David gazed at the nondescript walls of the boardroom with bored disinterest. The plain buff color was uninspiring as hell, but he supposed the bland background was what the designer planned. What better way to call attention to the large framed portraits of the Beck Industries founders and a smattering of plaques and awards carefully placed around the enormous room?

With surprising reluctance, he pulled his wandering thoughts into line and focused on the meeting he was leading. A pair of younglings from the legal department, trying overly hard to impress him, were causing his brain to seize up from lack of interest. He glanced sideways at his executive assistant, hoping to catch his eye.

“It is our assessment that all of this will be moot once the new division comes online. After careful consideration, we advise no further steps at this time with an eye to re-visiting the issue next spring.”

So, forty-five minutes, a high school power point, six graphs and two written reports just to find out what he already knew? Sometimes it sucked being the guy in charge.

Fortunately, his intuitive assistant was on the ball and took over. He stifled an amused snigger and let Miguel have a free hand. Moments like this explained why he’d taken on the guy when he was fresh out of college. They met at a job fair, instantly clicked, so David wasted no time bringing him on board at Beck and setting him up as his personal bulwark. A defense against his sometimes-interfering Board of Directors.

Rising, Miguel made a show of closing the presentation folder before buttoning his suit jacket and turning his gaze on the legal department’s toddlers. Lackluster presentation aside, David had no doubt that someone in legal was going to get an ass chewing for wasting their time.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he began. Miguel’s dark brows slanted as a frown took up residence on his face. “Your input, such as it is, will be duly noted.”

‘Duly noted,’ David’s inner shithead snickered with glee. He loved Miguel’s verbal expressions. The guy knew how to convey much by saying little.

A jarring snap, like metal clacking shut, sounded in his head when one of the contracted lawyers walked straight into Miguel’s verbal trap with a classic foot-in-mouth maneuver.

In a tone best left at the bar, the guy wearing the skinny tie thought he’d challenge Miguel’s authority. In front of the boss! What a fucking idiot.

Aw, shit. This oughta’ be good.

“Does Mr. Sanderson want to weigh in?”

Miguel Cruz earned his raise and a killer bonus when he shot the guy a black look and answered with a generous helping of mockery. “He’s sitting right there,” Miguel smoothly replied with a brief nod in his direction. “Feel like asking him yourself?”

For good measure and because he enjoyed playing nice cop, bad cop with his exec, David sat back, put an ankle on his knee and tapped his pen on the conference table. His posture didn’t quite say, ‘Suck my dick,’ but it came close.

A good sixty seconds of heavy silence hung so thickly in the air he swore his pores clogged. And dammit if Miguel played his part to the bitter end and refused to let either of the mediocre legal shmorons off the hook.

He couldn’t wait to tell Amy how funny this was. She enjoyed a good Miguel story.

All tension in his body melted away the second he thought about his Amy. She was hands down the best damn thing that had ever happened to him.

“I think you have your answer,” his exec stated with cold, blunt dismissal.

When the B Team hurriedly began gathering their presentation goodies, he regretted not tapping the timer on his phone, so he could cap off the telling of this amusing debacle later with how fast they cleared out.

The conference room door had just closed when Miguel let loose with a laugh. “Ruined their day,” he snickered.

“Probably their night too,” David added. “Good work, getting them out of here. You’ll follow up, right? I want those fuckers downstairs to stop pretending that the legal department is the next best thing to sex. What just happened here was a complete waste of our time.”

Miguel nodded but didn’t say anything. Instead, he gathered papers and notes that he jammed into a leather bag. His uncharacteristic silence seemed odd.

“Is everything okay? How’s your mom? She doing any better?”

A warning trip-wire activated inside David’s thoughts when his assistant assumed a grim but businesslike expression. There was no way he was going to like whatever he said.

Yeah, fuck, he mentally grumbled. This being in charge shit sucks.

“C’mon, Miguel. You know I hate smoke blowing up my ass. Just say it.”

“Um, well, your mother, Mrs. Sanderson…”

David slammed his hand on the conference table and sat forward. Exasperated and annoyed he growled, “I know who she is. What the hell has she done now?”

Miguel hesitated.

And then snickered.

“Monkey in the middle—again.”

He knew the expression well. It was boss—assistant speak, a phrase they made up and unfortunately used a lot, to frame any of the five million ways his mother interfered in every little thing associated with Beck Industries. Being the CEO was all well and good, but she owned the whole thing and rarely ignored an opportunity to throw her weight around.

