The Tycoon's Wager

by Olivia Logan

  It left her in social limbo.

  Smiling at the nearby bellboy, CJ dug into her purse, grabbing a handful of notes as he reached for her bag and led her to the swinging gold doors of the hotel to deposit her in front of a large limo. She slid inside, letting the heat from the car and the man who sat opposite her wrap itself around her.

  “Now can I ask where we are going?”

  “You can ask.”

  “But let me guess, that doesn’t mean I’ll be guaranteed an answer, right?” Huffing at his minimal nod, she dragged her gaze to the view outside as he reached for his buzzing tablet.

  “If nothing else, you’ll get an A for effort. After all, what woman wouldn’t want to be flown on a private jet and spend the night in a luxury hotel with a skiing trip thrown in.” She was careful to keep her reply breezy, her attention still fixed on the snowy mountains and bobbing figures of skiers, trying to ignore the image Jack made in casual grey suit trousers and polo jumper covered by a long, black coat. The effort not to fan herself made her bite her tongue.

  “You, apparently,” he replied dryly.

  “Yes, but not all women can be like me. But I have given you the A.”

  “In that case, I thank you,” he replied, his voice laced with sarcasm. “That would be the first A I have got for anything.”

  That got her attention.

  “Really? But I would have thought you would have to go to business school or something to work in your industry. I mean, I know it’s technically a family business, but I’m assuming some training was required.”

  “The answer is yes to both questions.”

  “And you had to have passed?” she queried, moving around to face him.

  “Pass, yes.” His voice brokered no further questions. “What about you? Did you have to go to Agony Aunt school?” An odd bubble of warmth rose up within her. The few people she allowed into her inner circle never really asked her about her job, let alone how she came to be in it.

  “Not quite.” She could tell him how she had been able to fix relationship problems most of her life. All except her own, that was. She could tell him, but she wouldn’t. “Like most people, I went in via the media route by doing a degree at Queen’s University in London, and I took a few psychology units along the way. Pretty standard stuff.” She shrugged. The scenery gave way to concrete motorways and signs for the airport illuminated on bright blue backgrounds.

  “We’re going to the airport?” she asked slowly. What kind of plan was this? Maybe he was trying to throw her off balance by serpentining, like creatures in the wild.

  “You didn’t think we’d be staying here for breakfast?” That was genuine surprise in his voice.

  “Well, gee, I guess I did. After all, the restaurant is perfectly adequate.”

  “Not for what I have in mind.”

  The urge to ask what that was died almost instantly on her lips. Since she wasn’t going to get an answer, she may as well save her breath.

  She leaned back against the soft leather seats as the car rolled to a halt on the private tarmac of the aerodrome, waiting for the wheels’ silent stop before pushing the door open. She knew, thanks to her grandmother’s many lectures, that it was bad form not to wait for the chauffeur, but between the private jet and skiing trip, she wasn’t sure how much more luxury she could take. It had taken her a solid two years after university to wean herself off her old lifestyle and learn how to do things for herself. She was not prepared for all those lessons to be for naught, especially when she had two perfectly working hands to do it for herself.

  Hopping, as much as the coat would allow her, out of the car, she turned to see Jack follow, a grimace etched on his face.

  “You do know that—”

  “It’s not polite to open the door when that is what the chauffeur gets paid to do?” She was pleased to see annoyance flash over his face before it was quickly masked under his usual cold countenance. “Get over it. It’s a door,” she bit back, shrugging before walking toward the plane, mindful of her flapping coat, thanks to the wind, as she boarded the steps.

  Were there any other seats other than the ones facing each other? She scanned the small plane, her stomach dropping as she realized the answer was no. Sliding into the closest one, she fixed her gaze firmly on the floor. It didn’t feel like that long ago since she had been in a similar plane, flying to the Alps. Maybe because it wasn’t that long ago. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her phone, not surprised the screen had gone haywire again. What had he tweeted this time?

  Her eyes widened as she spotted the latest. No wonder people, mostly the women listeners, were going insane.

  Breakfast dans Paris avec @cjstratt. Surprise #Paris #8dates1month

  “We are honestly going to Paris to just eat breakfast?”

  • • •

  Jack couldn’t tell if she was annoyed, excited or somewhere between the two. Sliding into the seat opposite, he fought back the urge to lean across and take off her glasses, the better to look into her eyes as he had last night at dinner. Despite his allergy to berries, he had been up all night imagining those ends of hers spread across his sheets. He rubbed his hand across his face. He was tired, that was all. Yes, he was attracted to her, but it was tiredness and worry about the deal that was contributing to his hallucinations.

  “Surprise,” he said, his bland tone at odds with the happy promise of the comment, and from her narrow-eyed expression he could tell she had seen the tweet.

  “But is it, though? I’m learning fast with you that surprises are a common occurrence.”

  “I have my moments.”

  “Like date moments?”

  “Like date moments,” he agreed, watching as she settled back against the chair with no further mention of the date or question about where they were going. The morning sun caught her white hair, making her as fragile as a snow queen.

