Baiting the Boss

Baiting the Boss

Coleen Kwan

Also by Coleen Kwan

Real Men Don’t Break Hearts

Real Men Don’t Quit

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by Coleen Kwan. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Entangled Publishing, LLC
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Edited by Kate Fall and Stacy Abrams

Cover design by Libby Murphy

ISBN 978-1-62266-188-6

Manufactured in the United States of America

First Edition October 2013

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Batcave, Bob the Builder, Galliano, Mercedes, InterContinental Hotel

To Simon, Sabrina, and Lewis.

Chapter One

Grace Owens bent and clutched her heaving stomach as the boat pitched over yet another wave, and the entire vessel juddered at the impact.

“Lovey, if you barf inside the cabin, it’s gonna cost you extra,” the captain said.

She couldn’t muster the strength to scowl at him. If ever there was a sea rogue, Wally was one, with his leathery face, tobacco-stained teeth, and leering eyes. Not to mention the exorbitant fee he was charging to take her to Filemu Island. Talk about high-seas piracy.

He had lied to her. He’d told her with a straight face that the trip from Hiva, capital of the British Sullivan Islands, to Filemu Island would take no more than two hours, but here they were, still at sea
four
hours later, and she was about to lie down on the stinking cabin floor and never get up again.

God, the things she did for the Macintyres.

“Look, there it is. Filemu Island!” Wally cackled. “I told you we’d make it.”

Grace peered through the salt-speckled window. All around them, the Pacific Ocean rolled in an endless, wind-tossed sea of whitecaps. They were in the vast, trackless stretches between Australia and Hawaii, and there on the hazy horizon was a pocket-size island, shimmering in the sunlight like an entrancing mirage.

Oh, please don’t let it be a mirage.

A second later, the boat hit a monster wave, and Grace lost her grip on the window ledge and floundered across the cabin.

“Yahoo!” Willy clung to the wheel, a demonic smirk cracking his face.

He was completely mad, Grace decided. No,
she
was mad. Right now, she should be sitting in her clean, orderly office in Sydney, not careening through the Pacific looking for a man who didn’t want to be found. She should have stood up to Lachlan Macintyre and told him to send someone else to track down his grandson. She did enough for Lachlan, didn’t she? But even the toughest men found it difficult to refuse the crusty, forthright eighty-year-old CEO and chairman of the Macintyre empire, and his was a very personal request.

Find Jack Macintyre. Find him, and bring him back to Sydney.

Why couldn’t he hire a private detective? she’d asked. But Lachlan wanted to keep this hush-hush. He didn’t trust strangers with family business. He wanted Grace to handle the matter, like she’d been handling every difficult odd job—personal or business—for him since Jack had left three years ago, burning his boats behind him. After Jack’s wife had died, there’d been a mysterious falling out between Jack and Lachlan. Jack had resigned from the family business, sold his shares and all his possessions, and quit Australia for good.

It was as if he no longer wanted to be Jack Macintyre.

Grace clawed her way out onto the deck, desperate for fresh air. If only Jack had used his money to retire to a more accessible hideout like a Tuscan villa or a New York penthouse. Instead, he’d spent the last year on Filemu Island, a remote little dot on the map that was one of the Sullivan Islands, a former British protectorate undisturbed by mass tourism—and unblessed by up-to-date communications.

As they neared the island, she blinked in amazement, her nausea forgotten. Three sharp mountains dominated the center of the island. Thick, green jungle spilled down the slopes while mist clung to their peaks. Closer to shore, palm trees swayed and climbing vines rioted in explosions of red, pink, and orange. Filemu Island glowed like an idyllic paradise from a Gauguin painting.

A blast of wind hit them right outside the harbor, and the boat yawed like a bucking bronco. Grace’s stomach protested violently. Hanging over the side of the boat, she heaved up her breakfast until they reached the calmer waters of the harbor, and Wally began securing the boat to the wharf.

When the gangplank was in place, Grace tottered onto the wharf, pulling her battered suitcase behind her. The sun sizzled down on her, and perspiration broke out between her shoulder blades. Fanning her flushed cheeks, she pondered her next move.

She smiled at a group of children staring shyly at her. “Hello there. I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for Jack Macintyre. Do you know where he lives?”

Silence. Wide eyes peeped at her. Disquiet knotted Grace’s stomach. What if Jack wasn’t here? What if he’d moved on to another island? She’d have to risk Wally’s boat again. No way was she doing that. She’d reached the limit of her endurance.

