Swept Away by the Tycoon

by Barbara Wallace

  Chloe’s hand flew to her abdomen. Something about the man’s voice managed to get beneath her skin. He knew it, too; his eyes gleamed with cockiness.

  Keeping her head high, she headed to the register, where Aiden waited. “Hey,” she greeted.

  “Good morning. May I take your order?”

  That was it? Where was the glare? The terse words? The recognition? Surely she was worth some kind of reaction beyond a bland, generic greeting? “About yesterday...”

  “Did you want a coffee?” The bland smile didn’t slip. He was, for all intents and purposes, treating her like a complete stranger. As inconsequential as an out-of-state tourist. Punching her in the stomach would have hurt less. “The usual.”

  “Which is?”

  The cut deepened. Chloe’s eyes started to burn. She quickly blinked. He did not deserve the satisfaction.

  “The lady drinks iced peppermint mocha latte.”

  Looking over her shoulder, she got a shrug from the slacker. “You know my order?”

  “What can I say? Sit here long enough, you hear things.”

  “Don’t you mean eavesdrop?”

  His lips curled into a crooked smile. “Only on the interesting customers.”

  “No offense, but that’s a little creepy.” Even if her stomach did flutter at the idea that she qualified as interesting.

  “You say creepy; I say observant. Sort of a potato-potahto kind of thing. I like people watching.”

  “Let me guess. You’re a writer.”

  “If I am, then literature as we know it is in trouble,” he said, punctuating the remark with a low chuckle.

  How on earth did Del and La-roo not notice him sitting there every day? Even as possibly crazy slackers went, the man stood out in a crowd. What, at first glance, looked like street scruff was really very controlled. His hair was shortly cropped, and his not quite red, not quite blond stubble looked more like he simply couldn’t be bothered with pulling out the razor than a lack of grooming. His battered jacket was similarly deceptive. Looking closer, she recognized what had been a very expensive piece of leather that had been worn till the thing molded to his broad shoulders. It reminded her of the basketball sneakers she couldn’t give up even after she could afford better ones.

  “See anything you like, Curlilocks?”

  Crap. Chloe turned back to the register, hoping she didn’t look too flustered. “I was admiring your jacket.”

  His chuckle was low and raspy. “This old thing? I’ve had her for years.”

  Her? Much as she knew she shouldn’t, Chloe took the bait. “You gave your jacket a gender?”

  “Sure. Why let the big ticket items have all the fun?”

  “Interesting point,” she conceded. “I supposed you named her, too.”

  “Don’t be silly. That would be crazy.”

  As opposed to this whole conversation. Fortunately, Aiden chose that moment to return with her drink. “No need,” he said, when Chloe reached for her wallet. “It’s on the house.”

  “Seriously?” Didn’t she feel like a heel now. Maybe she’d misjudged him and yesterday’s situation. “That’s really sweet of you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do anything.”

  Her smile fell. “You mean you’re not trying to apologize for yesterday?”

  “Why should I apologize? I’m not the one who acted like a raving lunatic for no good reason.”

  No good reason? Chloe tightened her grip on the cup. He was lucky she didn’t give him a repeat performance. “Who did then?” she asked, forcing herself to step back from the counter before she could give in to impulse.

  The barista raised and lowered a shoulder. “Beats me. Note on the register says the next time you came in, your drink was free. Apparently someone appreciates acts of lunacy.”

  Chloe took another step back. The only people who knew what had happened were Larissa and Delilah, and as of last night, they’d vowed to boycott the café until “Aiden came to his senses.”

  “Must have been one of those random acts of kindness.”

  No, it couldn’t be. A glance at the front table showed a definite sparkle in the slacker’s ice-blue eyes.

  “Why would someone pick me?” Particularly when she’d been rude to him? Regret stole at her insides.

  Slacker leaned back, letting the hood of his sweatshirt become a gray cotton cowl around his neck. “Maybe that someone enjoyed seeing Don Juanista there get his comeuppance. I hear it took a couple hours to get the peppermint smell out of his luscious locks.”

