Exposing the Executive's Secrets. Emilie Rose

She paused and turned. “About these dates…I’m not expecting, nor do I want, the romance promised in your auction package.”

      “My mother’s auction package,” he corrected. “I had nothing to do with it. She planned the entire thing. I’m just her damned puppet.”

      Why didn’t that surprise her? “Whatever. I want us to be civil, to show folks that there are no hard feelings. Reputation is everything in yacht building, and I don’t want any rumors of dissention inside the company spreading or Dean’s will lose business. If you have any problems with me or my work, then I’d prefer you keep them to yourself until we’re away from prying eyes.”

      He swore. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. If we could go back—”

      If he’d hurt her? She choked a humorless laugh at the absurdity of his comment and held up a hand, halting his words. “Would you still leave?”

      He raked his fingers through his hair, stared across the water. Ten seconds ticked past and then he exhaled. “Yes.”

      Somehow she managed not to stagger under the impact of his reply. Clay couldn’t possibly know how badly he’d hurt and humiliated her eight years ago. She would never give him—or any other man for that matter—the power to do so again. Never.

      “That’s all I need to know. I’ll see you Monday, Clay.”

      Two

      Traversing the wide sidewalk leading from the docks to Dean Yachts on Monday morning felt like coming home. But home was somewhere Clay no longer belonged.

      Perched high on a grassy knoll overlooking the Cape Fear River, the sales and marketing division looked more like an expensive beach house than the main offices of Dean Yachts. When he reached the front doors Clay turned. From this vantage point he could see the entire operation.

      A series of pale blue metal buildings in a range of shapes and sizes spread along a half-mile section of the riverfront property. Each building housed a specific stage of production, and Clay had worked in every one of them in one capacity or another beginning in his early teens. Both his grandfather and his father believed in learning the business from the ground up.

      During Clay’s absence murals of various Dean Yachts’ models had been painted on the waterfront sides of the structures giving the impression of a life-size parade of boats heading into port.

      Docks, some covered, some not, jutted from the shoreline. The slips held yachts nearing completion. Unless things had changed in eight years, the dock located directly behind the sales office was reserved for finished vessels awaiting delivery. His and one other occupied the slips.

      Clay let his gaze run over the complex again and sadness weighted him like ballast. He’d once taken pride in knowing that one day all this would be his. But not anymore. He’d forfeited everything when he’d run from the truth.

      Shaking off the bitter memory and the resulting sense of anger, betrayal and disappointment, he shoved open the wide glass door, stepped inside the reception area and jerked to a halt. Nothing looked the same. What once had been a dim, utilitarian entrance now looked as classy as the stateroom of a fine yacht. Sunlight streamed through the windows and skylights onto a gleaming teak floor. A gracefully curved reception counter had replaced the old metal desk, and beyond that a glass wall blocked the wide hall leading to the offices.

      The young woman seated behind the desk looked up and flashed him a smile that could sell toothpaste. “Good morning, sir. May I help you?”

      “I’m Clayton Dean.”

      Her smile dimmed a few watts and she sat up straighter. “One moment please. I’ll let Ms. Montgomery know you’re here. You’re welcome to have a seat while you wait.”

      A flip of her hand indicated the leather seating group against the wall. Another change. “No need. I’ll find her.”

      The woman sprang from her chair and blocked his path. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dean, you’ll have to wait until Ms. Montgomery gives you clearance.”

      What? “Clearance?”

      “You’ll need a security pass.” She punched a button on the gadget clipped to her belt and spoke quietly into her nearly invisible headset receiver. “Mr. Dean has arrived.”

      Had he stepped into the Twilight Zone? When he’d left eight years ago Dean’s hadn’t had any security other than locking the buildings at night and occasional drive-by from the sheriff’s department. This morning the back door closest to the dock—the entrance Clay had used since he was a kid—had been locked, and yesterday he’d had a sticky encounter with several members of the security crew when he’d taken his motorcycle out for supplies and to arrange for delivery of a rental car. They’d called his mother before letting him pass back through the gate.

      “She’ll be right with you, Mr. Dean.” The receptionist punctuated her words with another high-wattage smile.

      Clay couldn’t sit. This building held too many memories. Good ones. Bad ones. A flicker of movement drew his attention to the glass wall. Andrea strode down the hall. Her figure-skimming sage-green suit was as professional as Saturday night’s black dress had been drop-dead sexy. She’d twisted her thick blond hair up onto her head revealing the long, pale line of her throat. The polished woman before him was the antithesis of the unsure girl he’d left behind.

      A section of the glass glided open. “Thanks, Eve. I’ll take it from here. Good morning, Clay. Please come with me.”

      Andrea’s gaze briefly hit his and then she headed back the way she’d come before he had a chance to reply. His gaze automatically shifted to the curve of her hips as he followed her down the hall. She’d always had a killer walk. Her perfume tantalized him. It wasn’t the sweet flowery scent he remembered. This fragrance had a spicy and alluring kick to it.

      He cursed his response. Rekindling the old flame was out of the question. He could not stay in Wilmington and face the lie that continued to erode his pilings on a daily basis.

      Had his father kept his word? Clay couldn’t ask and doubted he’d get an honest answer if he did. How could he trust anything his father said anymore? How could he trust himself with that DNA?

      His muscles dragged like metal against rust-covered metal as they approached his father’s office. Struggling to get a handle on the emotions welling inside him, Clay paused in the corridor. He clenched and unclenched his hands as memories assailed him.

      The last time he’d taken this walk he’d been on top of the world. He’d come home from the University of New Orleans a day early to ask his father to go with him to buy Andrea’s engagement ring, and then he’d opened the door without knocking and his world had crashed.

      Determined to face yet another specter from his past Clay forced himself forward. Every stick of the old office furniture—including the damned couch where Clay had found his father screwing Andrea’s mother—had been replaced with expensive-looking classic pieces.

      He caught Andrea’s guarded gaze and noted her pinched expression. Did she know what had happened right here under her nose? She and her mother had always had an enviably close relationship, the kind of link he’d never shared with his father. If Andrea didn’t know about the affair, she’d be just as disillusioned by her mother’s behavior as he had been by his father’s. He wouldn’t do that to her.

      He jerked his head toward the door. “What’s with all the new security?”

      “We’re protecting our assets. Our base-price yachts cost a million dollars. Most of the models we build far exceed that. We can’t risk vandalism or theft.” She gestured for him to take a seat behind the cherry desk and tapped on a sheaf of papers waiting on the blotter with a pale pink—not red like Saturday night—fingernail. “I need you to read and sign these.”

      He remained standing, but lifted the pages and read a few paragraphs. Surprise forced his head up. “What is