Читать книгу The CEO's Scandalous Affair / Seduced by the Wealthy Playboy - Roxanne St. Claire - Страница 6

One

When Parker Garrison strode into the conference room of Garrison, Inc., he noticed three things, despite the blinding sunshine that bounced off the water of Biscayne Bay and silhouetted the figures of his siblings, their mother and a few highly paid lawyers. One, there was no conversation. None. Not that he’d expected a party atmosphere at the reading of his father’s will, but it was unusual for a gathering of Garrisons to be quiet. They were, at the very least, an opinionated clan.

Two, his mother appeared relatively sober. All right, it was eight-thirty in the morning and even Bonita Garrison rarely hit the juice before noon, unless he counted the Bloody Marys she consumed in preparation for the Sunday family dinners. But since his father’s death two weeks ago, she’d leaned on her liquid crutch early and often.

Three—and most significant—John Garrison’s chair at the head of the mile-long cherrywood table remained empty. A situation Parker intended to rectify.

His sister Brittany practically choked when he eased himself onto the buttery leather and set his BlackBerry on the table in front of him.

“You’re sitting in Dad’s chair?” Brittany demanded, tapping the digital device that was never far from his right hand.

“It’s empty.” Parker ignored the implication that he was muscling in on his father’s turf. Because he was. He was the oldest. He’d run the family’s umbrella corporation for the past five years, since his father had given him the CEO position as a thirty-first birthday present.

The rest of them had their hands deep in the Garrison affairs—they each owned one of the properties, whether it was the Grand hotel, a club, restaurant or condo complex. But he’d earned this chair, and not just by birth order. With work, sweat, insight, guts and a few masterful decisions.

“It’s disrespectful,” Brittany hissed, tapering her brown eyes in disgust and leaning her narrow shoulders closer to make her point. “To the dead.”

Brooke reached over and touched her sister’s hand. “Relax, Britt. He has to sit somewhere.”

Parker threw a grateful glance at his other sister, marveling at how the sisters were twins in appearance only. Brooke responded with a smile that softened her lovely features and accentuated the difference between the sweet sister and the scowling one even more.

Across from Brooke and Brittany, Stephen locked his hands behind his head and rocked his chair easily with a long, muscular body that practically matched Parker’s gene for gene, right down to the signature cleft that every Garrison sported on their chin. Stephen’s dark eyes danced with wry amusement, his flawless smile white against a face tanned from a recent escape on his sixty-foot cabin cruiser.

“Sit wherever you like, big brother,” Stephen drawled. “He may not be using the chair, but I think we’re about to feel the hand of our dearly departed father in every corner of this room.”

Parker frowned at the comment, and followed his closest sibling’s meaningful gaze to the imposing figure cut by Brandon Washington, the young and brilliant attorney who handled the family affairs. Brandon’s strong jaw was set as he moved papers purposefully in front of him, his large hands steady and determined. At that moment, he met Parker’s gaze, and just beneath the burnish of his espresso-colored complexion, Parker could see…anger? Surprise? Dread?

Whatever Brandon had read in John Garrison’s will, the warning look the lawyer gave Parker held a clear message: You’re not going to like this.

Parker shifted in his seat, tamping down concern. What could the will say that Parker wouldn’t like? Nothing mattered to him except control of Garrison, Inc. The money, the properties, the estate—all were secondary to him, all one notch less important than the umbrella firm that invested the profits.

Let the others have their slices of responsibility. He held the biggest piece of the pie dish in his hand. Surely Dad wouldn’t have changed his mind about a decision he’d made five years ago, long before he’d known he’d die at sixty-two from a heart attack.

Still, he really didn’t like the vibe Brandon emitted. And neither, he could tell, did his mother.

