Melting The Icy Tycoon

“Your attempt to discredit Scanlon is a publicity stunt. Admit it.”

She stopped in front of the stereo and whirled on him. “No, it’s gossip. You know, a lighthearted dig about how pleased his former subjects are that he’s moved on to bigger and better pastures.”

When she didn’t move, Conn reached over her shoulder, his finger jabbing at the stereo power switch. The opera was cut off midaria but the television set in the corner of the room was still chattering. “Your career is over and you can’t accept that because you have an insatiable need to be in the public eye. Because you people make up things to draw attention to yourselves.” He could not believe how heightened his senses were, how his blood seemed to surge through his veins.

“I do not!” she retorted, not backing up one inch.

“Why then, Ms. Summers…” He leaned in close. Since his finger already had its dander up, he employed it to wag in front of her astonished face. “Why are there no names? No confirmations? But mostly, why is yours the lone voice in the wilderness?”

She grabbed his finger.

He started, unable to believe it. A jolt of energy crackled and popped through him at the contact. Yes, she had a tight hold on his index finger and was holding it away, so there was nothing in between them.

Nothing but air and madness.

In a flash his big hand totally encompassed her small one and he laced their fingers together.

She tossed her head back, inhaling sharply. “Because, Mr. Bannerman,” she said, dragging her incredulous eyes from their entwined fingers to his face, “Scanlon cultivates friends in high places. He always has.”

Conn moved a step closer, tugging her hand gently toward him. “Really, Ms. Summers?”

“The New City paper isn’t part of the old-boy network. It…it can’t be bought off like the others.” Her breathing seemed shallow and rapid, her voice not as certain as before. But she did raise her chin. “And it’s Drumm, not Summers.”

Their wrists had locked together and he felt her pulse hammering against his. “Sorry. Ms. Drumm.” He bowed his head mockingly. “A rag’s a rag. Pete Scanlon has probably never even heard of it.” There was no heat in his voice now, the anger dissipating with the feel of her unresisting hand in his. Unresisting but not unresponsive. When he saw her eyes flick to his mouth and away, his blood began pumping to another beat. It wasn’t opera.

“I bet he has now,” she murmured and something glowed in him to hear her breathlessness.

Conn brought his other hand up and took her free one. She sucked in a breath but her warm fingers closed around his and her eyes flicked back and stayed on his mouth. He moved closer, dipping his head.

“Conn?” she breathed. Her eyes were wide and dark, her chest rose as his body connected with hers.

“Eve.” He took her mouth. Soft and cool and firm. His anger and tension fell away. Sighing, he pulled her closer. This was the argument he had wanted to have with her since day one.

She made a little humming noise in her throat and flexed her hands, but he wasn’t giving them up just yet. He eased her arms behind her and placed their laced hands on her rump. They swayed together, mouths locked, pressing up against each other.

He touched his tongue to hers, and exhilaration fizzed through him—that she tasted like heaven, that she was compliant, that maybe she was as greedy as he was.

Conn was so hungry for this warmth, this need, her acceptance. He was no monk, but it had been a long time. His infrequent affairs were more like arrangements, begun with the objective of completion. There wasn’t this blind need reaching out from him, building out of all proportion to the situation. Right out of proportion for a first kiss for two people who couldn’t even decide if they trusted or liked each other.

He leaned over her a little and angled her head back so he could kiss her more deeply. His desire built relentlessly and it flowed like tendrils of silk, binding them closer. He felt her slim fingers tightening rhythmically around his and her hips swaying as she arched against him. She was leading him into madness, and he’d never been more willing in his life.

When her tongue slid against his, the room began to swirl and he knew he’d reached his point of no return. She was leading him somewhere he might not be able to leave.

They came apart slowly, watching each other. Conn’s mouth tingled and his body ached with desire, and he felt that it would for the rest of the night. Eve looked into his eyes as if she had never seen him before.

He slowly leaned back, bringing their still-joined hands to her front. Her tight grip relaxed but she did not pull away.

He took a deep breath, inhaling that tangy citrus lotion or shampoo or whatever it was she wore. “I’m—sorry. That was not meant to happen.”

Her head jerked. Big eyes, as big as his, no doubt.

He released her hands with one last gentle squeeze. “I think I made my point,” he said, with little certainty. Then he nodded and walked out to his car.

Eve was a pacer. When alone and troubled, she would pace while conversing out loud, throwing her arms around to accentuate her points. But minutes after the sound of Conn’s car faded away, she stood exactly where he’d left her.

The initial clamoring of desire, from scalp to toes, was fading, too—into worry. She didn’t want to regret this kiss. Why should she regret something that warmed her through, reminded her of the joy of being a woman? She loved that stomach-plummeting feeling, like dreaming you’re falling off a cliff—scary but not fatal. Her blood was pumping and, yes, her juices flowed and it felt fantastic.

But this was a path already trodden. Eve did not trust lust. It had led directly to her marriage. In fact, if you wanted to think about it, her ex-husband’s lust—for other women—had led directly to her divorce.