“How bad is it?” he asked.

“With your permission,” Miguel ventured in a voice full of mockery, “at this time I’ll be invoking the don’t shoot the messenger clause in my contract.”

Uh oh. He let out a harsh breath and raked his fingers through his hair. “Understood.”

When they first started working together, they agreed that when something needed deft handling, it was probably best to use the band-aid technique. Do it quickly and hold your breath, so he wasn’t surprised when Miguel let loose.

“Loman Design has sent over some preliminary sketches.”

He closed his eyes for a count of three and then searched his assistant’s face. “Preliminary sketches for what?”

“The project launch.”

David shot out of his chair. “Excuse me?”

Miguel waved his hands in surrender and quipped, “Messenger, remember?”

Before the red haze of anger creeping into his brain shrouded his common sense, he quickly bit out a reply. “You’re safe. For the moment. But there better be an explanation attached to that announcement. An explanation that isn’t going to give me a blood pressure episode.”

“How much leeway do I have?”

The quietly asked question was brimming with unspoken tension. The tension that always ramped up when his personal life was the issue. Shit. It only made him more furious with his mom that her nonsense helped create unease between him and his right-hand man.

Miguel was a smart guy. His eyes were everywhere, not just in the back of his head. He had to know about Amy even if he’d eat his tongue before admitting it. If he was worried about leeway, that only meant one thing. Somehow, Amy would be at the heart of whatever was going on.

He nodded. A brief tilt of his head to let the other man know he should continue.

“Your mother thinks the reception area needs red flowers. Her exact words were, “According to Mrs. Loman, red is a reflection of power.”

Red flowers.

A reflection of power.

He snorted. Patsy fucking Loman, his mother’s designated BFF from a crypt of baby-booming sorority sisters. She was Quinn's partner-in-crime and could stir the pot better than anyone he knew. Patsy was also a gigantic pain in the ass, and yet he loved her to fucking death so go figure.

Aunt Patsy and his mom sticking their unwanted noses into the project launch made his stomach lurch uncomfortably. They were up to something and because Amy was the launch coordinator and had her hand in the smallest of details, the sudden input from Patsy’s big time design firm struck him as more than a bit troubling.

Miguel finished with a nonchalant shrug. “And she’s asking for a meeting. With you.”

Of course she was. This was her modus operandi—to go through the motions of pretending to acknowledge his authority when all the while she was laughing. Little Lord Stinky Pants she liked to call him. According to family legend, he’d earned the nickname as a toddler when a leaky diaper that was no match for an epic poop led to a nasty stain on her pristine white couch.

He desperately wanted to avoid the whole thing. Unfortunately, not even the excuse of amnesia would deflect his mom or Patsy when they were plotting.

The band-aid technique. That’s all there was to it. Direct and determined—that’s how he’d make it through.

“I don’t have time for the Patsy and Quinn Hour but knowing them, they won’t give up.”

Miguel tried unsuccessfully to cut off a chuckle. “Good one—the Patsy and Quinn Hour.”

“Those two need a reality show,” he snarled.

“You aren’t wrong. They could show today’s greedy celebrities how it’s done, old school.”

“Did you know my mother can say a variation of eat shit and fuck you in nineteen languages?”

“And then there’s that,” Miguel hooted with an amused laugh. “Look, I’m out,” he said. Gathering his bag and the Starbucks cup never far from his hand, his capable assistant saluted and made for the door.

“Hey, wait,” he called out. “You never said how your mom is. Did she like the new washer and dryer? Great deal, by the way. You and your siblings did good!”

David noted the expression of familial love sweeping across his assistant’s face.

“I think she’s turned a corner. And you were right, boss. The new laundry was more thrilling to her than a once-in-a-lifetime vacation.”

He was delighted to hear that Marta Santos was doing better. She’d had a cancer scare that rattled Miguel.

“Thanks for asking.”

“Are you kidding?” David said with a laugh as he crossed the room and clapped Miguel on the shoulder. “I love your mom. She’s one badass Senora.”

Out in the lively main hub of the Beck business center, they walked to the elevator while accepting the occasional hello.

In the shiny reflection of the glass panels flanking the bank of elevators, David happened to catch Miguel’s expression as his eyes searched for…what? Or who?

In the background, a small hand waved. Miguel nodded, smiled, and then looked at his shoes for several seconds.

As the lift doors whooshed open and they stepped in, David flipped around, facing out, stabbed at the button for the executive floor and glanced in the direction of the hand he saw wave.

