Melting The Icy Tycoon

Melting the Icy Tycoon

Jan Colley

For Julie Broadbridge

You know grief better than I, my listening friend, and still you bolster us all with your smile and optimism.

Where would we be without you?

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

Coming Next Month

One

Bang! Bang! Bang!

So hot…what is that noise?

“Hello! Anyone there?”

So tired…

Bang! Bang!

Eve reared into a sitting position, her heart pounding. Seconds behind, her mind drifted up through a handful of faraway voices and a swirling crescendo of Tchaikovsky.

And a tremendous thumping. Her upper body swayed in a dizzy spell. The banging continued.

Disoriented, she pushed to her feet. She’d fallen asleep on the couch. The fire had gone out but she was burning up.

“Hang on.” It was the first she’d spoken in days and her throat was shocked into a coughing fit. She took just a couple of steps before she cracked her shin on one of the boxes still to be unpacked. Swallowing a swear word, she staggered toward the door.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

“Your neighbor” came the terse reply.

Neighbor? Where was she? Oh, yes, the new house on Waiheke Island, where she’d moved a few days ago.

Eve leaned on the door, fishing in her pockets for a tissue. The knocking started up again, crashing through her head. She put her hands to her head—but that wasn’t her hair, it was too short. Then Eve remembered. She had cut it off a couple of weeks ago. New beginning, new hair. Cut out the bad stuff—the divorce, losing her job—snip snip.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Coming…” The ancient key was stiff and her wrists weak as spaghetti but finally the door creaked open. Eve swayed with the exertion of the past two minutes, hot and sweaty under her baggy sweatshirt. Even her feet were hot in their thick striped socks.

She looked down. They were half-off, she thought with disgust, then was distracted by enormous shiny shoes and the scissor-sharp creases of slate-gray pants. The jacket matched the trousers. Her eyes roamed up the body—there was a lot of body. Legs that went on forever, the torso just as long but broad, too. Eve paused at her eye level, seriously woozy.

She moved her head back as far as she dared and zoomed in on a somber maroon tie around a lighter shade of smooth collar. Strong chin, wide lips with a definite bow in the center. Lovely green eyes frowned out of a high, wide forehead. The whole attractive parcel was topped with an expensive cut of rich-brown hair, complemented by neat sideburns.

Funny how her mind was fogged with sleep and flu drugs, yet the stranger’s features were indecently clear, as if molded in a lustrous gold.

“Whoa…” Eve succumbed to another dizzy spell. She lurched and caught the door frame.

The man snapped into action and steadied her arm. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t!” she croaked.

He jerked his hand away but did not step back.

“Contagious,” she added, holding the door frame with one hand. She dragged the tissue across her nose and wondered if it looked as raw as it felt.

The stranger appeared concerned but not friendly. At least, she thought, the way she looked and sounded, rape was probably not an option. And if murder was on his mind, she decided death would be a blessed relief.

He stared, and Eve waited for the shock of recognition.

“You’re—Eve Summers.”

“Drumm.” She licked lips that felt like gravel. “Divorced.” New beginning, new name. Technically new-old name, maiden name. Since the divorce was just a few weeks old, it took a bit of getting used to, even for her.

He squinted at her. “You look—different.”

A growing pressure on the bridge of her nose indicated a potential sneeze. “My makeup crew and stylist aren’t unpacked yet,” she rasped.

He peered over her shoulder, frowning. The classical piece blaring out of the national radio program wound up to a revolutionary climax. “Have you seen a doctor?” The question was almost a shout.

Eve flinched. “It’s flu.” Standing in the chill of the open doorway was not helping, but she couldn’t invite him in. The place was a train wreck. She was a train wreck. “It just has to run its course.”

Yet even loaded up with antihistamines, she could still appreciate a fine form of a man when she saw one.

“There are doctors in the village,” he said.

“A doctor would only prescribe bed rest and fluids.”

“And quiet, perhaps.” He obviously did not like Tchaikovsky. “I saw you move in three days ago. Since then there has been no sign of life.”

