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Exposing the Executive's Secrets
Emilie Rose


FOR SALE: BACHELOR #13 One not-so-old flame. Still hot. Proceed with caution! Eight years after he destroyed her heart, Andrea Montgomery sought her revenge by purchasing Clayton Dean at a charity bachelor auction. Impress him, question him, tempt him — that had been her plan. But Clay's proximity soon made her realize she was no longer the tempter, but the tempted….Clay knew why Andrea had been his highest bidder. She wanted answers about his callous dismissal of their affair. But the truth could prove devastating… forcing them both to pay the ultimate price.









Exposing the Executive’s Secrets

Emilie Rose








Kira,

Your words are magical.

Thanks for putting me in the gondola.




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Coming Next Month




One


“This one’s going to come back to bite you, Andrea. Please choose another bachelor.”

Andrea Montgomery’s heart bumped along faster than a roller coaster. Her stomach alternated between the rise of anticipation and the plunge of trepidation. She sipped her complimentary champagne, tucked her numbered bidding paddle beneath her arm and then reached for her dearest friend’s hand and squeezed.

“Holly, I can’t. You know I have to do this.”

“Buying him is a mistake. Remember how torn up you were when he left?”

As if I could forget that kind of pain.

“That was then. I’m totally over him now.” And she was. Absolutely. Without a doubt. How could she not be over a man who’d led her on for years and then dumped her without giving her a believable reason?

Andrea released Holly’s fingers and then plucked at the black silk charmeuse of her gown. What little fabric there was in the garment clung to her like a second skin. The neckline plunged almost to her navel, and if the slit in the ankle-length skirt were an inch higher no one would have to wonder whether or not she wore panties.

She shifted on her stiletto heels—the only part of the outfit she liked—and scanned the crowd of overexcited, expensively attired women consuming free champagne and bidding on bachelors. No one in this affluent, conservative country club crowd suffered from the same overexposure as her.

“What were you and Juliana thinking when you chose this dress? As much as I love sexy clothing, this gown is too obvious and over the top. Couldn’t you have chosen something more subtle? Subtle is sexy. Obvious is tacky. I feel like a high-priced call girl. No wait. Even a working girl would leave a little mystery and cover more skin.”

Holly didn’t even crack a smile. “When seduction’s the name of the game you bring out the big guns. You’re planning to bring Clayton Dean to his knees. Juliana and I thought you should dress the part of femme fatale.”

Clayton Dean. Hearing his name wound Andrea’s nerves tighter. “You’ve miscast me. A femme fatale seduces the man in question. I have no intention of revisiting the sheets with Clay. He had his chance eight years ago and blew it. And how many times do I have to tell you? I’m not out for revenge. All I want to do is show him that there are no hard feelings.”

“Uh-huh.” Holly didn’t attempt to hide her skepticism.

Her friend knew her too well. “Okay, so I won’t mind if he eats his heart out just a little over what he could have had. But that’s all. I’d be a fool to hand him my heart again.”

“I agree. That’s why I’m going to keep repeating, this is a bad idea like a broken record until you get it.”

“Holly, I’ve lived through the humiliation of Clay dumping me once. My coworkers’ pity was hard enough to swallow the first time. And according to Mrs. Dean, Clay’s staying in Wilmington only until his father is well enough to return to the helm at Dean Yachts, and then Clay will sail back to Florida. I promise I won’t forget this is temporary.”

“You’re trying awfully hard to sell yourself on a bad idea, Ms. Marketing Director.”

“Cut it out. Remember this is not just about me. Without Clay the business might have to temporarily shut its doors, putting me and a thousand other employees out of work. Joseph Dean has been like a second father to me. I’ve been worried about his mood since his stroke three weeks ago. He and Clay need to work this out before it’s too late.” The possibility of losing her mentor put a lump in her throat.

Holly’s frown deepened. “What if father and son do kiss and make up and Clay returns for good? He’ll be your boss. Will you still love your job then?”

Andrea winced. Good point. Darn it. As if she didn’t have a boatload of doubts already about working with Clay. “I need to move forward. I can’t do that until I put the past behind me. I’m a loser magnet, Holly. I have to break the cycle, and to do that I need to know what’s so wrong with me that Clay and every guy I’ve dated in the past eight years dumps me just when I start to believe there might be something to the relationship.”

Holly stamped her foot in irritation. “I could smack you. How many times do I have to tell you there’s nothing wrong with you?”

“Says you.”

Holly’s attention shifted to something beyond Andrea’s shoulder. “I hope you’re right about being over him, because Clay looks good. Really, really good.”

Andrea choked on her champagne. After catching her breath she discarded the flute on a passing waiter’s tray and braced herself before following Holly’s gaze to the other side of the opulent Caliber Club ballroom. Her first glimpse of her former lover knocked the wind right back out of her.

Clay did look good. Amazing, in fact. Damn him. The last thing she wanted or needed was to still find him attractive. His shoulders were broader than she remembered, and his tuxedo hinted at muscles he hadn’t possessed as a lanky twenty-three-year-old. A nostalgic smile tugged her lips. He may look more sophisticated, but he still hadn’t learned to tame his beaver-brown hair. The longer strands on top curled in disarray just as they had after she’d rumpled them when they made lo—

She severed the thought instantly. No need to travel that heavily rutted dead end road again.

She didn’t think he’d spotted her yet, and she wanted to keep it that way—right up until she bought him. A combination of anticipation and unease traversed her spine.

“Putting the past to bed will be worth every penny I have to bid on bachelor number thirteen tonight.”

One of Holly’s eyebrows lifted. “Bed? Freudian slip?”

Andrea scowled at her friend. “You know what I mean. I want this over and done with. Final. Finished. Forgotten.”

“If you say so.” The doubt in Holly’s voice didn’t instill confidence. “We knew our trust funds would come in handy one day, but I don’t think our granddaddies intended us to buy men—even if it is for a charitable cause. Juliana certainly dropped a bundle on her rebel.”

Juliana had been the first in their close-knit trio to buy her man. Andrea hoped her straight-laced friend could handle the rebellious biker bar owner. “I hope that goes well.”

“Amen. I hope none of us regret tonight’s nonsense.”

“Holly, we agreed—”

“No, you and Juliana agreed. My arm was twisted, but I’m in for better or worse.”

The gavel sounded like a starter’s pistol. Andrea nearly jumped out of her skimpy dress. Bachelor twelve left the stage to meet his date, and the women in the audience went wild in anticipation of the next offering. She covered her ears as the decibel level rose and wondered if she should chalk this foolish plan up to too many margaritas and walk away.

No. She couldn’t. She wanted a life and that meant dealing with her messy, painful past. The band’s drum roll rattled in tandem with her rapidly thumping pulse as the emcee announced the next bachelor.

Her bachelor. Clayton Dean.

Andrea pushed the tousled mass of her hair—the style another contribution from her friends—away from her face. Sure, she talked a good game by pretending that buying and confronting the man who’d shattered her heart and her confidence eight years ago was going to be a piece of cake, but her insides quivered and her knees knocked beneath her trampy dress. She’d loved Clay, had planned to marry him, have his children and run Dean Yachts by his side. His abrupt departure had nearly destroyed her.

