The Tycoon

by Anna Jeffrey

  He had drifted into affairs, his interest mostly in sex—the raunchier the better—then drifted out when the pairings became burdensome. A few years ago, he started to be bored with seduction, had discovered sex was easier with a regular partner. But when words like “commitment” and “marriage” and even “love” cropped up, he always started for the door. He never led a woman to believe she had a long-term future with Drake Lockhart.

  Lately, he’d had some melancholy moments over the emptiness of his life. The idea of a caring permanent companion and a family had become more appealing. What was the point in piling up assets if you had no one to share them with?

  And he did have assets. Besides his part of the Double-Barrel Ranch, his company, Lockhart Concepts, owned stand-alone commercial buildings, fully occupied strip malls and apartment complexes with high occupancy rates. Despite what was going on at the Double-Barrel and how the disastrous economy had affected the real estate market, he was coming to the end of an enormously successful year. His broker/agents had put together deals that had brought more commissions than ever into his company. Early in the year, his company had purchased several assets out of bankruptcies—one being a fifty-story office/retail building in downtown Dallas. His personal worth had grown significantly.

  All of that was good for his financial statement and pumping up his ego, but on a cold night, he couldn’t have sex or curl up for warmth with a skyscraper.

  But letting his mother know he had those thoughts even occasionally would be like waving a red cape in front of a mad bull. From thin air, she would produce a parade of women who wanted to get married.

  And thinking about his mother, there she was. Drake spotted her over the heads of the

  crowd. She had told him she would be here with Barron Wilkes. Drake made a mental sigh. If his mother had to have a boyfriend, he wished to hell it was someone other than a retired Realtor and land developer notorious for his crooked streak.

  Chapter 6

  In the ivory marble ladies’ room, Shannon yanked off her wet shoes and stockings and spent five minutes drying them by passing them back and forth under the blast of warm air from the hand dryer. Then she used wads of damp paper towels trying to remove spots and stains from her skirt where water had splashed up from the sidewalk.

  Finally, she stared in horror at her reflection in the wide vanity mirror. The least bit of humidity affected her thick, naturally curly hair, a curse from her mother’s side. At home, she had spent an hour straightening it into a smooth waterfall that fell past her shoulders. Now, after exposure to so much dampness, it had sprung into an aura of unruly red ringlets. She did not want the wealthy and sophisticated guests she would meet this evening to see her as some wild creature with out-of-control hair.

  “Oh, hell,” she mumbled.

  A part of her wanted to give up and go home, but she couldn’t. She had waited three months for this. Had bought the dress, bought the shoes and finagled a free ticket, none of which was returnable for a refund.

  She had no hairpins, no clip, no tools except a tiny hair pick. Mumbling a litany of cusswords, she dug the hair pick out of her clutch and went to work. After she finished, she had a saucy curly do with loose wisps and tendrils.

  She moved on to her makeup, attempting to preserve it by gingerly patting her face with another sheet of paper toweling, then tried to touch up her blush and lipstick. Hell. Just hell. Half her makeup was gone. She was such a mess, she could be in the ladies’ room all evening redressing herself and applying new makeup, in which case she would never make it to the party.

  Giving up, she plopped onto a thickly upholstered love seat and pulled on the warm thigh-high stockings. At least the warmth brought sensation back to her feet. Her toes had started to sting.

  She rose and reverted her attention to her dress, tugging and straightening. In her mind, it had become The Dress. She had never owned anything like it. Sparkling when the light struck them just right, strategically placed mirror sequins adorned the long-sleeved, floor-length swatch of dark green fabric. The mesh knit clung to her figure in all the right places except for where it showed bare skin.

  With the neckline cut in a deep V in front and an even deeper one in back, it had a sewn-in uplift bra. She lifted and molded her ample breasts until they felt comfortable in the cups. Without a real bra with hooks and straps, she felt naked, which was bad enough, but what was worse, half of a yellow rose tattoo on the slope of her left breast peeked out of the neckline’s edge. On her pale skin, it stood out as if it were neon.

