Exposing the Executive's Secrets

Two

Traversing the wide sidewalk leading from the docks to Dean Yachts on Monday morning felt like coming home. But home was somewhere Clay no longer belonged.

Perched high on a grassy knoll overlooking the Cape Fear River, the sales and marketing division looked more like an expensive beach house than the main offices of Dean Yachts. When he reached the front doors Clay turned. From this vantage point he could see the entire operation.

A series of pale blue metal buildings in a range of shapes and sizes spread along a half-mile section of the riverfront property. Each building housed a specific stage of production, and Clay had worked in every one of them in one capacity or another beginning in his early teens. Both his grandfather and his father believed in learning the business from the ground up.

During Clay’s absence murals of various Dean Yachts’ models had been painted on the waterfront sides of the structures giving the impression of a life-size parade of boats heading into port.

Docks, some covered, some not, jutted from the shoreline. The slips held yachts nearing completion. Unless things had changed in eight years, the dock located directly behind the sales office was reserved for finished vessels awaiting delivery. His and one other occupied the slips.

Clay let his gaze run over the complex again and sadness weighted him like ballast. He’d once taken pride in knowing that one day all this would be his. But not anymore. He’d forfeited everything when he’d run from the truth.

Shaking off the bitter memory and the resulting sense of anger, betrayal and disappointment, he shoved open the wide glass door, stepped inside the reception area and jerked to a halt. Nothing looked the same. What once had been a dim, utilitarian entrance now looked as classy as the stateroom of a fine yacht. Sunlight streamed through the windows and skylights onto a gleaming teak floor. A gracefully curved reception counter had replaced the old metal desk, and beyond that a glass wall blocked the wide hall leading to the offices.

The young woman seated behind the desk looked up and flashed him a smile that could sell toothpaste. “Good morning, sir. May I help you?”

“I’m Clayton Dean.”

Her smile dimmed a few watts and she sat up straighter. “One moment please. I’ll let Ms. Montgomery know you’re here. You’re welcome to have a seat while you wait.”

A flip of her hand indicated the leather seating group against the wall. Another change. “No need. I’ll find her.”

The woman sprang from her chair and blocked his path. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dean, you’ll have to wait until Ms. Montgomery gives you clearance.”

What? “Clearance?”

“You’ll need a security pass.” She punched a button on the gadget clipped to her belt and spoke quietly into her nearly invisible headset receiver. “Mr. Dean has arrived.”

Had he stepped into the Twilight Zone? When he’d left eight years ago Dean’s hadn’t had any security other than locking the buildings at night and occasional drive-by from the sheriff’s department. This morning the back door closest to the dock—the entrance Clay had used since he was a kid—had been locked, and yesterday he’d had a sticky encounter with several members of the security crew when he’d taken his motorcycle out for supplies and to arrange for delivery of a rental car. They’d called his mother before letting him pass back through the gate.

“She’ll be right with you, Mr. Dean.” The receptionist punctuated her words with another high-wattage smile.

Clay couldn’t sit. This building held too many memories. Good ones. Bad ones. A flicker of movement drew his attention to the glass wall. Andrea strode down the hall. Her figure-skimming sage-green suit was as professional as Saturday night’s black dress had been drop-dead sexy. She’d twisted her thick blond hair up onto her head revealing the long, pale line of her throat. The polished woman before him was the antithesis of the unsure girl he’d left behind.

A section of the glass glided open. “Thanks, Eve. I’ll take it from here. Good morning, Clay. Please come with me.”

Andrea’s gaze briefly hit his and then she headed back the way she’d come before he had a chance to reply. His gaze automatically shifted to the curve of her hips as he followed her down the hall. She’d always had a killer walk. Her perfume tantalized him. It wasn’t the sweet flowery scent he remembered. This fragrance had a spicy and alluring kick to it.

He cursed his response. Rekindling the old flame was out of the question. He could not stay in Wilmington and face the lie that continued to erode his pilings on a daily basis.

Had his father kept his word? Clay couldn’t ask and doubted he’d get an honest answer if he did. How could he trust anything his father said anymore? How could he trust himself with that DNA?

