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Cassie's Grand Plan
Emmie Dark


Cassie Hartman knows what she needs to do to get her life under control. First, she'll get herself promoted. Then she'll update her appearance. Steps three and four–marriage and family–well, those will have to wait.Then Ronan McGuire shows up. The too-sexy, too-polished business consultant has the power to derail Cassie's plans before she's even really started. If he doesn't approve her promotion, she'll be back to square one–and that's not an option. Cassie needs to keep her focus on that first step, no matter how much Ronan tempts her to skip ahead to the third and fourth ones….







Four steps to a brand-new life

Cassie Hartman knows what she needs to do to get her life under control. First, she’ll get herself promoted. Then she’ll update her appearance. Steps three and four—marriage and family—well, those will have to wait.

Then Ronan McGuire shows up. The too-sexy, too-polished business consultant has the power to derail Cassie’s plans before she’s even really started. If he doesn’t approve her promotion, she’ll be back to square one—and that’s not an option. Cassie needs to keep her focus on that first step, no matter how much Ronan tempts her to skip ahead to the third and fourth ones….


Questions piled up inside her mind faster than she could process them

What would it be like to see Ronan naked? To have his bare skin against her own?

“Cassie, sweetheart.” Ronan’s voice was a ragged plea. “You have to stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking, because otherwise I won’t be held responsible for my actions.” He sucked in a breath. “I’m trying so hard to do the right thing here.”

Surely the right thing couldn’t be denying this energy that thrummed between them, the desperation to hold him again that seemed to pour from her every nerve. Even if it was the very last thing in the world she should be thinking, let alone doing. He was exactly the wrong kind of man for her. She wanted safe, he offered reckless. She wanted stable and settled, he traveled the world for his work, no doubt had a girl in every port.

And yet...


Dear Reader,

While unlike Cassie, I’m not afraid of flying, I am very familiar with frequent travel for business. I’ve always entertained a fantasy that one day, I’d board a plane and sitting next to me would be Bradley Cooper or Alex O’Loughlin. (I seem to conveniently forget those guys aren’t likely to fly coach!) I have a definite weakness for broad-shouldered men in crisply tailored suits, white shirts and silk ties. Especially when they’re a little crumpled after a day’s work. Unfortunately, also unlike Cassie, I’ve yet to find a consultant quite like Ronan on one of my plane trips.

While Cassie might be about to go through the audit/job interview from hell, at least the scenery’s good! And like many people who’ve experienced this kind of review, for Cassie it turns out to be a watershed moment, a critical turning point for her to review her life and reassess what she wants from it. It’s a big upheaval for her, because the one thing she’s not good at is change. But she’s boarded the ride now—it’s too late to turn back.

Writing Cassie and Ronan’s story was a roller-coaster ride for me, just like the Scenic Railway they ride at Luna Park—although with perhaps more extreme highs and lows. Thankfully the ride ended with the greatest high of all: this, my first published book. There are lots of people who went along with me for the ride—too many to thank individually. I just hope they’re not too worn-out from all the squealing!

I’d love to hear from you. Visit me at

www.emmiedark.com.

Cheers,

Emmie Dark


Cassie’s Grand Plan

Emmie Dark




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

After years of writing press releases, employee newsletters and speeches for CEOs and politicians—none of which included any kind of kissing—Emmie Dark finally took to her laptop to write what she wanted to write. She was both amazed and delighted to discover that what came out were sexy, noble heroes who found themselves crossing paths with strong, but perhaps slightly damaged, heroines. And plenty of kissing.

Emmie lives in Melbourne, Australia, and she likes red lipstick, chardonnay, sunshine, driving fast, rose-scented soap and a really good cup of tea.

All backlist available in ebook. Don’t miss any of our special offers. Write to us at the following address for information on our newest releases.

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3


For my sister, Georgina.


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u7554fddc-d8b5-5c76-baad-93d4e33774ac)

CHAPTER TWO (#u2fe02f6a-d9aa-5ae0-8483-8cdeeaea9f4c)

CHAPTER THREE (#u0322ab2e-ff7f-5d00-80ef-12f013fa9173)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u4b42d335-76e2-5d56-a9a7-f14a1078f94c)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

SWEAT PRICKLED THE BACK of his neck. It was too hot for a suit, but professional pride insisted he drag his Hugo Boss jacket from the backseat and shrug it on anyway.

Funny, he hadn’t thought he had any pride left.

Ronan Conroy surveyed the scene from inside the car a bit longer, delaying the moment he’d need to turn off the engine and lose the blast of cool air from the vents—little as it was doing to assuage the heat.

Two women stood outside the Country Style furniture warehouse in the grimy, industrial outskirts of Melbourne. Heat shimmered in air that smelled of dust and smoke, perceptible even inside the car. Concrete buildings and asphalt roads only magnified the temperature. It was hot as hell and that was probably fitting—this was, after all, supposed to be a punishment.

The women were talking animatedly. Stacks of furniture—chairs, tables, cabinets, bed frames—were haphazardly arranged around them. Guys dripping sweat emerged from inside the warehouse, grabbed an item and disappeared back into the darkness with it.

As jet lag pulled at his eyelids, Ronan watched the women continue to talk, each of them occasionally pointing at a clipboard one of them was holding.

The one closest to where Ronan had parked was short, blonde and dressed in a light green skirt and matching short-sleeved suit jacket. Her hair was cut in a neat bob, shiny and precise. Even from a distance he could see her lips were outlined in bright lipstick.

The other was taller. She wore dark trousers and a pale blue shirt with the Country Style logo emblazoned over one breast, the sleeves rolled up. A streak of dust marred one pant leg, and her cheeks were flushed. But her hair…long, dark, wavy. It was barely constrained by a clip at her nape and hung down to midway between her shoulder blades. As he watched, she tucked a stray lock behind one ear. If that beautiful mane was out, allowed free, it would swing forward, over her shoulders. Would it cover her breasts? Maybe. Maybe not quite. Maybe just—

Ronan gave himself a mental shake. It was just this sort of thing that had got him into trouble before.

It was why he was here, on the other side of the world, while his disapproving father was back in San Francisco waiting to see if he could prove himself. Again.

He grabbed his briefcase and turned off the engine, stepping out of the car. This one was going to be strictly business. There was too much riding on it for it to be anything but. His chance to finally prove that he was good enough for the partnership in Conroy Corporation that should have been his long ago—even if it was by completing a job that barely matched his skill level. It was going to be a walk in the park.

He’d been sent here to work with Cassidy Hartman, the head of operations for Country Style. He straightened his shoulders and headed toward the women. He’d bet she was the one in the suit.



CASSIE NOTICED SOMEONE approaching out of the corner of her eye, but she was too absorbed by the figures on her assistant’s clipboard to pay much attention. The delivery was short—very short—and they were going to have a problem meeting customer orders, never mind having floor stock for display in the fifty-seven Country Style stores around Australia. The tedious task ahead of them now was to match the consignment note with every item that had been delivered and then she’d be on the phone to the manufacturer, making her displeasure clear. This was the third time this company had short-delivered and Cassie’s patience was running out.

“I’m not standing for this, Mel,” Cassie said, one hand going back to play with her hastily gathered-up ponytail. Her other hand grasped her paper coffee cup dangerously tightly.

“I know, I know,” Melanie said soothingly. “They’ve tried this on us before. But don’t worry, we’ll get on to it and it will be sorted.”

“As if we didn’t have enough to deal with today,” Cassie said under her breath. Being caught in the middle of an argument with a supplier was the last thing she needed.

A surprise phone call from her boss the previous afternoon had informed her that some high-flying international business analyst would be arriving this morning to begin a review of the entirety of Country Style’s operations. Graham Taylor, the owner of Country Style, hadn’t needed to spell out that Cassie’s own performance was what was really under the microscope here.

Cassie checked her watch. It was only just before eight, so she figured she had at least another hour or so to prepare. She did a mental run-through of her to-do list, checking off priorities on her fingers. “I still have to confirm the travel arrangements for the store visits, finalize the contracts for the new ad campaign and iron out the problems with the signage on the new Hawthorn store before the opening next Monday.”

“I know,” Melanie repeated sympathetically. “I’ll deal with this and I can work on the travel stuff. You just focus on Hawthorn and do what you need to do.”

Cassie was grateful for her assistant’s encouraging smile and composed demeanor. Normally a very cool, calm and collected businesswoman herself, today’s inspection had Cassie feeling jittery, doubting herself and her management abilities. She’d barely slept last night after staying up late to prepare herself for the inquisition. She’d worked through every possible scenario, rehearsing her responses to any question she could think of. It hadn’t helped. Now she was just nervous and sleep deprived. She took a long sip of her coffee, hoping that the caffeine would give her a jolt, get her back to her normal, take-charge self.

Still caught up in self-analysis, Cassie was just taking another sip of coffee when a tall, suited man suddenly appeared next to them, making her gasp in shock.

He held his hand out to Melanie.

“Hello, you must be Cassidy Hartman.” Smiling broadly, his American accent rang out as if someone had just turned on a TV. “I’m Ronan C—McGuire from the Conroy Corporation. I understand Graham called to let you know to expect me.”

Cassie’s world slowed for a moment.

This was the pencil-pushing number-cruncher Graham had sent to check up on her?

