from the parking garage in workday pumps, and her suit skirt rode up the panty hose strangling her legs.
She threw her purse under her desk and grabbed her tablet from the drawer, turning it on as she continued down the hall with more speed than decorum. Rounding the corner into Vivian Creighton’s outer office, Ziara ground to a halt. Vivian’s assistant’s desk was empty.
Breathe, Ziara. Pull yourself together.
She straightened her clothes in an attempt to regain her prized professional facade. But the agitated urgency to move, to get into the office quickly, still pounded in her chest. She wasn’t perfect, but she made sure she came pretty dang close as an executive assistant in training, no matter how many minutes she spent stuck on a backed-up Georgia interstate.
As she struggled to regulate her breathing, Ziara heard voices from beyond the door to the inner sanctum. At first, she couldn’t grasp the idea that someone was yelling, because this was Vivian’s office. Vivian didn’t yell. It went totally against the traditional Southern rules of behavior for all ladies. But Vivian’s voice was definitely raised. Ziara inched closer.
The other voice was male, deep. Oh no.
“...will not let you ruin my father’s company...”
Sloan Creighton. Vivian’s stepson. He came into the office rarely, but when he did he brought a tornadic level of energy and caused an unwanted tingle of awareness at the base of Ziara’s spine. Though she studiously avoided him on his rare visits, he always seemed to find her. And flirt with her. And just generally turn her sense of professionalism upside down. The best reason to avoid him.
Vivian’s own voice was muffled, but parts of Sloan’s words came through the solid wood.
“...our biggest buyer rejected all the designs...”
Ziara’s heart sank, threatening to drop out of her chest. Her knees went weak enough to force her to grab the frame of the door.
Ziara had suspected that last week’s meeting with their largest retail account hadn’t gone as planned, but the few who had attended were keeping quiet. Losing that buyer could mean ruin for Eternity Designs, something Ziara didn’t want to see happen. She loved her job; this place, these people had also provided the stability and acceptance that had been lacking her entire life.
“...you have no choice...”
And neither did Ziara. She had to go through that door. Vivian had said to be in her office at eight sharp; it was now 8:17 a.m. But the thought of Sloan and the way his cool, effortless good looks and flirty attitude affected her body and her psyche made her want to return to the crowded freeway.
But backing down wasn’t an option. With a deep breath to fortify herself, she headed through the doorway.
Sloan stood tall over Vivian, his voice ringing clear in the room. “I will have more voice in Eternity Designs, starting now. I’ll need the next three months. If my fall line is a hit with our buyers, you will sign over enough of your shares for me to own fifty-five percent...and relinquish complete creative control. To. Me.”
Ziara paused just inside the door, her mind absorbing those incredible words, while Sloan and Vivian glared at each other across Vivian’s desk. For a moment Ziara’s panic overrode everything, even the tempting sight of Sloan’s strong shoulders and firm backside.
As the tension crept higher and higher, Ziara finally broke. Into the silence, she said, “Would you like me to come back, Vivian?”
Like pushing Play on a paused DVD, Vivian and Sloan both turned and looked in her direction. She met Vivian’s eyes first, checking in with her boss and mentor. The narrowed glare and tight mouth signified a frustration that radiated like a cracked web through Vivian’s normal composure. As if she realized how she must look, Vivian straightened, smoothing her elegant close-cropped curls into place. “Good morning, Ziara. Please sit.”
“Now, Sloan,” she said, turning her attention back to him. “Explain to me why I would ever agree to such ridiculous demands.”
Sloan was too happy to comply. “Let me guess, commissions are down, creditors are closing accounts and you don’t have a clue how to get yourself out of this situation.” He straightened with confidence. “But I do.”
“I’m sure I can find someone else to do the same.”
“In enough time to make a difference? I don’t think so.”
She conceded to her stepson’s ultimatum by leaning back in her chair, her composure shaken enough that she fiddled with the wedding band still gracing her left hand.
At least she didn’t seem to notice—or care—that Ziara was late. Sloan, on the other hand, started cataloging everything about her. His gaze traveled down the length of her body to her toes, then back up with leisurely enjoyment.
Dragging her own composure around her like a cloak that granted her invisibility, Ziara walked with measured steps across the carpeting to a chair beside Vivian’s desk. A glance from under her lashes caught Sloan’s interested stare zeroing in on the V of her suit jacket, where the modest edge of a lacy camisole peaked into view. With a great struggle, she forced herself not to adjust, to hold still while his eyes wandered back up to her vulnerable neck. The knowing smirk on his contoured lips sparked arousal beneath her irritation, confusing her further.
Damn man. She could see why Vivian found him so infuriating—professional behavior seemed to be a foreign concept to him. She’d seen the spark of interest before, though never quite this blatantly. Of course, his simple presence had always created an uncomfortable heat in her core that prompted her to keep any previous meetings as short and far apart as possible.
If she’d simply passed him on the street, Ziara would never have suspected him of the professional dedication he was displaying now. His collar-length, sun-streaked hair and the slight crook of his previously broken nose said “surfer boy” more than it did “hard-hitting negotiator.” But the perfectly tailored dress shirt and pants, paired with his take-no-prisoners attitude, demonstrated the real man inside. His electric-blue eyes confirmed her suspicions that his core was pure steel.
She was thankful when he turned back to his stepmother. “This is my father’s legacy we’re talking about, Vivian. I save other people’s businesses every day. Resurrecting Eternity Designs is right up my alley,” he said.
“Yes,” Vivian said, letting the word draw out. “Your...fix-it-up business.”
“You could call it that. I call it the very lucrative process of taking failing companies and turning them into profit-making machines. Too bad you didn’t get in touch with me sooner, but then you’d have to admit that you screwed up.”
The slap of Vivian’s hand on her desk made Ziara jump. She watched her with wide eyes, shocked by the venom scarring Vivian’s normally genteel facade.
“Your father didn’t trust you to take care of his legacy enough to leave it all to you. Why should I?”
Sloan stalked back and rested his hands on the desk, so he could loom over his stepmother. “And whose fault was that? Who slipped poisonous thoughts into his mind from day one, turning him against me so he could be yours and yours alone? Hell, Vivian, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you set his whole will up. You’re the one who made him insist I go for my MBA instead of continuing to pursue my own plans of fashion design, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do. After all, going from Daddy’s assistant to his wife meant you got to control his entire life and not just his business, didn’t it?”
Oh. Dear. Ziara’s lungs shut down, trapping the air inside. Vivian’s early involvement with Eternity Designs had never been explicitly discussed. Ziara had simply assumed she’d started working with the company sometime after she’d married Mr. Creighton.
The knowledge left Ziara reeling. How many times had Vivian admonished