late afternoon meeting?
He kept her waiting while he scanned the blueline in front of him. Checking the magazine proof was the production manager’s job, but her father tended to spend a lot of time looking over everyone’s shoulders—especially hers. He second-guessed each decision she made, which made the rest of the staff do the same. He claimed he hadn’t gotten to the top by letting others do all the dirty work, and delegating wasn’t something he enjoyed.
Finally, she asked, “You called?”
He put the blueline aside, revealing the folded newspaper beneath it. Aubrey’s tension eased. She suspected he’d seen the photo in the society section. He should be pleased. She and Buck Parks had done exactly as he’d requested and garnered a little free publicity from not only the newspapers but a few celebrity magazines as well.
But that wasn’t an approving smile on her father’s face.
“You sat beside Liam Elliott at the dinner. What did you learn?”
She concealed a wince. Yes, Liam’s face was easily recognizable in the picture. She’d hoped her father wouldn’t notice. “Um, nothing. Buck was my date. I talked to him, not to Liam Elliott.”
In fact, she’d done her best to ignore Liam throughout the mediocre meal and the soporific speeches afterward. Her best hadn’t been good enough. She’d been hyperaware of each shift of his body. And any change in the ventilation of the stuffy banquet hall had wafted his cologne in her direction. As if that weren’t bad enough, his phone call Saturday night had only worsened her preoccupation. Warmth swept through her at the memory. She bit her lip and vowed once again to quit thinking about him.
Very slowly her father lowered the paper. “You missed your chance at lunch. You could have redeemed yourself at the gala. How many times do I have to tell you? Never let an opportunity to find out what the competition is doing slip by.”
A heavy blanket of failure settled over Aubrey’s shoulders. “Yes, sir, I understand. But Liam Elliott is tight-lipped about EPH. You couldn’t pry him open with an oyster knife. I can’t—”
“There is no such thing as can’t, Aubrey. Something is going on at EPH. Patrick Elliott runs a first-class armada.”
He extracted a page of handwritten notes from one of the neat piles on his desk. “Patrick’s son Michael has been out of the office more than he’s been in while his wife has undergone chemotherapy. Michael’s oldest son is running Pulse. Patrick’s second son, Daniel, has stepped down as editor-in-chief of Snap magazine in favor of his youngest son. Patrick’s daughter, Finola, suddenly has had a secret offspring emerge from the woodwork, and Elliott’s granddaughter—one of the twins—has taken off with a rock star and left her ex-fiancé engaged to her sister.”
He lowered the paper and focused hard eyes on Aubrey. “That’s only the news my clipping service has found in the papers. For this many ships to be adrift in Elliott’s port there must be a storm stirring the water. I want to know what kind of storm and when it’s expected to make landfall. Find out.”
Flabbergasted, Aubrey gaped at him. “I’m the VP of single copy sales not an investigative reporter.”
“I’ve given you a direct order, Aubrey. You know Liam Elliott. Use him as your inside contact.”
Use him. “I—I don’t think I can help you.”
“I didn’t ask you to think. Do it,” he commanded in an end-of-discussion tone.
My family’s in enough turmoil without throwing an affair with the enemy’s daughter into the pot. Liam’s comment echoed in Aubrey’s head. Her father’s obvious disappointment in her tempted her to throw out this tidbit to prove that she wasn’t a complete failure, but she was no Mata Hari who slept with men and then shared their secrets.
“I’ll see what I can find out.” But she wouldn’t—couldn’t—go back to the source. Advertising sales directors maintained high-level contacts within advertising agencies. She’d speak to Holt Enterprises’ sales directors and get them to pump the clients they shared with EPH. If there was anything amiss at EPH, maybe some of the advertisers had noticed. And then she’d collate that info and report back to her father. That way she wouldn’t be sharing anything Liam had told her in confidence.
Asking for the report still felt dirty, though.
Her father turned back to the proof, dismissing her without words—an all too familiar experience. Aubrey headed for her office. There were days she hated her job. This was one of them. She reached the threshold of her office and stopped in surprise. An exquisite floral arrangement in a crystal vase sat on her desk.
Roses and Asiatic lilies in the palest pink filled her office with a heavenly scent. Who would send her flowers? Other than the obligatory bouquet her father sent on her birthday, which had been months ago, she never received flowers. She hurried forward and inhaled deeply before extracting the card buried in the lush greenery. Aubrey slid a fingernail beneath the envelope’s sealed flap and extracted the card.
“The color of the flowers reminded me of your dress and their fragrance reminded me of you. Thanks again for your help with the painting. L.”
Liam. Her dress for the gala had been beaded pink silk. He remembered. Aubrey pressed a hand over her racing heart. She glanced at the bold handwriting and then scooted behind her desk and dug in her purse for the business card she had yet to throw away. The bold script was identical. He’d written this note himself rather than anonymously phone it in to a florist. Why that mattered she didn’t know.
Don’t turn this into something romantic, Aubrey. It isn’t and can’t be.
Now what? Should she e-mail Liam and thank him for the flowers? She didn’t dare do that from here where all incoming and outgoing e-mail was saved on a huge server, but she could from her personal computer at home. Maybe she should send a polite but distant thank-you note via U.S. Postal Service. Or should she call? Again, not from here and not the wisest choice since hearing Liam’s voice weakened her knees and her resolve to resist him.
Until she could make up her mind, Aubrey tucked both cards in her purse and tried to keep the telling smile off her face.
Liam Elliott had no business sending her flowers.
And she had absolutely no business being tickled pink to receive them.
Why torture yourself? Do what she said. Throw the thong out and get some sleep.
But Liam didn’t pitch Aubrey’s lingerie into the trash. He lay in bed staring at the black satin in his hand.
He’d gone to bed early to try to catch up on some of the shut-eye he’d been missing, but so far all he’d done was toss and turn and fight the hunger thickening his blood and tightening his skin. Her scent clung to the lingerie. He pitched it onto the nightstand and then turned out the light and rolled over. The sheet clung to his overheated skin. He kicked it off, but it didn’t help. Resting one hand beneath his head, he hunkered down for another night of staring at the ceiling.
What was it about Aubrey Holt that made her so damned hard to forget? Her violet eyes? Her slender figure? Her summer-roses scent? Or the way she’d driven him wild in bed? If he could understand her allure, then he’d be steps closer to eradicating her from his thoughts.
And