What if her plan went terribly wrong?

She squared her shoulders and squashed her doubts. It wouldn’t. At thirty years old she was more than mature enough to face a former lover without making a fool of herself. Besides, she’d strategized every last detail—the same way she would an extensive marketing campaign.

Buy him, thereby obligating him to seven dates and giving her seven opportunities to:

Impress him with her acquired business savvy.

Tempt him, but keep her distance.

Question him to find out why she was so easy to leave.

Dismiss him from her heart and her head.

The women surrounding her screamed maniacally as Clay took his place center stage. Who wouldn’t want a series of dates with a handsome naval architect and award-winning yacht designer? But she was determined that Clay would be hers. Temporarily. Andrea clenched her numbered fan so tightly the wooden handle cracked.

An omen? Goose bumps raced over her skin.

Holly leaned closer and spoke directly into Andrea’s ear to be heard above the din. “Are you sure you can handle Seven Seductive Sunsets with Clay?”

“Of course.” She waved away Holly’s concern, but tucked her free hand behind her back when she realized her fingers trembled.

And then she lifted her paddle and cast the first bid on her former lover—the man who would soon be her boss.

If he didn’t love her, he’d kill her. Clay glared at his mother as he took the stage.

Smile, she mouthed and pointed to her own curving lips.

He turned a big, phony smile to the crowd. His mother could have warned him about the bachelor auction for charity, but no, she’d planned the date package, put his picture in the auction program and then shanghaied him the moment he’d docked today. He’d tried to buy his way out of this fiasco with a hefty donation, but nobody bulldozed Patricia Dean once she set her mind to something, and she’d set her mind toward making a fool of her only son.

But he owed her, so he let her get away with it.

As if he didn’t have enough on his plate running his own company, he had to take control of Dean Yachts until he could hire an interim CEO. That meant working with Andrea, Dean’s marketing manager, on a daily basis. Regret tightened like a fist around his heart.

He did not want to be here—not back in his hometown or up on this stage being auctioned off like a repossessed yacht. There was too much flotsam under the bridge, and there were too many disappointments, too many broken promises.

The women—tipsy from the sounds of it—called out lewd suggestions, but he’d be damned if he’d shake his wares or prance around like a male striper for his audience. If the other bachelors wanted to act like fools fine, but he wouldn’t. Being stuck babysitting some bubble-headed socialite was already beyond the call of duty.

Clay stood in the hot lights as stiff as a mast. One spotlight baked his skin. Another panned the crowd as the emcee rattled off Clay’s vital statistics. Staring out at the hysterical women, he mentally dared any one of them to buy him.

And then he saw her—Andrea—in the crowd. His lungs deflated like a sail without a breeze and his stomach shriveled into a hot lump of coal. Damn. What was she doing here? He’d thought he had until Monday to prepare himself for seeing her again.

He’d loved her—almost enough to turn a blind eye to the discovery that had knocked his foundations out from under him.

The spotlight shifted back to the stage, blinding him. The bid climbed higher, embarrassingly high compared to the last two saps. He should be proud he wasn’t going as low as a junked schooner, but he wasn’t. He wanted off the stage. The sooner, the better. The bidders used numbered paddles instead of calling out bids, and he couldn’t see who wielded the numbers because of the damned lights, so he didn’t have a clue who bid what.

The gavel hit the podium. “Sold,” the emcee shouted. “Come and collect your prize, number two-twenty-one.”

Good. Finally over—at least the first part of his torture. Clay gladly vacated the stage. His eyes adjusted to the dimness at the bottom of the stairs in time to see Andrea hand a check to the woman behind the desk. Shock locked his muscles.

Andrea had bought him!

He caught a glimpse of her wavy blond hair and caramel-colored eyes a split second before the visual impact of her black dress nearly knocked him to his knees. Her pale breasts poised on the brink of spilling from the gashing deep neckline, and a slit cut nearly to her crotch displayed one long, satiny leg. His breath lodged in his throat and he almost swallowed his tongue. Heat exploded in his groin.

Mayday. Mayday.

She strolled in his direction, smiling at him with a cool confidence he didn’t recall her having when she’d been his lover. “Hello, Clay. Shall we find a quiet corner and make our arrangements?”

Her voice slid through him like smooth, aged whiskey. How could he have forgotten her soft, southern drawl or the temperature-raising effect it had on him?

“Hold it,” a thirtyish African American woman called out. A tall, pale guy holding a camera stood beside her. The woman made a squeezing motion with her hands. Clay moved closer to Andrea. “Arms around each other, please, and smile.”

Clay gritted his teeth into a smile and put his arm around Andrea. His palm found bare skin. Damnation. The back of her dress was as bare as the front. Her body heat seared his palm and penetrated his tux jacket. Fire streaked through him. Fire he had to extinguish. Right now.

Andrea gasped, nearly expelling her breasts from the shiny black fabric. Clay couldn’t help himself. His gaze shifted to her creamy skin. And the camera flashed. Oh hell. Caught looking. Before he could ask the reporter to take another shot Andrea pulled free, pivoted on her very sexy heels and strolled away with a mind-altering sway to her hips.

Whoa. That was not the same woman he’d left behind. The Andrea he’d known would never have worn a dress guaranteed to make a man forget his manners and his name.

Reeling from the unwelcome slam of desire, he shook his head and caught sight of his mother’s smug smile. She was up to something—something he was certain would make him regret coming home more than he already did.

Clay followed Andrea toward the door. After the way he’d left her he’d expected her to want him dead.

Why would she come to his rescue tonight?

And what would it cost him?

“What game are you playing, Andrea?” Clay’s voice rumbled over her, deep and familiar, but with a rough edge Andrea didn’t remember.

Her heart raced and her breath came in short bursts—not caused solely by her hasty retreat from the prying eyes inside. She reached the deserted gazebo at the end of the dock jutting into the Cape Fear River and wished she could keep on walking. Despite two weeks of planning, she wasn’t ready for this confrontation, but she braced herself and turned.

With the lights of the Caliber Club behind him, shadow concealed most of Clay’s face. His cheeks appeared leaner and his jaw more sharply defined than eight years ago. Jagged streaks of moonlight reflected off the water in wavering beams. One slashed across his eyes making them a more intense blue than she recalled.

“I don’t have time for games, Clay.”

“Then what’s this about?” He jerked a thumb, indicating the club. “A trip down memory lane?”

“Can’t a woman rescue an old friend from the money-hungry masses without complaint?”

“Old friends. Is that what we are?”

Could they ever be friends again? Doubtful. But she could fake it long enough to get the closure she needed. “I hope so.”

“So this is you being self-sacrificing?”

His sarcasm stiffened her spine and heated her cheeks with a not-so-subtle reminder that she’d been something of a pampered princess when he left town. But that had changed. She’d learned the hard way not to take anything for granted—like happiness, promises or loved ones. “You have a problem with that?”

“You never could lie worth a damn. You get a quiver in your voice. C’mon. Spill it, Andrea. Why are we really here?”

