The Garrisons: Parker, Brittany & Stephen: The CEO's Scandalous Affair

By the time they landed and took a late-night cab ride through the still-vibrating streets of London, Parker was entirely comfortable with keeping the weekend on the level of strictly business. He abandoned the idea of taking her sightseeing the next day; they—or at least, he—would work, grilling Brandon Washington on the situation in the Bahamas and tracking the progress of several high-power land deals he had in the works.

Tomorrow night, he would introduce Anna as his assistant and she would no doubt wear her hair in a bun, don a conservative dress and stay stone-cold sober.

“Wow!” Anna froze midstep as they followed the cheerful old doorman into the smothering luxury that was the Ritz-Carlton London.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly the Miami Beach hip of the Garrison Grand,” Parker agreed. “This is pure old-world sophistication. You either like it or you feel suffocated. I, personally, love it.”

“It’s fantastic,” she said, her voice a little hushed as she took in the three-story rotunda that capped the lobby, trimmed by ornate gilded woodwork.

Smiling at her enthusiasm, he stepped away to check in. But after a few keystrokes and frowns, the formally dressed clerk informed Parker that there’d been an error in the system and Ms. Cross’s room was not available.

“Not ready or not available?” Parker asked.

“We are so very, deeply sorry, Mr. Garrison,” the solicitous clerk, who obviously had not been in the hotel business long enough to recognize Parker’s last name, crooned softly. “We are booked, overbooked and double booked with several very large events this weekend.”

Parker knew, without the slightest doubt, that a single word with a manager would get a room. He’d been raised in this business and “no rooms” meant there were a half dozen on reserve.

“Your suite has three bedrooms, Mr. Garrison, and it’s quite lovely and spacious,” the clerk added. “And perhaps something will become available tomorrow.”

Parker squeezed the bridge of his nose, fighting the exhaustion that came with trans-Atlantic travel. He turned to see Anna, who still scanned the lobby with a little bit of wonder in her eyes. There really was plenty of room in that suite. She’d love the decor.

And if it got a little cozy…

He nodded to the clerk. “We’ll make due with that, then.”

After a moment, a bellman whisked their luggage ahead and Parker joined Anna with a regretful smile. “Slight change in plans,” he said.

“Oh?”

“There’s no room for you.”

She drew back, frowning. “I know I booked it. And, surely, if you tell them who—”

He held up a hand in agreement. “I can fight it, absolutely. But the suite has three bedrooms, all with their own baths, and enough room for a party of fifty people.” He grinned. “I believe I had one there once.”

She shrugged, a little weariness—or was it wariness?—giving a delicate set to her jaw. “All right. I’m beat, anyway. I just need a shower and sleep.”

He tilted his head and put a casual hand on her shoulder to guide her through the lobby. “I only have one rule.”

She slowed her step. “Which is?”

“No singing in the shower.”

Late the next afternoon, Anna broke the rule.

Secretly, quietly and probably way off-key, she warbled a pathetic version of “Can’t Help Loving That Man” from Showboat as she let blistering hot water pulse over her skin.

She couldn’t help it. Showers were made for singing.

Anyway, Parker hadn’t emerged from the woodpaneled library long enough to even enjoy the ridiculous opulence of a suite that was about three times the size of Anna’s little house in Coral Gables, let alone hear her in the shower. And, oh, what he’d missed while he mumbled and barked orders to his lawyer, his accountant, his minions.

Anna could have spent the day just roaming the endless array of museum-quality rooms, admiring the Louis-the-something furniture, taking in the view of the avenues and stores from every arched window. As it was, she’d lost half an hour that morning just brushing her fingers over silk, damask and velvet pillows of celery and sage on delicate settees and graceful dining-room chairs.

But like always, the best view in the place was the one of her boss, wearing casual khaki pants and a simple but achingly expensive pullover and, God help her, no shoes.

