LITMIR.BIZ

       One

      When Clay Everett approached, extending his arm in a silent invitation to dance, Sophie Prescott immediately shook her head in embarrassed refusal. Clay was her boss. Her employer. It was a job she valued highly. There should be no mixing business with pleasure even if Clay was the best-looking man at the charity ball. His deep emerald eyes gleamed, framed by dark lashes that matched his ebony hair. His dark tan, five-o’clock shadow and the scar on one side of his face from the rodeo accident that had almost taken his life made his very presence dark and menacing. He didn’t need the air of mystery the masquerade ball offered. Since the accident, he presented the persona of a man who was hard and unforgiving, who ate any competition for lunch.

      Actually, he had a beautiful smile, perfect white teeth. But he rarely smiled. In his five-thousand-dollar hand-tailored suits and white silk shirts, he gave the impression of the consummate businessman. A man of great wealth who was used to the world of glamour in which he lived.

      But when he wore the glove-soft faded jeans, scuffed boots and thin T-shirt that highlighted his six-pack abs and the muscles in his shoulders and arms, it was equally unsettling. That was the Clay she knew. He’d come into their office a couple of times in his Western getup and it was a look she much preferred. Like the raging stallions he trained, like the wild bulls he’d ridden to superstardom in his youth, he was a man unlike anyone else.

      Refusing to take no for an answer, he grabbed her hand, pulled her up from her seat and led her toward the center of the Grand Ballroom of the new Bellamy Hotel. Her heart rate tripled. Content to watch the antics of the idle rich from the back of the ballroom, Sophie never expected her boss to find her and propel her into the center of the action. She was a secretary, for crying out loud, a woman who had grown up on a farm in the rust belt of America. She had no business being here, rubbing elbows with the elite of Royal, Texas.

      “Breathe,” Clay said in his deep, rusty voice, while a glint of amusement sparkled in his green eyes behind the dark mask. “You look as though you’re about to pass out. I thought I remembered hearing you say you loved to dance.”

      “I do. Just not here.” And not with him, the president and founder of a billion-dollar corporation and Royal’s most eligible bachelor. With those broad shoulders and incredibly handsome tanned features, his presence alone was enough to make

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