The Tycoon's Proposal

Of course, there was the little matter of Kurt Callahan.

But once the grand opening of his new store was past he’d be going home, and that interference would be gone, as well. And with him out of the way, her peace of mind would be restored and she could get down to work…for a while, at least.

The nerve of the man, threatening to tell her new boss what had happened between them all those years ago. Of course he wouldn’t actually do it, because he’d be the one who ended up looking bad. Still…Lissa had thought she was long over the sting of the single evening she’d spent with him. Even in the cloakroom last night she hadn’t entirely lost her perspective. But that was before she’d had to deal with him on such a personal level, and now all the feelings had come flashing back: the frustration and the anger, the hurt, the desolation and, yes, the attraction, too….

The Tycoon’s Proposal

Leigh Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Leigh Michaels has always been a writer, composing dreadful poetry when she was just four years old and dictating it to her long-suffering older sister. She started writing romance in her teens, and burned six full manuscripts before submitting her work to a publisher. Now, with more than seventy novels to her credit, she also teaches romance writing seminars at universities, writers’ conferences and on the Internet.

Leigh loves to hear from readers. You may contact her at P.O. Box 935, Ottumwa, Iowa 52501, U.S.A., or visit her Web site: [e-mail]

For Alexandra, who knows why

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

LONG BEFORE THE banquet was over, Kurt was feeling restless. Why couldn’t people just say thank you and leave it at that? If he hadn’t wanted to donate all that equipment he wouldn’t have done it. So why should he be required to sit at a head table and smile for what seemed hours while everyone from the university’s president on down expressed their appreciation?

As if she’d read his mind, his grandmother leaned toward him and whispered, “Most people who donate things enjoy the public recognition. You look as if you have a toothache.” She gave an approving nod toward the podium and applauded politely.

Kurt hadn’t noticed until then that yet another speaker had finally wound to his interminable conclusion. He rose, made the obligatory half-bow toward the speaker, gave the audience another self-deprecating smile, and hoped to high heaven that they were done.

Apparently they were—or else the audience had finally had enough too, for most of them were on their feet. “At last,” he said under his breath.

“It’s only been an hour,” his grandmother said. “You really must learn some patience.”

Now that it was almost finished he could begin to see some humor in the situation. “I didn’t hear you saying anything about the need to be patient while I was getting myself established in business, Gran. In fact, I seem to remember you egging me on by saying you wanted me to hurry up and get rich enough to buy you a mink coat.”

“What I said,” she reminded him crisply, “was that I wanted a mink coat and a great-grandchild before I died, and since I was perfectly able to buy my own mink coat you should concentrate on the great-grandchild.”

He suppressed a grin at how easily she’d stepped into the trap. “Well, these people have been telling you all evening how great your grandchild is. So the way I see it, now that you know I’m perfect you have nothing left to complain about.”

She smiled. “And here I thought you brought me tonight only because you couldn’t decide which of the young women on your list deserved the laurels.”

She wasn’t far wrong about that, Kurt admitted. He could think of half a dozen women who would have been pleased to attend this event with him—unexciting as it had turned out to be. But that was part of the problem, of course. Invite a woman to a party and she understands it’s just a date. Invite her to a boring banquet in your honor and she starts thinking you must be serious.

His grandmother was looking beyond him. “Don’t look now, but here comes another one.”

And if you take your grandmother to the banquet instead, he thought, the hopefuls start coming out of the walls.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a woman coming toward them. This one was blond—but only the hair color seemed to change; they were all young, sleek, improbably curvy, with perfect pert noses. It was as if someone had put a Barbie doll on the copy machine and hit the enlarge button.

There had been two of them before they’d even sat down to dinner—fluttering over to enthuse about how wonderful he was to make such a huge contribution, obviously thinking that the way to any man’s heart was through his ego. If Kurt had started the evening with any inclination to think himself special—which he hadn’t—that would have been enough to cure him.

