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Saying Yes to the Boss
Jackie Braun
Regina Bellini doesn't believe in love at first sight. After all, she knows firsthand that thinking with your heart can only lead to trouble.But then Regina is forced to work for the one man who makes her heart stand still–Dane Conlan. And the storm of emotion brewing within her is undeniable. Perhaps even enough to tempt her into saying yes to her boss, in spite of what–and who–stands between them.
He was staying the night. Though her invitation hadn’t exactly been gracious.
Dane noted the furrow between the woman’s brows and the tight compression of her mouth, which still somehow managed to look sexy and inviting. She wasn’t happy with the arrangement.
He wasn’t certain he was either.
He did need medical attention, but that wasn’t the reason for his trepidation when it came to staying the night. The rest had to do with the woman standing before him. She made him nervous as hell.
Because he’d never responded to any woman quite the way he was responding to Regina Bellini.
Dear Reader,
What is an honorable man to do when he finds himself falling in love with a married woman? That’s Dane Conlan’s dilemma in Saying Yes to the Boss.
He knows he’s smitten the moment Regina Bellini opens the door to her house and thinks he’s someone else. He knows who she is, even though they’ve never met. After all, destiny requires no introduction. But the road from “Hello” to “I do” is not smooth for this pair. I’ve made sure of that. For the final installment of my CONLANS OF TRILLIUM ISLAND trilogy I have paired a woman who is ashamed of her passionate nature with a man who is bound by his honor.
Ree has stayed in a loveless marriage because it is safer than exploring the emotions that led to her mother’s mistakes and ruin. Dane knows that acting on his desire will come at the cost of his self-respect.
Let me know if you like how it all works out. Contact me at www.jackiebraun.com.
Best wishes,
Jackie Braun
Saying Yes to the Boss
Jackie Braun
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JACKIE BRAUN earned a degree in journalism from Central Michigan University in 1987 and spent more than sixteen years working full-time at newspapers, including eleven years as an award-winning editorial writer, before quitting her day job to freelance and write fiction. She is a past RITA® Award finalist and a member of the Romance Writers of America. She lives in mid-Michigan with her husband and their young son. She can be reached through her Web site at www.jackiebraun.com (http://www.jackiebraun.com).
For my big brothers, Bill, Jim and Tom, and in memory of Danny.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u94f855df-66f4-5102-b294-8d6c02329beb)
CHAPTER TWO (#u5f20802f-72e3-5d9d-b491-ca0e70843020)
CHAPTER THREE (#ue15b6db0-3eca-5bb0-8a5c-05d08c969600)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
REGINA BELLINI WAS expecting company.
When she heard the knock at the door, she set aside her glass of Chianti, slid her feet into the soft leather heels she’d picked up during a trip to Italy and stood. Anticipation hummed through her body as she smoothed down the fabric of a slim-fitting skirt and carefully retucked her white silk blouse.
As she passed the gilt-edged mirror that hung in the foyer, she paused to check her appearance. She fussed for a moment, pushing the tumbled mass of dark curls back from her face. Humidity had made a mockery of the hour she’d spent that morning blow-drying her hair straight. Still, she looked presentable.
And so she picked up the shotgun.
It wasn’t loaded, which was a pity she decided as she eyed the man’s silhouette through the oval of stained glass on the old Victorian’s front door. The double barrel, however, made quite a statement. Raising the gun, she swung open the door and pointed its business end directly at the man’s broad chest.
“For the last time, I’m not selling,” Regina said, hollering to be heard over the storm that had turned the July night chilly and inhospitable.
“And I’m not buying, lady,” the man promised, stumbling back a step.
It was not quite nine o’clock but it was nearly pitch-black outside thanks to dark thunderclouds. Lightning cracked as he spoke, illuminating the scene more clearly than did the meager light that burned overhead on the generous expanse of porch. In that brief flash, the shock on the man’s face was unmistakable. It registered right along with the fact that he was handsome as sin and not the pesky developer Regina had been expecting.
“I thought you were somebody else,” she sputtered in surprise.
“Yeah, I got that.” The stranger’s deep voice sounded strained, but it held a hint of amusement. He motioned toward the gun. “Mind pointing that thing someplace else?”
Regina hesitated. He was soaked to the skin, short dark hair plastered to his head. Yet even wet he exuded that same cocky sense of self-assurance she had come up against a little too often lately. She tilted her head to one side and asked, “Are you a developer?”
His dark brows tugged together in an incredulous frown. “Are you going to shoot me if I say yes?”
“You’ll have to answer the question to find out,” she challenged.
The man divided a considering look between Regina and the lethal weapon she still gripped.
“No, ma’am,” he said solemnly and held up a hand as if he were giving an oath.
It was then that she noticed the blood. Bright crimson, it leaked down his arm from a gash across his palm.
“My God! You’re hurt.” Regina quickly set aside the gun and reached for him, tugging him partway into the foyer for a better look. “What happened to you?”
Despite the fact that the stately home was perched on a narrow point of land that jutted into one of the Great Lakes, his reply was the last thing she expected.
“Shipwrecked.”
Then his eyes rolled back and he stumbled forward into her arms in a dead faint, the weight of him taking them both to the floor. More than six feet of man lay on top of her—more than six feet of a wounded and unconscious man. His bulk made it impossible for Regina to scoot far enough inside the house to kick the door closed with the leg that wasn’t trapped between his thighs.
The rain was coming down in a furious assault now, the wind slanting it sideways so that it marched with ruthless precision across the covered porch’s wood floor and then doused them both with its chilly spray.
The man moaned and, coming to, raised his head slightly from where it had come to rest after their fall: facedown between Regina’s breasts. He stared into the gaping V of her blouse for a long moment before transferring his gaze to her face.
