Exposing the Executive's Secrets. Emilie Rose
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Andrea mentally kicked herself. Nothing like showing your damaged ego.
“No. It wasn’t.”
Her gaze bounced back to Clay’s and her heart missed a beat at the intensity in his eyes. Don’t do it. Don’t get sucked under. Tempt him, but keep your distance. She dampened her lips and belatedly accepted the water from him. The chilled bottle helped her regain her focus.
“But that was then. Now we’re two professionals who stand to gain quite a bit of publicity for our respective businesses if we conduct ourselves appropriately.”
His lips thinned. “That’s what this is to you? A publicity stunt?”
“That and an opportunity for us to put the past behind us and move on.” She gestured to the salon and galley. “This looks quite…homey.”
He leaned his hip against the galley counter and crossed his ankles, drawing her attention to his leather deck shoes worn without socks, and the sprinkling of dark hair peeking out from beneath the hem of his pants. “That’s because it is home.”
“For now, you mean.”
He shook his head. “I live on The Expatriate.”
“Permanently?” She couldn’t conceal her surprise.
“Yes.”
She curled her bare toes into the lush cream-colored carpeting and shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she scanned the interior again looking for signs of a feminine occupant. “Will we need a gate pass for anyone else on board?”
“I live alone.”
Relief rushed over her—relief she had no business feeling. “Have you ever owned a home? Besides a boat, I mean.”
They’d once talked of buying a house on the beach with a long expanse of sand on which their dogs and children could run. She’d bought the house, but lacked the children and pets. Having recently turned thirty she’d decided that if she wanted those factors to change—and she did—then she had to get the ball rolling.
His jaw hardened. “I had an apartment over a marina when I first moved to Miami. After I designed and commissioned my first yacht I moved on board. I’ve been living on the water ever since.”
“That certainly makes it easy to move.” She bit her imprudent tongue when his eyes hardened.
“Easy to leave, you mean?”
Be nice. Do not pick a fight. “That’s not what I said.”
“You want to take off the gloves?”
“I beg your pardon?”
His gaze drifted from the V-neck of her pantsuit to her bare feet and back to her eyes. Sensation rippled in the wake of his thorough inspection and ended up tangling in a knot behind her naval. “You’re clenching your fingers and even your toes. Are you spoiling for a fight, Andrea?”
“Of course not,” she answered quickly—too quickly, judging by his raised eyebrow. She hated that he could read her so easily. Exhaling slowly, she made a conscious effort to loosen her grip on the water bottle and her shoes.
When did you lose control of this meeting? Make your point and leave.
“We need a strategy for our interviews. It’s important to hide any tension between us from Octavia Jenkins. She’s a small-town reporter with big-city aspirations, and she’s willing to dig up dirt when necessary.”
His eyes narrowed. “You have dirt?”
Other than a long list of loser dates and an on again, off again relationship with a Dean’s client? “Me? No. My life’s an open book. You?”
He hesitated. “Not personally.”
What did that mean? For the first time she wondered if something or someone besides her had driven Clay from Wilmington. But no. She had to go with the facts as she knew them. Clay’s mother might buy the story that he’d left home because he couldn’t get along with his father, but Andrea didn’t believe it for one second. The Dean men had argued hard and often. Everyone claimed it was because they were too much alike. But their bond had been strong despite the bickering.
Clay drank from his bottle and then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Andrea, we were lovers. If Jenkins is as ambitious as you said, she’s not going to have to do much digging to uncover that.”
“No. But it’s not like that’s news to anyone who matters.”
Pensive furrows carved his brow and a nerve twitched beside his mouth. “How aggressive is she?”
“I don’t know. Why?” What kind of secrets did he have?
A shake of his head was her only reply.
Andrea moved away from the computer and glanced down the companionway. Clay’s bedroom. Her steps faltered, her pulse quickened and her knees weakened. Why did being ten paces from Clay’s berth still get to her? She had no intention of tumbling back into his bed. But an old familiar ache filled her belly.
Nostalgia. That’s all it is. Ignore it.
She had to get out of here even though they hadn’t settled on a story to feed Octavia Jenkins yet.
“We’ll talk later about the reporter. I have a conference call in a few minutes. I’ll see you in an hour for the production walk-through.”
Clay snapped his cell phone closed and dragged a hand over his face. The pushy journalist had laid waste to his plan to delay the dates as long as possible. If the Miami headhunters found an interim CEO quickly, then he’d have been able to return home without fulfilling his end of the auction bargain.
Cowardly? Probably. But he didn’t know if he could date Andrea, spend hours with her by candlelight and firelight and walk away again. No, he wasn’t still in love with her, but he was far too attracted to her for his peace of mind. Falling for her again would be too easy. But nothing had changed. In fact, his inability to stick with one woman more than a few months since leaving Andrea reinforced the fact that he might be like his father and incapable of fidelity.
He checked his watch. Damn. Late for his meeting with Andrea. He snatched up the safety glasses required anywhere on the property other than this dock and the sales building and left his yacht behind. Andrea met him at the end of the sidewalk.
How could a woman look attractive in bulky safety glasses and rubber-soled shoes? And yet Andrea did.
Clay shoved on his glasses and cursed his errant hormones. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Phone call. Can you change your plans for tonight?”
Eyes wide, her head whipped toward him. “Why?”
He accompanied her through the security gate and across the pavement toward the first metal building. “Because the reporter is demanding an interview to discuss our first date. That means we need to have one unless you want to blow her off.”
“We can’t do that.” She dipped her head and tugged at her earlobe. Years ago that had been a sign that she was uncomfortable. Was it still?
“I suppose I could.” She looked about as excited as she would if he’d invited her to spend the evening in a mosquito-infested swamp without bug repellant.
“The dinner cruise has an opening tonight. Where do you live?”
“I have a house on Wrightsville Beach.”
Regret needled him. Eight years ago they’d discussed buying a house on the beach together. “I’ll pick you up at seven. The boat sails at seven-thirty. I’ll need directions to your place before you leave.”
“I’d rather meet you there. That will give both of us more time to get ready.”
The door to the building opened before he could reply. Andrea greeted the man and then turned to Clay.
“You