by Robyn Grady
For the next few minutes, Wynn listened to an extended analysis of the digital marketplace. Obviously this guy knew his stuff. But now wasn’t the time to get into a full-blown discussion.
After a few more minutes of Christopher sharing his ideas, Wynn got up from the desk and interrupted. “I have a meeting. We’ll talk later.”
A muscle in Christopher’s jaw jumped twice. He was pumped, ready to let loose with a thousand initiatives. But he quickly reined himself in.
“Of course,” he said, backing up. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Christopher was headed out when Daphne appeared at the open door.
“Oh, sorry to interrupt,” Daphne said. “I didn’t realize—”
As she backed up, her elbow smacked the jamb. When her trusty gold-plated pen jumped from her hand, Christopher swooped to rescue it. As he returned the pen, Wynn didn’t miss the wink he sent its owner. He also noted Daphne’s blush and her preoccupation as Christopher vacated the room.
Rousing herself, she nudged those glasses back up her nose and, in the navy blue dress reserved for Thursdays, moved forward. As Wynn dragged in his seat, Daphne lowered into her regular chair on the other side of his desk. So—head back in the game. First up, before that meeting, he needed to make some arrangements.
“I’m flying to Sydney Monday.”
Daphne crossed her legs and scribbled on her pad. “Returning when?”
“Keep it open.”
“I’ll organize a car to the airport.” She scrunched her pert nose. “Will you need accommodation?”
“We’re all staying at the family home. Guthrie wants us all in one place leading up to the big day.”
If Grace decided to join him, he’d make additional arrangements. Lots of them.
As Daphne took notes, her owlish, violet-blue eyes sparkled behind their lenses. He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected his assistant was a romantic. She liked the thought of a wedding. Not so long ago, she had really liked Heather.
The two women had met several times. Daphne had commented on how carefree, beautiful and friendly his partner was. The morning after Heather had left him sitting alone in that restaurant, he’d returned to his apartment and had lain like a fallen redwood on his couch. He’d let his phone ring and ring. He didn’t eat. Didn’t drink. When an urgent knocking had forced him to his feet, he’d found Daphne standing, fretting in his doorway. Looking pale, she’d announced, “I’ve been calling all day.” For the first time in their history, her tone had been heated. Concerned.
He had groaned out his story and had felt a little better for it. Afterward, she’d made coffee and a sandwich he couldn’t taste. Then she’d simply sat alongside of him, keeping him company without prying or hassling about the meetings he’d missed. They hadn’t spoken about that day since, but he wasn’t sorry she’d appeared on his doorstep and had seen that shattered man. He trusted her without reservation. He knew she would always be there for him, as a top assistant, even as an unlikely friend.
Now, like every weekday, he and Daphne went through the day’s schedule.
“Midmorning,” Daphne said, “you have a meeting with digital strategists.”
To make existing online sites more efficient and user-friendly while increasing cross-promotional links between Hunter Publishing’s properties.
“At two, a consultation with the financial heads,” she went on.
To get down to the pins and tacks of whether his proposed partial merger with another publisher—Episode Features—was as viable as he believed.
Daphne glanced at the polished-steel wall clock. “In a few minutes,” she said, “a meeting with Paul Lumos.”
Episode’s CEO. They were both anxious to finalize outstanding sticking points. Neither man wanted leaks to either the public, employees or, in Wynn’s case, his family.
Normally, walls didn’t exist between Hunter father and son. This was an exception. During a recent phone conversation, Wynn had brought up the subject of mergers. Guthrie had cut the conversation down with a single statement. “Not interested.” His father’s business model was built around buyouts and takeovers. He didn’t agree with handing over any controlling interest. Even in these challenging times, this giant oak would not bend. But with the regularity of print-run schedules cut in half, both Lumos and Wynn saw critical benefits in sharing overheads relating to factory and delivery costs.
As Brock Munroe had said: adapt or die.
Daphne was leaving the office when Wynn’s private line announced an incoming call. His father. Sitting back, Wynn checked his watch. Lumos was due any moment. He’d need to make this brief.
“Checking in,” Guthrie said. “Making sure we’ll see you next week.”
Smiling, Wynn sat back. “The flight’s booked.”
“I just got off the phone with Dex and Tate.” His father pushed out a weary breath. “This place feels so empty without that boy’s smile.”
Wynn read his father’s thoughts. Did I do the right thing sending my youngest son away? He’d had no choice.
“We all agreed. While there’s any risk of Tate being caught up again in that trouble, it’s best he stay somewhere safe.”
It had also been agreed that all the Hunters should return home for Cole’s wedding. Since that last incident, where father and child had very nearly been abducted, additional security had been arranged. On conference calls, the older Hunter brothers had discussed with Brandon Powell how to increase those measures these coming weeks.
“Any news on that car rental company’s records?” Wynn asked.
“The license plate was a fake,” Guthrie confirmed. “After hiring the van, the plates were switched and switched again before dropping it back. If that woman Brandon interviewed hadn’t caught sight of the rental company’s name on the keys, we’d be clueless. Now at least we have some kind of description of the man.”