Eve’s eyes were gritty and dry and she felt hollow. If she didn’t sit down soon she would fall down. “Did you want something?”

Not the friendliest question for a new neighbor, but she would make it up to him some other time. Now she just wanted to be left alone to die in peace.

The man straightened, frowning at her lack of manners. “I was concerned,” he said shortly.

He must be let down to see her like this, a million light-years from her normal public appearance. But Eve was barely surviving a bad enough couple of weeks without someone staring at her as if she was a bug he’d like to squash. “Look, I’d ask you in, but—” she gave a listless wave “—I haven’t unpacked and the place is—” another wave “—and I’m—” dying, burning up, homicidal…take your pick.

His lips thinned and he snapped off a nod. “Before you unpack, I’ve come to make you an offer on the house.”

The need to sneeze redoubled. She was so intent on keeping it in, she didn’t answer.

“This house,” he continued.

“This house?” Eve spread the fingers of both hands wide. He hadn’t even told her his name and he wanted to buy her house?

“I will pay you,” he said distinctly, “ten thousand dollars over what you paid for it.”

Yeah, she was dreaming. Phew! So this gorgeous, expensively dressed man mountain is a figment of overactive imagination and a million milligrams of antihistamine taken a couple of hours ago—or was it yesterday?

She shook her head; it hurt.

“Ten thousand dollars is a tidy sum for no effort on your part.”

“I just bought this house.” The sneeze faded away and indignation pushed her voice up high, setting off another round of coughing.

He grimaced and leaned well back. “Twenty, then.”

“If you wanted this place so badly, why didn’t you make the old owner an offer?” She closed her eyes and silently begged him to go away and leave her alone.

Now he was almost glowering. “Let’s just say Baxter and I did not see eye to eye on a lot of things.”

“He turned you down?”

“He’s a fool. I offered him twice the market value.”

Eve shrugged. “Sorry.”

The man made a sound of impatience. “Well then, I’m offering you twenty thousand over that to sell to me. Cash offer. No agent fees.”

“Why would I buy a house one week and sell it the next?”

“Because you’re smart. It’s twenty grand for doing nothing.”

She massaged her throbbing temples. The stranger handed her a business card, but the words on it phased in and out along with the thumping in her head. She swayed and bumped the door frame again.

“You need a doctor. Are you here on your own?”

“I just need sleep,” she insisted, wishing he would take the hint and leave.

He stared at her for a few moments and then nodded. “Perhaps when you’re feeling better.” He took a step back.

Relief sparked a small spurt of defiance. “It won’t be for sale then, either,” she declared. Holding on to the door, she straightened her spine, proud of herself. Eve Summers—er, Drumm—was no pushover, sick or well.

And then the sneeze erupted in a shrill ah-choo! She covered her face with the damp tissue.

The man’s eyebrows rose and she was mortified to see his mouth quirk in one corner. He then turned and strode off down the path.

“My path,” Eve sniffed with satisfaction. She sank against the closed door and slid to the floor. The tissue in her hand was useless, but she could not gather the energy required to cross the room and replace it.

She looked down at the business card he’d pressed into her hand. Connor Bannerman. CEO of Bannerman, Inc. The name was vaguely familiar, but she was in no condition to trawl through the inflamed mush of her mind.

Sleep. Right here if necessary. She lifted her arm, and the crumpled card joined the general bedlam cluttering the floor of her new—old—house.

“Keep me informed.” Conn stepped down from the container that doubled as a construction-site office cum tea room and raised a hand in farewell to his foreman. His face grim, he picked his way across the mud and gravel to the wire enclosure and the sleek corporate BMW waiting.

Damn and blast the council! They were well behind schedule. He was tempted to pay a visit to the council offices himself and knock some heads together.

Conn Bannerman had been in the construction business for nearly a decade. In fact, he was the construction business in New Zealand, two states in Australia and now branching into the South Pacific. What he did not know about building requirements would fit on a postage stamp.

