Project: Runaway Heiress (16 page)

Now only her heart was heavy from having him for such a short time, then losing him to her own stupidity.

Taking a deep breath, she braced herself for whatever his reaction might be. Laughter? An angry scoff? An arrogant quirk of his brow when he realized he’d managed to make another of his personal assistants fall madly in love with him?

Not that she could blame him entirely for the last, if that was the case. She wouldn’t be surprised if every person who’d ever worked for him had fallen for him. She’d worked for him only a few short weeks and had fallen head over heels.

The good news, she supposed, was that she had the rest of her life to get over him. It promised to be an agonizing forty or fifty years.

But he didn’t laugh or scoff or raise an arrogant brow. He simply held her gaze, something dark and intense flashing behind his hazel eyes.

Resisting the urge to squirm, she linked her hands in front of her and said, “I’m sorry. That was probably more than you wanted to hear. And you have more questions.”

Another minute ticked by while he stared down at her, making beads of perspiration break out along her hairline.

Finally, he cleared his throat and gave his head a small shake. “I have to say, I’m disappointed.”

Her heart sank. She’d bared her soul, confessed all, come close to throwing herself at him and begging him to love her in return. And he was disappointed.

“Did I mention that you were the best personal assistant I’ve ever had?” he continued, oblivious to the sobs filling her head as every hope, every dream, every might-have-been died a painful death inside of her.

“And now I find out that you’re actually a fairly successful fashion designer in your own right, not a personal assistant at all. You know what this means, don’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, he murmured, “I have to start over, interviewing for a new assistant.”

He sighed. “I suppose it’s for the best. The gossip mill tends to run rampant when executives begin dating their employees. It may not be so bad if we’re simply so-called rivals in the world of design.”

Lily blinked, feeling as though she’d lost time. He wasn’t making sense. Or maybe she’d blacked out for a moment and missed a chunk of the conversation that would help her understand what he was saying.

Hoping she wasn’t about to make a giant fool of herself, she mumbled, “You don’t have to worry about any of that. I won’t tell anyone about our involvement. No one ever needs to know what happened.”

A single dark brow quirked upward. “Well, someone is bound to figure it out eventually when they see us together.”

Lily tipped her head, frowning in confusion. And her confusion only deepened when he smiled at her. A kind, patient smile she would never expect to see on the face of a man who hated her.

“I had a lot of questions in mind when I walked in here,” he told her. “More, probably, than you can imagine. But only one question really matters, and you answered it.”

He took a step forward, his hand coming up to stroke her cheek. Her lashes fluttered, pleasure rolling through her at even that brief contact. While he spoke, his thumb continued to brush back and forth along her skin, making her want to weep.

“For the record, it meant something to me, too. Our time together. I’ve never gotten involved with an employee of the company before. Certainly not one of my assistants. But you...” He shook his head, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a grin and desire flickering in his eyes. “You, I just couldn’t seem to resist.”

Lily didn’t know how she managed to remain upright when her whole body felt like one big pile of sand. Laughter—happy, weightless, delighted laughter—bubbled inside of her, building until it couldn’t help but spill out.

Smile widening, Nigel leaned down and kissed her, his lips warm and soft and familiar. For long minutes, she clung to him, unable to believe he was really here, kissing her, telling her these things, making her think maybe, just maybe they had a shot.

All too soon, Nigel lifted his head, breaking the kiss, but not letting her go.

“I think I’ve fallen quite madly in love with you, Lily Ann Zaccaro. And I’d very much like the chance to start over. No secrets, no lies, no ulterior motives. And no mysterious hidden identities, regardless of how adorable you might look in those sexy-librarian glasses of yours,” he added, one corner of his mouth twisting with wry humor. “That is, if you’re willing.”

“Willing?” she squeaked, barely able to believe
he
was willing to give her a second chance after how she’d deceived him. Or that he was so quick to admit he’d fallen in love with her, when she’d been all but certain feelings like those were hers and hers alone.

If it was true, if he was truly in love with her, she was willing to do just about anything to make things work.