His muscles dragged like metal against rust-covered metal as they approached his father’s office. Struggling to get a handle on the emotions welling inside him, Clay paused in the corridor. He clenched and unclenched his hands as memories assailed him.

The last time he’d taken this walk he’d been on top of the world. He’d come home from the University of New Orleans a day early to ask his father to go with him to buy Andrea’s engagement ring, and then he’d opened the door without knocking and his world had crashed.

Determined to face yet another specter from his past Clay forced himself forward. Every stick of the old office furniture—including the damned couch where Clay had found his father screwing Andrea’s mother—had been replaced with expensive-looking classic pieces.

He caught Andrea’s guarded gaze and noted her pinched expression. Did she know what had happened right here under her nose? She and her mother had always had an enviably close relationship, the kind of link he’d never shared with his father. If Andrea didn’t know about the affair, she’d be just as disillusioned by her mother’s behavior as he had been by his father’s. He wouldn’t do that to her.

He jerked his head toward the door. “What’s with all the new security?”

“We’re protecting our assets. Our base-price yachts cost a million dollars. Most of the models we build far exceed that. We can’t risk vandalism or theft.” She gestured for him to take a seat behind the cherry desk and tapped on a sheaf of papers waiting on the blotter with a pale pink—not red like Saturday night—fingernail. “I need you to read and sign these.”

He remained standing, but lifted the pages and read a few paragraphs. Surprise forced his head up. “What is this?”

“A noncompete clause. Nothing you see or learn here can be used to compete against Dean designs.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not. You’re a naval architect with your own design firm, but temporarily you’re an employee here. We have to take precautions against our ideas being pirated.”

Fury boiled in his veins at the insult to his ethics. He fought to contain it. “You expect me to run the place, but this,” he rattled the sheets, “says you don’t trust me.”

Her lips firmed and her chin lifted. “It’s a business decision, Clay. Emotion doesn’t enter into it.”

Bitterness filled his mouth. He wasn’t the cheat in his family. “My father’s idea?”

A defiant glint entered her eyes and a flush rose in her pale cheeks. “No. Mine.”

That doused his anger like nothing else could. He had no right to complain. He’d earned Andrea’s distrust. He skimmed the pages, scratched his name across the line at the bottom of the page and passed the document to her.

She nodded acceptance. “I’ve left the current order summary and a packet of info to reacquaint you with the company in your in-box. You’ll need to familiarize yourself with our existing client roster since they’re allowed to drop in at anytime to check the status of their project. I’d suggest you look through those documents until Fran, your administrative assistant arrives. She comes in at nine. Her office is through here.” She shoved open a door on the starboard side of the room.

Andrea acted like a car show model—gesturing stiffly here and there, making minimal eye contact, but he noticed the slight tremor of the pages she held. Another needle of regret stabbed him. He and Andrea had once been as comfortable together as two lovers could be.

“When Fran arrives she’ll make your security ID and fit you with the necessary safety equipment. You’ll need to swipe the ID card to access the controlled areas and the front gate. We have one delivery tomorrow and another next week. Both are noted on your calendar. There’s quite a bit of hoopla attached to delivery celebrations. Again, Fran will fill you in.

“I’ve scheduled a production walk-through at three this afternoon for you. My office is still where it used to be if you need anything.” She headed for the door.

“Andrea.” He waited until she turned. “I won’t work in here. My office is out there.” He pointed toward the wide window overlooking the water. The Expatriate, one of his own designs, rocked beside the dock to the rear of the sales office.

Her eyebrows dipped. “You expect me to trot out to the dock every time I need to speak to you?”

“Either that or call my cell phone.” He extracted a business card from his wallet and wrote his cell number on it. He passed it to her and their fingers brushed. The contact hit him like a bolt of lightning.

Strictly business, Dean.

“I’ll see if I can have maintenance run a phone line to your boat.”

“You said my assistant’s name is Fran. Your mother changed positions?”

“No. Mom doesn’t work here anymore. She left years ago.”

Good. One less ghost he’d have to face.

