Scandal In The Boardroom

He liked his coffee black with just a touch of sugar for sweetness, but he only drank it in the morning. After eleven, he switched to Mountain Dew. He came into the office around nine-thirty every morning, smelling of citrus and a spicy undertone after his daily game of racquetball. He paced while he dictated letters, his long legs performing for her benefit alone. While dreaming up new show ideas, he liked to lean back in his chair with his Gucci-clad feet propped on the edge of the desk.

She often caught a glimpse of him standing at those floor-to-ceiling windows watching people walk by five stories below, deep enough in thought that she’d close the door behind her with extra force to remind him of her presence.

She was getting to know him way too well.

This new knowledge was uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the suspicion that he was cataloging some things about her, as well. Those damn eyes! Not to mention the occasional spicy remark, like that spanking comment, that she pretended to ignore no matter how outrageous he got. The last thing he needed was encouragement.

Today shattered the routine when Sloan hit the outer door like a bull. She hadn’t seen that controlled anger since his first day, that contained heat he’d wielded against Vivian like a fine-tuned weapon.

“I’ve got a lot of calls to make, Ziara. Don’t bother me.”

“Yes, Mr. Creighton,” she said reverting to formality in her confusion. She watched those long strides carry him into his office, the door slamming behind him. Definitely a good day to keep her head down and work on clearing the clutter from her desk.

A few hours of muffled yelling and banging later, she decided now was probably a good time to escape. She made her way through the corridors to the design floor. Anthony met her a few feet in with a quick and quiet hug. He knew exactly why she was here. Leading her across the room, he showed her the new shipment of sample materials scattered across a large table.

“Robert is very upset with me,” he said. “He thinks I’m a sellout.”

Ziara glanced over his shoulder at the normally boisterous man now sitting quietly at a drafting table. “Why would he think that?” she asked, keeping her voice low to match Anthony’s.

He gestured toward the materials. “Because I ordered these.”

Ziara took in the mixtures of cream, pinks, barely there blues and an almost yellow color on a display table that was normally white, white and white. “Hmm. I can see where that would be a problem.”

“I’ve tried to move Robert in new directions for years now, especially as grumblings surfaced from the buyers. But he just won’t listen.”

“I don’t think Mr. Creighton will give him that option.”

“Well, maybe he will succeed where I have failed.” With a sad smile, he wandered back across the room, leaving Ziara alone for what he knew was her favorite pastime.

Picking up the nearby invoices, she started matching the materials on the table with the names and prices on the sheets of paper. She studied the fresh array of colors, the textures, drape and a myriad of other things.

In an ideal world—where she would have had a supportive family, scholarships and no need to be her own sole support immediately after getting her GED—she would have been a supplier, searching out the finest materials, the best deals for the entire company in accessories, gemstones, beading, lining, everything. As it was, she could spend hours immersed in the research but allowed herself only small windows here and there. Luckily Anthony wasn’t threatened by her presence or interest, so he’d spent many a minute teaching her bits and pieces. Bless his heart.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Ziara froze, her hand buried in a pile of pink-tinged satin. To her knowledge, Vivian didn’t know about her little visits here. Yet it hadn’t taken Sloan a week to uncover her secret.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Creigh—um, Sloan. Did you need me for something?”

When he squeezed the back of his neck as if to relieve the tension gathered there, she couldn’t help but sympathize.

“I definitely need you, Ziara. Don’t you know that?”

Her gaze zeroed in on his face, searching for the intention behind the words. His bright blue eyes were now tired, but a shiver of awareness still snuck down her spine. No matter how he looked, no matter what he said, she felt he was bringing her to an awareness of him as a man—and herself as a woman.

She murmured, “I’m happy to oblige.” Then cringed inside at the many ways her words could be misinterpreted. She straightened as he moved closer. He reached toward her stomach, which tightened in anticipation—but his hand bypassed her to explore the materials on the table beyond.

A smoky-blue chiffon, almost gray, held his attention. “Very nice,” he murmured, the sound almost seductive, as though he was encouraging...something. He lifted the material, testing the feel, weight and drape.

His hands fascinated her, the long fingers with their neatly clipped nails a sharp contrast to the fragile-looking material. But his eyes drew her, too. Those bright blues had darkened as if he were looking inward rather than at the material he handled so skillfully.

“What is this?” he asked.

“It’s a light chiffon, mostly used for accents and layering,” she said.

Snapping out of his thoughts, he glanced at her in surprise. “Been studying your materials, have you?”

