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Just when you think things can’t get any worse...
Zani’s mission is simple. Go undercover as personal assistant to the loathsome Corbin de Villiers, prove he’s leaking corporate secrets, and leave him to the tender mercies of the fraud squad. Her family name will remain untouched by any hint of scandal, and she can get on with building custom-designed yachts.
Things get complicated when she discovers that Corbin is less loathsome—and far sexier—than she’d ever imagined.
Corbin’s new PA may be easy on the eyes, but she can’t even find the computer’s on button. He has no choice but to fire her; still, she doesn’t take the hint. Everywhere he turns she pops up, keen to divert him from tracking down the person who is out to destroy his company.
It’s crystal clear that she’s up to something. Maybe it’s better to keep her close. For investigative purposes, of course. That she’s temptation with a capital T has got nothing to do with it. Nothing.
Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it when Zani is kidnapped by the Russian Mafia. Entangled in a rapidly unraveling web of lies, Zani and Corbin must learn the rules of this new game fast...or die.
This title contains graphic descriptions of luxury yachts. Oh, and some hot sex as well. A moderate amount. You have been warned.
Zani hesitated outside her front door, fumbling with nervous fingers for the right key. She glanced back at Corbin, who smiled genially and made no sign of leaving. Fang, who’d spent the evening alone in her basket, could be heard barking her head off. The moment Zani managed to get the door open, she shot out ready to defend her mistress against all foes.
“Is this your guard dog?” asked Corbin, laughing as Fang’s paroxysms of barking faded into interested sniffing.
“That’s Fang,” she said, grasping at the conversation with relief.
“Fang? An interesting name for such a small, sweet dog.”
“She’s purebred, and her official name is Princess Cherry Wuffles III. The breeder named her, and I couldn’t bear the thought of either Cherry or Wuffles,” babbled Zani.
“Ah, I see,” said Corbin, who didn’t seem inclined to hurry back to the art gallery.
“Coffee?” she asked, her voice catching, even though she was sure he’d refuse.
He nodded. Her heart, which, up to that point had been thudding a little faster than usual, stopped. “Um,” she said after a short pause, during which her heart resumed operations.
“Should we go inside?” he suggested.
“Yes, I think inside would be an excellent idea.” With the air of one who regularly entertained large Frenchmen, she showed him through to the tiny sitting room just inside the front door.