  A snort escaped before she could stop herself. Aiden was so vain about his hair.

  “Too bad I didn’t snap a photo for the front bulletin board. I’m guessing there’s an awful lot of women who wished they could have seen karma bite ole’ Aiden in the rear.”

  “I’m guessing you’re right.” The realization brought back yesterday’s humiliation in force.

  Meanwhile, back at the register, Aiden had turned his sights to another woman in line, his grease pencil seconds away from marking his digits at the base of her cup. “Doesn’t look like karma bit all that hard,” Chloe noted.

  “Oh, but it will. You just wait. Ten years from now, that suffering musician look will have morphed into a receding hairline and a beer gut. Let’s see how many women want him writing his number on their cup then.”

  Chloe swallowed another snort. “You paint an interesting picture.”

  “Interesting? Or Satisfying?”

  “Maybe a little of both.”

  “Then my work here is finished.” Slacker grinned broadly, revealing a row of bright perfect teeth. He had freckles, too, Chloe realized. The slightest dusting across the bridge of his nose, along with a couple of faint scar lines. Rugged, weather-hewn. He’d had a run-in with karma himself, hadn’t he? Did he win or lose? Chloe wasn’t sure why, but she had a feeling he would come out victorious in any battle.

  A jostle from behind brought her back to reality. The gathering crowd meant eight-thirty was getting close. “I better get going,” she told him.

  “Already? The conversation was just getting interesting. Sure you can’t stick around?”

  “Unfortunately, some of us have to work for a living.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she winced. Man buys her a cup of coffee and she insults him. Insensitive, thy name is Chloe.

  “Just as well. I’ve got a meeting myself.”

  Chloe didn’t call him on the obvious lie. “Do me a favor and if you see the ‘stranger’ who bought me the coffee, thank him, okay?”

  “Sure thing. Enjoy drinking it—this time.”

  He winked.

  Chloe squeezed her cup. Why’d he have to go and spoil a perfectly pleasant moment with a comment like that? Worse, why did her insides have to tap dance in response?

  She’d retort, but the words didn’t want to come out. Snapping her jaw shut, she marched to the door, barely avoiding a collision with a cashmere overcoat as she rushed past.

  * * *

  Ian Black watched her exit with amusement. Kid was trying so hard not to look flustered. She had swagger, that’s for sure, although Ian had known that long before she’d tipped coffee over the Irish Casanova’s head. The way she strutted in here every morning with her high heels and that long curly hair every morning, as if she owned the damn shop... Bet she walked into the Empire State Building the same way. You had to admire her display of confidence, whether it was real or strictly for show.

  Her cacophony of curls blew back from her face as she slipped through the front door, treating him to a glimpse of her tawny-skinned profile, a golden flash amid the early spring gray. For a tall woman, she had surprisingly delicate features. Like a Thoroughbred horse, she was lean and leggy. A damn attractive girl, and the barista was an idiot for not treating her better. Ian had been watching the two of them flirt for weeks, disappointed when he’d heard Aiden say they were “hooking up.” Ian had hoped the swagger meant she knew better. Thankfully, she’d come to
her senses. Then again, let he who wasn’t guilty of bad judgment cast the first stone. Sure wouldn’t be him, that’s for certain.

  “One of these days, I’m going to insist on meeting somewhere less crowded,” Jack Strauss grumbled as he unbuttoned his cashmere coat.

  “Excuse me for frequenting my own business.” Ian nodded at the girl behind the register, who immediately moved to get Jack a coffee. “And you’re late.”

  “Stop confusing me with one of your employees. Traffic was a bear.”

  “Driving wouldn’t be such a problem if you lived in the city.”

  “Not everyone can afford the rent.”

  “Good grief, you’re a laywer. Of course you can pay the rent.”

  “Okay, not everyone can afford your kind of rend. Did I say something funny?” he asked when Ian chuckled.

