The Duke's Boardroom Affair / Convenient Marriage, Inconvenient Husband: The Duke's Boardroom Affair. Michelle Celmer

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      She followed the plushly carpeted staircase up to the second floor and down an open hallway that overlooked the family room below. The home she had grown up in was more traditional in design, but she liked the open floor plan of Charles’s house.

      “Hello!” she called again, and got no answer. With the option of going either left or right, she chose right and peered into each of the half-dozen open doors. Spare rooms, mostly. But at the end of the hall she hit the jackpot. The master suite.

      It was decorated just as warmly as the living room, but definitely more masculine. An enormous sleigh bed—unmade, she noted—carved from deep, rich cherry dominated the center of the room. And the air teemed with the undeniable scent of the woodsy cologne he had been wearing the day before.

      She tried one more firm “Hello! Anyone here?” and was met with silence.

      Looked like the coast was clear.

      Feeling like an interloper, she stepped inside, wondering where the closet might be hiding. She found it off the bathroom, an enormous space in which row upon row of suits in the finest and most beautiful fabrics she had ever seen hung neatly in order by color. Beside them hung his work shirts, and beside them stood a rack that must have had three hundred different ties hanging from its bars. She wondered if he had worn them all. The opposite side of the closet seemed casual in nature, and in the back she discovered a mountain of dirty clothes overflowing from a hamper conveniently marked Dry Cleaning.

      It was shirts mostly. White, beige, and a few pale blue. She also noted that his scent was much stronger here. And strangely familiar. Not the scent of a man she had known only a day. Perhaps she knew someone who wore the same brand.

      Purely out of curiosity she picked up one of the shirts and held it to her face, inhaling deeply.

      “I see you found my laundry.”

      She was so startled by the unexpected voice that she squealed with surprise and spun around, but the heel of her pump caught in the carpet and she toppled over into a row of neatly hung trousers, taking several pairs with her as she landed with a thump on the floor.

      Cheeks flaming with embarrassment, she looked up to find Charles standing over her, wearing nothing but a damp towel around his slim hips and an amused smile.

      She quickly averted her gaze, but not before she registered a set of ridiculously defined abs, perfectly formed pecs, wide, sturdy shoulders, and biceps to die for. Damn her pesky photographic memory.

      “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. He reached out a hand to help her up and she was so tangled she had no choice but to accept it.

      “What are you doing here?” she snapped when she was back on her feet.

      He shrugged. “I live here.”

      She averted her eyes, pretending to smooth the creases from her skirt, so she wouldn’t have to look at all that sculpted perfection. “I’d assumed you’d left for work.”

      “It’s only seven-forty-five.”

      “I called out but no one answered.”

      “The granite in the master bath was sealed yesterday, so I was using the spare room down the hall.”

      “Sorry,” she mumbled, running out of places to look, without him realizing she was deliberately not looking at him.

      “Something wrong with that shirt?” he asked.

      She was still clutching the shirt she had picked up from the hamper, and she realized he must have seen her sniffing it. What could possibly be more embarrassing?

      “I was checking to see if it was dirty,” she said, cringing inwardly at that ridiculously flimsy excuse.

      Charles grinned. “Well then, for future reference, I don’t make a habit of keeping clean clothes in the hamper.”

      “I’ll remember that.” And she would make a mental note to never come into his house until she was entirely sure he wasn’t there, or at the very least fully clothed. “Well, I’ll get out of your way.”

      She turned and grabbed the rest of the clothes from the hamper, stacking them in her arms. He stepped out of her way and she rushed past him and through the doorway.

      “Might as well stick around,” he said.

      She stopped and turned to him, saw that he was leaning casually in the closet doorway. She struggled to keep her eyes from wandering below his neck. “Why?”

      “I was going to call my driver, but since you’re here, I’ll just catch a ride into work with you.”

      He wanted to ride with her? “I would, but, um, I have to stop at the dry cleaners first. I don’t want to get you to work late.”

      “I don’t mind.” He ran his fingers through the damp, shiny waves of his hair, his biceps flexing under sunbronzed skin. She stood there transfixed by the fluidity of his movements. His pecs looked hard and defined, and were sprinkled with fine, dark hair.

      He may have been an arrogant ass, but God, he was a beautiful one.

      “Give me five minutes,” he said, and she nodded numbly, hoping her mouth wasn’t hanging open, drool dripping from the corner.

      “There’s coffee in the kitchen,” he added, then he turned back into the closet, already loosening the knot at his waist.

      The last thing she saw, as he disappeared inside, was the towel drop to the floor, and the tantalizing curve of one perfectly formed butt cheek.

      Charles sat in the passenger side of Victoria’s convertible two-seater, watching her through the window of the dry cleaner’s. He would have expected her to drive a more practical car. A sedan, or even a mini SUV. Not a sporty, candy-apple-red little number that she zipped around in at speeds matched only on the autobahn. And it had a manual transmission, which he found to be a rarity among females. Sizewise, however, it was a perfect fit. Petite and compact, just like her. So petite that his head might brush the top had he not bent down.

      She was full of surprises today—the least of which was her reaction when he greeted her wearing nothing but a towel. To put it mildly, she’d been flustered. After her chilly reception last night in the office, he was beginning to wonder if she might be a bit tougher to seduce than he had first anticipated. Now he was sure that she was as good as his. Even if that meant playing dirty. Like deliberately dropping his towel before he cleared the closet door.

      Victoria emerged from the building with an armload of clean clothes, wrapped in plastic and folded over one arm. She tucked them into the trunk, then slipped into the driver’s seat. Her skirt rode several inches up her thighs, giving him a delicious view of her stocking-clad legs.

      If she noticed him looking, she didn’t let on.

      “They got the stain out of your jacket sleeve,” she told him, as she turned the key and the engine roared to life. She checked the rearview mirror for oncoming traffic, then jammed her foot down on the accelerator and whipped out onto the road, shifting so smoothly he barely felt the switch of the gears.

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