asked her to list any pertinent happenings at KCL during their absence. She’d thought the company newsletters would be a good place to start. Instead, what she’d found—or rather what she hadn’t found—disturbed her.
Rand returned, once more blocking her escape from her desk. “What’s the problem?”
“Our departures from KCL are never mentioned in the first year’s worth of company newsletters after we left. That’s unusual. When someone leaves there’s always a brief note stating years of service, company awards and such—unless the employee was fired. I don’t like the idea of my co-workers believing I was fired. You shouldn’t, either. It will make it difficult to gain their trust.”
“My father was never one to offer excuses, explanations or apologies.” Rand bent over her desk and scrawled his signature on a piece of KCL letterhead. He slid it across the glossy surface.
Tara took it, but didn’t read past the header. “This is postdated.”
“You think I’d hand you the ammunition to waltz out of here prematurely? If you quit early, we lose everything.”
Which went back to their main problem. He didn’t trust her. Had he ever? Tara sat back in her seat with a sigh. “I gave you my word I wouldn’t leave, and I signed an employment contract. Don’t you trust anyone, Rand? Anyone at all?”
“I know when to protect my own interests. Or in this case, Mitch’s and Nadia’s.” He hitched a hip on her desk, invading her space with a long, lean knife-creased trouser-encased thigh. “Arrange a cocktail party for the executives of each of the brands by the end of the week. Plan to attend as my date.”
“Is that wise? Us dating openly, I mean.”
“I need a hostess, and you’re the one who insisted on exclusivity.”
So she had. And she’d occasionally provided the same service for Everett. Was that why her former boss had believed she’d be open to a more intimate relationship? “At Kincaid Manor?”
“Anywhere but there.”
“Your father always—”
“I’m not my father. I don’t need to flaunt my wealth or have a woman half my age on my arm to make me feel like a man. And I won’t be taken in by a pretty face or a good lay. You’ll do well to remember that.”
She gasped at his rude comment. Was he trying to rattle her? If so, it was working. “Are you deliberately being obnoxious so I’ll release you from your part of our agreement?”
He reached out and traced her jaw. Her pulse stumbled erratically beneath the slow drag of his fingertip.
“Why would I do that, Tara, when as you said, the sex between us was always good?”
Her mouth dried and her palms moistened. Arousal streamed through her. But suspicion dammed her response. She scooted her chair out of his reach. What was he trying to pull? First he’d flat-out refused to be her lover and then he’d accepted reluctantly. And now he was trying to seduce her?
His about-face didn’t ring true, then she realized why. There wasn’t any passion in his eyes despite his comment on their sex life. Rand was cold and distant—the way he’d been the day he’d climbed from her bed and broken her heart, and the day he’d caught her leaving his father’s bedroom.
He wasn’t at all someone she wanted to be intimate with.
Not like this.
She didn’t doubt he could make her ache for him even with this emotionless seduction. He’d always been a skilled lover. But perfect technique wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted the unbridled passion they’d shared in the past, and it looked like she’d have to fight for it.
He glanced at his watch and stood. “We’re going out to dinner tonight. Wear something sexy and low-cut if you want to get me in the mood.”
He pivoted on his heel and stalked into his office.
Aghast, Tara stared after him. And then anger blasted through her. He’d just thrown down the gauntlet.
If she wanted to get him in the mood?
Oh, she’d get him in the mood all right. In fact, she wasn’t going to be happy until she’d shattered Rand Kincaid’s icy control and won back the man who’d given her the happiest days of her life.
Tara knew the minute her eyes met Rand’s that her decision to fight dirty was the right one.
Tiny bubbles of excitement effervesced in her veins as she descended the stairs to where Rand waited by the front door. She could feel the heat from his unblinking appraisal warming her skin and her core. She forced her fingers from the newel post and indicated her dress with what she hoped looked more like a casual flip than a nervous flail. “Look familiar?”
“You expect me to remember your clothing?”
Oh, he remembered all right. His tight voice, flaring nostrils and the color slashed across his cheekbones gave it away. Those telltale signs made the hour she’d spent taking in the cocktail dress two sizes worth every second. Thank God for her grandmother’s sewing lessons and her ancient sewing machine because Tara hadn’t had the time, money or necessity to shop for evening wear since Rand had dumped her.
“I wore this dress the night we first made love,” she told him anyway.
His lips flattened and his shoulders stiffened, but he remained silent.
“I fixed the tear. You know, from when you ripped the dress off of me in your foyer.” His gaze dropped to her bodice as if seeking the mend, and hunger hardened his face. Her nipples tightened in response. Did he remember she hadn’t worn a bra that night? Could he tell she wasn’t now?
“Are you ready to go?” he asked tightly.
For the first time in years she felt alive and eager instead of numb. When he looked at her that way—as if he wanted to strip her and take her where she stood—she believed her plan to make him fall in love with her could actually work.
“Oh, I’m ready.” She added a quick, mischievous smile to the words even though her stomach had twisted into a corkscrew of nerves. “Are you?”
She didn’t mean for dinner. The desire burning in those hazel eyes told her the ashes of Rand’s desire were far from cold.
And she had every intention of fanning the flames.
Even at the risk of getting burned.
He’d underestimated his opponent.
And that was exactly how he had to classify Tara from now on, Rand decided as he followed her out of the humid Miami air and into the cool, darkened house. She wanted something from him, and as with any business deal, he’d concede some points but not all. That way everyone left the bartering table satisfied.
Grace in victory wasn’t a concept he’d learned from his father. Everett Kincaid had relished crushing and humiliating his adversaries. Rand preferred to allow his competitors to walk away beaten but not broken. Defeated, but not destroyed. In the tight-knit, almost incestuous cruise industry no one knew when they’d have to work for or with a previous foe again. Burning bridges wasn’t smart business.
Time to seal this deal.
Moonlight shone through the living room windows, glinting off Tara’s loose curls like moonbeams on rippling water split by a ship’s bow. Before she could turn on the lamp he intercepted her hand and carried it to his chest. Her breath caught audibly.
She’d been leading him around by his libido for most of the evening, starting with a dress that brought back memories hot enough to cauterize his veins, followed by brushing up against him on the restaurant’s dance floor until he was so hard he could barely walk back to their table.
She was good, very good, at luring a man into her trap.
It