He nodded solemnly. “It won’t be easy, considering that we’re both tied rather strongly to opposite coasts. But thankfully I have access to a corporate jet and am not above abusing the privilege. I also suspect it will require rather a lot of romantic candlelit dinners. Probably a bevy of bold, romantic gestures on my part. You know—flowers, expensive jewelry, blowing off business commitments to spend amorous weekends in exotic locales. And you’ll be expected to
ooh
and
ahh
appropriately at each of them until I’ve won you over completely. Do you think that’s something you can handle?”

Lily laughed.
Giggled
might be a better description. She couldn’t seem to help herself. “I’ll certainly try,” she said, striving to match his falsely sober tone of voice.

“I was also thinking we could work together to get to the bottom of how your designs ended up being used at Ashdown Abbey,” he said, brows pulling together in a frown as he grew truly serious for a moment. “I’ve already suspended Bella Landry’s employment at the company, but I can’t outright fire her without proof that she stole designs from you and applied them to her efforts for us. Especially since she’s denying the accusation. We’re looking into it, though. We’ll turn over every rock and review every slip of paper in the place until we get to the bottom of it, I assure you.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, touched by his earnestness on her behalf.

“I’m spearheading the investigation myself, but I could use a bit of help from you, since you’re the one most familiar with the designs that were stolen and how they were used in our collection. Fair warning, however—it may require spending a lot of hours alone together, many of them running into the wee hours of the night when we may grow tired and feel the need to lie down for a spell.”

At the last, he waggled one dark brow and offered her a lopsided grin.

Once again, a chuckle worked its way up from her belly. She’d never expected him to be able to make her laugh so much, especially when it came to something so serious.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied, her own lips twitching with amusement.

“I also thought you might consider coming home to England with me.”

At that, her eyes widened.

“My father has been complaining for months now that I’ve gone soft, let your American ways dictate how I run the company. I’d like him to meet you, see just how much I’ve decided to embrace America—and you.”

He offered her a wide and wicked grin. “I actually think he’ll be quite taken with you. And after he hears what you did in order to protect your company and designs, I’m pretty sure he’ll decide you could be a
good
influence on me.”

A beat passed while he let her absorb this latest pronouncement.

“What do you say? Willing to give it a go and see if we’re as compatible outside of the office as we were as boss and secretary? And if you survive a visit with my parents, perhaps we can discuss making our relationship a little more...permanent.”

Ten minutes ago, she’d thought he hated her. Ten minutes before that, she’d been considering joining a convent and devoting herself to a life of silence and chastity because she’d known she could never be truly happy without him.

Now, she was
too
happy not to agree to almost anything. Even meeting his parents, a prospect that she wasn’t ashamed to admit scared her half to death.

“I’d say it sounds like you want to use me for some sort of personal gain,” she teased after a moment of collecting her thoughts. “But then, I guess I owe you one on that score.”

He tugged her closer, until her breasts pressed flat to his chest and his heat seeped through their clothes straight into her skin. “Very true. But only if you love me as much as I love you.”

“Oh, I do love you, Nigel. I really, really do,” she admitted, the words filling her with emotion and causing them to catch in her chest. “I still can’t believe you’re here, telling me you feel the same. So I guess my answer is...
yes.
” Yes to everything, always, as long as it was with him.

He kissed her again, quick and hard, pulling her against him so tightly, she could barely breathe. Not that she needed air when she was with him.

“Brilliant,” he said, sounding slightly choked up himself for a moment before clearing his throat. “Although you should know that I’m not at all opposed to you using me again in the future. Preferably when we’re alone and naked. Feel free to use me however you like then.”

“Really?” Her gaze narrowed, all kinds of delightfully wicked thoughts spilling through her head.

“Well...” she said, dragging the word out, flattening her palm against the hard planes of his pectoral muscles hidden beneath the thousand-dollar-silk-cotton blend of his suit jacket and dress shirt. “I’m pretty sure my apartment is empty. Zoe is working here at the store, and Juliet is off for the day with her fiancé. We would be completely alone. And if you like...naked.”

A devilish glint played over his features, sending a shock of eagerness down Lily’s spine.

“I hope this means you’re offering to use me again. Slowly and for a very long time.”

