Yvonne Lindsay - Scandal In The Boardroom

She jerked back, suddenly vulnerable in her cotton yoga pants and old T-shirt, so thin it offered little to no coverage.

Cringing when the doorbell rang again, she looked up to find Sloan blocking the view from the window. Well, he knew she was here. Good manners insisted she open the door and see what he wanted. Muttering under her breath, she decided she now had a very personal reason for being irritated.

Grasping the cool metal of the knob, she pulled the door open just enough to see his handsome face.

“Sloan,” she said, her voice more a question than an acknowledgment. She didn’t issue an invitation, but apparently he didn’t need one. Placing his palm flat on the door, he pushed inside, walking by her as if coming in was his right. She stood dumbfounded for a moment, then closed the door and leaned back against it, her arms crossed beneath breasts that tingled in his presence—without her permission.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Her tone implied that seeing him was as far from a pleasure as she could get. She’d been well on the road to relaxation, but now her back was military straight and the muscles on each side of her neck tightened in protest. Even worse, she couldn’t decide if it was because she didn’t want him here...or because she did.

“Hi.” He flashed his usual confident smile.

Up went her brow. He studied her expression with interest before his gaze moved to his surroundings.

A sense of invasion rose from the pit of her stomach, overriding the awareness that always seemed to come with his presence. She shifted uneasily as he walked around the room, gliding a finger along her favorite fleece throw and pausing to examine the exotic lines of the dancer in the picture over the mantel.

“Sloan,” she said when the tension ratcheted up to an unbearable high, “what are you doing here?”

He faced her, his calm expression mocking the tremble that had slipped into her voice.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, “if you give me a plate of whatever smells so good. Suddenly I’m very hungry.”

No, her mind screamed. She didn’t want his presence lingering in her home, but short of pushing him back out the door, she had no idea how to refuse.

Sucking in a deep breath, she led the way back to the kitchen, ultraconscious as she passed him of the air grazing her bare arms and the gentle slap of her feet on the uncarpeted floors.

Crossing to the cabinet, she decided she might as well comply and find out what was going on. With efficient movements, she fixed him a plate and drink before settling him at the opposite end of the table from her. She ignored the smirk on his face as she returned to her seat.

He lifted his fork, then sniffed appreciatively before meeting her eyes.

“I know the perfect designer.”

“I wasn’t aware we needed one. We already have two.” His knowing look had her admitting, “Okay, we have at least one willing to help.”

“But I’ve figured out the one person who can bring my vision to life.”

His epiphany obviously accounted for the change in his mood, but not his presence—his most unwanted presence—here. “I’m glad. Couldn’t this have waited until Monday?”

He shook his head, then hefted a heaping forkful of rice and spicy meat to his mouth. It had to be a sin to watch those sculpted lips close around anything, even something as innocent as a fork.

She didn’t warn him about the heat. He’d probably just blow it off with some macho line. Besides, he was part of what had led to all that spice in the first place.

Suddenly his eyes widened and he coughed, just managing to keep the food in his mouth long enough to swallow. She leaned back with a feeling of satisfaction as his hand shot out for his glass. That would teach him not to push his way in where he wasn’t wanted.

“Wow,” he said after a long drink of iced tea, “that packs a wallop.”

Watching him dig back in without a hint of hesitation, she thought, Yes, it does. “I’m glad you like it,” she murmured, instead.

He cleared most of his plate, all the while studying her with intent looks that burned more than the food burned her mouth. Goose bumps spread along her skin despite the heat of the food.

She pushed her long hair back behind her shoulders, licking her dry, spicy lips. “Does Vivian approve of the new designer?”

“On the contrary, she’d have a very genteel hissy fit if she knew who he was.”

She hesitated. Her gaze locked on her nearly empty plate before braving another glance at him. “So you haven’t discussed this with her?”

He shook his head, waves of dark blond hair caressing the masculine angles of his face. “I don’t plan to clue her in anytime soon.” He leaned forward. “Do you?”

She leaned forward, too. “Let’s get one thing straight. Whatever actions I take are for the good of the company. Convince me of the merits of your plan, and you won’t have to worry about where my loyalties lie.”

He stood, prowling around the sunny kitchen. His cool good looks blended with the greens and golds, the blue accents a reflection of his eyes, the pine cabinets just a touch lighter than his hair. He looked as if he belonged in this room.

He was testing her, but instead of resentment, an excited rush sizzled inside.

“This place isn’t anything like I’d imagined,” he said out of the blue.

As he took in the kitchen and her in one sweep, she wished for the ability to snap her fingers and be wearing a business suit instead of her relax-and-cook gear.

In an attempt to repress more personal discussions, she said, “I can’t think why you’d wonder about it at all.”

He stalked across the room and reached out to touch a strand of her loose hair that had fallen forward over her shoulder. “Who knew you had so much to hide.”

Her quick intake of breath was her only outward response, but inside she mentally retreated. She couldn’t afford to let him in on her secrets if she wanted to remain a respectable part of his business. Knowing would change everything. It always did. The few she’d told her deepest feelings to had turned their backs on her in an instant, and then she’d learned the golden rule of silence.

Standing, she stalked back down the hall and pulled the door open, not so discreetly inviting him to leave.

He followed, the soft-soled boots he wore silent on the wood floor, his face unreadable. Pulling a card from his wallet, he scribbled on the back. “Here’s my cell phone number in case you need to contact me.”

She stared blankly at the card in his hand. “Aren’t you coming into the office on Monday?”

“No,” he said. “And neither are you.”

“Why not?”

That sexy grin was back. “Pack your bags. We’re going to Vegas.”

Six

Sloan arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare. He eased through security, then settled in to wait. Ziara seemed the type to arrive early, but after last night he realized he didn’t know a thing about her. Not the real Ziara. Underneath that cool, businesslike exterior lurked a woman he suspected burned as hot as her paella. That intrigued him. What intrigued him more was the why.

Why was she so different at work? This wasn’t a case of the same woman just acting on a more professional level. No, this was two totally different women.

The rich, resonant colors in the living room—burgundy, flaming oranges and yellows, deep purple accented with gold—seemed such a natural setting for her dark beauty. Why would she dress down in drab grays, browns and navies?

That hair, soft around her face, a silky waterfall draping her chest and shoulders, made him want to spread it across a pillow or, better yet, across his chest. Of course, if she was hoping to disguise her thick, satin glory, she’d failed. Pulling it up to the crown of her head as she did at work only emphasized the exotic slant of her eyes and the exquisite lines of her cheekbones.