Day One. Six hours successfully behind her, and three more, including Clay’s tour, to get through before Andrea could call it a day.

As she made her way down the dock to Clay’s “office” after lunch she ran an assessing gaze over the sleek lines of the fifty-foot sport-fishing vessel. Nice. Habit and just plain good manners forced her to remove her heels before ascending the ramp to Clay’s boat rather than risk damaging his deck.

Andrea usually reserved her finer suits for delivery celebrations. When a customer accepted ownership of their new yacht the Dean’s sales staff wined and dined them with a champagne feast. There wasn’t an event today, but she’d had an attack of vanity this morning knowing this was Clay’s first day on the job.

Before she entered the production buildings later this afternoon to reintroduce Clay to the area managers she’d have to dig her rubber-soled deck shoes out from under her desk. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d worn a designer suit with her Docksides. If she’d been less vain she’d be wearing the boat shoes now instead of carrying her heels.

She spotted Clay through the glass-topped door leading to the salon. His laptop sat open and ignored on one end of the galley table he’d turned into a desk while he flipped through a stack of familiar brochures—brochures she’d designed.

A combination of anxiety and pride eddied through her. Dean Yachts had come a long way since he’d left, and Andrea was proud to have been instrumental in the change. Old school practices still reigned over modern technology in the production department, but that was because handcrafted workmanship was part of Dean’s appeal. No mass production here. But Joseph had allowed her to update the way they interacted with the public. She’d poured her heart into the Web page, the reception area, the offices and the brochures in Clay’s hands.

She tapped on the glass and Clay looked up. His cobalt-blue gaze locked with hers, momentarily impeding her ability to breathe. Damn. It. Control yourself.

He rose and crossed the room. Ignoring the stretch of his white short-sleeved polo shirt over his wide shoulders and muscular chest should have been easy, considering what he’d put her through, but it wasn’t. Nor could she overlook the way his pants fit his lean hips and long legs. It wasn’t fair that she still found him attractive after all the time and heartache she’d wasted on him. But she’d get over it.

The door opened, jarring her back to the present with a waft of cool air-conditioned air. Until then she’d been too antsy to notice the cloying June heat and humidity. Both were a fact of life on the Wilmington waterfront.

She cleared her throat. “May I come in? We need to discuss the image we intend to convey to the reporter. I realize this is work time and we shouldn’t discuss personal issues, but I have plans for this evening.”

Plans that included a pint of death by chocolate ice cream and a strategy phone call to Juliana and Holly, her partners in the auction scheme. She also needed to make sure Holly—who’d been reluctant about the whole bachelor auction idea—had bought the firefighter Andrea and Juliana had chosen from the program for her.

She didn’t know how Clay did it, but without moving a muscle he seemed more alert, more wary. “What reporter?”

“Didn’t you know the local paper is chronicling each auction couple for the duration of the dating package?”

He shoved a hand through his already disheveled hair and moved away from the door. She stepped through and closed it behind her.

“No. My mother shanghaied me as soon as I docked. I spent Saturday afternoon being fitted for a tux and arrived at the club minutes before I hit the stage—too late to read the hype and the fine print. Mom didn’t tell me about the reporter or even what my date package involves. All I know about it is what I could hear of the emcee’s spiel to the crowd.”

Glancing around the cabin, Andrea took in the smoky gray leather seating and the rich cherry wood. Nice. Elegant, but masculine. She gestured to his laptop computer. “Do you have Internet access?”

“Yes. Wireless.”

“May I?” At his nod she typed in a Web address. A few clicks later she read aloud, “The lucky lady who wins bachelor thirteen will be treated to Seven Seductive Sunsets, including an old-fashioned carriage ride through the historic section of town, horseback riding on a local beach, a riverboat dinner cruise, a hot air balloon ride, dinner and dancing at Devil’s Shoals Steakhouse, a daylong sailing adventure and a private bonfire on the beach.”

Was Clay swearing under his breath? She couldn’t be certain because he turned and marched into the galley. A second later he returned and shoved a bottle of water in her direction.