“I think that can be arranged,” she told him in a low voice. Going on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth, his jawline, just beneath his ear. “And then you can do the same to me.”

Wrapping his arms around her waist like a vise, he lifted her off her feet and started toward the door, kissing her along the way.

“The key to a successful relationship is compromise,” he murmured. “And sharing. And mutual sacrifice.”

“And being naked together as often as possible.”

Teeth flashed wolfishly as he grinned, swooping in for another ravishing kiss.

“That would be my very favorite part.”

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from
A Conflict of Interest
by Barbara Dunlop

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One

I
t was inauguration night in Washington, D.C., and Cara Cranshaw had to choose between her president and her lover. One strode triumphantly though the arches of the Worthington Hotel ballroom to the uplifting strains of “Hail to the Chief” and the cheers of eight hundred well-wishers. The other stared boldly at her from across the ballroom, a shock of unruly, dark hair curling across his forehead, his bow tie slightly askew and his eyes telegraphing the message that he wanted her naked.

For the moment, it was investigative reporter Max Gray who held her attention. Despite her resolve to turn the page on their relationship, she couldn’t tear her gaze from his, nor could she stop her hand from reflexively moving to her abdomen. But Max was off-limits now that Ted Morrow had been sworn in as president.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the master of ceremonies above the music and enthusiastic clapping that was spreading like a wave across the hall. “The President of the United States.” His voice rang out from the microphone onstage at the opposite end of the massive, high-ceilinged room.

The cheers grew to a roar. The band’s volume increased. And the crowd shifted, separating to form a pathway in front of President Morrow. Cara automatically moved with them, but she still couldn’t tear her gaze from Max as he took a few steps backward on the other side of the divide.

She schooled her features, struggling to transmit her resolve. She couldn’t let him see the confusion and alarm she’d been feeling since her doctor’s visit that afternoon.
Resolve,
she ruthlessly reminded herself,
not hesitation and definitely not fear.

“He’s running late.” Sandy Haniford’s shout sounded shrill in Cara’s ear.

Sandy was a junior staffer in the White House press office, where Cara worked as a public relations specialist. While Cara was moving from ball to ball tonight with the president’s entourage, Sandy was stationed here as liaison to the American News Service event.

“Only by a few minutes,” Cara shouted back, her eyes still on Max.

Resolve,
she repeated to herself. The unexpected pregnancy might have tipped her world on its axis, but it didn’t change her job tonight. And it didn’t alter her responsibility to the president.

“I was hoping the president would get here a little early,” Sandy continued, her voice still raised. “We have a last-minute addition to the speaker lineup.”

Cara twisted her head; Sandy’s words had instantly broken Max’s psychological hold on her. “Come again?”

“Another speaker.”

“You can’t do that.”

“It’s done,” said Sandy.

“Well,
un
do it.”

The speakers, especially those at the events hosted by organizations less than friendly to the president, had been vetted weeks in advance. American News Service was no friend of President Morrow, but the cable network’s ball was a tradition, so he’d had no choice but to show up.

It was a tightly scripted appearance, with only thirty minutes in the Worthington ballroom. He would arrive at ten forty-five—well, ten fifty-two as it turned out—then he was to leave at eleven-fifteen. The Military Inaugural Ball was next on the schedule, and the president had made it clear he wanted to be on time to greet the troops.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Sandy. “Should I tackle the guy when he steps up to the microphone?” Sarcasm came through her raised voice.

“You should have solved the problem before it came to that.” Cara lifted her phone to contact her boss, White House Press Secretary Lynn Larson.

“Don’t you think I tried?”

“Obviously not hard enough. How could you give them permission to add a new speaker?”

“They didn’t
ask,
” Sandy pointed out with a frown. “Graham Boyle himself put Mitch Davis on the agenda for a toast. Two minutes, they say, tops.”

Mitch Davis was a star reporter for ANS. Graham Boyle might be the billionaire owner of the network, and the sponsor of this ball, but even he didn’t get to dictate to the president.

Cara couldn’t help an errant glance at Max. As the most popular investigative reporter at ANS’s rival, National Cable News, he was a mover and shaker himself. He might have some insight into what was up. But Cara couldn’t ask him about this or anything else to do with her job, not now and not ever again.

