The CEO's Accidental Bride

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Mostly.

Lindsay gave a wry grin. “Poor Zach. Part of me can’t wait to see what he tries next.”

And part of Kaitlin couldn’t help hoping it involved seduction.

In his office Monday morning, Zach was forced to struggle to keep from fantasizing about Kaitlin. He was angry with her over the lavish designs, and he needed to stay that way in order to keep his priorities straight. Thinking about her smooth legs, her lithe body and those sensuous, kissable lips was only asking for trouble. Well, more trouble. More trouble than he’d ever had in his life.

“—to the tune of ten million dollars,” Esmond Carson was saying from one of the burgundy guest chairs across from Zach’s office desk.

At the mention of the number, Zach’s brain rocked back to attention. “What?” he asked bluntly.

Esmond flipped through the thick file folder on his lap. The gray-haired man was nearing sixty-five. He’d been a trusted lawyer and advisor of Zach’s grandmother Sadie for over thirty years. “Rent, food, teacher salaries, transportation. All of the costs are overstated in the financial reports. The foundation has a huge stack of bills in arrears. The bank account has maxed out its overdraft. That’s how the mess came to my attention.”

Zach couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How had things gotten so out of hand? “Who did this?”

“Near as we can tell, it was a man named Lawrence Wellington. He was the regional manager for the city. And he disappeared the day after Sadie passed away. My guess is that he knew the embezzlement would come to light as soon as you took over.”

“He stole ten million dollars?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“You’ve called the police?”

Esmond closed the file folder, his demeanor calm, expression impassive. “We could report it.”

“Damn right we’re reporting it.” Zach’s hand went to his desk phone. Someone had stolen from his grandmother. Worse, they’d stolen from his grandmother’s charitable trust. Sadie was passionate about helping inner-city kids.

“We’re having him arrested and charged,” Zach finished, lifting the receiver and raising it to his ear.

“That might not be your best option.”

Zach paused, hand over the telephone buttons. He lifted his brows in a silent question.

“It would generate a lot of publicity,” said Esmond.

“And?” Who cared? It wasn’t as if they had any obligation to protect the reputation of a criminal.

“It’ll be a media circus. The charity, your grandmother’s name, all potentially dragged through the mud. Donors will get nervous, revenue could drop, projects might be canceled. No one and no company wants their name linked with criminal behavior, no matter how noble the charity.”

“You think it would go that way?” asked Zach, weighing the possibilities in his mind, realizing Esmond had a valid point.

“I know a good private investigative firm,” said Esmond. “We’ll look for the guy, of course. And if there’s any benefit in pressing charges, we’ll press them. But my guess is we won’t find him. From the records I’ve reviewed, Lawrence Wellington was a very shrewd operator. He’ll be long gone. Sadie’s money’s long gone.”

Zach hissed out a swearword, dropping the receiver and sliding back in his tall chair.

The two men sat in silence, midmorning sunshine streaming in the big windows, muted office sounds coming through the door, the familiar hum of traffic on Liberty Street below.

“What would Sadie want?” Esmond mused quietly.

That one was easy. “Sadie would want us to help the kids.” Zach’s grandmother would want them to swiftly and quietly help the kids.

Esmond agreed. “Are you in a position to write a check? I can pull this out of the fire if you can cover the losses.”

What a question.

Like every other transportation company in the world, Harper’s cash flow had been brutalized these past few years. He had ships sitting idle in port, others in dry dock racking up huge repair bills, customers delaying payment because of their own downturns, creditors tightening terms, and Kaitlin out there designing the Taj Mahal instead of a functional office building.

“Sure,” he told Esmond. “I’ll write you a check.”

He put Esmond in touch with his finance director, asked Amy to have Kaitlin come to his office, then swiveled his chair to stare out at the cityscape, hoping against hope his grandmother wasn’t watching over him at this particular moment. In the three short months since her death, it felt as if the entire company was coming off the rails.

