So she extended her left leg—which conveniently was the side where one of the few designer dresses she’d hung on to was slit up to her thigh—and slowly shifted her weight onto it.
Logan’s gaze cut to her bare leg as the fabric fell away.
She leaned forward as she brought her other foot down. The slit in the dress closed back over her leg, but Logan’s eyes went right where she expected them to—her generous cleavage.
In no great hurry, she stood, her shoulders back and her chin up. “Shall we?” she asked in a regal tone. “My cloak,” she added, motioning with her chin toward where she’d removed the matching cape that went with this dress.
Without waiting for an answer from him, she strode into his office as if she owned it. Which she once had, sort of.
The room looked exactly as she remembered it. Frances sighed in relief—it was all still here. She used to color on the wagon wheel table while she waited for the rest of the workers to get in so she could hand out the donuts. She’d played dolls on the big conference table. And her father’s desk...
The only time her daddy hugged her was in this room. Hardwick Beaumont had not been a hard-driven, ruthless executive in those small moments with her. He’d told her things he’d never told anyone else, like how his father, Frances’s grandfather John, had let Hardwick pick out the color of the drapes and the rug. How John had let Hardwick try a new beer fresh off the line, and then made him tell the older man why it was good and what the brewers should do better.
“This office,” her daddy used to say, “made me who I am.” And then he’d give her a brief, rare hug and say, “And it’ll make you who you are, too, my girl.”
Ridiculous how the thought of a simple hug from her father could make her all misty-eyed.
She couldn’t bear the thought of all this history—all her memories—being sold off to the highest bidder. Even if that would result in a tidy commission for her.
If she couldn’t stop the sale, the best she could do was convince Chadwick to buy as much of his old office as possible. Her brother had fought to keep this company in the family. He’d understand that some things just couldn’t be sold away.
But that wasn’t plan A.
She tucked her tenderness away. In matters such as this one, tenderness was a liability, and God knew she couldn’t afford any more of those.
So she stopped in the middle of the office and waited for Logan to catch up. She did not fold herself gracefully into one of the guest chairs in front of the desk, nor did she arrange herself seductively on the available love seat. She didn’t even think of sprawling herself out on the conference table.
She stood in the middle of the room as though she was ruler of all she saw. And no one—not even a temporary CEO built like a linebacker—could convince her otherwise.
She was surprised when he did not slam the door shut. Instead, she heard the gentle whisper of it clicking closed. Head up, shoulders back, she reminded herself as she stood, waiting for him to make the next move. She would show him no mercy. She expected nothing but the same returned in kind.
She saw him move toward the conference table, where he draped her cape over the nearest chair. She felt his eyes on her. No doubt he was admiring her body even as he debated wringing her neck.
Men were so easy to confuse.
He was the kind of man, she decided, who would need to reassert his control over the situation. Now that the audience had dispersed, he would feel it a moral imperative to put her back in her place.
She could not let him get comfortable. It was just that simple.
Ah, she’d guessed right. He made a wide circle around her, not bothering to hide how he was checking out her best dress as he headed for the desk. Frances held her pose until he was almost seated. Then she reached into her small handbag—emerald-green silk, made to match the dress, of course—and pulled out a small mirror and lipstick. Ignoring Logan entirely, she fixed her lips, making sure to exaggerate her pouts.
Was she hearing things or had a nearly imperceptible groan come from the area behind the desk?
This was almost too easy, really.
She put the lipstick and mirror away and pulled out her phone. Logan opened his mouth to say something, but she interrupted him by taking a picture of the desk. And of him.
He snapped his mouth shut. “Frances Beaumont, huh?”
“The one and only,” she purred, taking a close-up of the carved details on the corner of the desk. And if she had to bend over to do so—well, she couldn’t help it if this dress was exceptionally low-cut.
“I suppose,” Logan said in a strangled-sounding voice, “that there’s no such thing as a coincidence?”
“I certainly don’t believe in them.” She shifted her angle and took another shot. “Do you?”
“Not anymore.” Instead of sounding flummoxed or even angry, she detected a hint of humor in his voice. “I suppose you know your way around, then?”
“I do,” she cheerfully agreed. Then she paused, as if she’d just remembered that she’d forgotten her manners. “I’m so sorry—I don’t believe I caught your name?”
My, that was a look. But if he thought he could intimidate her, he had no idea who he was dealing with. “My apologies.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’m Ethan Logan. I’m the CEO of the Beaumont Brewery.”
She let his hand hang for a beat before she wrapped her fingers around his. He had hands that matched his shoulders—thick and strong. This Ethan Logan certainly didn’t look a thing like the bean-counting lackey she’d pictured.
“Ethan,” she said, dropping her gaze and looking up at him through her lashes.
His hand was warm as his fingers curled around her smaller hand. Strong, oh yes—he could easily break her hand. But he didn’t. All the raw power he projected was clearly—and safely—locked down.
Instead, he turned her hand over and kissed the back of it. The very thing she’d implied he should do earlier, when they’d had an audience. It’d seemed like a safe move then, an action she knew he’d never take her up on.
But here? In the enclosed space of the office, with no one to witness his chivalrous gesture? She couldn’t tell if the kiss was a threat or a seduction. Or both.
Then he raised his gaze and looked her in the eyes. Suddenly, the room was much warmer, the air much thinner. Frances had to use every ounce of her self-control not to take huge gulping breaths just to get some oxygen into her body. Oh, but he had nice eyes, warm and determined and completely focused on her.
She might have underestimated him.
Not that he needed to know that. She allowed herself an innocent blush, which took some work. She hadn’t been innocent for a long time. “A pleasure,” she murmured, wondering how long he planned to kiss her hand.
“It’s all mine,” he assured her, straightening
