Sex, Lies and the CEO

A wave of longing washed through her. Darci recognized the danger, but she was so tempted.

His voice was deep, persuasive. “Nobody takes off their clothes, and no hands below the waist.”

“Can you stick to those rules?”

“I can if you can.”

“I can.” She had no choice.

He smiled. Heart thudding, she took the three steps that brought her in front of him. He reached for her hand and drew her into his arms.

She knew she shouldn’t relax. Still, she couldn’t help herself. Just for a few minutes, she promised. Darci felt the strength and the intimacy of his body pressed to hers. It was taut and sexy, and absolutely forbidden.

* * *

Sex, Lies and the CEO is part of the Chicago Sons series: Men who work hard, love harder and live with their fathers’ legacies …

Sex, Lies

and the CEO

Barbara Dunlop

www.millsandboon.co.uk

BARBARA DUNLOP writes romantic stories while curled up in a log cabin in Canada’s far north, where bears outnumber people and it snows six months of the year. Fortunately she has a brawny husband and two teenage children to haul firewood and clear the driveway while she sips cocoa and muses about her upcoming chapters. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her website, www.barbaradunlop.com.

For my son

Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Extract

Copyright

One

“Don’t answer that,” Darci Rivers called out, rushing across the hardwood floor of the cluttered loft apartment.

“It’s not going to be him,” said Jennifer Shelton as she dug into her purse.

Darci slid on sock feet around a pile of packing boxes while the phone jangled again. “It’s him.”

“It’s not—” Jennifer glanced at the display on her phone. Then she looked up at Darci. “It’s him.”

Darci deftly scooped the phone from her roommate’s hand. “You will not give in.”

“I won’t give in.” Even as she spoke, Jennifer cast a longing glance at the phone.

“He’s dead to you,” said Darci, waving the phone for emphasis as she backed a safe distance away.

“Maybe he’s—”

“He’s not.”

“You don’t know what I was about to say.”

Darci hit the end button to cancel the call and tucked the phone into the front pocket of her jeans. “You were going to say ‘maybe he’s sorry.’”

Jennifer pursed her lips together. “Maybe he is.”

Darci angled for the kitchen area of the open-concept space. A sloped wall of glass stretched up beside her, overlooking the distant Chicago skyline. Skylights decorated the high ceiling, while two lofts bracketed either end of the spacious, rectangular room.

The phone rang again, vibrating inside her pocket.

“Give it back,” said Jennifer, following behind.

Darci rounded the end of the island counter. “What was it you said to me last night?”

“It could be a client.”

“What was it you said to me?”

“Darci.”

“If it’s a client, they’ll leave a message.”

It was nearly seven o’clock on a Tuesday night. Though Darci and Jennifer prided themselves on being easily available to clients of their web-design business, it wouldn’t kill them to miss one call.

“What kind of customer service is that?”

Darci pulled the phone out of her pocket to check the display. “It’s him.” She declined the call and tucked the phone away.

“Something could be wrong,” said Jennifer, taking another step.

Darci couldn’t help but smile at that. “Of course something’s wrong. He only just realized you were serious.”

On the counter, she located a packing box labeled “wine rack” and peeled it open. She’d wisely packed the corkscrew with the wine bottles for easy access after the move. Now, if she could only remember which carton held the glasses.

She pointed at another box on the island. “Check the white one.”

“You can’t hold my phone hostage.”

“Sure I can. You made me swear I would.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“No backsies.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You said, and I quote, don’t ever let me talk to that son-of-a-bitch again. I think the wineglasses are in the white box.”

Jennifer clamped her jaw.

Giving up, Darci reached out and pulled the carton closer to her, stripping off the wide packing tape. “He cheated on you, Jen.”

“He was drunk.”

“He’s going to get drunk again, and he’s going to cheat on you again. You don’t even know if that was the first time.”

“I’m pretty sure—”

“Pretty sure? Listen to yourself. You need to be 100 percent positive he never has and never will, or else you have to walk.”