Evidently, Bonita Garrison had picked up the same message, her fragile features drawn from mourning and worry. She pushed at an imaginary strand of jet-black hair, a silver thread catching the light, the gesture one of pure nervousness as she studied Brandon for clues. Were there surprises in store for her today? Hadn’t she discussed every aspect of John’s last will and testament with the man she’d married more than thirty-seven years earlier?

Maybe not, judging by the quiver of her delicate hands. Maybe she should have had a slug of Stoli before they’d gathered. Hell, maybe this event called for a round for the table. If only to numb the still-raw pain caused by losing a man deeply loved by each of his five children. A love, Parker thought bitterly, that didn’t exactly extend to their cool and distant mother.

Adam arrived last, the only missing sibling of the five, slipping into the conference room in his usual quiet, detached way, shaking back some of his long, dark hair. He’d have to see a barber if he wanted to be taken more seriously than just the owner of a nightclub—even if Estate was one of Miami Beach’s hottest spots. As birth order would have it, Adam was the youngest of the three Garrison men, but sat dead center in the family once the twins came along to claim the joint spot as “babies.”

When the lawyer cleared his throat and stood, Parker ended his musings about his family. They’d all work out their various issues and problems, he felt certain. And he’d work out his problems—like the current decline in the Garrison brand that translated into unhappy investors, business partners and patrons.

He’d solve that, as long as he had the lion’s share of control. He turned his attention to Brandon with the confidence of a man who rarely lost his focus. That legendary focus had gotten Parker where he was today, and it would keep him there far into the future.

Hadn’t Dad assured him of that?

Brandon droned legalese. Next to him, Stephen shot a look of impatience to Parker, who curled his lip in a half smile of response. Brittany doodled on a pad, tempting Parker to kick her under the table and tell his flighty little sister to pay attention. Brooke watched the lawyer, rapt, as did Adam. His mother shifted in her seat, and sighed under her breath as assets were divided and doled exactly as they had all expected.

Suddenly, Brandon stopped talking. He inhaled slowly. He looked at Bonita with no small amount of pity and then leveled his gaze directly at Parker.

“The next section is in regard to the controlling shares of the parent company, Garrison, Inc. Mr. Garrison stated that they are to be divided among his six children.”

Parker flinched. Brittany blinked. Stephen leaned forward, uttering a quiet, “What?”

Did he say six?

The lawyer must be putting in too many billable hours.

“Uh, there are five of us, Brandon,” Parker corrected, a little smile tugging at his lips. “See?” He crooked his head toward the table. “Five.”

Brandon responded with a long, silent stare, underscored by a nervous laugh from one of his young associates.

“Five in this room,” Brandon said deliberately. “Six in all.”

For a split second, no one said anything as shock rolled off the room’s residents, bounced all over the table and left a palpable change in the air. Parker scowled at the lawyer, trying to process what he’d said.

Then chaos erupted when Stephen bellowed, “That’s preposterous!” and Brittany let out a surprised shriek and Brooke half stood to demand an explanation. Through it all, their mother breathed so hard she damn near growled. Only Adam was quiet, but even he wore an expression of complete disbelief.

Brandon held up a hand, but they ignored him. The noise level rose, the undercurrent of incredulity and fury elevated with each question and demand.

“Stop!” Parker said with a solid thwack on the cherrywood. “Let him finish.”

As it had for most of his thirty-six years, a single command brought his younger siblings in line. When the room was finally silent, he said, “Obviously, this begs for an explanation.”

Brandon nodded and read from the document. “The controlling shares of Garrison, Inc. will be divided among my six…” he paused and raised an eyebrow for emphasis “…children. The division is as follows—fifteen percent, in equal shares, to Stephen, Adam, Brooke and Brittany.”

Parker’s chest tightened as he waited for Brandon to continue.

“The remaining forty percent will be split evenly between my son Parker and my daughter Cassie Sinclair, who will also be given full ownership of the Garrison Grand-Bahamas property.”

Blood sang in Parker’s head nearly as loudly as the eruption that filled the room again.

