Bound To Protect. Anya Summers

      Chapter 1

      Michael stepped off the elevator into the plush offices on the executive floor of Fitzgerald Foods, the company his grandfather had built from the ground up. He wore wealth like most individuals wore a pair of jeans—with absolute ease and familiarity. He was comfortable with his privilege now, at thirty-six, when he hadn’t always been growing up. But Michael had been raised in a world of wealth and privilege few ever achieved or experienced. He knew how fortunate he was, but at the same time he bore a mantle of responsibility most people could never comprehend. This company and all of those he owned had thousands of employees who depended upon him to make the right decision for all involved. One wrong move on his part and his people, the people the company depended on to make everything run seamlessly, from the factory workers to the office personnel and distribution channels, suffered.

      That was one thing his father had made sure Michael understood. He wasn’t the company. He was only its guide and navigator. The company ran because of everyone involved, from the Board members on down to the janitor. He believed in an honest day’s work, in ensuring that those who worked for Fitzgerald Foods—one of the subsidiaries of Ragnall Sugar started by his great-great-grandfather more than a century ago, or his Hollywood production company Conmar, or real estate firm Fitzgerald-Logan Realty—were well compensated for their efforts.

      For this morning’s board meeting, he’d chosen a tailored suit in a crisp dark gray that made his indigo eyes stand out and bespoke of that wealth. He was comfortable wearing the platinum Rolex on his left wrist and the black Italian leather shoes had been hand crafted for his feet the last time he’d been in Italy, along with the Cavalli silk tie adorning his neck in vermouth with a diamond shaped pattern.

      His dark golden hair, currently sporting lighter blond streaks from his time away under the sun on Pleasure Island, reached his chin. The longer style was an affectation he had developed while attending university abroad in Europe more than a decade past. He’d drawn it back into a stubby ponytail and figured that, combined with his trim, close cropped beard, gave him a more down to earth appeal.

      He didn’t miss the sly looks from the receptionist and administrative assistants that stated quite clearly they found him attractive. Many of them would be only too happy to be called into his office for something other than work.

      Michael appreciated women in all their varied flavors. He respected