by Jane Porter
The Tycoon’s Forced Bride
A Bad Boy Short Romance
Jane Porter
The Tycoon’s Forced Bride
©Copyright 2016 Jane Porter
EPUB Edition
The Tule Publishing Group, LLC
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-943963-79-9
Dedication
For my amazing, loyal readers who know (and embrace!) that I don’t always write nice, normal romances, featuring lovely, well-adjusted characters who meet while shopping for organic produce.
This one, dear readers, is for you…
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Bonus Story: Take Me, Cowboy
Taming of the Sheenans
About the Author
Chapter One
‡
He knew Ava’s daily routine down to the minute.
It wasn’t a difficult routine to learn. She never varied her routine. It was the same Monday through Friday. A car picked her up promptly at eight ten for work. She was at her desk at the ballet school by eight thirty. She taught two classes before she had lunch at her desk, and then two more in the afternoon, in between meetings with the school and company.
The same town car that dropped her off in the morning returned at six to collect her. Back home, she rarely went out in the evenings. She rarely ordered food for delivery. On weekends she stayed in, except for the special evening where she attended a performance, and, then again, she traveled in the town car, arriving a full hour and a half before the performance to give her time to get into the theater before the crowds arrived, and then returning a full hour after, when the crowds had dispersed. It wasn’t just because she moved slowly, but she preferred obscurity. She didn’t want anyone to see her, or recognize her, not when she’d once been Manhattan Ballet’s principal ballerina, loved and adored for her grace, talent, and beauty.
Ava’s life consisted of work and the ballet. Just as it had always been work, and the ballet, although before she’d been on the stage, not in the back row of seats in the auditorium.
He knew her routine because he had her followed. The security detail was discreet and she never even knew they were there, just as she didn’t know the town car was his, and the driver his, too. She didn’t know the Manhattan Ballet had initially given her the first part-time teaching job because he’d insisted the company arrange something for her—or he’d pull his support. The company listened. He was their largest benefactor, after all.
She didn’t know he’d been in the background opening doors, smoothing the way for her return, and he didn’t want her to know.
It was enough that she was working, and that she’d been promoted several times from a part-time, assistant teacher for the children in the dance school, to working with the older students and the professional dancers in the corp.
Malcolm McKenzie didn’t mind the money. It wasn’t that much, considering. Not when one was looking at the long-term, and he was looking at the long-term. Ava was his wife and the mother of his son.
The only problem was that while she remembered young Jack, Ava didn’t remember marrying Malcolm.
Chapter Two
‡
It was cold and the cold made her hurt even more than she normally did, which meant she moved even more slowly.
Ava smiled gratefully at her doorman as he patiently held the apartment building’s front door open for her. He was such a nice man, so patient, too. “Thank you, Robert,” she said, aware that she was moving like an old woman, feet inching along, more like a shuffle than a walk. The cold made her stiff, and the stiffness knocked her off balance. If she had the energy, she’d go back upstairs and get her cane. This was one of those days when she could have used the support.
“Need a hand, Ms. Galvan?” Robert asked, obviously concerned by her limping progress. It was the progress of a snail. She was certain it was painful to watch.
She flashed the doorman a small, fierce smile, wanting to put him at ease. How could she complain to him when he stood for hours in the bitter weather?
“No, I’m good. I’ve got this,” she answered, glancing at the pavement in front of her, checking for ice. It’d only take one misstep and today she’d go crashing down and then she’d really hurt.
“Sure you don’t want me to lend you an arm—”
“No, Robert. I’m twenty-nine, not eighty-nine.”
He laughed, as she’d intended. “Very good, Ms. Galvan. You have a good day.”
*
“You, too.” She focused her attention on the black sedan parked at the curb waiting for her. Put one foot in front of the other, she sang in her head, teeth gritted against the pain, and soon you’ll be walking out the door….
She blinked back tears as she sang the line again. Oh, she hurt. Hurt bad today. Where was that cane? Why had she thought she’d manage without it? Ava hadn’t wanted to leave bed today. Hadn’t wanted to shower and get dressed and come downstairs to travel across town to the Manhattan Ballet Company and School, located on Eighth and Forty-Eighth.
But she had forced herself up. And she forced herself to shower and dress and now she was here, almost to the car. She had to get up and go to work, because it was all she had now. She couldn’t let the cold, or her stiffness stop her. She needed the Manhattan Ballet. It was all she had left.
Her driver, Mickey Fitzgerald, moved towards her and took her elbow. “Mind the ice in front of you,” he said.
“You and Robert are like little old ladies fussing, always over me,” she scolded, even as she leaned on his arm, secretly thankful for Mickey’s support.