The council was messing him around. It was no secret that the incumbent mayor was opposed to the new stadium. He believed the city’s money would be better spent elsewhere. And there was nothing Conn could do about it until the local body elections, just over a month away.

He opened the back door of the BMW and slid inside.

“The terminal, Mr. Bannerman?”

Conn nodded to his driver and slid his mobile phone from his overcoat pocket. He checked his messages and called the office.

“Pete Scanlon called about the fund-raiser on the twenty-fifth.”

“Apologies,” Conn told his secretary flatly.

“I sent them last week. He wants to make you some sort of presentation for sponsoring his campaign.”

Conn grimaced.

“But I thanked him and said you had a prior engagement.”

“Thank you, Phyll. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Don’t forget…”

“The conference call with Melbourne tomorrow.”

“At ten,” the redoubtable Phyllis ended.

Conn wondered how he had ever managed without his awesome secretary. But for her, he would be in the office seven days a week instead of having the freedom to work from home when he chose.

He scowled and slid his phone back into his pocket. He would gladly work seven days a week for the biggest project of his life, but it wasn’t going to plan. Pete Scanlon was his only hope, which was why Bannerman, Inc. was backing his campaign.

“Monday at nine, Mikey.” Conn buttoned up his overcoat and stepped out onto the accessway of the ferry terminal. Extracting a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, he joined the queue at the newsagent’s. While he waited, his free hand rested on a stack of magazines and he looked idly down.

She stared up from the glossy cover of a women’s magazine. His fingers seemed to stroke her chin. He wondered why every time he saw that face, he could not stop looking.

She was not a stunning beauty, more your girl-next-door type—and wasn’t that a joke? And, as he’d discovered, not nearly as attractive in person or as warm and gracious as she appeared on TV.

That was unfair, given her health at the time.

Her face was more round than heart-shaped and the hint of a double chin somehow added to the charm she projected on screen. The magazine’s photographer had captured her eyes perfectly; the color of the harbor at dusk.

Why I Quit was the headline.

Conn’s workload left him no time for gossip. But the hue and cry that had erupted when the country’s top-rated anchor walked out of the studio a few weeks ago had permeated even his awareness. And now that hue and cry had landed virtually in his backyard.

Conn Bannerman had more reason than most to despise the media. Journalists, reporters, radio jocks—he wasn’t picky when it came to labeling all of New Zealand’s small media circle “scum.” Before he met her, Eve Summers was the only one he might have given the time of day to. Her nightly current-affairs show was about the only time his wide-screen TV flickered into life, unless there was a rugby game on.

With a quick glance around, he opened the magazine and looked for the contents page and found the article.

“Burnout…a recent divorce—” He shook his head in disgust. That celebrities felt they must inflict their sad little problems onto anyone who would listen was bad enough. Why must the media also target people who desired nothing more than to keep their private lives private?

He sensed the customer in front moving and shoved the magazine forward a few inches.

“The usual, Mr. B.?”

He nodded at the Business Review beside the till and held out his money. “Born Evangeline”—pretty name, suited her. “Her father dying…no other TV shows in the pipeline…single…” Conn’s eyes skimmed the article, picking out key words. The newsagent took the bill from his outstretched hand.

With a reluctant last look at the article, Conn closed the magazine, then inexplicably picked it up and laid it on a stack of papers by the till.

Two minutes later he was boarding the ferry with the magazine folded tightly into his Business Review.

What just happened here?

It was his custom to spend the thirty-five-minute ferry ride from the city reading the business newspapers or working, but today the Business Review stayed firmly folded, concealing its shameful secret. Conn had watched the newsagent pick up the magazine and fold it into his paper, incredulous that the man would even think he would buy a women’s magazine. So incredulous that when handed his purchases and change, he could only glare then walk away, feeling ridiculous.

His embarrassment had faded into the occasional rueful shake of the head by the time the ferry docked and he got into his car and drove home. But it returned full force when the object of his discomfort stood outside his door with her hand on the doorbell. Con turned the engine off and shoved the magazine into his briefcase before stepping out of the car.