“Cassie Sinclair is his daughter?”

“The manager of the Bahamas property now owns it?”

“And twenty percent of the parent company?”

“She’s not his…”

Bonita Garrison stood slowly, her face ghost-white, her hands quaking. Her children quieted, as all eyes turned toward her.

“The son of a bitch,” she said to no one in particular. “The cheating son of a bitch. I’m glad he’s dead.”

She pivoted and walked out of the room, her shoulders quivering as she tried to hold them square. A barrage of questions, accusations and outraged calls for the truth exploded in her wake.

Now, Parker thought bitterly, it sounds like a typical Garrison family gathering.

But his pulse drowned it all out, and he had to physically work to control a temper he’d long ago conquered.

No damn wonder Brandon had given him that silent warning. And no damn wonder his father had stayed so deeply involved in the day-to-day operations of the Bahamas property.

“Who’d have guessed that?” Stephen said to him, softly enough so only Parker could hear. “The old man had someone on the side.”

Parker closed his eyes in disgust. Not because his father had had an affair. And not because that sin had created a sixth Garrison child. But because, for some reason he’d never know or understand, John Garrison had decided to slice Parker’s world in half, and give the other portion to some hotel manager living in Nassau.

Some hotel manager—now owner—who was his half sister.

He pushed his chair away from the table, determined not to let the bubble of anger brew into a full boil. Instead, he cut his gaze to Brandon’s, ignoring the chaos around them.

“We’ll talk, Brandon,” Parker said. “But I’ve got a company to run.”

Brittany let out a tiny snort. “You have part of a company to run.”

He refused to dignify the comment, but scooped his PDA off the table, nodded to Stephen in particular and the table in general. “Knock yourselves out, kids.”

Without waiting for a response, he left the room, grateful that unlike the rest of them, who would have to travel to various Garrison properties, his office was just down the hall on the twenty-second floor of the Brickell Avenue high-rise that housed the corporate offices of Garrison, Inc.

There, he would find sanctuary and maybe the privacy to sucker punch a wall with no witnesses.

He’d tell Anna to hold every call and appointment. What he needed to do was assess the situation and figure out a solution. That was what he did. Cold, calculating and calm, Parker Garrison manipulated every move of a multimillion-dollar empire, so he could certainly control his insanely bad mood and maybe his father’s ridiculously poor judgment.

He ignored the provocative smile of Sheila, the heavily made-up receptionist who manned the front desk of the plush executive offices of Garrison, Inc. He continued directly to his corner office, resisting the urge to rip off his tie and howl in fury, his blood temperature rising with each purposeful stride toward privacy.

As he turned the corner, he expected to see his assistant at her desk, efficiently gatekeeping his world as she’d been doing for a few months since he’d promoted her from the human resources department. But Anna’s desk was empty, with no sign of light or life.

At nine in the morning?

Wasn’t anything the way it was supposed to be today?

Inhaling sharply, he pushed the door to his office open and closed it without giving in to the temptation to slam it, swearing softly on his exhale.

That was when he heard the humming. Not a normal hum of activity or a printer or even the refrigerator from the wet bar in the corner. No, this was more like a screaming buzz. But that wasn’t all. The humming barely drowned out…

Singing.

He paused for a minute, then looked toward the source, behind the partially opened bathroom door discreetly tucked around the corner of his spacious office. Singing?

If you could call that singing. More like a sinfully off-key soprano belting out something from…West Side Story. She felt pretty? Oh, so pretty? It was hard to tell with the whine as loud as a jet engine drowning it out, and the total flatness of the notes.

Propelled by curiosity and still fueled by a losing battle with his temper and control, he continued toward the sound, the soft warmth of shower steam tumbling from the open door, along with something that smelled like flowers and powder.

He paused at the eight-inch gap in the bathroom door, leaned in to be sure he wasn’t imagining things, then just stood there and stared at…

Legs.

