Читать книгу: «The Elliotts: Bedrooms Not Boardrooms!»
The Elliotts:
Bedrooms Not Boardrooms!
Forbidden Merger
Emilie Rose
The Expectant Executive
Kathie Denosky
Beyond the Boardroom
Maureen Child
Forbidden Merger
Emilie Rose
About the Author
EMILIE ROSE lives in North Carolina with her college-sweetheart husband and four sons. Writing is Emilie’s third (and hopefully her last) career. She’s managed a medical office and run a home day-care, neither of which offers half as much satisfaction as plotting happy endings. Her hobbies include quilting, gardening and cooking (especially cheesecake). Her favorite TV shows include ER, CSI and Discovery Channel’s medical programs. Emilie’s a country music fan because she can find an entire book in almost any song.
Letters can be mailed to:
Emilie Rose
PO Box 20145
Raleigh, NC 27619
USA
E-mail: EmilieRoseC@aol.com
Thanks to Melissa Jeglinski for always providing a fun challenge and for letting me play with old friends.
And special thanks to Sheri WhiteFeather for allowing me to borrow Mason and Beverly.
One
Was the guy at the bar checking her out?
No way.
Men who looked like that did not look twice at women who looked like her. Pumps, a pageboy and puny breasts didn’t spike testosterone in the average male. Not that he was average. Not by a long shot. But she didn’t have time for fun and games.
Aubrey Holt checked her watch. She’d arrived an hour early to scope out the unfamiliar terrain, and she had forty-one minutes remaining before her luncheon appointment. That gave her plenty of time to review the questions her father wanted her to ask Liam Elliott, the financial operating officer of Elliott Publication Holdings, the chief rival of Holt Enterprises, her father’s company and Aubrey’s employer. Something was going on at EPH and no one could figure out what.
Normally, Aubrey would have preferred to meet on familiar turf, but she wanted the F.O.O. of EPH to be comfortable enough to let down his guard and perhaps leak a little insider information. Prying information out of a competitor under the flimsy pretext of an advertiser conflict wasn’t Aubrey’s preferred method of doing business, but if she wanted to prove her worth to her father, then she’d have to play the game his way. She didn’t have to like it, but she’d buckle down and do her best—the way she always did.
As if magnetized, her gaze slid back to the man standing at the bar. He had his back to her and she took advantage of that to shamelessly ogle him, beginning with his polished black wingtips and working her way up the back of his crisply pleated dove-gray trousers to his tush and then over the royal-blue shirt that had to have been custom tailored to fit that narrow waist and those broad shoulders. His dark blond hair was thick and short. Cut by a stylist and not a barber, she’d guess.
And then his gaze trapped hers in the mirror behind the bar. Busted. Her cheeks caught fire. One corner of his mouth lifted and he turned. Wow. This man definitely wouldn’t need to pick up women in a pub. They probably followed him home in droves.
Blond, Buff And Built lifted his glass in a silent how-about-it toast.
Oh, my God. Aubrey’s breath snagged in her windpipe.
At twenty nine, she’d dealt with her share of come-ons. Occasionally, she allowed a gentleman to buy her a drink. But she had never looked at a man and wanted to get naked with him before hello. Blue Eyes made her want to get both naked and sweaty. Here. There. Anywhere. The sooner the better. He made her want to act out some of those wild fantasies she only dared think about under the cover of darkness in her lonely apartment.
Too bad she wasn’t the type to act out her fantasies. Especially not with a stranger she’d met in a bar.
He headed her way, carving a path easily through the tables and around the waitresses and customers like a skier on a slalom course. Sharp, decisive, athletic. Her heart pounded loudly enough to drown out the patrons of the Irish pub. Gulp.
“May I join you?”
Impossible. His voice was as deep as his shoulders were wide. “I’m, um, meeting someone … in a bit.”
Darn it.
“Boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Then do you mind if I share your table until your friend arrives? The place is packed.”
Was it? Aubrey quickly scanned the tables in the long, narrow establishment. All full. And the bar was standing room only. The tables must have filled while she’d been immersed in her list of questions.
Hello! Aubrey Holt, when are you ever going to meet another man like this?
