by Cara Colter
He may still be Prince Charming...
But does she still believe in fairy tales?
The last six years of Bree Evans’s personal life have been such a disaster that she’s determined to stick to what she’s good at—her blossoming cookie business. But when her gorgeous teenage crush, Brand Wallace—now a sleek internet tycoon—crosses her path again and sweeps her into his world, Bree’s forced to ask herself...what really is a life without love?
The way Bree was looking at Brand now, her face so radiant, a person so capable of wonder after all that had happened to her, it asked him about the nature of bravery.
It asked him if he could be a better man.
It asked him if he could stand the loneliness of going back to a life that didn’t have her in it.
There was a possibility he was constitutionally unsuited to the world he saw shining in her eyes like a beacon calling a weary soldier home.
But he had warned her of that. He had tried to tell her.
And this was what she was trying to tell him: she was not the innocent girl he’d escorted to her prom any longer.
She was a woman, capable of making her own choices, capable of embracing all the risks of the unknown.
Love. The greatest unknown of all.
Dear Reader,
This has been a year of changes for me. My daughter moved away from our town. Since she’s in love, and she now lives in the most gorgeous place imaginable, how could that be anything but good?
Then, though I am usually extremely introverted, I became quite vocal on a contentious local political issue. I have lost some of my privacy, but gained a sense of having a voice and a right to my opinion, even if it is not popular.
One more huge change: my husband and I, after living in the same house for twenty-five years, moved to a new piece of property. He built me the most adorable little writing cottage, and we are living in it until our main house is done.
Whether I perceive these changes as good or bad isn’t really the point. Change is stressful.
And so to come home to Harlequin has been a great comfort to me in this time of changes. These stories are for me as well as for you—a happy escape. They create a world where kindness and decency prevail and, of course, where the happy ending is guaranteed. They are an affirmation of the power of love, and I am grateful to you for sharing this world with me.
Warmest wishes,
Cara
Swept into the Tycoon’s World
Cara Colter
Cara Colter shares her life in beautiful British Columbia, Canada, with her husband, nine horses and one small Pomeranian with a large attitude. She loves to hear from readers, and you can learn more about her and contact her through Facebook.
Books by Cara Colter
Harlequin Romance
The Vineyards of Calanetti
Soldier, Hero...Husband?
The Gingerbread Girls
Snowflakes and Silver Linings
Battle for the Soldier’s Heart
Snowed in at the Ranch
Second Chance with the Rebel
How to Melt a Frozen Heart
Rescued by the Millionaire
The Millionaire’s Homecoming
Interview with a Tycoon
Meet Me Under the Mistletoe
The Pregnancy Secret
Housekeeper Under the Mistletoe
The Wedding Planner’s Big Day
Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.
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To Kymber, the man my daughter has given her heart to.
Praise for
Cara Colter
“The story is filled with romantic scenes, from swimming lessons, to picnics, and dancing under the stars. There’s humor and laughter, there’s pain and sorrow, but most of all, there’s a love that heals the broken hearts, and brings these two lonely souls together.”
—Goodreads on Soldier, Hero...Husband?
Contents
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
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EXCERPT FROM SURPRISE BABY, SECOND CHANCE BY THERESE BEHARRIE
CHAPTER ONE
“WHO IS THAT?” Chelsea’s whisper was breathless.
Bree Evans shot her young assistant an exasperated look. “You’ve got to stop it. We were asked at the briefing not to gawk at the celebrities. It’s part of our agreement to provide sample products and a display for this event. To be strictly professional. No staring. No autographs. No—”
Chelsea, unaware, or uncaring, that she was jeopardizing Bree’s big break, was not paying the least bit of attention to her boss. Instead she was standing completely frozen, a neatly gift-wrapped box of Kookies for All Occasions’ Love Bites in her hand. Bree followed her gaze, looking toward the outside door that led into the foyer area of the concert hall, where they were setting up.
Oh, no.
“Who is that?” Chelsea whispered again.
Oh, no. Had she said it out loud?
He was everything Bree remembered, only more. She had not seen him, in person, anyway, for six years. Though it hardly seemed possible, in that time his presence had multiplied. He had lost any hint of boyish slenderness, and the gorgeous lines of his face had settled into maturity. His dark brown hair, which she remembered as untamed, touching his collar and sweeping across his forehead, was now cut short and neatly groomed, as befit his position.
“It’s Brand Wallace,” Bree said carefully. She positioned herself with her back to the doorway he was coming through. Her heart was beating way too fast. Good grief. Her palms were sweating.
“Like in Braveheart?” Chelsea gasped.