  “Inside joke.” He was wondering what Curlilocks would make of the conversation. She thought he was a bum. The color on her cheeks when she’d made the remark about working betrayed her. He would have corrected her if he didn’t find her mistake so damn amusing. Ian wondered if, when she did find out, he should duck for cover. She looked as if she had quite an arm.

  “Must be a good joke, whatever it is. I haven’t seen you smile in a long time.”

  Draping his coat along the back of the chair, the silver-haired man sat down in the chair opposite Ian just as his coffee and pastry arrived. He took a large drink, then let out a breath.

  “Feeling better?” Ian asked.

  “Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that question?”

  Yes, he was. Much as Ian wanted to believe Jack’s concern was as much out of friendship as it was obligation as his sponsor, he knew better. “Same as always. One day at a time.

  “You’re not...”

  He shook his head. “No worries. These days I’m all about the coffee.”

  “So I see.” Jack took another sip. “Although you didn’t have to go to such extremes. Most recovering addicts settle for buying cups of coffee, not coffee shops.”

  “I’m not most guys in recovery.”

  “No kidding. One of these days I expect to walk in here to find you bought a coffee plantation so you can grow your own beans.”

  “Don’t think the thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Ian never did believe in doing things halfway. Military service, business, alcohol abuse.

  Hurting people.

  Jack nodded at the stack of stationery by his elbow. “Still writing letters, I see.”

  “Told you when we first started meeting, I had a long list.” He ran a hand across the stack. Twenty years of being a rat bastard left a long tail. “Don’t suppose you have those addresses I wanted tracked down?”

  “Again, stop confusing me with an employee.”

  “Are you planning to bill me for your law firm’s time?”

  When Jack’s look said “of course,” Ian stated, “Then technically, you are an employee. Now, do you have the names?”

  “I’m beginning to see why your board of directors ousted you. You’re an impatient son of a gun.” The lawyer reached for his briefcase. “My investigator is still trying to locate a few people.” He held up a hand before Ian could comment. “You gave him a pretty long list.”

  “Could have been worse. Tell him to be glad I stuck to Ian Black, the business years.”

  “Thank heaven for small favors. You do realize that when the program says you need to make amends, you don’t need to literally contact every single person who ever crossed your path.”

  You did if you wanted to do things right. “You make amends your way, I’ll make amends mine,” Ian told him, snatching the papers. He didn’t have the heart to tell Jack the list didn’t begin to scratch the surface.

  Quickly, he ran his eyes down the top sheet. Three pages of ex-girlfriends, former friends, employees and associates, all deserving of apologies.

  And one name that mattered most of all. He glanced up at his friend. “Is—”

  “Last page. At the bottom.”

  Of course. Save the worst offense for last. Flipping pages until he got to the last one, he found the name immediately. His biggest mistake.

  And the hardest of all to make amends for.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “WHAT DO YOU mean, don’t call him?” Ian slapped his empty coffee cup on the table. Since they’d started meeting, Jack had done nothing but talk about the twelve steps. Make amends to the ones you hurt, ask forgiveness, etc., etc. Now here Ian was, doing exactly that, and the man was saying he shouldn’t? What the hell?

  “I didn’t say you should never call him,” Jack replied. “I’m simply suggesting you slow down. Amends aren’t made overnight.”

  “They aren’t made sitting around doing nothing, either.”

  “You aren’t doing nothing. He answered your letters, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Ian replied, “but...” But letters could say only so much. It was too easy to censor what you were writing. Too hard to read what wasn’t being said. In the end, everything sounded flat and phony.

  “Some conversations should be face-to-face. I need him to hear my voice, so he knows I’m sincere.”

  “He will, but I think you still need to go slow. You can’t push the kid if he’s not ready.”

  “Who says he’s not ready? It’s not like I’m suddenly appearing in his life unannounced.”

  “Then why didn’t he give you his phone number?”

  “Because I didn’t ask,” Ian quickly replied. Truthfully, he should have called long before this. During those early months of sobriety, however, he’d been shaky—and all right, a little scared—so he’d let Jack and the counselors talk him into writing a letter instead. But he was stronger now, more himself, and he needed to face his son. “I’m tired of wasting time,” he told Jack. “I’ve wasted enough.”

