Cassie's Grand Plan

It was a good idea, on so many levels.

His fingers loosened the knot of his burgundy tie and the luscious silk slipped through his collar with an illicit whisper. He undid the top two buttons of the shirt and revealed the beginnings of a light dusting of dark hair against smooth, tanned skin. Then his hands worked at his cuffs and a moment later, the shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, exposing muscled forearms sprinkled with that same dark hair.

It was only the burn in her lungs that reminded Cassie to breathe.

This was not a strip show on King Street. But Cassie had a sudden urge to order a cosmopolitan, sit back and watch as he continued. Button. Another button.

She shook her head and sucked in a breath. To give herself recovery time, she looked down at the table and shuffled some papers around. But as soon as she’d managed to tear her eyes away from his delectable body, another element hit her senses—his scent.

He wasn’t as unaffected by the heat as she’d thought—there was a whiff of sweat there, but it was the good kind, the kind that made her want to inhale deeply. It was only just discernable under his expensively discreet aftershave, musky and woody, a smell that reinforced the conflicting impressions Cassie was trying to assimilate. On the one hand, he was all coolly professional sophistication, on the other, he radiated earthy, primal masculinity.

Cassie’s eyes lit on the cuff links from his French-cuffed shirt that were sitting on the table—quirky little enameled blocks decorated to look like dice.

It was an effective reminder of the reality of the situation. They probably cost more than every item of jewelry Cassie owned combined.

And for Ronan, this little exercise was a game. A roll of the dice and Cassie won or lost. It didn’t matter to him. He’d go back to America and his waiting partnership and never think about Country Style or Cassidy Hartman again.

Now was not the time for Cassie’s underdeveloped sex drive to suddenly come to life. Part Three had to wait until Parts One and Two were in place.

She stopped fiddling with the papers and set her eyes directly on his face, bypassing those arms, that chest. “Yes, of course we do.” It came out a little more direct than Cassie had planned.

He frowned.

“Have a health and safety policy,” she clarified, moderating her tone. “The foreman has an ambient-temperature monitor. As soon as it gets over a certain level, we send everyone home. And we try to plan our shifts around the weather report during summer. For example, today we started at dawn to ensure we could receive and store the stock before the heat really hit.”

He nodded, seeming to take Cassie’s undisguised defensiveness in stride.

“Good to hear. Shall we?”

He raised that single eyebrow again, but this time Cassie was prepared; she’d fortified herself and the expression didn’t melt her into a messy puddle.

“Absolutely. Follow me.”

CHAPTER THREE

RONAN WAS READY TO FALL into bed by the time he got back to the hotel after a full day at Country Style. But, determined not to let the jet lag win, he changed his clothes, ran a couple of miles on the hotel gym’s treadmill and then swam a few laps. A quick meal from room service and he was feeling better—still tired, but now in a physical sense, not just a blurred, fuzzy, jet-lagged sense.

He cracked open his laptop and crawled into bed with it, sitting a nightcap of substandard Scotch from the minibar on the side table. A quick review of his emails and then the whisky and he’d be guaranteed a decent night’s sleep before he had to get up at dawn to catch the plane to Perth.

Two hundred and fourteen emails.

Not bad, considering it had been a full day since he’d last checked.

Only one of them from his father. Requesting a progress report according to the subject line—no surprises there. Ronan’s finger hovered over the delete key, but then remembered how much was riding on this job. Instead, he clicked on the message, and his father’s brusque words filled the screen.

Ronan

Report back on progress with Taylor job ASAP—client expects interim recommendations by end of week. You know what outcomes are sought. Keep your nose clean. Keep your pecker cleaner!

Patrick Conroy

President and CEO, Conroy Corporation

Didn’t even bother to sign it “Dad,” just his full name and company signature, which was as effective a reminder that Ronan was in the doghouse as anything else.

Ronan bristled at the warning in the email. As if he were a child. As if the point hadn’t been made loud and clear before he’d left San Francisco.