“You are so idealistic.”

“Aha.” Darci had located the wineglasses. She extracted a pair of them and turned to the sink to give them a rinse.

“Nobody can ever know for sure,” said Jennifer.

“Are you listening to yourself?”

There was a long silence before Jennifer spoke. “I’m trying hard not to.”

Darci grinned as she shook water droplets from the wet glasses. “There you go. Welcome back, girl.”

She turned back to the breakfast bar, and Jennifer slid up onto one of the counter stools. “He’s just so...”

“Self-centered?”

“I was thinking hot.” Jennifer absently bent back the flaps of the cardboard box closest to her.

“There has to be more to a man than buff pecs and a tight butt.”

Jennifer gave a shrug as she peered into the depths of the box.

“Tell me I’m right,” said Darci.

“You’re right.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

Jennifer drew a heavy sigh and extracted a stack of old photo albums, setting them on the countertop. “I mean it. Can I have my phone back?”

“No. But you can have a big glass of this ten-dollar merlot.”

The two women had consumed plenty of cheap wine together. They’d been best friends since high school and had both won scholarships to Columbia, in graphic design. They’d roomed together for four years, sharing opinions, jokes and secrets.

Darci would trust Jennifer with her life, but not with Ashton Watson.

Her best friend had a weak spot when it came to the smooth-talking charmer. She’d dumped him three times in the past four months, but each time he’d waxed eloquent, swearing he’d be more thoughtful, less self-centered. And each time, she’d taken him back.

Darci wasn’t about to let it happen again. The man had no clue how to be in a couple.

Jennifer extracted three thick manila envelopes from a box in front of her and set them beside the photo albums. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Yes, you are.” Darci pushed one of the glasses across the wide counter.

Jennifer dug down and removed a worn leather wallet from the box, then turned the case over in her hands. “This is your dad’s stuff?”

“It’s from his top dresser drawer.” Darci gazed at the small collection of her father’s things. “I packed it away when I cleared out his apartment. I was too emotional to look through it that day.”

Jennifer looked worried. “You want me to leave it alone?”

Darci knew there was no point in procrastinating any longer. She perched on the other stool and took a bracing sip of the wine. “I’m ready. It’s been three months.”

Jennifer reached back into the carton and came up with an old wooden box.

“Cigars?” she asked.

“I only ever saw him smoke cigarettes.”

“It looks pretty old.” Jennifer sniffed at the wood. “Cedar.”

The lid was secured with a small brass clasp, and she slipped it free.

Darci felt more curious than distressed. She still missed her father every day, but he’d been sick and in pain for many months before his death. And though she didn’t know all the details, she knew he’d been in emotional pain for years, likely since her mother had taken off when Darci was a baby. She was beginning to accept that he was finally at peace.

Jennifer raised the lid.

Darci leaned in to look.

“Money,” said Jennifer.

The revelation confused Darci.

“Coins.” Jennifer lifted a row of plastic sleeves containing gold-and-silver coins. “It looks like a collection.”

“I sure hope they’re not valuable.”

“Why would you hope that?”

“He struggled for years to make ends meet. I’d hate to think he deprived himself and saved these for me.”

“He was still buying single malt,” said Jennifer.

Darci couldn’t help but smile at the memory. Born and raised in Aberdeen, Ian Rivers swore by a strong, peaty Scotch.

“What’s this?” Jennifer pulled a folded envelope from beneath the coins. A photograph was tucked in the fold, and she drew it out.

Darci checked the picture. “That’s definitely my dad.”

Ian was standing in a small, sparse office, his hand braced on a wooden desk. She flipped the photo, but nothing was written on the back.

Jennifer opened the unsealed envelope.

“A coin appraisal?” Darci guessed, taking a sip of her wine.

“A letter.”

“To my dad?”

It must have had significant sentimental value. Darci couldn’t help but wonder if it was a love letter. She even dared to hope it was from her mother, Alison. Though Alison Rivers had never contacted them, it would be nice to think she might have thought about them once in a while.