But there wasn’t a bow tie, pocket protector or pair of horn-rimmed glasses in sight. Instead, everything about this man screamed money and sophistication, from the tailored shoulders of his fine wool suit all the way down to the shiny, no doubt Italian, leather lace-ups. His dark hair was artfully tousled, just enough to look as though care had been taken, but not so much that it would look fussy.

If this was a sitcom, then the star had just walked in—straight out of central casting, with “tall, dark and handsome” written in script under his name. Cassie half expected to hear whoops and mad applause in the background.

Melanie, flustered, looked from the man who held his hand out toward her to Cassie and back again, her pretty face creased with confusion and anxiety.

Cassie, for her part, remembered to breathe at the same time as she also remembered to swallow her mouthful of lukewarm coffee. Bad idea.

Choking and spluttering, she struggled to draw breath.

“Um, I’m…” Melanie stuttered, clearly unsure whether to introduce herself, deal with Cassie’s coughing fit, or maybe just run away.

Ronan looked over at Cassie and patted her on the back firmly a few times. “Are you okay?”

His eyes sent a ribbon of heat through her that had nothing to do with the oppressive northerly wind whipping around them. Blue. Perfect reflections of the summer sky above them. Sultry and flirtatious, his gaze made Cassie’s heart skip, even as she tried to swallow and breathe normally.

She fought to restore her composure. “I’m fine,” she said hoarsely. She blinked back the tears threatening to stream down her cheeks from the coughing fit.

“Good.” Ronan nodded and turned back to Melanie. “So, Ms. Hartman, I know Graham probably told you to expect me at nine, but I like to arrive a little early so we have a chance to get to know—”

Finally Melanie recovered enough to speak. “Sorry, but my name’s Melanie. Cassie is—”

“I’m Cassidy Hartman.” Cassie drew herself up straight and held out her hand. She knew her face was red and not just from the coughing. This was Graham’s consultant, and he’d mistaken Melanie for her. Who could blame him? She was filthy from crawling through the recently arrived stock trying to do a rough estimate on quantities. She’d barely slept so she knew her eyes were baggy and her hair was in its usual messy ponytail. Whereas Melanie—well, she was Melanie. Cool, crisp and utterly perfect.

The mistake was understandable, but no less embarrassing. And, much as she didn’t want to admit it, it hurt. Part Two of her recently drawn up Plan-with-a-capital-P was all about making sure this kind of misunderstanding didn’t happen, but she had to get Part One bedded down first—and that meant making her position at Country Style rock solid. She just hadn’t considered that the report she’d spent her nights and weekends researching and writing would prompt her boss to call in professional analysts instead of simply granting her the CEO position as she’d recommended.

The smarmy-but-gorgeous Ronan turned to Cassie and gave a slight bow, extending his hand to grasp hers. His eyes flashed with a moment of regret at his misstep, but he covered it quickly. “My apologies, ma’am.” He cocked his head to one side as she stifled another cough. “I admire your new caffeine delivery system, but perhaps it still needs some work?”

Cassie had been about to apologize for her appearance, explain about the short-delivered order, but his condescending expression stopped her in her tracks. She wanted more than anything to slap that grin off his face and send him packing back to his big glass office in America. Instead, she forced herself to smile, as much to stop herself insulting him out loud as anything else.

She shook his hand and released it quickly when a jolt ran through her body, as if she were holding hands with the devil.

“Can I get you a coffee, Mr....uh,” Melanie stuttered.

Cassie looked over at Melanie and was surprised to find her unflappable assistant looking at a loss.

He hesitated just a split second before answering smoothly. “Mr. McGuire,” he reminded her, “but please, call me Ronan. And I’d love a coffee. Black, no sugar—I’m sweet enough,” he added with a wink and Cassie was staggered by Melanie’s response. She gave a shy giggle and a telltale blush marched across her face. Melanie was the target of flirting from just about every man she met. This was the first time Cassie had ever seen it work.

She guessed any woman would fall weak at the knees faced with this perfect specimen of the male sex. Objectively, Cassie could see why. He wasn’t her type, though. Too polished. Too worldly. Too good-looking. Too overwhelming. It’d be too easy to lose yourself—lose control—with someone like him. It wasn’t something she would ever allow to happen.

Besides which, it was pointless even thinking those kinds of thoughts. He was here to assess her performance—at work, not in the bedroom. Thank goodness. At least at work Cassie knew what she was doing.

Well, she’d thought she did up until Graham had called for this review.

Her stomach twisted into ever-tighter knots.

“Sure, Ronan.” Melanie lowered her voice to say his name, as if it were sacred. Her eyes didn’t leave the man’s face as she asked, “Cassie, can I get you another one?”

Cassie could only nod, even as the coffee she’d already consumed that morning curdled in her belly. She figured she was going to need every bit of help she could muster to get through this day and more caffeine was a good start.

The fragile balloon of self-confidence she’d tried to pump up last night was rapidly deflating. In all the scenarios she’d pictured, she’d been imagining herself answering to a bow tie–wearing nerd. She honestly had been expecting some gray-haired, button-down bore. Not the kind of man who’d make most women think of beds instead of budgets. Of sex instead of stock levels.

And she’d expected to have more time to prepare. Not get caught out in the middle of a delivery blunder, dusty and hot and annoyed. She swallowed again, resisting her tickly throat that still urged her to cough.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” Melanie seemed to have recovered from her little swoon and was back to her normal efficient self. “I’ve set up the conference room for you both. All the documents you requested are in there, Cassie, and I even found an adaptor so you can plug your laptop in, too, Ronan.” Again, that sexy tone when she said his name.

“Why, thank you, Melanie.”

No. Oh, God. Had he winked again?

When he turned back to Cassie, his face was all business. Cassie refused to feel disappointed. “After you, ma’am.”

Without another word, Cassie led him into the warehouse and through the side doorway that led into the office area and the conference room.

“Conference room” was a grand title for the space that they used for staff meetings and big client pitches, but it was the most presentable part of the building. It had also allowed Cassie to exercise her passion for interior design—a passion that had played no small part in her success. Predicting trends and designing merchandising schemes were her favorite parts of the job.

Cassie had furnished the space as if it were a provincial dining room; instead of the typical imposing boardroom table surrounded by black leather swivel chairs, she’d brought in a large, whitewashed-timber dining table, plush dining chairs and a kitchen sideboard for storage. Audiovisual equipment was stored away in a large wooden trunk and dresser, while a kitchenette gave the impression of a family space ready to prepare an evening meal. The view of the loading dock from the window was the only thing that broke the illusion that the visitor had stepped into a country home.

It was one of Cassie’s favorite hideaways and she managed to take her first deep breath of the morning as she walked in. A measure of calm settled over her jangled nerves. Whether it was the fact that she had designed it herself, or that it was just the kind of room she dreamed of having in her own home one day, she didn’t know. She just knew that on those frequent late nights at work, she often left her office and came in here to soak up the comfort the room offered. Then she could pretend that she was finishing up her work at home, her family tucked up safe in bed, a lovely, soft, gentle man offering her a nightcap.

Soft and gentle was what she wanted, not sculpted and swoon worthy, she reminded herself as she took another sideways glance at Ronan McGuire. He was looking at her, an openly appraising expression on his face. Cassie swallowed hard. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he liked what he saw.

She quickly looked away. “We’re all set up in here,” she said needlessly, gesturing to the table.

“Interesting choice of furnishings, ma’am,” he said as he pulled out a chair and opened his briefcase. A hint of Southern twang to his accent stopped his “ma’am” from being smarmy—but only just. Cassie wanted to say something witty and cutting, but reminded herself of what was at risk. Besides, witty and cutting—especially in front of a hot guy who had apparently just been checking her out—had never been her forte.

Cassie sucked in another deep breath before answering. “It’s used for commercial clients and supplier meetings,” she said crisply. “It allows us to show off the Country Style look and range. Why should we buy boring gray office furniture when we have these beautiful pieces at our fingertips?”

She could hear the defensiveness in her own voice and scolded herself. It was crucial to get control of her nerves! If she was going to gain this guy’s confidence and win him over to the idea of her as CEO of Country Style, sounding bitter and defensive wasn’t the way to go about it. She had to sound like a leader. Calm. Absolutely in control.

“I understand why you’d use your own furniture range, ma’am,” he said, his tone betraying no hint of a reaction to her aggression. “Makes perfect sense.”

Cassie’s frayed nerves shredded. “Stop calling me ‘ma’am’!” Oops. She was pretty sure snapping at him didn’t count as either calm or controlled.

“Okay, I just—”

“I’m not a ma’am, I’m a miss. But don’t call me that, either,” Cassie added, flustered. How had she managed to get off on the wrong foot so quickly? She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly before continuing. “I don’t know if it’s different in America, but in Australia we’re quite informal, even in business. So Cassie will do. Just plain Cassie.”

Those sky-blue eyes of his swept over her, and the hardness melted away, just for a moment. A lazy seductiveness took over as his eyes did a slow sweep of her body. “Oh, I don’t think there’s anything plain about you, Cassie Hartman.” One corner of his mouth crooked up in a ghost of a smile before his eyes shuttered with the professional reserve she’d noticed earlier. “Now, shall we get to work?”

Cassie felt her stomach clench, not sure if she was furious, pleased or simply confused by his approach. Perhaps this was what he did—he got people unsettled, all the better to manipulate them so he could find what he wanted.

All she knew was that she had to be on her guard every moment he was around.

He got under her skin.


