The CEO's Scandalous Affair / Seduced by the Wealthy Playboy

A stupid, archaic phrase that sent even stupider, more archaic pulses down her body. So they’d had an awkward moment.

She rolled her eyes at the understatement. A really awkward moment. And so what if she’d seen a lusty side of a man she found attractive? Okay, gorgeous. All right, hot as sin.

She was still a top-notch administrative assistant who knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that office affairs were for fools who liked to job hop. And he was a very important, busy man who had an electronic black book with the name and private cell phone number of every available model, debutante and businesswoman in Miami-Dade County.

She was still an employee, and he was still the boss. Period. End of fantasy.

She tapped on his door, opening it as she did. She’d always done that, but this morning, the intrusion felt more intimate. He stood at the window, the cordless phone held to his ear, his attention on the postcard view of Biscayne Bay. Through a floor-to-ceiling window, sunlight glinted off blue-violet waves, polka-dotted with pleasure craft and cruise ships, fringed by emerald palm trees and the pastel high-rises of Miami Beach on the horizon.

But the real view was inside and, as always, Anna stole an eyeful.

Parker had removed his jacket, revealing the tailored cut of a snow-white zillion-thread-count designer shirt pulled just taut enough to hint at the toned, developed muscles underneath. The shirt was tucked neatly into dark trousers, custom-made to fit like a dream over one drool-inducing backside.

The man was a god.

He turned from the window and she averted her eyes before getting caught worshipping at the altar of his backside.

“Can the legal crap, Brandon,” he said into the phone, sliding one of his hands through closely cropped, thick black hair. “I don’t care what the DNA test results will say. Can we or can we not contest this will?”

DNA? Contest the will? Anna frowned, but Parker just nodded to one of the guest chairs in front of his desk, issuing an unspoken invitation for her to sit. As always, he seemed utterly calm, the aura of authority that shimmered around him neatly in place. But there was something different in that clipped voice, and in the tense way he held his broad shoulders. His control was tied on with a tenuous thread today.

“Fine, you do that,” he said, leaning his head to one side to work out a crick. “In the meantime, it’s business as usual. My business.” He glanced at Anna, who made a show of flipping her planner to the next clean page so she didn’t stare. Even though she’d become quite adept at avoiding detection.

“Oh, damn it all, I completely forgot.” His tone changed with the admission, and she instantly sat up, prepared to help him remember what he forgot. That was, after all, her job. Not ogling his perfectly shaped butt, impossibly wide shoulders or Adonis-like chest. Parker-gazing was just a side benefit.

“I can’t go,” he said to Brandon, sliding into the high-backed desk chair and reaching for his little black digital device and pressing a few buttons. “But, with the bomb you just dropped at this morning’s reading, I think I need to be there more than ever.”

He paused and Anna tried to psych out what he was talking about.

“But I’m way too swamped to consider going that far away,” he added, “unless I charter a jet.”

Of course. London.

“I have a ton of work to do this weekend,” he continued, “and it’s impossible to get anything done on a commercial flight.”

Anna slipped a creamy-white card embossed with silver letters from the “pending” section of his calendar. Her fingers glided over the imprint of the International Hotel and Restaurant Association seal, over the gilded script inviting him to the annual ball at Guildhall in London. She’d been meaning to get a response from him so she could RSVP.

He chuckled softly, fiddling with the buttons on the PDA as he tucked the phone into one of those impressive shoulders.

“Yes. A date,” he said casually to Brandon, and shot a lazy wink at Anna, which sent an involuntary stutter to her heart. “I suppose I’d need to get one of those, too.”

Which of the lucky ladies would win that lottery?

Maxine, whose daddy owned half of Palm Beach? Or the nine-foot glamazon who’d been on the cover of Vogue twice? He’d been seeing a lot of her in the past few weeks. Maybe he’d go for that spunky redhead who owned the PR agency that had done some work for Garrison, Inc. last month. Sparks were certainly crackling in the conference room when that one came in for a meeting.

“As a matter of fact, I might have the perfect person.” His gaze landed right on her, intense, relentless and unwavering. Exactly the way it had been when he’d devoured her with it in the bathroom.

A low, slow flame curled up her belly and started a familiar bonfire. One she’d become very good at dousing with four simple words that have saved legions of love-struck secretaries: He’s your boss, dummy.