“That was Mel Gibson,” Bree explained with what was left of her patience. “Gibson played the part of William Wallace—he wasn’t William Wallace.”
Still, even though she didn’t want to, Bree understood why Brand would make her young assistant think of brave hearts. There was something about him, and always had been—a way of moving with supreme grace and confidence that suggested a warrior, a man who was certain in his own strength and courage and capabilities.
Chelsea was still totally distracted. “I have never seen a more stunning example of the male of the species. Never.”
Despite ordering herself not to, Bree slid another careful look at the doorway. She had to give Chelsea that. Brand Wallace was a stunning example of the male species!
He’d stopped just inside the double glass doors, his head tilted toward Shelley Grove, organizer of the Stars Come Out at Night, a charity gala to help fund the construction of a new wing for Children’s Hospital.
Shelley had her hand cozily on his arm and was beaming up at him. He was steel, and women were magnets drawn to him.
Though the room was beginning to fill with well-known celebrities, many of whom were in Vancouver—“Hollywood North,” as it was so
metimes called—filming television series and movies, he stood out from all of them.
Even surrounded by some of the world’s most dazzling people, there was something about him that was electric. It sizzled in the air around him, sensual and compelling.
He was in a sports jacket that, by the cut, hang and fit, was obviously designer. It showed the breadth of his shoulders, the power in him. White shirt—no doubt silk—and no tie. The shirt was tucked into dark jeans that clung to the hard lines of his thighs.
He was as fit and muscular, as outdoorsy-looking, as he had been when he’d worked as a summer student for her dad’s landscaping company.
Brand made the extremely famous actor, who was standing a short distance away from him, look small and very, very ordinary.
“I’m sure I know who he is,” Chelsea said, her tone mulling. “I’ve seen him in something. Warriors of the New Age? No, I know all of them. Maybe that new series. You know the one? Where the lady time-travels and the gorgeous guy—”
“He’s not an actor,” Bree said. “Chelsea, please put the cookies out. We only have twenty minutes until the official start time and I—”
She had to what? Leave, obviously. Before he saw her.
“But I know who he is,” Chelsea said. “I’m sure of it.” She unwillingly turned back to emptying the cookie-filled boxes, her body angled sideways so she could keep casting glances his way.
“You probably saw him on the cover of City magazine,” Bree said. “That’s why you feel as if you know who he is. Could you put a row of Devilishly Decadent at the end of the display?”
“Brand Wallace,” Chelsea announced, way too loudly. “The billionaire! You’re right! City had him on the cover. I couldn’t turn around without seeing that glorious face on every newsstand! I don’t usually buy it, but I did. He founded an internet start-up company that went insane with success—”
Bree shot a look to the doorway. Apparently he had heard Chelsea yelling his name like a teenager who had spotted her rock-star idol. He was casting a curious look in their direction.
Bree did not want him to see her. She particularly did not want him to see her in her Kookies outfit. She and Chelsea were both wearing the uniforms she had designed, and Chelsea had sewn. Until precisely three minutes ago, she had been proud of how she had branded her company.
Kookies sold deliciously old-fashioned cookies with a twist: unexpected flavors inside them, and each different type claimed to hold its own spells.
And so the outfits she and Chelsea wore were part sexy witch, part trustworthy grandmother. They both had on granny glasses, berets shaped like giant cookies, and their aprons—over short black skirts and plain white blouses—had photos of her cookies printed on them, quilted to make them look three-dimensional. It was all so darn cute.
Somehow she did not want the man her father had convinced to escort her to her senior prom to see her as cute. Or kooky. She certainly did not want him to see her with a giant cookie on her head!
In fact, she did not want Brand Wallace to see her at all. He belonged to another time and another place. A time when she had still believed in magic. A place that had felt as if her world would always be safe.
She shot another glance at the doorway. He was still looking in their direction—she could see he was trying to extricate himself from the conversation with Shelley.
“He’s coming this way,” Chelsea sighed. “How’s my hair?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Bree saw Chelsea flicking her hair. She also saw there was an emergency exit just a little behind and to the left of their table. For some reason, it felt imperative to get out of there. And out of the apron. And the beret. Especially the beret.
It was trying to remove both at once that proved dangerous. She was twisting the apron over her head and taking off the beret with it, when, too late, she saw the corner of a box of Little Surprise cookies that was jutting out from under her display table. At the last second she tried to get her foot over it and failed.
The toe of her shoe caught on the box, and it caught the leg of the table, which folded. Apron and beret twisted around her neck, she had to make a split-second decision whether to save the cookies or herself. The cookies, which represented so much hard work, and her future—being invited to participate in this event was a huge coup for her company—won.