It was why he’d made a last-minute decision to use his grandmother’s maiden name for this job. He didn’t want the CEO-son stigma following him around the world. “Ronan Conroy” brought too much baggage with it, whereas “Ronan McGuire” was nice and anonymous. It gave him space and time to think through what had happened—which was exactly what his father had hoped for by sending him to Australia in the first place.

The past month had been a mess. Everything had been going so well up until then, or so he’d thought. Now that he looked back on it, he wondered just how long the storm had been brewing.

An image of Sarah Forsythe swam up in his mind’s eye and made him shudder.

Ronan didn’t like to think of himself as the kind of man who spent time tying himself up in knots over regrets, but he couldn’t let this one go.

How had he not predicted what would happen? How had he been so wrong? Probably because he’d been concentrating on the long blond hair and the swimsuit-model body hidden within prim business suits, he reflected ruefully.

It wasn’t as though he’d never slept with a client before. It was a line he’d crossed, but always carefully. This time he hadn’t been so careful. He’d simply seen what he wanted and he’d taken it.

He’d been groomed his entire life to take over the leadership of Conroy Corporation one day. And until recently, he’d thought that was what he wanted. The last job he’d managed—a complex M&A in New York—had been a goldmine. A runaway success for the client had resulted in a tidy packet of consulting fees—and a newly polished reputation for Conroy Corporation on Wall Street. Ronan had been full of his own success.

He and Sarah, an accountant with one of the companies, had worked long hours together. When, toward the end of the job, a late night turned into drinks after work, they’d both had one too many. And when the night had ended with them sharing her bed, he’d been reasonably sure they were on the same page. It had been mutual; two consenting adults seeking pleasure in each other. These things happened in high-pressure environments. It was a release valve for both of them.

The next morning Ronan had tried to let her down easy. Given her a bit of the patented Ronan Conroy charm. She’d smiled, walked away, and Ronan had thought things were fine as he focused on tying up the loose ends as the job came to a close.

Two days later, he was on a plane, summoned back to his father’s office where a lawyer’s letter threatening a sexual harassment lawsuit was waved in his face.

Ronan had been incensed. His father had been so livid Ronan had actually feared for his health, watching him go puce with rage.

The words of their fight still echoed in his mind. His father had accused him of coasting, of not taking things seriously, of having a sense of entitlement over his career at Conroy Corporation, of being immature and shortsighted. Ronan had argued the exact opposite: he’d never been granted the slightest advantage, always had to work twice as hard as everyone else, never taken a shortcut, never once ridden on his father’s coattails.

Patrick Conroy had made Ronan work his way up the ranks just like any other employee.

No, not like any other employee.

Ronan had had to work harder, longer and more diligently than anyone to get even half the recognition.

And it stung. Not that Ronan wanted to be given a free ride, but once, just once, it would have been nice to know that his father considered him a worthy successor. He wasn’t looking for special treatment—just acknowledgment that his hard work had been worth it, that his natural talent for the business made him stand out.

But no.

Always conscious of the optics, Patrick Conroy had practiced reverse discrimination, putting more complex and difficult hurdles in front of his son than anyone else.

The partnership should have been his as soon as he’d got back from New York.

Unlike his father, Ronan knew that it didn’t matter what the reality was; there’d be plenty of people at Conroy Corporation who would greet the news of his partnership with a sneer and a joke about nepotism. But anyone who’d ever worked with him knew that Ronan not only deserved that partnership, he’d worked harder than anyone else in order to win it.

And then one stupid move, one wrong decision…

He was angry—with his father, with Sarah, with the world.

Also, even if he wasn’t quite ready to admit it aloud, with himself.

Ronan made his living from analyzing situations and predicting outcomes—and he was damn good at it. But he’d screwed this one up, big-time. How had he not seen that Sarah wasn’t just looking for one night of mutual fun? He’d been high on success, full of himself and his New York triumph, the partnership he’d had to bust his ass to achieve finally within his grasp.

Only to have it jerked away after one little mistake.