Concussed or not, he had the nerve to smile.
“Given my position, I probably should introduce myself,” he said, the words slightly slurred.
Was that a dimple denting his cheek? She fought the urge to be charmed by either it or the bemused humor lighting his otherwise bleary eyes. How could he laugh at a time like this? A year from now, ten years from now, she might recall this bizarre situation and find it funny. Right now she had to settle for being mortified.
That was an emotion that didn’t sit well with Regina, which is why her tone was clipped when she replied, “No, given the position of my left knee, you probably should get off me. Now.”
He slipped obediently to the side, grunting with the effort. Once on the floor, he rolled onto his back and groaned in earnest.
“Are you okay?” she asked, feeling slightly guilty about her less than sympathetic treatment of him. “Do you think you can sit up?”
He ignored her questions, pointing out instead, “Do you realize that you’ve threatened me with great bodily harm twice and I don’t even know your name?”
Oh, yes, she definitely felt guilty.
Generally speaking, she wasn’t an insensitive woman, much less a violent one. But the persistent badgering and—lately—veiled threats from a local developer had definitely taken their toll on her manners. Still, this man needed medical attention. At the very least, he deserved to be brought in out of the damp night air.
Oh, what Nonna Benedetta would say if she were still alive. Regina’s Italian grandmother had been such a stickler when it came to offering hospitality to house-guests, whether they had come to her door invited or not.
“I’m Regina Bellini. Friends call me Ree,” she said as she stood and attempted to adjust her clothing.
Blood was smeared across the sleeve of her now soggy blouse, the top button of which hung by a useless thread. She pulled the lapels together in an attempt at modesty, which seemed absurd given the fact that the man’s face had been pressed into her cleavage mere minutes ago.
He must have read her mind. His gaze dipped low before he made eye contact again. Awareness sizzled, as dangerous as the electrical storm blowing in off Lake Michigan. Maybe it was only the man’s supine position that made the situation seem so intimate.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ree. I’m Dane Conlan.”
He struggled to sitting with her help, and she was finally able to close the door, which he then leaned against, looking thoroughly exhausted from the effort.
In the foyer’s more generous light she could see that his plain white T-shirt was covered with grime and blood, and the jeans he wore were ripped, exposing one battered knee. He’d apparently lost his shoes and socks, assuming he’d worn them in the first place. His feet were bare and covered in sand and other natural debris from his hike up the dunes that bounded the lake. What she could see of his toes appeared puckered from his time in the water.
“You said you were shipwrecked,” she said, crouching beside him.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. My boat hit some rocks, went down about half a mile from shore. I was coming across from the island, but I got blown off course a bit.”
“I’ll say. The main dock is five miles south of here as the crow flies,” she said. Her own paralyzing fear of water had her asking sharply, “What were you thinking, taking a boat out in a storm?”
He shrugged, but looked chagrined.
“The weather wasn’t that bad when I started out and Trillium is only a few miles out from the mainland,” he said, referring to the large island visible from the docks in Petoskey. On a clear day, it could be seen from the point on which Ree’s house stood sentinel. “I figured I could make it to shore before things got too ugly.”
When she merely raised an eyebrow, he said defensively, “I would have, too, if the engine hadn’t quit on me. I started to drift. I radioed for help, but by that time the boat’s hull was already kissing rocks, so I decided to swim for it.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t drown.”
He regarded her intently for a moment.
“You saved me.”
“What?”
“I saw your lights and kept swimming toward them. I thought I was having a near-death experience.” One side of his mouth lifted in a grin, mitigating the soberness of the moment. “Is this heaven?”
Despite the frightening picture his words conjured up, she couldn’t help herself. She smiled in return. The man’s charm was downright lethal.
“No. And neither is it an emergency room. I think I’d better call an ambulance.”
“Don’t. I’m fine.” He attempted to stand and then sank back to his knees on a groan. “I just need a minute,” he muttered.
Ree was a bit more pragmatic in her assessment of the situation. “You’re bleeding and you passed out. You need to see a doctor.” Raising an eyebrow for emphasis, she added, “It’s obvious you’ve hit your head. You appear delusional.”
“God, you’re something else.”
He wasn’t the first man to tell her so. In fact, the developer she’d been expecting that very evening had used the word “unbelievable” modified by a most foul expletive when she’d spoken to him by telephone earlier in the day. But Dane Conlan’s tone seemed to turn the words into a compliment.
“Just let me use your phone,” he said. “I’ve got friends in town. I’m sure one of them can come get me.”
She relented with a nod and then helped him to his feet.
“I would offer to drive you, but my car is in the shop,” she said.
“That’s okay. I don’t want to be any more trouble than I’ve already been.”
A man who didn’t want to be any trouble. In Ree’s personal experience members of the opposite sex only rarely had been anything but.
When he stood, Dane weaved precariously for a moment before finally leaning against her for support. He wasn’t overly tall. In her heeled shoes she was only half a head shorter than he was, putting him just over six feet. Nor was he thickly built, edging more toward wiry than stocky. But the hand she placed around his waist as she helped him into the Victorian’s parlor was touching taut muscle.
A fire burned cheerfully in the hearth. She guided him toward the wing chair positioned closest to it, and forced herself not to think about what the man’s wet, grimy clothing would do to the upholstery. She had more pressing problems than soiled cushions or Dane Conlan, who would be gone from her home soon enough. Then she picked up the telephone and bit back an oath.
“Don’t tell me,” he said, apparently noting her grim expression.
She set the receiver back in the cradle. “Storm must have taken out the line.”
“I don’t suppose you have a cell?”
“It’s in my car.”
“The car that’s in the shop?”
“That would be the one.”
