Exposing the Executive's Secrets. Emilie Rose

I’m not. You’re a naval architect with your own design firm, but temporarily you’re an employee here. We have to take precautions against our ideas being pirated.”

      Fury boiled in his veins at the insult to his ethics. He fought to contain it. “You expect me to run the place, but this,” he rattled the sheets, “says you don’t trust me.”

      Her lips firmed and her chin lifted. “It’s a business decision, Clay. Emotion doesn’t enter into it.”

      Bitterness filled his mouth. He wasn’t the cheat in his family. “My father’s idea?”

      A defiant glint entered her eyes and a flush rose in her pale cheeks. “No. Mine.”

      That doused his anger like nothing else could. He had no right to complain. He’d earned Andrea’s distrust. He skimmed the pages, scratched his name across the line at the bottom of the page and passed the document to her.

      She nodded acceptance. “I’ve left the current order summary and a packet of info to reacquaint you with the company in your in-box. You’ll need to familiarize yourself with our existing client roster since they’re allowed to drop in at anytime to check the status of their project. I’d suggest you look through those documents until Fran, your administrative assistant arrives. She comes in at nine. Her office is through here.” She shoved open a door on the starboard side of the room.

      Andrea acted like a car show model—gesturing stiffly here and there, making minimal eye contact, but he noticed the slight tremor of the pages she held. Another needle of regret stabbed him. He and Andrea had once been as comfortable together as two lovers could be.

      “When Fran arrives she’ll make your security ID and fit you with the necessary safety equipment. You’ll need to swipe the ID card to access the controlled areas and the front gate. We have one delivery tomorrow and another next week. Both are noted on your calendar. There’s quite a bit of hoopla attached to delivery celebrations. Again, Fran will fill you in.

      “I’ve scheduled a production walk-through at three this afternoon for you. My office is still where it used to be if you need anything.” She headed for the door.

      “Andrea.” He waited until she turned. “I won’t work in here. My office is out there.” He pointed toward the wide window overlooking the water. The Expatriate, one of his own designs, rocked beside the dock to the rear of the sales office.

      Her eyebrows dipped. “You expect me to trot out to the dock every time I need to speak to you?”

      “Either that or call my cell phone.” He extracted a business card from his wallet and wrote his cell number on it. He passed it to her and their fingers brushed. The contact hit him like a bolt of lightning.

      Strictly business, Dean.

      “I’ll see if I can have maintenance run a phone line to your boat.”

      “You said my assistant’s name is Fran. Your mother changed positions?”

      “No. Mom doesn’t work here anymore. She left years ago.”

      Good. One less ghost he’d have to face.

      Day One. Six hours successfully behind her, and three more, including Clay’s tour, to get through before Andrea could call it a day.

      As she made her way down the dock to Clay’s “office” after lunch she ran an assessing gaze over the sleek lines of the fifty-foot sport-fishing vessel. Nice. Habit and just plain good manners forced her to remove her heels before ascending the ramp to Clay’s boat rather than risk damaging his deck.

      Andrea usually reserved her finer suits for delivery celebrations. When a customer accepted ownership of their new yacht the Dean’s sales staff wined and dined them with a champagne feast. There wasn’t an event today, but she’d had an attack of vanity this morning knowing this was Clay’s first day on the job.

      Before she entered the production buildings later this afternoon to reintroduce Clay to the area managers she’d have to dig her rubber-soled deck shoes out from under her desk. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d worn a designer suit with her Docksides. If she’d been less vain she’d be wearing the boat shoes now instead of carrying her heels.

      She spotted Clay through the glass-topped door leading to the salon. His laptop sat open and ignored on one end of the galley table he’d turned into a desk while he flipped through a stack of familiar brochures—brochures she’d designed.

      A combination of anxiety and pride eddied through her. Dean Yachts had come a long way since he’d left, and Andrea was proud to have been instrumental in the change. Old school practices still reigned over modern technology in the production department, but that was because handcrafted workmanship was part of Dean’s appeal. No mass production here. But Joseph had allowed her to update the way they interacted with the public. She’d poured her heart into the Web page, the reception area, the offices and the brochures in Clay’s hands.

      She tapped on the glass and Clay looked up. His cobalt-blue gaze locked with hers, momentarily impeding her ability to breathe. Damn. It. Control yourself.

      He rose and crossed the room. Ignoring the stretch of his white short-sleeved polo shirt over his wide shoulders and muscular chest should have been easy, considering what he’d put her through, but it wasn’t. Nor could she overlook the way his pants fit his lean hips and long legs. It wasn’t fair that she still found him attractive after all the time and heartache she’d wasted on him. But she’d get over it.

      The door opened, jarring her back to the present with a waft of cool air-conditioned air. Until then she’d been too antsy to notice the cloying June heat and humidity. Both were a fact of life on the Wilmington waterfront.

      She cleared her throat. “May I come in? We need to discuss the image we intend to convey to the reporter. I realize this is work time and we shouldn’t discuss personal issues, but I have plans for this evening.”

      Plans that included a pint of death by chocolate ice cream and a strategy phone call to Juliana and Holly, her partners in the auction scheme. She also needed to make sure Holly—who’d been reluctant about the whole bachelor auction idea—had bought the firefighter Andrea and Juliana had chosen from the program for her.

      She didn’t know how Clay did it, but without moving a muscle he seemed more alert, more wary. “What reporter?”

      “Didn’t you know the local paper is chronicling each auction couple for the duration of the dating package?”

      He shoved a hand through his already disheveled hair and moved away from the door. She stepped through and closed it behind her.

      “No. My mother shanghaied me as soon as I docked. I spent Saturday afternoon being fitted for a tux and arrived at the club minutes before I hit the stage—too late to read the hype and the fine print. Mom didn’t tell me about the reporter or even what my date package involves. All I know about it is what I could hear of the emcee’s spiel to the crowd.”

      Glancing around the cabin, Andrea took in the smoky gray leather seating and the rich cherry wood. Nice. Elegant, but masculine. She gestured to his laptop computer. “Do you have Internet access?”

      “Yes. Wireless.”

      “May I?” At his nod she typed in a Web address. A few clicks later she read aloud, “The lucky lady who wins bachelor thirteen will be treated to Seven Seductive Sunsets, including an old-fashioned carriage ride through the historic section of town, horseback riding on a local beach, a riverboat dinner cruise, a hot air balloon ride, dinner and dancing at Devil’s Shoals Steakhouse, a daylong sailing adventure and a private bonfire on the beach.”

      Was Clay swearing under his breath? She couldn’t be certain because he turned and marched into the galley. A second later he returned and shoved a bottle of water in her direction.

      “Are you willing to skip the dates? I’ll reimburse you what you paid for the package.”

      “Try