No. That didn’t do them justice. These were works of art. Heaven-sent. Endless, bare, tight-thighed, smooth-skinned, strip-club worthy legs spread about a foot apart, slipped into three-inch heels and topped off by a barely covered-in-silk female rump stuck straight in the air.

He gaped, mesmerized and only slightly deafened by the noise, which was caused by a blow-dryer aimed at a cascade of dark hair that hung upside down and grazed the marble floor of his private bathroom.

She couldn’t sing her way out of a paper bag, but if he stood here listening and looking too much longer, he’d need a paper bag for hyperventilation.

Suddenly, she jerked to a stand, whipped her still-damp hair over her shoulder and faced the mirror, giving him a wide-open shot of a pink lace bra that barely covered her sweetly curved cleavage.

“Oh, my God!” She yelped and spun around, slapping her hands over her and hardly covering a thing. His gaze dropped lazily, taking in the narrow waist, the flare of feminine hips, the low bikini cut of delicate pink panties cupping an alluring apex between those lovely thighs.

Good God, his administrative assistant had been hiding all this under navy pantsuits and crisp white blouses?

“Anna?” His voice sounded as tight as his throat suddenly felt.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

The question yanked him back to her face, her appealing features tinged with the shade of her matching underwear, bottle-green eyes bright with embarrassment.

“What am I doing here?” He didn’t mean to smile. Or stare. But, he was human. And she was…unbelievable. “Last time I checked, this was my office.”

She managed an indignant breath—no mean feat for a woman clad only in heels and underwear. “I mean, so soon. What are you doing here so soon? Aren’t you in a meeting? With your family? About the will?”

The will. The words whacked him over the head as effectively as if he’d stepped into the shower that still dripped behind her. “I left early.”

She threw a pleading glance at the towel rack next to him. She wanted coverage. But he wanted answers. And a few more seconds to memorize every delectable inch of her.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, still struggling for her always-professional voice.

“No kidding.” He couldn’t help the tease in his. This was, without a doubt, the bright spot in an otherwise dismal morning.

“I went running,” she said, with another desperate look at the towel rack. “It’s very humid out there. I needed a quick shower. I thought you’d be a while.”

His gaze was slipping again, along with his ability to form a coherent thought other than the one screaming in his brain: How the hell had his all-business-all-the-time administrative assistant concealed that body from him?

And why would she? Most women with a figure like hers would wear as little as possible, as often as they could.

“The meeting ended early,” he said calmly, lingering just one more minute on the heels. Did she wear them every day?

He tore his attention from her slender ankles to slide over the neat little turn of her calf and meander back to that silky triangle with a silent vow to buy more Victoria’s Secret stock. He zeroed in on a luscious inny navel, then paused just long enough for those lace cups to rise and fall with an exasperated breath.

“If you don’t mind, I could use a towel.” Her demand was sharp as shock morphed into anger.

She was angry? He should give her a lesson in professionalism, a reminder that she shouldn’t be making herself at home in his office. He could treat her like the employee she was, and reprimand her for not being at her desk, or even issue a warning that she shouldn’t assume anything about his schedule.

But all he did was smile and tug the towel from the rack, holding it out to her. “Great shower, isn’t it?”

Her eyes widened in surprise as she took the welcome cover and wrapped it around her narrow frame, hiding every blood-warming curve. “Yes.”

“Gotta love those dual massage heads.”

A sneaky smile pulled at her mouth as she tucked terry into terry and formed a makeshift knot under her collarbone.

“Yes. They’re great. Both of them.” She straightened and lifted her chin, doing her very best to appear the altogether competent assistant who’d impressed him from the first interview. She almost pulled it off, except for the tumbling waves of dark hair that she normally wore in a tight twist, and the fact that the towel barely covered her backside.

He cleared his throat and tried really hard to scowl. “Anna,” he said sternly.

“Yes?”