CHAPTER TWO

CASSIE WAS BARELY AWARE of the time passing until Melanie knocked on the door and walked in, interrupting them with lunch.

After that initial flirty comment, something in Ronan McGuire’s demeanor seemed to change, as though he’d flicked a switch, and from then on it had been strictly business. He delved straight into the work in front of them, polite, friendly, but entirely businesslike. It was as if the spreadsheets in front of him called to him like sirens, more attractive than any real woman. Especially plain old Cassie.

Which was fine by her. It was a relief, actually. Gave her time to pull herself together after the deep unease she’d felt at his arrival. It wasn’t just nerves about the ordeal ahead of her—something about him resonated deep within her. Was it his eyes? His accent? His smell? She put it down to the potential impact he could have on her life and tried to remember her little internal pep talk. Behave like a true leader. Calm. In control.

Once they got down to business, things were easier. When she was talking about Country Style, Cassie was in her element, and her agitation slipped away. Country Style was her baby, her home, her life. She loved her work; it was the only place that had offered her stability, security and a chance to prove herself. As she’d worked these past weeks on her proposal for Graham, she’d felt a new sense of motivation, imagined a new picture of what her life might be like. Shoring up her job at Country Style was Part One of her Plan-with-a-capital-P.

The idea that Graham might not simply rubber-stamp her pitch to become CEO had never occurred to her. Pretty much every success Country Style had had over the past four years had been her doing. Graham had moved on to his next business endeavor—another chain of retail stores, this time selling luggage—and left Cassie more or less in charge, in action if not in title. She’d worked so hard for him. And the reward was the job interview from hell.

Clearly she’d overestimated his trust in her. Perhaps because he was the nearest thing she had to a father, she’d taken for granted that he’d be as eager for her to succeed as she was herself. Instead, Graham had shown her that despite their relationship, his primary concern had to be his company. Nothing personal, he’d said. They might be close, Cassie told herself, but when it came down to it, business was always going to be business for Graham. She knew that. It shouldn’t have been a surprise.

She turned her attention back to the man in front of her. They’d spent the morning combing through Country Style’s financial reports, Cassie explaining her decisions and pointing out particular gains and losses. She was proud of her truthful, matter-of-fact answers and thought she’d shown just the right amount of passion and enthusiasm for the business.

For his part, Ronan McGuire asked pertinent questions that evidenced his knowledge of budgeting and management. To the point that she had to grudgingly admit his input and advice might just be very useful for planning the business’s future success.

His insightful questions had prompted new ideas, and she’d taken pages of notes. Even in just a few hours, he’d brought fresh thinking and original concepts to her future plans for running Country Style.

It was both depressing and exhilarating, Cassie thought, watching as Ronan politely—but still somehow flirtatiously—accepted a sandwich and coffee from Melanie.

Exhilarating because she could see how all the ideas could be implemented to create a dramatically better business.

Depressing because she hadn’t thought of them herself.

Perhaps Graham was right to doubt her management abilities.

“Thank you, Miss Mel,” Ronan drawled, bringing Cassie out of her reflection. He was so confident, she thought, so arrogant and sure of himself. But perhaps she was just seeing things that way because she was suddenly feeling so very unsure of herself.

“Thank you, Mel,” Cassie said. She wasn’t thrilled to see that Ronan’s thanks had elicited yet another little giggle and a blush, while Melanie barely acknowledged Cassie’s words. And she absolutely was not jealous of the low, sexy tone Ronan used when talking to her assistant rather than the practical, no-nonsense tone he used with her. Men didn’t talk to her that way—they never had—and she couldn’t miss what she’d never had, could she?

“Is there anything else you need, Mr. McGuire?” Mel asked.

Before Ronan could say anything—like encourage Melanie to use his first name again in that breathy Marilyn Monroe voice she seemed to have suddenly developed—Cassie interrupted. “Mel, could you please bring in the schedule for the site visits? Including the travel arrangements?” After Graham’s call yesterday, Cassie had immediately started work preparing a tour of the largest and most successful Country Style stores across Australia. She figured it was the best way to show off her success. Spreadsheets were all well and good, but nothing beat seeing the real thing in person.

“No worries. And just so you know, Cassie, I’ve cleared up the signage issues for the Hawthorn opening. The sign writers are redoing the car-park notices and the painters will be in later today to fix up the front fascia.”

“Thanks, Mel, that’s great news.” Cassie breathed a sigh of relief. She couldn’t believe it, but for the whole morning she’d not once given a thought to the store opening that had dominated her workload for the past several weeks. Thank goodness Melanie was still on the ball. Cassie had opened new stores before—dozens of them—but this would be the largest store in the Country Style group. Located in one of Melbourne’s most affluent suburbs, it was going to be a showcase of Country Style design and flair. With only a week to go until the opening, the major work was done—stock ordered, staff hired, store layout confirmed—it was all the little details that now needed attending to.

Melanie vanished out the door, but not before bestowing a hundred-watt smile on Ronan.

“Hawthorn signage?” Ronan asked.

“We have a new store opening next Monday,” Cassie explained.

“Ah.” He pushed the plate of sandwiches toward Cassie. “Melanie seems very efficient,” he said.

“She’s great, very organized and resourceful,” Cassie said, reaching for a salad sandwich triangle. “She’s been with us for almost five years now, and is a very important member of our team.”

He gave Cassie a considered look. “And how long have you been with the company?”

“Eleven years,” she replied, even though she was sure he already knew the answer. It was impossible someone as obviously prepared as he was wouldn’t have scoped her out—although she was reasonably sure his background check would start and finish with her career. Maybe, if he dug deep enough, he might find out about her family and what had happened to her parents—that was a matter of public record. But that would be it. No one knew how she’d come to join the company when she was seventeen except Graham, and he’d given her his word of honor that he’d never tell. She didn’t always trust Graham—and Ronan’s presence was clear evidence as to why—but on that one topic he’d never given her cause to doubt him.

Her career with Country Style since then, on the other hand, was likely to have been an open book to Ronan McGuire, especially the last four years she’d spent as operations manager and second in charge to Graham. He probably knew what she had for breakfast, Cassie thought grimly. The answer of course was nothing, and remembering that, she took a bite of her sandwich.

“That’s a long time to be with one organization,” he commented, one eyebrow raised in a way that caused a corresponding spike in Cassie’s blood pressure—much as she tried to ignore it. “Especially these days.”

Cassie chewed and swallowed. “How long have you been with the Conroy Corporation?” she asked, keen to dodge the spotlight while she considered how to respond. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to gauge her passion for the business or hinting that she had limited herself by not broadening her experience. Cassie had the strong feeling that every question he asked had an ulterior motive, no matter how innocent it might seem on the surface.

One side of his mouth cocked up in a crooked smile. “Ah, you have me there. I joined the company right after college and I’m about to become a partner.” His eyes grew harder with something Cassie couldn’t quite identify and she wondered why. Shouldn’t he be proud? The emotion, whatever it was, was gone again in a flash.

“Where are you based?” she asked.

“San Francisco,” he replied in clipped tones, letting her know that the subject was effectively closed. “So, what’s kept you at Country Style for eleven years?”

He was persistent, she’d give him that. “I love it here,” she said simply. It was far, far more than that, but there was no way she was going into it all with a stranger.

Besides, it was none of his business.

“You’ve arranged a site tour?” he asked, pointing at the documents Mel had left behind, and Cassie was thankful he changed the subject back to the matter at hand.

He took a large bite of his sandwich and chewed without breaking their shared gaze. For some reason, watching his jaw move was incredibly distracting. It started Cassie thinking about his mouth, his lips and then his tongue; she hurriedly looked down and took another bite of her own sandwich before he could read the blush she knew was stealing across her face.

What on earth was wrong with her? Thinking about this man as anything other than her judge and jury—her potential executioner—was a recipe for disaster. Developing a crush on him was the stupidest idea from Stupidtown. Cassie had to stay on guard. Besides, anything like those belonged to Part Three of the Plan, and she was a long way from that.

The Plan-with-a-capital-P was simple enough. She’d come up with it when she’d found herself at home, alone, on New Year’s Eve. Sitting there by herself had felt as if the rest of the world had learned some lesson that she’d somehow skipped. How could she have got to twenty-eight years old and have such a narrow life? All she did was work, eat and sleep. She was friendly with people from work, but rarely socialized. And when everyone else was occupied with their family, or away with their real friends, Cassie was by herself. Suddenly feeling very alone.

Clearly, something needed to be done, and for that she needed a plan.

Part One—secure her future with Country Style. That was most important. It was her life, her home, her family. Her foundation in the world. It came first. That’s why she’d spent two weeks researching and writing a report for Graham—analyzing the marketplace, proposing expansion options, showing him how much she cared for this company and what she could do for it—if he’d just give her the chance. It was exciting—Cassie felt a thrill of anticipation whenever she thought about the business’s future with her leading it—but it was only Part One. When Ronan’s analysis ratified her proposal to become CEO, and Graham adopted it, she’d be able to relax. She’d be able to take her eye off the ball just for a moment, and get some other areas of her life sorted out.