Annoyance mingled with intrigue. He did not like surprises and considered he had wasted enough time thinking about Ms. A-List Summers tonight. But there was no doubt she interested him. Was that because she was famous? Would he be as interested if she was a nobody?

A quick scan of her body confirmed that he would be. More slender than she appeared on the television screen, but still, she had curves that would turn any man’s head. And she walked as though she knew it. Denim-clad hips swayed as her long legs started toward him and she raised an elegant hand in greeting.

She looked a hundred percent better than their first meeting. It was nearly dark, and his security light lit up the driveway and picked out the shine of her hair. It was several different shades, one of which clashed spectacularly with her very pink sweater. And she must have found her makeup crew, because the face was just like it was in the cover photo. Flawless skin. Practiced smile.

A warning flashed through his mind. Just remember, to a newshound, there is no such thing as “off the record.”

Then she stood in front of him, and his misgivings were obliterated by a most pleasurable and searing rush of desire. It hit him low and hard and snatched away his breath.

Okay, it had been a while since his last sexual encounter, but he should be able to control his libido better than that. A fourteen-year-old should be able to control his libido better than that.

Conn thanked heaven for heavy cashmere overcoats.

“Howdy, neighbor,” she said, with a bright but hesitant smile. She’d dropped her arm to her side, and her palm rubbed her hip, and it occurred to him she was a little nervous. Charming, he thought. Dangerous. Why would a woman who made a living out of meeting people and setting them at ease be nervous?

“Ms. Summers.”

“Eve,” she told him, rubbing her hip harder. “I thought we’d give this neighbor thing another try, without the medication this time.”

Eve had felt fully recovered and excited about exploring her new surroundings, and so she’d decided to pay her neighbor a visit, partly to apologize for her lack of manners but also to see if he lived up to the intrigue. Not just his looks, though she’d had several tempting flashbacks featuring his face, but his reasons for wanting to buy her house.

His house was little more than five minutes’ walk up a gentle incline. It had felt wonderful to stretch her legs after being laid low with flu for weeks.

His name may have escaped her but, standing in front of him now, she knew her memory hadn’t done justice to such impressive shoulders. He was big. Eve was almost overwhelmed, not only by his size but a physical presence that seemed to invade her space, making her want to step back. Puzzled, she searched his inscrutable expression for a sign of welcome. “Um, it was kind of you to be concerned the other night.”

He tilted his head to the side, watchful and silent.

Eve chewed her lip. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t as friendly as I could have been.”

“You weren’t friendly at all,” he murmured.

She picked at a seam on her jeans, not sure how to respond. People were generally happy to see her, to converse. She was not one to put any store on celebrity, but this level of detachment toward her was not customary. “O-kay. I apologize for the other night. Can we start again?”

He rubbed his jaw with large, well-tended fingers.

“I’m afraid I lost your card. I don’t even know what to call you.”

“Conn.” He did not extend his hand. “Bannerman.”

Once again, Eve thought she’d heard that name before.

“Great place you have here.” She flicked her eyes over the house she had been admiring before he arrived. It was built on the edge of a cliff, far above the ferry terminal. One-storied, a long, low expanse of wood, concrete and glass in a sleek half-moon design. Glass dominated, as it should in this setting. She bet the views would be exceptional from every room.

“Would you like to come in?”

She turned back to him, remembering her manners. “I wouldn’t like to impose.”

He led her into the house through the garage. Eve felt eclipsed by the breadth and length of the hallway, and the way his head made it through the doorway with mere inches to spare. Big man, big house. They walked into a huge kitchen/dining/living area with wall-to-wall windows. The floor was polished timber, magnifying the feeling of space. Neutral colors and the clever use of partitioning walls and differing ceiling heights made it seem as if the areas were separated, but it was, in effect, one massive room. There were no lights on and did not appear to be any drapes or blinds.

