by Elise Faber
“Fine.” An irritated huff, but despite that, the rest of Rachel’s words were genuine and maybe . . . a little embarrassed. “I’m surprised, I guess,” she said, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle in her skirt. “I’ve . . . I just have never actually been good at anything before, at least not at anything that mattered.”
Damn, but Heather liked this girl’s honesty—though it broke a piece of her heart to hear the sadness lacing Rachel’s words.
“Well, that may be,” Heather said, bumping Rachel’s shoulder with her own, “But I also know I couldn’t have pulled this trip off without you. I would have been a hell of a lot more stressed and less prepared and less rested if it weren’t for you taking care of the million little details that come along with a trip like this.” A pause as she waited for Rachel’s eyes to connect with hers. “So, thank you for doing your job with such scary competence.”
Rachel laughed, the uncertainty finally melting from her features. “No problem.”
“And we’ll discuss the specifics of your raise when we’re flying home. Deal?”
“Deal.” A pause as Rachel checked her watch. “Now get out of here. If your butt’s not in that car in the next five minutes, you’ll be late for the first meeting and put the entire schedule out of whack.”
Heather saluted, leaving Rachel to finish the unpacking, and headed down to the car. Her mind was so full, so busy with reviewing key details for her first meeting as she walked through the lobby and out to the street that she missed Clay Steele standing at the reception desk.
But he didn’t miss her.
Chapter Eight
Clay
Clay took one step in Heather’s direction before he forced himself to stay at the counter.
Careful. Watch. Wait.
The woman helping him paused briefly in her frenetic keyboard pounding. “It’ll be just a minute.”
He nodded and thanked her, but his gaze was trained on Heather.
God, those pearl buttons just killed him.
Heather’s lips were moving as though she were reciting facts to herself, and knowing her, she probably was. He had never been in a situation where she didn’t seem to have all of the pertinent information on a topic.
Part of that was probably because, like him, she picked projects and investments that were in her wheelhouse. The other part was that she was just really damned smart and even if she didn’t know the particulars about a topic, she was able to listen openly and then provide valuable insights from her own experiences.
It frustrated a lot of the men in their world, but then again, a lot of men in their world also liked to feel superior.
Clay didn’t appreciate feeling like an idiot, of course, but he also didn’t need to feel like the smartest one in the room in order to be important to the conversation. And he enjoyed learning and conquering new challenges.
Life was pretty boring otherwise.
But Heather’s big juicy brain wasn’t the only thing that attracted Clay.
Her body was amazing and her heart . . .
He would have said it was icy before Vegas.
It wasn’t.
He remembered the way she’d looked after her friends had gotten in the car, straightening the “Just Married” sign before they pulled away, snapping a picture and then wiping tears from her eyes as they’d driven off.
There was emotion there.
Buried under some heavy armor, but it was still there. It—
Why is today hard for you?
She’d asked the question as she’d traced nonsensical patterns with one finger on his naked chest.
Clay grabbed on to the memory, pulling it to the forefront of his mind. Had he told her? His gut clenched hard. Fuck, what had he told her—?
It took a long moment, but the images finally teased themselves free. Then he breathed a sigh of relief as he remembered catching her little finger and bringing it to his mouth. He’d trailed his own finger down, traversing over her silky curves until he’d reached the damp space between her thighs.
And then she’d been moaning instead of asking questions.
It had been safer that way.
Heather disappeared from view, the revolving door swallowing her up, and he turned back to the woman at the desk. She was placing the plastic key card into an envelope. “Here you are, Mr. Steele,” she said and directed him to the bank of elevators.
He lifted his messenger bag onto his shoulder and tucked his garment bag under the other arm. Berlin was only a quick stopover for him, so aside from a lunch meeting with his client that afternoon and a chat over dinner with his CEO of European operations, Clay planned on spending most of the day catching up on a few overdue projects before his flight out to Amsterdam the following morning.
Though, he frowned, pressing the elevator button before pulling out his cell phone, he wouldn’t be stopping in Amsterdam at all if he didn’t get some useful information from the folks at Pierce.
There was something about the company that wasn’t sitting right with him.
So far, everything they’d sent had looked perfect, but almost too perfect. Pierce was growing fast and making money hand over fist, without a single mistake in sight, but if that were truly the case, then why were they shopping so aggressively for a buyer?
He knew for sure they were talking to RoboTech via Heather as well as several others from their circle. They’d also approached him about Steele Technologies buying them out.
It could be they were simply hoping for a bidding war, and while Clay didn’t necessarily doubt that, he was also hesitant, especially based on the speed they wanted the buyout to occur and the lack of additional information he’d asked for.
His gut told him they were hiding something.
He just wasn’t sure what.
The elevator dinged and he stepped off, checking the sign for the direction of his room. He was almost there when a door to his right flew open and a girl stormed out, almost colliding with him.