His head pounded with the morning’s news followed by the surprise attack on his hormones. But that was no reason to take his anger and physical response out on this young woman whose only real crime was bad timing. Or good timing, depending on your perspective.

“Don’t quit your day job to be a singer.”

Her smile transformed her whole face, taking what had been plain, passably pretty features to something more stunning. “Not to worry, Mr. Garrison.”

But he was worried. Not only had he missed her incredible body, he’d never even noticed her milky smooth skin, or the way the tip of her tongue slipped between her teeth when she smiled, or how nicely her eyes tilted up at the sides. He’d never noticed this lovely woman right under his nose.

So of course he worried. Worried that he was going blind. Or maybe he was just so deep into the family business that he’d failed to see the gorgeous woman who sat outside his office all day long.

He turned to leave, closing the door to give her privacy to dress, and congratulating himself on the return of control and focus. And perspective.

So she was pretty. So she had a body that could bring him to his knees. It didn’t matter. What had just happened was nothing more than a close encounter that she would regret and he would forget. She was an excellent assistant and he had an empire to run, a will to contest, a brand to build. He needed his legendary control and focus more than ever.

But, damn, it would be hard to forget those legs.

Anna crossed the Oriental rug that welcomed visitors to the CEO’s suite and stabbed the digital air conditioner control until it read a chilly sixty-seven degrees.

But even that wouldn’t reduce the burn of embarrassment that singed her from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes. If it even was embarrassment. It was a burn, anyway. As hot and uncomfortable as Parker Garrison’s eyes when he’d given her a visual lick from those same roots to those same toes.

A familiar wicked, gooey sensation stirred low in her belly. Really low. Really wicked. Really familiar. And really dumb to think about her boss that way.

“Stupid,” she chided as she turned on her computer and picked up the phone receiver to listen to voice mail messages. How could she have been so careless? Just for five extra minutes under the ultimate hydro-jet massage from heaven?

God, if he knew how many times she’d treated herself to that shower, she’d be updating her résumé. And she’d worked in human resources long enough to know that the last place she wanted to be was on the job market. No one hired anyone without a check of the Internet—and she knew exactly what would pop up when someone typed “Anna Cross” into a search engine.

Accused of corporate spying…

No, Anna shouldn’t do anything that would force her to look for another job. So, she’d better hope her boss didn’t think borrowing the shower was grounds for dismissal.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she listened to the voice mail system announce that Parker Garrison had seventeen messages.

Seventeen? What the heck was going on?

By the time she jotted down message number five, she knew. At least she knew that something really bad had gone down at the morning meeting. The various Garrison siblings and a couple of lawyers didn’t provide details in their voice mails, but their tone, along with a few clues about “what the will said,” didn’t sound good.

Parker’s door had remained firmly shut since she’d done her level best to exit his office with some measure of dignity, knowing he watched her, knowing he’d seen everything she’d been careful to hide. Ever since she’d arrived at Garrison, Inc. four years ago, Anna had done whatever was necessary to stay off the radar, and do an outstanding job as an administrative assistant.

In fact, she’d done such an outstanding job in human resources that she’d been handed the promotion of her dreams when the slot for Parker Garrison’s administrative assistant had become available three months ago. Maybe, considering her history, she should have turned it down.

But she couldn’t resist the upgrade in status, pay and benefits. Plus, she’d been tucked away on a lower floor for almost four years. Surely, after all this time, her past would remain, well, in the past.

Still, it had become habit to keep a low profile.

Until ten minutes ago when her profile had been anything but low. It had been…damn near naked.

She closed her eyes again as another heat wave threatened, trying to ignore it as she noted each caller. No, that definitely wasn’t embarrassment. Nor was it a feminine response to the warmth of Parker’s very obviously high opinion of how she looked sans suit. The heat wave that warred with the air conditioner was raw terror.