She hastily gathered her papers and shoved them back into her briefcase. “Be my guest. I should have—” she checked her watch “—about thirty-nine minutes left.”
Straight white teeth flashed. “About that, huh?”
She concealed a wince. Could you be more anal, A.? “Yes.”
He hung the suit jacket he’d carried over one arm on the tall coatrack rising from the end of the booth and then slid onto the bench across from her. His knee bumped hers. The light contact hit her like a bolt of lightning, sending electricity storming through her central nervous system like crackling power lines.
She’d guess he was close to six feet. With that body and face he could easily model for fitness magazines. His cologne teased her nose. Cedar? Sandalwood? She couldn’t place the brand, which meant nothing except that the manufacturer didn’t advertise with any of Holt’s magazines.
“You don’t come here often.” Not a question.
She could drown happily in his Caribbean-blue eyes. “My first time. Do you come here often?”
He nodded. “Best bookmaker’s sandwich in New York.”
“Bookmaker’s?” Not exactly a brilliant conversationalist today, are you, A.?
“Ham, pepperoni and Havarti on Irish soda bread with a red-wine vinaigrette that will make your taste buds sing. Or you can try the Guinness Spareribs if you don’t mind licking your fingers. They’re tender and moist.”
And so was she. Listening to the man talk was practically an orgasmic experience. His voice was low enough to make her lean forward to hear him and rough enough to raise the fine hairs on her skin. He had no detectable accent to distinguish where he’d come from. So many Manhattanites hailed from elsewhere. “I’ll keep that in mind when I order.”
“You do that.” He winked.
One dip of those gold-tipped lashes and she considered pulling out her compact to examine her chin for drool. She settled for licking her dry lips. Did she have any lipstick left on? She looked like a lipless lady without. “Do you work nearby?”
“Not close enough that my co-workers will follow me. When I leave the office I like to leave the office, if you know what I mean.” He grimaced. On him it looked good. But then every expression probably did with a face like that.
“I know exactly what you mean. There are days when I want to run screaming from my office building and never return.” She didn’t ask his name and didn’t offer hers. Fantasy Man had approached her only because he wanted to sit down. After today, she’d probably never see him again.
A totally depressing thought.
“What do you do?” he asked.
Aubrey hesitated. She’d learned the hard way that men saw her as the yellow brick road to a job with her father’s empire, and she’d been burned more than once by mistakenly believing that she was the reason for their interest. “I’m pretty much a Jill-of-all-trades. I do whatever needs doing. You?”
“Number cruncher.”
In Manhattan that could mean anything from a Wall Street broker to an accountant, but she couldn’t fault him for his vagueness since she hadn’t been forthcoming either.
The waitress appeared at the table. “Ready to order?”
Fantasy Man met her gaze. “May I buy you a drink while we wait for our dates?”
She never drank on the job, but what the hell, she’d never tried to weasel information out of a competitor either. The idea left a bitter taste in her mouth and a burn in her stomach. She had approximately thirty-two minutes before that exercise in dishonesty began. “Sure. Thank you. May I have a lemon drop martini?”
The waitress took his order for Woodford Reserve whiskey and departed.
He leaned forward, lacing his fingers on the table. She glanced at his hands. Not manicured, but no ragged nails either. And no wedding ring. How would those hands feel dragging across her skin? Stop.
“So, which are you? Sweet or sour?”
The question stumped her. Or was that an estrogen fog making clear thought impossible?
“Sugar on the rim. Sour drink. Sweet and sour. Which are you?” he explained.
Duh. Wake up, Aubrey. “Whichever is required at any given moment. I’m flexible.”
A naughty spark flashed in his eyes. “I’ll bet you are.”
Her entire body flushed hot at the innuendo. “I meant at work.”
“So did I.” He compressed his lips as if fighting a smile but mischief danced in his eyes.
The fact that she had a business appointment in minutes and there was absolutely no chance of this going too far made her bold enough to return his brazen flirtation. “I’ll bet you have amazing stamina. At work.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Yeah. I’ve been known to pull the occasional all-nighter. I’m dedicated to a good outcome. On a project.”
Her heart flipped. She’d bet there’d been plenty of female “projects” to keep him occupied. The man oozed sexual confidence but not in the sleazy, slimy, synthetic way of a bar guy trying to pick up women.