Cara pressed a speed-dial button for her boss.

It rang but then went to voice mail.

She hung up and tried again.

She could see that the president had arrived at the head table, in front of and below the stage. He was accepting the congratulations of the smartly dressed guests. The men wore Savile Row tuxedos, while the woman were draped in designer fabrics that shimmered under the refracted light of several dozen crystal chandeliers.

The MC, popular ANS talk show host David Batten, returned to the microphone. He offered a brief but hearty welcome and congratulations to the president before handing the microphone over to Graham Boyle. According to the schedule, Graham had three minutes to speak. Then the president would have one dance with the female chair of a local hospital charity and a second with Shelley Michaels, another popular ANS celebrity. That was to be followed by seven minutes at his table with ANS board members before taking his leave.

Cara gave up on her cell phone and started making her way toward the stage. There was a staircase at either end, nothing up the middle. So she knew she had a fifty-fifty chance of stopping Mitch Davis before he made it to the microphone. Too bad she wasn’t a little larger, a little brawnier, maybe a little more male.

Once again, her thoughts turned to Max. The man dodged bullets in war-torn cities, scaled mountains to reach rebel camps and fought his way through crocodiles and hippos for stories on the struggles of indigenous people. If Max Gray didn’t want a person up onstage, that person was not getting up onstage. Too bad she couldn’t enlist his help and would have to rely on her own wits.

She chose the stairs at stage right, wending her way through the packed crowd.

Graham Boyle was waxing poetic about ANS’s role in the presidential election. He’d taken a couple of jabs at President Morrow’s alma mater and its unfortunate choice of mascot given current relations with Brazil. But that was all fair game.

Cara wished she was taller. At five foot five, she couldn’t see the stairs to know if Mitch was waiting to go up on the right-hand side. She regretted having gone for the comfortable two-inch heels instead of the flashy four-inch spikes that her sister, Gillian, had given her for Christmas. She could have used the height.

“Where are you going?” It was Max’s voice in her ear.

“None of your business,” she retorted, attempting to speed up and put some distance between them.

“You have that determined look in your eyes.”

“Go away.”

He tucked in close beside her. “Maybe I can help.”

“Not
now,
Max.” She was working. Why did he have to do this to her?

“Your destination can’t possibly be a state secret.”

She relented. “I’m trying to get to the stage. Okay? Are you happy?”

“Follow me.” He stepped in front of her.

His six-foot-two-inch height and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure. She supposed it didn’t hurt any that he was famous, either. Last month, he’d been voted one of the ten hottest men in D.C. The upshot was he could move through a crowd far faster than she could. Resigned, she stuck to his coattails.

Even with Max clearing the way, they eventually got stuck behind a crowd of people.

“Why do you want to get to the stage?” He turned to ask her.

“For the record,” she responded, “I don’t know any state secrets. I don’t have that kind of job.”

“And since I’m not a foreign spy, we should be able to carry on a conversation without compromising national security.”

An unmistakable voice came over the sound system. “Good evening, Mr. President,” drawled Mitch Davis.

A murmur of surprise moved across the room, since Mitch was a known detractor of President Morrow. Cara rocked back on her heels. She’d failed to stop him.

“First, let me say, on behalf of American News Service, congratulations, sir, on your election as President of the United States.”

The applause came up on cue, though perhaps not as strong as usual.

“Your friends,” Mitch continued with a hearty game-show-host smile, “your supporters and your mother and father must all be very proud.”

Cara strained to catch the president’s expression, wondering if he would be angry or merely annoyed by the deviation from the program. But there was no way to see through the dense crowd.

“The president is smiling,” Max offered, obviously guessing her concern. “It looks a little strained though.”

“Davis is not on the program,” Cara ground out.

“No kidding,” Max returned, as if only an idiot would think otherwise.

She glared at him, then elbowed her way past, maneuvering through the crowd toward the president’s table below the stage. Lynn Larson was going to be furious. It wasn’t exactly Cara’s responsibility to ensure that this specific ball went smoothly, but she had been working closely with the staffers coordinating each one. She was partly to blame for this.

Thankfully, Max didn’t follow her.

