Free A Mistletoe Kiss with the Boss by Susan Meier

of your hotel room.”
    â€œI’d considered it.”
    â€œAnd it would dry wrinkled.”
    She drew in a breath. “Okay. I do feel a little slimy in these clothes.”
    â€œGood. I mean, not good that you’re slimy. Because you don’t look slimy. Good that you can get a shower and fly home refreshed.”
    Kristen rolled her eyes and looked away.
    A strange relief poured through him, followed by something he almost didn’t recognize. Pride. She’d really wanted that sweater and he’d bought it for her. It gave him the most amazingly wonderful feeling.
    As Jennifer lifted the sweater and jeans off the counter and slid them into the bag, a black lace bra and panties revealed themselves.
    The store clerk winced. “You did say to get everything she needed.”
    His heart kicked against his ribs. He could see tall, slender, nicely endowed Kristen in the black bra and panties...and the black stilettos. He tried to say, “Maybe another color would be better,” but it came out, “Navy anubber color would ’e ’etter.”
    Kristen looked at him through her peripheral vision. “You don’t like black?”
    Good God, he loved the black. But he realized that he’d have to sit through an entire lunch with several influential people, knowing she had black lace panties and bra under that dress.
    He tugged at the collar of his sweater, but said, “Get whatever color you want.”
    She faced Jennifer. “I’ll keep the black.”
    He had his chauffeur drive them to her hotel and carried her bags up to her suite for her. She opened the door with her key card and let him enter first.
    â€œWhere do you want these?”
    â€œThe chair will do.”
    He set the bags on the chair and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in about two hours.”
    She nodded and he left breathing a long sigh of relief. He would go to his penthouse, take a cold shower and return a calm man, who would not, absolutely would not, remember the sexy black lace panties and bra she’d have under that sedate dress.

CHAPTER SIX
    D EAN WAS QUIET when he picked Kristen up at her hotel room at noon. The drive to the restaurant was also quiet, and Kristen was glad. It wasn’t that she was angry about him buying her clothes. It was that he was so flippant about doing everything he wanted, but anything she did had to be part of an agreement.
    When they walked into the restaurant, Dean didn’t even say his name. The maître d’ smiled and waved him forward, leading them to a private room in the back. Decorated for the holiday with evergreen branches bathed in white twinkle lights and a sophisticated poinsettia centerpiece on the large round table, the warm space welcomed them.
    As Winslow had said, the group was small. Eight men in dark suits like Dean’s. Eight women in everything from elegant skirts and jackets to slimming sheaths. In her black knit dress, Kristen fit in as if she belonged there.
    But she didn’t. She and Dean entered to a conversation about European vacations, and Kristen suddenly felt like a bumpkin. She was twenty-four, the executive assistant to a princess, who did have a degree, and who wanted to start a foundation that would build schools—but who knew no one. She’d been nowhere...
    Well, except to Paris, where she’d picked up with this gorgeous, crazy, somewhat obsessive-compulsive guy, and was now pretending to be his date.
    As Dean made introductions, she smiled and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” reminding herself that this was part of her new reality. She had to learn to schmooze prospective donors, speak intelligently about her cause and find support.
    Dean pulled out her chair and she sat. He sat beside her.
    Mrs. Arthur Flannigan, a woman who looked to be in her eighties, leaned across the table. “Julia tells me you work for Princess Eva of Grennady.”
    â€œYes,