She raised her voice. “Jack Macintyre? Is he here?”

A murmur broke out, accompanied by gesticulating hands pointing toward a cluster of huts nestled against the mountain slope. Grace breathed a small sigh of relief. At least she’d found the right island. As she trudged off the wharf with her suitcase bumping beside her, the children followed, giggling and nudging among themselves. She struggled up the dirt path, light-headed and nauseous from her journey, her shirt sticking to her back. Longing to collapse in the shade of a tree, she gritted her teeth and forged on.

She wouldn’t give up. For too long she’d wondered and daydreamed about Jack Macintyre, and now she was so close to finding him. What would he look like? Would he even remember her? Her breathing tightened. Over the years she’d thought a lot about Jack, but what if he’d completely forgotten her?

As she neared the crest of a hill, a beautiful young woman dressed in a red-and-white sarong appeared on the path. She stopped as soon as she saw Grace. “May I help you?”

Thank goodness, a responsible adult
, Grace thought as she rested her suitcase. “Yes, I’m looking for Jack Macintyre’s place. Can you point me in the right direction?”

The young woman’s brows drew together. “You’re looking for Jack?”

Grace nodded, wiping the back of her forearm across her sweltering brow. “Do you know him?”

But the young woman only looked her up and down, still frowning while the children gathered round.
Is she going to help?
Grace wondered. The girl’s crisp reserve only made her feel more frazzled.

Just then, a figure striding along the path toward them caught Grace’s attention. The man was tall, dark-haired, tanned, and there was something deeply familiar about the way he moved. Her heart skittered, her nerves fizzling like water on a hot skillet. Only one man had ever had that effect on her. Only one man could make her brain seize as his long, easy gait ate up the distance between them.

Only one man, the man she’d been tracking down—Jack Macintyre.

Except he wasn’t the Jack she’d known three years ago. Back then he’d still been unfairly handsome with his windswept dark hair, gleaming gray eyes, and wicked smile, but now…now he was something else altogether—a well-built, broad-chested hunk of a man with a potent aura of testosterone as tangy as the smell of the sea. He even seemed taller than she remembered, which couldn’t be right. Maybe she was just awed by his appearance.

She eyed his ragged denim shorts, which clung to his muscular thighs, and his loose cotton shirt, unbuttoned halfway to the waist. The air shriveled from her lungs as she studied the wedge of bare chest revealed, his impressive abs glowing like caramel in the hot afternoon sun.

A chorus of babbles broke out from the children as Jack Macintyre drew up beside the group. He nodded at them before glancing at Grace.

“Hi, I’m Jack Macintyre.” His voice was as deep as she remembered. “Can I help you?”

He towered over her, his ebony hair tousled around his collar, his strong features chiseled and bronzed, his lips full yet firm at the same time. Finally she met his eyes, gray and restless as a stormy sea.

She gulped and took a quick breath. “Hello. I’m Grace Owens. You might not remember me, but—”

His head tilted a fraction. “Grace Owens. Of course.” He thrust out a broad hand at her, lifting his eyebrows. “How could I forget the most hard-working graduate I ever hired?”

Flushing slightly, she shook hands with him, remembering the first time she’d done so as a starstruck new recruit, and how lucky she’d thought herself to work for Jack Macintyre.

“You look a bit worse for wear.” He remained formal, not smiling. “Rough ride?”

She nodded and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, all too aware of her rumpled hair coming loose from its ponytail, the creases and stains on her once spotless linen shirt and shorts, and the incomparable odor of fish and vomit lingering about her. What a fantastic way to meet the man she’d once had an enormous crush on. “I had a hard time getting a charter boat from Hiva. Only Wally seemed willing.”

Jack snorted. “That’s because he’s the only one crazy enough to make the crossing in this kind of weather. The storm’s closing in on us soon. You’re lucky not to be caught out at sea.” Grace glanced up at the clear skies. “Oh, it looks fine now,” he continued, “but out here the weather can change in fifteen minutes. You must have been pretty keen to get here.”

Oh yes, she was keen all right. Keen to complete her assignment so she could get home to Sydney. Filemu Island might be delightful, but she had a career waiting to be kick-started, and besides, she’d always been a homebody. She became aware of the children surrounding them, listening to every word they said. The girl in the red-and-white sarong had been following the entire conversation, her dark eyes darting between Grace and Jack.

“Perhaps we could go somewhere more private?” she asked. “I have something to discuss with you.”