Part Two was to do something about herself—address her admittedly plain appearance. She’d planned to call on Mel’s help for that. Some new clothes, maybe a new haircut. Perhaps learn how to use eyeliner so she didn’t end up looking like a panda. Nothing too dramatic—this wasn’t Pygmalion—but just make the best of what she had. She knew she was okay looking, and if she could learn to tame her unruly locks, her hair could become an asset instead of a nuisance. Her hourglass figure wasn’t what most fashion designers had in mind when they made clothes, it seemed, but she’d put a little money aside and that could be used to buy some new clothes that flattered—instead of swamped—her curves.

Part Three was to get herself a love life—see if she could meet a guy who would finally be The One. She wasn’t entirely sure how to go about that as yet, but she did have a reasonably good picture of what The One looked like for her. Not in terms of looks—that wasn’t so important. But he’d be the kind of guy who’d support her career. The kind of guy who took out the rubbish without being asked. Most important, the kind of guy who’d make her feel safe.

Part Four—well, Part Four of the plan was still murky. But basically it was take Parts One, Two and Three, mix well, and hopefully create a family. A nice, neat little family of her own—they would always be there for her, and she’d always be there for them.

A nice home, a caring partner, a rewarding job and a couple of kids.

Was it really too much to ask?

Cassie didn’t think so.

But right now, Part One had to be her focus. She shouldn’t be sitting here dreaming about Part Three, let alone Part Four.

Not to mention the fact that Ronan McGuire was absolutely the last person for her, regardless of how arousing she found his sandwich eating. She needed someone soft and gentle. Someone who made her feel secure in herself, not poised on a knife-edge the way she’d felt ever since he’d turned up.

Suddenly the tour of stores she’d arranged seemed like a special kind of torture. Cassie was signing herself up to spend almost a week in close quarters with a man who made her all kinds of hot and bothered. A man who reminded her of physical reactions she had gone a long time without. A man who at the same time threatened the very foundations of her life’s work.

“So, are you going to share the details with me or is it a surprise? A magical mystery tour?”

His mocking tone made Cassie wonder if he had somehow read her mind.

What had they been talking about again? Oh, yeah, the site tour. She took a deep breath to lend strength to her voice. “I thought the best way for you to get a handle on the scope of the business would be to visit some of our stores. You can meet our staff, look at the merchandising and the layout and get a better understanding of our customer base.”

He nodded. “Sounds like a good idea.”

Melanie returned and placed a small pile of documents in front of Cassie. She tucked her hair behind her ear as she leaned low over the table. Subtle as a brick. Cassie could just imagine the view Ronan had down Melanie’s silk blouse.

“If you’d like, Cassie,” Melanie purred, “I can take you and Ronan through this, explain how I’ve organized the flights and—”

“Thanks, Mel, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got it,” Cassie interrupted, giving Melanie a firm smile that clearly communicated “go away.” Melanie’s foolish and obvious flirting was just the push Cassie needed to get serious.

All the thoughts that had kept her awake the night before flooded back as Mel gave another flirty smile and flounced from the room.

Despite the loyalty Cassie had shown, Graham was a businessman and his decisions were always impersonal when it came to making money. Cassie knew she’d worked hard, she knew that Conroy Corporation would find no evidence of mismanagement or incompetence in her record. But Ronan was right—she’d never been employed anywhere else. What if putting her in charge cost Country Style the opportunity to grow? What if that was more important to Graham than the loyalty she’d shown him for eleven years?

What if Graham decided it was in her best interests to move on? What if he asked her to leave?

Cassie could have sworn the ground shifted underfoot at the very thought. In reality she knew it wasn’t an earthquake, just her own hard-earned sense of security being shaken, but her stomach swooped anyway.

It would be the end of her dreams of becoming CEO and Part One of her plan would come crashing down around her head.

Really, it meant the end of everything—because, quite frankly, what else did she have?

“Flights? So we’ll be going further afield than Melbourne?” Ronan asked, bringing Cassie back to the issue at hand. Site visits.

She willed her voice to come out steady. “Yes. Although our headquarters is based here, we actually have more stores in New South Wales right now. And Fremantle is one of our newest stores—we’ve been able to benefit from the real estate peak in Western Australia, and business there is booming,” Cassie explained.

“Western Australia,” he mused, “isn’t that on the other side of the country?”

“Yes, but it only takes four hours to fly there.” Cassie pointed at the documents, where their flight schedules were detailed. “Graham said you’d be here for a week, so I thought this would be the best approach. You’ll get to see our stores in operation, and still be back here for the opening next Monday. Traveling will take up quite a bit of time, but you can read the reports and go over our financials during the flights. I think it will be worth the investment—there’s no better way to understand the business.”

“And what if I have questions I need to ask you?”

Cassie was confused by the question for a moment, but then she realized he didn’t understand. “Then you can ask them. I’m coming with you.”

He straightened in his chair and another of those hard, emotionless looks that Cassie couldn’t quite identify came into his eyes.

“Thanks, but that won’t be necessary.” In contrast to the pleasant, if occasionally condescending, manner he’d been using all morning, his tone was cold. “I don’t need to talk to you in detail again until next week. I prefer to work alone.”

No, sir, Cassie thought. No way was she letting the man who’d be deciding her future out of her sight for a minute.

Except for maybe when he slept.

And then her brain supplied an image of Ronan McGuire lying in bed, a crisp white sheet gathered at his waist, his chest bare and those dark eyelashes fanned on his cheeks.

Was the air conditioning working?

Get a grip! Cassie scolded herself. What happened to getting serious?

She straightened her shoulders and screwed up her courage. Her entire life was riding on these next few days and she was going to do everything in her power to get the outcome she wanted.

“I’m afraid that’s nonnegotiable, Mr. McGuire,” she said, pleased with the firm tone of her voice. “I can’t allow you free rein of our stores without supervision. You understand—I have to prioritize customer service and operations above the needs of Graham’s little investigation.” Did she sound bitter? Cassie inwardly winced. Yes, probably, but then it didn’t hurt for this guy to understand the relative importance of this exercise. They might be deciding the company’s future—Cassie’s future—but on a day-to-day level, customers still had to be served, furniture still had to be sold, operations still had to continue. Otherwise there’d be no future to plan for.

“But shouldn’t you be around to manage the store opening?” he tried again.

Yes, she should, but Cassie wasn’t about to admit that she wasn’t capable of being a retail superwoman. She gave what she hoped looked like a carefree shrug when in reality her mind was filled with a list of the seemingly unending tasks that had to be completed between now and next Monday. “It’s mostly all bedded down now. I can handle any last-minute things from the road. Our flight leaves Wednesday, tomorrow, for Perth. We’ll stay overnight and then catch an early flight to Sydney on Thursday. We’ll spend two nights in Sydney and come back to Melbourne on Saturday morning. Monday is a soft opening for the store—the advertising and marketing doesn’t start until later in the week with the official grand opening on Saturday.”

He gave her a considered look and nodded. “So there’s the weekend to finalize things, too, if need be.”

“Exactly.”

He studied her for a while, his eyes searching her face, and Cassie steeled herself not to look away. Eventually his mouth curved into an almost smile and his eyes softened. With a nod of his head, he let Cassie know she’d won. This round.

“Of course,” he said.

“I assure you, we will make our visits as effective and efficient as possible.”

“Effective and efficient works for me.” That teasing tone was back. If she hadn’t just spent the morning with him, going through the financials, and seen his expertise firsthand, she’d wonder if the man ever took anything seriously.

“We have the rest of today here, then we leave first thing in the morning for Perth. It’s an early flight, I’m afraid.”

“Fine with me. I’m an early riser.”

She’d just bet he was. He looked like the type that rose at dawn to go for a run—always one step ahead of the world.

“Would there be a soda in the fridge?” Ronan stood up and stretched subtly, like a panther that had been crouching in the bushes, watching its prey for too long.

“Sure, help yourself.”

He was still wearing his suit, including jacket, and while the office part of the building was air-conditioned, it was definitely warm. Too warm for more than shirtsleeves. Cassie’s own shirt felt suspiciously damp under her arms, but that could be explained by the combination of nerves and heat. It was the weather, the situation, the man. She must remember not to lift her arms too high, just in case her shirt betrayed her.

“Want one?”

Cassie shook her head. She’d stick with water. The caffeine from the morning’s extra coffees was still zinging around in her bloodstream. Any more and she’d start to shake.

He sat down next to her, unscrewing the bottle he’d selected. She expected him to drink straight from it, but he poured the dark liquid into a glass.

She had to remember not to expect anything when it came to Ronan McGuire.

“Have you had enough lunch?” she asked. Much as Cassie loved this room, it was starting to feel a little stifling. Having watched Ronan do something as innocently domestic as get something from the fridge, she was on the verge of reclining and enjoying a little Part Four fantasy about being at home with him—her husband—sitting at their kitchen table, going over the business that they ran together. Two dark-haired little angels—because any children they had would have to be brunette—were tucked up in bed upstairs.

And Cassie was in no position to become CEO of Country Style because she was certifiably insane.

“I’m good,” he said, beaming another of those toothpaste-ad smiles her way.

Did all Americans have teeth like that or just the Californians?

Cassie stood up and managed to plaster what she hoped was a neutral smile on her face. “I thought I’d take you through the warehouse before we move on to looking at our inventory. It might make it easier to visualize the reports.”

“Good thinking.” Ronan stood, as well. “I’d also like to speak to the staff. With your permission, of course.”

“Fine,” she said, because she couldn’t think of a reason to say no. Cassie could just imagine how those conversations might go, though. Her burly, tattooed, hearts-of-gold but gutter-mouthed warehouse guys were going to be less than respectful to a shiny American in a posh suit and tie. The man had product in his hair, for goodness’ sake.