  Thirteen years, to be exact. Thirteen years during which his ex-wife, Jeanine, had no doubt filled his son’s head with garbage. Even if a good chunk of what she said was true, it wouldn’t surprise Ian if she went overboard to make him look as bad as possible. His ex-wife was nothing if not an expert at deflecting blame. Her influence made repairing his mistakes all the more difficult. He could already sense her lies’ effect in the way Matt phrased his letters. So polite and superficial. Again, it was too easy to read between the lines. The only way he would loosen Jeanine’s grasp was for them to talk face to face. “I’m not expecting us to plan a father-son camping trip, for crying out loud. I simply want to talk.”

  On the other side of the table, Jack shook his head. “Still think it’s a bad idea.”

  “I didn’t ask what you thought,” Ian snapped. He already knew the older man’s opinion, and disagreed with it. Jack didn’t have children. He wasn’t sitting here with the window of opportunity growing smaller and smaller. A year ago Matt was in high school; now he was in college. Three years from now he’d be out in the world on his own. Ian didn’t have time to take things slow.

  “Maybe not.” The lawyer didn’t so much as blink in response to the rude reply. Ian suspected that’s why Jack had been assigned as his sponsor; he was one of the few people who didn’t back down at the first sign of temper. “But I’m giving it to you, anyway. I’ve seen too many men and women fall off the wagon because they tried to do too much too fast too soon.”

  “How many times do I have to remind you, I’m not your average addict.” He was Ian Black. He believed in moving, doing. Too many people wasted time analyzing and conferring with consultants. Sooner or later you needed to pull the trigger. Getting to yes meant getting things done.

  Which was why, as soon as Jack left for his office, Ian reached for his cell phone. The call went straight to voice mail. Hearing the voice on the other end, he had to choke back a lump. He’d heard it before, but never this close, never speaking directly to him. Hearing his son sound so grown-up... All the milestones he’d missed rushed at Ian. So many lost moments. He had to fight himself not to call back and lis
ten to the message again. They’d speak soon enough.

  * * *

  Eleven hours later, though, his phone remained silent. He told himself to relax. Kid was probably in class or doing homework. For all he knew, they had lousy reception in the dorms and Matt hadn’t even gotten his message. Ian came up with a dozen reasons.

  None made him any less agitated.

  Letting out a low groan, he scrubbed his hands over his face.

  It didn’t help that he spent the day writing letters of apology. A stack of envelopes sat by his elbow. One by one he’d addressed and ticked off names on the list Jack had supplied.

  So many names, so many people who hated his guts and probably—rightfully—danced when they heard he’d been ousted from Ian Black Technologies. As he’d told Curlilocks, nothing beat a healthy dose of karmic blowback. Curlilocks. Aiden said her real name was Chloe, but he thought the nickname suited her better.

  He probably shouldn’t be thinking of her at all considering the shocking number of women he finished apologizing to. So many wronged women. Some, like his ex-wife, were women he never should have gone near in the first place. Others were opportunistic bed partners who’d hoped to become more. But many were simply good women who’d offered their affection and whom he’d let down. Their names stung the most to read. Business casualties he could rationalize as part of the industry; personal betrayals showed how toxic a person he could be.

  Ian ran his finger across Matt’s name and felt an emptiness well up inside him. The head roads he’d made in this relationship weren’t nearly enough.

  To hell with waiting. Patience was overrated. He grabbed his phone and dialed. Voice mail again. He slammed it down on the table, the force causing his empty coffee cup to rattle.

  When he’d bought the coffee shop, the first thing he did was order new drinkware, replacing the cutesy china cups with sturdier, heavier stoneware. The kind that, when hurled, would leave their mark rather than shatter. What, he wondered, would happen if he tossed one right now? Would his employees duck in fear as they used to? The new and improved Ian Black vowed not to be a bully. But damn, did he want to heave something right now....