Oh, no. She could not, she would not be drawn again into a relationship based on the physical.

“Don’t trust lust.” That would be her mantra. That night, she recited it until she fell asleep, and again when she woke up. Eve made a firm resolution to stay away from Conn Bannerman unless—unless her house was on fire.

Wouldn’t he just love that? she thought wryly.

The next day she received a small packet of newspaper clippings about Conn’s past from Lesley’s boyfriend. Not yet she thought, tossing it unopened in a kitchen drawer. Not with the taste of his kiss still fresh in her memory.

She spent the next few days following leads on Pete Scanlon. In a worrying turn of events she discovered that her ex-boss, Grant, was also thick with the mayoral candidate. She’d been fond of Grant. There was a kindliness in him unusual in the cutthroat world of TV ratings. She suspected sacking her had been difficult for him and he’d certainly copped a lot of public flak since her departure.

However, for Pete Scanlon to be friendly with two leading personnel of the national TV station put a sinister slant on Eve’s exit from that station.

A call from the mystery businessman gave her insight into a surprisingly clever money laundering and tax scam. Eve was surprised. The Pete Scanlon she knew was boorish and unrefined. Yet he had devised a simple but effective way to exploit the gray area between tax avoidance and tax evasion.

But then her contact moved onto the blackmail part of it, and that involved not only the businessmen he had already compromised but also government and police officials, politicians, media moguls. Private yacht trips, everything supplied—drugs, girls, gambling, whatever took their fancy. And, of course, the hidden camera.

“It’s not money that spins Pete’s wheels,” the man told her. “It’s power. Turn the screws and keep the favors coming. Forever.”

Oh, yes, this was so much more his style.

“Will you go on record?” Eve implored, without much hope. The stakes were far higher than she’d realized.

“Not on my own,” the man said. “If this all comes out, a couple of the players could get jail time. Others—and I’m in that category—will get massive fines and destroyed reputations.”

“He will win this election,” Eve fretted, her faith in the incumbent mayor dwindling. “Benson’s stale. The people want something new.”

“You have around three weeks to do something about it. Else there won’t be a clean cop or politician or newsman in this city.”

Eve was jarred by the sudden realization that Conn could be one of the business cartel involved in the money laundering. Or worse, what if the not-so-honorable mayoral candidate had something awful hanging over his head?

The packet of clippings had taunted her for two days. Her resolution to stay away from him was strong. But if her neighbor was implicated in Pete’s web of deceit, best she be prepared.

Her hand trembled as she slit open the plastic envelope. Conn’s past, all rubber-banded in chronological order, fell out.

The car’s tires crunched to a halt in her driveway. “Check one,” Eve muttered and stood up from the couch, smoothing her top.

A car door slammed. “Check two.” She picked up the full wineglass from the mantel where it had been warming.

Determined footfalls pulverized her shell footpath. “Check three,” she whispered, and her heartbeats thumped in tandem with her steps down the hall toward her door.

Bang! Bang! Bang! “Check four,” she said under her breath, and turned the lock.

The thunderous glower. Check five. She smiled serenely and offered him the glass.

Conn gaped. What started as a terrific frown slowly smoothed out into confusion. His eyes moved from her face to the glass and back.

“Come in. It’s cold.” Eve stepped closer, holding out the glass, and he had no option but to take it. She ushered him in and closed the door. “Come down to the lounge. The fire’s going.” She turned and walked down the hallway.

Doing her best to appear unperturbed, she poked the fire, then picked up her glass off the mantel and sipped the brackish red liquid. It was a full twenty, nail-biting seconds to the beat of an old Pink Floyd song, before Conn appeared. He stood, dwarfing the doorway, looking at her.

She took another big sip and let it rest in her mouth for a few moments while she submitted to the rake of his eyes. She had taken care dressing and was comfortable under his scrutiny, even if her pulse thumped in her ears.

After a long perusal, Conn raised his glass and sipped.

“Is the wine okay?”

He swallowed and inclined his head.

She carefully let her breath out and watched while he did a leisurely circle of the room. He reminded her of a wild animal, marking his territory. He paused often, studying every object: her four-foot wooden tiger, the burnished, naked art torso on the wall that seemed to move in the flickering firelight, a couple of family photos. Once his hand reached out to smooth over a section of wall that she had stripped and sanded for painting. He glanced at the candles on the coffee table and again at the line of tea lights on the mantel. He stared for quite a few moments at the platter of cheese and olives and dipping oils for the little chunks of crusty bread.

Eve inhaled. If he was going to lose it, it would be now.

Not once did he glance her way until he had come full circle. Then he stopped by the couch, brows raised sardonically in a pretence of asking her permission to sit.

Eve nodded.

When he was seated, he took another sip of wine, then leaned forward and placed the glass on the coffee table.

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.” He pointed his chin at the glass. “Wine. Food. Candles.” He looked up at her standing in front of the fire. You. The unspoken word danced in his eyes as they flickered and glowed up and down her body like the reflected flames.

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