Exposing the Executive's Secrets. Emilie Rose
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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.
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