Warmth flooded into her cheeks and chest. “Anthony has been teaching me.”

Rather than the condemnation she’d expected, his eyes softened in appreciation. “Show me.”

* * *

Sloan found himself entranced as Ziara explained the contrasts between silks, chiffons, satins and numerous other materials used in dressmaking. Not over the information itself, even though it was appreciated, but the unguarded spark in her eyes.

Then there was the show: her slender arms lifting each material to demonstrate its ability to drape, the thickness and what it might be used for.

“You could have been a supplier,” he said, drawn in by her enthusiasm.

The stillness that invaded her body told him he’d hit a sore spot, even though her lowered lashes hid her expression from him. Not quite understanding, he asked, “Why didn’t you? This stuff obviously interests you.”

The muscles around her mouth tightened, then she raised her guarded gaze. “Fashion production and supply chain management degrees don’t come cheap.” She started sorting the material by color. “Tuition was nonexistent for me, so that type of dream wasn’t even on the table. I looked at my options and chose what worked with my skills. It wasn’t until I came here that I realized how interesting this side of the business could be.”

“Your parents weren’t able to help?”

Her mouth twisted. “Not even close. It was just my mother and me, anyway. She didn’t think school was worth much.”

“What about your guidance counselor? If your grades were good, scholarships could have helped.”

“Maybe in another life.”

The spark of curiosity that ran through his body was exciting but dangerous. He took the leap, anyway. “Why?”

Finally she stopped rearranging the material so she could glare at him. “Look. I came from a really small town, even more southern than Atlanta, with not enough money and very few options. I worked my way through secretarial school with two jobs, eating peanut butter from a spoon every night. Not everyone needs a high salary and trust fund to be successful.”

That should have stung—and it did, but not in the personal way he expected. He could see how hard she must have worked to attain her level of success at such a young age—which meant this wasn’t just a job to her.

She wasn’t just Vivian’s pet.

He couldn’t think about what that meant to his plans. So he let his mind conjure pictures of her caressing the fabric. Within seconds, he began to visualize designs: a sleek gown of pale pink satin, almost bright against her dark skin, drifting low over her naked back, accented with white diamonds and silver thread. The smoky chiffon shaped into three-dimensional flowers at the shoulders of a structured gray, almost silver, silk dress. The creamy yellow draped tight across her torso in tiny pleats that met at the curve of her hip, then released into a waterfall of softly lilting, creamy white feathers.

All of them made exclusively for the incredible body before him.

His horrible morning dissolved under the rush of creative energy.

“What are you thinking?” he heard her say, her voice echoing slightly as she pulled him from his own head, that place where he created all the things he needed, wanted, with the easy strokes of his mind.

It didn’t matter whether it was building plans, an office design, extensive renovations...or, apparently, wedding dresses. He had only to envision it and the lines appeared in the forefront of his mind. It was very helpful, incredibly productive and totally intoxicating.

Which was the only explanation he had for what he did next. Reaching around her to the desk, he snagged paper and a drawing pencil. The move brought him flush with her side, prompting a surge of heat wherever their bodies met, though he forced himself to move away quickly.

He could tell she felt it, too, by the widening of her eyes and the way she held her breath. He shoved the materials on the table aside and started to draw. Within minutes, he had a simple outline of the pink satin dress he’d imagined, though he kept the distinctive characteristics of the model vague.

“Wow,” she breathed. “That’s gorgeous.”

“Thank you.”

Her smile warmed him, intoxicating in its sincerity. He often had the feeling that she simply responded to him the way she should, the way an assistant was expected to respond to her boss. Not this time.

Fire lurked beneath the surface of this buttoned-down babe, and he desperately wanted to release it—even if he was her boss.

“I mean it,” he continued, anxious to avoid the temptation of his thoughts. “You’ve shown me exactly what I need.”

Before he could do something stupid like kiss those full red lips, he pivoted on his heel and walked away. Now that he had a direction, he knew just how to carry it out.

Eternity Designs would never be the same.

Sloan stalked down the hall toward the elevators, the adrenaline still thrumming through his veins. Pictures of Ziara racing through his mind.

“How’s your new assistant working out, Sloan?”

Damn it. He’d been so close to the open doorway!

He pivoted to find Vivian standing in the shadows. Had she been waiting for him to walk by? Had she watched as he and Ziara talked?

“Great choice, Vivian. She’ll serve me just fine, I think.”

Vivian studied him with the same barely tolerant expression she’d used after many of his teenage escapades. “What’s wrong?”