Suddenly, he stood, turned to the window and copped the voice he used to end a conversation instantly. “Keep me posted, Brandon. And I’ll let you know what I decide.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, but stared at the cloudless blue sky, his back rising and falling with steady, slow breaths.

Then he turned and trained his midnight gaze on her. “As you can tell, Anna, I didn’t get good news this morning.”

She set the call sheet on his desk. “That must explain the seventeen voice-mail messages.”

He scanned the list, and swore so softly she almost didn’t hear it. “Brandon’s right.”

“About?”

“I have to be at the IH & RA ball in London. It’s more important than ever that I maintain…” He paused, assessing her as though he was wondering just how much to tell her. “Leadership.”

“Your leadership is never in doubt.”

He tilted his head, acknowledging the compliment with shuttered lids that said he believed the opposite. At least, at the moment. Then he yanked out his chair and sat, leaning forward the way he always did when he made a decision that he would not second-guess. Not that he’d ever second-guessed anything, ever, in his life.

“Please arrange for the charter jet company to have a Gulfstream V ready to leave tomorrow, very early, from Kendall-Tamiami Executive Airport. That will put me in London Friday evening, with plenty of time to make the function on Saturday and return on Sunday morning. I’ll be back in the office on Monday. I’ll need the Berkeley Suite at the Ritz-Carlton London. Don’t let them tell you it’s not available—”

“I’ll use your name.”

“Yes, and I’ll need a limo to and from the event, which is—”

“At Guildhall.”

“Right. And I have a driver in London I prefer—”

“Mr. Sanderson with the London Car Company.”

He laughed softly. “Yes.”

She scribbled the onslaught of instructions. “You’ll want some files for the plane,” she said.

“Of course.”

“The financials on the Grand are up for review next week,” she reminded him, still writing. “And you’ll need the latest investment results, and the agenda for the exec committee meeting next—”

“Get me everything we have on the Garrison Grand-Bahamas.”

She did look up at that, it threw her so completely. “The hotel in Nassau?”

“Everything,” he repeated.

“Of course.” She scratched another note, swallowing the question of why? A good admin didn’t ask. “And you’ll probably need to review your speech for the business council so I’ll include the notes, and you have an appointment with a marketing firm regarding new collateral materials late next week, so no doubt you’ll want a complete…” A strange tingling sensation suddenly froze her pen in hand. Slowly, she looked up from her pad to find him staring at her. “You do still want to meet with that firm on Thursday afternoon, right?”

Staring? No. Bottomless brown bedroom eyes practically swallowed her whole.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, striking a neutral chord in her voice despite the way her limbs turned heavy.

“Make it easy on me, Anna, and come to London.”

Oh. Oh. “Make what easy?”

“The work. You know so much about my work and you’re so incredible…incredibly organized. I can only rationalize this much time away from the office if I’m productive. And with you, I’m productive.”

The work. Of course. Why else would he want her to go to London? And why else would she even consider it?

“You can have comp vacation days to make up for the lost weekend,” he added, as though she were actually worried about that. He had no way of knowing that her hesitation had nothing to do with losing a weekend, and everything to do with losing her mind. Proximity to the object of her steamiest nightly fantasies could drive her crazy.

“That’s no problem,” she said slowly. “I don’t mind working the weekend.”

“Then you’ll go.” He smiled, a genuine grin that he saved for when he won a small victory in business. Something he did about a million times a day. “Perfect. You’ll need something very formal. That ball at Guildhall is over the top.”

“The ball?” He couldn’t be serious. “You want me to go to the ball?”

He laughed lightly. “That’s the idea, Cinderella. Why would I dig up a date when you’ll already be there?”

Like he’d have to dig far. “Because…” She couldn’t think of a reason. Except that one.

He’s your boss, dummy.

Unless what he’d seen in the bathroom made him think of her differently.

“Mr. Garrison, uh, Parker,” she said, standing just so she could gain the minor advantage of height for once. “I’m sorry about this morning. I—”

He pointed toward the bathroom door. “That?” He waved away her concern as if it were no more than a flea. “Totally forgotten, I assure you.” Tapping the call sheet, he added, “Better get that charter booked and get all the files in order, and I’ll get to these seventeen calls.”