  The image wasn’t huge, the flower being roughly the size of a half dollar. Nor was it ugly. As tattoos went, the artistry was good. Though it was ten years old, the lines were still crisp and clear, the yellow petals and green leaves still clean and bright.

  She hated it. Too often when she saw it, the recollection of the night she had gotten it and the guy she had let convince her it was a good idea came back.

  Fairly certain none of tonight’s guests sported tattoos on their breasts, she adjusted and rearranged until the yellow rose was out of sight. Then, on a sigh, she stuffed a basketball-size wad of paper towels into the trash, picked up her jacket and tramped toward the elevators.

  As she rode to the second floor, her alter-ego pecked at her, forcing her to remind herself again why being here had seemed like such a good idea, why mingling with this crowd had felt so important. But before she could finish that argument, the elevator stopped, the doors glided open and she was only steps away from the Grand Ballroom’s entrance.

  She paused beneath a wide archway, looking out over the room. The party was under way, the huge room packed. Above the din of many voices she could hear a distant mellow saxophone blowing “Merry Christmas.”

  She had expected this to be a fashion show and she had been right. The men wore tuxes, the women had on high-fashion frocks, probably by designer names Shannon had only read about or seen in Neiman Marcus. Names like Armani, Versace, Badgley Mischka. Now she was glad she had bought The Dress.

  Though excitement hummed from the roots of her mind-of-its-own hair to the soles of her frozen feet, she hesitated.

  Come on, you’re here, the alter-ego’s rival told her. You wanted to mingle with these big shots, so go for it!

  Nearby she saw a long white-clothed table where several well-dressed women were taking the white and gold-embossed invitations with manicured fingers and dropping them into a big fishbowl. Thank God she had an invitation, although she noticed that not every guest was asked to authenticate him or herself by showing one.

  A steward approached and asked for her coat, pointing out a makeshift closet in the left front corner of the room. She handed over the black jacket, feeling guilty because she had no cash for tips. She’d had so many other things on her mind, she hadn’t thought of it.

  As the steward whisked her coat away, she drew a deep breath, opened her clutch and pulled out the invitation her colleague had given her. She passed it to a perfectly-coiffed middle-aged woman wearing a light-fracturing rock on her ring finger. A chubby balding man stood at her shoulder, ogling Shannon’s chest. Fearing her tattoo showed, Shannon pressed her silver clutch against her breast and sidled away from the table.

  She squeezed into the crowd where throngs of the well heeled and impeccably dressed schooled like glittering fish among tinsel and colored lights. She had attended some professional events over the course of her six-year real estate career—meetings, seminars, parties, even—but she had never attended anything quite like this.

  Energy and the smell of money filled the air. She imagined passionate conversations about profits and deals that would make sweeping changes somewhere. Stewards rushed about carrying trays of colorful drinks. She spotted a table with a multi-tiered ice sculpture lorded over platters of artfully arranged boiled shrimp. Other trays held a variety of sushi delights and a dozen different kinds of canapés.

  On another table stood a flowing chocolate fountain that saturated the air a
round it with the decadent aroma of the rich dark brown condiment. Plates and plates of fruits and nuts and little cakes for dipping surrounded it. One huge tray held chocolate-dipped strawberries decorated to look like little tuxedos and lined up like soldiers. She instantly thought of taking one home to Grammy Evelyn, but couldn’t figure out how. One wouldn’t fit into her clutch without being squashed and making a big mess.

  Never having witnessed or been a part of such blatant excess, she was as awe-struck as if she were at Disneyland. Sheer fascination chased away her initial fears and she was happy she had come. She eased through the room, watching one person she recognized as a Fort Worth politician, listening to another well-known TV anchor woman whose voice she recognized without seeing her face.

