Exposing the Executive's Secrets. Emilie Rose
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band’s drum roll rattled in tandem with her rapidly thumping pulse as the emcee announced the next bachelor.
Her bachelor. Clayton Dean.
Andrea pushed the tousled mass of her hair—the style another contribution from her friends—away from her face. Sure, she talked a good game by pretending that buying and confronting the man who’d shattered her heart and her confidence eight years ago was going to be a piece of cake, but her insides quivered and her knees knocked beneath her trampy dress. She’d loved Clay, had planned to marry him, have his children and run Dean Yachts by his side. His abrupt departure had nearly destroyed her.
What if her plan went terribly wrong?
She squared her shoulders and squashed her doubts. It wouldn’t. At thirty years old she was more than mature enough to face a former lover without making a fool of herself. Besides, she’d strategized every last detail—the same way she would an extensive marketing campaign.
Buy him, thereby obligating him to seven dates and giving her seven opportunities to:
Impress him with her acquired business savvy.
Tempt him, but keep her distance.
Question him to find out why she was so easy to leave.
Dismiss him from her heart and her head.
The women surrounding her screamed maniacally as Clay took his place center stage. Who wouldn’t want a series of dates with a handsome naval architect and award-winning yacht designer? But she was determined that Clay would be hers. Temporarily. Andrea clenched her numbered fan so tightly the wooden handle cracked.
An omen? Goose bumps raced over her skin.
Holly leaned closer and spoke directly into Andrea’s ear to be heard above the din. “Are you sure you can handle Seven Seductive Sunsets with Clay?”
“Of course.” She waved away Holly’s concern, but tucked her free hand behind her back when she realized her fingers trembled.
And then she lifted her paddle and cast the first bid on her former lover—the man who would soon be her boss.
If he didn’t love her, he’d kill her. Clay glared at his mother as he took the stage.
Smile, she mouthed and pointed to her own curving lips.
He turned a big, phony smile to the crowd. His mother could have warned him about the bachelor auction for charity, but no, she’d planned the date package, put his picture in the auction program and then shanghaied him the moment he’d docked today. He’d tried to buy his way out of this fiasco with a hefty donation, but nobody bulldozed Patricia Dean once she set her mind to something, and she’d set her mind toward making a fool of her only son.
But he owed her, so he let her get away with it.
As if he didn’t have enough on his plate running his own company, he had to take control of Dean Yachts until he could hire an interim CEO. That meant working with Andrea, Dean’s marketing manager, on a daily basis. Regret tightened like a fist around his heart.
He did not want to be here—not back in his hometown or up on this stage being auctioned off like a repossessed yacht. There was too much flotsam under the bridge, and there were too many disappointments, too many broken promises.
The women—tipsy from the sounds of it—called out lewd suggestions, but he’d be damned if he’d shake his wares or prance around like a male striper for his audience. If the other bachelors wanted to act like fools fine, but he wouldn’t. Being stuck babysitting some bubble-headed socialite was already beyond the call of duty.
Clay stood in the hot lights as stiff as a mast. One spotlight baked his skin. Another panned the crowd as the emcee rattled off Clay’s vital statistics. Staring out at the hysterical women, he mentally dared any one of them to buy him.
And then he saw her—Andrea—in the crowd. His lungs deflated like a sail without a breeze and his stomach shriveled into a hot lump of coal. Damn. What was she doing here? He’d thought he had until Monday to prepare himself for seeing her again.
He’d loved her—almost enough to turn a blind eye to the discovery that had knocked his foundations out from under him.
The spotlight shifted back to the stage, blinding him. The bid climbed higher, embarrassingly high compared to the last two saps. He should be proud he wasn’t going as low as a junked schooner, but he wasn’t. He wanted off the stage. The sooner, the better. The bidders used numbered paddles instead of calling out bids, and he couldn’t see who wielded the numbers because of the damned lights, so he didn’t have a clue who bid what.
The gavel hit the podium. “Sold,” the emcee shouted. “Come and collect your prize, number two-twenty-one.”
Good. Finally over—at least the first part of his torture. Clay gladly vacated the stage. His eyes adjusted to the dimness at the bottom of the stairs in time to see Andrea hand a check to the woman behind the desk. Shock locked his muscles.
Andrea had bought him!
He caught a glimpse of her wavy blond hair and caramel-colored eyes a split second before the visual impact of her black dress nearly knocked him to his knees. Her pale breasts poised on the brink of spilling from the gashing deep neckline, and a slit cut nearly to her crotch displayed one long, satiny leg. His breath lodged in his throat and he almost swallowed his tongue. Heat exploded in his groin.
Mayday. Mayday.
She strolled in his direction, smiling at him with a cool confidence he didn’t recall her having when she’d been his lover. “Hello, Clay. Shall we find a quiet corner and make our arrangements?”
Her voice slid through him like smooth, aged whiskey. How could he have forgotten her soft, southern drawl or the temperature-raising effect it had on him?
“Hold it,” a thirtyish African American woman called out. A tall, pale guy holding a camera stood beside her. The woman made a squeezing motion with her hands. Clay moved closer to Andrea. “Arms around each other, please, and smile.”
Clay gritted his teeth into a smile and put his arm around Andrea. His palm found bare skin. Damnation. The back of her dress was as bare as the front. Her body heat seared his palm and penetrated his tux jacket. Fire streaked through him. Fire he had to extinguish. Right now.
Andrea gasped, nearly expelling her breasts from the shiny black fabric. Clay couldn’t help himself. His gaze shifted to her creamy skin. And the camera flashed. Oh hell. Caught looking. Before he could ask the reporter to take another shot Andrea pulled free, pivoted on her very sexy heels and strolled away with a mind-altering sway to her hips.
Whoa. That was not the same woman he’d left behind. The Andrea he’d known would never have worn a dress guaranteed to make a man forget his manners and his name.
Reeling from the unwelcome slam of desire, he shook his head and caught sight of his mother’s smug smile. She was up to something—something he was certain would make him regret coming home more than he already did.
Clay followed Andrea toward the door. After the way he’d left her he’d expected her to want him dead.
Why would she come to his rescue tonight?
And what would it cost him?
“What game are you playing, Andrea?” Clay’s voice rumbled over her, deep and familiar, but with a rough edge Andrea didn’t remember.
Her heart raced and her breath came in short bursts—not caused solely by her hasty retreat from the prying eyes inside. She reached the deserted gazebo at the end of the dock jutting into the Cape Fear River and wished she could keep on walking. Despite two weeks of planning, she wasn’t ready for this confrontation, but she braced herself and turned.
With the lights of the Caliber Club behind him, shadow concealed most of Clay’s face. His cheeks appeared leaner and his jaw more sharply defined than eight years ago. Jagged streaks of moonlight reflected off the water