  He had spent the best part of his morning at the gym, usually his best time for thinking, but he still hadn’t been able to figure her out. Not only was she some kind of expert skier, but she also spoke fluent French. He could have used her at the earlier meetings when the deal had begun to go south and Nasser and his team began to converse in French. His only consolation was knowing that the CEO of Rakena Investments spoke as little French as he did.

  “Where did you learn to speak French? Or should I rephrase and say speak it fluently?”

  Her bespectacled gaze swept over him before returning to the window, her fingers winding their way around and around the phone in her lap. He’d never known her to be nervous. Sarcastic, annoyed, yes. But never nervous.

  “Like I said, I’m a fast learner,” she replied slowly, her voice neutral, emotionless.

  “A French love as your teacher, perhaps?” he taunted softly, waiting for a quick-witted remark from the still figure. Instead he was intrigued to spot the telltale blush rise up her neck, unsure whether the shake of her head was in answer to his question or a vain attempt to halt the flow of the pink glow creeping across her face.

  “It’s not always about sex, you know.” She huffed lightly, her eyes coming back to him as her fingers continued their twisting movements.

  He blinked in innocence at her statement. “Who said it was? I used the term love, not lover. You came to that conclusion all by yourself. Maybe, agony aunt, you would care to talk about your ... how did you term it again? Relations. Sorry, my mistake. Relationships. Funny how some words get lost in translation.”

  Swallowing back the laughter that was creeping up his throat, he leaned across the small space, flicking a finger underneath her dropped jaw. The soft touch seemed to shake her from wherever she had gone, and she jerked away from him, her eyes wide under the dark rims.

  “No, I don’t care to discuss it, thank you.” The tightness in her voice lent it a lilt he had never heard in her before. He had heard that somewhere before. No, that couldn’t be right. She couldn’t be the same person he was thinking of. First, that was ten or so
years ago, and second, he hadn’t even been sure of the conversation at the time, thanks to the open bar.

  “I was told once that keeping things in isn’t healthy,” he continued.

  “Maybe keeping it in in the first place wouldn’t have landed you in this dilemma.”

  “Keep it in? What exactly is the ‘it’ you are referring to?” He was enjoying the way color bled into her cheeks at his suggestive intonation, her small pink tongue poking out and over her lower lip. He bit back a groan at the movement and pulled at his collar. He sat back, pressing the buzzer to his side to call a flight attendant. He needed a drink, and as the clock above him informed him it was only half ten, then something with ice would have to do. The pressure of the deal was making him nuts. The deal was meant to show his more gentlemanly qualities, not to mention CJ didn’t strike him as the kind of woman to have a fling. After witnessing the manipulation that could happen at the hands of a long-term commitment, he was loathe to make any relationship a serious one.

  CJ cleared her throat, her fingers’ movements around the black skull phone now still. “I meant your feelings. Keeping your feelings in landed you in this mess.”

  “I’m curious. Do you always talk to your dates like this?” He was careful to keep his voice as neutral and cool as possible, like hers.

  “No, but this isn’t like real dating, is it? It’s more like a business transaction. A wager. Isn’t that what you called it on the show at the start? A wager for you to impress me so I tweet what a nice guy you are.”

  “Nice wasn’t part of the ideal word list choice I was after.”

  “What word or words were you after then?”

  “Trustworthy. Reliable.” He signaled the drink he wanted from the menu to the hovering waitress.

  “For the deal. That would make sense,” CJ continued, but thanks to her half murmur, he was unsure who she was talking to exactly. “You know, people trust people who share what they feel. They can then relate and come to rely on you. It’s a cycle of sorts,” she finished knowledgeably.

  That may be the case, but if those were the terms, he would find a way to negotiate around them. He always had and always would.

  Chapter 6

  Jack: Even the breakfast in Paris date!...

  Pulling the large, oversized, misshapen, spotty robe around her, CJ snuggled further down into her sofa, letting the silence of her flat wash over her. After the last few manic days, she needed to hear nothing. More specifically the nothing of an unusual Anglo-American accent.

  Scrolling down to the reply panel on her text messages, she let her fingers slide over the flat alphabet, biting back a curse as the autocorrect decided it wanted to send a different kind of text message.

  CJ: I have been positive. Take that as a good sign. Your reputation may have hope yet.

  She flicked back to twitter quickly to remind herself of her tweet from last night. Not that she really needed to, she knew. She knew exactly what it said. She just had no idea why he was getting so uppity about it.

  @cjstratt #8dates1month Breakfast in #Paris—Lovely! JH-Attentive

  Why was she not surprised when her text reply was answered quickly.

  Jack: How is that a good sign?

  The man was really impossible! He seemed to think that just because she agreed to this preposterous idea, she miraculously turned into one of his employees and would obey his rules. It had been a long time since she had to follow anyone’s “rules” and she liked it that way. Hunching over she typed quickly.

  CJ: I said you were attentive. That’s better than what you had, trust me. And breakfast was lovely and you were attentive. What is there left to say?

  What did he think she was going to do? Mention how she felt when he held her? Still, she begrudgingly had to admit that, thanks to these “dates” and their tweets, she had regained her audience.

  CJ rolled her eyes as a ping announced another message.

  Jack: So you pick a date. I should have back 2 back meetings over the next few days, but will cancel. Date five the night after tomorrow.

