His Secretary's Surprise Fiance

Dempsey. Reynaud.

She felt as if all her life had led to this moment. This joining. This wild heat that shook her to her core. And when at last he found his release, taking her with him yet again, Adelaide kissed him hard in a tangle of tongues and pleasure.

Afterward, she could barely move, but she didn’t need to. Every part of her felt sated. Happy. And—at least in the physical sense—well loved. She knew they’d taken an irreparable step away from friendship toward something potentially more dangerous. But with the heavy feeling in her limbs and Dempsey’s naked body wrapped around hers, she refused to have any regrets tonight. They would come, she guessed, as sure as the sunrise.

For now, however, she was going to squeeze every moment of pleasure she could out of this fake engagement and their time together. There was always a chance Dempsey could learn to care about her as more than a friend before their four weeks were up.

If sex was a way to make that happen, she would just have to sacrifice her body for the greater good.

And if her gamble didn’t pay off? Adelaide would have some incredible memories to keep her warm at night. She told herself it was a good plan. The only plan she had. But a little voice in her head kept reminding her that Dempsey didn’t have affairs without an expiration date. How many times had Adelaide shipped off one of those extravagant tennis bracelets to a former lover?

She ought to know better than anyone. The only reason Dempsey had initiated this unwise relationship was because she was quitting soon. Yet knowing how their affair would end before it happened wasn’t going to make it any easier when Dempsey walked away.

Eight

When Dempsey’s alarm chimed before dawn, he slammed the off button and hoped it hadn’t woken Adelaide. They hadn’t slept much with the fever for each other burning in their blood. He didn’t want to wear her out, but the last time they’d been together had been her idea after they’d headed into the kitchen to refuel after midnight. She’d made crepes from scratch and they’d been amazing. Including the part when she’d taunted him to find the hint of raspberry sauce she’d dabbed on her bare skin while he wasn’t looking.

That game had ended deliciously, but it had required a shower, where he’d gotten to wash her long hair himself. He’d wanted her then, too, when he’d carried her damp, freshly washed body back to his bed. But he hadn’t wanted to exhaust her.

Studying her face in the shadows cast from the bathroom light—they’d fallen asleep without shutting it off—Dempsey wondered what it would be like to work side by side now that they’d shared this incredible night. He’d never touched a woman he did business with. It was a rule he’d kept all through the years as he’d learned about the Reynauds’ shipping empire from his grandfather, unwilling to have anyone draw a comparison between Dempsey’s personal ethics and his parents.

“I can hear you thinking,” Adelaide whispered, her eyes still closed.

“Maybe I’m thinking about how good you taste.” He stroked her hair, still damp in places from their late-night shower. In other spots, strands had turned kinky, a phenomenon he remembered from when they were kids and she’d let it run wild.

He kissed her bare shoulder, breathing in the scent of roses that lingered even now that it mixed with his soap.

“My female intuition suggests there’s more going on in your brain than that.” She captured his hand where he touched her and threaded her fingers between his. “Do you really need to go to work already?”

“No. But I received a text last night from Evan that one of the players I cut in training camp—Marcus Wheelan—was picked up by the cops for getting into a fight in a local bar. I need to talk to him. See if I can get through to him before he heads down a path that he can’t recover from.” Dempsey had been saved from choosing that kind of life by a fluke of birth, a lucky chance. But if Theo Reynaud hadn’t shown up to pluck Dempsey out of his old life, what were the chances that it would be Dempsey who spent the occasional Friday night in jail?

Or worse.

“Won’t that attract the kind of publicity you don’t want around the team?” Adelaide shifted, turning to meet his gaze.

“I’ll get a lawyer to look at the bail situation and pull Marcus out of there so I can speak to him privately.” Dempsey wasn’t clear on the charges yet, but hoped they were no more serious than disorderly conduct or resisting arrest—the kinds of things police leveled at drunken, noisy athletes.