Parker Garrison could find out something far worse than the fact that he was the object of a few daydreams.
And that would be a nightmare.
Two
“We’ve reached our cruising altitude, Mr. Garrison. Would you care for the usual?” The lone flight attendant on the G5 that the Garrison family routinely rented for business travel smiled benevolently at him. Her prematurely gray hair was, as always, pulled back into an elegant bun, her simple dark suit unmarred by even a fleck of lint.
“Thank you, Christine, I would. Anna?”
Across the small expanse that separated the two widest leather recliners on the plane, Anna had already lined a granite-topped table with a sea of manila folders and papers, and she had a laptop open and fired up for work.
“It depends,” she said. “What is the usual?”
“Tomato juice and Tabasco.”
She made a face. “Coffee, please.”
“Come on, Anna,” he urged. “Live dangerously.”
He hoped for a clever quip, an easy smile, but got only a shake of her head.
“Just coffee, thank you.” When the attendant nodded and moved toward the galley, Anna lifted a paper and held it toward him. “I’ve compiled a list of pending open items for your attention, Mr. Garrison.”
He didn’t remind her to call him Parker. Anna Cross was back to business in a big way. It was as though she’d been wearing a sign that said This Is Work, Not Fun ever since she’d arrived at the executive airport and climbed out of her little Saturn wearing her most staid suit selected from a wardrobe that couldn’t be called anything but ultraconservative. Navy jacket, shapeless trousers, flat shoes.
Where was the girl who felt pretty in pink underwear?
Parker took the list, and reminded himself that he was the one who’d suggested she accompany him to work. He’d made that clear. At least, that was how he rationalized what was, at the moment, an impulsive idea brought on by the not-so-semi state of arousal the bathroom encounter had left him in.
He knew why he’d suggested Anna accompany him to London.
But did she? Sure, she was a terrific, grade-A, indispensable administrative assistant. Sure, she was attractive, classy and intelligent enough to make small talk with the high rollers at the hotel gala. And best of all, he trusted her. She had no gold digger’s interest in his money, ready to translate one weekend in Europe into a lifetime of luxury like so many of the women he knew.
But, to be honest, not one of those was the real reason he’d made the unorthodox suggestion. The real reason was simple: he liked what he’d seen in that bathroom. And he wanted to see more. And seeing, he knew as sure as he breathed, wouldn’t be enough.
Under any other circumstances, he’d make his move and he’d make it in about five minutes, launching a romantic, sex-charged weekend with champagne and hot kisses at thirty thousand feet. Seducing a woman was an art and a pleasure he took seriously. And often.
But something indefinable held him back. Something oddly unfamiliar had him waiting for a clear invitation, a straightforward cue from her.
Maybe she’d take off her jacket, playfully taste his spicy tomato juice, unclip her barrette and give her hair a sensual shake. That was what other women would do. They’d throw in a head-tilting giggle; slide their bare, pedicured feet on his lap and let the games begin.
But not Anna.
She pulled a pair of butt-ugly reading glasses out of her purse and slipped them up her pert nose. She tightened the clip that held her hair severely off a face devoid of anything but lip gloss and maybe mascara. Then she took her copy of his agenda, pointed to item number one, cleared her throat and said, “You mentioned the Nassau property. I have the files.”
Not only did she refuse to send a single cue of feminine interest, she doused his low simmer by mentioning the biggest headache in his life.
He took the file and flipped it open.
“Is there something in particular you’re looking for?” she asked.
There sure was. Dirt. Problems. Issues. Anything that could get rid of the half sister who’d just been named his equal partner at Garrison, Inc. “Just want to see how the business is doing.”
“Last quarter’s financials are on the left side, including occupancy rates and banquet revenue,” she told him. “On the right, you’ll see information about new resort programs and key employee files. The manager of the resort, Cassie Sinclair, seems to be running things quite smoothly.”
At the mention of her name, Parker sucked in a slow and disgusted breath. He flipped through the pages, immaculately ordered and filed, frowning at the excellent revenue stream and the strong outlook for the next season based on advance reservations.
“Is something wrong?”
Yes, something was very, very wrong. He wanted the property to be a disaster. Wanted something he could hang on Cassie Sinclair to prove she couldn’t be a Garrison.
“No,” he assured her.
“Oh, I thought I might have misfiled something.”
“Have you ever misfiled anything, Anna?” he asked with a teasing smile.
A soft blush rose in her cheeks. “If you’re asking if I ever make mistakes, I think you, of all people, know that I do.”
Mistakes like lingering in his shower a little too long? He held her gaze, still hoping for a spark of connection, but she looked away—as she always did—just as Christine returned with the drinks, some fruit and freshly baked muffins.
Parker returned his attention to the file. “The place is turning a nice profit,” he said, half to himself.
“You make it sound like that’s a problem.”
Should he confide in his assistant? Maybe a little shared confidence would loosen her up. At least get her to slide out of that straitjacket she wore. Plus, he needed someone to talk to. Someone he trusted.
He lifted his tomato juice and took a long drink before he dove in. “Cassie Sinclair, it seems, is more than just the manager of the Garrison Grand-Bahamas.”
“She is?”
“She’s my half sister.”
Anna’s jaw dropped an inch. “No way.”
He gave her a bittersweet smile. “Evidently there is a way. It’s called an affair and my father had one for a long time, resulting in the birth of a woman who is now, according to his will, my equal partner in Garrison, Inc. and—” he held the file up “—the owner of this hotel.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said, dropping back into her seat.
“Neither do I. But that’s why God invented lawyers,” he said with a shrug. “And why I have to make an appearance in London this weekend.”