Done. Decision made. No arguing or second-guessing or trying to explain that she couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t go to London with him. Because she could, and she would.

Leaving his office, Anna found Sheila McKay in the act of depositing more handwritten messages.

“These came to the front desk while you were in with Mr. Garrison,” the receptionist said. “The phones absolutely haven’t stopped since that meeting ended.”

“I just gave him seventeen others,” Anna said with a sigh. “Looks like it’s going to be a busy day.”

Sheila wrinkled a picture-perfect nose, which fit her picture-perfect face and body. Anna hadn’t been surprised to learn the stunning woman was a former Playmate who’d probably filled her bunny suit very nicely. She’d always been very friendly with Anna, especially since Anna had received the promotion to work for the CEO. But Anna remained distant with all her coworkers.

Friends wanted to know your past.

“So,” Sheila said, sliding a well-toned hip on the corner of Anna’s desk. “What went down in Garrison land? Did the old man drop a bomb from the grave or something?”

The words DNA test and contest the will rang in Anna’s ears.

“I wouldn’t know,” she said coolly. Even if she did, she wouldn’t tell the receptionist.

“There’s buzz, you know,” Sheila whispered, undaunted. “Mario in the mail room told me La Grande Madame left the conference room muttering obscenities, and is rumored to have had a bottle open before the limo door closed.”

No wonder Mario had been in the mailroom since the day John Garrison had started the company. Gossips didn’t get promoted. Anna flipped through the messages, deciding the best way to deflect the conversation.

“I’m really in the weeds, Sheila, trying to get Mr. Garrison ready for a trip to London.”

Sheila levered off the desk with a sigh of resignation. “London, huh? Ah, the lucky lifestyles of the rich and famous. Must be nice.” With a wave, she disappeared around the corner and left Anna with her mountain of messages.

Was it nice? She was about to find out. She knew she should be honored, excited and delighted for the opportunity to spend a weekend working in London.

But she had so much to hide, starting with the fact that she had a killer crush on her boss. But, honestly, that was the least of her secrets. And, if she wasn’t careful, Parker Garrison could find out something far worse than the fact that he was the object of a few daydreams.

And that would be a nightmare.

Two

“We’ve reached our cruising altitude, Mr. Garrison. Would you care for the usual?” The lone flight attendant on the G5 that the Garrison family routinely rented for business travel smiled benevolently at him. Her prematurely gray hair was, as always, pulled back into an elegant bun, her simple dark suit unmarred by even a fleck of lint.

“Thank you, Christine, I would. Anna?”

Across the small expanse that separated the two widest leather recliners on the plane, Anna had already lined a granite-topped table with a sea of manila folders and papers, and she had a laptop open and fired up for work.

“It depends,” she said. “What is the usual?”

“Tomato juice and Tabasco.”

She made a face. “Coffee, please.”

“Come on, Anna,” he urged. “Live dangerously.”

He hoped for a clever quip, an easy smile, but got only a shake of her head.

“Just coffee, thank you.” When the attendant nodded and moved toward the galley, Anna lifted a paper and held it toward him. “I’ve compiled a list of pending open items for your attention, Mr. Garrison.”

He didn’t remind her to call him Parker. Anna Cross was back to business in a big way. It was as though she’d been wearing a sign that said This Is Work, Not Fun ever since she’d arrived at the executive airport and climbed out of her little Saturn wearing her most staid suit selected from a wardrobe that couldn’t be called anything but ultraconservative. Navy jacket, shapeless trousers, flat shoes.

Where was the girl who felt pretty in pink underwear?

Parker took the list, and reminded himself that he was the one who’d suggested she accompany him to work. He’d made that clear. At least, that was how he rationalized what was, at the moment, an impulsive idea brought on by the not-so-semi state of arousal the bathroom encounter had left him in.

He knew why he’d suggested Anna accompany him to London.

But did she? Sure, she was a terrific, grade-A, indispensable administrative assistant. Sure, she was attractive, classy and intelligent enough to make small talk with the high rollers at the hotel gala. And best of all, he trusted her. She had no gold digger’s interest in his money, ready to translate one weekend in Europe into a lifetime of luxury like so many of the women he knew.

But, to be honest, not one of those was the real reason he’d made the unorthodox suggestion. The real reason was simple: he liked what he’d seen in that bathroom. And he wanted to see more. And seeing, he knew as sure as he breathed, wouldn’t be enough.