The only thing she’d ever wanted out of this job, this city and this life was anonymity and peace. No attention—from men or media. No connection—with her boss or his associates. No trouble—ever. And what had just happened in that bathroom spelled attention, connection and trouble in capital red letters.

She recorded the rest of the messages on a call sheet that she delivered to him hourly, only slightly reassured by the fact that whatever was going wrong in Parker’s world, it would divert his attention from her.

Her intercom buzzed.

“Yes, Mr. Garrison?”

“I need you.”

Her gut clenched. “I’ll be right there, Mr. Garrison.”

“I think, Anna—” his voice in the receiver was just soft enough to make her tighten her grasp and push the phone closer to her ear “—you could probably call me Parker now.”

Now that I’ve seen you in your underwear. Her heart wobbled. “Absolutely, Mr.…Parker.”

He was still chuckling when she hung up.

“Come on, Anna,” she whispered to herself, gathering her planner and pen. Parker didn’t strike her as the kind of man to torture and tease a woman, or one who would assume that just because he’d seen her in the almost altogether that he could have his way with her.

She stood, surprised at how shaky that thought made her legs. Have his way with her.

A stupid, archaic phrase that sent even stupider, more archaic pulses down her body. So they’d had an awkward moment.

She rolled her eyes at the understatement. A really awkward moment. And so what if she’d seen a lusty side of a man she found attractive? Okay, gorgeous. All right, hot as sin.

She was still a top-notch administrative assistant who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that office affairs were for fools who liked to job hop. And he was a very important, busy man who had an electronic black book with the name and private cell phone number of every available model, debutante and businesswoman in Miami-Dade County.

She was still an employee, and he was still the boss. Period. End of fantasy.

She tapped on his door, opening it as she did. She’d always done that, but this morning, the intrusion felt more intimate. He stood at the window, the cordless phone held to his ear, his attention on the postcard view of Biscayne Bay. Through a floor-to-ceiling window, sunlight glinted off blue-violet waves, polka-dotted with pleasure craft and cruise ships, fringed by emerald palm trees and the pastel high-rises of Miami Beach on the horizon.

But the real view was inside and, as always, Anna stole an eyeful.

Parker had removed his jacket, revealing the tailored cut of a snow-white zillion-thread-count designer shirt pulled just taut enough to hint at the toned, developed muscles underneath. The shirt was tucked neatly into dark trousers, custom-made to fit like a dream over one drool-inducing backside.

The man was a god.

He turned from the window and she averted her eyes before getting caught worshipping at the altar of his backside.

“Can the legal crap, Brandon,” he said into the phone, sliding one of his hands through closely cropped, thick black hair. “I don’t care what the DNA test results will say. Can we or can we not contest this will?”

DNA? Contest the will? Anna frowned, but Parker just nodded to one of the guest chairs in front of his desk, issuing an unspoken invitation for her to sit. As always, he seemed utterly calm, the aura of authority that shimmered around him neatly in place. But there was something different in that clipped voice, and in the tense way he held his broad shoulders. His control was tied on with a tenuous thread today.

“Fine, you do that,” he said, leaning his head to one side to work out a crick. “In the meantime, it’s business as usual. My business.” He glanced at Anna, who made a show of flipping her planner to the next clean page so she didn’t stare. Even though she’d become quite adept at avoiding detection.

“Oh, damn it all, I completely forgot.” His tone changed with the admission, and she instantly sat up, prepared to help him remember what he forgot. That was, after all, her job. Not ogling his perfectly shaped butt, impossibly wide shoulders or Adonis-like chest. Parker-gazing was just a side benefit.

“I can’t go,” he said to Brandon, sliding into the high-backed desk chair and reaching for his little black digital device and pressing a few buttons. “But, with the bomb you just dropped at this morning’s reading, I think I need to be there more than ever.”

He paused and Anna tried to psych out what he was talking about.

“But I’m way too swamped to consider going that far away,” he added, “unless I charter a jet.”

Of course. London.

