The Tycoon's Instant Family

by Caroline Anderson

  She sat down at her desk a little abruptly. Was he seriously going to write her out a cheque for thousands of pounds just like that?

  ‘A lot,’ she said bluntly. She pulled the figures towards her, did a few calculations and turned, to find he was looking over her shoulder at the calculator.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Roughly. For now,’ she said, and he nodded.

  ‘I’ll round it up a bit, give you some working capital and a bit of breathing room.’

  She felt her jaw start to sag. ‘But I thought you were going to decide if we were to complete the build—’

  ‘I just did.’ He punched buttons on his mobile, spoke briefly to someone called Tory and handed her the phone. ‘My PA. Give her the details of your bank account,’ he instructed. ‘She’ll get the money moved before close of business today.’

  She could hardly speak for relief. Her father was lying in hospital waiting for open-heart surgery, worrying himself senseless, the workforce had been fantastic but they were running out of patience, the bank had done all and more that could be expected of them, and she hadn’t drawn any salary for weeks.

  With tears threatening, she gave Tory the details she needed, handed back the phone and stared hard out of the window.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, and sucked in a huge breath. It was meant to steady her, but it turned into a sob, and after a moment of stunned silence he propped his hips on the desk beside her, pulled her head against his chest and rubbed her back gently.

  ‘Hey, it’s OK,’ he murmured.

  She fought it for a moment, but the scent of his aftershave and the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart were too much for her, and she gave in and let him hold her as the tension of the last few weeks freed itself in a storm of tears the like of which she hadn’t cried since her mother died.

  Then, suddenly overcome by embarrassment, she pushed away, stood up and went outside, pausing on the steps and staring at the sea while she sucked in great lungfuls of the wild, salty air and felt it fill her soul.

  It was going to be all right. It was. With Nick Barron on board, maybe the project would succeed after all and her father’s whole career wouldn’t go down the pan…

  A tissue arrived in her hand, and she blew her nose vigorously and scrubbed her cheeks on the back of her hand. It was going to be all right. She wanted to scream it out loud, to run into the sea yelling it to the gulls screeching overhead—

  ‘Would this be a good time for that tea?’ he murmured.

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she said, turning to him with a smile that wouldn’t be held down any longer. ‘There’s a café round the corner—nothing fancy, no barista making designer bevvies, just good, strong filter coffee and the best BLT baguettes in the world. I reckon I owe you that at least—and I haven’t had breakfast yet.’

  ‘It’s ten to twelve.’

  ‘I know. My stomach’s well aware.’

  He grinned, dumped his hard hat on the desk and held out his hand towards the door.

  ‘In that case, what are we waiting for?’

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHE WAS right. Good strong coffee, a glorious view—and Georgie.

  She’d changed out of the dreadful rigger boots and put on a rather less blinding jacket, and suddenly she was just a pretty young woman with black smudges of exhaustion under her red-rimmed and fabulous green-gold eyes.

  They’d ordered two of her BLT baguettes, and while they were cooking the waitress had brought them their coffee. He took his black, but Georgie had poured the whole pot of cream into hers, and now her hands were cradling her cup almost reverently and her nose was buried in it, savouring the aroma with almost tangible pleasure. He watched her inhale and sigh, a contented smile playing over her lips.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ she said, and he couldn’t have agreed more.

  ‘Talk to me about the plans,’ he said, dragging his attention from the full, soft lips and hoping his confidence in her father’s firm didn’t prove misplaced.

  Her nose wrinkled up. ‘What about them?’

  ‘What do you think of them?’

  She met his eyes thoughtfully, then shrugged, the little snub nose wrinkling again. ‘Too dense. Too pedestrian. The architect is dull as ditchwater.’

  ‘So what would you have done?’

  ‘Employed a better architect?’

  ‘Such as?’

  She shrugged and laughed. ‘Me?’

  That stopped him in his tracks. ‘You’re an architect?’

  ‘Uh-huh—and before you ask, I am old enough.’

  He felt a twinge of guilt, and winced apologetically. ‘Sorry. I guess I had that coming to me. So tell me, why are you running your father’s site?’