  An inexplicable emotion rose from deep within her. Not envy, but something more like a

  weighty longing. For her whole rocky and uncertain existence, she had wanted to someday, somehow, be a woman of substance, a person who had earned a place in a room like this. Now, for the first time in her life, that nebulous pining seemed like a possibility. She might have experienced a few detours on her journey to this point, might have behaved impulsively, might have made some errors in judgment, but she had put her life on track now. She had learned self-discipline and goal setting and these days, there was little she would let deter her from her chosen path to success.

  Letting herself be carried along by the crowd, she sought Jordan Palmer, the man who had provided her with entrée to this hoity-toity soiree. They didn’t have a real date. With an air of the huckster about him, Jordan wasn’t a man she would ever feel comfortable dating. They had run into each other in a continuing education class a few months back. When he told her he had an extra ticket to this affair and no one to use it, she had offered to buy it from him. He had refused her money and given it to her for free.

  Shannon might be a small town girl, but she hadn’t just fallen off a turnip truck. He expected something in return for the ticket. Most likely sex. She had no intention of sleeping with him, which was why she had told him she would meet him here rather than accompany him.

  He had said to look for him near the stage. Inch by inch she made it to the center of the swarm. The din increased to a roar, the sound of the saxophone grew louder, so she must be nearing the stage. A few more steps and she saw a small tuxedoed orchestra on a platform. A parquet dance floor lay in front of it and a few couples moved around to the strains of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

  A giant Christmas tree, soaring toward the high ceiling and twinkling with hundreds of white lights and draped with thick ropes of gold garland stood at the corner of the dance floor. Red balls the size of volleyballs hung from its branches. While she stared up at it in amazement, Jordan emerged from behind it and came toward her. He looked sleek and handsome in his tux and cummerbund in a GQ casual way. Jordan might not be her kind of man, but she had to admit, with his black hair slicked back and wearing a tux and cummerbund, he was easy on a woman’s eyes.

  “Hey, you made it,” he said. “After the weather moved in, I thought you might not risk the drive.”

  Shannon tucked her clutch under her arm as she and Jordan touched cheeks and kissed air. “After you gave me a ticket and I bought a dress, no way would I miss it.” She gave a foolish laugh. God, she was almost giddy.

  “And that is some dress, gal.” He stood back, holding her fingertips with his, and gave a low whistle. His eyes moved up to her face. “And your hair. I’ve never seen your hair like that. You make these women here look like frogs.”

  And hearing a compliment like that made Shannon feel like a red carpet celebrity. She struck a playful hand-on-hip pose. “Why, thank you, Jordan.”

  He led them away from the dance floor to a quieter part of the room. “Have any trouble on the road?”

  “Not a bit. It’s a little misty, but not quite cold enough for ice.”

  “It’s not supposed to freeze. Just be cold and nasty.”

  As a server strolled past carrying a tray of flutes of champagne, Jordan lifted two off the tray and handed one to Shannon. “So how’s your Benbrook deal coming? Wrapped it up yet?”

  He referred to her first commercial sale—a deal on a forty-year-old apartment complex she had been coddling and petting for eight months, saying a silent prayer every day for it to close. That very sale was one of the accomplishments that made her believe she was qualified to move among this crowd. At least she had something to talk about. She accepted the glass of champagne. “Not yet, but soon.”

  “You’ve resolved all the problems, then?”

  Somehow, through the professional grapevine, Jordan had heard about the sale’s many snarls and snags and called her, offering to walk her through it. She had suspected a trap. She knew of no time Jordan had ever done anything underhanded to her personally, but she had heard plenty about him from others in the business. She didn’t believe for a minute he had offered to help her out of the goodness of his heart. He wanted part of the commission. She angled a playful look at him. “Hah. If getting me into this fancy wingding and showering me with compliments is a new tactic for horning in on my deal, you’d better try another approach.”

  Jordan slapped a palm against his chest, gasped and frowned. “You wound me, darlin’. Do you think I’m that clever?”

