotel manager attending to a guest dining solo. And now she had to work with him. She was disconcerted, annoyed, mortified.

She’d have crawled over broken glass before admitting she was disappointed.

Of course, if he’d told her who he was up front, everything would have been different. The treadmill chirped, informing her that she was shifting into cool-down mode. Cool down? Not likely to happen anytime soon. A day and a half later, irritation still bubbled through her. There was no way she’d have chatted with him, certainly no way she’d have danced with him if she’d known who he was. All it would have taken was a name badge, something that was standard in every hotel she’d ever been in. Apparently Gabriel Trask was more interested in preserving his Armani than being professional.

Even spending all day Sunday searching out flaws in his hotel and drafting a plan for cuts hadn’t salved her pride. She still had to contend with the embarrassment of facing him.

And that would be today, of course. Monday, glorious Monday. Still, the best move was to get it over with. She wiped her face with a towel and headed toward the door. After all, it wasn’t as though she’d thrown herself at him or anything. All she’d done was dance.

And wait for a kiss.

She squeezed her eyes shut. With any luck, he’d be the one embarrassed once he found out what was going on—and maybe a little concerned about his job. As well he ought to be. There were big changes in the offing. She needed a manager who could help her implement them, not one with mixed up priorities. She needed a professional who understood how things were done.

And if that meant someone other than Gabe Trask, so be it.

Gabe sat at his desk, finishing his November month-end report. With a few brisk key strokes he sent it to Susan, who would gussy it up and send it off. There had been a time when he hadn’t worried about letterhead, just shot quick e-mails directly to Whit or called. These days, he mailed formal documents to the executors of the estate, who presumably forwarded them to the new owners.

Or maybe just tossed them in the round file. Who knew? Almost five months after Whit had died, Gabe hadn’t heard a word about what came next or who even owned the hotel. In the absence of direction, he supposed he could have played it safe and socked the profits into an interest-bearing account until the new owners appeared. Instead, he’d stubbornly continued investing in improvements. If no one was going to give him guidance, then he’d continue with the plans he and Whit had laid out in January, as they’d done every year. The old lady deserved as much as he could give her, no matter what happened next.

Clicking on an e-mail from his executive chef, he opened the attachment of menus for the following week. He stared at the list of meals, ingredients and estimated costs, and his thoughts drifted back to the last time he’d been in the dining room.

It had taken willpower to stay away from the hotel the previous day, the one day off each week he granted himself. No one on staff would have thought anything of him doing a walk-through, of course, but Gabe knew why he found himself debating it instead of skiing or heading over to Vermont to visit his family. It had to do with a certain slender blonde laughing up at him on the dance floor, with the feel of her soft, cool hand in his, the lingering memory of her scent.

And that moment at the end when he’d thought only of kissing her.

Off-limits, he reminded himself. Just his luck that when he finally met a woman who knocked him back on his heels, she was a guest. All for the best that he’d been called away—talking with her had been entirely too tempting, and he had no business taking it any further. He knew where the boundaries were.

And he’d thought about them all day Sunday.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the menu estimates and began to crunch numbers. A few changes here and there would bring the costs into line with budget. He was in the midst of sending a reply to the chef when he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Glancing up to look out the door across from his desk, Gabe saw the head of personnel walk into her office across the hall. Eight o’clock, he realized, wondering how two hours had whipped by since he’d sat down.

One of his first actions after becoming manager had been to unbolt and open that hallway door. Sure, Susan was an efficient interface with the outside world. Visitors still came to him through her office. Staffers, though, were a different matter. If people wanted to talk to him, it was simple enough—walk down the hallway and knock. If he wasn’t in a meeting or a telecon, they were free to come in and chat. It meant giving up a little time and privacy, granted, but over the years the communication had paid off. He was wired into the workings of the hotel in a way his predecessors never had been.

And around him the pulse of the hotel quickened.

Hadley headed toward the executive wing of the hotel. The soft, drapey sweater was gone, replaced by a trim taupe suit, matching pumps. Brisk, professional, ready to take care of business, a leather portfolio in her hand. First impressions were everything. If she couldn’t have that opportunity back, at least she could start fresh with a show of strength.

As she approached Gabe Trask’s office she slowed, looking for his receptionist. Beyond, a man in chef’s trousers leaned into an open door, talking animatedly.