“Sorry,” she mouthed, cell glued to her ear.
“It’s okay—”
“No. That isn’t going to work,” she snapped, moving around him toward the elevators.
He stopped at his room and extracted one of the keycards from the envelope. He was just swiping it over the panel when he heard the woman say, “Heather O’Keith doesn’t operate this way. Either provide the information to us today by four-thirty or we’re done. I don’t care that . . .”
Clay glanced down the hall and watched as she turned the corner.
Could Heather’s room actually be next door?
He turned the handle, shoving his luggage inside before stepping back into the hall and . . . glancing toward the room in question.
What were the odds that fate would throw them together again?
He snorted.
Pretty damned high based on the last six months. He was just about to turn back to his own room when he noticed the door to hers hadn’t quite latched. He reached forward to pull it all the way closed. If Heather saw him, she’d probably make some quip about him stalking her, or bust his balls over his attempt at breaking and entering.
Not that it mattered, because Heather wasn’t there.
Heather. Wasn’t. There.
And the devil inside him pushed to the surface.
Instead of tugging the door so it closed and locked, he found himself nudging the panel inward.
As the door opened, it caught on a garment bag hanging near the entrance—the same bag that must have slowed it enough so that it hadn’t latched—and so he shifted the luggage slightly, wanting to prevent the same thing from happening in the future, wanting to keep Heather and, presumably, her assistant safe from . . . well, strange men barging into their hotel room.
“I’m not barging,” he muttered. “I’m just making sure they’re safe.”
His conscience mocked him and he knew if his words were true, then he would have fixed the door and headed directly out of the room.
But
he didn’t leave.
And he also didn’t bother kidding himself.
He wanted to scope out Heather’s space, however temporary. He wanted to see all of the little idiosyncrasies and he—
Voices echoed in the hall and he froze, six inches from her bed.
He was going to get arrested.
“Shit.” Clay was losing his fucking mind. He needed to get the hell out of this room and back into his own. He needed to concentrate on his businesses and interests.
He needed to get his shit together.
In one swift movement, he turned away from the bed and back toward the door. Of course, though the motion was fast, it wasn’t in the least bit graceful and he managed to knock over both a suitcase and a small tote bag, dumping its contents across the carpet in multiple directions.
Cursing, he reaching for a tube of lipstick that was rolling its way under the bed. He snagged it and shoved it back inside the tote, along with a pair of fuzzy socks, a package of tissues, a clear zippered bag with hand sanitizer, a mini deodorant, and wet wipes, and three paperback romances.
This is why women were way more successful than men. They traveled prepared.
He was just shoving the last book back into the bag when a paper slipped from between its pages.
Clay picked it up, a huge grin breaking out on his face.
Chapter Nine
Heather
Heather was exhausted by the time she made her way off the elevator and began walking down the hall toward her room.
Her brain throbbed and her feet ached, despite the expensive-supposedly-meant-they-were-comfortable heels. Because no matter how pricey and how well designed, stilettos were just not comfortable after ten hours on her feet.
She was dying to toe them off and then chuck them across her suite.
Or maybe not, since they cost enough to feed a small village, but the notion was there.
So bare feet—with a tiny shoe toss instead of a launch—followed by a bath and room service.
That was her plan.
Her plan seemed obtainable for all of two minutes.
Because when she reached her door, she realized her key wasn’t working.
“Why?” she groaned, dropping her head to the smooth panel of wood. “Why. Won’t. You. Work?” She punctuated each word with a thunk of her forehead against the door before trying the key again.
Nothing.
She tilted her chin up toward the ceiling. “Universe, help me out here.”
The door opened.
Heather’s lips parted in surprise and any hope of words was lost the moment she saw the pair of surprised mocha eyes staring down at her.
A pause before Clay’s shock turned into amusement. “Well, who do we have here, knocking on my door?”
She frowned. “This is my door. What the hell are you doing in my room?”
He tsked and pointed up at the plastic placard on the wall. “Sweetheart, you need to look again.”
Which was the moment that Heather finally studied the numbers outside the door, finally read the numbers closely.
And, fuck her, but Clay was right.
Her room was . . . not this one.
Groaning, she took a step toward the proper keypad and swiped the little plastic card.
It didn’t work.
Oh God, was she on the wrong floor? Had she—
Clay plucked the key out of her hand and took a step . . . but not toward her. Nope, he went to the room on the other side of his and pressed the card above the knob. The little light on the door flashed green and the lock clicked open.
Heather sighed. Perfect. Now she not only owed him an apology but also a thank you.
He pushed the door open, flicking the dead bolt forward, probably so she wouldn’t have to battle with the keycard again, because apparently her brain was incapable of both reading and operating simple technology. Then he rotated to face her, an expectant look on his face.
Ugh.
“Thanks,” she grumbled and started for her room.
