The Tycoon's Wager

by Olivia Logan

  “And my whole reason for these dates is the reputation of my company. You are free to retract your slanderous statements anytime you like.”

  “They were not slanderous, and you insinuated I give dud advice. Besides I am not quitting. I will finish what I set out to,” she snapped. Damn, she was letting him get under her skin.

  “Good.”

  Gritting her teeth, she drew her coat around her.

  “Is that a ... wedding dress?” The disbelief in his voice made a smile pull at her lips, and she swallowed it quickly as she turned to him, her eyes as solemn as she could manage.

  “Yes. Yes, it is. I was so enthralled by you that I jumped the gun and bought a dress.”

  “I thought I said ‘formal.’ As in black tie formal. Isn’t ... what do you call it? An LBC or something part of your ‘staple’ wardrobe?”

  “FYI it’s an LBD, and for ...” Her voice trailed off as a scream floated on the night air. The limo slowed as it reached a dense crowd, flashes sparked in all directions, brightly lit letters shining at the end of a long, red carpet. Blinking at the sudden change of atmosphere, she felt her stomach flip as realisation hit. A movie. That’s where he had taken her on their first date. And not just a movie but a premiere. That could only mean ... paparazzi. The nearby flash made her jump, and she sat back hurriedly, pressing herself tightly against the car seats.

  The sudden heat across her hand made her tear her eyes away from the mayhem outside, her gaze dropping to the large one over it, her stomach twisting at the rough, masculine feel of his skin against hers. “Just smile at them. If they ask you anything, not-so-subtly turn your head away and move down the line,” Jack said, his commanding tone oddly reassuring.

  That was easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one whose grandmother was a patron of the 1920s-style cinema house. He wasn’t the one who had been frogmarched down these carpets only to be ignored in favour of her more beautiful parents. Memories of hissed instructions on how to walk, what to say, always made her cringe at the shy, awkward girl she had once been.

  “You look scared.” His voice pierced her panic bubble.

  “Scared? Who said anything about being scared?” Terrified more like.

  “The press can smell fear. You can’t show them that.”

  “I am a nocturnal creature, Mr. Harper. We are not used to being surrounded—yes, surrounded—by people and bright lights.”

  “First, I think you should start calling me Jack, and second, I think you’d be less ‘surrounded’ as you put it if you stopped concentrating on them.”

  “Oh? Considering we are stuck in a car in the middle of a sea of press and crazed fans, who or what exactly, in your opinion, should I concentrate on?!” Breathe, CJ, breathe. She hadn’t hyperventilated in a crowd in almost ten years. She wasn’t going to start now.

  “Me.”

  The light tingle running through her burst into a volcanic surge at the soft directive, her gaze trailing across his strong jaw line as he maneuvered himself around on the seat to face her. His sheer size blocked out everything behind him, and he reached out a hand to cup her face, one roughened thumb pad scraping gently across her cheek.

  She sucked in a lungful of air, aware of her shorter breaths, which she knew had nothing to do with the paps outside. Her fingers itched to curl into his. Maybe if she had been on more dates, been more experienced, she’d be able to hide her reaction instead of being the open book she knew she was.

  The world outside faded to black at his touch. And she shivered as a sudden cold gush of air hit, freezing her whole being at the sound of chanting and cheers. She refused to acknowledge her tingling cheek at the withdrawal of his hand as he made his way out of the car; instead she shuffled across the seat after him. Ignoring their audience’s heart-pounding screams, she smoothed down the white tulle skirt, then pushed herself forward, up and out of the car only to find a hand in her way. A hand that moments ago was on her cheek. Oh god! What had she been thinking to let that happen? She was on an assignment, of sorts. Yes, this was a quasi-date, but it was still work!

  Mortification burned through her as she ignored the danger of his outstretched hand; his name shouted across the night air forced her take a step back.

  “Hold my hand, CJ.”

