The Elliotts: Bedrooms Not Boardrooms!. Maureen Child

I alone? Of course … I mean, yes, I am.”

      A smile tugged his lips. “What are you wearing?”

      “Liam. You shouldn’t.” Her scandalized voice trailed off.

      He’d crossed the line. He wouldn’t be surprised if she slammed the receiver down.

      “A white satin nightgown.”

      The image instantly filled his head. He bit back a groan. “Short or long?”

      “Long.” Another pause stretched between them. “What are you wearing?”

      His heart thumped harder. “It’s just me and your thong.” What had possessed him to reveal that?

      “You’re wearing my thong!”

      He rocketed up in bed, his body hot with embarrassment. “Hell no. I’m holding it. In my hand.”

      Her chuckle, low and sexy as hell, marched down his spine. “You had me worried for a minute.”

      “That I was a cross-dresser?”

      “Yes. Are you?”

      Was she yanking his chain? “God, no.”

      “Good. Not that it matters, since we’re not seeing each other.”

      “No, we’re not.”

      “I should go.”

      He scrambled for a way to detain her and recalled a comment she’d made at lunch before she knew his identity. “Did you want to run screaming from the building today?”

      “You mean work? Yes. I’m having a lot of those days lately.”

      Was she lying in bed or seated on the edge? He wanted to ask, but didn’t. “Same here.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “Ditto.” For once Liam wished he had someone to confide in. In the past he’d talked his problems through with his grandfather or Cade, but both were off-limits this time. His grandfather’s plan was the cause of Liam’s stress, and Cade worked for EPH and was, therefore, part of the trouble. Liam felt like a bone in the middle of a pack of starving dogs. Everybody wanted something from him, something he couldn’t deliver. The staff. The advertisers.

      He opened his mouth and then shut it again. Aubrey worked for the competition. Not a safe sounding board.

      “Any chance your week will improve?” she asked.

      “Doubtful. I’ll be working through lunch all week.”

      “Maybe next week will be better.”

      It wouldn’t unless his grandfather cancelled this damned contest. “Hope so. And I hope yours is, too. Good night, Aubrey. I’m glad you called.”

      “Me, too. Good night, Liam. I won’t say, ‘See you around’ because I won’t.”

      “No. Guess not.” And for some reason, that disappointed him.

      A rainy day had its advantages.

      The inclement weather forced Liam to relocate his usual morning run to the executives’ section of EPH’s private gym—the one place he could be certain to find his grandfather before the workday began. Since Liam needed to talk to Patrick, he could handle the two chores simultaneously, efficiently. Privately.

      Judging by the sweat ringing the neck and underarms of his grandfather’s T-shirt, Patrick must have been on the treadmill for a while. It was only 5:30, but his grandfather had started early. As usual, the TV in front of the machines streamed CNN.

      Liam hoped he was as sharp as Patrick mentally and physically when he hit seventy-seven. Then again, maybe his grandfather was slipping. This retirement selection process wasn’t a smart move.

      Liam stepped onto the treadmill beside Patrick’s as he’d done dozens of times before. The room, thankfully, was empty except for the two of them. “Morning, Patrick.”

      “Liam.” Patrick didn’t slow his stride.

      Liam worked up to his optimum speed. Once his muscles loosened and he’d reached a comfortable pace he decided to broach the subject that had been keeping him up at night.

      The other subject. No way would he discuss with his grandfather his nonrelationship with Aubrey Holt.

      “Your contest is tearing EPH apart. You have to end it.”

      “Not time yet.”

      “Yesterday’s meeting was a combat zone.”

      “EPH will be stronger once we’re done,” Patrick said with conviction. Or was it just stubborn pride?

      Liam made a conscious effort to unfurl his fists. “Not if the team disbands. We’re fighting ourselves instead of the enemy, Patrick. It’s only a matter of time before our advertisers pick up on the infighting.”

      Patrick turned a hard eye on Liam. “The enemy. Holt.”

      Liam’s neck prickled. “He’s not our only competition.”

      “Your grandmother showed me the picture in the paper. Unfortunate error, the hostess seating you beside Holt’s daughter.”

      If Patrick found out that error had cost Liam fifty bucks, his grandfather would hit the ceiling. For Patrick Elliott appearances were everything and consorting with the enemy never looked good. Liam said nothing. Instead he increased his pace and directed his attention to CNN.

      Minutes later Patrick turned off his machine and Liam did the same even though he hadn’t yet reached his usual distance. “Patrick, I don’t know if the family relationships will survive this contest. We’re cutting each other’s hearts out. Reconsider. Please.”

      “I’ve set a course. I’ll see it through.” Patrick wiped the sweat from his face with a white towel bearing the EPH monogram.

      “No matter what the costs?”

      “No matter what the costs.”

      “You’re making a mistake.”

      “I don’t think so, son, and I’m willing to wager the company on that.”

      “Good, because that’s what you’ve done. I hope you don’t live to regret it.” Hoping to ease his frustration, Liam climbed back on the treadmill and set himself a mind-numbing pace.

      “Your lunch is here.”

      Liam looked up from the spreadsheet. He hadn’t ordered anything. Ann, his administrative assistant, must have. “Thanks, Ann. Put it there. I’ll get to it as soon as I finish this.”

      She set a bag on the corner of his desk. The Ernie’s Pub logo on the receipt caught Liam’s attention, slamming his train of thought against a wall. Nobody at EPH knew about his penchant for Ernie’s—an intentional omission. “Could you close the door on your way out?”

      Her eyebrows rose. He never closed the door unless he had a private meeting. “Certainly.”

      As soon as the latch clicked he shoved his paperwork aside and reached for the bag and the receipt stapled to the outside. “Bookmaker’s Special,” he read. His favorite sandwich and he knew damned well no one in this building knew that.

      His heart stuttered as he tore open the folded-down top and pulled out the ordinary Styrofoam container inside. The note taped to the top of the box wasn’t in any way, shape or form ordinary. He ripped it off.

      “Sorry you have to work through lunch. Enjoy. A.”

      Aubrey had sent him lunch.

      He didn’t know what to make of the gesture, but he sure as hell knew he shouldn’t be smiling. He tried to wipe the grin off his face, but it returned. In the midst of the tension at work his and Aubrey’s secret game was