Under any other circumstances, he’d make his move and he’d make it in about five minutes, launching a romantic, sex-charged weekend with champagne and hot kisses at thirty thousand feet. Seducing a woman was an art and a pleasure he took seriously. And often.

But something indefinable held him back. Something oddly unfamiliar had him waiting for a clear invitation, a straightforward cue from her.

Maybe she’d take off her jacket, playfully taste his spicy tomato juice, unclip her barrette and give her hair a sensual shake. That was what other women would do. They’d throw in a head-tilting giggle; slide their bare, pedicured feet on his lap and let the games begin.

But not Anna.

She pulled a pair of butt-ugly reading glasses out of her purse and slipped them up her pert nose. She tightened the clip that held her hair severely off a face devoid of anything but lip gloss and maybe mascara. Then she took her copy of his agenda, pointed to item number one, cleared her throat and said, “You mentioned the Nassau property. I have the files.”

Not only did she refuse to send a single cue of feminine interest, she doused his low simmer by mentioning the biggest headache in his life.

He took the file and flipped it open.

“Is there something in particular you’re looking for?” she asked.

There sure was. Dirt. Problems. Issues. Anything that could get rid of the half sister who’d just been named his equal partner at Garrison, Inc. “Just want to see how the business is doing.”

“Last quarter’s financials are on the left side, including occupancy rates and banquet revenue,” she told him. “On the right, you’ll see information about new resort programs and key employee files. The manager of the resort, Cassie Sinclair, seems to be running things quite smoothly.”

At the mention of her name, Parker sucked in a slow and disgusted breath. He flipped through the pages, immaculately ordered and filed, frowning at the excellent revenue stream and the strong outlook for the next season based on advance reservations.

“Is something wrong?”

Yes, something was very, very wrong. He wanted the property to be a disaster. Wanted something he could hang on Cassie Sinclair to prove she couldn’t be a Garrison.

“No,” he assured her.

“Oh, I thought I might have misfiled something.”

“Have you ever misfiled anything, Anna?” he asked with a teasing smile.

A soft blush rose in her cheeks. “If you’re asking if I ever make mistakes, I think you, of all people, know that I do.”

Mistakes like lingering in his shower a little too long? He held her gaze, still hoping for a spark of connection, but she looked away—as she always did—just as Christine returned with the drinks, some fruit and freshly baked muffins.

Parker returned his attention to the file. “The place is turning a nice profit,” he said, half to himself.

“You make it sound like that’s a problem.”

Should he confide in his assistant? Maybe a little shared confidence would loosen her up. At least get her to slide out of that straitjacket she wore. Plus, he needed someone to talk to. Someone he trusted.

He lifted his tomato juice and took a long drink before he dove in. “Cassie Sinclair, it seems, is more than just the manager of the Garrison Grand-Bahamas.”

“She is?”

“She’s my half sister.”

Anna’s jaw dropped an inch. “No way.”

He gave her a bittersweet smile. “Evidently there is a way. It’s called an affair and my father had one for a long time, resulting in the birth of a woman who is now, according to his will, my equal partner in Garrison, Inc. and—” he held the file up “—the owner of this hotel.”

“I don’t believe it,” she said, dropping back into her seat.

“Neither do I. But that’s why God invented lawyers,” he said with a shrug. “And why I have to make an appearance in London this weekend.”

“Will she be there?”

“Oh, I doubt it. But it’s only a matter of time until this gets out to the very small and incestuous hospitality industry. It can’t help my business. I’m attending this event for visibility and positioning. More of a PR move than one that will impact the bottom line.”

“So that’s why you were talking about DNA testing and contesting the will,” she said. “Oh, and why…your mother…” Her voice drifted off.

So the rumor mill had already started churning.

“My mother has her way of coping.” He picked up the drink again. “And I’m afraid it’s not Tabasco in her tomato juice.”

She gave him a sympathetic look. “Your family is strong. You’ll weather this storm.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You just have to stay focused and keep running everything the way you have. You can’t let this distract you.”

The unsolicited—and amazingly accurate—advice took him by surprise. “You’re right, Anna. Very astute.” He smiled and leaned forward, inexplicably drawn to her. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

She held his gaze just long enough to give him hope that the cue he wanted was right around the corner. But she just handed him another file.