“Now those are fighting words, Ms. Galvan, and you don’t want to fight Mickey Fitzgerald. I’m a former featherweight champion—”
“Yes, and not just Irish, but world.” She smiled up at him. “How could I forget that the great Mickey Fitzgerald is my very own chauffeur, shuttling me to and from work every day?”
“I am thinking I hear a little disrespect,” he said, shifting his grip to keep her supported as she bent her knees to slide into the back of the town car.
She winced as she brought her legs into the car, one by one. “No disrespect,” she said, drawing a ragged breath. “You know I love you too much for that.”
“Hmph!” His gruffness couldn’t hide his fierce protective streak, though.
Mickey treated her like a princess. Ava didn’t know how she’d lucked out, finding a driver as kind and good as Mickey Fitzgerald. He closed the door behind her and went around to the driver side.
As he got behind the wheel, he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “It’s a cold one, though, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she agreed, glancing up at the steel gray sky.
Snow was expected late tonight. The storm was supposed to dump
seven to eight inches, possibly more. If that happened, the city would shut down. She prayed that wasn’t the case. It was miserable being trapped in her apartment.
“This would have been a good day for your cane,” he added, shifting into drive, and merging effortlessly with traffic.
“Or my walker.”
“Or your walker,” he agreed. He shot her another glance in the rear view mirror. “But you’re too proud, aren’t you?”
She rolled her eyes. “People treat me differently when I use them.”
“You are different. You’re special. Don’t forget that.”
She smiled faintly, but his words gave her a pang. She’d once believed she was special. It was what made her leave Buenos Aires as a young teenager to train in New York City. She left her family and friends to be a ballerina. She’d given up everything for dance…
Buenos Aires. It’d be hot there now. Summer. She should go back. Warm up.
But it wouldn’t happen. She’d never go back, not like this. It would be too difficult traveling. She’d need too much help, and she didn’t like help. Didn’t like being dependent on anyone for anything, Even though she was terribly dependent at the same time.
She hadn’t always been.
She’d once been so independent that she’d left Argentina at thirteen. She’d been so focused, so determined. She was going to be a great dancer. And she’d come close. She’d been made a soloist with the Manhattan Ballet at the age of twenty-one, and by twenty-three was one of their youngest principals.
She’d loved it. Loved the work, the discipline, the passion. And the fame. She’d been someone important—
Ava exhaled slowly, deeply.
But that was a long time ago, too. A different lifetime. Better to not remember. Easier to accept who she was today if she didn’t let herself remember who she had once been.
*
Malcolm was in a meeting with his corporation’s chief financial officer when he got a text from Mickey Fitzgerald.
She’s not moving well today. Thought you would want to know.
Colm read the message and put away his phone but he thought about Mickey’s text quite a few times during the rest of the meeting. Mickey didn’t often send updates, but the fact that he had sent one today, concerned Colm.
If Mickey was worried about Ava, Colm was, too.
Obviously, it was time to pay Ava a call.
*
Ava was in the hallway of the second floor, observing one of the younger classes at the barre through the glass on the door. Her next class wouldn’t start for another half hour, but she loved watching the children in class and rehearsal. They were so innocent and eager. So hopeful, too. The very young ones made her feel protective, and yes, wistful. Not every little girl falls in love with ballet, but those who do, fall hard. To dance is to dream. You must believe you can float…fly. To soar requires dedication, discipline, training. The five and six year olds were just starting with their training, each class beginning with the barre work.
Ava felt herself breathe and exhale, her own leg muscles tightening, lengthening with each of the children’s battement tendu.
The barre work wasn’t just about training the body, but also training the mind.
At the barre, you’d quiet your mind and become focused, attentive to each stretch, bend, extension, adjusting to each correction. These very young girls were just learning the craft, but the learning would never end. A dancer’s goal was perfection. A lifelong quest, made even more difficult as one aged, and battled time and injuries.
Standing at the glass, for a moment, Ava was one of them, all air and grace and strength, and then suddenly she felt a prickle at the back of her neck and an odd sensation in her belly. She wasn’t alone anymore. Someone else was here, watching her.
She turned away from the door, leaving one hand on the wood for balance, and looked behind her. For a split second there was no one there. Just the quiet hall leading to the stairs. And yet her skin continued to prickle and tingle.
And then she saw him, standing in the stairwell. Malcolm.
Her legs almost went out.
It’d been a year since she’d last seen him. A year of wondering if she’d ever see him again and now he was here.
Malcolm stepped from the stairwell and walked towards her. “Hello, Ava.”