  No. She wouldn’t, couldn’t do it. Especially not the night after tomorrow. That was Valentine’s Day and the one show where she really felt she put her gift to good use. It also happened to be the one night when she was grateful for work so she wouldn’t have to be what seemed like the only person in the checkout lines buying a meal for one.

  CJ: No. Valentine’s Day night. Working.

  Jack: They have cover for you, and VD is the perfect date night.

  She stifled a snort of laughter as she replied.

  CJ: I doubt VD is perfect for any night. Besides, need I remind you that you are to pick the dates. That is the whole point.

  Jack: Ladies’ choice on VALENTINE’S DAY. Hopefully somewhere that will be more than “lovely.”

  Tapping the phone restlessly against her chin, CJ let her mind wander over suitable places she had heard of. Nope, none of them would do. She needed something else, something different. She needed ... a smile twisted up the corners of her mouth. It was the perfect place.

  CJ: Okay. Meet at NW1 3ZQ at 7.

  For once she wasn’t going to be the one trying to squeeze into his world.

  Jack: Fine.

  Biting back a squeal, she jumped off the sofa, swivelling 180 toward her flat’s wardrobe. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed aspects of the other dates, but for the first time since the dates had started, she didn’t have the flurry of nerves that had accompanied them. Just a deep-seated feeling that this was going to be just ... fun!

  • • •

  This was the perfect place. It was small and intimate and affordable for her tastes. Not that she technically couldn’t have afforded the other places, but she made a point of not dipping into the savings account her parents had set up for her since birth. A savings account that, she admitted ruefully to herself, had gathered interest and, thanks to the early investments her parents had made, was sitting near to the one million mark. Money she had promised herself she would not touch if she could make her own. Money with a price attached that was too high to pay.

  A flick of light caught her attention and she breathed a sigh of relief as a bicycle rode past. She had expected full-on press, if her bosses had their way. She’d barely managed to kill their idea of a live date cam accompanying her, instead agreeing to a phone-in competition for the listener who could guess their date location, knowing the small venue would keep the audience on their toes.

  CJ stepped back as a cab pulled up to the nearby curb, her eyes widening as Jack stepped out in front of her. She wasn’t sure which shocked her first, the lack of a limo or how human he looked. Not that the black jean and jumper combo still didn’t manage to make him look like something from a watch advert, but she had only ever seen him in suits ... or ski suits.

  “Good evening, CJ.” His smooth tones whispered across her lightly covered skin, and she fought back the urge to lean toward him, reenacting the moment she promised herself she’d forget.

  “Good evening, Jack. You look different. Nice! I mean nice. You look nice,” she stammered, correcting herself quickly.

  “Thanks, but isn’t that the guy’s line?”

  “That’s a bit of an archaic view.”

  “Would it be archaic to say you look beautiful?”

  Tingles of awareness shot through her as he stepped closer, his powerful shoulders making everything else unimportant. The scent she had been trying to avoid inhaling wrapped itself around her—just this once, she would allow herself the indulgent luxury of being close to him, letting his scent take hold of her senses. Just him.

  “This old thing?” she replied laughingly, carefully smoothing down the brand-new, crimson, lace-covered dress under the black wrap.

  “I have something for you.”

  CJ could feel her stomach somersault as he reached into his jeans pocket, the whole world suddenly in slow motion as a small box emerged. The dark blue velvet was soft against her fingers, the fabric tic
kling her palm as he opened out her hand, placing it delicately inside.

  Flicking it open, her jaw dropped as she carefully lifted out a small sapphire and pearl brooch, the light from the nearby restaurant reflecting over the blue stone, highlighting its many facets.

  “Jack. I ... I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say.” Her words were a whisper as she turned over the brooch, her heart hammering against her ribs.

  “Usually people say thank you,” he commented dryly.

  “In that case, thank you, but most people also only get roses or chocolates for Valentine’s Day.” She peeked at him from under her lashes.

  “I’m not most people. Shall we go inside?” He turned toward the building, his eyes following the neon sign advertising the name of the owner as opera music carried over the still air. “Interesting choice of place.”

  “I thought so. I came here once or twice before.” She paused as she felt his arm wrap around her waist, keeping her eyes fixed on the bright lights in the window and trying not to lose herself in his loose embrace. To the casual observer, they were meant to be on a loving Valentine’s Day date. At least part of that scenario was true. They were on a date on Valentine’s Day.

  Sniffing deeply the herbal scents around her, CJ fought the urge to pat her grumbling stomach. She had spent so long catching up on tweeting advice through the day—part of her new responsibilities—she had forgotten to grab anything more than soup.

  “Hi, I have a reservation under the name of Stratt. CJ Stratt.” She smiled politely at the man behind the hostess stand, frowning as he looked past her to Jack, recognition dawning. A listener? Possibly. Broken hearts came in all shapes and sizes. Reaching for the menu being waved in front of her face, she frowned as other waiters also stopped and stared, the frown deepening by the time she squeezed into the crammed booth allotted. She pulled the menu up for closer inspection.

  “Jack Harper. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming tonight? It’s been too long, my friend!”