Not entirely his fault, of course. But the measure of a business manager wasn’t how he performed when things were going well, it was how he performed under stress. And the biggest stress of his present world was on her way up to see him right now.

A few minutes later, he heard the door open and knew it had to be Kaitlin. Amy would have announced anyone else.

“You can close it behind you,” he told her without turning.

“That’s okay,” she said, her footsteps crossing the carpet toward his desk.

He turned his chair, coming to his feet, in no mood to be ignored. He strode around the end of the big desk. “You can close the door behind you,” he repeated with emphasis.

“Zach, we—”

He breezed past her and firmly closed it himself.

“I’d prefer you didn’t do that.” Her voice faded off as he turned and met her head-on.

She wore a slim, charcoal-gray skirt, topped with a white-and-gold silk blouse. The skirt accented her slender waist, and was short enough to show off her shapely legs, while the blouse clung softly to her firm breasts. The top buttons were undone, showing a hint of cleavage and framing her slender neck. A twisted gold necklace dangled between her breasts, while matching earrings swung from her small ears beneath a casual updo.

His gut tightened predictably at the sight of her, and he took the few steps back to the middle of the room.

Did she have to look like a goddess every day in the office? Had the woman never heard of business suits or, better yet, sweatpants? Could she not show up in loafers instead of three-inch, strappy heels that would haunt his dreams?

“I would prefer…” She started for the door.

He snagged her arm.

She glanced pointedly down to his grip. “Are you going to manhandle me again?”

Manhandling her did begin to describe what he wanted to do. He’d gone home Friday night with his muscles stretched taut as steel. He’d tossed and turned, prayed for anger, got arousal, and when he finally slept, there she was, sexy, beckoning, but always out of reach.

He searched her expression. “Am I frightening you?”

“No.”

“I’m making you angry?”

“Yes.”

“Deal with it.” He wouldn’t scare her, but he truly didn’t care if she got mad.

She set her jaw. “I am.”

“Because you’re making me angry, too.” That wasn’t the only thing she was making him. But it was the only one he’d own up to—both out loud and inside his head.

“Poor baby,” she cooed.

“You’re taunting me?” That was what she wanted to do here? He could barely believe it.

“I’m keeping the upper hand,” she corrected him, crossing her arms, accentuating her breasts, increasing his view of her cleavage.

He coughed out a laugh of surprise, covering up the surge of arousal. “You think you have the upper hand?”

“I know I have the upper hand. And there’s nothing you can say or do to make me—”

He took a step forward. He was at the end of his rope here. The woman needed to wake up to reality.

Her eyes went wide, and her lips parted ever so slightly.

“Make you what?” he breathed.

“Zach.” Her tone held a warning, even as her expression turned to confusion and vulnerability.

His attention locked in on her, and her alone.

“Make you what?” he persisted.

She didn’t answer. But the tip of her tongue flicked out, moistening her lips.

He closed his throat on an involuntary groan, and his world shrank further.

He shifted closer, fixated on her lips.

His thigh brushed hers.

Her lips softened, and her breathing deepened.

He inhaled the exotic perfume, daring to lift his hand, stroking the back of his knuckles against her soft cheek.

She didn’t stop him. Instead, her eyelids fluttered closed, and she leaned into his caress. His desire kicked into action. And he tipped his head, leaning in without conscious thought to press his lips against hers.

They were soft, pliable, hot and delicious. Sensation instantaneously exploded inside his brain. He was back on the yacht, the ocean breeze surrounding them, her taste overpowering his senses, the stars a backdrop to their midnight passion.

His arms went around her, and hers around him. Their bodies came flush, the sensation achingly familiar. She molded to him, fitting tight in all the right places.

He moved her backward, pressing her against the office wall. His hands slipped down, cupping her tight little bottom, resisting an urge to drag her sharply against his hardening body. He was on fire for her.

His hands went to her hair, stroking through the softness, cradling her gorgeous face while he peppered kisses, tracing a line over her tiny ear, down the curve of her neck, along her shoulders, to the edge of her soft silk blouse.