“It’s from your dad. To someone named Dalton Colborn.”

Darci’s stomach did a flip. She hadn’t heard the name in years.

Jennifer glanced up at the silence. “You know him?”

“I never met him. He owned Colborn Aerospace. And he was once my Dad’s business partner.”

“Your dad was involved in Colborn Aerospace?”

“It was a different company they had together, D&I Holdings. I don’t know much about it, and it all ended when I was just a baby.” Darci gazed at the picture. “Dalton and my dad were both engineers. They opened a company together, but it all fell apart, apparently quite badly. For as long as I can remember, Dad would fly into a rage whenever he saw the Colborn name.”

“There’s a thirty-two-cent stamp on it,” said Jennifer. “Never mind old, that’s ancient. It was never mailed.”

The flap on the envelope gaped open.

“Read it,” said Darci.

“You sure?”

Darci slugged back a swallow of wine. “I’m sure.”

* * *

Shane Colborn sent the fuchsia hardcover skittering across his wide cherrywood desk. Justin Massey, head of the legal department at Colborn Aerospace, trapped it before it could drop to the floor.

“Well, that’s a new low,” said Shane.

He hated reading about himself. Business articles were bad enough. The tabloids were worse, but they were mercifully short. This mess was appalling.

“There’s no way to stop it from being released,” said Justin. “We were lucky to get our hands on this copy.” He paused. “So, how much of it is true?”

Shane struggled to clear the anger from his brain. “I don’t know. Are you looking for a number?”

“Sure. Give me a number.”

“Twenty, maybe thirty percent. The dates and places and events are all accurate. But I sure don’t talk like an eighteenth-century poet in bed.”

Justin’s face broke into a grin.

“Shut up,” Shane ordered.

“I never said a word.”

Shane pushed back his leather desk chair and stood, his anger level rising instead of falling. “I didn’t flirt with other women when she was in the room. And cheap? Cheap? I don’t think the woman glanced at a price tag the entire time we were dating. Limos, restaurants, clothes, parties. I bought her a blue-diamond bracelet for her birthday last March.”

It was a purchase he now regretted. He didn’t mind the cost, but there was something intimate about diamonds, particularly those in a custom setting. But Bianca had pouted and whined prettily until he’d given in. He had to admit, no matter how ugly this breakup became, he was relieved to be out from under her complaining.

“I’m most worried about chapter six,” said Justin.

“Where she accuses me of collusion and corporate espionage?”

“Clients really don’t care what you’re like in bed. But they do care if you’re price-fixing or stealing their intellectual property.”

“I’m not.”

“I know you’re not.”

It was reassuring for Shane to hear that his lawyer trusted him. “It sounded like you wanted me to answer that.”

“I’m not the one you have to convince.”

Shane nodded at the book with the crass cover. “Is there a way for me to rebut?”

“Not unless you want a he-said-she-said battle in the media. You know Bianca will do all the local talk shows. Any move you make prolongs the story.”

“So I stay silent.”

“Yes.”

“And let them think I’m a pansy in the sack?”

“I’ll be advising our clients that the espionage and collusion accusations are ridiculous. I could mention your sex life, if you’d like.”

“You’re a real comedian.”

“I try. Have you heard anything from Gobrecht this week?”

Shane shook his head.

Gobrecht Airlines was headquartered in Berlin, and they were in the final stages of awarding a contract for twenty new commuter jets. The Colborn Aware 200 was the front runner. If Gobrecht made a commitment to buy, Beaumont Air in Paris was likely to follow suit with an even larger contract.

Justin backed toward the office door. “I know your public profile has always been good for business. But can you please try to stay out of the headlines for a while?”

“I’ve never tried to get into them. I thought Bianca knew the score.”

Bianca had been introduced to Shane by the Millers. She was the daughter of their good friend, so Shane had assumed she’d grown up around wealthy, high-profile people. It never occurred to him that she’d gossip in public. And it sure never occurred to him that she’d write a supposed tell-all book for money.