She’d heard his voice so many nights in her sleep, and yet in the quiet hallway, it was deeper, rougher than she remembered. She flushed, going hot, then cold. She reached for the door, gripping the knob for strength. “You scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
He sounded sincere. Concerned. But if her memory—the limited memory she had—was true, he’d never been a sweet or sensitive man. He was brilliant, intense, successful, charismatic. But gentle? Sensitive? Never.
“What brings you to the school?” she asked, hearing the tremor in her voice and hating it.
“I was looking for you.”
“You knew I was here?”
He nodded. “I’ve kept tabs on you.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to be sure you were safe.”
She struggled to smile. “I’m fine. See?” And yet her legs weren’t steady and she was leaning now against the door, afraid that any second she’d go down. She wished she’d brought her cane. Wished—
And just like that, he was at her side, wrapping an arm around her waist. “I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re okay.”
It was hard to think clearly with him there at her side. Her skin burned where he touched her. She felt waves of heat rush through her. At that moment, she felt anything but okay. “I’d like to sit down.”
“Where?”
“There’s an empty studio next door. I’m sure there’s a chair inside.”
He supported her as they walked down the hall to the large room lined with floor to ceiling mirrors on one wall and barres on the opposite. An upright piano was in one corner and a chair in another.
She sank gratefully down in the chair. He stepped away, giving her distance.
“I’m shocked,” she said, struggling to smile and failing miserably.
“Why? You know I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I was sure I’d hear from you before Christmas, certain you’d be with us for Christmas—”
“Malcolm—”
“How was your Christmas?”
Her eyes stung. Her chest ached. It had been a very quiet Christmas. No tree. No decorations. No parties or festive meals. A few of her students had given her gifts, trinkets and tokens of their affection, and yet somehow it had only made her lonelier. “It was fine.”
“Did you go anywhere? Make it a proper holiday?”
A lump filled her throat. “No, I spent it at home.”
“You were happy, though?”
Everything inside her hurt. Was she happy? No. But she was determined to learn to be happy. Determined to continue piecing her life back together. But it wasn’t a smooth process. There were many fits and starts, as well as unexpected setbacks. Like a fall on an icy curb. The relentless ache in her bones when buffeted by the frigid wind. “I’m healthy,” she said with a faint smile. “That’s something.”
His harsh expression eased somewhat. “Yes, it is.” He hesitated, his gaze scrutinizing her, moving from head to toe. “I did hope to hear from you. I’d hoped you’d join us for the holidays.”
“Malcolm, we talked about this last time.”
“Last year. And much has changed in the past year.”
Fear made her heart race. “I haven’t changed.”
His cool blue-green gaze held hers, challenging her. “I think you have.”
“No!” The denial burst from her, desperation sharpening her voice. “You’re not a doctor. A psychiatrist. Or a therapist. You’re not an expert. We have no reason to question the decision made—”
“But we do. We have our son.”
It was like tearing a scab from a wound. He couldn’t possibly think they could go ba
ck and undo all that had been done. Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall…Humpty Dumpty took a big fall…
“Don’t,” she whispered, lifting a hand as if she could hold him back.
The room swirled, her head spinning. Ava gulped in breaths, fighting the dizziness. If she thought she could, she’d leave the chair, race from the room, but her legs were shaking and her pulse was racing and it was all she could manage just to sit upright in the chair.
“He deserves better,” Malcolm continued, his tone quiet, and yet flat, firm. “He deserves more. More from you…me…us.”
“I terrified him last time. He hated me—”
“He was two. He was shy and, yes, scared, but he would have overcome his fear if you’d given him the opportunity.”
“That’s not what you said then!”
“I said he needed time. I didn’t want you to leave.”
But you let me go, she thought, and you were glad to see me go. “That’s not true,” she said after a moment. “You’re not happy when I’m there…with you. It stresses you. I feel it, and your disappointment. I hate your disappointment. It’s upsetting, and when I get emotional you know I can’t think clearly. I can’t remember things properly. Everything just falls apart.”
“You had a traumatic brain injury. The healing process is long—”
“Which annoys you.”
“What annoys me is that you are making assumptions, and, frankly, they’re not true. Your mind is stronger. Your memory is better. Will you always have issues? Yes. But I accept that, and I accept that there are limitations, and I’m prepared to work through and around the limitations. But I need your help. I need you to work with us, too.”
Her eyes burned and she blinked. “But aren’t you the man that demands perfection?”
“That’s nonsense.” Colm stood over her, his body big, broad, muscular, his hands knotted at his sides. He’d always had broad shoulders and long legs, but he was leaner now than she’d remembered, and with his dark blonde hair cropped close, his jaw and cheekbones jutted, hard, and uncompromising.