Clay didn’t move as she brushed by him, and she couldn’t hold back her shiver, not when her body remembered every moment of their night together.
She cleared her throat, shoving those memories down deep.
Her body, the treacherous beast, was reminding her how good it had been.
They were already married, so what would it hurt if she slid a little closer instead of away?
The amount of heat in Clay’s eyes told her that was all it would take.
“Sweetheart—”
She snapped out of it. “I’m not your sweetheart.”
“Heather, then,” he said, stepping closer, forcing her to either back up or let his chest brush against hers. It was second nature to stay in place, to feel the hard planes of him press close to her softer ones.
“Heather,” he murmured again. Gently. One hand came up, cupped her cheek.
And that was enough for her to unstick her feet, to remember the trouble it caused last time.
The trouble Clay caused.
For her work. For her future. For her . . . heart.
“I’m sorry for disturbing you,” she said and retreated to the threshold of her room, pushing the door open.
Clay didn’t follow.
She tried to convince herself the little slice of disappointment cutting across her heart didn’t actually exist.
“You’re not a disturbance, sweetheart.”
Her brow rose, her eyes narrowed, but Clay’s only response was a lopsided grin.
“So, what do you think of the Pierce deal?” he asked, propping one shoulder against the doorframe.
Instantly, she relaxed. Business, she could do, even with a tired brain.
“I’m only telling you this because I owe you for the”—she waved a hand between their rooms—“thing, but something’s off about Pierce.”
He nodded. “I agree. The reports are almost too perfect.”
Heather tilted her head to the side. “Do you think they’re doctored?”
“Could be.” A shrug that drew her eyes to his clothes for the first time that evening. He was dressed more casually than she’d ever seen him. Well, aside from their naked time together.
She bit her lip, her eyes glued to the sliver of exposed skin at his throat, the way his sleeves were rolled back to reveal strong forearms.
“What just went through your mind?” he asked, jarring her from her reverie. He’d moved closer, close enough to touch.
The thought made her shiver.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, trying to remember why she shouldn’t invite him into her room to continue what they had started in Vegas.
“Mmm.” One of his hands rose and cupped her cheek. “You should sleep, baby.”
Her lips pressed into a flat line before she stepped back. “Not your baby. Not your sweetheart.”
“Noted.” He nudged her back, pushing the dead bolt to the side and tugging the door closed as he said, “Sweet dreams, honey.”
“Clay—”
It shut completely.
His chuckle echoed through the wooden panel.
“Lock up,” he said, and she did so, only then hearing his footsteps move over to his room, his door opening and closing.
“Not your honey, either,” she muttered, toeing off her shoes and grabbing the Pierce file for one final review in the bath.
Then she hesitated, her hand resting on their shared wall.
“Goodnight, Clay,” she whispered.
Chapter Ten
Clay
Clay secured the dead bolt to his suite, a grin tugging at his lips.
Heather.
Knocking on his door.
God, that was just perfect.
He chuckled and headed back for the bed where his laptop sat open, files strewn over the comforter. Maybe two more hours until he could wrap up for the night?
His eyes traced the stacks of papers.
Okay, probably three.
“F
ocus, Steele,” he muttered as he sat down with his back against the headboard. “And not on the woman in the next room over.” But it was virtually impossible to ignore the fact that she was probably already naked and taking either a shower or a bath, based on the noise the loud ass pipes in the shared wall of their bathrooms was pumping out.
So what. Big deal. Heather may be all naked and wet just a few feet away. She was just another woman he’d slept with.
Except she wasn’t.
His stomach clenched at the thought, twisting and clawing in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.
It wasn’t fear.
No, it was abject terror. He couldn’t care about another person. Not like—
And in what was probably the most perfect timing in the history of all time, his lawyer took that moment to return his earlier text. They spent a few minutes exchanging messages until Clay had scheduled an appointment for some necessary “discreet services” when he returned to the States.
She probably thought he had a mistress that needed paying off or an illegitimate baby that needed a trust fund.
Which was just as it should be. He was a billionaire . . . or nearly so. Give him another year, and his father’s dream of that milestone would be accomplished. But the point was that he was obscenely rich, so he was certain to have his eccentricities and dalliances. Not that he’d ever needed her to take care of something along those lines before, but there was a first time for everything, and she was the best out there. He’d take care of his little issue before it became something bigger.
Done.
Finished.
He and Heather would go back to being business associates—cough—adversaries, and that was it.
It was for the best.
“Yup,” he agreed, carefully folding and sliding the marriage license in his briefcase. It was simpler that way. Safer.
And so what if his brain was accusing him of being a coward.
Many people had laughed at him for refusing to buy a private jet until the company was stable enough to afford one, for not spending thousands of dollars on each of the suits in his closet, for not renting out the penthouse in every hotel he stayed in.