“It’s impossible to know who to trust,” said Justin.

“I trust you.”

“I’m contractually obligated to be trustworthy.”

“Maybe that’s what I should do next time.” Shane was only half joking. “Have my dates sign a nondisclosure agreement before the appetizers.”

“It might be better if you don’t date for a while.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun.”

“Read a book. Take up a hobby.”

“Like golf or fishing?”

“Not a lot of fishing in the greater Chicago area. But you could golf.”

“Tried it once. I’d have to hang myself.” Shane shuddered at the memory.

“You do know it’s not about the ball. It’s about the conversation.”

“Boring people play golf.”

Justin paused beside the closed door. “Powerful people play golf.”

“I’d rather scuba dive or target shoot.”

“Go for it.”

Shane had considered both of those things, dreaming of a long weekend in the Keys or a rustic lodge in Montana. “It’s a little hard to find the time.”

“Now that you’ve given up dating, you’ll have nothing but time on your hands.”

“There’s a board meeting on Friday. We break ground on the new wing of the R & D facility Wednesday morning. Then I’m hosting the search-and-rescue fundraiser at the mansion next Saturday night.” Shane paused. “And I’m not going stag to that.”

“Sure you are.”

“Uh, no, I’m not.”

“Then find a nice, safe date,” said Justin. “Take your cousin.”

“Madeline is not going to be my date to the fundraiser.”

“Why not? She could be your hostess. It’s not the same as a date.”

“That’s pathetic. I’m not going to look pathetic at my own party.”

“You won’t look pathetic. You’ll look shrewd. The trick here is to give the media absolutely nothing to report.”

“You don’t think they’ll report that I’m dating my cousin?”

“They’ll report that you and Madeline were impeccable hosts and that Colborn raised hundreds of thousands for the search-and-rescue service.”

Shane’s instinct was to argue. But he forced himself to think it through. Was cohosting with Madeline really the safe route?

He knew she’d do it for him. She was a sweetheart. Would it deflect public criticism? More importantly, would it protect his privacy?

Justin spoke up again. “There’s a fine line between keeping your company in the public eye and becoming a social-media spectacle.”

“I’ve crossed it, haven’t I?”

“Bianca crossed it for you.”

Shane capitulated. “Fine. I’ll call Maddie.”

“Good decision.”

“You do know I have a 100 percent success rate, getting lucky after that particular party.”

“You do know those women are sleeping with the billionaire persona and not the man, right?”

“The family mansion has to be good for something.”

The Barrington Hills house had been in his family for decades. But it was an hour commute to downtown. And what single man needed fourteen acres and seven bedrooms?

Shane mostly lived at his Lake Shore Drive penthouse—three bedrooms, a fantastic view and close to any number of fine restaurants.

“I’m sure your father would be proud of how you’re using the family assets,” Justin drawled.

Shane couldn’t help but smile at the memory. His dad had been gone for six years now, tragically killed along with Shane’s mother in a boating accident when Shane was twenty-four. He missed them both. And although Justin was being sarcastic, Dalton wouldn’t have had the slightest problem with Shane’s love life.

Shane heard his assistant, Ginger, over the intercom. “Mr. Colburn? A Hans Strutz is on the phone from Gobrecht Airlines.”

He and Justin exchanged a worried look.

Shane reached out to press the intercom button on his desk phone. “I’ll pick it up.”

“Thank you, sir. Line one.”

“Thanks, Ginger.” He took a bracing breath. “Well, this could be really good or really bad.”

Justin reached for the door handle. “Call me when you’re done.”

“I will.” Shane punched line one.

* * *

Darci sat perched on a bus-stop bench across the busy street from the Colborn Aerospace headquarters. The June sunshine glinted on the giant royal blue sign, which stretched across the front of the building. The twenty-one story structure was two blocks from the river, overlooking a small park.