“Just so you know,” she said, “I’ve distributed a memo to staff to let them know only that you’re visiting at the request of Graham to learn more about our business. I didn’t want to cause uncertainty or anxiety for anyone about any potential…changes. No point getting everyone worried over nothing. So I’d appreciate it if you could keep the purpose of your enquiries discreet.”

Ronan nodded. “Of course. And you weren’t lying—I am here to learn more about the business.”

You’re here to determine whether or not I can step up to the top job and we both know it, Cassie wanted to blurt. But now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to play nice, to be a leader in the truest sense of the word, and—for now, anyway—helping Ronan to realize that Country Style was a strong, successful business was in her best interests.

He gestured for her to lead the way.

Cassie paused and looked him up and down. When her eyes returned to his face, the expression in his eyes told her he’d been very aware of her unsubtle review. He wasn’t pleased. Or even teasing. No, his eyes had gone hard again, masking whatever he was thinking. She was reminded of her initial impression—this man was like a bright, beautiful tropical fish with a poisoned spike that could kill its prey in less than a minute. She had a sudden, visceral sense that Ronan McGuire would make a potent enemy. “Uh, the warehouse isn’t air-conditioned,” Cassie said, gesturing to his suit, wincing at her uncertain tone. “You might want to…uh…”

“Lose the jacket?” He visibly relaxed. He was relieved she hadn’t been checking him out, Cassie realized.

He found her that unattractive?

It was ridiculous to be disappointed. And it was just lucky he couldn’t read her mind.

Cassie nodded. “Yeah. It can get pretty steamy out there. It’s supposed to get to thirty-six degrees today, and inside our tin shed it can be even hotter.”

“I assume you have health and safety regulations in place to look after the welfare of the employees?”

It was a simple question with a simple answer. But Cassie’s mouth went dry as she watched him shrug out of his jacket and drape it on the back of his chair. His white shirt was still pristine, a heavy cotton that had no visible logos and screamed “more expensive than you can imagine in your wildest dreams, Cassie Hartman.”

But he didn’t stop there.

“If I’m talking to warehouse guys, I should lose the tie, too,” he said, almost to himself.

It was a good idea, on so many levels.

His fingers loosened the knot of his burgundy tie and the luscious silk slipped through his collar with an illicit whisper. He undid the top two buttons of the shirt and revealed the beginnings of a light dusting of dark hair against smooth, tanned skin. Then his hands worked at his cuffs and a moment later, the shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, exposing muscled forearms sprinkled with that same dark hair.

It was only the burn in her lungs that reminded Cassie to breathe.

This was not a strip show on King Street. But Cassie had a sudden urge to order a cosmopolitan, sit back and watch as he continued. Button. Another button.

She shook her head and sucked in a breath. To give herself recovery time, she looked down at the table and shuffled some papers around. But as soon as she’d managed to tear her eyes away from his delectable body, another element hit her senses—his scent.

He wasn’t as unaffected by the heat as she’d thought—there was a whiff of sweat there, but it was the good kind, the kind that made her want to inhale deeply. It was only just discernable under his expensively discreet aftershave, musky and woody, a smell that reinforced the conflicting impressions Cassie was trying to assimilate. On the one hand, he was all coolly professional sophistication, on the other, he radiated earthy, primal masculinity.

Cassie’s eyes lit on the cuff links from his French-cuffed shirt that were sitting on the table—quirky little enameled blocks decorated to look like dice.

It was an effective reminder of the reality of the situation. They probably cost more than every item of jewelry Cassie owned combined.

And for Ronan, this little exercise was a game. A roll of the dice and Cassie won or lost. It didn’t matter to him. He’d go back to America and his waiting partnership and never think about Country Style or Cassidy Hartman again.

Now was not the time for Cassie’s underdeveloped sex drive to suddenly come to life. Part Three had to wait until Parts One and Two were in place.

She stopped fiddling with the papers and set her eyes directly on his face, bypassing those arms, that chest. “Yes, of course we do.” It came out a little more direct than Cassie had planned.

He frowned.

“Have a health and safety policy,” she clarified, moderating her tone. “The foreman has an ambient-temperature monitor. As soon as it gets over a certain level, we send everyone home. And we try to plan our shifts around the weather report during summer. For example, today we started at dawn to ensure we could receive and store the stock before the heat really hit.”

He nodded, seeming to take Cassie’s undisguised defensiveness in stride.

“Good to hear. Shall we?”

He raised that single eyebrow again, but this time Cassie was prepared; she’d fortified herself and the expression didn’t melt her into a messy puddle.

“Absolutely. Follow me.”


CHAPTER THREE

RONAN WAS READY TO FALL into bed by the time he got back to the hotel after a full day at Country Style. But, determined not to let the jet lag win, he changed his clothes, ran a couple of miles on the hotel gym’s treadmill and then swam a few laps. A quick meal from room service and he was feeling better—still tired, but now in a physical sense, not just a blurred, fuzzy, jet-lagged sense.

He cracked open his laptop and crawled into bed with it, sitting a nightcap of substandard Scotch from the minibar on the side table. A quick review of his emails and then the whisky and he’d be guaranteed a decent night’s sleep before he had to get up at dawn to catch the plane to Perth.

Two hundred and fourteen emails.

Not bad, considering it had been a full day since he’d last checked.

Only one of them from his father. Requesting a progress report according to the subject line—no surprises there. Ronan’s finger hovered over the delete key, but then remembered how much was riding on this job. Instead, he clicked on the message, and his father’s brusque words filled the screen.

Ronan

Report back on progress with Taylor job ASAP—client expects interim recommendations by end of week. You know what outcomes are sought. Keep your nose clean. Keep your pecker cleaner!

Patrick Conroy

President and CEO, Conroy Corporation



Didn’t even bother to sign it “Dad,” just his full name and company signature, which was as effective a reminder that Ronan was in the doghouse as anything else.

Ronan bristled at the warning in the email. As if he were a child. As if the point hadn’t been made loud and clear before he’d left San Francisco.

It was why he’d made a last-minute decision to use his grandmother’s maiden name for this job. He didn’t want the CEO-son stigma following him around the world. “Ronan Conroy” brought too much baggage with it, whereas “Ronan McGuire” was nice and anonymous. It gave him space and time to think through what had happened—which was exactly what his father had hoped for by sending him to Australia in the first place.

The past month had been a mess. Everything had been going so well up until then, or so he’d thought. Now that he looked back on it, he wondered just how long the storm had been brewing.

An image of Sarah Forsythe swam up in his mind’s eye and made him shudder.

Ronan didn’t like to think of himself as the kind of man who spent time tying himself up in knots over regrets, but he couldn’t let this one go.

How had he not predicted what would happen? How had he been so wrong? Probably because he’d been concentrating on the long blond hair and the swimsuit-model body hidden within prim business suits, he reflected ruefully.

It wasn’t as though he’d never slept with a client before. It was a line he’d crossed, but always carefully. This time he hadn’t been so careful. He’d simply seen what he wanted and he’d taken it.

He’d been groomed his entire life to take over the leadership of Conroy Corporation one day. And until recently, he’d thought that was what he wanted. The last job he’d managed—a complex M&A in New York—had been a goldmine. A runaway success for the client had resulted in a tidy packet of consulting fees—and a newly polished reputation for Conroy Corporation on Wall Street. Ronan had been full of his own success.

He and Sarah, an accountant with one of the companies, had worked long hours together. When, toward the end of the job, a late night turned into drinks after work, they’d both had one too many. And when the night had ended with them sharing her bed, he’d been reasonably sure they were on the same page. It had been mutual; two consenting adults seeking pleasure in each other. These things happened in high-pressure environments. It was a release valve for both of them.

The next morning Ronan had tried to let her down easy. Given her a bit of the patented Ronan Conroy charm. She’d smiled, walked away, and Ronan had thought things were fine as he focused on tying up the loose ends as the job came to a close.

Two days later, he was on a plane, summoned back to his father’s office where a lawyer’s letter threatening a sexual harassment lawsuit was waved in his face.

Ronan had been incensed. His father had been so livid Ronan had actually feared for his health, watching him go puce with rage.

The words of their fight still echoed in his mind. His father had accused him of coasting, of not taking things seriously, of having a sense of entitlement over his career at Conroy Corporation, of being immature and shortsighted. Ronan had argued the exact opposite: he’d never been granted the slightest advantage, always had to work twice as hard as everyone else, never taken a shortcut, never once ridden on his father’s coattails.

Patrick Conroy had made Ronan work his way up the ranks just like any other employee.

No, not like any other employee.

Ronan had had to work harder, longer and more diligently than anyone to get even half the recognition.

And it stung. Not that Ronan wanted to be given a free ride, but once, just once, it would have been nice to know that his father considered him a worthy successor. He wasn’t looking for special treatment—just acknowledgment that his hard work had been worth it, that his natural talent for the business made him stand out.

But no.

Always conscious of the optics, Patrick Conroy had practiced reverse discrimination, putting more complex and difficult hurdles in front of his son than anyone else.

The partnership should have been his as soon as he’d got back from New York.

Unlike his father, Ronan knew that it didn’t matter what the reality was; there’d be plenty of people at Conroy Corporation who would greet the news of his partnership with a sneer and a joke about nepotism. But anyone who’d ever worked with him knew that Ronan not only deserved that partnership, he’d worked harder than anyone else in order to win it.

