His Secretary's Surprise Fiancé by Joanne Rock

Author:Joanne Rock
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2015-02-02T16:00:00+00:00

Eight

When Dempsey’s alarm chimed before dawn, he slammed the off button and hoped it hadn’t woken Adelaide. They hadn’t slept much with the fever for each other burning in their blood. He didn’t want to wear her out, but the last time they’d been together had been her idea after they’d headed into the kitchen to refuel after midnight. She’d made crepes from scratch and they’d been amazing. Including the part when she’d taunted him to find the hint of raspberry sauce she’d dabbed on her bare skin while he wasn’t looking.

That game had ended deliciously, but it had required a shower, where he’d gotten to wash her long hair himself. He’d wanted her then, too, when he’d carried her damp, freshly washed body back to his bed. But he hadn’t wanted to exhaust her.

Studying her face in the shadows cast from the bathroom light—they’d fallen asleep without shutting it off—Dempsey wondered what it would be like to work side by side now that they’d shared this incredible night. He’d never touched a woman he did business with. It was a rule he’d kept all through the years as he’d learned about the Reynauds’ shipping empire from his grandfather, unwilling to have anyone draw a comparison between Dempsey’s personal ethics and his parents.

“I can hear you thinking,” Adelaide whispered, her eyes still closed.

“Maybe I’m thinking about how good you taste.” He stroked her hair, still damp in places from their late-night shower. In other spots, strands had turned kinky, a phenomenon he remembered from when they were kids and she’d let it run wild.

He kissed her bare shoulder, breathing in the scent of roses that lingered even now that it mixed with his soap.

“My female intuition suggests there’s more going on in your brain than that.” She captured his hand where he touched her and threaded her fingers between his. “Do you really need to go to work already?”

“No. But I received a text last night from Evan that one of the players I cut in training camp—Marcus Wheelan—was picked up by the cops for getting into a fight in a local bar. I need to talk to him. See if I can get through to him before he heads down a path that he can’t recover from.” Dempsey had been saved from choosing that kind of life by a fluke of birth, a lucky chance. But if Theo Reynaud hadn’t shown up to pluck Dempsey out of his old life, what were the chances that it would be Dempsey who spent the occasional Friday night in jail?

Or worse.

“Won’t that attract the kind of publicity you don’t want around the team?” Adelaide shifted, turning to meet his gaze.

“I’ll get a lawyer to look at the bail situation and pull Marcus out of there so I can speak to him privately.” Dempsey wasn’t clear on the charges yet, but hoped they were no more serious than disorderly conduct or resisting arrest—the kinds of things police leveled at drunken, noisy athletes.

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