Little Secrets: His Pregnant Secretary. Joanne Rock

her breasts into intimate contact with the arm around her. She collapsed like a wet noodle against the slick, hot body of a man built like iron. Her dress floated like seaweed around her thighs, making her suddenly aware of the way her soaked bikini panties were all that separated her from him.

      “Are you okay, Delia?” The voice in her ear was familiar; she’d heard it nearly every day for the past year, even if she hadn’t seen the man in person for weeks on end.

      Her boss. Jager McNeill.

      “Fine,” she spluttered, the word ending in a cough.

      Of course, it was foolish to be embarrassed since she had dived in the water to save a child. And yet, it still felt terribly awkward to be caught with her dress up around her waist today of all days when she’d wanted to make the perfect professional impression.

      Also, she’d scratched him.

      Coughed all over him.

      If she hadn’t had a crush on him once upon a time, maybe she wouldn’t be tingling from head to toe right now in spite of everything. But she feared if she tried to swim away from him to escape all the feelings, she just might drown. She was surprised to notice how far she’d drifted from the dock in her search. Behind them, she noticed the transport skiff that Cyril had sent out to meet Jager’s seaplane. Jager must have been arriving at the same time she’d jumped into the water.

      “Hold on to my shoulders,” he told her, shifting their positions in the water so he faced her. “I’ll tow you to the dock.”

      Nose to nose with him, Delia stared up into his steel-blue eyes. She thought she’d gotten used to his good looks in the past two years that they’d known each other. His dark hair and sharp, shadowed jaw made for enticing contrasts to those incredibly blue eyes. His hair had grown longer in the past months, as if barber visits were the last thing on his mind. But the way the damp strands curled along the strong column of his neck only added to the appeal.

      This close, she had the benefit of sensing the wealth of muscle in his athletic body where he held her. Feeling the flush of heat course through her, she ducked deeper into the cold water to hide her reaction to him.

      “I can make it.” Shaking her head, she scattered droplets from her wet hair. “I just needed to catch my breath.”

      She attempted to paddle away, but Jager only gripped her tighter.

      Oh. My.

      Feeling the warmth of his chest through their clingy clothes roused an ache she should not be feeling for her boss. Adding to the problem, the strapless bra she’d been wearing had shifted lower on her rib cage, where it did absolutely no good.

      “Humor me,” he ordered her, his voice as controlled as his movements. “You’re exhausted and dry land is farther away than it looks.” He took one of her hands and placed it on his right shoulder. Then, turning away from her, he very deliberately set her other hand on his left shoulder.

      He began to swim toward the dock with measured strokes, towing her along behind him. Water lapped over them in light waves. She felt every ripple of his muscles under her palms as the light waves swished over them. She debated fishing one hand down her dress to haul up her bra before they reached land, but decided the potential scolding from Jager if she let go of him wasn’t worth it. So she clung to him and gritted her teeth against the friction of her pebbled breasts rubbing against his back. By now he had to be as keenly aware of her as she was of him.

      The only positive of this awkward reunion?

      Any anxiety she had about talking business with him was utterly eclipsed by physical awareness. So when they reached land, she clamped onto the dock, evenly met his blue gaze and said, “I definitely deserve a raise.”

      * * *

      Two hours later, when they were safely back at the McNeill family estate in Le François, Jager still couldn’t erase Delia Rickard from his mind. After pouring himself an aged whiskey from the cut crystal decanter on his desk and taking a sip, he stared out his office window through the slats of the open plantation shutters. His gaze kept returning to the guest cottage lit by white landscape lights. He was waiting for Delia to emerge. When he’d first asked her to manage the Martinique household for him, he’d offered her the cottage on the British Colonial style property for expediency’s sake.

      Not only could she keep track of the staff better on-site, but at the time, she had also been trying to put some distance between herself and her past. Her former fiancé, Brandon Nelson, was a particular kind of son of a bitch Jager had run into often in business—always looking for a way to cheat the system. In this case, the guy had attempted to scam Delia out of her rightful inheritance—a plot of land belonging to her father that was in the way of a proposed landing strip for private aircrafts serving a luxury hotel development. The investors had offered Brandon a cash payment if he could convince her to sign over the rights. He’d decided to simply marry her and obtain the rights for himself.

      Unethically.

      Jager leaned a hip on the dark hardwood desk, remembering how Delia had discovered the truth on the morning of her wedding. She’d fled the seaside venue on a Jet Ski and run it aground on a small island where Jager had been fishing. It had been the start of a friendship that had benefitted them both.

      He’d been in a relationship at the time, and Delia had been running from an awful one, so he’d tamped down the attraction for both of their sakes. Instead, he’d offered her a job. Very quickly, she’d proven an excellent assistant, invaluable in helping him repurpose a portion of the family estate for private parties and occasional corporate retreats as a way to support local businesses—in particular, his marina. After Delia trimmed the household budget the first year and made a local farm-to-table initiative on McNeill lands a success, Jager had asked her to expand her role to review the operations at the marina as well.

      Leaving things in her capable hands, he’d moved to California with his brother to take Damon’s start-up to the next level. Just thinking about the hell that move had caused for all of them made his shoulders sag with grief for Damon and the loss of his vibrant and beautiful wife.

      Now Damon had disappeared too. He’d left to travel two months ago and at the time, Jager had agreed it would be wise for him to get away. But days after his departure, Damon had shut off his phone and hadn’t been in contact since.

      To make it worse, around that time Jager had been contacted by their father, who’d barely acknowledged him as a child and whom Jager hadn’t seen in fifteen years. Now, suddenly, he was offering the help of his wealthy family.

      Too little. Too late.

      As if Jager had any desire to spend time with the dirtbag who’d walked out on their mom. Apparently Jager’s paternal grandfather—whom he’d never met—was determined to reunite all his grandsons. Bastard offspring and otherwise. Jager had told them hell no.

      He finished off the whiskey and set aside his glass.

      His world was a giant mess. The one moment of clarity in it all?

      When Delia had been in his arms in the water just two hours ago. The dark churn of thoughts that had plagued him for nearly a year suddenly quieted, burned away by an attraction grown more intense since that first day when she’d washed up on his island. Nothing prohibited them from being together now. He was so distant from the Martinique-based businesses that he could make a move without worrying about the impact on their working relationship. Or he’d simply transfer her to another part of the company where Gabe could monitor her job performance, eliminating the conflict of interest. Gabe could make the decision about that raise she wanted.

      His conscience clear, Jager watched her step from the cottage, her fair hair glowing golden under the porch light as she locked the dead bolt with a key. Now he could allow himself to think about the possibilities of being alone with her. Of forgetting the hell of the past year for a night in her arms.

      Backing away from the window, Jager watched as Delia strode toward the main house. She wore a rose-colored tank dress, with a