The drinks arrived. While he paid the waitress, Aubrey took a healthy sip of her martini. The alcohol hit her empty stomach with a whammy.
“Morning person or night owl?” he asked.
“I like working when the office is empty, so I can be either. I’m flex—” Realizing she’d already said that, she bit off the word.
“Flexible. Yeah. I got that part. You’ll have to show me sometime.” This time his bright gaze slid from her face to her neck and shoulders and then over the inadequate breasts in her black camisole with its built-in shelf bra. She rarely needed more support. Darn it.
But somehow, she didn’t feel flat-chested when he looked at her that way—as if he’d like to see her shed more than the blazer she’d removed when she took the booth in the overheated pub. Her nipples tightened. The flare of his nostrils indicated he’d noticed, and then his gaze returned to hers. Hot. Aroused.
The impact took her breath away and stirred a maelstrom of need low in her belly. She couldn’t blame her sudden light-headedness on her drink since she’d only had one sip.
She recalled a scene from a dreadful movie—one in which the lovers had met in the bathroom stall of a crowded restaurant and gone at it like hormonally insane teenagers. Aubrey had snorted in disbelief during the film. Today, the idea not only seemed plausible, it appealed. Even to her. A woman with too many hang-ups, according to her last lover.
She exhaled slowly. Never had she been hit with such a powerful punch of attraction, and she’d certainly never had it reflected back at her with such potency.
Why now, when she couldn’t do anything about it, she railed at the unfair Fates.
It’s your turn to speak, A. Be witty. Flirt. But when she looked into Fantasy Man’s eyes she couldn’t think of a thing to say. She was too old and too savvy to be dumbstruck by physical attraction. And yet she was.
He smiled, drawing her attention down his straight nose to the sharply chiseled line of his lips. A small white scar curved on the corner of his not-quite-square jaw. “Like it?”
“What’s not to like?” And then she blushed. She never blushed and yet he’d made her do so twice in less than five minutes. But he’d caught her gawking. Again.
The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. “The drink. Is it good?”
She wanted to crawl under the table. Of course, if she did he’d probably get the wrong idea about why she was under there, and he’d expect her to get to know him a whole lot better. She should be appalled by the shocking thought. Instead, need tightened in her midsection.
“Oh. Oh, yes. It’s delicious. Strong, too.” Maybe she could blame her idiocy on the bartender. Aubrey tried to gather her scattered wits before she made an even bigger fool of herself. “So, what about you? Morning person or night owl?”
He shrugged casually, but those twinkling eyes warned her to brace herself. “Depends on the task. Some things I handle best when I first get up in the morning. Sometimes I do my best work right before I fall into bed.”
If her heart beat any harder she’d need a paramedic. He was light years ahead of her in the sexual repartee department. Aubrey, you have been without a man for too long. Otherwise his teasing would not make her want to jump him.
“Business or pleasure?” he asked over the rim of his glass.
“Excuse me?”
“Which brings you here today?”
She cursed her slow-functioning brain. “Business. You?”
“Same.”
He glanced at his watch. “In fact, my appointment’s due any minute.”
Wanting to smack her forehead but refraining, she looked beyond his shoulder toward the door. She should have been watching the entrance for her luncheon appointment to arrive. Not that she knew what Liam Elliott looked like, but how many men entered this particular establishment alone at one in the afternoon? Maybe she’d subconsciously blocked her assignation from her mind because she really didn’t want to pry information out of the competition. By fair means or foul, her father had ordered.
She checked the time. “Mine, too.”
Regret thinned Fantasy Man’s mouth. “I see a table opening up. I guess I should take it.”
Disappointment settled heavily in her chest. She wasn’t ready to let him go. Bantering with him had been fun. When was the last time she’d had fun? She wanted his name and number. Ask for it. But somehow she couldn’t find the nerve to do so. He was too far out of her league. “Yes, I guess you should. Thanks for the drink and for the company.”
“Could I call you?”
Yes! Yes! Yes! she mentally shouted, as pleasure fizzed through her bloodstream like fine champagne, but she replied as calmly as possible, “I’d like that. Very much.”