“I have a ton of work to do this weekend,” he continued, “and it’s impossible to get anything done on a commercial flight.”

Anna slipped a creamy-white card embossed with silver letters from the “pending” section of his calendar. Her fingers glided over the imprint of the International Hotel and Restaurant Association seal, over the gilded script inviting him to the annual ball at Guildhall in London. She’d been meaning to get a response from him so she could RSVP.

He chuckled softly, fiddling with the buttons on the PDA as he tucked the phone into one of those impressive shoulders.

“Yes. A date,” he said casually to Brandon, and shot a lazy wink at Anna, which sent an involuntary stutter to her heart. “I suppose I’d need to get one of those, too.”

Which of the lucky ladies would win that lottery?

Maxine, whose daddy owned half of Palm Beach? Or the nine-foot glamazon who’d been on the cover of Vogue twice? He’d been seeing a lot of her in the past few weeks. Maybe he’d go for that spunky redhead who owned the PR agency that had done some work for Garrison, Inc. last month. Sparks were certainly crackling in the conference room when that one came in for a meeting.

“As a matter of fact, I might have the perfect person.” His gaze landed right on her, intense, relentless and unwavering. Exactly the way it had been when he’d devoured her with it in the bathroom.

A low, slow flame curled up her belly and started a familiar bonfire. One she’d become very good at dousing with four simple words that have saved legions of love-struck secretaries: He’s your boss, dummy.

Suddenly, he stood, turned to the window and copped the voice he used to end a conversation instantly. “Keep me posted, Brandon. And I’ll let you know what I decide.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, but stared at the cloudless blue sky, his back rising and falling with steady, slow breaths.

Then he turned and trained his midnight gaze on her. “As you can tell, Anna, I didn’t get good news this morning.”

She set the call sheet on his desk. “That must explain the seventeen voice-mail messages.”

He scanned the list, and swore so softly she almost didn’t hear it. “Brandon’s right.”

“About?”

“I have to be at the IH & RA ball in London. It’s more important than ever that I maintain…” He paused, assessing her as though he was wondering just how much to tell her. “Leadership.”

“Your leadership is never in doubt.”

He tilted his head, acknowledging the compliment with shuttered lids that said he believed the opposite. At least, at the moment. Then he yanked out his chair and sat, leaning forward the way he always did when he made a decision that he would not second-guess. Not that he’d ever second-guessed anything, ever, in his life.

“Please arrange for the charter jet company to have a Gulfstream V ready to leave tomorrow, very early, from Kendall-Tamiami Executive Airport. That will put me in London Friday evening, with plenty of time to make the function on Saturday and return on Sunday morning. I’ll be back in the office on Monday. I’ll need the Berkeley Suite at the Ritz-Carlton London. Don’t let them tell you it’s not available—”

“I’ll use your name.”

“Yes, and I’ll need a limo to and from the event, which is—”

“At Guildhall.”

“Right. And I have a driver in London I prefer—”

“Mr. Sanderson with the London Car Company.”

He laughed softly. “Yes.”

She scribbled the onslaught of instructions. “You’ll want some files for the plane,” she said.

“Of course.”

“The financials on the Grand are up for review next week,” she reminded him, still writing. “And you’ll need the latest investment results, and the agenda for the exec committee meeting next—”

“Get me everything we have on the Garrison Grand-Bahamas.”

She did look up at that, it threw her so completely. “The hotel in Nassau?”

“Everything,” he repeated.

“Of course.” She scratched another note, swallowing the question of why? A good admin didn’t ask. “And you’ll probably need to review your speech for the business council so I’ll include the notes, and you have an appointment with a marketing firm regarding new collateral materials late next week, so no doubt you’ll want a complete…” A strange tingling sensation suddenly froze her pen in hand. Slowly, she looked up from her pad to find him staring at her. “You do still want to meet with that firm on Thursday afternoon, right?”