Far across the harbor, the tall buildings and towers of the city sparkled, interspersed by patches of dark—hills and parks. The curve of the island was dotted with sparse lights from the tiny settlements that made up the five thousand residents. To the right stretched the inky sea and the darker shadows of the other Hauraki Gulf islands, jutting up like fists.

Conn Bannerman tossed his briefcase onto a ten-setting kauri table and began to unbutton his coat. “Would you like some coffee? Something stronger?” He moved to the cooking area and flicked a couple of lights on.

“Coffee’s fine,” Eve answered, still entranced by the view. “Can I help?”

He did not answer. She turned to watch him. His back was to her. The suit jacket had come off now, and he was rolling his shirtsleeves up strongly muscled forearms. “Did you build this house?”

He turned around holding two enormous coffee mugs and a percolator. He flicked her a brief nod, then filled the pot with water and measured coffee grounds.

“Are you a builder?” Eve leaned on the twenty-foot-long kitchen island and searched the shadows of his face. The light was behind him, but he had a chin Superman might covet.

“I’m in construction, yes.”

In a flash, her mind clicked into recall. “CEO of Bannerman, Inc. You’re the Bannerman Stadium guy.”

“The Gulf Harbor Stadium guy,” he corrected, setting milk, sugar and teaspoons on the marble-topped counter between them.

She recalled the euphoria that gripped the country when the International Rugby Board announced that New Zealand would host the next World Cup. The building of the stadium was a contentious issue but it wasn’t something she had followed closely.

She would have if she’d known that the man bestowed with the responsibility of building that stadium was such a hunk. His profile was stern and strong and in perfect proportion to his muscular bulk. He would look wonderful on camera….

He seemed at home in his kitchen, his movements efficient and effortless. She bet he’d never drop a spoon or cup, the complete opposite of her.

Hmm. If he was efficiently at home in his kitchen, did that imply there was no Mrs. Bannerman lurking about?

“Shall we sit down?”

Eve lifted her mug with both hands. They moved to the big table. One end was covered in papers, files and a laptop. His keys sat in a striking blue-and-white-striped pottery fruit bowl alongside bananas, kiwifruit and tangelos. She was glad he wasn’t phobic about neatness.

He saw her glance at the clutter. “I work from home a lot of the time. I have an office but I enjoy this room.”

“I can see why.”

They sipped in silence for a moment. It was deathly quiet. She fought an insane urge to cry “Hello!” and listen for the echo. Eve couldn’t bear to be without the constant hum of TV or music. “You know, I think my whole house would fit in this one room.”

Conn sipped his drink and looked at her with interest. “Have you thought about my offer?”

Eve toyed with the handle of her mug. “My mind was mush at the time. I didn’t think you were serious.”

“I was, most definitely.” His eyes were on her face. Attentive. Sharp, even, and really a nice shade of green. She amended her previous impression of coolness. More apt to say controlled. Unflappable.

Unforgettable.

The song “Unforgettable” started up in her mind and she hummed it absently until she saw his blink of surprise and stopped. It was a stupid, if harmless, habit of hers that unsettled some people.

Conn recovered and looked at her expectantly. Eve glanced around the room and opened her arms wide. “Why would you want my house when you have this house?”

“Why would a TV star want to live on this side of the island?”

The emphasis on “TV star” somehow compelled her to feel defensive. Was it intentional?

Conn’s eyes were still on her face. “I don’t know if Baxter told you. I own all of the land here from the turnoff, except that one little piece your house is on.”

Without taking her eyes off him, she murmured, “So, don’t be greedy.”

Conn raised his chin and pointed it at the window. Eve followed the line of his gaze—to her house. In the glow of her porch light, she caught the gleam of her white crushed-shell path. A rush of affection for her tumbledown house swelled her chest. Funny to think she had bonded so quickly with the rising damp, threadbare carpet and creaky floorboards.

She was smiling when she turned back to him, but that faded when she saw his resolute expression. With sudden clarity, she understood exactly his purpose. “You think my house spoils your view.”