She dove under a cascade of Spells Gone Wrong boxes, which fell on her, one by one, until she was very nearly buried in them.
Really, it was a slow-motion and silent disaster, except for the fact she had managed to break the fall of the delicate cookies.
The incident probably would have gone completely unnoticed if Chelsea had not started shrieking dramatically.
And then he was there, moving the avalanche of boxes gently out of the way to reveal Bree underneath them. He held out a hand to her.
“Miss, are you—”
He stopped. He stared at her.
She blinked where she was lying on the floor, covered in boxes, and remembered. She remembered his eyes, the glorious deep brown of them, warm as dark-roasted coffee. She remembered that very same tilt of his mouth, something faintly sardonic and unconsciously sexy in it.
She remembered the feeling of his gaze on her, and a forbidden warmth unfolded in her that made her feel boneless.
“Bree?” he said, astounded.
She heard Chelsea’s cluck of astonishment.
“Breanna Evans,” he said slowly, softly, his voice a growl of pure sensuality that scraped the nape of her neck. And then his hand, strong and heated, closed around hers and he pulled her to her feet, the cookie boxes, which she had sacrificed her escape to save, scattering. His grasp was unintentionally powerful, and it carried her right into the hard length of him. She had been right. The shirt was silk. For a stunned moment she rested there, feeling his heat and the pure heady male energy of him heating the silk to a warm, liquid glow. Feeling what she had felt all those years ago.
As if the world was full of magical possibilities.
She put both hands on the broadness of his chest, and shoved away from him before he could feel her heart, beating against him, too quickly, like a fallen sparrow held in a hand.
“Brand,” she said, she hoped pleasantly. “How are you?”
He studied her without answering.
She straightened the twisted apron. Where was the beret? It was kind of stuck in the neckline of the apron and she yanked it out, and then shoved it in the oversize front pocket, where it created an unattractive bulge.
“You’re all grown up,” he said, in a way that made her blush crimson.
“Yes,” she said, stiffly, “People do tend to do that. Grow up.”
She ordered herself not to look at his lips. She looked. They were a line of pure sexy. The night of her prom she had hoped for a good-night kiss.
But he hadn’t thought she was grown up then.
Did it mean anything that he saw her as grown up now?
Of course it did not! Chances of her tasting those lips were just as remote now as they had been then. He was a billionaire, looking supersuave and sophisticated, and she was a cookie vendor in a bulging apron. She nearly snorted at the absurdity of it.
And the absurdity that she would still even think of what those lips would taste like.
But she excused her momentary lapse in discipline. There wasn’t a woman in the entire room who wasn’t thinking of that! Chelsea’s interest, from the first moment she had laid eyes on him, had made it clear Brand Wallace’s sex appeal was as potent as ever.
“You know each other?” Chelsea asked, her voice a miffed squeak, as if Bree had kept state secrets from her.
“I was Bree’s first date,” he said softly.
Oh! He could have said anything. He could have said he was a summer student who had worked for her father. But oh, no, he had to bring
that up.
“I don’t recall you being my first date,” she said. “I’d had others before you.” Freddy Michelson had bought her a box lunch at a fifth-grade auction. That counted. Why did he think he’d been her first date?
No doubt her well-meaning father had told Brand that his bookish, introverted daughter had not been asked to her senior prom. Or anywhere else for that matter.
She could have felt annoyed at her father spilling her secrets, but no, she felt, as she always did, that stab of loss and longing for the father who had always acted as if she was his princess, and had always tried to order a world for her befitting of that sentiment.
“Your first date?” Chelsea squealed, as if Bree had not just denied that claim.
Bree shot Brand a look. He grinned at her, unrepentant, the university student who had worked for her father during school breaks. The young man on whom she had developed such a bad crush.
She turned quickly to the fallen table, and tried to snap the fallen leg back up. It was obstinate in its refusal to click into place.
“Let me,” Brand said.
“Must I?”
“You must,” Chelsea said, but Bree struggled with the table leg a bit longer, just long enough to pinch her hand in the hinge mechanism. She was careful not to wince, shoving her hand quickly in her apron pocket.
“Here,” he said, an order this time, not an offer. Bree gave in, and stepped back to watch him snap the leg into place with aggravating ease.
“Thanks,” Bree said, hoping her voice was not laced with a bit of resentment. Of course, everything he touched just fell into place. Everything she touched? Not so much.
“Is your hand okay?”
Did he have to notice every little thing?
“Fine.”
“Can I look?”
“No,” Bree said.
“Yes,” Chelsea breathed.
Bree gave Chelsea her very best if-looks-could-kill glare, but Chelsea remained too enamored with this unexpected turn of events to heed Bree’s warning.