He blew out a breath and shook his head, trying to focus. All he had to do was make a decent job of this Country Style project and he’d be back on track. Simple.

Ronan scanned the subject lines of all his other emails and decided there was nothing desperately urgent. He could deal with the rest of them on the plane tomorrow.

He closed the laptop, drained the Scotch, switched off the light and lay back and stared up at the ceiling. Alert and awake, despite his physical and mental exhaustion.

“Damn.” He swore again, more savagely, punched the pillow and rolled on his side. His mind was racing and wouldn’t shut down. His thoughts still tumbled over each other, churning over his current predicament.

His entire future was riding on this Taylor job. He’d been sent to Australia as a punishment, just like the British convicts that had settled the country. But it was also his last chance of redemption. His chance to prove to his father—and to himself—that he really did care about some things. Like his future.

Like not becoming a laughingstock.

Did you hear the one about the CEO’s son who got demoted?

Oh, yeah, that was a good one.

Unless you were the CEO’s son.

The payout Patrick Conroy had had to make to Sarah to ensure her silence was now held as ransom over Ronan’s head.

You’ve lost sight of what this business is all about. His father’s words rang in his ears. How can I put you in front of the board as the future leader of this organization when you still behave like you’re twenty-five and sowing your wild oats? Go to Australia and get this right. Do you good to get back to basics and remember why you’re in this business in the first place.

Patrick Conroy had offered an opportunity for redemption—in reality, a demeaning punishment. His old friend, Graham Taylor, needed a favor. One of his businesses in Australia was at a turning point; Graham had courted a multinational conglomerate interested in expanding in Australia—starting with purchasing his top-performing chain of fifty-seven retail furniture stores. All the stores would be rebranded, global purchasing power would provide a more competitive edge and the local management would no longer be required. They were prepared to pay Taylor a bucket load of money, so as far as Ronan could see, it was a no-brainer. But for some reason, he wanted a Conroy Corporation report on the state of the business before he signed on the dotted line.

Ronan had been given a careful brief by his father. He was to do a thorough investigation, without revealing his true purpose to any of the local management. Along with confirming Taylor’s decision to sell as the correct one, Ronan had to prove that he didn’t need an army of business analysts and auditors to do a proper scoping exercise. Prove that he was worthy of Conroy Corporation. Prove that his error of judgment in New York was just a blip, not a symptom of a more serious problem.

Ronan twisted in bed and punched the pillow again.

The whisky burned in his gut.

Of course, the staff of Country Style had no idea why Ronan was really there, no suspicion of the possible merger. It wasn’t the first time Ronan knew more about people’s future than they did and it wouldn’t be the last. It was part of the job—part of the challenge of being a management consultant. Sometimes the recommendations he had to make affected people’s jobs. Sometimes he had to conceal that from them until the time was right.

Cassie Hartman, for example, thought he was there to review a document she’d created proposing a restructure of the business. Putting herself in charge, as CEO. The irony was, her report was probably what had prompted Taylor to think about selling in the first place. Her document was competent, and she clearly had a thorough understanding of the business she ran, but if things went as Taylor hoped, she’d not only not be CEO, she’d be out of a job.

Ronan checked the clock, the red numbers burning brightly in the darkness of the room. Only ten minutes had passed since he’d switched off the light. This was going to be a slow and torturous night if he couldn’t somehow make himself sleep.

There was one thing he hadn’t tried yet.

Grasping himself, Ronan cast around in his mind for images to accompany this last shot at overcoming his sleeplessness. He wasn’t proud, but it would only be a few hours before his alarm clock would go off and he’d be heading for the airport to catch a plane with Cassie Hartman.

Cassie Hartman.

He wasn’t surprised when his body responded to the thought. She possessed an intriguing combination of control and vulnerability, one moment smoothly professional, the next delightfully awkward. But it was the brunette curls she tried hard to restrain that spurred his physical response. Even the boring tortoiseshell clip that held the mane at the back of her neck wasn’t enough to fully hide the thick, shiny strands. He remembered his first thought when he’d seen her—what would her hair look like loose, swinging over her shoulders? He wondered how long it was—would it cover her breasts when she was naked? Maybe it would just reach the tips, letting her nipples peak out from between the curled ends.