Really? Hmph. Interesting. Did Miguel have his own secret office romance going on?

He was going to have a whole hell of a lot to share with Amy later. Glancing at his watch he marked the hours until he would be with her again. It had been almost a week since their busy schedules provided an opportunity to spend an evening together and on that occasion a particularly delicious homemade dinner of lobster mac ‘n’ cheese served as a prelude to a round of high energy fucking that had been fueling his fantasies ever since. He was anxious to repeat the encounter only this time with a blindfold and some velvet handcuffs.

Watching the digital display ticking off the floors, it only took a few seconds for them to reach the executive suites. Reality landed on him with a dull thud when the door opened and his mother was waiting on the other side.

Say what you want about Quinn Sanderson and her ball busting attitude. She was the full package and then some. Beautiful, sophisticated, and scary smart she ran Beck Industries with one hand tied behind her back. The privately held corporation, which had been in her family for several generations, flourished under her leadership. A position she assumed when David’s father, James Sanderson, relinquished his chairmanship after ditching it all to run off with the nanny.

That’s right. The fucking nanny! Their family story read like a bad movie script.

His father’s marital betrayal was something Quinn Sanderson wore like a wet blanket. It wasn’t the loss of the marriage or her husband that pissed her off. It was the public humiliation of everyone knowing he was screwing the help.

From that moment on, anything even remotely smacking of fraternization between employees or business contacts was a hard limit no one in their right mind would push against. Not if they wanted to remain at Beck.

He and his little sister Missy were caught in the middle. All these years later they each managed to find a comfortable relationship with their dad, but from their mom’s perspective, the man was permanently at the top spot on the persona non grata list.

“David,” she exclaimed in her sometimes brittle but still loving way. “How delightful.”

Miguel froze. The Queen Bitch of Beck had that effect on people.

David’s hand swept out and held the button to keep the door open. “Mother,” he drawled with a mocking grin. “I’m delighted that you’re delighted.”

Quinn Sanderson’s perfect laugh took some of the tension out of the awkward moment.

Knowing full well he was about to take the elevator ride from hell with his up-to-something mom, he gave Miguel a subtle shove and sent him on his way.

On cue, his mother put out her hand and waited for him to help her step over imaginary obstacles. Believing this was a routine every son knew, he played the gallant, helped her aboard, and waved off his assistant.

“What floor, madam,” he asked with surprisingly good humor. Sometimes he liked this cat and mouse game they played with each other.

Was it his uncontrollable imagination or was she actually grinning like a Cheshire cat working off an overload of mischief?

“I thought I’d drop in on the marketing team handling the project launch.”

It took every ounce of control he had to not react. He hit the button for the second floor and the car began its descent.

“The artisan project is critical to the success of the new division.”

He wasn’t sure if she was baiting him or not. The new division was one hundred percent his brainchild. A brainchild she hadn’t exactly been enthusiastic about.

When all the family bullshit was peeled away, the bottom line for him where his future at Beck lay was in forging ahead with the plans he wanted to initiate. Now. Not at some indeterminate time in the future when his iron-handed mother was too old or, God forbid, gone, and he finally controlled the whole thing.

The artisan project came to him in a blinding flash of brilliance. Anything Beck could do to aid manufacturing and small business was the sort of forward thinking that he’d bring to the top spot. Once it was his.

Getting Quinn on his side and convincing the Board of Directors of the inherent value in his vision had eaten up most of the last year. Once he’d secured the green light, things moved ahead at light speed.

And who took the lead for this über critical launch? The one person at Beck Industries who straddled research, development and the marketing department.

Amy Peters.

His mother was making a straight line to Amy.

He could never tell with her if she was trying to mess with him or if his guilty conscience about Amy just made him extra sensitive. It wasn’t a coincidence though that Aunty Patsy was hovering on her broomstick at the same time his mother took an interest in the marketing department.

These two, he silently scoffed. Better stay on my toes until I figure out what the hell they’re up to.

Everyone else on the planet might quiver in their shoes around his mom but he was a veteran of many Quinn Sanderson skirmishes and came with his own ammunition and skill set.

“You’re interfering, Mother. Care to tell me why?”

She gave him one perfectly arched raised brow and a look that suggested he watch his mouth.

Yeah, right!

The elevator stopped at the second floor but he stabbed the control panel and pressed stop before the door whooshed open. She may have started whatever this was but he wasn’t letting her go until notice was served.