“Are you willing to skip the dates? I’ll reimburse you what you paid for the package.”

“Try explaining that to the reporter. Bad press.”

His jaw muscles flexed. “There’s no way out of this?”

“Dating me didn’t used to be a hardship.” Andrea mentally kicked herself. Nothing like showing your damaged ego.

“No. It wasn’t.”

Her gaze bounced back to Clay’s and her heart missed a beat at the intensity in his eyes. Don’t do it. Don’t get sucked under. Tempt him, but keep your distance. She dampened her lips and belatedly accepted the water from him. The chilled bottle helped her regain her focus.

“But that was then. Now we’re two professionals who stand to gain quite a bit of publicity for our respective businesses if we conduct ourselves appropriately.”

His lips thinned. “That’s what this is to you? A publicity stunt?”

“That and an opportunity for us to put the past behind us and move on.” She gestured to the salon and galley. “This looks quite…homey.”

He leaned his hip against the galley counter and crossed his ankles, drawing her attention to his leather deck shoes worn without socks, and the sprinkling of dark hair peeking out from beneath the hem of his pants. “That’s because it is home.”

“For now, you mean.”

He shook his head. “I live on The Expatriate.”

“Permanently?” She couldn’t conceal her surprise.

“Yes.”

She curled her bare toes into the lush cream-colored carpeting and shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she scanned the interior again looking for signs of a feminine occupant. “Will we need a gate pass for anyone else on board?”

“I live alone.”

Relief rushed over her—relief she had no business feeling. “Have you ever owned a home? Besides a boat, I mean.”

They’d once talked of buying a house on the beach with a long expanse of sand on which their dogs and children could run. She’d bought the house, but lacked the children and pets. Having recently turned thirty she’d decided that if she wanted those factors to change—and she did—then she had to get the ball rolling.

His jaw hardened. “I had an apartment over a marina when I first moved to Miami. After I designed and commissioned my first yacht I moved on board. I’ve been living on the water ever since.”

“That certainly makes it easy to move.” She bit her imprudent tongue when his eyes hardened.

“Easy to leave, you mean?”

Be nice. Do not pick a fight. “That’s not what I said.”

“You want to take off the gloves?”

“I beg your pardon?”

His gaze drifted from the V-neck of her pantsuit to her bare feet and back to her eyes. Sensation rippled in the wake of his thorough inspection and ended up tangling in a knot behind her naval. “You’re clenching your fingers and even your toes. Are you spoiling for a fight, Andrea?”

“Of course not,” she answered quickly—too quickly, judging by his raised eyebrow. She hated that he could read her so easily. Exhaling slowly, she made a conscious effort to loosen her grip on the water bottle and her shoes.

When did you lose control of this meeting? Make your point and leave.

“We need a strategy for our interviews. It’s important to hide any tension between us from Octavia Jenkins. She’s a small-town reporter with big-city aspirations, and she’s willing to dig up dirt when necessary.”

His eyes narrowed. “You have dirt?”

Other than a long list of loser dates and an on again, off again relationship with a Dean’s client? “Me? No. My life’s an open book. You?”

He hesitated. “Not personally.”

What did that mean? For the first time she wondered if something or someone besides her had driven Clay from Wilmington. But no. She had to go with the facts as she knew them. Clay’s mother might buy the story that he’d left home because he couldn’t get along with his father, but Andrea didn’t believe it for one second. The Dean men had argued hard and often. Everyone claimed it was because they were too much alike. But their bond had been strong despite the bickering.

Clay drank from his bottle and then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. “Andrea, we were lovers. If Jenkins is as ambitious as you said, she’s not going to have to do much digging to uncover that.”

“No. But it’s not like that’s news to anyone who matters.”

Pensive furrows carved his brow and a nerve twitched beside his mouth. “How aggressive is she?”

“I don’t know. Why?” What kind of secrets did he have?

A shake of his head was her only reply.

Andrea moved away from the computer and glanced down the companionway. Clay’s bedroom. Her steps faltered, her pulse quickened and her knees weakened. Why did being ten paces from Clay’s berth still get to her? She had no intention of tumbling back into his bed. But an old familiar ache filled her belly.

