Читать книгу The CEO's Christmas Proposition / His Expectant Ex: The CEO's Christmas Proposition - Catherine Mann, Merline Lovelace - Страница 9

As their limo crossed the centuries-old stone bridge leading into Dresden’s Old City, Devon was still trying to recover. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten up close and personal with that much naked chest.

“What’s going on?”

Logan’s question banished her mental image of taut, contoured pecs and a dusting of black hair that arrowed downward. Blinking, she saw him lean forward to survey the town square just across the bridge.

It was one of the most beautiful in all Europe. Although almost eighty percent of Dresden had been destroyed during two days of intense bombing in World War Two, decades of meticulous restoration had resurrected much of the city’s glorious architecture. The monumental Baroque cathedral with its openwork dome tower dominated a three-block area that included a royal palace, a magnificent state opera house and the world-famous Zwinger, a collection of incredibly ornate buildings surrounding a massive courtyard once used to stage tournaments and festivals.

It wasn’t the architecture that had captured Cal Logan’s attention, though, but the outdoor market in full swing despite the miserable weather. Shoppers bundled in down jackets, ski masks, stocking caps and earmuffs roamed rows of wooden stalls crammed with handicrafts.

“It’s a Christkindlmarkt,” Devon told him. “A Christmas market. Most towns and cities in Germany have one. The tradition dates back to the early 1400s, when regular seasonal markets took place throughout the year. The Christmas market evolved into the major event, where locals would gather to sell homemade toys, ornaments and foodstuffs.”

Thus initiating the commercialization process that had expanded over the years to its present mania. As a historian, Devon admired the medieval atmosphere of this lively town square. The self-proclaimed Grinchette in her had to work to see past the throngs of eager shoppers.

“Dresden’s market is one of the oldest in Germany. And that—” her nod indicated the wooden structure dominating the square “—is the tallest Christmas pyramid in the world.”

Most traditional, multitiered wooden Christmas pyramids were tabletop size. Carved figures depicting the Nativity decorated each of the tiers. Candles sat in holders at the pyramid’s base. When the candles were lit, warm air rose and turned the propeller-style fan at the top, causing the various tiers to rotate.

What had begun as traditional folk art designed to delight children with the dancing shadows cast by the rotating figures was now a multimillion-dollar industry. Wooden Christmas pyramids were sold all over the world, and less expensive versions were machine cut instead of hand carved. Dresden, however, had taken the traditional concept to new and ridiculous heights.

Okay, maybe not so ridiculous. As the limo inched along the jam-packed street leading past the market, Devon had to concede the fifty-foot pyramid with its life-size figures was a pretty awesome sight.

Cal Logan evidently thought so, too. He twisted around for another glimpse of the busy square.

“I’d like to hit some of those stalls after the meeting with Herr Hauptmann.” He settled back in his seat and caught her surprised expression. “I have nine nieces and nephews,” he explained.

Nine? Devon made a mental adjustment to reconcile Cal Logan’s public image as a jet-setting playboy with that of a doting uncle.

“How old are they?”

“Beats me. The littlest one is…little. The oldest just started high school. I think.”

So much for the doting uncle!

“You’ll need a better fix on their ages if you plan to shop for Christmas gifts.”

“My executive assistant usually takes care of that,” Logan admitted. “She’ll have names, ages and personal preferences in her computer.”

Devon got the hint. A quick glance at her watch confirmed it was still early back at Logan Aerospace corporate headquarters in eastern Connecticut. She’d bet the boss’s executive assistant would be one of the first ones in, though. Luckily, Devon had added the woman’s phone number and e-mail to her personal-contacts list.

“I’ll e-mail her,” she said, digging in her purse for her iPhone. “By the time we get out of the meeting with Herr Hauptmann, she should be at work and have access to the information.”

With something less than enthusiasm, Devon worked the iPhone’s tiny keyboard. She’d counted on this trip to provide an escape from the shopping frenzy back home. Now she’d have to brave the nasty weather and wade into a mob of shoppers to help her client find gifts for a whole pack of nieces and nephews. Thank goodness she’d had enough experience with German and Austrian winters to have worn her warmest coat.