And then one stupid move, one wrong decision…

He was angry—with his father, with Sarah, with the world.

Also, even if he wasn’t quite ready to admit it aloud, with himself.

Ronan made his living from analyzing situations and predicting outcomes—and he was damn good at it. But he’d screwed this one up, big-time. How had he not seen that Sarah wasn’t just looking for one night of mutual fun? He’d been high on success, full of himself and his New York triumph, the partnership he’d had to bust his ass to achieve finally within his grasp.

Only to have it jerked away after one little mistake.

He blew out a breath and shook his head, trying to focus. All he had to do was make a decent job of this Country Style project and he’d be back on track. Simple.

Ronan scanned the subject lines of all his other emails and decided there was nothing desperately urgent. He could deal with the rest of them on the plane tomorrow.

He closed the laptop, drained the Scotch, switched off the light and lay back and stared up at the ceiling. Alert and awake, despite his physical and mental exhaustion.

“Damn.” He swore again, more savagely, punched the pillow and rolled on his side. His mind was racing and wouldn’t shut down. His thoughts still tumbled over each other, churning over his current predicament.

His entire future was riding on this Taylor job. He’d been sent to Australia as a punishment, just like the British convicts that had settled the country. But it was also his last chance of redemption. His chance to prove to his father—and to himself—that he really did care about some things. Like his future.

Like not becoming a laughingstock.

Did you hear the one about the CEO’s son who got demoted?

Oh, yeah, that was a good one.

Unless you were the CEO’s son.

The payout Patrick Conroy had had to make to Sarah to ensure her silence was now held as ransom over Ronan’s head.

You’ve lost sight of what this business is all about. His father’s words rang in his ears. How can I put you in front of the board as the future leader of this organization when you still behave like you’re twenty-five and sowing your wild oats? Go to Australia and get this right. Do you good to get back to basics and remember why you’re in this business in the first place.

Patrick Conroy had offered an opportunity for redemption—in reality, a demeaning punishment. His old friend, Graham Taylor, needed a favor. One of his businesses in Australia was at a turning point; Graham had courted a multinational conglomerate interested in expanding in Australia—starting with purchasing his top-performing chain of fifty-seven retail furniture stores. All the stores would be rebranded, global purchasing power would provide a more competitive edge and the local management would no longer be required. They were prepared to pay Taylor a bucket load of money, so as far as Ronan could see, it was a no-brainer. But for some reason, he wanted a Conroy Corporation report on the state of the business before he signed on the dotted line.

Ronan had been given a careful brief by his father. He was to do a thorough investigation, without revealing his true purpose to any of the local management. Along with confirming Taylor’s decision to sell as the correct one, Ronan had to prove that he didn’t need an army of business analysts and auditors to do a proper scoping exercise. Prove that he was worthy of Conroy Corporation. Prove that his error of judgment in New York was just a blip, not a symptom of a more serious problem.

Ronan twisted in bed and punched the pillow again.

The whisky burned in his gut.

Of course, the staff of Country Style had no idea why Ronan was really there, no suspicion of the possible merger. It wasn’t the first time Ronan knew more about people’s future than they did and it wouldn’t be the last. It was part of the job—part of the challenge of being a management consultant. Sometimes the recommendations he had to make affected people’s jobs. Sometimes he had to conceal that from them until the time was right.

Cassie Hartman, for example, thought he was there to review a document she’d created proposing a restructure of the business. Putting herself in charge, as CEO. The irony was, her report was probably what had prompted Taylor to think about selling in the first place. Her document was competent, and she clearly had a thorough understanding of the business she ran, but if things went as Taylor hoped, she’d not only not be CEO, she’d be out of a job.

Ronan checked the clock, the red numbers burning brightly in the darkness of the room. Only ten minutes had passed since he’d switched off the light. This was going to be a slow and torturous night if he couldn’t somehow make himself sleep.

There was one thing he hadn’t tried yet.

Grasping himself, Ronan cast around in his mind for images to accompany this last shot at overcoming his sleeplessness. He wasn’t proud, but it would only be a few hours before his alarm clock would go off and he’d be heading for the airport to catch a plane with Cassie Hartman.

Cassie Hartman.

He wasn’t surprised when his body responded to the thought. She possessed an intriguing combination of control and vulnerability, one moment smoothly professional, the next delightfully awkward. But it was the brunette curls she tried hard to restrain that spurred his physical response. Even the boring tortoiseshell clip that held the mane at the back of her neck wasn’t enough to fully hide the thick, shiny strands. He remembered his first thought when he’d seen her—what would her hair look like loose, swinging over her shoulders? He wondered how long it was—would it cover her breasts when she was naked? Maybe it would just reach the tips, letting her nipples peak out from between the curled ends.

He groaned.

That uniform she wore was utilitarian, another of her intriguing contrasts. All buttoned-up and proper on the outside, all lush curves and full breasts underneath. He wondered what she wore under her uniform. White cotton or white lace…

Ronan’s pulse picked up and he stroked himself more firmly.

Her breasts were large; they’d fill each hand and maybe then some. She had a sweet smile, too. She’d been nervous today, he could see that, but also determined to stand her ground and exceptionally proud of her achievements. He got the impression she was shy and not very confident around men—unlike that assistant of hers, she’d not once even attempted to flirt with him. And when he’d taken off his jacket and tie, he’d been sure she had blushed.

He could just imagine the blush on her face, that sweet smile, looking up at him as he touched her, as he moved over her, as he took her body, when she—

Ronan swore, released himself and flopped back on the pillows in disgust.

Hadn’t the experience with Sarah Forsythe taught him anything? Was his father’s impression of him right? Was he a player who could never take anything seriously?

Fantasizing about Cassie Hartman was about as wrong as it was possible to get. The very last thing he could afford on this job was another romantic entanglement with the client.

She probably had a boyfriend, he told himself. That was why she didn’t flirt. It didn’t matter anyway—she was so far off-limits she might as well be a nun.

Thinking about Sarah and the situation he was in was enough to kill any arousal. He’d just have to lie there until the alarm sounded. If necessary, he’d sleep on the plane.

He yawned.

This was going to be one damned long week.



CASSIE’S INSTINCTIVE RESPONSE to flying was filed under T for torture. But a career that often demanded her presence interstate meant she’d had to reconcile herself to filing it under N for necessary evil instead. If there was any way she could avoid stepping on another plane in her life, she’d take it.

It wasn’t that she was scared, exactly. No, terrified would probably be a more apt description. A shame, since she was sure her enthusiastic amateur-pilot father was looking down at her and shaking his head sadly at her phobia. He’d done his best to instill his own love of flying in her and she’d adored pretending to be his copilot—until the accident that had given her a fear of anything that went faster than her zippy, if dated, little hatchback.

It was mainly the takeoff and landing that were the problem. Once she was up in the air, she was better. As long as there were no bumps. Or strange noises. And God forbid that the cabin crew look nervous in any way.

But she couldn’t afford to let Ronan McGuire see it. It wasn’t a weakness that affected her ability to manage Country Style, but it was still a weakness. Cassie was determined not to let him see anything other than the person who was the obvious choice for leading the business into a new realm of success.

Calm. Control. The words had become her mantra.

“Are you a nervous flyer?”

Damn. Those blue eyes peered at her as they fastened their seat belts. Since they’d met in the airport, conversation had been restrained and polite. He’d seemed distracted and had opened up his laptop as soon as they’d been settled in the lounge. Cassie had done the same—she had plenty to keep her busy, anyway. There was still a great deal of work to do to finalize the details for the store opening on Monday.

“No, I’m…fine,” Cassie replied, trying for a relaxed smile.

Ronan nodded, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

He was laughing at her! Get a grip, Cassie. She peeled her fingers from the armrest and folded them neatly in her lap, wishing she’d thought to bring a book with her so she could sit there and pretend to read. Even better would have been a set of those massive, noise-canceling headphones, so she could block out the plane and Ronan’s annoyingly seductive voice. Leaning forward, she scrambled in the seat pocket in front of her for the airline magazine and stared blankly at a random page, figuring it was better than nothing.

She heard a low chuckle beside her.

With a blush heating her cheeks, Cassie turned the magazine the right way up and studied the article about resorts in Bali as if her life depended on it. The safety demonstration started and she half watched from behind the magazine—usually she paid rapt attention, but again, she didn’t want to give away her nerves to her seatmate.

As the plane’s engines fired up for takeoff, Cassie couldn’t help the panic that rose inside her. Memories threatened to overwhelm her, of the time when flying had been exciting, the little tilts and loops of a plane thrilling, her father at the wheel, turning to grin at her in shared exhilaration. That had been before. Before life had changed permanently.

She closed her eyes as the wheels left the ground, her teeth gritted as the plane dipped and righted itself. Then the wind caught them. The plane veered sideways, leaving her stomach somewhere near her throat. Cassie’s hand shot out, reaching for the armrest, and she twisted her feet around the seat in front of her as makeshift anchors. The magazine fell with a rustle of pages to the floor.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

Instead of cold metal, her hand met warm flesh. Fingers that interlaced with hers and held on tightly. Reassuringly.

“It’s just a little turbulence.”

Yeah, that’s probably what they said before every plane fell out of the sky.