  Blue-eyed devil, deep blue sea. Either way she was going here, it was going to be blue. She could at least thank her parents for one thing. The deportment training at finishing school was finally coming in handy for something. Pasting a placid smile on her face, she slid her hand into his as he turned to face the crowd. Fireworks shot across her skin, making her grateful she only had to follow his lead as he made his way along the red stretch, greeting the stars by name, giving an easy smile for the press.

  “CJ. CJ! How’s the date going?”

  Turning her head at the screech, she pulled her lips into a warm PR smile her mother would have been proud of. “Follow me on Twitter and find out. It’s @cjstratt by the way.” She threw another smile over her shoulder and turned to leave.

  “Nicely played.” His warm breath tickled her nape, and she resisted the urge to lean against him for support at the sudden jellification of her legs. She was nervous, that was all. Yes, he was handsome. Scrap that, sex on legs would be a better comparison, but this was all nerves.

  “Thanks,” she replied, deliberately keeping her voice bland.

  “Seriously. I think I underestimated you. That was handled like a pro.”

  “Maybe you did, and if I were you, I wouldn’t do it again.”

  “Trust me. I won’t.” His words were crystal clear despite the loud audience behind them, the dark hypnotic pull of his gaze dragging her in.

  “Jack Harper. Jack, over here! Is the deal in trouble? Would this have happened on your brother’s watch? Any comments on Lulu Benton getting remarried?”

  The dark hypnotic sway crashed suddenly, ice forming where there had been heat, and she tilted her head to the side to encounter a determined journalist. Deal? Brother? What was he talking about? And who the heck was Lulu Benton?

  Not that she had much time to find out at the speed they were hurried along. At least the family portraits depicting the patron had been taken down inside the ornate doors, so it was doubtful she’d be recognised. In fact, she wouldn’t. Everyone would still be looking for the shy, mousy-haired brunette with thick glasses. Depositing her coat in the cloakroom, CJ pirouetted around, catching sight of her “date” on the other side of the hall. Surrounded by women. Typical! Well, this had been his idea, and he was right about one thing: They were in this together.

  Grabbing a champagne flute from a nearby tray, she began to make her way through the thick throng, where no one stopped to talk to her, until she encountered a wall. She lowered her head away from the gazes of the unfamiliar famous faces. It wasn’t surprising that history would repeat itself. Juggling her glass and purse, she reached for her phone, rolling her eyes at the stream of retweets and mentions.

  She had planned originally to tweet after the dates; however, with so much free time now, she may as well begin. The hairs rose on the back of her neck, a burning awareness skirting over her skin as a new instinct guided her to look across the crowded room. She found him almost instantly, his gaze locked onto her.

  • • •

  He had said formal, hadn’t he? Why was he expecting her to actually comply with his wishes? Not that he cared about what she was wearing. It was all about the deal. He tightened his grip around the thin stalk of the champagne flute. It was just the deal.

  This was not turning out how he had planned. He thought his initial attraction had been thanks to the challenge. He shouldn’t have touched her cheek. What had he been thinking? Or more factually, what part of him had been doing the thinking?

  Without the glasses and hair falling into her face, he could see her more clearly. Could see the faint spray of freckles across her nose, the smooth, pale line of her neck, the delicate hunch of her shoulders. The sequined, black strapl
ess top only succeeded in keeping his mind from his task, and he was grateful as the sound of a bell nearby signaled the start of the film. Setting his glass onto a nearby tray, he excused himself from the small group and made his way across the room, the crowd parting naturally for him as he knew it would.

  Pastel-coloured strands swirled amongst the white in the up-do on top of CJ’s head, her fingers flew over the brightly lit screen in front of her. If she had noticed his arrival, she hadn’t said; the feeling of being ignored was alien and unwelcome.

  “Having fun?”

  “Working. You?” He narrowed his eyes at her succinct reply.

  “These events are always a source of amusement for me,” he drawled. “Working on a date?”

  “This is a date-assignment.” She pushed the phone back into her bag, “We should go. The film is starting soon and people are starting to watch us.”

  “That bothers you, doesn’t it?” He watched her carefully through lowered lashes, curious about her reaction after her response to the press when they had been in the car.