“When you’re ready to go over the agenda for the marketing-firm meeting, it’s all in here. And I’m able to take any e-mail dictation now,” she added, tapping the open laptop. “I’ll download it and send it when we arrive in London.”

Oh, yeah. Anna Cross was all business today, and being a smart CEO, he ignored the urge to reach across the space that separated them and unclip her hair just to see what she’d do. She was way too valuable an asset to him to let hormones screw it up.

So he took the cue—even if it wasn’t the one he wanted—along with the file, and worked for a solid nine hours, through breakfast, lunch and almost no small talk, until they landed.

Through it all, she never tired, never complained and never even took the damn jacket off. Maybe that was the real reason he didn’t make the move to seduce her: they were kindred spirits. Workaholics, both of them, with a bone-deep love for control over their respective worlds.

Sex, in fact, could really screw that up.

By the time they landed and took a late-night cab ride through the still-vibrating streets of London, Parker was entirely comfortable with keeping the weekend on the level of strictly business. He abandoned the idea of taking her sightseeing the next day; they—or at least, he—would work, grilling Brandon Washington on the situation in the Bahamas and tracking the progress of several high-power land deals he had in the works.

Tomorrow night, he would introduce Anna as his assistant and she would no doubt wear her hair in a bun, don a conservative dress and stay stone-cold sober.

“Wow!” Anna froze midstep as they followed the cheerful old doorman into the smothering luxury that was the Ritz-Carlton London.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly the Miami Beach hip of the Garrison Grand,” Parker agreed. “This is pure old-world sophistication. You either like it or you feel suffocated. I, personally, love it.”

“It’s fantastic,” she said, her voice a little hushed as she took in the three-story rotunda that capped the lobby, trimmed by ornate gilded woodwork.

Smiling at her enthusiasm, he stepped away to check in. But after a few keystrokes and frowns, the formally dressed clerk informed Parker that there’d been an error in the system and Ms. Cross’s room was not available.

“Not ready or not available?” Parker asked.

“We are so very, deeply sorry, Mr. Garrison,” the solicitous clerk, who obviously had not been in the hotel business long enough to recognize Parker’s last name, crooned softly. “We are booked, overbooked and double booked with several very large events this weekend.”

Parker knew, without the slightest doubt, that a single word with a manager would get a room. He’d been raised in this business and “no rooms” meant there were a half dozen on reserve.

“Your suite has three bedrooms, Mr. Garrison, and it’s quite lovely and spacious,” the clerk added. “And perhaps something will become available tomorrow.”

Parker squeezed the bridge of his nose, fighting the exhaustion that came with trans-Atlantic travel. He turned to see Anna, who still scanned the lobby with a little bit of wonder in her eyes. There really was plenty of room in that suite. She’d love the decor.

And if it got a little cozy…

He nodded to the clerk. “We’ll make due with that, then.”

After a moment, a bellman whisked their luggage ahead and Parker joined Anna with a regretful smile. “Slight change in plans,” he said.

“Oh?”

“There’s no room for you.”

She drew back, frowning. “I know I booked it. And, surely, if you tell them who—”

He held up a hand in agreement. “I can fight it, absolutely. But the suite has three bedrooms, all with their own baths, and enough room for a party of fifty people.” He grinned. “I believe I had one there once.”

She shrugged, a little weariness—or was it wariness?—giving a delicate set to her jaw. “All right. I’m beat, anyway. I just need a shower and sleep.”

He tilted his head and put a casual hand on her shoulder to guide her through the lobby. “I only have one rule.”

She slowed her step. “Which is?”

“No singing in the shower.”

Late the next afternoon, Anna broke the rule.

Secretly, quietly and probably way off-key, she warbled a pathetic version of “Can’t Help Loving That Man” from Showboat as she let blistering hot water pulse over her skin.

She couldn’t help it. Showers were made for singing.

Anyway, Parker hadn’t emerged from the wood-paneled library long enough to even enjoy the ridiculous opulence of a suite that was about three times the size of Anna’s little house in Coral Gables, let alone hear her in the shower. And, oh, what he’d missed while he mumbled and barked orders to his lawyer, his accountant, his minions.

