One Little Indiscretion. Joss Wood

       About the Publisher

       Prologue

      1. Mountain Climbing. (Thanks, altitude sickness.)

      2. Marriage. (Nope. Once was more than enough.)

      3. Riding a mechanical bull, like she had during Spring Break. (Four tequilas and being bucked like a rag doll resulted in the nickname “Pukey” for months.)

      4. Oh, and lusting after Carrick Murphy. (That was the biggest no-no of all.)

      Sadie Slade added having an emergency tracheotomy to her mental Things-I-Never-Intend-To-Do-Again list and touched the small gauze dressing on her neck. She’d never been more scared in her life.

      Back in her apartment after an overnight stay in the hospital, Sadie took a couple of deep breaths—beautiful air!—and took stock. The doctors had assured her that the temporary lack of oxygen when she’d choked at the Murphy cocktail party the evening before hadn’t compromised her mental faculties. But she recited the facts anyway.

      She was twenty-nine years old, had a PhD in art history, owned her own business providing art valuation and provenance tracking. Her best friend was an Arabian prince she’d met in college. Another good friend, Beth, was also her virtual assistant and business manager. Sadie was in Boston to track down the provenance of what might be a lost Winslow Homer painting for Murphy International.

      And ever since she’d taken the job, she’d been trying to deal with her annoying desire for the sexy CEO of Murphy International, Carrick Murphy—he of the ripped body and gorgeous face but terrible reputation.

      Why couldn’t she be attracted to a guy who was both successful and honorable, someone she could respect? For once in her life she wanted to fall in lust with someone who wasn’t a player, cheater or weasel.

      Apart from the inconvenience of imagining Murphy naked, she was fine.

      Sadie flopped back in her chair and covered her eyes with her forearm. Last night, before the ambulance arrived, she’d kept her gaze firmly focused on Carrick’s face. His eyes were an unusual shade of grape-green, shot with gold and silver and surrounded by a ring of forest green.

      Those amazing eyes rested in a face that was deliciously masculine—strong brows and jaw, a once straight nose that had, obviously, at one point been broken and was ever so slightly crooked, a stern but sexy mouth and a body able to make angels weep.

      He was tall and ripped. And smart.

      All excellent qualities...

      Except for the fact that he was a carbon copy of her ex-husband. Or so she’d been informed by Beth, who was Carrick’s ex-sister-in-law.

      Sadie tried to avoid the type, after having separated from and then divorced her own philandering, work-obsessed penis of a partner. So when Murphy International approached her to investigate the authenticity of what could be a lost Winslow Homer painting, she’d seriously considered turning down their request.

      Purely because she was violently allergic to rich, entitled, sexy men who believed they could do what they wanted, when they wanted, with no thought to who they hurt.

      But emotions didn’t pay the bills, and her business brain insisted that it was an offer she couldn’t turn down. Murphy International was one of the top three auction houses in the world, with mega-rich and established clients. The company commanded power and respect in the art world, and consulting for them would be a solid gold star on her résumé.

      So she’d temporarily relocated from Paris to her hometown of Boston and, as she’d expected, going to work at Murphy International, seeing Carrick Murphy every day, was pure torture.

      Because, when she was in Carrick’s company she forgot about his past—forgot that he was the type of man she avoided, that he’d been a miserable husband to a woman she called a friend. Instead, she enjoyed his sharp mind, his acerbic wit and his gorgeous looks.

      When she was alone, she either fantasized about him being naked or castigated him for being a philandering, made-his-ex-miserable jerk.

      Veering from lust to disdain and back again was freakin’ exhausting. But as much as she wished she could blame all her exhaustion on her troublesome attraction to Murphy, it was nearly dying that had pushed this volcanic tide of mixed emotions to the surface.

      Gratitude, fear, loneliness, vulnerability...

      Sadie slid down farther on her sofa and closed her eyes. One way to avoid facing herself, and those pesky emotions she usually ignored, was to slip into sleep...

      After Carrick had been banging on her door for a couple of minutes—he’d seriously considered applying his size thirteen foot to the lock—Sadie opened the door to her apartment, looking a little dazed and a lot sexy.

      She’d been sleeping. There was a crease from a cushion on her cheek and her eyes were foggy. He should feel bad for waking her up, she’d had twenty-four hours from hell, but he was so damn grateful to see her standing, to hear her breathing, to look into her Persian-blue eyes.

      Seeing the terror in all that blue the night before had scared the crap out of him.

      Carrick stepped back to look at her, his hand gripping the jamb. He had no connection to her except through work, but for the first time in eighteen hours, his heart stopped careening around his chest cavity and settled down.

      He didn’t have the slightest clue why she affected him this way, this woman he barely knew. It had to be because she was sort of a Murphy employee and he felt tangentially responsible for her. That was the only reason he could come up with because they didn’t have an emotional connection.

      He didn’t do connections, emotional or otherwise.

      Not for a long time and not ever again.

      “Hi,” Sadie murmured. “Carrick? Um, why are you here?”

      “Just checking up on you.” He’d been aiming for casual but missed it by a mile.

      “You look...” Carrick stumbled again, searching for the correct word. She was dressed in a red, off-the-shoulder, slouchy sweater over black leggings, and fluffy black socks. Her face was makeup free and her hair was tied up in a messy tail. A tiny dressing covered the cut on her throat.

      He’d never seen anyone more beautiful. And, God, alive...

      Sadie stepped back to allow him into the apartment. “Sorry, I’m a hot mess. I wasn’t expecting company. Come in.”

      Why did women think being a hot mess was a bad thing?

      Sadie shut the door behind him and looked down to the huge bouquet of flowers he carried. He wasn’t sure what she liked so he’d told the florist to give her everything. The result was a riot of color and fragrance.

      “Are those for me?”

      Well, yes. Of course.

      Carrick nodded and when he handed it over, Sadie disappeared behind the blooms and the greenery. No, he needed to see her face, to keep looking at her...

      Why?

      This wasn’t like him and he didn’t understand it. Long and happily divorced, he marched to the beat of his own drum, had no time for complicated emotions and didn’t do clarifications, explanations or elaborations, to himself or to others.

      He loved and protected his siblings and was loyal to the few close friends he had...

      But Sadie Slade was neither family nor friend. So why was he reacting like this?

      Sadie