  ‘Hobson’s choice. He collapsed, and I was—what is it they say in the acting world?—resting. Between roles. Actually I was taking time out and thinking about my future, and thus available at zero notice. He needs a triple bypass, and he’s in Ipswich Hospital waiting to be transferred to Papworth for the operation. I’m sure it was worry as much as anything that pushed him over the edge in the end. This project’s been nothing but trouble since it started. Rubbish specification, no answers, nobody in control, nobody taking responsibility, but they put us on a hefty penalty clause because they thought it would speed things up.’

  ‘Because they needed results fast to bail them out.’

  She shrugged. ‘It wouldn’t have worked. The design’s awful—the planners passed it, but I don’t think they were happy. It’s just a series of boxes. As it stands, even with the view, I don’t think the individual units on the site will sell well at all. They don’t deserve to.’

  ‘So what would you do differently?’ he asked, getting back to his original question. ‘You must have given it some thought.’

  She laughed again, the sound sending heat snaking through his veins. ‘Endless, but none of it really formulated.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said, forcing himself to concentrate. ‘Just think out loud.’

  ‘Now? Really?’

  ‘Now. Really.’

  She tipped her head on one side and grinned, and those gold flecks in her eyes sparkled with an enthusiasm that was infectious. ‘Halve it,’ she said. ‘Far fewer houses, much better quality, and get rid of that hideous extension for starters. It needs a wrecking ball through it. Here—I can’t describe it, I need to show you.’ Grabbing a napkin, she rummaged in her pocket, and he held out a pen.

  She flashed him a smile as infectious as her enthusiasm, and started to doodle and talk at the same time, and as she did so he found himself smiling. She was amazing. A tiny powerhouse, full of clever and interesting ideas, a lateral thinker.

  And gorgeous. Utterly, utterly gorgeous.

  Cradling his coffee in one hand, Nick hunched over her doodles and found himself totally distracted by the tantalising smell of shampoo drifting from her softy, glossy hair. Pretty hair. Nothing remarkable, just a light mid-brown but subtle rather than dull, threaded with fine highlights in palest gold and silver and swinging forwards as she bent her head, the blunt cut just above her shoulders giving it freedom.

  Absently, she tucked it behind her ear and a strand escaped, sliding free and hanging tantalisingly close to his hand. His fingers itched to sift it, to see if it was really as soft and as sleek as it seemed, and it took a real effort to lean back, to shift away from her a little and force himself to watch the swift, decisive movements of the pen and see her vision take shape.

  And then, once he’d managed to concentrate, he was riveted.

  ‘It’s all going to be OK, Dad.’

  Her father’s brows furrowed. ‘But I don’t understand—where did he come from?’

  She laughed. ‘I don’t know—heaven, maybe? I wasn’t going to question him too deeply. He’s put money into the account, and I’ve checked with the bank and it’s certainly there. We’re even in the black.’

  The furrows deepened. ‘So what’s the catch?’


  ‘No catch. He’s buying Andrew out, for whatever reason, and we’re now dealing with him. And he hates the plans, and wants me to come up with some other ideas. He’s put everything on hold—’

  ‘But the penalty clause—’

  ‘Gone. He’s deleted it—doesn’t believe in them. Dad, it’s OK. Truly. Trust me.’

  His eyes searched her face for any sign of a lie, but for once there wasn’t one, not even a tiny white one, and with a great sigh he lay back against the pillows, closed his eyes and shook his head slowly, an unexpected tear oozing out from under one eyelid and sliding down his grizzled cheek. ‘I really didn’t think we’d get out of this one. I’m not sure I believe it.’

  Georgie could understand that. She was still having trouble coming to terms with it herself.

  ‘Believe it,’ she told him firmly, and bent over to kiss the tear away, a lump in her throat. ‘You just concentrate on getting better and leave it to me. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  His eyes flickered open. ‘You going already?’

  ‘I’ve got work to do—plans to draw.’

  He held her eyes for a while, then smiled and patted her hand. ‘Good girl. You’ve been itching to get at it for weeks. Go and do your best.’