  “Mmm, does being surrounded by an unknown crowd bother me? I work antisocial hours as a radio DJ slash agony aunt on a show that has only me and my producer in attendance. Let’s think about that question, shall we?” She tilted her head, bringing one black painted fingernail up to tap against her chin.

  She was an enigma. An enigma he was determined to crack. Since the infamous Lulu Benton’s, his ex-stepmother’s, allegations, he hadn’t allowed himself to get close to anyone to find out anything of consequence.

  CJ’s small gasp brought him back to the present, and he reached for her as she was knocked sideways, wrapping an arm around her and dragging her to him as the crowd surged forward. The subtle hint of a fruit mix hair product whispered across his face; her light blue eyes filled with bewilderment and ... what else he wasn’t sure and he didn’t have time to find out. He had a deal to complete. That was all.

  Stepping back, he dropped his hand. “There are no hard and fast rules with seating here, so ladies’ choice.” Careful to keep his tone neutral, he ignored his body’s heat, especially in those places her hands had landed.

  “Can’t wait.” Her tone was as excited as someone visiting the dentist. She made her way into the arena, oblivious to the heated stares of the surrounding males in the crowd. Stares that irritated him. He just didn’t understand why.

  • • •

  She would have had more fun visiting the dentist. At least they knocked you out before drilling. That film was like a live drill without the pain relief. CJ eyed the green digital clock above her in the limo, the small digits blinking slowly, proclaiming it now to be 8:05 p.m. The Tube would still be running if she made it to a station quickly, and she flicked her eyes over the still figure next to her. The moon gleamed through the dusty clouds, the midnight streetlights playing with shadows across his granite features as he stared out of the window.

  Clearing her throat, she sat up straighter in her seat, the sound directing her date’s eyes back to hers. She inhaled quickly, ignoring the bops of her heart at his slow smile. The man was really beyond reason! Even fake dating him was a big no-no. From what she had witnessed growing up, men like him, people like him, seemed to equate money with a god-given right to behave just how they pleased, regardless of the feelings of those around them. She had to get as far from him as she could and back to her stable, rich-man relationship-free reality.

  “So Jack, thanks for an um ... an evening, and just to save us all a long trip, why don’t you stop the car here? There is a station a few minutes’ walk away.”

  “A station. For what?”

  “Well the last time I checked, it had trains on it. The kind that go choo choo.” She stopped just short of rolling her contact lens-induced dry eyes at him.

  “Yes, I know what trains are. Why do you want it?”

  “Because at some point this morning, I would like to get home. You know, just a thought.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Like I’m going to tell you.” She sniffed.

  “You’re not going home at this hour on the Underground.” His tone was final.

  “I’m sorry, what? That sounded suspiciously like you’re not allowing me to go home.”

  “Don’t be so melodramatic. I am taking you home. We’re on a date, remember? That’s what dates do.”

  “Okay, I get it. You’ve ticked all the right boxes: flowers, movie, yadda yadda yadda. But you don’t have to take me home.” Why was he being so difficult? “Besides, unless you plan to drive in circles, then I’m not going to tell you my address.”

  “Okay.”

  That was too easy. Way too easy. She trusted him almost as much as she’d trust a pride of lions not to attack at feeding hour. Panic rose within her as he reached for the phone, the familiar soft voice of her producer floating through the air on the driver’s radio.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Annoyed at the screech in her own voice, she fell across Jack, swiping the phone from his hand and knocking it back onto the receiver. Her vain attempt to push herself back up failed and her hand encountered his thigh. Oh god! Did she move? Did she stay where she was? Seconds ticked by, her hand frozen into place, even as heat flooded through her, scorching her face

  “CJ. You might want to let go. Now.” The hissed warning near her ear broke through her panic and she pushed herself away quickly, sliding across the seat, her back landing against the opposite door of the limo with a thud, her hand curling around the squashed rose under her.

  The silence crackled between them, and she locked her gaze on the flattened rose between her fingers, trying hard not to focus on the mortification flooding through her like a tsunami. Strike two for professionalism.

