The Expectant Executive

Besides, having him join her would defeat the purpose of her much needed escape.

“No.” To soften her hasty reply, she smiled. “By no stretch of the imagination am I domestic, but I think I can manage a pot of coffee without too much trouble.” Waving her hand toward the white velour sofa, she added, “I’ll only be a few minutes. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?”

“I think I’ll do that.” His grin sent a wave of heat from the top of her head to the soles of her feet.

As if riveted to the floor, Fin watched him remove his wide-brimmed hat and shrug out of his western jacket, then toss them on the back of an armchair.

Years of listening to her mother recite the rules of proper etiquette went right out the window when she turned and entered the kitchen.

The proper thing would have been to step forward, take his hat and coat and hang them in the closet. But when Travis had unsnapped the cuffs of his chambray shirt and started rolling up the long sleeves over his tanned, sinewy forearms, she’d quickly decided there was a lot to be said for the old adage about retreat being the better part of valor.

Just the memory of those arms holding her so tenderly as they’d succumbed to passion that night in his barn last month was enough to cause her pulse to race and her breathing to come out in short, raspy little puffs. Everything about that night had been pure magic and she’d spent the past month doing her best to forget that it ever happened.

“You’ve got to get hold of yourself,” she muttered when she noticed her hand trembling as she spooned coffee into the basket.

“Did you say something?” he called from the living room.

“No, just talking to myself.”

Closing her eyes, she shook her head in an effort to dislodge the disturbing memory. What on earth had gotten into her?

She was editor-in-chief of one of the top fashion magazines in the world, a shark in the corporate boardroom and had the ability to send the most fearless intern running for cover with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. But in Travis’s presence, she seemed to be continually reminded of the fact that she was first and foremost a woman who had ignored her feminine wants and needs in favor of a rewarding career in the publishing industry.

Only, in the past couple of months she’d begun to realize that her career wasn’t nearly as satisfying as she’d once thought it to be. Since learning Jessica Clayton was her long-lost daughter and meeting Travis, Fin had been reminded of what she’d given up in order to devote herself to making Charisma the premier magazine of the fashion world.

When she’d been a young girl, she’d wanted nothing more than to be a wife and mother, to have a family of her own. But that dream had been shattered when Patrick had forced her to give her baby girl away and had forbade her to ever see Jessie’s father again. She’d never forgiven Patrick for denying her desperate pleas to keep her child, nor had she ever gotten over the loss. After she’d returned from the convent her parents had sent her to in Canada to hide her and her “shameful” condition from social and business acquaintances, she’d thrown herself into her schooling, then later into her career in an attempt to assuage the pain.

But it hadn’t worked. She sighed heavily. All that she’d accomplished was finding that as she approached middle age, she was alone, childless and had become a hopeless workaholic.

“Are you all right?”

The sound of Travis’s voice caused her to jump. Spinning around, she found him leaning one broad shoulder against the doorframe, much like he’d done this afternoon in her office. “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?”

He pushed away from the doorframe and took a step toward her. “You were standing there staring off into space like your mind was a million miles away.”

Shaking her head, she turned to slide the filled basket into the coffeemaker, then flipped the switch. “I was just thinking about the latest accounting figures for Charisma,” she lied. “If my staff and I work hard enough, we should still be able to pull ahead of my brother Shane and his magazine, The Buzz.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think we’ll be able to win?” she asked, frowning.

He shrugged. “I can’t say if you will or not. I was talking about what you were thinking. Whatever it was, you looked like your best roping horse had just pulled up lame, not like you were worried about winning a contest.”

Shaking her head, she hoped her laughter didn’t sound as hollow to him as it did to her. “I’ve never even ridden a horse, let alone owned one. And as for roping, I’m afraid I’d be a hopeless failure.”