“Was a sketch artist brought in?”
“Should have something on that soon.” Guthrie exhaled. “God help me, I want to know what’s behind all this.”
Wynn imagined his father standing by the giant arched window in the second-story master suite of his magnificent Sydney house—the estate that Wynn and his brothers had called home growing up. The frustration, the fury, must be eating him alive.
“We’re getting closer, Dad.” Hopefully soon his father would have his life back and Tate could go home to Sydney for good.
Wynn changed the subject.
“Christopher Riggs started today.”
His father sounded sure-footed again. “That boy has good credentials. Christopher’s father worked for me years ago. Later, he bought a low distribution magazine that he built up. A recent merger turned out to be a death sentence. The family’s interests were swallowed up and spat out.”
Wynn’s stomach tightened. But his father couldn’t know about his meetings with Lumos or his merger plans for Hunter Publishing.
“Christopher’s father is a good friend,” Guthrie continued. “Someone I would trust with my life. When Tobias and I had our falling out, it was Vincent Riggs I turned to. I wanted to fold—give my brother any damn thing he wanted if he agreed to stay and help run the company—it was our father’s dying wish. But Vincent helped clear my head. Tobias and I did things differently. Thought differently. Still do. We would have ended up killing each other if he’d stayed on. I’ll always be grateful to Vincent for making me see that. Giving his only son this opportunity is the least I can do.”
Wynn was sitting back, rubbing the scar on his forehead as he stared at the portrait of his father hanging on the wall. He couldn’t imagine how betrayed Guthrie would feel when he found out he’d gone behind his back organizing that deal.
“You there, son?”
Wynn cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I have a meeting i
n five.”
“I won’t hold you up.”
His father muttered a goodbye and Wynn pushed out of his chair. When his gaze found the La Trobes folder on his desk, he remembered Guthrie’s words and his chest burned again. His father had spoken of how, in his dealings with Uncle Tobias, he’d needed to accept that sometimes the answer to a problem is: there is no answer.
And now, Wynn had no option, either. He had to pursue this merger deal. No matter the casualties or hard feelings—he needed to keep his corner of the Hunter empire strong.
Five
“Well, now, this is a surprise.”
At the sound of Wynn’s greeting and sight of his intrigued smile, the nerves in Grace’s stomach knotted up. Wearing a white business shirt, which stretched nicely across his chest, a crimson tie and dark suit pants that fit his long, strong legs to perfection, he looked so incredibly tasty, her mouth wanted to water.
“I was out doing a few things,” she replied as he crossed his large private reception area. “When I passed your building, I thought I might catch you before you left for the day.”
When Grace had arrived, the assistant had let Wynn know he had a visitor. Now, as the young woman packed up for the day, pushing to her feet and securing a massive handbag over her shoulder, Grace noticed the interested—or was that protective?—glance she sent Wynn’s way. Wearing serious glasses and a dress that had submitted to the press of an iron one too many times, the woman looked more suited to court dictation than boardroom infatuation. But wasn’t it always the quiet ones?
A moment later, Grace was following Wynn into his spacious office suite.
To the left, black leather settees were arranged in a U formation around a low Perspex occasional table stacked with three neat piles of magazines and newspapers. A spotless fireplace was built into the oak-paneled wall. To one side of the mantle sat a framed copy of a well-known Hunter magazine—on the other hung an identically framed copy of the New York Globe, Hunter Publishing’s primary newspaper; their offices were located on a lower floor. But what drew her attention most was the view of Midtown visible beyond those wall-to-wall windows. It never got old.
From this vantage point, gazing out over Times Square toward Rockefeller Center, she felt settled, warm—as if she were swaddled in a cashmere wrap.
She wandered over and set a palm against the cool glass. “I’ve missed this.”
A few seconds later, Wynn’s voice rumbled out from behind her.
“Growing up,” he said, “I remember my father being away a lot. He had good people in key positions here in New York, but he wanted to keep an eagle eye on things himself. When he said he trusted me enough to take on that gatekeeping role, I almost fell out of my chair. I was twenty-three when I started my grooming here.”
The deep, rich sound of his voice, the comfort of his body heat warming her back... She really needed to say her piece and get out of here before her knees got any weaker.
As she turned to face him, however, her blouse brushed his shirtfront and that weak-kneed feeling gripped her doubly tight. The message in his gaze wasn’t difficult to read. She was a confident, intelligent woman who had her act together for the most part, yet she felt like a sieve full of warm putty whenever Wynn Hunter looked at her that way.
She moistened her lips. “I’ve decided not to go to Sydney.”
His eyebrows knitted before his gaze dipped to her mouth, then combed over one cheek. She felt the appraisal like a touch.
“That’s a shame.” With a curious grin hooking one side of his mouth, he edged a little closer. “Sure I can’t convince you?”
“If we arrive and stay there together... Well, I just don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.”
“What idea is that? That we’re a couple?”
“Yes, actually.”