  “It’s 8 Orchid Road, Acton, West London. That’s my address,” she managed, glad her voice sounded a lot calmer than she felt.

  He didn’t speak as he flipped a switch next to him, relaying the information to the driver before firmly returning his gaze to the road outside. Turning her head to do the same, she inhaled deeply. Date one, done. Only seven more to go.

  Chapter 3

  “Late night, CJ?”

  “Bite me, Bill!”

  Growling at the window that separated them, CJ slammed on her headphones, wincing as they squished her glasses against her head. She’d double-checked the papers—there was only a small section devoted to the dating challenge. As long as there was something, she didn’t care how many lines she took up. She wanted to post a full blog entry, only to be told that the bosses wanted it pulled in favor of more immediate tweets. Pulling her phone from her pocket, she scrolled through her tweets. There. It was the same as last night, straight-up truth, CJ style:

  Rose-tick; movie-tick (meh); Ride home-tick. #8dates1month with @HarperInc

  She wasn’t going to lie. Wasn’t that the whole point of this debacle? And in the world of radio, debacle apparently equaled ratings success if last night’s high caller numbers were a yardstick to judge by. Pushing the phone to one side, she reached for her cold coffee, draining it in one gulp before pulling the large, purple hood of her jumper over her head. Maybe if she could block out the world, she could also block her thoughts. Those dangerous thoughts that ignored her common sense in favor of dwelling on acts that even fantasizing about made her blush.

  “And go! Speedy intro then a caller for you, babes.” She pushed the hood back, narrowing her eyes as she saw her producer’s beaming smile. How come her producer sounded so happy? Yes, he was an upbeat person, but he never beamed. Rolling her shoulders, she sat up straighter. She could do this. She could and she would, even if the only thing she wanted at this point was to hide under a duvet with chocolate and reruns, far away from the memories of a certain blue-eyed devil.

  Pasting a wide smile on her face, she pulled the mic closer. “Good evening, listeners, and welcome to ‘The Midnight Hour’ with me, your host, CJ Stratt, where no problem is too big or too small. Make
sure you follow me on Twitter @cjstratt for updates of my ...” She paused, her mouth suddenly dry. What was it exactly? Making a face at her producer’s circular hand motion hurrying her along, she drew in a deep breath. “Dating challenge. Eight dates in one month with the one and only Jack Harper, who you may know, especially if you follow the financial pages on Twitter, is a big mover and shaker in the property market. Or even in the society pages where he has also got an impressive ... ah reputation.” Though she was sure women in that set probably used other words, she was restricted by the language she could use on air.

  “Without further ado, let’s welcome our first caller of the night. Hello there ...” Where was the caller ID? Normally it flashed up in green with a one-line overview of their problem.

  “Hi.” His smooth, familiar voice wreaked havoc with her senses, pushing her stomach into her throat, and her empty coffee cup hit the table with a bang as droplets sprayed over the equipment. Damn!

  “Hi.” She winced at her overly chirpy tone, then pulled her sleeves over her hands, moving them swiftly over the brown droplets.

  “What was that?” His voice was instantly alert.

  “Nothing, nothing at all!” she replied quickly, shooting her producer a death ray glare as tears of laughter poured down his face. “What can I help you with?”

  “I saw your tweet.”

  “And ...” She deliberately left it unfinished and tried to ignore her pulse now fluttering like a crazed butterfly.

  “And I was wondering what ‘meh’ means.”

  “Meh is slang for okay, fine.”

  “A London movie premiere is just meh?” His voice was sharper than before. Well, he didn’t scare her.

  “By some people’s standards.”

  “Standards you also share?”

  “Yep.”

  “And the reason for this is ... ?”

  “Movie dates, premieres or normal, aren’t always the best first dates in my honest opinion. After all, where is the ‘date’ in a movie date? You can’t talk to each other, can’t escape, and if it’s a really dull movie, you might be able to fall asleep without your date noticing, but only if you’re lucky.” She expected to hear the phone click instead of his cold tone seconds later.