She cursed the telling sign of her agitation and cleared her throat. “We have to work together. So anything that makes your life easier makes my life easier. Saving you from that—” she gestured toward the club “—seemed like a nice thing to do.”

“You’re claiming this is about work?” More sarcasm. He clearly didn’t buy her story. She couldn’t blame him.

Pursing her lips, she exhaled in resignation. This wasn’t going as well as she’d anticipated. She’d expected him to be grateful, not suspicious. “I need to know that I can count on you not to bail before Joseph’s back on his feet.”

His breath hissed. “I have my own business to run. I’ll stay until the headhunting firm I’ve hired locates an interim CEO, and then I’m out of here.”

She gaped and then snapped her mouth closed. “You can’t hand Dean Yachts over to a stranger. Your father would—”

“My father has nothing to say about it,” he interrupted in a flat don’t-argue-with-me tone.

Reeling, she scrambled to make him understand. “The doctors expect Joseph to make an eighty to ninety percent recovery from the stroke. His mental faculties are clear, but his stamina isn’t what it used to be. Knowing you’d be here is the only reason he agreed to stay out of the office while he recuperates.”

A balmy June breeze whipped her hair across her face and ruffled the edges of her gown, nearly baring her breasts. Clay’s gaze lowered to her cleavage. Her nipples peaked and an ache started deep inside her. Damn. It.

“I didn’t ask for an update.” Clay shifted deeper into the shadows. In the darkness she couldn’t read his expression. Did he like what he saw? Did he have even one moment’s regret for walking away from what they’d had? Had he thought about her at all since he’d left?

Stop it. It doesn’t matter.

But it did. Andrea clenched her fingers around the long chain strap of her sequined evening bag.

“You should have. He’s your father. In a couple of months he’ll be back on the job unless you rush him and he ends up endangering his health. Give him time to heal, Clay.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned away, presenting her with his back—a broad, unyielding wall of resistance.

The creaking of the dock boards and the clang of the sailboat lines in the slips broke the silence, but the familiar sounds didn’t have their usual calming effect.

Ask him why he left.

But she couldn’t. Not yet. Because she wasn’t sure she was ready to hear his answer. What if he told her something hideous and then she had to face him daily for the next few months? But she would get the information out of him before he left.

Andrea sighed and plucked a strand of hair from her overly glossy—thanks to her friends—lips. She joined Clay at the rail, and the citrus and spice scent of his cologne wafted to her on the breeze. Memories washed over her, tugging at her like a strong riptide. Memories of a night very like this one. High school graduation night. The tiny cabin of his sailboat. Making love for the first time. Learning his body as he learned hers.

Stop.

She shifted restlessly and pushed away the past. Okay, so she still found Clay physically appealing. Big deal. That didn’t mean she’d let the current of attraction pull her under. He’d hurt her too badly for her to ever trust him again.

Stick to the agenda, Andrea. Focus on what you’re good at—your job. And the rest will follow.

She took a deep breath and launched into her practiced spiel. “Dean Yachts has a backlog of pending orders. You’ll have to plunge into the deep end if we’re to keep up with our production schedule. Your father will tell you whatever you need to know to stay afloat.”

His jaw hardened. “I don’t need his help.”

She bit her lip and battled frustration. Mending the breach between the men might be harder than she’d anticipated. “You may not need it, but Joseph needs you to ask for it. He’s depressed and more than a little shaken up by his brush with mortality. He’s looking forward to having you at home.”

He turned his head and met her gaze. She’d never considered Clay inflexible or implacable in the past, but his face wore both traits now. His square jaw jutted forward. “I docked my boat at Dean’s. I’m berthing there.”

“Security didn’t notify me.”

“Mom cleared it before I arrived.”

Neither Mrs. Dean nor security had informed Andrea, which was odd since Andrea was unofficially in charge at the moment. But then Mrs. Dean had been acting strangely since she’d let it slip that Clay would be coming home and arriving just in time to participate in the auction. But Andrea would worry about that later.

“You will go by the house to see your father, won’t you?”

“No.”

Another wave of frustration crashed over Andrea’s head. “Clay, Joseph needs his family around him.”

“It’s a little late for him to start thinking about his family.” Bitterness tightened his voice.

“What does that mean?” He remained silent and Andrea’s irritation and curiosity mounted. What had happened eight years ago to cause this rift? “It’s never too late to say you’re sorry.”

He pivoted sharply. Moonlight illuminated the flattened line of his mouth and his narrowed eyes. “Is that what you want? An apology?”

She gasped. As if an apology would be enough to fix what he’d done. “I wasn’t talking about me. I meant you and Joseph. He’s your father, Clay. Wake up. You could have lost him. Take this opportunity to fix things between you before it’s too late. You might not get another chance.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then explain it to me.” She crushed her evening bag in her fingers, half hoping, half fearing his answer.

He made a scoffing sound. “You couldn’t handle it.”

“Try me.” A minute dragged past. Two.

“It’s over, Andrea. Let it go.”

If only she could, but even now Clay’s nearness stirred things best left undisturbed. She traveled a few shaky steps down the dock being careful to keep her heels from getting caught between the boards. “Just in case you’re worried, I’m not interested in picking up where we left off. But we have to work together, Clay. I need your support in front of the staff.”

“You’ll have it.” He shadowed her down the dock. “Mother says you’ve single-handedly run the company for the past three weeks.”

Was that grudging respect in his voice? “I’ve done what I could, but we have over a thousand employees. It’s been a true team effort.”

“Why can’t you continue without me?”

“Because people expect a Dean to be at the helm of Dean Yachts, and we need someone capable of coordinating all the teams involved in production. I can’t do that.” She paused and turned. “About these dates…I’m not expecting, nor do I want, the romance promised in your auction package.”

“My mother’s auction package,” he corrected. “I had nothing to do with it. She planned the entire thing. I’m just her damned puppet.”

Why didn’t that surprise her? “Whatever. I want us to be civil, to show folks that there are no hard feelings. Reputation is everything in yacht building, and I don’t want any rumors of dissention inside the company spreading or Dean’s will lose business. If you have any problems with me or my work, then I’d prefer you keep them to yourself until we’re away from prying eyes.”

He swore. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. If we could go back—”

If he’d hurt her? She choked a humorless laugh at the absurdity of his comment and held up a hand, halting his words. “Would you still leave?”

He raked his fingers through his hair, stared across the water. Ten seconds ticked past and then he exhaled. “Yes.”

Somehow she managed not to stagger under the impact of his reply. Clay couldn’t possibly know how badly he’d hurt and humiliated her eight years ago. She would never give him—or any other man for that matter—the power to do so again. Never.

“That’s all I need to know. I’ll see you Monday, Clay.”




Two


Traversing the wide sidewalk leading from the docks to Dean Yachts on Monday morning felt like coming home. But home was somewhere Clay no longer belonged.

Perched high on a grassy knoll overlooking the Cape Fear River, the sales and marketing division looked more like an expensive beach house than the main offices of Dean Yachts. When he reached the front doors Clay turned. From this vantage point he could see the entire operation.

