The Boss's Daughter West Coast Series, Book 3
Copyright 2012 Jasmine Haynes
Continuing the new erotic 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 behind 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 always 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?
The Boss’s Daughter
West Coast Series, Book 3 Copyright 2012 Jasmine Haynes
Mango-scented steam perfumed the bathroom. Her long hair piled into a careless knot on the top of her head, Cassandra Montgomery luxuriated in bath salts and bubbles. It wasn’t nine o’clock yet, but she’d taken an early flight out of L.A. to give herself extra time before her afternoon meetings. 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, 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 inside elasticized 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.