“And that would make you uncomfortable. Make you feel disloyal to your ex.” He explained, “Your dad mentioned what happened last year. It must’ve been hard.”
Her stomach began to churn in that sick way it did whenever someone said those words to her.
“I’m working through it,” she told him, crossing to his desk and stopping to one side of the big, high-backed chair.
“No one has to know any background,” he said.
“Your family will ask questions.”
“Trust me.” He followed her. “They’ll only be jazzed about seeing you again. Particularly Teagan.”
She exhaled. He never gave up. “Wynn, we’ve known each other five minutes.” This time.
“I’d like to get to know you more.”
When his fingertips feathered the back of her hand, she eased away around the other side of the chair. “I’m not ready for this.”
“I’m talking about soaking up gobs of therapeutic, subtropical sunshine. Have you any idea how soft a koala’s fur feels beneath your fingertips?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Not fair.”
He moved around the chair to join her. When his fingers slipped around hers, she was infused with his heat.
She wanted to move away again. Tell him that he couldn’t talk her around. Only these toasty feelings were getting harder to ignore. She could so easily give in to the urge, tip forward.
Let go.
“I lay awake last night,” he said, moving closer. “I was thinking about our evening together. About putting the past in the past for a couple of weeks.”
She remembered again how candidly he’d spoken about his ex. She’d seen it in the shadows of his eyes. He’d been badly hurt, too.
In some ways, he understood. And Grace understood him.
She couldn’t fix it with Sam, but Wynn was here, in her present. He’d been nothing but thoughtful toward her. And he wasn’t looking to set up house or anything drastic. He was merely suggesting that they make the most of the time they had left before she returned to Florida.
And, of course, he was right—she didn’t have to divulge anything to his family that she didn’t want to. That was her conscience getting in the way, holding her back—same way it had all these months.
When the pad of Wynn’s thumb brushed her palm, her fingers twitched.
“If you won’t see me again,” he said, “could I ask you to do just one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Leave me with a kiss.”
Her breath caught. He was looking at her so intently.
“Just one?” she asked.
He brought her close. “You decide.”
The moment his mouth covered hers, longing flooded her every cell. The night before, she had lain awake, too, imagining he was there beside her, stroking and toying and pleasing her the way only Wynn seemed to know how. She’d reinvented the moment before she’d said good-night, but rather than closing the door, she’d grabbed his tie and dragged him inside.
Now, with his mouth working a slow-burn rhythm over hers and that hot pulse at her core beginning to throb, she felt boneless—beaten. One kiss. She didn’t want to stop at just one. But she hadn’t lost her mind completely. This wasn’t the place or the time.
Breathless, she broke away. “Wynn, I need to go.”
“I want you to stay.” His lips grazed hers. “You want to stay.”
“Anyone could come in.”
He strode across the room, locked the door, strode back. No more words. He only brought her close, and as his mouth captured hers and his embrace tightened, suddenly time and place didn’t matter.
He shifted his big hands and gripped her on either side of her waist. He slowly lifted her and as her feet left the floor, he made certain that he pressed her against him extra close. Then their mouths slipped apart and rather than looking up at him, now she was looking down.
When he sat her on the desk, his mouth foun
d hers again—a scorching all-bets-are-off caress. His palms drove all the way down her back, and as his hands wedged under her behind, she blindly unbuttoned part of his shirt. Slipping a hand into the opening, she sighed at the feel of crisp hair matted over hard, steamy flesh.
One hand slipped out from beneath her, slicing down the back of her thigh until he gripped the back of that knee. As the kiss deepened, she wrenched at the knot of his tie. When collar buttons proved too stubborn, she tugged harder and they popped off. She unraveled the shirt from his shoulders at the same time he pushed against her, tilting her back, bringing her knee back, too.
When she lay flat on the desk, his mouth broke from hers. He shifted enough to peel the shirt off his back. As he moved forward, he pushed up her skirt. He positioned himself between her thighs and his mouth met hers again.
Arching up, she clutched at his chest while a big warm hand drove between them and found the front of her briefs. When she bucked, wanting more, the kiss intensified before two thick fingers slid lower between thin silk and warm skin. As he explored her slick folds, the pad of his thumb grazed the bead at the top of her cleft. She bit her lip to contain a sigh. All those sizzling nerve endings. Then he pressed that spot with just the right pressure and a burning arrow shot straight to her core.
She was clinging to his shoulders when he slipped his hand out from her briefs. She pushed up against him until she was sitting upright, her hands colliding with his in their race to unbutton her blouse. As he wrangled the sleeves off her shoulders, she scooted back more on the desk.
But then their eyes connected, and a hushed surreal moment passed. He drew down a breath and seemed to gather himself before he urged her back down. Finding her right leg, he raised it at an angle almost perpendicular to the desk. Taking his time, he slid off her high heel before his palms sailed down either side of her calf, her thigh. Then he slipped off the other heel and raised that leg, too. He dropped a lingering kiss on one instep and then repeated the caress on the other.