A series of pale blue metal buildings in a range of shapes and sizes spread along a half-mile section of the riverfront property. Each building housed a specific stage of production, and Clay had worked in every one of them in one capacity or another beginning in his early teens. Both his grandfather and his father believed in learning the business from the ground up.

During Clay’s absence murals of various Dean Yachts’ models had been painted on the waterfront sides of the structures giving the impression of a life-size parade of boats heading into port.

Docks, some covered, some not, jutted from the shoreline. The slips held yachts nearing completion. Unless things had changed in eight years, the dock located directly behind the sales office was reserved for finished vessels awaiting delivery. His and one other occupied the slips.

Clay let his gaze run over the complex again and sadness weighted him like ballast. He’d once taken pride in knowing that one day all this would be his. But not anymore. He’d forfeited everything when he’d run from the truth.

Shaking off the bitter memory and the resulting sense of anger, betrayal and disappointment, he shoved open the wide glass door, stepped inside the reception area and jerked to a halt. Nothing looked the same. What once had been a dim, utilitarian entrance now looked as classy as the stateroom of a fine yacht. Sunlight streamed through the windows and skylights onto a gleaming teak floor. A gracefully curved reception counter had replaced the old metal desk, and beyond that a glass wall blocked the wide hall leading to the offices.

The young woman seated behind the desk looked up and flashed him a smile that could sell toothpaste. “Good morning, sir. May I help you?”

“I’m Clayton Dean.”

Her smile dimmed a few watts and she sat up straighter. “One moment please. I’ll let Ms. Montgomery know you’re here. You’re welcome to have a seat while you wait.”

A flip of her hand indicated the leather seating group against the wall. Another change. “No need. I’ll find her.”

The woman sprang from her chair and blocked his path. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dean, you’ll have to wait until Ms. Montgomery gives you clearance.”

What? “Clearance?”

“You’ll need a security pass.” She punched a button on the gadget clipped to her belt and spoke quietly into her nearly invisible headset receiver. “Mr. Dean has arrived.”

Had he stepped into the Twilight Zone? When he’d left eight years ago Dean’s hadn’t had any security other than locking the buildings at night and occasional drive-by from the sheriff’s department. This morning the back door closest to the dock—the entrance Clay had used since he was a kid—had been locked, and yesterday he’d had a sticky encounter with several members of the security crew when he’d taken his motorcycle out for supplies and to arrange for delivery of a rental car. They’d called his mother before letting him pass back through the gate.

“She’ll be right with you, Mr. Dean.” The receptionist punctuated her words with another high-wattage smile.

Clay couldn’t sit. This building held too many memories. Good ones. Bad ones. A flicker of movement drew his attention to the glass wall. Andrea strode down the hall. Her figure-skimming sage-green suit was as professional as Saturday night’s black dress had been drop-dead sexy. She’d twisted her thick blond hair up onto her head revealing the long, pale line of her throat. The polished woman before him was the antithesis of the unsure girl he’d left behind.

A section of the glass glided open. “Thanks, Eve. I’ll take it from here. Good morning, Clay. Please come with me.”

Andrea’s gaze briefly hit his and then she headed back the way she’d come before he had a chance to reply. His gaze automatically shifted to the curve of her hips as he followed her down the hall. She’d always had a killer walk. Her perfume tantalized him. It wasn’t the sweet flowery scent he remembered. This fragrance had a spicy and alluring kick to it.

He cursed his response. Rekindling the old flame was out of the question. He could not stay in Wilmington and face the lie that continued to erode his pilings on a daily basis.

Had his father kept his word? Clay couldn’t ask and doubted he’d get an honest answer if he did. How could he trust anything his father said anymore? How could he trust himself with that DNA?

His muscles dragged like metal against rust-covered metal as they approached his father’s office. Struggling to get a handle on the emotions welling inside him, Clay paused in the corridor. He clenched and unclenched his hands as memories assailed him.

The last time he’d taken this walk he’d been on top of the world. He’d come home from the University of New Orleans a day early to ask his father to go with him to buy Andrea’s engagement ring, and then he’d opened the door without knocking and his world had crashed.

Determined to face yet another specter from his past Clay forced himself forward. Every stick of the old office furniture—including the damned couch where Clay had found his father screwing Andrea’s mother—had been replaced with expensive-looking classic pieces.

He caught Andrea’s guarded gaze and noted her pinched expression. Did she know what had happened right here under her nose? She and her mother had always had an enviably close relationship, the kind of link he’d never shared with his father. If Andrea didn’t know about the affair, she’d be just as disillusioned by her mother’s behavior as he had been by his father’s. He wouldn’t do that to her.

He jerked his head toward the door. “What’s with all the new security?”

“We’re protecting our assets. Our base-price yachts cost a million dollars. Most of the models we build far exceed that. We can’t risk vandalism or theft.” She gestured for him to take a seat behind the cherry desk and tapped on a sheaf of papers waiting on the blotter with a pale pink—not red like Saturday night—fingernail. “I need you to read and sign these.”

He remained standing, but lifted the pages and read a few paragraphs. Surprise forced his head up. “What is this?”

“A noncompete clause. Nothing you see or learn here can be used to compete against Dean designs.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. You’re a naval architect with your own design firm, but temporarily you’re an employee here. We have to take precautions against our ideas being pirated.”

Fury boiled in his veins at the insult to his ethics. He fought to contain it. “You expect me to run the place, but this,” he rattled the sheets, “says you don’t trust me.”

Her lips firmed and her chin lifted. “It’s a business decision, Clay. Emotion doesn’t enter into it.”

Bitterness filled his mouth. He wasn’t the cheat in his family. “My father’s idea?”

A defiant glint entered her eyes and a flush rose in her pale cheeks. “No. Mine.”

That doused his anger like nothing else could. He had no right to complain. He’d earned Andrea’s distrust. He skimmed the pages, scratched his name across the line at the bottom of the page and passed the document to her.

She nodded acceptance. “I’ve left the current order summary and a packet of info to reacquaint you with the company in your in-box. You’ll need to familiarize yourself with our existing client roster since they’re allowed to drop in at anytime to check the status of their project. I’d suggest you look through those documents until Fran, your administrative assistant arrives. She comes in at nine. Her office is through here.” She shoved open a door on the starboard side of the room.

Andrea acted like a car show model—gesturing stiffly here and there, making minimal eye contact, but he noticed the slight tremor of the pages she held. Another needle of regret stabbed him. He and Andrea had once been as comfortable together as two lovers could be.

“When Fran arrives she’ll make your security ID and fit you with the necessary safety equipment. You’ll need to swipe the ID card to access the controlled areas and the front gate. We have one delivery tomorrow and another next week. Both are noted on your calendar. There’s quite a bit of hoopla attached to delivery celebrations. Again, Fran will fill you in.

“I’ve scheduled a production walk-through at three this afternoon for you. My office is still where it used to be if you need anything.” She headed for the door.

“Andrea.” He waited until she turned. “I won’t work in here. My office is out there.” He pointed toward the wide window overlooking the water. The Expatriate, one of his own designs, rocked beside the dock to the rear of the sales office.