“I expect nobody is prouder than your daughter,” said Mitch, just as Cara reached a place where she could see Mitch on stage.

There was a confused silence in the room, because the president was single and didn’t have any children. Confused herself, Cara rocked to a halt a few feet from Lynn at the president’s table. Lynn glanced toward the stairs at the end of the stage, as if she was gauging how long it would take her to get there.

Mitch waited a beat, microphone in one hand, glass of champagne in the other. “Your long-lost daughter, Ariella Winthrop, who is with us here tonight to celebrate.”

It took half a second for the crowd to react. Maybe they were trying to figure out if it was a sick joke. Cara certainly was.

But she quickly realized it was something far more sinister than a joke, and her gaze flew to the corner of the stage, where she’d glimpsed her friend Ariella, whose event-planning company had been hired to throw the ANS ball. When Cara focused on Ariella, her stomach sank like a stone. As soon as it was pointed out, the resemblance between Ariella and the president was quite striking. And Cara had known for years that Ariella was adopted. Ariella didn’t know her birth parents.

The crowd’s murmurs rose in volume, everyone asking each other what they knew, had heard, had thought or had speculated. Cara could only imagine at least a thousand text messages had gone out already.

She took a half step toward Ariella, but the woman turned on her heel, disappearing behind the stage. There were at least a dozen doorways back there, most cordoned off from the guests by security. Hopefully, Ariella would make a quick getaway.

Mitch raised his glass. “To the president.”

Everyone ignored him.

Cara moved toward Lynn as the crowd’s questions turned to shouts and the press descended on the table.

“If you would direct your questions to me,” Lynn called, standing up from her chair and drawing, at least for a moment, the attention of the reporters away from President Morrow.

The man looked shell-shocked.

“We obviously take any accusation of this nature very seriously,” Lynn began. She looked to Cara, subtly jerking her head toward the stage.

Cara reacted immediately, skirting around the impromptu press conference to get to the microphone onstage. Damage Control 101—get ahead of the story.

She quickly noted that the security detail had surrounded the president, moving him toward the nearest exit. She knew the drill. The limos would be waiting at the curb before the president even got out the door.

She had no idea if the accusation was true or if Mitch Davis had simply exploited the resemblance between Ariella and the president. But it didn’t matter. The texts, tweets and blogs had likely made it to California and Seattle, probably all the way across the Atlantic by now.

Cara scooted up the stairs and crossed the stage, staring Mitch Davis down as she went for the microphone.

He relinquished it. His work was obviously completed.

Mitch’s gaze darted to the crowd. His confident expression faltered, and she saw Max, his eyes thunderous as he moved along below the stage, keeping pace with Mitch as the man made his way to the stairs.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Cara began, composing a speech inside her head on the fly. “The White House would like to thank you all for joining the president tonight to celebrate. The president appreciates your support and invites you all to enjoy yourselves for the rest of the party. For members of the press, we’ll provide a statement and follow-up on your questions at tomorrow’s regular briefing.”

Cara turned to applaud the band. “For now, the Sea Shoals have a lot of great songs left to play tonight.” She gave a signal to the bandleader, which he thankfully picked up on, and the energetic strains of a jazz tune filled the room.

Covered by the music, Cara quickly slipped from the stage.

Max was standing at the bottom of the stairs to meet her, but her warning glare kept him back—which was probably the first time that had ever happened. But then he mouthed the word “later,” and she knew they weren’t done.

* * *

There were times when being a recognizable television personality was frustrating and inconvenient. But for Max Gray, tonight wasn’t one of them. He’d only been to Cara’s Logan Circle apartment a handful of times, but the doorman remembered him from his national news show,
After Dark,
and let him straight into the elevator without calling upstairs for Cara’s permission.

That was very convenient for Max, because there was a better than even chance Cara would have refused to let him come up. And he needed to see her.

The ANS inaugural ball debacle had been a huge blow to the White House, particularly to the press office. Cara and Lynn had handled it professionally, but even Cara had to be rattled. And she had to be worried about what happened next. The scandal whipping its way through D.C. tonight had the potential to derail the White House agenda for months to come. Max needed to see for himself that Cara was all right.