He groaned.

That uniform she wore was utilitarian, another of her intriguing contrasts. All buttoned-up and proper on the outside, all lush curves and full breasts underneath. He wondered what she wore under her uniform. White cotton or white lace…

Ronan’s pulse picked up and he stroked himself more firmly.

Her breasts were large; they’d fill each hand and maybe then some. She had a sweet smile, too. She’d been nervous today, he could see that, but also determined to stand her ground and exceptionally proud of her achievements. He got the impression she was shy and not very confident around men—unlike that assistant of hers, she’d not once even attempted to flirt with him. And when he’d taken off his jacket and tie, he’d been sure she had blushed.

He could just imagine the blush on her face, that sweet smile, looking up at him as he touched her, as he moved over her, as he took her body, when she—

Ronan swore, released himself and flopped back on the pillows in disgust.

Hadn’t the experience with Sarah Forsythe taught him anything? Was his father’s impression of him right? Was he a player who could never take anything seriously?

Fantasizing about Cassie Hartman was about as wrong as it was possible to get. The very last thing he could afford on this job was another romantic entanglement with the client.

She probably had a boyfriend, he told himself. That was why she didn’t flirt. It didn’t matter anyway—she was so far off-limits she might as well be a nun.

Thinking about Sarah and the situation he was in was enough to kill any arousal. He’d just have to lie there until the alarm sounded. If necessary, he’d sleep on the plane.

He yawned.

This was going to be one damned long week.

CASSIE’S INSTINCTIVE RESPONSE to flying was filed under T for torture. But a career that often demanded her presence interstate meant she’d had to reconcile herself to filing it under N for necessary evil instead. If there was any way she could avoid stepping on another plane in her life, she’d take it.

It wasn’t that she was scared, exactly. No, terrified would probably be a more apt description. A shame, since she was sure her enthusiastic amateur-pilot father was looking down at her and shaking his head sadly at her phobia. He’d done his best to instill his own love of flying in her and she’d adored pretending to be his copilot—until the accident that had given her a fear of anything that went faster than her zippy, if dated, little hatchback.

It was mainly the takeoff and landing that were the problem. Once she was up in the air, she was better. As long as there were no bumps. Or strange noises. And God forbid that the cabin crew look nervous in any way.

But she couldn’t afford to let Ronan McGuire see it. It wasn’t a weakness that affected her ability to manage Country Style, but it was still a weakness. Cassie was determined not to let him see anything other than the person who was the obvious choice for leading the business into a new realm of success.

Calm. Control. The words had become her mantra.

“Are you a nervous flyer?”

Damn. Those blue eyes peered at her as they fastened their seat belts. Since they’d met in the airport, conversation had been restrained and polite. He’d seemed distracted and had opened up his laptop as soon as they’d been settled in the lounge. Cassie had done the same—she had plenty to keep her busy, anyway. There was still a great deal of work to do to finalize the details for the store opening on Monday.

“No, I’m…fine,” Cassie replied, trying for a relaxed smile.

Ronan nodded, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

He was laughing at her! Get a grip, Cassie. She peeled her fingers from the armrest and folded them neatly in her lap, wishing she’d thought to bring a book with her so she could sit there and pretend to read. Even better would have been a set of those massive, noise-canceling headphones, so she could block out the plane and Ronan’s annoyingly seductive voice. Leaning forward, she scrambled in the seat pocket in front of her for the airline magazine and stared blankly at a random page, figuring it was better than nothing.

She heard a low chuckle beside her.

With a blush heating her cheeks, Cassie turned the magazine the right way up and studied the article about resorts in Bali as if her life depended on it. The safety demonstration started and she half watched from behind the magazine—usually she paid rapt attention, but again, she didn’t want to give away her nerves to her seatmate.