Her eyebrows dipped. “You expect me to trot out to the dock every time I need to speak to you?”

“Either that or call my cell phone.” He extracted a business card from his wallet and wrote his cell number on it. He passed it to her and their fingers brushed. The contact hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Strictly business, Dean.

“I’ll see if I can have maintenance run a phone line to your boat.”

“You said my assistant’s name is Fran. Your mother changed positions?”

“No. Mom doesn’t work here anymore. She left years ago.”

Good. One less ghost he’d have to face.

Day One. Six hours successfully behind her, and three more, including Clay’s tour, to get through before Andrea could call it a day.

As she made her way down the dock to Clay’s “office” after lunch she ran an assessing gaze over the sleek lines of the fifty-foot sport-fishing vessel. Nice. Habit and just plain good manners forced her to remove her heels before ascending the ramp to Clay’s boat rather than risk damaging his deck.

Andrea usually reserved her finer suits for delivery celebrations. When a customer accepted ownership of their new yacht the Dean’s sales staff wined and dined them with a champagne feast. There wasn’t an event today, but she’d had an attack of vanity this morning knowing this was Clay’s first day on the job.

Before she entered the production buildings later this afternoon to reintroduce Clay to the area managers she’d have to dig her rubber-soled deck shoes out from under her desk. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d worn a designer suit with her Docksides. If she’d been less vain she’d be wearing the boat shoes now instead of carrying her heels.

She spotted Clay through the glass-topped door leading to the salon. His laptop sat open and ignored on one end of the galley table he’d turned into a desk while he flipped through a stack of familiar brochures—brochures she’d designed.

A combination of anxiety and pride eddied through her. Dean Yachts had come a long way since he’d left, and Andrea was proud to have been instrumental in the change. Old school practices still reigned over modern technology in the production department, but that was because handcrafted workmanship was part of Dean’s appeal. No mass production here. But Joseph had allowed her to update the way they interacted with the public. She’d poured her heart into the Web page, the reception area, the offices and the brochures in Clay’s hands.

She tapped on the glass and Clay looked up. His cobalt-blue gaze locked with hers, momentarily impeding her ability to breathe. Damn. It. Control yourself.

He rose and crossed the room. Ignoring the stretch of his white short-sleeved polo shirt over his wide shoulders and muscular chest should have been easy, considering what he’d put her through, but it wasn’t. Nor could she overlook the way his pants fit his lean hips and long legs. It wasn’t fair that she still found him attractive after all the time and heartache she’d wasted on him. But she’d get over it.

The door opened, jarring her back to the present with a waft of cool air-conditioned air. Until then she’d been too antsy to notice the cloying June heat and humidity. Both were a fact of life on the Wilmington waterfront.

She cleared her throat. “May I come in? We need to discuss the image we intend to convey to the reporter. I realize this is work time and we shouldn’t discuss personal issues, but I have plans for this evening.”

Plans that included a pint of death by chocolate ice cream and a strategy phone call to Juliana and Holly, her partners in the auction scheme. She also needed to make sure Holly—who’d been reluctant about the whole bachelor auction idea—had bought the firefighter Andrea and Juliana had chosen from the program for her.

She didn’t know how Clay did it, but without moving a muscle he seemed more alert, more wary. “What reporter?”

“Didn’t you know the local paper is chronicling each auction couple for the duration of the dating package?”

He shoved a hand through his already disheveled hair and moved away from the door. She stepped through and closed it behind her.

“No. My mother shanghaied me as soon as I docked. I spent Saturday afternoon being fitted for a tux and arrived at the club minutes before I hit the stage—too late to read the hype and the fine print. Mom didn’t tell me about the reporter or even what my date package involves. All I know about it is what I could hear of the emcee’s spiel to the crowd.”

Glancing around the cabin, Andrea took in the smoky gray leather seating and the rich cherry wood. Nice. Elegant, but masculine. She gestured to his laptop computer. “Do you have Internet access?”

“Yes. Wireless.”

“May I?” At his nod she typed in a Web address. A few clicks later she read aloud, “The lucky lady who wins bachelor thirteen will be treated to Seven Seductive Sunsets, including an old-fashioned carriage ride through the historic section of town, horseback riding on a local beach, a riverboat dinner cruise, a hot air balloon ride, dinner and dancing at Devil’s Shoals Steakhouse, a daylong sailing adventure and a private bonfire on the beach.”

Was Clay swearing under his breath? She couldn’t be certain because he turned and marched into the galley. A second later he returned and shoved a bottle of water in her direction.

“Are you willing to skip the dates? I’ll reimburse you what you paid for the package.”

“Try explaining that to the reporter. Bad press.”

His jaw muscles flexed. “There’s no way out of this?”

“Dating me didn’t used to be a hardship.” Andrea mentally kicked herself. Nothing like showing your damaged ego.

“No. It wasn’t.”

Her gaze bounced back to Clay’s and her heart missed a beat at the intensity in his eyes. Don’t do it. Don’t get sucked under. Tempt him, but keep your distance. She dampened her lips and belatedly accepted the water from him. The chilled bottle helped her regain her focus.

“But that was then. Now we’re two professionals who stand to gain quite a bit of publicity for our respective businesses if we conduct ourselves appropriately.”

His lips thinned. “That’s what this is to you? A publicity stunt?”

“That and an opportunity for us to put the past behind us and move on.” She gestured to the salon and galley. “This looks quite…homey.”

He leaned his hip against the galley counter and crossed his ankles, drawing her attention to his leather deck shoes worn without socks, and the sprinkling of dark hair peeking out from beneath the hem of his pants. “That’s because it is home.”

“For now, you mean.”

He shook his head. “I live on The Expatriate.”

“Permanently?” She couldn’t conceal her surprise.

“Yes.”

She curled her bare toes into the lush cream-colored carpeting and shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she scanned the interior again looking for signs of a feminine occupant. “Will we need a gate pass for anyone else on board?”

“I live alone.”

Relief rushed over her—relief she had no business feeling. “Have you ever owned a home? Besides a boat, I mean.”

They’d once talked of buying a house on the beach with a long expanse of sand on which their dogs and children could run. She’d bought the house, but lacked the children and pets. Having recently turned thirty she’d decided that if she wanted those factors to change—and she did—then she had to get the ball rolling.

His jaw hardened. “I had an apartment over a marina when I first moved to Miami. After I designed and commissioned my first yacht I moved on board. I’ve been living on the water ever since.”

“That certainly makes it easy to move.” She bit her imprudent tongue when his eyes hardened.

“Easy to leave, you mean?”

Be nice. Do not pick a fight. “That’s not what I said.”

“You want to take off the gloves?”

“I beg your pardon?”

His gaze drifted from the V-neck of her pantsuit to her bare feet and back to her eyes. Sensation rippled in the wake of his thorough inspection and ended up tangling in a knot behind her naval. “You’re clenching your fingers and even your toes. Are you spoiling for a fight, Andrea?”

“Of course not,” she answered quickly—too quickly, judging by his raised eyebrow. She hated that he could read her so easily. Exhaling slowly, she made a conscious effort to loosen her grip on the water bottle and her shoes.