“Time to get out of here.” He offered his arm to his grandmother.

Outside the banquet room, a few people were milling about, buttoning winter coats and wrapping scarves before leaving the warm student union for the wintry outdoors.

“There’s a chair,” Kurt said. “And isn’t that your friend Marian? You can talk to her while I get your coat.”

The cloakroom counter was busy, and only one attendant was on duty. When they’d arrived the crowd had been trickling in and there had been two people manning the cloakroom. Now that everyone wanted to leave at once there was just one. Bad planning, Kurt thought.

Several young men were clustered at one end of the counter. Kurt recognized some of them as the athletes who had helped to demonstrate the equipment he had donated for the student union’s new gym before all the dignitaries had trooped up to the banquet room to start the congratulations. Kurt looked past them and saw why they were hanging around—the attendant on duty was female, young, and not at all hard on the eyes.

He fidgeted with his claim ticket as he waited his turn, and he watched the young woman. She wasn’t conventionally pretty at all. She was far too thin for her height, he thought. Her eyes were much too big for her face, and her auburn hair was cropped shorter than many men’s. And the anonymous uniform of a server—black trousers, boxy white tuxedo shirt, bow tie—did little for her slim figure. But she was stunning, nevertheless, the sort of woman who drew gazes, and attention, and interest.

The athletes were certainly interested. Every time she came back to the counter with a coat, one or more of them had a comment. Some of the remarks she ignored, some she smiled at, some brought a quip in return.

She’s leading them on, Kurt thought. Not that he cared whether she flirted with the customers, as long as she continued to work efficiently through the crowd. He eyed the small glass jar which sat discreetly at one end of the counter, hinting that tips would be welcome. It was half full of bills and coins. No doubt the occasional flirtation increased the evening’s take.

Before long the foyer was emptying out, but the athletes were still hanging on. “When do you get off duty?” one of them asked the attendant.

“Hard to say,” the young woman said. “With all these people to take care of, it might be another hour.”

“I’ll hang around for a while,” the athlete said. “You’ll need a ride home because it’s snowing.”

“No, thanks. I like snow. Besides—” She checked the number on a ticket and went to the farthest rack to get an overcoat.

By the time she came back the athlete had apparently thought it through. “I know. You’ve got a boyfriend to come and get you.”

She flashed a smile. “What do you think?”

“I’ll save him the trouble,” the athlete offered.

The young woman held out a hand for Kurt’s claim check, but she didn’t look at him because she was still studying the athlete. “Tell you what,” she said. “I’ll give you a phone number. Call in an hour—just in case he hasn’t shown up.”

The athlete was practically salivating. He grabbed for a discarded napkin that lay on the counter and thrust it at her. She scribbled something and pushed it back.

“Is this your cell phone?” the athlete asked. “Where are you from, anyway? This isn’t a local number.”

She didn’t seem to hear. She looked up from the ticket she held and smiled at Kurt. “Be right back.”

Now he understood what had drawn the athletes. She might be skinny and big-eyed and boyish, but when she smiled—even that polite, almost meaningless smile of acknowledgment—the room instantly grew ten degrees warmer. Or maybe it wasn’t the entire room which heated up but just the men in her general vicinity. That would certainly explain why the athletes’ tongues were all hanging out.

There was something almost familiar about that smile….

But then, practically everything Kurt had seen in the last few days had given him a sensation of déjà vu. It was because he was back on campus, that was all. It had been a long time since graduation. And there were a lot of memories—good and bad—to dredge up…

She was gone for quite a while, and he started to wonder if she was ever coming back. Kurt leaned against the counter and crossed his arms, and the young men, after a few wary glances in his direction, moved away.

She returned with his grandmother’s mink and his own dark gray cashmere overcoat. “Sorry to take so long. I had the mink tucked away clear in the back, where it would be safer. It’s too beautiful to risk.” She ran a hand over the fur before she passed it across the counter.

