About Power Play
THIS KIND OF BUSINESS CAN ONLY BE PERSONAL
Sage Reese lives for her job. More precisely, she lives for her debonair boss, Parker Andersen. Sage handles everything for Parker, even as she fantasizes about the one thing that isn't in her job description: him. But when a high-stakes account crosses the line from shady to deadly, a tough cop starts giving Sage the attention she wishes Parker would . . .
Detective Dean Ryker couldn't be more different from Parker. While Parker wears expensive suits like a second skin and drives a BMW, Ryker's uniform is leather jackets and jeans . . . and his ride of choice is a Harley. While Parker's sexiness is a reserved, slow burn, Ryker is completely upfront about what-and who-he's after. And Sage tops his list.
Now, as Ryker digs deeper into the dark side of Parker's business, Sage finds herself caught between two men: the one she's always wanted-and the one who makes her feel wanted like never before . . .
Sage Reese lives for her job. More precisely, she lives for her debonair boss, Parker Andersen. Sage handles everything for Parker, even as she fantasizes about the one thing that isn't in her job description: him. But when a high-stakes account crosses the line from shady to deadly, a tough cop starts giving Sage the attention she wishes Parker would . . .
Detective Dean Ryker couldn't be more different from Parker. While Parker wears expensive suits like a second skin and drives a BMW, Ryker's uniform is leather jackets and jeans . . . and his ride of choice is a Harley. While Parker's sexiness is a reserved, slow burn, Ryker is completely upfront about what-and who-he's after. And Sage tops his list.
Now, as Ryker digs deeper into the dark side of Parker's business, Sage finds herself caught between two men: the one she's always wanted-and the one who makes her feel wanted like never before . . .
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Excerpt:
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Excerpt:
Parker discarded his jacket, tossing it onto the leather sofa before sinking down into its depths. He loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt, then rubbed a hand over his face in one of the few gestures of tiredness I ever saw him make.
Getting to my feet, I crossed to an antique highboy that used to belong to Parker’s grandfather. It was where he kept his liquor. Opening the front panels, I took out a crystal old-fashioned and the decanter half-full of scotch. I poured an inch or so into the glass, replaced the decanter, and walked to the sofa.
Parker was watching me as I set the glass on the table at his elbow. It was a ritual we often had on evenings we both worked late. Personally, for as hard as he worked I thought Parker deserved a drink far earlier in the evening, but he never touched a drop until after nine o’clock. I wished I had half his discipline and self-control.
Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees as he picked up the glass. His gaze dropped to my bare feet and I was absurdly glad I’d had a pedi recently, my toes a sparkly Cozu-Melted-In-The Sun pink.
We didn’t speak, but the silence was comfortable to me as I resumed my spot on the floor. Parker and I had an understanding. At least, I understood him. He made me feel needed—necessary—and as an only child who’d never been really needed by anyone, I liked that. And I liked him.
My mom had been bugging me lately to “get a real job” that actually pertained to my degree, but I’d brushed her off, even when she’d intimated my father “knew people” who could help me. I wanted to get a job on my own merits. Besides, I had plenty of time to worry about my career in art history. For now, I was content being an executive administrative assistant to Parker, and times like this reminded me of why that was the case.
Dragging another box down from the now shorter stack, I began sorting through it, scooting between my piles as I labeled and made notes. The only sounds were that of the music, the quiet beep of my scanner, and the shuffle of paper. It was a companionable moment, just the two of us. Then he had to go and ruin it.
“I saw you and Ryker tonight,” Parker said out of the blue.
I glanced around to see his gaze steady on me.
“Earlier,” he continued. “You were leaving with him.” His tone was difficult to read, his expression impossible.
Unsure how to respond, I opted for the truth, and considering their earlier hostility toward each other, vagueness. “He asked me to dinner,” I said with a shrug. “So, I went.”
Parker took a large drink of scotch before replying. I watched the exposed skin of his throat move as he swallowed.
“Ryker’s not a bad guy,” he said, his gaze focused on his drink. “Just perhaps not your type.”
My eyebrows climbed at that. Not my type? A hot guy with abs of steel wasn’t my type? “And you know what my type is?”
About Tiffany Snow
A native of St. Louis, Missouri, Tiffany Snow earned degrees in Education and History from the University of Missouri-Columbia, before launching a career in Information Technology. After over a decade in IT, she switched careers to what she always dreamed of doing - writing. Tiffany is the author of romantic suspense novels such as the Kathleen Turner Series, which includes No Turning Back, Turn to Me and Turning Point. Since she's drawn to character-driven books herself, that's what she loves to write, and the guy always gets his girl. She feeds her love of books with avid reading, yet she manages to spare time and considerable affection for trivia, eighties hair bands, the St. Louis Cardinals, and Elvis. She and her husband have two daughters and one dog.
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