  ‘I will. Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll do you proud.’

  ‘You always do,’ he said, his eyes sliding shut again, and with the lump in her throat growing ever bigger, she left him to his rest and went home. The light was blinking on the answering machine, and she pressed the button and a voice flooded the room. Her heart jiggled. Nick.

  ‘Georgie, tried your mobile but it was off. You were probably at the hospital—hope everything’s OK. Just wondering when we can meet up and go over your ideas. I’m going to be stuck in the office for the next few days, but if you can manage to get down to London in the next day or two we could get together here one evening. I’ve got a spare room, so if it’s easier you can stay the night or I can book you into a hotel, whatever you prefer. Just give me an idea of when—the sooner the better really. I’d like to get this thing underway ASAP.’

  Stay the night? Stay the night? Her heart jiggled again, and she pressed the flat of her hand over it and forced herself to breathe. In, out, in, out—

  Stay the night?

  In the spare room.

  ‘Keep saying that,’ she advised herself, and, putting the kettle on, she nudged the thermostat on the boiler, grabbed a packet of biscuits and settled down at her drawing board with a cup of tea and a head full of dreams…

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘Georgie—how are you?’

  All the better for hearing his voice again after twenty-four long, hard hours, but he wasn’t going to know that. ‘Fine. Look, I’ve put some ideas together, but I don’t think there’s any point in going into too much detail until you see what I’ve come up with and I get a better feel for what you’re expecting.’

  ‘I agree. So are you able to get down here, because I’m really stuck at the moment?’

  ‘Sure. When?’

  ‘Any time. My evenings are all free. It’s a bit late tonight; it’s gone six already—how about tomorrow?’

  Her heart thumped. ‘Tomorrow?’ she squealed. She’d been hoping for longer to tweak her ideas, but needs must and tomorrow was better than today! She got a grip on her voice. ‘Um—I can do tomorrow, if you’re not too busy—’

  ‘What sort of time?’

  ‘I need to see my father—I’ll be able to get the train at about five-thirty, and it’s just over an hour to Liverpool Street. Then however long to get to you from there. Seven-ish?’

  ‘Great. I’ll meet you at the tube.’ He told her which station to head for. ‘Ring me when you get there,’ he told her. ‘I’ll come straight over. It’ll take me five minutes from when I get your call.’

  It took six, and every one of them was endless, but by then Georgie was in such a ferment a second seemed to take an hour and yet the day hadn’t been long enough. She’d gone over the plans again and again, tweaking and fiddling, quickly dropped into the hospital to visit her father and then had to rush through the shower and leave her hair to drip-dry on the train.

  So she had a slightly soggy collar on her coat, and as she hovered outside the tube station the March wind whipped up and chilled her to the marrow.

  She was scouring the traffic and trying to guess the sort of vehicle he might be driving when a low, sleek sports car growled to a halt beside her and the door swung open. ‘Jump in,’ he said, leaning across with a grin and giving her a tantalising glimpse of his broad, hard chest down the open neck of his shirt, and she slid into the low-slung seat, hugely grateful that common sense had prevailed over vanity and she wasn’t wearing a skirt.

  ‘Nice car,’ she said, trying not to think about the chest, and his grin widened.

  ‘It’s my one indulgence,’ he told her, but somehow she didn’t believe him. The man had the air of one who indulged himself just whenever the fancy took him, and she fancied it took him pretty darned often.

  ‘Buckle up,’ he instructed, and then shot out into the tiniest gap in the traffic with a squeal from the tyres and the sweetest, throatiest exhaust note she’d ever heard. Just the sound was enough to make her knees go weak. That and the fact that it could pull enough Gs to squish her into the leather!

  ‘I’d love a car like this,’ she said with a sigh, ‘but it would get ruined on a building site and anyway, I’m not a millionaire playboy.’

  ‘And you think I am?’

  ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Fair cop. Guilty on at least one count,’ he chuckled.

  ‘There you are, then. Anyway, I’d look ridiculous driving it.’

