Читать книгу Exposing the Executive's Secrets - Emilie Rose - Страница 7

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.