When did you lose control of this meeting? Make your point and leave.

“We need a strategy for our interviews. It’s important to hide any tension between us from Octavia Jenkins. She’s a small-town reporter with big-city aspirations, and she’s willing to dig up dirt when necessary.”

His eyes narrowed. “You have dirt?”

Other than a long list of loser dates and an on again, off again relationship with a Dean’s client? “Me? No. My life’s an open book. You?”

He hesitated. “Not personally.”

What did that mean? For the first time she wondered if something or someone besides her had driven Clay from Wilmington. But no. She had to go with the facts as she knew them. Clay’s mother might buy the story that he’d left home because he couldn’t get along with his father, but Andrea didn’t believe it for one second. The Dean men had argued hard and often. Everyone claimed it was because they were too much alike. But their bond had been strong despite the bickering.

Clay drank from his bottle and then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Andrea, we were lovers. If Jenkins is as ambitious as you said, she’s not going to have to do much digging to uncover that.”

“No. But it’s not like that’s news to anyone who matters.”

Pensive furrows carved his brow and a nerve twitched beside his mouth. “How aggressive is she?”

“I don’t know. Why?” What kind of secrets did he have?

A shake of his head was her only reply.

Andrea moved away from the computer and glanced down the companionway. Clay’s bedroom. Her steps faltered, her pulse quickened and her knees weakened. Why did being ten paces from Clay’s berth still get to her? She had no intention of tumbling back into his bed. But an old familiar ache filled her belly.

Nostalgia. That’s all it is. Ignore it.

She had to get out of here even though they hadn’t settled on a story to feed Octavia Jenkins yet.

“We’ll talk later about the reporter. I have a conference call in a few minutes. I’ll see you in an hour for the production walk-through.”

Clay snapped his cell phone closed and dragged a hand over his face. The pushy journalist had laid waste to his plan to delay the dates as long as possible. If the Miami headhunters found an interim CEO quickly, then he’d have been able to return home without fulfilling his end of the auction bargain.

Cowardly? Probably. But he didn’t know if he could date Andrea, spend hours with her by candlelight and firelight and walk away again. No, he wasn’t still in love with her, but he was far too attracted to her for his peace of mind. Falling for her again would be too easy. But nothing had changed. In fact, his inability to stick with one woman more than a few months since leaving Andrea reinforced the fact that he might be like his father and incapable of fidelity.

He checked his watch. Damn. Late for his meeting with Andrea. He snatched up the safety glasses required anywhere on the property other than this dock and the sales building and left his yacht behind. Andrea met him at the end of the sidewalk.

How could a woman look attractive in bulky safety glasses and rubber-soled shoes? And yet Andrea did.

Clay shoved on his glasses and cursed his errant hormones. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Phone call. Can you change your plans for tonight?”

Eyes wide, her head whipped toward him. “Why?”

He accompanied her through the security gate and across the pavement toward the first metal building. “Because the reporter is demanding an interview to discuss our first date. That means we need to have one unless you want to blow her off.”

“We can’t do that.” She dipped her head and tugged at her earlobe. Years ago that had been a sign that she was uncomfortable. Was it still?

“I suppose I could.” She looked about as excited as she would if he’d invited her to spend the evening in a mosquito-infested swamp without bug repellant.

“The dinner cruise has an opening tonight. Where do you live?”

“I have a house on Wrightsville Beach.”

Regret needled him. Eight years ago they’d discussed buying a house on the beach together. “I’ll pick you up at seven. The boat sails at seven-thirty. I’ll need directions to your place before you leave.”

“I’d rather meet you there. That will give both of us more time to get ready.”

The door to the building opened before he could reply. Andrea greeted the man and then turned to Clay.

“You remember Peter Stark, don’t you? He’s our production manager now.”

“Good to see you again, Peter.” Clay offered his hand. The man hesitated long enough before shaking Clay’s hand to make his lack of welcome known without being flagrantly rude.

The cold shoulder shouldn’t have surprised Clay but it did. Peter had been Clay’s mentor-slash-babysitter from the first day Clay had set foot on Dean’s soil. The man’s allegiance clearly belonged to Andrea now.

“How’s it going, Peter?” Andrea asked.

“Right on schedule except for those cabinets.” Peter addressed Andrea. “The fancy wood the owner requested isn’t in.”

“I’ll make a—” Andrea stopped and glanced at Clay as if realizing that would be his job now. “Clay can call the distributor to check status when we get back to the office.”

“We could make do with mahogany,” Pete insisted.

“My grandfather always said, ‘The customer’s not paying us to make do. He’s paying us to make what he ordered.’” Clay lived by the quote since his clients often made illogical design requests.

“Yeah, well the wood’s holding up everything else in line.”

“I’ll get on it before I leave today. If all else fails, we’ll cancel the order and go with my suppliers.”

“Your daddy won’t like that,” Peter challenged. “We’ve dealt with this company for twenty years.”

“My father’s not running the show right now. I am. If a company can’t deliver, then we’ll find one that can—just like our customers will if we don’t give them what they’ve asked for. If the holdup is a problem, then shift the line. Bump the next order in front of this one. I’ll make sure the client understands the delay.”

The scene repeated itself as they circled the facility and Clay reacquainted himself with familiar faces. Employees addressed Andrea. She redirected them to Clay. By the time they left the building Clay wondered why his mother had begged him to come home. The employees trusted Andrea. They didn’t trust him.

Considering he’d left town rather than live a lie or risk failing Andrea the way his father had failed his mother, the lack of trust rubbed salt in an open wound.




Three


If they had to date, then Clay had decided he’d choose the least romantic in the package first. How intimate could a three-hour cruise on a riverboat carrying four hundred people be?

He gave himself a proverbial pat on the back as he followed Andrea and the hostess the length of the brightly lit main salon of the Georgina past a laden buffet and tables crowded with families, including boisterous children. Treating this date like a client dinner would be a piece of cake in this setting. They’d probably even have to share a table with strangers.

But instead of showing them to one of the eight-person tables, the hostess stopped in front of a glass-and-brass elevator located at the stern of the ship. They entered the cubicle. Clay caught a glimpse of the second floor as the clear box drifted upward. The lighting on the second level was a little dimmer. A DJ occupied a small stage. Most of the patrons looked like college kids. Nothing he couldn’t handle even though he’d given up keg parties years ago.

But the elevator kept rising until it reached the third floor. Clay’s stomach sank faster than an anchor. He’d congratulated himself too soon.

The setting sun on the western horizon cast a peachy glow over the upper deck’s glass-domed atrium. No more than a dozen widely spaced tables for two occupied the area surrounding a parquet dance floor. At the far end of the enclosure a trio of musicians occupied a small stage.

The doors opened with a ding, and the wail of the sax greeted them. Clay had learned to like jazz during his years at the University of New Orleans, but sultry jazz combined with Andrea in a sexy black dress jeopardized his plan to keep the date on a business footing.

“Mr. Dean?” The hostess held open the doors. Her tone and expression implied it wasn’t the first time she’d called him. “I need to seat you. We’ll be underway in five minutes.”