Hauptmann Metal Works was located southeast of the Old City, in a section of Dresden that had been reconstructed along depressingly modern lines.

Remnants of East Germany’s long domination by the Soviet Union showed in seemingly endless rows of concrete-block buildings. Some attempts had been made to soften their stark utilitarianism with newly planted parks and pastel color schemes, but the area held none of the old-world charm of other parts of the city.

Herr Hauptmann was awaiting their arrival. Big and beefy and ruddy cheeked, the German industrialist came out of his office to greet them. Devon had confirmed that he spoke fluent English, so she wasn’t required to translate as he shook hands with his visitor.

“Welcome, Herr Logan. I have been looking forward to meeting you.”

“Thank you, sir. This is Ms. Devon McShay. She’s assisting me during my visit to Germany.”

“Ms. McShay.”

Devon had intended to make sure her client had everything he needed before fading into the woodwork with the other underlings, but Logan ushered her to a seat beside his at the long conference table.

Ten minutes of chitchat and a welcoming toast of schnapps later, she had plunged feet first into the world of high finance. The numbers Logan and Hauptmann lobbed back and forth like tennis balls left her breathless. They weren’t talking millions, but billions.

The main issue centered on the massive, joint-European venture to build the Airbus, touted as the world’s biggest passenger jet. A number of American companies were involved in it as well, including Logan Aerospace. Devon had to struggle to follow the discussion of the incredibly complex global aerospace industry. She grasped the bottom line, though, when Logan leaned forward an hour later and summed it up with surgical precision.

“We can argue the numbers all day, Herr Hauptmann, but we both agree your company is dangerously overleveraged. You borrowed heavily to hire additional people and invest in new production facilities to win your big Airbus contract. With Airbus behind schedule and facing major cost overruns, its potential customers are dropping like flies. You can go down with them, or you can accept my offer of a buyout, which will not only save your Airbus contracts, it will give you greater access to American aerospace giants like Boeing and Lockheed.”

“At a significantly reduced profit margin.”

“For the first three years, until we’ve recouped your investment outlay.”

The tension in the conference room was almost palpable.

“This company has been in my family for four generations, Herr Logan. It goes very much against my grain to relinquish control of it.”

Devon held her breath as the two men faced each other across the conference table. She saw no trace of the even-tempered client who’d shrugged off the irritations of travel delays and lost luggage in the steely eyed corporate raider who went straight for the jugular.

“You’ve already lost control, sir.”

Hauptmann’s ruddy cheeks took on an even darker hue. Devon gulped, hoping he didn’t have a stroke as Logan delivered the coup de grace.

“I know you’ve had a similar offer from one of my competitors, Templeton Systems. I don’t know the terms, of course, but I do know Templeton’s standard practice is to replace key managers at every level with their own people.”

The other executives present shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Logan swept a glance around the table before meeting their boss’s gaze again.

“I’m willing to work with you on a restructuring plan that will mesh the skills of your people with any of my own I decide to put in place.”

All eyes shifted to Hauptmann. Frowning, he worked his mouth from side to side for several moments.

“How long is this offer on the table?” he asked finally.

“I leave Dresden tomorrow for Berlin to finalize the financial arrangements. Then I plan to make a quick visit to the Airbus production plant in Hamburg before I fly back to the States on Friday. I’ll need your answer by then.”

“Very well. You shall have it.”

Wow! These guys played hardball. Five days to make a multibillion-dollar decision. Devon was impressed.

With a visible effort, Hauptmann shelved his company’s fate and played the gracious host. “What a shame you have only one night in our beautiful city. Our Boys’ Choir is giving a special Christmas performance at the opera house tonight. My wife and I would very much like for you to join us for the concert and a late dinner. And your lovely assistant, of course.”

Devon fully expected Logan to make a polite excuse. He’d been traveling for twenty-plus hours and had spent the brief respite in her room prepping for this meeting. Surely he wanted to crash.