Kurt laid the mink down and put on his own coat. “I seem to have driven away your admirers.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she said lightly. “If they’d hung around here much longer they’d have gotten me in trouble with the boss.”

“I hope I didn’t discourage the young man from calling.”

“Probably not.” She didn’t sound excited at the possibility. “I hope he likes listening to the time and temperature recording in Winnipeg.”

He wasn’t surprised that it hadn’t really been her number she’d handed out. But why had she admitted it to him—a complete stranger?

Three guesses, Callahan, he told himself. Because she’s after bigger game, so she’s making sure you know the athlete’s not important.

No wonder he’d had that flash of thinking she looked familiar. One predatory feminine gaze was pretty much like another in his experience.

Her fingertips went out to caress the fur, still draped across the counter. “Careful where you leave that. We get a soft drink spilled every now and then around here, and I’d hate to see that beautiful coat get sticky.” She looked up at him through her lashes, with something like speculation in her gaze.

She’s debating what kind of approach will be most successful, he thought. Well, maybe he’d make it easy for her.

He picked up the mink, and then turned back as if struck by an afterthought. “I wonder….” He did his best to sound naive. “If I asked for your phone number, would you pass me off with time and temperature in Winnipeg?”

She looked at him for a long moment and her eyes seemed to get even bigger.

Calculating my bank balance, no doubt.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She reached for his claim ticket, which was still lying on the counter, flipped it over, pulled a felt-tipped marker from her pocket, and wrote a number on the back side. “Here you go.”

It certainly wasn’t the time and temperature in Winnipeg, Kurt saw, because she hadn’t added an area code. Not that he’d expected anything else. Now she had connected him with the expensive coat, there was no doubt in his mind that she had given him a real number.

Still, he had to admit to a trickle of disappointment, because somehow he’d expected more subtlety from this young woman.

So much for subtlety. He wondered how long she’d wait for him to call. Too bad that he’d never get to find out.

He dropped a substantial tip into the glass jar, and didn’t look back as he crossed the lobby to where his grandmother was talking to a white-haired dowager. “I’ll meet you here for lunch tomorrow, Marian,” his grandmother said. “And perhaps you can bring that young friend of yours to tea sometime in the next few days? Kurt’s staying with me through Christmas, you know.”

Kurt held his tongue until they were outside, protected from the falling snow by the awning as they waited for the valet to bring his car around. The street was already covered, with soft ruts starting to form in the traffic lanes. Flakes the size of quarters were falling slowly and almost silently. “Marian’s young friend is a female, of course,” he said.

“Now, what would make you say that, dear?” His grandmother looked meditatively at the street. “Falling snow is almost hypnotic, really. It’s such a relief in weather like this to be in the hands of an exceptionally good driver.”

“What big fibs you tell, Granny,” Kurt said dryly.

His Jaguar pulled up under the awning. As he reached into his pocket for a tip for the valet his fingers brushed the claim ticket. Maybe he should give that to the valet, too, he thought. No—the kid might think he’d been handed a reward, and no inexperienced young guy deserved the kind of trouble that woman represented.

Kurt decided he’d tear the ticket up and throw it away when he got home. Or maybe he’d keep it for a while, just as a reminder of how careful a guy needed to be these days. Not because he’d ever be tempted to use it.

The ticket slid from his fingers and drifted downward like one of the snowflakes. The small card was warm from his pocket, and the first huge flake which collided with it melted instantly and blurred the ink. He dived after it, and his dress shoe slipped on an icy spot, almost careening him headfirst into a drift.

Even as he was scrambling to keep his balance in the snow he told himself it was stupid to care whether he could still read a number that he had no intention of calling. But it burned itself into his brain anyway, as he picked up the ticket and carefully blotted the snowflake away. The handwriting was strong, clear, and neat, with each numeral precisely formed. And there was a nice sequence to the numbers, too. A memorable sequence.