She shuffled through her leather satchel and found a pen but couldn’t find anything other than her list of questions to write on. She refused to give him a business card. It would be a while before she’d risk telling him she was a VP for Holt Enterprises, assuming they were still seeing each other in “a while.” But writing on a cocktail napkin seemed … cheesy. “I don’t have a piece of paper.”
He rose, dug into his hanging suit jacket pocket and pulled out a slim gold case. He extracted two business cards, laid both on the table facedown and slid one in her direction. “Write on the back of this. I’ll give you my cell and home numbers.”
While she wrote her first name and her phone number on the card in front of her he stood beside the booth and penned his numbers on the back of the other. They exchanged cards. He offered his hand, and his fingers closed around hers. His handshake was warm and firm and sent a zing of sexual awareness vibrating though her. From the widening of his pupils and the flare of his nostrils she’d bet the reaction wasn’t one-sided.
“It was great meeting you.” Without releasing her hand he looked down at the card and then his gaze, shocked and wary, jerked back to hers. “Aubrey. Aubrey Holt?”
How did he know her name? Confused by his reaction, Aubrey flipped the card in her hand and read the embossed letters. Her stomach plunged to her pumps.
“You’re Liam Elliott?”
“Yes.”
She snatched her hand away and cursed her luck. She’d finally met an intelligent man with whom she’d like to pursue a relationship and she not only had to lie to him, but she also had to pry confidential information out of him.
Not the way to win friends or lovers, A.
She fought the urge to scream in frustration.
The sexiest man she’d ever met was totally taboo.
Damn. Double damn, Liam swore silently. Between work difficulties and his mother’s battle with breast cancer he hadn’t had time to look twice at a woman since January and here he was turned on by the enemy’s daughter.
Confusion replaced desire in the most extraordinary violet-colored eyes he’d ever seen. “But you were early.”
He stomped on his disappointment. “So were you.”
“I … I wanted to familiarize myself with the establishment.”
And he’d been driven to drink by this morning’s disaster of a meeting between his warring family members—a battle his grandfather had deliberately started nine months ago when he’d announced his pending retirement at the family’s New Year’s bash. Patrick Elliott’s idiotic method for choosing his replacement had pitted his children and grandchildren against each other as they vied for the top spot at EPH.
Worse, Liam suspected his grandfather had used the information Liam had inadvertently shared in devising his plan. Liam was closer to his grandfather than anyone in the family. He and Patrick ate together, golfed together and worked out side by side in the EPH gym. They talked about anything and everything, but Liam now wished he’d kept his mouth shut and had treated his grandfather more like an employer than a relative or a friend. But he’d never expected someone he loved to use his confidences to betray the family.
Why hadn’t he seen this coming and found a way to head off disaster? The family counted on him to be the peacemaker. Over the past months Liam had watched his uncles, aunts and cousins become competitors instead of teammates. His grandfather continued to turn a deaf ear to Liam’s prediction that the backbiting and squabbling would take EPH down instead of making the company stronger, as Patrick predicted. Liam used to enjoy working in the family business, but the current discord made him dread going to work each day.
He knocked back the last of his drink and considered his options. He could leave, but curiosity kept his feet nailed to the floor. Why had Aubrey Holt called this meeting? Option two: order another drink and join her. But he’d had two in the past hour, breaking his personal code of ethics. He rarely drank during working hours—even though the idea appealed more each day, given the current battlefield where he worked—and he never consumed more than two drinks. Ever. If he did order a third now, he’d probably say to hell with the family, work and ethics and invite Aubrey back to his apartment to see where this attraction would lead—a decision that would cause more trouble than it was worth.
“I—Well.” Aubrey visibly switched gears from flirtatious woman to business acquaintance. The spark in her eyes died and determination squared her shoulders and her chin. Her lips firmed, concealing the lush softness.
The thought had crossed Liam’s mind that Aubrey might have known who he was when she’d been checking him out at the bar and maybe she’d come on to him to soften him up and worm information out of him, but her obvious horror at discovering his identity erased it.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Elliott, and let me buy your lunch.”