That had been what finally sent her into the streets of London. Not his suggestion that she use the car and driver to explore. Not his implication that he needed complete privacy to conduct his business. No, what sent her out to the shops of Piccadilly, past Buckingham Palace and into the pristine paths of Hyde Park were Parker Garrison’s bare feet.

She closed her eyes and paused midsong, water sluicing over her bare skin, as hot as the fire that tightened her stomach into a knot of arousal. She thought she’d seen everything attractive on the man… but she’d never seen such beautiful feet.

Long and narrow, strong boned with the faintest dusting of black hairs on his toes and a high arch where his khaki pants broke.

Oh, Anna Cross, girl, you have it bad. Swooning over feet.

But she’d nearly dumped her china coffee cup when he’d emerged from his room that morning, the shoulders of his red shirt spotted from droplets of just-showered hair, the natural scent of his soap still clinging to him. Averting her gaze from his freshly shaven face, she’d looked down.

Big mistake.

When she’d returned to the suite only an hour ago, he’d still been in the damn library, with the door closed. So she’d decided to start getting ready for the gala, planning to take a lot of time and care with her hair and makeup. After all, he’d said this was a PR move. It would be a PR disaster to arrive with a sad-looking date.

Getting ready might take some time because it had been many years since she’d arrived at a formal affair on the arm of a rich and powerful man. With a hard jerk, she twisted the knobs of the shower, wishing she could shut off the flow of her thoughts as easily. She didn’t want to think about the man who’d changed everything. Not her boss, in that case, but her boss’s rival.

But ever since she’d taken the job for Parker, thoughts of Michael Montgomery, another powerful, influential man, were close to the surface. The fact that once before she’d given in to a weakness for a handsome power broker with class, humor and style was nothing to be ashamed of, she reminded herself as she applied some makeup and twirled her hair into a French twist.

But her weakness had made her a pawn caught in the cross fire, forced to run and give up her home… all because she’d given in to an attraction to a man who was, ironically, very much like Parker Garrison.

Her father, a very wise man, had once told her that the definition of fool was someone who didn’t learn from a mistake. She wasn’t a fool. Was she?

When she’d been with Michael Montgomery, she’d been twenty-four, young and naive. Now she was nearly twenty-nine, and had successfully escaped her past. Sure, she had a crush on Parker the size of the Garrison Grand, but she was human and female. And she’d managed her attraction for three months.

But now, she was in London, sharing a suite with him, no less. And about to slip into a slinky gown she hadn’t worn for four years. And no doubt she’d have to dance with him.

Oh, how much could a girl take before she did something… foolish?

Makeup and hair done, she covered her skin with a lightly scented cream, stepped into tiny bikini panties and opened the closet door to inch the drab navy suit to the side.

He hadn’t given her time to shop for something new, she thought as she touched the red silk. And she’d only worn this dress once, so it didn’t make any sense to spend money on something else. Plus… oh, forget rationalizing. She loved the dress.

Fingering the plunging neckline, she remembered how beautiful she’d felt the last time she’d worn it—right before her boyfriend had betrayed her, and she’d been run out of Indiana by bad press and false accusations.

She buried the thought. Tonight, she’d just revel in the dress, in the thigh-revealing cut and the backless dip that nearly touched her tailbone and the flared skirt that shimmered like liquid fire when she walked.

Anna reached for the hanger, a little sad she’d cover the revealing bodice and back with a simple black pashmina wrap and take small steps so as not to show too much leg. Because, all rationalization aside, she didn’t need to attract any attention.

And she had to remember that powerful, sexy, controlling men with smoldering smiles and mouthwatering bodies were dangerous. Especially, oh, God, especially if one of the things they controlled was your paycheck.

She slipped on the dress, fastened the halter top and added some simple silver earrings and strappy black sandals. She dropped a tube of lipstick and a compact into her evening bag. Now where had she put the wrap?

“Anna?” From the sound of Parker’s voice, he was outside her door. “The limo’s here.”