Exposing the Executive's Secrets. Emilie Rose

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