“It’ll even out as soon as we get higher.” Ronan’s voice was low and gentle, that accent of his reassuring.

The plane dipped again. Cassie screwed her eyes shut even tighter and squeezed his hand hard enough to make her knuckles ache. Blood pounded in her ears and her calves began to cramp from her ankles’ awkward grip.

“Breathe. In and out.”

She made an effort to take in some air.

“That’s better. See? We’re smoothing out now. Nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about? This was the worst flight she’d ever been on. Surely when she opened her eyes there’d be chaos, people screaming, children crying, panicked flight attendants running down the aisles.

She cracked an eye. Everything looked…normal.

The businessman across the aisle nonchalantly turned the page of his newspaper. The child in the seat in front of her yawned and dropped his half-chewed apple on the floor. The women behind them continued to talk about the shoe and handbag shopping they’d done in Melbourne’s famous laneways.

Cassie sucked in a deep breath and opened both eyes.

The breath froze in her lungs.

Ronan McGuire was twisted in his seat, his face just inches from hers. He clasped her hand in both of his, stroking the inside of her wrist with one thumb, seemingly unconcerned by the death grip she had on him. He was peering at her, and those calculating blue eyes of his were filled with concern and compassion and—around the edges—amusement.

As her eyes met his, a slow smile spread across his face. “So you don’t like flying much, huh?”

Cassie swallowed hard and had to force her voice not to waver. “It’s…it’s not my favorite activity.” His research clearly hadn’t covered her family background.

“And you’ve signed us up for a week of travel?”

That devastating single arched eyebrow again. Thankfully this time Cassie was too wound up to let it affect her. Much.

“I’ve never let my little problem interfere with my job.” Cassie bristled at the insinuation and it helped to dampen her fear. The plane had leveled out and a loud ding sounded as the seat-belt sign went off.

Ronan’s thumb was still stroking the inside of her wrist. It had been comforting before, now it was…now it was…

She loosened her fingers from around his and gave him a tight smile, tugging her hand free of his grasp.

It took him a moment to release her. His thumb paused against her pulse point, his eyes still locked with hers. Something flashed there, an awareness, and Cassie hoped like hell he couldn’t read her mind. Not only was she grateful for his calm support, but more than anything she wanted him to hold her hand for the next four hours. Forever, if possible. And that stroking thumb of his? She was absolutely not thinking about what it might be like if it explored her arm, her shoulder, her breast, lower…

“I’m sure you haven’t,” he drawled as he settled back in his seat by her side. “You’re far too professional for that.”

Cassie drew in a breath, not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed that he’d let her go. To cover her confusion, she was about to launch into a review of all the work-related travel she’d done for Country Style, when he leaned forward, pulled out the laptop he’d slid under the seat in front before they’d taken off, opened it and appeared to get to work.

Cassie closed her mouth with an audible snap.

He didn’t so much as look up from the screen, and Cassie had the strange feeling she’d been dismissed. Fine. It was for the best. There was no point entertaining thoughts about Ronan McGuire, his strong fingers and lush mouth. It had been enough that ideas like that had kept her awake most of the night before.

Besides every other logical reason she had not to encourage this crush she seemed to have developed, guys like him didn’t go for girls like her. He was suave, sophisticated, experienced. And she was…the opposite. Plain. Inexperienced. Nervous.

She didn’t want a guy like him, anyway, she told herself for the billionth time. A jet-setting playboy, he probably had a girl in every port and his closest relationship was with the air hostesses he met as he flew between them. He would think Cassie’s ideas of stability, work, home and family old-fashioned and boring. God forbid he ever hear about her Plan-with-a-capital-P. He’d laugh until his sides split.

Cassie pulled out her own laptop, ignoring Ronan’s dismissal. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have enough to do—there were still the hundred or so things to be done before the Hawthorn store opened and then there were the notes she needed to make for each of the store managers they’d be visiting.

The rest of the flight passed without incident. Occasionally, Ronan had popped his head up to ask Cassie something and a couple of times those questions had led into discussions about the operations of Country Style.

They talked briefly and politely when the flight attendants brought around a morning snack and they had to momentarily each put their computers away, but otherwise he paid her little attention—peering at his laptop and typing furiously right up until the plane was about to land.

As the flight attendants made preparations for landing, Cassie could feel the familiar panic begin to build. She knew it was irrational, and she wasn’t proud of her fear. It was just something she couldn’t control. Crashes happened, as she knew all too well. And although the odds weren’t high—especially on a large passenger jet—it was still possible.

She screwed her eyes shut again in an attempt to block everything out. Hopefully Ronan would think she was taking a nap.

“Cassie?”

She silently cursed her traitorous responses as a shiver went through her at the sound of her name on his lips. Would he hold her hand again?

“Yes?” she answered. It was too late to try to hide her terror from him, but she still tried her best to sound calm. She opened one eye.

He gestured to a hard copy spreadsheet he’d pulled out when he’d been forced to pack away his laptop. “I’ve noticed an anomaly with this supplier, Brentons. They seem to deliver late, almost every time.”

Cassie blew out a breath. Of course he’d noticed that. She opened both eyes to look at the report he referred to.

“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly. “They are unreliable. But the cabinets they make are one of our top sellers.” Beautiful timbers, handcrafted and hand painted, Brentons made mini works of art, not just furniture.

He frowned. “But not one of your most profitable.”

“No. But they pull in traffic—all our managers know if they’re having a slow week, put a Brentons cabinet in the window and they can double the passing trade.”

“So they’re a loss leader for you?”

“We don’t make a loss, but you’re right, they’re not especially profitable. And when they’re late with deliveries, it does make our lives difficult.”

His lips tightened in thought. “So why not pull them into line? They’re a boutique supplier—Country Style must be their biggest customer. Have threats not worked?”

Threats? Cassie shook her head in disbelief and a mounting sense of anger. “No, it’s not like that.” She shifted to face him, memories of her last conversation with the owners of Brentons fresh in her mind. “Brentons is run by a couple—it’s a family business, like ours. They’ve had a rough year—their daughter was diagnosed with leukemia. She’s only seven and understandably her treatment has interrupted their time with the business. They’ve worked very hard to fill our orders, but I’ve let it slide when they’ve occasionally delivered late.”

“Occasionally?” An eyebrow quirked as he ran a finger down a column that Cassie knew was showing him that the Brentons had consistently run late—very late—for the past year.

“Okay, so more than occasionally. But I decided to cut them some slack, given the circumstances.”

“Can Country Style afford for such personal concerns to take precedence over efficiency and reliability? Surely you can find another supplier who’d make something comparable? And probably cheaper. What about sourcing a similar product overseas, say in China?”

Yesterday Ronan’s questions had been gentle, probing; more like suggestions, really. Apparently he’d just been letting her in easy, preparing her for the onslaught. Once again, Cassie had to tell herself to be on guard at all times, no matter how charming and good-looking he was. Despite the lack of pocket protector or bow tie, he clearly had a heart made of spreadsheets and calculators instead of flesh and blood.

“Yes, we probably could get a cheaper product overseas,” she answered, her tone betraying her outrage at his callousness. She couldn’t help it. “Although I doubt we would find the dedication to quality and craftsmanship that Brentons pride themselves in. But more important the Brentons have been valuable partners to Country Style for a number of years—as our business has grown so has theirs. I felt that given what was happening to Molly—that’s their little girl—they deserved some compassion and leeway.”

His eyes met hers and he nodded. “Fair enough. I probably would have made the same call.” And then he smiled, something Cassie didn’t understand until the announcement came over the PA.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Perth. Please remain seated until we have come to a full stop at the gate and the captain has turned off the fasten-seat-belts sign.”

Comprehension dawned.

“Did you do that to distract me?” A wave of irritation flooded through her, although she wasn’t sure why. She should probably be thankful—but that idea grated.

The slight smile tipped into a cocky grin. “Not entirely. I did want to find out the official story.”

“Official story?”

“In the warehouse yesterday I commented on one of the Brentons cabinets. Beautiful pieces of furniture, by the way—you’re right about the craftsmanship. The warehouse manager told me all about the late deliveries, and about Molly, and even some of the fundraising Country Style has done for children’s leukemia charities.”

“That is the official story.”

“Indeed. And now I know.” He cocked his head on one side and gave a short nod, as if that concluded the conversation. She watched as he gathered his laptop and belongings, preparing to disembark.

Cassie’s frayed nerves tingled. She wasn’t sure which was worse: a plane landing or an inquisition from Ronan McGuire. At least the plane landing was uncomplicated, pure, clean fear. Cassie’s feelings about Ronan were far muddier. There was an element of fear, for sure. So much was riding on this; she’d be an idiot if she didn’t recognize that. But he unsettled her in so many other ways, many of which she was still struggling to pin down.

Like why, for example, did she always seem to notice how good he smelled? And why was she fascinated by those blue eyes of his—hard as arctic glaciers one moment, sparkling with amusement the next? He’d held her hand to help calm her, that was all. And yet the touch of his thumb on her wrist had woken feelings all through her body. In places that had never been disturbed before—places Cassie had long thought must be defective. That was why Part Two of the plan was so important, and she only hoped it would help with achieving Part Three, the part of her plan that felt like the most impossible. Surely if she looked the part of a sexy woman, the rest would follow naturally?