“Liam.” Damn, he repeated silently, and slid back into the booth. This time when his knee brushed Aubrey’s the fire shooting up his thigh filled him with frustration rather than the heart-racing anticipation he’d felt moments ago. Nothing could come of this attraction. Nothing. Matthew Holt wasn’t the kind of adversary to whom you revealed your weaknesses. That meant his daughter wasn’t either.
“What made you call my office for an appointment, Aubrey?” He’d be damned if he’d call her Ms. Holt when minutes ago he’d been savoring the idea of getting her out of her clothes and exploring every inch of her long, lean body. With his hands. With his tongue.
He’d been watching her since she walked in. Aubrey might be as tall and slender as a model and not his usual type, but when she’d shimmied out of her black blazer her moves had been worthy of a top-notch stripper. Smooth. Seductive. Riveting. Not that he’d seen any strippers, but he recognized innate sexuality when he saw it.
What’s more, he didn’t think she’d noticed that he—along with half the other men in Ernie’s Pub—had frozen with their glasses halfway to their salivating mouths to watch her wiggle out of that blazer.
She tucked a swath of straight, light brown hair behind her ear. “I, um, wanted to discuss some of our mutual advertisers.”
“What about them?”
She shifted on her bench seat and focused on the papers she’d extracted from her briefcase. “There’s a rumor that EPH’s magazines are deliberately lowering their advertising rates and padding their rate base to lure away Holt’s advertisers.”
“What? That’s nuts. We’d have to falsify our circulation and demographics to do that. We’d lose advertising income and credibility. Besides, you know as well as I do that there are two outside regulatory companies who track those numbers.”
With each magazine shooting for maximum profit in his grandfather’s contest, there was no way any of the EPH lines would turn away sales dollars. Aubrey’s rumor was pure bunk, but it could be damaging if advertisers thought EPH wasn’t being truthful.
“Where did you hear that?”
“I, uh, can’t reveal my source.” Her gaze didn’t meet his. She stroked the condensation from her water glass with one finger.
Liam’s gaze focused on the slow, gliding digit and sweat, like the droplet on her glass, rolled down his spine. Minutes ago he’d been anticipating her touching him. He severed the unacceptable tangent of his imagination and eyed her suspiciously. Were those seductive moves intentional?
“Has the circulation and advertising fee changed dramatically for some of your magazines over the past year? Are EPH’s magazines offering additional marketing services?”
“That’s confidential information.”
“I know, but the pressure is on for us to stay competitive with the EPH lines.”
“What Holt Enterprises does is not my problem.”
“I realize that. I was hoping—”
“Hoping I’d give you insider information?” A bitter taste filled his mouth. His grandfather had used Liam’s confidences. Was that Aubrey’s plan too?
“I was hoping we could work together to get a fair rate from our mutual advertisers and neither company would lose money.”
The only thing that kept him from walking out was hunger. That and a prickling at the back of his neck. He never ignored that warning sign. Something wasn’t kosher about Aubrey’s spiel, but given the stipulations in his grandfather’s plan and the disruptions at EPH, it was possible that some of the advertisers had caught wind of the dissention in the Elliott ranks and become unsettled. They’d tried to keep the competition under wraps because Patrick was fanatical about guarding the family name and reputation, but leaks happened.
Liam signaled for the waitress and ordered his regular sandwich. Aubrey ordered the same, but he had the feeling it was more because she didn’t want to be bothered with a menu than from any real interest in a bookmaker’s special.
“I can’t help you. Nothing about the way EPH does business with its advertisers has changed.” Nothing except the magazines’ personnel were going at each other’s throats with fangs bared. His grandfather had decreed that the magazine with the highest profit margin proportionally at the end of the year would see its editor in chief become CEO of EPH. Nobody wanted to lose.
As financial operating officer Liam was in charge of tracking the numbers. The weight rested heavily on his shoulders. He’d had to take his personal feelings out of the equation, forget the people involved and deal strictly with the cold, hard facts. It wasn’t easy. He worried about EPH and worried about his mother even more.
And while his extended family self-destructed around him Liam realized life was passing him by. He was thirty-one. His parents had been married and had four children by his age. Even his brothers and sister had wised up. Gannon had married in February. He and his wife Erika were expecting their first child. Liam’s younger brother Tag was engaged, and his sister Bridget had recently married a Colorado sheriff and left the family business. He also had a handful of cousins and an uncle who’d recently found their significant others.
