gets out to the very small and incestuous hospitality industry. It can’t help my business. I’m attending this event for visibility and positioning. More of a PR move than one that will impact the bottom line.”
“So that’s why you were talking about DNA testing and contesting the will,” she said. “Oh, and why…your mother…” Her voice drifted off.
So the rumor mill had already started churning.
“My mother has her way of coping.” He picked up the drink again. “And I’m afraid it’s not Tabasco in her tomato juice.”
She gave him a sympathetic look. “Your family is strong. You’ll weather this storm.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“You just have to stay focused and keep running everything the way you have. You can’t let this distract you.”
The unsolicited—and amazingly accurate—advice took him by surprise. “You’re right, Anna. Very astute.” He smiled and leaned forward, inexplicably drawn to her. “Thank you for being so understanding.”
She held his gaze just long enough to give him hope that the cue he wanted was right around the corner. But she just handed him another file.
“When you’re ready to go over the agenda for the marketing-firm meeting, it’s all in here. And I’m able to take any e-mail dictation now,” she added, tapping the open laptop. “I’ll download it and send it when we arrive in London.”
Oh, yeah. Anna Cross was all business today, and being a smart CEO, he ignored the urge to reach across the space that separated them and unclip her hair just to see what she’d do. She was way too valuable an asset to him to let hormones screw it up.
So he took the cue—even if it wasn’t the one he wanted—along with the file, and worked for a solid nine hours, through breakfast, lunch and almost no small talk, until they landed.
Through it all, she never tired, never complained and never even took the damn jacket off. Maybe that was the real reason he didn’t make the move to seduce her: they were kindred spirits. Workaholics, both of them, with a bone-deep love for control over their respective worlds.
Sex, in fact, could really screw that up.
By the time they landed and took a late-night cab ride through the still-vibrating streets of London, Parker was entirely comfortable with keeping the weekend on the level of strictly business. He abandoned the idea of taking her sightseeing the next day; they—or at least, he—would work, grilling Brandon Washington on the situation in the Bahamas and tracking the progress of several high-power land deals he had in the works.
Tomorrow night, he would introduce Anna as his assistant and she would no doubt wear her hair in a bun, don a conservative dress and stay stone-cold sober.
“Wow!” Anna froze midstep as they followed the cheerful old doorman into the smothering luxury that was the Ritz-Carlton London.
“Yeah, it’s not exactly the Miami Beach hip of the Garrison Grand,” Parker agreed. “This is pure old-world sophistication. You either like it or you feel suffocated. I, personally, love it.”
“It’s fantastic,” she said, her voice a little hushed as she took in the three-story rotunda that capped the lobby, trimmed by ornate gilded woodwork.
Smiling at her enthusiasm, he stepped away to check in. But after a few keystrokes and frowns, the formally dressed clerk informed Parker that there’d been an error in the system and Ms. Cross’s room was not available.
“Not ready or not available?” Parker asked.
“We are so very, deeply sorry, Mr. Garrison,” the solicitous clerk, who obviously had not been in the hotel business long enough to recognize Parker’s last name, crooned softly. “We are booked, overbooked and double booked with several very large events this weekend.”
Parker knew, without the slightest doubt, that a single word with a manager would get a room. He’d been raised in this business and “no rooms” meant there were a half dozen on reserve.
“Your suite has three bedrooms, Mr. Garrison, and it’s quite lovely and spacious,” the clerk added. “And perhaps something will become available tomorrow.”
Parker squeezed the bridge of his nose, fighting the exhaustion that came with trans-Atlantic travel. He turned to see Anna, who still scanned the lobby with a little bit of wonder in her eyes. There really was plenty of room in that suite. She’d love the decor.
And if it got a little cozy…
He nodded to the clerk. “We’ll make due with that, then.”
After a moment, a bellman whisked their luggage ahead and Parker joined Anna with a regretful smile. “Slight change in plans,” he said.
“Oh?”
“There’s no room for you.”
She drew back, frowning. “I know I booked it. And, surely, if you tell them who—”
He held up a hand in agreement. “I can fight it, absolutely. But the suite has three bedrooms, all with their own baths, and enough room for a party of fifty people.” He grinned. “I believe I had one there once.”
She shrugged, a little weariness—or was it wariness?—giving a delicate set to her jaw. “All right. I’m beat, anyway. I just need a shower and sleep.”
He tilted his head and put a casual hand on her shoulder to guide her through the lobby. “I only have one rule.”
She slowed her step. “Which is?”
“No singing in the shower.”
Late the next afternoon, Anna broke the rule.
Secretly, quietly and probably way off-key, she warbled a pathetic version of “Can’t Help Loving That Man” from Showboat as she let blistering hot water pulse over her skin.
She couldn’t help it. Showers were made for singing.
Anyway, Parker hadn’t emerged from the wood-paneled library long enough to even enjoy the ridiculous opulence of a suite that was about three times the size of Anna’s little house in Coral Gables, let alone hear her in the shower. And, oh, what he’d missed while he mumbled and barked orders to his lawyer, his accountant, his minions.
Anna could have spent the day just roaming the endless array of museum-quality rooms, admiring the Louis-the-something furniture, taking in the view of the avenues and stores from every arched window. As it was, she’d lost half an hour that morning just brushing her fingers over silk, damask and velvet pillows of celery and sage on delicate settees and graceful dining-room chairs.
But like always, the best view in the place was the one of her boss, wearing casual khaki pants and a simple but achingly expensive pullover and, God help her, no shoes.
That had been what finally sent her into the streets of London. Not his suggestion that she use the car and driver to explore. Not his implication that he needed complete privacy to conduct his business. No, what sent her out to the shops of Piccadilly, past