With a growing sense of unease Clay followed Andrea and the hostess to a table tucked into the far corner. No buffet. No crowds. No noisy kids. No distractions.

Too intimate. He seated Andrea and then himself. The linen-draped table was small enough for him to reach across and hold her hand if he wanted. Which he didn’t.

A waitress filled their water goblets, promised to return with champagne and departed.

“Not what you were expecting?” Andrea asked.

How could she still read him after eight years? “I didn’t know what to expect. My mother made the arrangements for each date. All I do is choose a day and time.” He sipped his water, but the cool liquid stopped short of the burn low in his gut. “The riverboat wasn’t here when I left.”

“No. She’s only been here a few years. The owners brought her in as part of the downtown renewal project.”

“There have been a lot of changes.” And not just in his hometown.

It should have been impossible for Andrea to look more beautiful tonight than she had in the siren’s dress at the auction, but she did. Sunlight sparkled on her loose honey-colored hair, and she’d smudged her eye makeup, giving her a just-out-of bed look that played havoc with his memories. Her silky black wraparound dress swished just above her knees and dipped low between her breasts, hinting at the curves beneath, but revealing nothing except the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

He swallowed another gulp of water and wished he hadn’t noticed the slight sway beneath the fabric when she’d greeted him at the bottom of the gangplank. But hell, he was a man, and there were some things a guy just couldn’t miss. Unrestrained breasts ranked high on that list. His list anyway.

The powerful engines of the riverboat rumbled to life. Clay relished the slight vibration. Some liked the silent glide of sailboats, but he preferred the leashed power and throaty growl of an engine. The boat maneuvered away from the dock and headed up river.

Clay focused on the safe view of the shore rather than the more dangerous one of the woman across from him. The tall pines on the bank were a far cry from the sand, palms and towering waterfront buildings of Miami. He’d become so accustomed to glass, brick and modern construction that he’d forgotten how impressive raw nature could be. The dark green of the treetops and the layers of red and yellow in the riverbank resembled a painting.

The waitress returned, poured the champagne and vanished, leaving a silver ice bucket behind.

Andrea sipped from her flute and stared through the glass at the passing scenery as the sun sank lower. “Wilmington will never be as cosmopolitan as Miami, but it is modernizing.”

Clay ignored his champagne. If he hoped to get through tonight without regrets, then he had to keep a clear head. The last thing he needed was alcohol. He rated his chances of avoiding the dance floor and body contact as slim to none. Andrea used to love dancing. She’d even taken ballroom dancing as a physical education class in college.

“Why did you attend the auction?” He forced the question through a constricting throat.

She blinked at his question and hesitated before answering. “Besides the fact that your mother and Juliana’s were the event organizers and Holly, Juliana and I were informed that our attendance was mandatory?”

He’d suspected his mother’s part in this fiasco would come up eventually. Had she put Andrea up to this? It seemed likely. His mother had adored Andrea, but if Mom was matchmaking, then she was doomed to disappointment. “Yes. Besides that.”

Andrea shrugged, drawing his attention to her bare, lightly tanned arms and shoulders. The pencil-thin straps of her dress didn’t cover nearly enough skin. “Holly, Juliana and I each turn thirty this year, and we gain control of our trust funds. We don’t need the money because we all work and we’re well paid, so we decided to invest some and donate the rest to a good cause. The charity auction seemed like a fun idea.”

She’d hung with the same crowd since high school. He’d severed his friendships when he’d left town because he hadn’t wanted anyone telling him who Andrea had chosen to replace him. Any one of his buddies would have been eager to fill his shoes. “Your friends bought men, too?”

“Yes. Tell me about your company,” she said after the waitress served the salads and departed.

“Seascape recruited me during college. Rod Forrester, the owner and an established yacht designer, wanted someone who could buy him out when he was ready to retire. I signed on as an intern, and he taught me the practical side of the business the University of New Orleans couldn’t. Rod retired last year.”

Andrea’s foot bumped his ankle beneath the tiny table. A spark of need ignited and spiraled up Clay’s thigh. “Excuse me. Seascape is doing well?”

“Very. Rod was more open-minded than Dad. I never would have won the awards for innovative design working at Dean Yachts.” Bitterness crept into his tone.

For several seconds Andrea’s caramel-colored gaze studied him. “Your father’s not as close-minded as he used to be.”

“I like the changes I’ve seen. Who should I credit for prying him loose from the tar gluing his feet in the past?”

She shrugged. “Me. I told him we either moved forward or we’d be left behind. It helped when business increased along with our marketing expenditures and in doing so validated my push for change.”

His opinion of Andrea climbed another notch—something he couldn’t afford. She’d managed to change his father’s stubborn mind, something Clay hadn’t been able to do. Clay and his father had battled over Clay’s “newfangled” ideas and every suggestion for improvement Clay had made had been dismissed.

The band launched into an up-tempo song and other couples took the floor. Clay did his best to ignore them. He couldn’t ignore the subtle sway of Andrea’s body as she moved her shoulders to the music. Her gaze drifted toward the dancers several times as she finished her salad.

He felt like a heel. He might resent being forced to participate in the auction, but Andrea had paid big bucks for these dates, and he had no right to cheat her. She deserved to get something for her money. Dancing with her would be tough, but he could handle it. He squared his shoulders and stood.

“Shall we?”

Andrea’s head tipped back and her hair cascaded over her shoulders. Eyes wide, she dampened her parted lips. Heat unfurled in Clay’s belly, and he regretted his invitation, but it was too late to retract it. Andrea’s fingers curled around his. Awareness traveled up his arm like a mild electric current.

He led her toward the small parquet square and then he turned, rested one hand on her waist and laced the fingers of his other hand through hers. She stepped into his arms, and damn, she fit as if she’d never left.

Her palm burned against his and the heat of her skin permeated the fabric of her dress. He’d forgotten how good she felt in his arms. And he didn’t want to remember now. He searched his mind for a diversion. “Tell me about the delivery tomorrow.”

“The caterers will arrive to set up at eleven. A champagne luncheon will be served at noon. The party lasts as long as it lasts. At that point the customer calls the shots. Sometimes they board the boat and leave immediately. Sometimes they hang around hours or days while they familiarize themselves with how everything works. Wear a suit tomorrow.”

“I remember.” He twirled her under his arm. She stepped back into his embrace without missing a beat. Just like old times. Her scent filled his lungs. A strand of her hair snagged on his evening beard. He jerked his head back.

Focus. On. Work. “I haven’t had a chance to look at the schedule yet. Who’s the client?”

A smile glimmered in her eyes and danced on her lips. “Toby Haynes.”

Clay frowned. “The race car driver?”

“Yes. This is his third Dean yacht.”

The news that NASCAR’s most notorious playboy would be onsite tomorrow distracted Clay from the brush of Andrea’s thighs against his, but not enough to stem his reaction to holding her close and knowing only a couple of inches and a few thin pieces of fabric separated him from Andrea’s bare skin. He blamed his reaction on abstinence.