  She chuckled, looking out over the crowd. “You’re a total shark, Jordan. And I’m still saying I’m claiming that Benbrook payday all for myself. I need that whole commission and I don’t need anyone’s help.”

  And at that moment, glancing over the rim of her glass and across the room, as if the mob had parted just for her, a tall man some forty feet away caught Shannon’s eye. Her first thought was how different he looked from the others in the room, like a nineteenth century throwback who might walk outside, mount his horse and ride away.

  An odd quiver shimmied through her stomach and as if a magnet held her eyes, she couldn’t keep from staring.

  He was wearing a Texas tux, as were many of the men in the room—starched and ironed jeans, Wanglers, perhaps, or possibly Cinch—with a black tuxedo coat. The well-tailored jacket stretched across wide shoulders and emphasized a narrow waist. She didn’t see a tie. Instead, he wore one of those old-fashioned-looking collarless shirts. And cowboy boots. If he wasn’t in Texas—and Fort Worth, Texas, at that—he would look glaringly out of place.

  He was too far away for her to see his face clearly, but his hair was a rich shade of brown, slightly sun-streaked. He had one of those sexy haircuts. Neither short nor long and skillfully layered to appear unruly and orderly at the same time.

  He looked familiar, but Shannon came in contact with so many people, she often saw those who looked familiar but weren’t. Celebrity sightings were well known in North Texas and the NCHA World Finals were happening right now, a horse culture that was rife with big time celebrity horse owners. Was he someone famous? For a moment she speculated—cutting horse breeder, rodeo or country music star, professional athlete. Too young to be an oilman.

  This is silly, she thought. She had no idea who he was and would never know.

  Engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation with a shorter, animated man, one of his hands clasped the bowl of a champagne glass. The other was stuffed into his jeans pocket, pushing back his coattail. He looked to be as relaxed as if he were having a drink in his den at the ranch as opposed to a fancy hotel ballroom.

  Among the many things Shannon had learned in real estate sales was that she had an uncanny knack for reading people. Whoever and whatever this guy was, just watching his body language, she could tell he was a total alpha male. He had it—that maxed-out testosterone level, that arcane male confidence that had always caused her brain to short circuit.

  Instinct told her that underneath his clothing was a well-structured mass of powerful masculine energy. He would be a hunter, a fisherman, a poker-player—one of the boys. His credo would be lead, follow or get out of my way. That same instinc
t told her he was a man who went after what he wanted and got it—including women. Oh, he was bad all right. Bad to the bone.

  As if all of those attributes weren’t enough, that same instinct told her something else. He would be hot in bed. At that thought, a warm tingle buzzed in her most secret regions and she felt a flush crawl up her neck. Lust. Raw and pure. Recognizing it, she fought it. She had to. She was a different woman now.

  Though her good sense took control and determined the wisest thing was to give him a wide berth, the part of her she had never quite been able to control when it came to bad boys, the part that had driven her into regrettable associations in the past, wouldn’t allow her to stop watching him. Looking in a candy store window did no harm, did it?

  “You look flushed,” Jordan said. “You okay?”

  Trying to will her erratic pulse to calm, she gave a silly titter. “This crowd must be making me nervous.” She nodded toward the man who had seized her attention. “Who is that?” she asked.

  “Who, the tall guy in jeans or the other guy?”

  “The tall one.”

  “You don’t recognize one of Texas Monthly’s most eligible bachelors?”

  Shannon detected a sneer in Jordan’s comment. She didn’t subscribe to Texas Monthly. The only place she ever read it was in her dentist’s office. “No, I guess I don’t.”

  “It was two or three years ago. That’s his highness, Drake Lockhart.”

  She suppressed a gasp. If one was a part of the real estate world, one would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to know of the cosmic Drake Lockhart. Articles about him appeared often in newspapers and trade journals. If he was still a bachelor, she had no doubt he had been deemed most eligible by any woman who ever met him.