Or not.

Showing no sign of the fatigue he must be feeling, Logan accepted the invitation.

“Excellent.” Hauptmann pumped his hand again and escorted him out of the office. “I’ll send a driver to pick you up at your hotel at seven.”

Devon waited until they were outside and in the limo to release a long breath. “Whew! That was pretty amazing. My father’s an accountant, so I’m used to hearing him throw around numbers. Never any as big as those, though. Do you think Herr Hauptmann will accept your offer?”

“We’ll know by Friday.”

He was so nonchalant about it. If she hadn’t just seen him going in for the kill, she might not have believed all those news articles Sabrina had found on the Web citing his lethal skills as a corporate raider.

“Do you still want to stop at the Christmas market?”

“If we have time.”

It was almost four now. They would have to hustle to hit the jam-packed market, select gifts for an assortment of kids, check on Logan’s luggage and get him moved into his suite in time to shower and change. Maybe, she thought hopefully, his executive assistant had decided to take the morning off and hadn’t responded to Devon’s e-mail requesting the names, ages and gift preferences of Logan’s nieces and nephews.

No such luck. The response was waiting when she clicked on her iPhone. She scrolled through the list once and was going over it a second time when their limo slowed for the crowded streets of the Old City. Devon caught a glimpse of the market through a narrow alleyway. They could sit in the car while it crawled another quarter mile to the square or cut through the alley and meet the limo on the other side.

“Hier ist gut,” she told the driver.

He pulled over to the curb and his passengers climbed out. The sleet had let up a little, thank goodness, but the air was still cold enough to make her teeth ache.

“I’ll tell the driver to wait for us by the bridge, Mr…Er…Cal.”

He eyed her coat and the hot pink shawl she draped over her head and wrapped around the lower half of her face. “You sure you’ll be warm enough? We can skip the market and go straight back to the hotel.”

Devon was tempted to take the out he offered. Very tempted. All she had to do was fake one little shiver. But they were out of the limo now, and the market was only a short walk away.

“I’m good if you are.”

Nodding, he hiked up the collar of his overcoat and pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket. When they started down the cobblestone alley, he took her elbow with same courtesy he had at the airport.

Devon wasn’t sure how such a simple gesture could be so casually polite and so damned discon-certing at the same time. She made a conscious effort not to lean into his warmth as their heels echoed on the ancient stones.

The narrow walk wound around the back of the great cathedral. Thankfully, the cathedral walls blocked most of the wind. The gusts that did whistle through the alley, however, carried tantalizing scents. Devon’s nose twitched at the aroma of hot chocolate, apple cider spiced with cinnamon and cloves, freshly baked gingerbread and the sticky sweet cake Dresden was so famous for.

“You’ll have to try the stollen,” she told her client. “It’s a German specialty that’s supposed to have originated right here in Dresden.”

Sure enough, when they exited the alley and joined the throng in the main square, the first booth they encountered was selling slices of the cake still warm and steaming from the oven.

“When in Rome…”

Taking her at her word, Logan steered her toward the line at the booth.

Not Logan. Cal. Still struggling to make the mental adjustment, Devon dredged her memory bank for details of the treat so popular throughout Germany and Austria.

“The Catholic Church used to forbid the consumption of butter as part of the fasting in preparation for Christmas. Sometime in the sixteenth century, the Elector of Saxony got permission from the Pope for his baker’s guild to use butter and milk when baking their Christmas bread. Dresden’s stollen became highly prized after that, and every year the baker’s guild would march through the streets to present the first, huge loaf to the prince in gratitude.”

She could imagine the color and pageantry of that medieval processional, with trumpets sounding and the bakers in all their finery tromping through the snow with their thirty-six pound loaves. The tradition still continued, she knew, only now it was a megaparade complete with floats, marching bands, a stollen queen and a five-ton loaf!

“Here you go.”

