The Boss's Daughter

THE BOSS’S DAUGHTER

BOOK THREE IN THE WEST COAST SERIES

A tale of hotwifing

Jasmine Haynes

Copyright 2012 Jasmine Haynes

Cover Design by Rae Monet Inc

This is copyrighted material. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Summary

A brand new series about sexy hotwives and the men who love them

A woman who loves to play the field, a man who doesn’t share...

Cassandra Montgomery is an independent, free-thinking, career-minded woman. She’s left the L.A. rat race and returned to her roots in the San Francisco Bay Area to open a fashion boutique featuring her own designs. She’s not out to find Mr. Perfect; she simply enjoys a variety of men who are Mr. Who-cares-if-he’s-perfect-it’s-just-sex. But then Ward Restin walks in on her...

Hitting on the boss’s daughter is a bad idea, but after discovering Cassandra in a comprising position, Ward can’t get the woman out of his mind. She’s his complete opposite, an extrovert, a tease, and an exhibitionist. She loves sex. She loves multiple partners. She loves freedom. Ward finds himself drawn into the kinky games she plays, watching her with fascination, wanting her...

Then Ward starts to think of her as
his
woman, and suddenly he wants more from Cassandra than she’s capable of giving. How long can he keep on sharing her with other men before he can’t take it anymore?

Author Note: This book contains explicit sexual material including multiple partners. This is a work of fantasy and no matter what the characters may do during the course of a story,the author always encourages safe sexual practices.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my special network of friends who support me, brainstorm with me, and encourage me: Bella Andre, Shelley Bates, Jenny Andersen, Jackie Yau, Ellen Higuchi, Kathy Coatney, Pamela Fryer, Rosemary Gunn, and Laurel Jacobson. Thanks to Clio and Cody Alston for all their input and help. A special thanks to Rae for such great covers! And of course, as always, I appreciate everything my husband does to help make my writing career flourish and my life easier.

Chapter One

Mango-scented steam perfumed the bathroom. Her long hair piled into a careless knot on top of her head, Cassandra Montgomery luxuriated in bath salts and bubbles. It wasn’t even nine o’clock yet, but she’d taken an early flight out of L.A. to give herself extra time before her afternoon meetings in San Francisco. A good soak was like meditation to her, preparing her for the day ahead.

She rubbed mango sea-salt scrub over her skin. Holt had left for Sedona before she’d arrived, and he’d be returning home on Saturday. She hadn’t told him she’d be coming early, but her father wouldn’t mind. Holt would probably appreciate having someone in the house while he was gone.

She had so much to accomplish in the three days he’d be gone. The idea of opening her own boutique in San Francisco had been gaining momentum over several months. She was tired of L.A. As a fashion designer, she was a minnow swimming around in the big, wide Hollywood ocean. Her striking designs had a forties flair to them, with Princess necklines, pencil skirts, and bold, contrasting colors. Hollywood, however, hadn’t appreciated her sense of style. The Bay Area was her home, she knew it inside and out, and here, she could start a new trend. She had vision. She saw herself in an exclusive shop, with ready-made ensembles for the more economically inclined and an elegant, behind-the-scenes showroom where she served tea and scones and one-of-a-kind designs. These women weren’t shoppers or customers. They didn’t riffle through racks or paw through bins. They searched for perfection. Cassandra would provide exactly that, and her client base would grow by referral. She’d already put her toe in the water and contacted several discerning society matrons. They’d shown phenomenal interest, a few even considering commissions.

The financing was proving to be her biggest stumbling block. She had flair, striking designs, and a good business plan, but that wasn’t enough to show yourself as investment-worthy.

Which is why she had to turn to her father. She planned to discuss the possibilities with Holt this weekend.

Cassandra rose from the tub, drying off with a fluffy bath towel. She wiped condensation from the mirror, moisturized her face, then smoothed mango lotion into her skin. She preferred citrus scents to flowery ones. Letting her hair down, she crimped the red curls with her fingers. She looked nothing like Holt, having her mother’s thick red hair and creamy complexion.

Her silk robe fluttering around her calves, she padded across the hall to the bedroom. She’d been here little more than an hour, yet her clothes were already strewn about the room. She fully admitted she wasn’t much of a housekeeper, but she’d straighten up before Holt got home. Rummaging through the suitcase that lay open on one half of the bed, she found her most essential possession in an elasticized inside pocket. A girl couldn’t go anywhere without her toy.

Cassandra stretched out on the bed, plumping the pillow behind her head. There was really only one way to feel truly relaxed, calm, and ready to face anything. Her motto: an orgasm a day keeps the doctor away. When preceded by a steamy bath, nothing could be better.

Cassandra flipped the switch on her vibrator, parted her robe, and made herself oh so sweetly calm and relaxed.

* * * * *

Ward Restin found the key under the garden rock where Ruby had said it would be. Holt had forgotten his computer when he left the house this morning. That wasn’t like the CEO of West Coast Manufacturing; Holt never forgot anything. But he’d been acting oddly the last couple of weeks. And Ruby’s car sat in his driveway. Holt often had her take him to the airport, but usually they went directly from the office. To leave
her
car in
his
driveway? Definitely odd.

Holt’s presentation for the investors’ conference was on his computer. Of course, Ruby Williams, being Holt’s admin, could have given Ward a disk. Or emailed the file. Instead, since he was taking a later flight, she’d insisted Ward pick up the computer on his way to the airport. She had a point, though. These days you couldn’t work without your laptop and your smartphone.