She stood up and crowded into the aisle. Ronan stood next to her, twisting around to reach the jacket he’d laid out in the overhead compartment to stop it from creasing. He shrugged it on and Cassie told herself not to notice his expensive cologne or the way the tailored jacket emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist.

He noticed her look and gave her a quick smile that reached all the way to his eyes before he busied himself with zipping up his laptop case.

He did that a lot, Cassie noted. Did something flirty—a look, a smile, a touch—and then pulled himself back. It was probably his nature. He flirted with all women, but when he remembered he was flirting with her, he stopped. She really must be that unattractive to him. The idea hurt more than it should.

She shook her head. At least in an hour or so they’d be in the store, and there’d be other people around. Dealing with him one-on-one was far too stressful.


CHAPTER FOUR

THE HEAT WAS UNRELENTING and so, it seemed, was Cassie Hartman. Ronan could feel his shirt sticking to his back—he’d given up on his jacket hours ago—as they climbed into their rental car after the last store visit of the day.

The sun was beginning to move toward the horizon but the temperature didn’t feel as if it had dropped a single degree since midafternoon. The air itself was oven-hot, and he gratefully gulped in lungfuls of the air-conditioning inside the car.

Cassie seemed oblivious, powering her way through the stores, greeting the staff like a long-lost older sister, praising good work done, gently chiding when she saw things requiring improvement. Ronan noticed that she couldn’t help tweaking things when they needed it—without doubt every store they’d been to had looked better, more inviting, more stylish, by the time they left. It was only a matter of a lamp here, or a vase there, but clearly Cassie had a knack for interior design.

He wondered what she’d make of his apartment back in San Francisco. The entire top floor of an old Victorian-style mansion, he’d always known it had the potential to be a showpiece—he’d just never got around to doing anything about it. A window in the kitchen was permanently open to let an old cat that seemed to have adopted him come and go as she pleased—leaving mess and paw prints as she went. The whole place never failed to produce comments from visitors. He lived like he was still in college—crates for shelves, movie posters tacked up on the walls, secondhand mismatched furniture—and not in a good, bohemian kind of way. More in a “Is that sofa safe?” kind of way.

He’d just never been all that concerned about it. His focus had always been on Conroy Corporation and, as long as he had a bed, a fridge and somewhere to park his car, he didn’t care so much about what his home looked like. Besides, he was too restless to settle in one place for long. It was why he was always the first to volunteer for projects that involved travel—although usually that meant within North America or, occasionally, Europe. When he was away from headquarters, away from his father’s all-pervasive influence, it felt easier to breathe, somehow. Not that he didn’t love his family. Just sometimes the pressure of being Ronan Conroy and heir to Conroy Corporation—and all the seemingly impossible-to-fulfill expectations that accompanied that—was a heavy burden.

No amount of pretty furnishings in his apartment was going to help cure those feelings, he knew. But his mind went back to Country Style’s boardroom—that incongruous room in a warehouse that Cassie had decorated as a family-style kitchen. He’d been comfortable there. It made him wonder whether proper decor in his own apartment might help him feel more settled. It also made him think that it might be a good gesture to demonstrate his commitment to his father—show that he was the mature leader Conroy Corporation needed. Perhaps his college-student-style approach to furnishings reflected his approach to life.

The more he thought about it, the more the idea appealed. He could imagine getting the place redone and then inviting his father and the board over for a dinner party. That would show his maturity and readiness for leadership, surely. He made a resolution to investigate that as soon as he got home. Maybe Cassie could help refer someone—she clearly had links to the interior design industry, although he knew she’d never done any formal study.

From her résumé, he knew that Cassie had begun her career with Country Style at seventeen, working her way up from junior salesperson to her current role. A couple of times he’d found himself standing back and watching, smiling to himself as she fixed a display or chatted to a staff member. Then he’d shake himself and give a stern internal lecture about why he was there. As much as he might want to let down her hair and get rid of those unflattering clothes—he expected she’d look like a brunette Botticelli’s Venus when he did—flirting with Cassie Hartman was off the table.

Watching her through the day, Ronan felt the faint stirrings of guilt about the true purpose of his investigation. He knew it was almost certain that Cassie would lose her job as part of the buyout. It wasn’t anything to do with her skills or knowledge—simply a matter of economies of scale. The other company already had head-office management in Australia—they didn’t need more managers. Likely, that was another reason Taylor had called in Conroy Corporation—because he wanted to be able to place the blame for it all on someone else. Ronan could just imagine how Taylor’s conversation with her would go: I’m sorry Cassie, but Conroy’s made it clear this was the right decision.

It was a pity, because she was very good at what she did. He didn’t understand why she’d spent so many years with Country Style—with her talent and experience, she could easily have moved into a more senior, higher-paying role somewhere else. He made a mental note to ask her about that when the time was right. Perhaps with a little push from him, she might start to see her potential beyond Country Style, which would make her termination seem not quite as serious as it otherwise might. She could certainly look at a lucrative career in merchandising, if she didn’t want to work for a Country Style rival.

Ronan adjusted the car’s air-conditioning vents and sent a welcome blast of cool air over his face.

“Heat getting to you?” Cassie asked, pulling the car out onto a wide, empty road. She’d insisted on driving and given that she knew where they were going and was familiar with driving on the left-hand side of the road, Ronan had been happy to acquiesce. Still, their bland, white rental sedan had given him a surge of longing for the sports car he’d hired in Melbourne and been forced to return early once he’d found out about the travel plans. Hopefully it would still be available over the weekend when they returned.

“I could use a beer,” Ronan said, conceding that San Francisco’s comparatively chilly summers had in no way prepared him for Australia’s scorching temperatures.

She gave a little laugh. “Yeah, that sounds good. Our hotel isn’t far. I knew the Fremantle store would be our last stop of the day, so I had Mel book our accommodation down here—it’s really pretty. It will take us a bit longer to get to the airport tomorrow, but it’s worth it.”

There was a glow about her as she spoke, Ronan noted. It had been there all day. Well, once they’d left the airport and the green tinge to her skin had disappeared. There was no doubting that Cassie loved her job. Really loved it. Even the heat hadn’t dampened her enthusiasm. She wore that unremarkable Country Style uniform, but despite the long, hot day, looked fresh and alert. The only sign that the heat had affected her was the wispy curls that had formed around her face. Her mane was tied back and tucked up and away somehow, but perspiration and enthusiasm had loosened some of it, creating ringlets around her ears.

Ronan itched to unfasten the clip and run his fingers through her hair. He clasped his hands firmly in his lap.

Cassie pulled up in front of a colonial-style building that turned out to be their hotel. They climbed out and were efficiently checked in by a cheerful young man who filled Ronan’s hand with tourist brochures when he heard the American accent.

Cassie grabbed her bag and gave him a smile. She was satisfied with how the day had gone, he could tell, and it had lessened the nerves she seemed to have when she was around him. He couldn’t blame her.

“Well, thanks for today.” She jangled the key in her hand. “You know, I really appreciate the way you’ve been talking to the staff we’ve met. You’ve been friendly and engaging, but still discreet. I…I appreciate it.”

Ronan shrugged. “Of course.” He hadn’t done anything out of the ordinary, but he was pleased with the compliment.

“We have to leave here about seven tomorrow morning to catch our flight to Sydney.”

“Sounds good.” He fixed her with his most winning smile as he grabbed his own bag. “So, see you down here in about half an hour?”

Her confident expression faltered. “Half an hour?”

“Is that enough time to freshen up? You’re not going to make me find my own dinner in a strange city all alone are you?”

Spending any time outside of work with this woman was a dumb idea, but the riot of responses that flooded her face at his request was too much fun to resist. Besides, he was a big boy. He could have dinner with a colleague and behave himself.

“Uh…I was planning to get room service…catch up on some work.”

Her stammering excuse betrayed the lie.

“But that’s what flying time is for. Come on. One beer and a quick dinner. I insist.”

Insisting was probably the wrong move, but for the moment he knew she thought it was in her interests to keep him happy. He wondered if she realized just how open her face was, how easy she was to read. She was torn, knowing it would be unwise to refuse him, at the same time scared to accept. Scared? Yes, he was sure it was fear that flashed in her eyes. Hmm, that was interesting. He wondered why.

She was attracted to him—he knew that. It wasn’t vanity on his part; life had taught him that most women were. But unlike most women, Cassie had been prickly from the start, not just coolly professional, but actively keeping her distance. Part of him—his pride, mostly, he had to admit—wanted to know why.

Eventually she gave a short nod. “Half an hour.”

Ronan ran the shower as cold as it would go and dressed in tan chinos and a pale blue cotton shirt—untucked, collar open and sleeves rolled up. The corporate wardrobe he’d packed for this trip wasn’t especially well suited to this weather and if it kept up, he’d be forced to shop for new clothes.

He’d been waiting in the foyer for a few minutes when Cassie appeared. She kept her eyes averted from his, looking all sweet and shy. And for a moment Ronan was glad, because he wasn’t sure how well he hid his reaction.

Her summery floral dress swirled around her knees, revealing shapely calves and strappy sandals. Intriguingly, her toenails were painted orange—not red, not even a strange coral shade of red—but definitely, absolutely, orange. The dress had a little belt at the waist, showing off the hourglass figure that he’d just known lurked under that stuffy uniform. Buttons down the front were fastened demurely, but showed enough for Ronan to glimpse the creamy swells of full breasts. A fine gold chain hung around her neck and her hair was…tied back. As always. Damn.




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