Logan—Cal—passed her a paper-wrapped slice and a foam cup of something hot and steamy. He retrieved the same for himself before they lucked out and found space at one of the stand-up tables dotting the square.

Devon’s first bite more than made up for the cold nipping at her cheeks and nose. Eyes closed in ecstasy, she savored the rich blend of nuts, raisins candied fruits flavored with spices and brandy and, of course, tablespoons of butter.

The hot chocolate was also spiked, she discovered after the first sip. As a result, she was feeling warm both inside and out when they dumped their trash in a handy container.

“Ready to do some serious stall hopping?” she asked.

“Hang on. You’ve got powdered sugar on your lip.”

He moved closer, and for a startled moment Devon thought he was going to repeat his performance at the airport and kiss away the sugar. Her heart speeded up, and she didn’t know whether she was more relieved or disappointed when he tugged off a glove and brushed his thumb along her lip.

Then she looked up and caught the lazy half smile in his eyes. For the most absurd moment, the cold and the crowd seemed to fade away. She held her breath as his thumb made another pass. Warm. Slow. Caressing.

“There.” He dropped his arm. “All clear.”

With the brandy heating her stomach and his touch searing her skin, the best Devon could manage was a gruff “Thanks.”

Sweating a little under her heavy wool coat, she edged her way into the crowd that snaked through lanes of brightly decorated stalls. Thanks to her client’s efficient assistant, picking out gifts took little effort.

Four-year-old Andrew got a hand-carved train on wooden tracks. Seven-year old Jason scored a two-foot-tall nutcracker in a smart red coat. For the twins, Julia and Bethany, Devon recommended denim skirts lavishly trimmed with filigree lace from Plauen. The more studious Janet received a glass globe of the world handblown and painted by a local artisan, while baby Nick got mittens and a stocking cap in a downy yarn that sparkled like spun gold.

Dusk was falling and the strings of lights illuminating the market had popped on by the time Cal and Devon rounded out the purchases with a doll in a furtrimmed red dress, a wooden puppet and a chess set featuring incredibly detailed Prussian soldiers. Their arms full, they had started for the bridge and the waiting limo when a ripple of eager anticipation raced through the crowd. They turned just in time see the giant fir next to the wooden Christmas pyramid light up.

A chorus of collective ooooohs filled the square. It was followed by the sound of young voices raised in a joyous rendition of “O Tannenbaum.”

Second time today, Devon thought. Strangely, though, the song didn’t produce quite the same level of cynicism as when she’d heard it blasting through the loudspeakers at the airport.

Maybe because these voices were so young and angelic, or because she still felt the glow from the spiked hot chocolate. Certainly not because her lip still tingled from Cal Logan’s touch.

“There’s the car.”

The driver had pulled into a cul-de-sac beside the bridge spanning the Elbe and was sitting with the engine idling. He jumped out to relieve them of their packages, but the magical view drew his passengers to the wall fronting the river’s bank. Completely enchanted, Devon leaned both hands on the wall.

The ancient stone bridge spanned the Elbe in a series of graceful arches. Below the bridge, the river was a solid sheet of dark, glistening ice. Atop it, the statues of saints and kings along both sides had acquired a coating of frost that glittered in the glow of the street lamps, while the trees lining both banks were strung with white lights that turned the icy nightscape into a winter wonderland.

“Now that,” Devon murmured, “is a sight.”

Cal shifted his gaze to his companion’s profile. The instant attraction that had prompted him to make a fool of himself at the airport this morning returned with a swift and unexpected kick.

“Yes,” he agreed, “it is.”

Interesting what a difference a few hours could make, he mused as he leaned an elbow on the cold stone of the wall. He’d arrived in Germany intent on acquiring a subsidiary that would cost him billions but make Logan Aerospace one of the top U.S. players in the European market.

He was still determined to acquire Hauptmann Metal Works. Betting on the outcome, he’d finalize the financial details when he met with his bankers in Berlin tomorrow. But the heat that stirred in his belly as his gaze lingered on Devon McShay was fast convincing him he should acquire her as well.