All Liam had was a long history of hooking up with the wrong women, a job in the family business, a Porsche he rarely drove—but shelled out a fortune for in parking fees—and a Park Avenue apartment he only used for sleeping. He had no one to stand by and support him the way his father had supported Liam’s mother through her ordeal.
His workaholic father had risen several notches in Liam’s opinion over the past nine months by getting his priorities straight. Family first. Work second. It hadn’t always been that way. It had taken almost losing his wife to set Michael Elliott straight.
The sandwiches arrived and the server departed.
Aubrey’s violet eyes met Liam’s and the impact hit him like a fist in the gut, knocking the breath out of him. “How is your mother? I read about her illness in the paper.”
What was she—psychic? “She’s improving. She’s finished chemotherapy and her hair’s growing back.”
“Her diagnosis must have been terrifying for all of you.”
“Yes.” He could have lost his mother, and while she wasn’t out of the woods yet and wouldn’t be until she’d been cancer-free for five years, optimism was on the upswing. The doctors gave her a good prognosis.
“You’re close to her?”
“Now more than ever. Are you close to your mother?”
Sadness filled Aubrey’s eyes. “No. She left my father when I was eleven. She couldn’t stand always coming in second to Dad’s mistress—work.”
“You didn’t keep in touch?”
“I shuffled back and forth for a while, but then she remarried.” Aubrey ducked her head and the curtain of her shiny hair swung forward. “The sandwich is good and you’re right about the vinaigrette. It’s delicious.”
He ignored her bid to switch topics. “You didn’t get along with the new husband?”
Color leeched from Aubrey’s face. “He liked me a little too much.”
The sandwich turned to rubber in Liam’s mouth. “He came on to you?”
Aubrey abandoned her lunch. “Yes.”
Anger percolated in Liam’s veins. “How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
“Did your mother divorce the bastard?”
“No. Look, could we talk about something else?”
His appetite deserted him. He wanted to ask how her mother could stay with the pervert and if her father had beaten the crap out of him. But he didn’t. “Sure.”
“I heard Patrick is considering retirement. Any idea who will replace him?”
Liam rested his fists beside his plate. “Aubrey, I’m not going to discuss EPH.”
She abandoned the pretzel she’d been nibbling. “I understand. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
He didn’t understand the emotions chasing across her face. Disappointment was easy to identify, but he’d swear he saw failure in Aubrey Holt’s eyes. Why? “You haven’t. Until you started with the EPH interrogation I was having the best time I’ve had in months.”
Her lips parted and color washed her cheeks. Before she could reply his cell phone rang. He unclipped it from his belt. “Excuse me. Liam Elliott.”
“Mr. Elliott, this is Trisha at the Davenport Gallery. Gilda Raines has agreed to talk about parting with the painting you wanted for your mother. I’d suggest you come now. Gilda is … unique. She wants to meet you before she makes her decision.”
“I’ll be right there.” He snapped the phone shut and signaled for the waitress. “I hate to cut this short, but I have to go.”
“Problem at work?”
A wry smile tugged his lips. Did Aubrey never give up? “No. I’ve been trying for months to buy a painting by my mother’s favorite artist. The artist has finally agreed to discuss selling. I don’t want to give her time to change her mind. I’m going to meet her now.”
“Which artist?”
He reached for his wallet. “Gilda Raines.”
Aubrey sat up, alert and radiating excitement. “Are you serious? She’s my favorite, too. And you’re going to meet her! She’s a recluse who never meets anyone.” Her hand covered his on the table and sparks hopped up his arm. “May I come with you?”
Liam looked across the table at the enemy’s daughter, at her pale, slender hand over his. A wise man would cut his losses and say goodbye. Now. Evidently he wasn’t as smart as he thought he was because the shine in those violet eyes and the curve of her lips overrode his conscience’s objections.
“You can ride along. But I’m not answering questions about EPH. If you ask even one I’ll have the cab pull over and put you out. Are we clear?”
Her grin stole his breath. “As clear as the Hope Diamond.”