  ‘I think you’d look gorgeous driving it, but in this traffic it might not be a good idea to try for the first time.’

  He shot down the outside of a queue, cut across the lights just as they were changing and whipped into the entrance of an underground car park before she could register their whereabouts. Moments later he was helping her from the seat and ushering her towards the lift, while she wondered if she’d ever master the art of extracting herself from his car without loss of dignity. Not that it would be a perennial problem, she had to accept. Sadly.

  He was totally out of her league, light-years away from her in terms of lifestyle and aspirations, and so far the only things they had in common were a love of the sea, and his car.

  Oh, and disliking the original plans for the site.

  She began to feel more cheerful, and it lasted until he ushered her into the lift, inserted a keycard into a slot and whisked her straight past all the numbered floors. When the display read ‘P’, the door hissed open and she walked out of the lift and stopped dead.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ she said softly.

  All she could see were lights—so many lights that the night was driven back, held at bay by the fantastic spectacle of tower blocks like giant glass bricks stood on end and lit from within, layer upon layer of them, explosions of stardust as far as the eye could see.

  She could make out the wheel of the London Eye revolving slowly in the distance with Big Ben beyond, and—oh, more, so many more famous London landmarks stretched out in front of them—Norman Foster’s gerkin, the old Nat West tower, City Hall—with the broad black sweep of the Thames snaking slowly past, so close it must almost brush the foundations.

  Wonderful. Magical. Stunning.

  For a moment she thought they were on the roof, but then he touched a switch and she realised they were standing in a room, a massive open-plan living space with a sleek kitchen at one end and huge, squashy sofas at the other. Between them, the dining area overlooked the deck and the fantastic view beyond the glass walls. And they really were—acres of glass, almost featureless and all but invisible.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ she said again, and he smiled, a little crooked smile, almost awkward.

  ‘I wondered if you’d like it.’

  ‘I love it,’ she said, running an appreciativ
e hand over the back of a butter-soft brown leather sofa and wondering what on earth she was doing here in this amazing place. ‘I’m surprised. I don’t normally like this kind of thing, I’ve always thought they’re a bit cold and unfriendly, but it just does it so well. And the view!’

  ‘I bought it for the view. It’s got a three-hundred and sixty degree deck. All the rooms open onto it.’

  He touched the switch again and clever, strategic lighting lit up planters full of architectural foliage, artfully placed sculptures and even—

  ‘Is that a hot tub?’

  He pulled a face and nodded. ‘Bit of an indulgence.’

  ‘I thought the car was your only indulgence?’ she teased, and he laughed.

  ‘Oh, the tub isn’t an indulgence, it’s purely medicinal. I couldn’t cope without it. After a stressful day at the office or a long flight, it’s just fantastic. And anyway, not many people get to see my apartment so it’s pretty much a secret vice, so it doesn’t count,’ he added with a grin.

  She found that knowledge curiously comforting. Not that it was any of her business how many people he chose to entertain. Not at all. But somehow…

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Tea would be nice.’

  He nodded, put the kettle on and produced a couple of mugs. ‘What about supper? Do you want to go out, or shall I order in? There’s a restaurant downstairs that delivers.’

  She didn’t doubt it. So far she’d seen the car park and the view from his apartment, but that was enough. She had sufficient imagination to fill in the bits in between, and she just knew they’d be equally impressive.

  ‘Here would be lovely,’ she said, unable to drag her eyes from the view. ‘And it’ll give us more time to look at the plans,’ she added, trying to stick to the plot.

  ‘OK—have a look at the menu and choose something.’

  She looked, blinked and handed it back. ‘Anything. All of it. Just looking at it is enough to make me drool. I had a cup of tea for lunch and a biscuit for breakfast, and I’d settle for a bag of greasy chips right now.’

  His mouth quirked. ‘I think we can do rather better than that,’ he said, and picked up the phone and ordered in a low, crisp voice, while she watched a little boat make its way slowly up the Thames and wondered what it would be like to live here all the time. He came over and stood beside her, two steaming mugs of tea in his hands, and held one out to her.