Thirty years ago, what did the world do without these devices?

Ward unlocked Holt’s door. The hardwood floors gleamed, and everything smelled like citrus, as if Holt’s housekeeper had recently polished all the wood surfaces. The living room, filled with big leather furniture, was neat and orderly. No computer there. He’d been to the house several times for company parties and barbecues and was familiar with the floor plan. The kitchen lay to the right, the dining room straight ahead, bedrooms along the hall to the left. Ruby had given him no clue where to look.
If I knew where we left the computer, we wouldn’t have forgotten it
.

Another odd thing, as if she’d been inside the house instead of simply picking up Holt.

He didn’t have time to waste thinking about it. What Holt did was Holt’s business. Heading to the kitchen, a sound stopped him. He cocked his head. And heard it again. A woman’s voice. A moan. He felt it along his skin, heating him.

He turned until the bedroom hallway yawned before him. She moaned again. He saw her on the bed through the doorway. A suitcase lay open beside her, bright clothing hanging out of it. A blue dress had been tossed on the floor, blue panties on the end of the bed, a lacy bra. And her. His blood started to pound in his ears.

He’d seen her picture in Holt’s office, his daughter. Her hair flowed across the pillow in waves of red. The parting of her robe revealed creamy skin and full breasts decadently tipped with big, dark, rosy nipples. She lay sprawled on the bed, her legs spread, one hand holding a vibrator. Her lush body rolled and undulated to her rhythm. She didn’t insert the toy, but twirled it on her clitoris. The soft buzz of its batteries working filled the house. He didn’t know how he’d missed the sound when he’d entered.

She reached up to pinch a nipple, tweaking it hard. Her moan was louder, deeper, longer.

His feet carried him closer. The citrus scent enveloped him now, as if it came from her, the aroma of her arousal. She arched on the bed, her pelvis rising to meet the vibrator, dancing with it. Her hips rocked and rolled. She shoved a hand through the luscious red curls on her head and cried out, long and low.

He felt that cry inside, his body hard and ready. His blood roared through his veins. He remained rooted right into the floor, but his hand moved involuntarily. He needed to touch, to take.

She shuddered and quaked, her legs clamping around the vibrator, as if the tension increased the sensations, or trapped them inside, held onto them longer.

Finally she fell back against the bed, limp, sated, giving a little hiccup, then what might have been a laugh. And she sighed, “God.”

Ward backed up, his footfalls soft on the hardwood despite the dress shoes. On the bed, she stretched, laughed again, and relaxed back into the coverlet.

He could no longer see her by the time his fingers found the front door. After one last deep breath of her citrus perfume, he twisted the knob and let himself out.

Jesus,” he said softly, leaning his forehead against the door.

Had he ever made a woman feel that good? He was no expert. He’d never even thought to take the time to watch a woman as she came. This one had been beautiful in her bliss. He could have watched her in orgasmic delight over and over and died a happy man.

But he still didn’t have the computer.

This time when he unlocked the door, he rattled the knob, stomped on the floor as he entered, and put his cell phone to his ear, talking loudly to empty air. “All right, so where do you think it is?” He paused. “You don’t remember?”

“Can I help you?” She came out of the bedroom. The flowered silk robe covered lush curves, large, high breasts, and round hips that begged for a man’s touch. His touch.

Ward swallowed and shoved the phone in his pocket. “Sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here. I’m looking for Holt’s computer. He left it behind this morning, and I need to take it with me. I’m meeting him in Sedona.” The explanation was too long, and he almost felt winded when he was done. He’d also sounded idiotic, and dammit, his face suddenly heated, screaming out his guilt. He was a perv. He’d been peeping.

“Was that my father?” She pointed at his head as if he still had the phone to his ear.

More than pretty, she was exotic, her lips full and red even without lipstick. Her cheekbones were high, her skin flushed. She didn’t need make-up. Though her feet were bare, she wasn’t much shorter than him. He was six-one, and he put her at five-eight or nine. The color of her hair was deep red, her eyes a sapphire blue.

“Uh, no,” he answered, a beat too late after she’d spoken. “His secretary Ruby.”

She sauntered closer. The scent of her mesmerized him, woman, sex, citrus. “And you just hung up on her? She’s not going to like that.”

She obviously knew Ruby. And dammit, he’d forgotten to continue his conversation. “She hung up on me.”

She raised one perfectly arched brow. “Without telling you where the computer was?”

He nodded. He was definitely the village idiot. He wanted to close his eyes and shake his head. “Correct.”

“Well”—she batted long lashes at him—“if you tell me your name, I might let you search my father’s house to find it.”

“Sorry. I’m Ward Restin.” He stuck out his hand.

Hers was small and soft, her grip firm. “Cassandra Montgomery.”

He couldn’t let go of her hand. He wanted to hold on. He was still holding her when she gestured over her shoulder, pointing down the hallway. “Maybe it’s in his office.”

He had to let her go. “Yeah. Sure. Probably.” He wondered if a man had ever sounded so inane in front of a beautiful woman. He dated. He had sex. He’d been married. He wasn’t a neophyte or a prude, but there was something about
her
in particular. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d just watched her bring herself to a magnificent peak.

He followed the sway of her hips, the silk slipping and sliding seductively over her body. He was suddenly breathless again, his heart pounding, his pulse racing.

“And there it is.” Stopping in the office doorway, she held out a hand, palm up.

“Great. Thanks.” He sidled past her, his throat drying up with her proximity. He wanted a drink. He needed a drink of
her
.