“Would you come here?” Shane asked in a soft tone.
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
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.
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For my son
Contents
“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