As the plane’s engines fired up for takeoff, Cassie couldn’t help the panic that rose inside her. Memories threatened to overwhelm her, of the time when flying had been exciting, the little tilts and loops of a plane thrilling, her father at the wheel, turning to grin at her in shared exhilaration. That had been before. Before life had changed permanently.

She closed her eyes as the wheels left the ground, her teeth gritted as the plane dipped and righted itself. Then the wind caught them. The plane veered sideways, leaving her stomach somewhere near her throat. Cassie’s hand shot out, reaching for the armrest, and she twisted her feet around the seat in front of her as makeshift anchors. The magazine fell with a rustle of pages to the floor.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

Instead of cold metal, her hand met warm flesh. Fingers that interlaced with hers and held on tightly. Reassuringly.

“It’s just a little turbulence.”

Yeah, that’s probably what they said before every plane fell out of the sky.

“It’ll even out as soon as we get higher.” Ronan’s voice was low and gentle, that accent of his reassuring.

The plane dipped again. Cassie screwed her eyes shut even tighter and squeezed his hand hard enough to make her knuckles ache. Blood pounded in her ears and her calves began to cramp from her ankles’ awkward grip.

“Breathe. In and out.”

She made an effort to take in some air.

“That’s better. See? We’re smoothing out now. Nothing to worry about.”

Nothing to worry about? This was the worst flight she’d ever been on. Surely when she opened her eyes there’d be chaos, people screaming, children crying, panicked flight attendants running down the aisles.

She cracked an eye. Everything looked…normal.

The businessman across the aisle nonchalantly turned the page of his newspaper. The child in the seat in front of her yawned and dropped his half-chewed apple on the floor. The women behind them continued to talk about the shoe and handbag shopping they’d done in Melbourne’s famous laneways.

Cassie sucked in a deep breath and opened both eyes.

The breath froze in her lungs.

Ronan McGuire was twisted in his seat, his face just inches from hers. He clasped her hand in both of his, stroking the inside of her wrist with one thumb, seemingly unconcerned by the death grip she had on him. He was peering at her, and those calculating blue eyes of his were filled with concern and compassion and—around the edges—amusement.

As her eyes met his, a slow smile spread across his face. “So you don’t like flying much, huh?”

Cassie swallowed hard and had to force her voice not to waver. “It’s…it’s not my favorite activity.” His research clearly hadn’t covered her family background.

“And you’ve signed us up for a week of travel?”

That devastating single arched eyebrow again. Thankfully this time Cassie was too wound up to let it affect her. Much.

“I’ve never let my little problem interfere with my job.” Cassie bristled at the insinuation and it helped to dampen her fear. The plane had leveled out and a loud ding sounded as the seat-belt sign went off.

Ronan’s thumb was still stroking the inside of her wrist. It had been comforting before, now it was…now it was…

She loosened her fingers from around his and gave him a tight smile, tugging her hand free of his grasp.

It took him a moment to release her. His thumb paused against her pulse point, his eyes still locked with hers. Something flashed there, an awareness, and Cassie hoped like hell he couldn’t read her mind. Not only was she grateful for his calm support, but more than anything she wanted him to hold her hand for the next four hours. Forever, if possible. And that stroking thumb of his? She was absolutely not thinking about what it might be like if it explored her arm, her shoulder, her breast, lower…

“I’m sure you haven’t,” he drawled as he settled back in his seat by her side. “You’re far too professional for that.”

Cassie drew in a breath, not sure whether to be thankful or disappointed that he’d let her go. To cover her confusion, she was about to launch into a review of all the work-related travel she’d done for Country Style, when he leaned forward, pulled out the laptop he’d slid under the seat in front before they’d taken off, opened it and appeared to get to work.

Cassie closed her mouth with an audible snap.

He didn’t so much as look up from the screen, and Cassie had the strange feeling she’d been dismissed. Fine. It was for the best. There was no point entertaining thoughts about Ronan McGuire, his strong fingers and lush mouth. It had been enough that ideas like that had kept her awake most of the night before.