Exposing the Executive's Secrets. Emilie Rose

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