“Is Aunt Patsy bored or looking to start shit because I don’t recall being consulted about Loman Design’s involvement in my project.”

She smirked. It was so her. “Your project. My company.”

He barked with laughter and kissed her on the cheek. “Always with the bitchy comeback,” he snickered.

She patted the side of his face and gave him a wicked smile. “I’m so glad we’re clear on this.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not keeping an eye on you,” he scolded.

“Oh, pish posh,” she laughed gaily. “Knock yourself out, I suppose. Oh, by the way,” she added with enough of a tone to make him pause. “Violet is coming to Friday cocktails. The Mayor and her husband will be our guests and I thought it would look better if you weren't playing the randy bachelor.”

Yep. She was messing with him. Randy bachelor. Good grief.

He let the elevator door open as his mother looped her arm through his. After less than ten steps into the open reception area on the second floor, he stopped walking. She turned toward him with a confused expression.

“Remember that line we talked about? You’re crossing it again, Mom. I have no problem meeting my responsibilities, and that includes doing the Beck schmooze at your weekly soirees. But my mommy making dates for me is going too far.”

Her counter argument started off with, “She’s your girlfriend.”

That’s when he cut her off.

“Violet Brubaker is not my girlfriend. She enjoys seeing herself in the town news and is a convenient socially acceptable partner. One, I might add, that is entirely unnecessary. No one cares, Mom.”

“I care, young man. You’re thirty-two, not twenty. People expect you to settle down and start a family.”

“Who are these people?”

It was no use arguing with her. She was an immoveable force when she set her mind to it.

“Don’t be obtuse, David, and don’t make the same mistake your father did.”

Ugh. And there it was. The same old, same old. And the mistake she referred to? Not caring what other people thought—a cardinal sin in her book. Continuing this conversation would only lead to an argument, so he gave in and opted for silence.

In the outer room of the department’s bullpen, they ignored the gawking male receptionist and continued to the first desk in their path. The poor woman jumped to her feet when his mother approached and in the process knocked over a pencil cup.

“Mrs. Sanderson,” the flustered woman exclaimed.

Nobody panicked the employees quite like Quinn Sanderson, and his mother knew how to mine the reaction for maximum effect.

She also knew when to wield her fearsome power and when not to.

“At ease.” Her voice, while friendly, had a deliberate edge to it. “You already got the job.”

The last was a classic, rich bitch, backhand volley. How did he know this? From Amy. She called the subtle digs, that his mom gleefully tossed out as she waltzed along, cherry bombs. Little detonations fully intended to remind everyone who the hell they were dealing with.

Without any attempt at a pause, the Beck Industries Queen of All She Surveyed blew past the gaping employees, announcing her itinerary as she went.

“Is Miss Peters in her office? Good,” she said without waiting for an actual answer. “I’m sure she won’t mind if we drop by.”

David plastered a blank expression on his face and made a show of checking his watch. His mom might be in charge but he was a veteran of the Quinn Sanderson wars and knew how to manipulate the fuck out of most of the situations that she set off.

“Fifteen minutes, mother. That’s it. Sonny is coming by to finalize the city paperwork for the launch venue.”

“Sonny can cool his jets, David. There won’t be a venue to book if the project isn’t ready.”

Oh great. Just fucking fantastic. She was in major bitch mode. Everyone knew the project was more than ready. Dammit. She was playing him. He could feel it in his bones. What the hell was she really up to?

Drawing to a halt outside Amy’s office, his mother gave him the arched eyebrow mothers excel at and stood aside until he opened the door for her.

He needed to say something, wanted to warn her to be nice, but if he did, he’d be giving her a card that could shut down the hand he was playing.

So he went with an ingenious threat and hoped it was enough. “Don’t rock the boat, mother. This isn’t about you.”

Her eyes softly flared. She definitely caught the cautionary vibe he was trying to put off.

“Missy and I play along with your cocktail parties and social schmoozing. It’s good for business. We get it. But I promise you, Mom—if you and Aunt Patsy screw my project up with your bitch-parade, from here on out Violet Brubaker can be your fucking date cause I’ll be trotting out my latest boyfriend.”

She snorted with laughter. This was their private joke. Him pretending to have a taste for smooth ass. Sure, it was all said with love and in good fun, but she wasn’t stupid. He’d turn up with a picture perfect twink on his arm just to make the point.

A motherly cheek pat ended with a tiny smack. “Smart ass.”

“Bitch.”

She smiled. He winked.

David had to admit that their mother-son dynamic was unique.