Anna could have spent the day just roaming the endless array of museum-quality rooms, admiring the Louis-the-something furniture, taking in the view of the avenues and stores from every arched window. As it was, she’d lost half an hour that morning just brushing her fingers over silk, damask and velvet pillows of celery and sage on delicate settees and graceful dining-room chairs.

But like always, the best view in the place was the one of her boss, wearing casual khaki pants and a simple but achingly expensive pullover and, God help her, no shoes.

That had been what finally sent her into the streets of London. Not his suggestion that she use the car and driver to explore. Not his implication that he needed complete privacy to conduct his business. No, what sent her out to the shops of Piccadilly, past Buckingham Palace and into the pristine paths of Hyde Park were Parker Garrison’s bare feet.

She closed her eyes and paused midsong, water sluicing over her bare skin, as hot as the fire that tightened her stomach into a knot of arousal. She thought she’d seen everything attractive on the man…but she’d never seen such beautiful feet.

Long and narrow, strong boned with the faintest dusting of black hairs on his toes and a high arch where his khaki pants broke.

Oh, Anna Cross, girl, you have it bad. Swooning over feet.

But she’d nearly dumped her china coffee cup when he’d emerged from his room that morning, the shoulders of his red shirt spotted from droplets of just-showered hair, the natural scent of his soap still clinging to him. Averting her gaze from his freshly shaven face, she’d looked down.

Big mistake.

When she’d returned to the suite only an hour ago, he’d still been in the damn library, with the door closed. So she’d decided to start getting ready for the gala, planning to take a lot of time and care with her hair and makeup. After all, he’d said this was a PR move. It would be a PR disaster to arrive with a sad-looking date.

Getting ready might take some time because it had been many years since she’d arrived at a formal affair on the arm of a rich and powerful man. With a hard jerk, she twisted the knobs of the shower, wishing she could shut off the flow of her thoughts as easily. She didn’t want to think about the man who’d changed everything. Not her boss, in that case, but her boss’s rival.

But ever since she’d taken the job for Parker, thoughts of Michael Montgomery, another powerful, influential man, were close to the surface. The fact that once before she’d given in to a weakness for a handsome power broker with class, humor and style was nothing to be ashamed of, she reminded herself as she applied some makeup and twirled her hair into a French twist.

But her weakness had made her a pawn caught in the cross fire, forced to run and give up her home…all because she’d given in to an attraction to a man who was, ironically, very much like Parker Garrison.

Her father, a very wise man, had once told her that the definition of fool was someone who didn’t learn from a mistake. She wasn’t a fool. Was she?

When she’d been with Michael Montgomery, she’d been twenty-four, young and naive. Now she was nearly twenty-nine, and had successfully escaped her past. Sure, she had a crush on Parker the size of the Garrison Grand, but she was human and female. And she’d managed her attraction for three months.

But now, she was in London, sharing a suite with him, no less. And about to slip into a slinky gown she hadn’t worn for four years. And no doubt she’d have to dance with him.

Oh, how much could a girl take before she did something… foolish?

Makeup and hair done, she covered her skin with a lightly scented cream, stepped into tiny bikini panties and opened the closet door to inch the drab navy suit to the side.

He hadn’t given her time to shop for something new, she thought as she touched the red silk. And she’d only worn this dress once, so it didn’t make any sense to spend money on something else. Plus…oh, forget rationalizing. She loved the dress.

Fingering the plunging neckline, she remembered how beautiful she’d felt the last time she’d worn it—right before her boyfriend had betrayed her, and she’d been run out of Indiana by bad press and false accusations.

She buried the thought. Tonight, she’d just revel in the dress, in the thigh-revealing cut and the backless dip that nearly touched her tailbone and the flared skirt that shimmered like liquid fire when she walked.

Anna reached for the hanger, a little sad she’d cover the revealing bodice and back with a simple black pashmina wrap and take small steps so as not to show too much leg. Because, all rationalization aside, she didn’t need to attract any attention.

And she had to remember that powerful, sexy, controlling men with smoldering smiles and mouthwatering bodies were dangerous. Especially, oh, God, especially if one of the things they controlled was your paycheck.

She slipped on the dress, fastened the halter top and added some simple silver earrings and strappy black sandals. She dropped a tube of lipstick and a compact into her evening bag. Now where had she put the wrap?