An odd sequence, he thought as he slid behind the wheel. Maybe it was even a little too rhythmic. Five-six-seven-eight…. Wasn’t that just a little too handy a combination to be real? It sounded more like an aerobic dance routine than a phone number.

“Was there something you needed to go back for, dear?” his grandmother asked. “Or are you just planning to sit here and block traffic for the rest of the evening?”

Kurt stared at the ticket still cupped in his palm, and then he reached for his cell phone, angling it in the light from the entrance canopy so he could compare the keypad with what the young woman had written down. The corresponding letters leaped out at him. Five-six-seven-eight…. He started to laugh.

It looked like a phone number, all right, but he’d bet it led only to a misdial recording. Because surely no phone company would deliberately give a customer that particular series of numbers.

The ones which corresponded to the words GET LOST.

Lissa smothered a yawn and tried not to look at the clock posted high on the foyer’s opposite wall. The banquet was over, and most of the crowd was gone, but her nerves were still thrumming from the encounter with Kurt Callahan. She couldn’t let down her guard yet, however; she had to stay in the cloakroom until the very last garment was claimed or turned over to Lost and Found once the security officers declared that the building was completely empty of guests.

The double doors of the banquet room opened and one of her co-workers emerged pushing a full cart. She looked hot and tired, and Lissa wished she could go lend a hand. Though the work was harder, she’d much rather draw dining room duty than tend the cloakroom. She’d rather be busy than sitting around doing nothing. The time went faster, the tips were usually better, and there was no opportunity to think…

She glanced at the glass tips jar. Not much in it tonight, except for the nice-sized bill Kurt Callahan had pushed through the slot. A big enough bill, in fact, that she half regretted giving him a fake phone number. Not that she would have given him a real one under any circumstances, because Kurt Callahan was the epitome of trouble; she’d learned that lesson long ago. But she could have just told him no.

She hoped he wouldn’t actually call. No, she amended, what she really hoped was that the owner of the number wouldn’t take offense if he did. She really should have checked out whether that number was actually assigned to a customer…

But then she’d never needed a backup before, because the time and temperature in Winnipeg had served her well through the years. Until tonight—when she’d blurted out the truth to Kurt Callahan. But why had she told him about her ploy? To show off how clever she was? To very delicately let him know that she hadn’t been trolling for a date with the athlete? To hint that she needed such stratagems to hold off the vast numbers of men who clustered around her? To point out that even though he wasn’t seriously interested in her other men were?

She smothered a snort at her own foolishness. As if any of that would matter to him. A man with his success, and the good looks to match—hair so dark it had had a bluish cast under the artificial lights, blue-gray eyes, a chiseled profile, and a dimple in his cheek which peeked out at the least expected moments—wouldn’t have any doubts that he was attractive to any woman still able to breathe.

Maybe she did hope he’d call that number. It would do him good to have his ego trimmed back a bit. And if she could be the one to do it…Somebody has to start a trend, she thought.

Besides, if she’d coldly refused to give him the information he wanted, he might have started to wonder why. No, this way was better—he wouldn’t call, and so he would never have reason to question why the woman in the cloakroom was immune to his charm. He’d probably never give her a second thought.

Her long evening shut up in the cloakroom should have meant plenty of time to finish reviewing her notes for the next morning’s political science final. Of course it hadn’t quite happened that way. Despite her best efforts, she hadn’t been able to concentrate. A dozen times she’d started to study, only to find herself straining to listen to the speeches coming from the ballroom instead.

Well, it was too late to go to the library. She’d walk straight home instead, look over her notes again, then get some sleep. And once her last exam was past, and she had worked her only remaining dining room shift tomorrow, the semester would officially be over and she would have no other obligations until after January first.

No obligations—but also no income. For with school out of session the student union would close as well.

Lissa bit her lip. She had enough cash tucked back to survive two weeks without a paycheck—and the idea of two weeks of freedom, with no timeclock to punch, no boss to answer to, was sheer heaven.