Staring? No. Bottomless brown bedroom eyes practically swallowed her whole.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, striking a neutral chord in her voice despite the way her limbs turned heavy.

“Make it easy on me, Anna, and come to London.”

Oh. Oh. “Make what easy?”

“The work. You know so much about my work and you’re so incredible…incredibly organized. I can only rationalize this much time away from the office if I’m productive. And with you, I’m productive.”

The work. Of course. Why else would he want her to go to London? And why else would she even consider it?

“You can have comp vacation days to make up for the lost weekend,” he added, as though she were actually worried about that. He had no way of knowing that her hesitation had nothing to do with losing a weekend, and everything to do with losing her mind. Proximity to the object of her steamiest nightly fantasies could drive her crazy.

“That’s no problem,” she said slowly. “I don’t mind working the weekend.”

“Then you’ll go.” He smiled, a genuine grin that he saved for when he won a small victory in business. Something he did about a million times a day. “Perfect. You’ll need something very formal. That ball at Guildhall is over the top.”

“The ball?” He couldn’t be serious. “You want me to go to the ball?”

He laughed lightly. “That’s the idea, Cinderella. Why would I dig up a date when you’ll already be there?”

Like he’d have to dig far. “Because…” She couldn’t think of a reason. Except that one.

He’s your boss, dummy.

Unless what he’d seen in the bathroom made him think of her differently.

“Mr. Garrison, uh, Parker,” she said, standing just so she could gain the minor advantage of height for once. “I’m sorry about this morning. I—”

He pointed toward the bathroom door. “That?” He waved away her concern as if it were no more than a flea. “Totally forgotten, I assure you.” Tapping the call sheet, he added, “Better get that charter booked and get all the files in order, and I’ll get to these seventeen calls.”

Done. Decision made. No arguing or second-guessing or trying to explain that she couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t go to London with him. Because she could, and she would.

Leaving his office, Anna found Sheila McKay in the act of depositing more handwritten messages.

“These came to the front desk while you were in with Mr. Garrison,” the receptionist said. “The phones absolutely haven’t stopped since that meeting ended.”

“I just gave him seventeen others,” Anna said with a sigh. “Looks like it’s going to be a busy day.”

Sheila wrinkled a picture-perfect nose, which fit her picture-perfect face and body. Anna hadn’t been surprised to learn the stunning woman was a former Playmate who’d probably filled her bunny suit very nicely. She’d always been very friendly with Anna, especially since Anna had received the promotion to work for the CEO. But Anna remained distant with all her coworkers.

Friends wanted to know your past.

“So,” Sheila said, sliding a well-toned hip on the corner of Anna’s desk. “What went down in Garrison land? Did the old man drop a bomb from the grave or something?”

The words DNA test and contest the will rang in Anna’s ears.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said coolly. Even if she did, she wouldn’t tell the receptionist.

“There’s buzz, you know,” Sheila whispered, undaunted. “Mario in the mail room told me La Grande Madame left the conference room muttering obscenities, and is rumored to have had a bottle open before the limo door closed.”

No wonder Mario had been in the mailroom since the day John Garrison had started the company. Gossips didn’t get promoted. Anna flipped through the messages, deciding the best way to deflect the conversation.

“I’m really in the weeds, Sheila, trying to get Mr. Garrison ready for a trip to London.”

Sheila levered off the desk with a sigh of resignation. “London, huh? Ah, the lucky lifestyles of the rich and famous. Must be nice.” With a wave, she disappeared around the corner and left Anna with her mountain of messages.

Was it nice? She was about to find out. She knew she should be honored, excited and delighted for the opportunity to spend a weekend working in London.

But she had so much to hide, starting with the fact that she had a killer crush on her boss. But, honestly, that was the least of her secrets. And, if she wasn’t careful, Parker Garrison could find out something far worse than the fact that he was the object of a few daydreams.

And that would be a nightmare.