Ah, the pitfalls of working with someone who’d watched him grow up. He moved a few steps closer. Lowering his voice, he tightened his control over the high levels of excitement, frustration and arousal still surging through his veins.

“It won’t work, Vivian. Whatever reason you have for planting Ziara in my office—it won’t work. I’m still going to do what I think is best for Eternity.”

Patronizing was the only way to describe her smile. “I know exactly where Ziara’s loyalties lie. She’ll do the job I gave her.”

“I’m going ahead with my plans, regardless.” The feel of the sketch held securely in his grasp brought a surge of certainty. He was on the right path; now he needed the one person who would help him carry it out.

“So you’ve talked the Old Brigade into actually carrying out your crazy theme?” she asked, concern dampening her smug demeanor. Ah, she’d be so happy if he was stuck working with her two lackeys, wouldn’t she?

“Robert and Anthony will fall in line soon enough.” His chest tightened as all his earlier frustration rushed forward again.

She shook her head slowly. “Not according to Robert—I believe his exact words were ‘over my dead body.’”

Her smug expression shattered his control like nothing else could have. “I wouldn’t get too tickled if I were you.”

“And why is that?”

“I’m about to turn Eternity Designs upside down.”

The ding of the elevator signaled his escape. Sloan strode through the doors and turned back to see Vivian’s perplexed expression just as they closed.

Five

Ziara dished up her quick version of paella into an oversize, bright green bowl, pausing a moment to inhale the spicy scent of peppers, andouille sausage and shrimp. Padding across to the table, she savored the coolness of the tiled kitchen floor on her bare feet.

After a long, deep drink of sweetened tea, she picked up her book in one hand and her fork in the other. Having survived her rough day at work, her mind craved the relaxing and safe surroundings of home. An early start to her weekend.

She’d worked so hard for her house and turned it into her very own sanctuary. Most important, it was as far from the environment she’d grown up in as possible.

Only here could she let down the defenses. She could safely indulge her passion for cooking, love of reading and flair for color.

She desperately needed that in the aftermath of her confusing response to her boss. Sloan was flirty, no doubt about it, but she’d always held herself to a higher standard. To think a few smiles, some genuine listening and one hot touch could turn her sensible head made her very angry—with herself.

The first bite of paella ignited a burn on her tongue that spread like flash fire up the walls of her mouth to the roof and inner edge of her lips. Yummy, but she suspected her turbulent thoughts had made her heavy-handed with the spices.

Ziara jumped at the jangle of the doorbell. She rarely had visitors—no family, no close friends. It was only five, so it was still fairly light out. Daylight savings time wouldn’t hit for another month. Maybe it was a salesman or one of the neighbors’ kids fund-raising for school. She sighed.

Traversing the short hallway linking the kitchen with the living room, Ziara paused to glance through the small window that ran down the side of the door. She wasn’t above pretending she wasn’t home.

The silhouette on the other side didn’t quite register at first except to look vaguely familiar. Then, in an instant, it felt as if the heat from the paella exploded at the base of her neck and spread along her skull. Surely that wasn’t Sloan so casually posed in the shade of her front porch?

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.

Did she get her spicy, riveting beauty from her mother? In all the simple elegance of her home, Sloan hadn’t seen one personal photograph on display—not one of Ziara or any family, which struck him as odd.

He glanced over to see her standing in line for security. Looking at his watch, he realized she’d waited until the last moment to arrive. He smiled. Now that he knew what was inside, he wouldn’t let her revert back to “all business.”

A familiar ache built throughout his body as he watched her progress across the waiting area. The whoosh of adrenaline was similar to the rush of creativity, only a thousand times stronger. He no longer just wanted this woman—he had to have her. Which was a problem, because he was technically her boss. Temporarily. Although, if she was also his lover, then he’d know exactly where her loyalties lay. He could live with that...couldn’t he?

“Good morning, Sloan,” she said, settling into a seat across the aisle from him.

He frowned as she pulled out her mobile phone and searched for a number. “Don’t you know it’s rude to ignore someone to talk on the phone?”

“Not when it’s business.”

“What’s business?”

She motioned between the two of them. “This trip.” Waving the phone for a minute, she continued, “And this call.”

Oh, no she didn’t. “What kind of business call could you possibly be making on a Saturday morning?”

“I’m calling Vivian. It was too late to call her last night and I should let her know where we’ll be. You didn’t give me nearly enough time pack and get ready and call her this morning.”