Page 3 of The Christmas Trap

His desk dominates the room. It’s large yet sleek, immaculate yet intimidating. It tells me a lot about the man whose office this is.

It's the kind of desk I envision for my own office one day. Sitting behind that polished surface is everything I dream of.

It’s also uncluttered.

Except for a pair of glasses, a sleek computer screen, a keyboard and…What is that?

I take in what looks like a length of black rope.

It looks strong. Probably military grade. And it’s twisted into intricate knots. Huh? It’s so out of place in the room.

I walk toward it then reach out and run my fingers over the pleated coil. It’s deceptively soft, silken to the touch.Strange.Wonder what he uses it for?

I draw in a deep breath, and the scent of something dark and peppery, with underlying notes of pine and sandalwood, fills my lungs. I know instinctively that it’shisscent. It feels like I’m wrapped up in a very masculine embrace.

A shiver grips me.

I’m simultaneously turned on and left with this aching need to feel what it would be like to be in the shoes of my possible would-be boss.

Without stopping to overanalyze my actions, I round the desk for his big armchair, then sink into it.

That scent deepens; it’s as if he’s right here in this room with me. My skin prickles. My toes curls. A sense of power fills me.So, this is what it feels like to be the CEO?

I let my gaze leisurely flicker around the room. On my left is a wet bar. In front of it is a comfortable settee and two armchairs with a coffee table between them.

Then there’s the bookcase opposite the desk. It’s filled with hardbacks and paperbacks. Books, which seem well-used. They’re not the kind of leather-bound tomes designers put on shelves which scream that they’re for show.

Hmm. Apparently, Mr. Davenport has read them.

What a surprise.Now I’m curious about what kinds of books they are.

I slip off the chair and approach the bookcase. That’s when I hear panting.

I turn to the doorway, in time to see a massive Great Dane amble in. The mutt is so tall, its head comes up to my chest. It’s tail waves in the air like a flag. It’s the last thing I expected.

The big dog makes a beeline for me, his tongue lolling, his face wearing what can be described as a smile.

I find my lips curve in response.

"Where did you come from?" I hold out my hand.

The dog sniffs my fingers, then licks them.

"Good boy." I give in to the cuteness overload and rub the space between his eyes. He makes a purring sound in his throat.

"Tiny, sit."

The command slices through the silence, low and clipped.

I look up, and my breath catches.

A man stalks into the office like he owns it. Because, judging by the authority which radiates from him,he does.

The very air seems to contract around him, charged and alert, as if the room itself recognizes him as a threat, or a king.Maybe both.

Holy North Pole.He’s tall. Imposingly so. Broad shoulders that block out the door behind him, a perfectly cut black jacket clinging to every hard line of his body. His chest strains against the lapels, sleeves clinging enough to suggest the kind of arms that don’t come from leisure, but labor, precision, control.

Then there’s his face. Harsh angles, sharp jaw, and a scowl carved so deeply between his brows; it could be chiseled in stone. Disapproving. Intense. Almost devastating in its precision.