An abrupt stillness descended over Jack. His body tensed as his gaze drilled into hers. “Bad news?”

She inhaled sharply. “No! Oh, no, it’s not what you think—”

Oh, damn, how could she have let him suspect…? But, of course, once he’d recognized her, that would have been his first thought. That she was bringing him bad news about his grandfather or someone else in his family. How crass of her, especially since she’d been with him in his office when the call had come that his wife had died in a car accident. The memory still pierced her—how the silence had clotted when Jack put the phone down, how he’d reeled as if the life had been punched out of him, how his eyes had burned as he walked out of the office. He’d looked like a condemned man marching to the hangman’s scaffold.

Impulsively, she grabbed his right hand in both of hers. “It’s nothing like that, I promise. I just—I just need to talk to you, that’s all.”

He glanced down at his hand imprisoned in hers, and she dropped it like a hot coal. Suspicion crawled across his hardened features. “Okay. You can come up to my bungalow.”

Not exactly a heartfelt welcome, but then again she had dropped unannounced into his tropical paradise. “Thanks.” She grabbed hold of her suitcase again.

He paused and frowned at her suitcase. “Leave that here. I’ll get someone to take it to Tupua’s place.”

“Who?”

“I’ll do it.” The girl in the red-and-white sarong sprang forward. Before Grace could protest, she’d grabbed the suitcase handle.

“Sefina, it’s too heavy for you,” Jack protested.

“Not too heavy.” The girl skipped away, her thick rope of hair bouncing down her back. “See you later, Jack.”

Jack shook his head before moving off, but the flirtatious note in the girl’s voice hadn’t escaped Grace’s notice. In an island bursting with beauty, Sefina stood out like a siren. Grace pursed her lips. She’d always suspected persuading Jack back to Sydney wouldn’t be easy, but what if it was impossible? Grace hated to fail, and in this case, failure wasn’t an option.

…

Granddad isn’t dead
. That thought remained uppermost in Jack’s mind as he led the way to his bungalow. Mixed emotions weltered through him. All too clearly he recalled the last time he’d seen his grandfather—that ugly confrontation at his grandfather’s house, and how his hawk-like face had contorted with rage as he roared at Jack.
Ungrateful sluggard. If you quit now, don’t ever bother to come crawling back
. Jack had stalked out of his grandfather’s study, convinced that he’d never, ever crawl back to that despot.

He owed Lachlan nothing. Although the irascible old man had raised him after his parents had died, Lachlan’s idea of child nurturing meant a rotation of nannies and housekeepers until Jack was old enough to go to boarding school. Before Jack had graduated from university, his grandfather had lashed him to the wheel of the Macintyre ship and ordered him to stay there come hell or high water.

So what was Grace Owens doing here on Filemu Island? It could be nothing good. He cast a surreptitious glance at the woman walking beside him.

Who would have thought Grace of all people would turn up on his doorstep? She must be—what, twenty-five now? He’d known her just a few brief months when she’d joined Macintyre Inc. as a graduate. She’d been hardworking, intelligent, and eager to learn. He remembered the stiff, corporate suits she used to wear and the conservative leather pumps, the carefully applied makeup, the hair twisted up in a bun. Grace had been so keen to emulate her superiors. No job was too much to ask of her.

But despite their difference in status, an odd little friendship had sprung up between them, based on nothing more than a shared love of laksa at a local lunch spot. Away from the office, she was easier to talk to, less awed by his executive position.

Now he sensed a difference in her. She wasn’t the wide-eyed novice anymore. She’d gained more confidence, and her greenness had matured, ripened. As she walked, she smoothed back her oak-brown hair and tucked the tails of her rumpled shirt into her shorts. Her shorts were loose-fitting, but they were brief enough to reveal her legs, and with a start he realized she had long, firm, supple legs. Had he ever noticed them before, or was this the first time?

“It’s beautiful here.” She flashed him a smile.

He blinked. After all this time, he still remembered her smile. How her one front tooth was ever so slightly crooked, how her lips curved up, how a dimple hovered in the corner of her cheek. He’d forgotten many things but never that luminous smile of hers. Why was that? He frowned and shook his head.

“You don’t agree?” A puzzled look came over her.

He gave a brief laugh. “I was thinking of something else.” And what was he thinking of? He didn’t want to be reminded of Grace’s smile or Macintyre’s or Sydney. He’d left that life behind him for good. He pulled his straying thoughts together and lengthened his stride. The sooner Grace told him why she was here, the sooner he could get rid of her.