Her father’s unmailed letter had been a revelation. It explained Ian’s bitterness, his rages at Dalton Colborn and likely his fondness for Scotch, which had increased as the years went by. The letter accused Dalton of betraying Ian, of stealing and patenting her father’s next-generation turbine design.

It seemed Ian and Dalton had been best friends for years, until Dalton got greedy and stole everything for himself. Ian’s letter had threatened a lawsuit. He wanted money, sure. But he also wanted professional recognition for his invention. Dalton had won a prestigious award for the turbine, gaining fame that had translated into wealth and skyrocketing growth for Colborn Aerospace, while Ian’s marriage had broken up and he had spiraled into depression and obscurity.

The letter stated that there was irrefutable proof of Ian’s claim in the company’s records. He said his original, signed schematic drawings were hidden away in a place where only he could find them. He’d wanted a court order to retrieve the designs and force Dalton to come clean.

But the letter was never mailed. And Darci could only guess at the reasons her father might have changed his mind. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to tip Dalton off, to risk Dalton finding the drawings and destroying them. If so, why hadn’t he called a lawyer? Or maybe he had.

She realized she’d probably never know.

Now she sat staring at the Colborn Aerospace building and wondered if the proof could possibly be inside. Were there papers moldering in a basement filing cabinet that showed her father was a brilliant engineer? If there were, how could she get her hands on them?

She watched people walk in and out of the building, alone, in pairs, in groups. Some were obviously executives and office staff. Some were maintenance workers. Some were likely clients and customers.

She could walk into the lobby right now, and nobody would stop her. Though there was probably security to keep her from getting much farther than that. Maybe she’d ask to see Shane Colborn. Maybe she’d march right up to him and demand to see the historical files.

Then again, maybe that would be stupid. Shane was likely as selfish and greedy as his father. If he learned there was proof of his family’s dishonesty, there was no way he’d let her hunt for it. Instead, he’d be the one to find it and destroy it.

A bus rolled along the curb. Its air brakes groaned as it came to a stop and blocked her view. A few people stepped off while others boarded, then it pulled away, diesel engine grinding loudly before the sounds mingled with the other traffic.

Children squealed in the park beside her. Birds swooped from aspens to maple trees. The wind freshened the air, blowing away the exhaust from the four-lane thoroughfare.

It was lunchtime, and hundreds of people moved through the park and along the sidewalks. More entered the Colborn building. More came out.

Staring at the imposing stone structure, Darci knew the smart thing to do was walk away. She should forget the letter existed and carry on with her regular life. She could head back to her car, return to the loft and finish unpacking her belongings.

It was Friday. She and Jennifer were going to the Woodrow Club tonight. They’d meet up with some friends from Columbia, have a few drinks, maybe run into some nice guys. Who knew? This could be the night she met her soul mate.

Not that she was necessarily fixating on meeting Mr. Right. She’d like to get married someday, settle down, have kids. Who wouldn’t? But she was in no hurry.

Her and Jennifer’s web-design business was growing at a very satisfying pace. They’d planned a vacation in New York City for July. They had reservations at a hotel on Times Square and tickets to three shows. It was going to be fantastic.

Another bus passed, but it didn’t stop.

She gazed over the tops of the cars and taxis, staring at the glass doors that led to the Colborn Aerospace lobby, while speculating on what kind of a person could get access to the basement. A repairman, perhaps. She could rent a uniform, buy a toolbox and pretend she was from the telephone or the electric company.

Too bad she didn’t know a fuse from a resistor.

Maybe she could deliver a pizza.

A woman headed up the stairs to the front doors, then paused to smooth her skirt, seeming to brace herself before reaching for the door handle. She looked young, nervous and self-conscious.

Job interview, Darci concluded.

Then she sat up straight, a lightning bolt flashing in her brain.

Job interview.

Employees of Colborn Aerospace could wander all over the building. They would have security access, possibly even door keys. Nobody would question their right to be there. And they could chat up the other employees, find out where company records were kept, browse through them under one pretext or another, probably find anything they wanted about the company’s history.