Nostalgia. That’s all it is. Ignore it.

She had to get out of here even though they hadn’t settled on a story to feed Octavia Jenkins yet.

“We’ll talk later about the reporter. I have a conference call in a few minutes. I’ll see you in an hour for the production walk-through.”

Clay snapped his cell phone closed and dragged a hand over his face. The pushy journalist had laid waste to his plan to delay the dates as long as possible. If the Miami headhunters found an interim CEO quickly, then he’d have been able to return home without fulfilling his end of the auction bargain.

Cowardly? Probably. But he didn’t know if he could date Andrea, spend hours with her by candlelight and firelight and walk away again. No, he wasn’t still in love with her, but he was far too attracted to her for his peace of mind. Falling for her again would be too easy. But nothing had changed. In fact, his inability to stick with one woman more than a few months since leaving Andrea reinforced the fact that he might be like his father and incapable of fidelity.

He checked his watch. Damn. Late for his meeting with Andrea. He snatched up the safety glasses required anywhere on the property other than this dock and the sales building and left his yacht behind. Andrea met him at the end of the sidewalk.

How could a woman look attractive in bulky safety glasses and rubber-soled shoes? And yet Andrea did.

Clay shoved on his glasses and cursed his errant hormones. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Phone call. Can you change your plans for tonight?”

Eyes wide, her head whipped toward him. “Why?”

He accompanied her through the security gate and across the pavement toward the first metal building. “Because the reporter is demanding an interview to discuss our first date. That means we need to have one unless you want to blow her off.”

“We can’t do that.” She dipped her head and tugged at her earlobe. Years ago that had been a sign that she was uncomfortable. Was it still?

“I suppose I could.” She looked about as excited as she would if he’d invited her to spend the evening in a mosquito-infested swamp without bug repellant.

“The dinner cruise has an opening tonight. Where do you live?”

“I have a house on Wrightsville Beach.”

Regret needled him. Eight years ago they’d discussed buying a house on the beach together. “I’ll pick you up at seven. The boat sails at seven-thirty. I’ll need directions to your place before you leave.”

“I’d rather meet you there. That will give both of us more time to get ready.”

The door to the building opened before he could reply. Andrea greeted the man and then turned to Clay.

“You remember Peter Stark, don’t you? He’s our production manager now.”

“Good to see you again, Peter.” Clay offered his hand. The man hesitated long enough before shaking Clay’s hand to make his lack of welcome known without being flagrantly rude.

The cold shoulder shouldn’t have surprised Clay but it did. Peter had been Clay’s mentor-slash-babysitter from the first day Clay had set foot on Dean’s soil. The man’s allegiance clearly belonged to Andrea now.

“How’s it going, Peter?” Andrea asked.

“Right on schedule except for those cabinets.” Peter addressed Andrea. “The fancy wood the owner requested isn’t in.”

“I’ll make a—” Andrea stopped and glanced at Clay as if realizing that would be his job now. “Clay can call the distributor to check status when we get back to the office.”

“We could make do with mahogany,” Pete insisted.

“My grandfather always said, ‘The customer’s not paying us to make do. He’s paying us to make what he ordered.’” Clay lived by the quote since his clients often made illogical design requests.

“Yeah, well the wood’s holding up everything else in line.”

“I’ll get on it before I leave today. If all else fails, we’ll cancel the order and go with my suppliers.”

“Your daddy won’t like that,” Peter challenged. “We’ve dealt with this company for twenty years.”

“My father’s not running the show right now. I am. If a company can’t deliver, then we’ll find one that can—just like our customers will if we don’t give them what they’ve asked for. If the holdup is a problem, then shift the line. Bump the next order in front of this one. I’ll make sure the client understands the delay.”

The scene repeated itself as they circled the facility and Clay reacquainted himself with familiar faces. Employees addressed Andrea. She redirected them to Clay. By the time they left the building Clay wondered why his mother had begged him to come home. The employees trusted Andrea. They didn’t trust him.