The CEO's Scandalous Affair / Seduced by the Wealthy Playboy. Roxanne St. Claire

Parker thought bitterly, it sounds like a typical Garrison family gathering.

      But his pulse drowned it all out, and he had to physically work to control a temper he’d long ago conquered.

      No damn wonder Brandon had given him that silent warning. And no damn wonder his father had stayed so deeply involved in the day-to-day operations of the Bahamas property.

      “Who’d have guessed that?” Stephen said to him, softly enough so only Parker could hear. “The old man had someone on the side.”

      Parker closed his eyes in disgust. Not because his father had had an affair. And not because that sin had created a sixth Garrison child. But because, for some reason he’d never know or understand, John Garrison had decided to slice Parker’s world in half, and give the other portion to some hotel manager living in Nassau.

      Some hotel manager—now owner—who was his half sister.

      He pushed his chair away from the table, determined not to let the bubble of anger brew into a full boil. Instead, he cut his gaze to Brandon’s, ignoring the chaos around them.

      “We’ll talk, Brandon,” Parker said. “But I’ve got a company to run.”

      Brittany let out a tiny snort. “You have part of a company to run.”

      He refused to dignify the comment, but scooped his PDA off the table, nodded to Stephen in particular and the table in general. “Knock yourselves out, kids.”

      Without waiting for a response, he left the room, grateful that unlike the rest of them, who would have to travel to various Garrison properties, his office was just down the hall on the twenty-second floor of the Brickell Avenue high-rise that housed the corporate offices of Garrison, Inc.

      There, he would find sanctuary and maybe the privacy to sucker punch a wall with no witnesses.

      He’d tell Anna to hold every call and appointment. What he needed to do was assess the situation and figure out a solution. That was what he did. Cold, calculating and calm, Parker Garrison manipulated every move of a multimillion-dollar empire, so he could certainly control his insanely bad mood and maybe his father’s ridiculously poor judgment.

      He ignored the provocative smile of Sheila, the heavily made-up receptionist who manned the front desk of the plush executive offices of Garrison, Inc. He continued directly to his corner office, resisting the urge to rip off his tie and howl in fury, his blood temperature rising with each purposeful stride toward privacy.

      As he turned the corner, he expected to see his assistant at her desk, efficiently gatekeeping his world as she’d been doing for a few months since he’d promoted her from the human resources department. But Anna’s desk was empty, with no sign of light or life.

      At nine in the morning?

      Wasn’t anything the way it was supposed to be today?

      Inhaling sharply, he pushed the door to his office open and closed it without giving in to the temptation to slam it, swearing softly on his exhale.

      That was when he heard the humming. Not a normal hum of activity or a printer or even the refrigerator from the wet bar in the corner. No, this was more like a screaming buzz. But that wasn’t all. The humming barely drowned out…

      Singing.

      He paused for a minute, then looked toward the source, behind the partially opened bathroom door discreetly tucked around the corner of his spacious office. Singing?

      If you could call that singing. More like a sinfully off-key soprano belting out something from…West Side Story. She felt pretty? Oh, so pretty? It was hard to tell with the whine as loud as a jet engine drowning it out, and the total flatness of the notes.

      Propelled by curiosity and still fueled by a losing battle with his temper and control, he continued toward the sound, the soft warmth of shower steam tumbling from the open door, along with something that smelled like flowers and powder.

      He paused at the eight-inch gap in the bathroom door, leaned in to be sure he wasn’t imagining things, then just stood there and stared at…

      Legs.

      No. That didn’t do them justice. These were works of art. Heaven-sent. Endless, bare, tight-thighed, smooth-skinned, strip-club worthy legs spread about a foot apart, slipped into three-inch heels and topped off by a barely covered-in-silk female rump stuck straight in the air.

      He gaped, mesmerized and only slightly deafened by the noise, which was caused by a blow-dryer aimed at a cascade of dark hair that hung upside down and grazed the marble floor of his private bathroom.

      She couldn’t sing her way out of a paper bag, but if he stood here listening and looking too much longer, he’d need a paper bag for hyperventilation.

      Suddenly, she jerked to a stand, whipped her still-damp hair over her shoulder and faced the mirror, giving him a wide-open shot of a pink lace bra that barely covered her sweetly curved cleavage.

      “Oh, my God!” She yelped and spun around, slapping her hands over her and hardly covering a thing. His gaze dropped lazily, taking in the narrow waist, the flare of feminine hips, the low bikini cut of delicate pink panties cupping an alluring apex between those lovely thighs.

      Good God, his administrative assistant had been hiding all this under navy pantsuits and crisp white blouses?

      “Anna?” His voice sounded as tight as his throat suddenly felt.

      “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

      The question yanked him back to her face, her appealing features tinged with the shade of her matching underwear, bottle-green eyes bright with embarrassment.

      “What am I doing here?” He didn’t mean to smile. Or stare. But, he was human. And she was…unbelievable. “Last time I checked, this was my office.”

      She managed an indignant breath—no mean feat for a woman clad only in heels and underwear. “I mean, so soon. What are you doing here so soon? Aren’t you in a meeting? With your family? About the will?”

      The will. The words whacked him over the head as effectively as if he’d stepped into the shower that still dripped behind her. “I left early.”

      She threw a pleading glance at the towel rack next to him. She wanted coverage. But he wanted answers. And a few more seconds to memorize every delectable inch of her.

      “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, still struggling for her always-professional voice.

      “No kidding.” He couldn’t help the tease in his. This was, without a doubt, the bright spot in an otherwise dismal morning.

      “I went running,” she said, with another desperate look at the towel rack. “It’s very humid out there. I needed a quick shower. I thought you’d be a while.”

      His gaze was slipping again, along with his ability to form a coherent thought other than the one screaming in his brain: How the hell had his all-business-all-the-time administrative assistant concealed that body from him?

      And why would she? Most women with a figure like hers would wear as little as possible, as often as they could.

      “The meeting ended early,” he said calmly, lingering just one more minute on the heels. Did she wear them every day?

      He tore his attention from her slender ankles to slide over the neat little turn of her calf and meander back to that silky triangle with a silent vow to buy more Victoria’s Secret stock. He zeroed in on a luscious inny navel, then paused just long enough for those lace cups to rise and fall with an exasperated breath.

      “If you don’t mind, I could use a towel.” Her demand was sharp as shock morphed into anger.

      She was angry? He should give her a lesson in professionalism, a reminder that she shouldn’t be making herself at home in his office. He could treat her like the