He’d broken up with Rena five months ago after she’d thrown a tantrum when he’d given her a sapphire necklace instead of an engagement ring for Christmas. He hadn’t misled her because he’d told her up front that he wasn’t looking for marriage, but the nasty breakup had left a bitter taste in his mouth. He hadn’t dated since. A waiting list of design requests kept his evenings busy. Work was a demanding, but reliable mistress.

Clay glanced at the table. The food—and his excuse for escape—hadn’t arrived. “Repeat customers are good.”

Andrea’s tender smile unsettled him. “Yes and Toby’s always fun. He’s very hands-on through every stage of production, and since each yacht takes almost a year to complete we see a lot of him. The staff looks forward to his visits.”

Had he been hands-on with Andrea? Did she look forward to his visits? An ember in Clay’s gut smoldered. Don’t go there, man. You gave up your claim eight years ago. But he couldn’t deny the flicker of jealousy and that pissed him off.

He twirled her again, but Clay wasn’t concentrating on his footwork. This time he stepped forward when he should have gone backward. He collided with Andrea. He banded his arms around her to steady her and her soft curves molded against him. His lungs and heart stalled. Every cell in his body snapped to attention. It would be so easy to temporarily forget the demons that had driven him away.

Andrea gasped. Her golden gaze locked with his. Her breath swept his chin. The music played on, but Clay couldn’t break free of the magnetic pull to resume the dance. Holding Andrea in his arms felt like coming home.

His lips found hers without him consciously making the decision to kiss her. Sensation sparkled through his veins like a shaken magnum of champagne and his fingers tightened on her waist. His tongue swept over her bottom lip and into the warmth of her mouth. She tasted familiar. How could he remember her flavor after all this time?

She melted into him, meeting him halfway, testing and tangling, stroking. His tongue. His back. His memory. She matched him kiss for passionate kiss, and damn, she tasted good. Silky, sweet and hot, with a hint of champagne. A groan rumbled from his chest as hunger overpowered him.

Her palms splayed on his back under his jacket. The rasp of her nails hit him like a match to dry kindling, inflaming him. He cupped her hips, pulling her even closer. A roar filled his ears. His pulse? The wind?

Applause.

Clay jerked back. The couples around them clapped as the band finished a song, but several diners aimed their indulgent smiles in Clay and Andrea’s direction.

Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Coming home was a mistake. He couldn’t erase the past, and he sure as hell didn’t want to revisit it.

He’d never survive ripping his heart out a second time.

Oh God, I’m not over him.

Yes, you are. Andrea silently argued with the voice in her head. Her hormones remembered. That’s all.

She was over Clayton Dean.

Totally.

She stepped back, mentally and physically separating herself from the man and the memories swamping her. At the same time she filed away the information that her libido had only been hibernating. Good to know since she’d feared that switch had been permanently flipped into the off position.

Battling light-headedness and a racing pulse, she took a shaky breath and fought the urge to cover her hot cheeks. Instead, she hid her clenched fists in the full skirt of her dress. “Our dinner is waiting.”

Clay’s closed expression revealed nothing. He gestured for her to precede him to the table. Andrea crossed the room on unsteady legs.

One day. One blasted day and already her plan had sprung a leak. Where had she gone wrong? She condemned her traitorous body for ignoring her carefully mapped out plans. She was supposed to make Clay want her not vice versa, but there was no denying the fizz in her blood or the flush on her skin, and her reaction had nothing to do with the champagne in her glass.

Falling for Clay was a dead end street she refused to travel again. If he expected to temporarily resume the physical relationship they’d shared eight years ago, then he was ringing the wrong bell. Temporary had been excised from her vocabulary. She wanted forever this time. But not with Clay. She’d never trust his promises again.

As she slid into her chair she blinked in surprise. When had the tiny white lights outlining the frame of the atrium been turned on? She’d been too caught up in Clay to notice. The twinkling bulbs gave the impression of dining beneath a starlit sky. Romantic. Too romantic. But escape from the boat was impossible since they were somewhere in the middle of the Cape Fear River, and hurling herself overboard wouldn’t be wise.

She surreptitiously checked her watch. Two more hours to get through. Determined to devote her full attention to her prime rib, she draped her napkin across her lap.

“Should I apologize?”

The huskily voiced question made her heart stumble. She lifted her head with a jerk. Regret filled Clay’s deep blue eyes, and for some stupid reason that stung.

Had she expected him to suddenly realize he’d made a mistake by leaving her and declare his undying love? Of course not. She wanted closure, not a new beginning. She needed a man she could count on, one who wouldn’t let her down. Clay had abandoned his responsibilities and her without looking back.

She forced a smile to her lips and a lightness she didn’t feel into her voice. “Apologize for a kiss? Heavens no, Clay. We’ve shared hundreds of those in the past. But we work together now, so no more of that, okay?”

Clay excelled at running. And he hated himself for it. Not the physical sport which kept him in shape, but the mental gymnastics of avoiding a confrontation that could lead to nothing but trouble.

His feet pounded the pavement as his brain hammered out the issue. This morning he’d run from Dean Yachts, from Andrea standing alone on the back deck of the sales office with a mug in her hands and her face turned toward the sunrise. He’d run from memories of the countless sunrises they’d shared on the deck of his old sloop and an aching need to spend more with her. He’d run from her casual dismissal of a kiss that had capsized him.

His burning lungs and the sweat pouring from his body told him he’d pushed himself too hard. Circling back, he made it halfway up the Dean driveway before the thwump, thwump of an approaching helicopter broke the morning silence. The craft swept over his head, aiming for the helipad beside the sales building—another new addition in the past eight years. Who could it be? Their customer wasn’t due for four more hours.

Clay reached the parking lot as three male passengers, each carrying duffel bags, jumped from the helicopter. One waved and Andrea, still on the deck of the sales building, waved back. Even from a hundred yards Clay couldn’t miss the smile covering her face. She used to smile that way for him. The thought sucker punched him.

“Andi!” the waving visitor called loud enough to be heard over the rotors and Clay grimaced. The guy must not know how much she hated the nickname, but Andrea’s grin widened and she headed toward the helipad.

Clay picked up his pace.

Andrea met the visitors halfway across the lawn. The man leading the pack dropped his bag, snatched her into a hug and swung her off the ground, and then he planted a kiss right on Andrea’s smiling lips.

Clay’s steps faltered. His lungs weren’t the only thing burning. His stomach joined in the party with jealousy he had no right to feel. Andrea wasn’t his. Could never be his again.

And then he recognized their guests and the blowtorch in his gut intensified. Toby Haynes and his entourage.

With the NASCAR pretty boy’s arm still looped around her waist, Andrea greeted each of the other men and then turned toward the offices. She spotted Clay and her smile faded.

Clay closed the distance between them as the helicopter lifted off. Once the noise and wind died down Andrea said, “Clay, meet Toby Haynes, Bill Riley, his captain, and Stu Cane, his first mate. Gentlemen, this is Clayton Dean. He’ll be filling in for his father today.”

Haynes sized him up and offered a handshake. “Hey, man. How is your dad?”

Clay’s stiffening muscles had nothing to do with his run. He didn’t like the guy coiled around Andrea like a boa constrictor. And he didn’t know the answer to Haynes’s question.




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