Never Naughty Enough. Jill Monroe

Wagner saw what his father was never able to, those patents represented cheap, clean fuel. And cheap fuel was something others would be willing to pay millions to attain.

      He hated to share the lucrative development rights to his father’s patents. Except, without a capital injection, they weren’t doing him any good anyway. The Anderson people could have the large-scale energy network, the short-term profitable end of the deal.

      But not for long.

      Wagner wasn’t the type to throw it all away. He had a new project in mind. Abetter one. With Anderson’s money, Wagner would take some of his father’s unfinished ideas off the drawing board and create a small, inexpensive fuel cell. One with amazing power that could be almost instantly charged and ready to operate anything more draining than a solar calculator.

      Now that his mind had successfully dulled the image of Ms. Scott’s breasts, he made himself read the document word by word. A moment later, Wagner seized his red pen and underlined a key point.

      A soft, feminine sigh wafted in from the outer office. Glancing up, he witnessed his always competent assistant ably reach for a manila file, while showing an amazing stretch of leg. Her softly muscled calf, her slender thigh, the—

      The contract slipped from his fingers and floated to the beige carpet. As he bent to pick it up, he knocked his forehead on the metal handle of his desk. “Ow.”

      “Are you okay?” She’d pivoted in her swivel chair and faced him. An eyeful greeted him. Two eyefuls. Her nipp— Ms. Scott must be very, very cold. Had he turned the thermostat down? No, sweat was dribbling down his neck. The air in here was downright hot.

      He shot up in his chair, rubbing his head. “Yes, fine.”

      “Are you sure?” Her eyebrows pulled together, as if she was concerned, and her voice sounded husky. No one had given a damn about him since his mother’s death five years ago. He was oddly… what was the word? Touched.

      “Fine,” he told her.

      She gave him a slight smile, then returned to her typing.

      Wagner watched her fingers move quickly over the keyboard. Ms. Scott was the perfect assistant. Always punctual and always efficient. They’d worked together over four years now. If she’d shown concern in the past, he hadn’t noticed.

      Why now?

      Developing an affinity was only natural. He’d been alarmed the time her car wouldn’t start. When he’d checked it out for her, he’d discovered the car was so dilapidated he’d insisted she find more reliable transportation. The next day, he’d left printouts featuring several reasonably priced, dependable cars on her desk, satisfied she could handle it from there.

      Yes, the concern she’d just demonstrated was born out of two people working side by side. Nothing more. And nothing like the thoughts he’d had about her moments before. Those thoughts had no place in their working relationship. Annabelle clicked her mouse a few times and his guilty mind shifted back to work.

      Usually he liked the sound of her fingers lightly tapping the keyboard. At least it gave the office an illusion of productivity. His start-up capital long gone, he’d been dipping into his personal savings until he could count what remained without using a comma. The creditors would be swooping soon.

      If this merger didn’t happen, he’d be back to working for someone else. To making someone else money. To never succeed with his own vision. Wagner swallowed his distaste. He was more than a hatchet man. He aspired to build. To leave a mark.

      He grabbed the file and resumed reading. He’d driven a hard bargain to ensure autonomy for Achrom Enterprises after they moved under the new business umbrella. Although he’d sit on Anderson’s board he’d still run his own shop, still be able to develop his own ideas. Anderson would not lawyer away those concessions from him in this final contract.

      Annabelle sighed again.

      The sound loosened a spiral of desire in his gut, compelling his gaze her way once more. She curved her back as she stretched, tugging her sweater taut over her breasts again. Her long, brown hair had loosened from her clip and tangled down her back, teasing the skin at her neck. And him. She looked like a woman languid from kissing.

      And wanting more.

      He slammed the file shut on the desk, startling her. With a darting glance his way, Ms. Scott quickly returned to her typing.

      What was the matter with him? He leaned back in his chair. Ms. Scott was too valued an assistant to bear the brunt of his frustrations. Merger or sexual.

      Sexual? God, yes, but when had he begun to see Ms. Scott as sexual? As far as he knew, she led as celibate a life as he did. No quiet phone calls at the office, no picture on her desk. His own desk was just as bare. And no one used his private line. Demons from the past haunted his future. Did they haunt hers, as well?

      Hell, with all the sighing and key clacking, it was no wonder he couldn’t concentrate. He needed a plan and he needed it fast.

      Pushing his chair back, he crossed the threshold between his office and hers.

      “Ms. Scott, do you have a cramp in your back?”

      She looked up with a startled expression. “Uh, no. Why?”

      “With your groaning out here, I thought you were in pain.”

      She blinked and shook her head. Despite her sweater, leg-flashing skirt and wild, loose hair, she appeared to be the same Ms. Scott. Her desk was neat and orderly, and her coffee cup sat on a coaster.

      And that’s the way it would remain.

      His gaze drifted from her face, but he stopped himself before he moved past her collarbone. He’d get back on track just as soon as he turned the heat up. He couldn’t have her being cold.

      Wagner nodded and reached for the metal door handle to his office. “Hold any calls, please. I need to concentrate on this latest counteroffer from Anderson’s representative.”

      And, with a decisive click, he shut the door.

      ANNABELLE SLUMPED in her chair and stared at the silver knob of Wagner’s door. From experience, she knew she wouldn’t see him for the rest of the day. He’d probably e-mail her for coffee.

      She released the breath she’d sucked in when he’d reappeared, large and agitated, in the doorway, his broad shoulders practically touching the edges. A dark lock had fallen across his forehead. His hands had braced either side of the frame, his large, muscular body filling the empty space.

      For one exciting minute there, she thought she’d spotted a flicker of the hunter in his blue eyes as his gaze rooted her in her chair. A tingle, starting in her belly, had spread throughout her body. Her nipples had hardened and rubbed against her sweater.

      You’re a femme fatale, she’d repeated in her mind.

      You’re an idiot, she’d corrected after he’d slammed the door. No, he hadn’t slammed. Wagner would never gather enough emotion to feel the need to slam anything.

      But she did.

      She grabbed a pen and slammed her desk drawer shut. Then she reached for the notepad she’d hidden under the large, multiline telephone console on her desk. Wagner would never search for anything there. Not that snooping around on her desk was an activity he’d do, but sometimes he did try to make himself useful in the front office. She shuddered as she remembered the disastrous results and the paper cuts from his last attempt. She hadn’t been able to find her letter opener for weeks.

      Opening the pad, she clicked the pen. With long, hard strokes, she put several dark lines through her notes.

      1 Wear sweater. Banned from the closet.

      2 Sigh. Never again.

      3 Arch your back. Don’t strain yourself.

      Her upper lip curled as she crossed through her last note. She’d printed it in all caps