A crash made her jump and look toward the banquet room. Another of the dining room attendants had misjudged and rammed a cart loaded with the last debris of the banquet—coffee cups, water glasses, crumpled linens, and a few odd baskets of dinner rolls—into the edge of the door. An awkward stack of half-empty glass dessert plates wobbled on the corner of the cart.

Lissa swung herself up onto the cloakroom counter and across, jumping off just as the stack of dishes overbalanced. She slapped her hand down on the top plate, stopping the disaster but splashing leftover creme caramel over the front of her own white shirt and the waitress’s. “Sorry about making such a mess, Connie.”

“No problem. I’d rather wash out a shirt than clean glass shards out of the carpet. I think that stack will stay in place now.”

“Now that I’ve squashed the plates together and spread dessert all over the foyer, you mean?” Lissa cautiously lifted her hand. Caramel and custard oozed between her fingers. “Maybe I should just lick it off.”

“I wouldn’t advise it—those things never taste as good as they look.”

Lissa reached for a crumpled napkin and tried without much success to wipe the sticky sauce off her fingers.

Their supervisor appeared from the banquet room. “What’s the holdup, girls? And why aren’t you in the cloakroom, Ms Morgan?”

“There are only two coats left, and no one seems likely to claim them at this hour,” Lissa said. “So I was giving Connie a hand with the cart.” She didn’t climb over the counter this time; she very properly went through the door and back into the cloakroom.

“Connie needs to learn to manage on her own.” The supervisor eyed the glass tip jar. “You seem to have done rather well this evening. The contributions of young men, by any chance? Perhaps I should make it clear, Ms Morgan, that the cloakroom is not a dating service. If I hear again about you giving out your phone number….”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lissa didn’t bother to explain. She suspected her boss would not see the humor in Winnipeg’s time and temperature. And right now she didn’t even want to think about how the supervisor might have heard about the whole thing.

“All the guests have gone. Lock up the rest of the coats, and then you may punch out,” the supervisor said.

Lissa was relieved to be outside, away from the overheated and stale atmosphere of the banquet room. Now that traffic had died down the snow was getting very deep—though she could see a pair of plows running up the nearest main street, trying to keep the center lanes clear. She slung her backpack over her shoulder, took a deep breath of crisp air, let a snowflake melt on her tongue, and started for home.

Though it was only a few blocks, it took her almost half an hour to struggle through the snow, and by the time she reached the house she was cold and wet. There were still lights on upstairs, but the main level was mercifully dark and relatively quiet. With a sigh of relief she unlocked the sliding door which separated her tiny studio apartment—which in better days had been the back parlor of a once-stately home—from the main hallway.

The fireplace no longer worked, of course, but the mantel served nicely as a display shelf for a few precious objects, and in the center she’d put her Christmas tree. It was just twelve inches tall, the top section of an artificial tree which had been discarded years ago, stuck in a makeshift stand. There were no lights, and only a half-dozen ornaments, each of them really too large for the diminutive tree. But it was a little bit of holiday cheer, a reminder of better days, a symbol of future hopes….

She frowned and looked more closely. There had been a half-dozen ornaments that afternoon, when she’d gone off to work. Now there were five. On the rug below the mantel were a few thin shards of iridescent glass where the sixth ornament, an angel, had shattered.

Someone must have slammed a door, she told herself, and the vibration had made the angel fall. But she knew better. The fact that there were only a few tell-tale slivers meant the ornament had not simply been broken, but the mess had been hastily swept up.

But no one was supposed to be in her room, ever.

Lissa’s breath froze. She spun around to the stack of plastic crates which held almost everything she owned and rummaged through the bottom one, looking for her dictionary. In the back of it, under the embroidered cover, was an envelope where she kept her spare cash. She’d tucked it there, secure in the thought that no other occupant of the house would be caught dead looking up a word even if they did invade her privacy to snoop through her room, as she had suspected some of them might be tempted to do.