Recluse Millionaire, Reluctant Bride

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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2017

Copyright © Sun Chara 2017

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2017

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Sun Chara asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Ebook Edition ©December 2017

ISBN: 9780008145064

Version 2017-11-29

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Acknowledgements

Also by Sun Chara

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Friday 4:00 a.m.

Stan Rogers had to bring her here, even if he had to resort to ‘unusual’ methods. He had to get the exotic beauty to agree to his terms. He rubbed the sting from his eyes and the crick from his neck.

A gust of air hurled through the half-open window of his office, bringing with it the scent of Douglas fir. He didn’t even flinch at the icy bite on his face. A wake-up call? Rolling up his sleeves, he dismissed the foolish notion and flicked the desk lamp on. The glare sliced across the shadowed room.

He had no choice. It was either her or his son. He’d asked once and she’d refused. Clamping down on the pricking of his conscience, he swiveled in his chair and paced the two burly men’s approach.

“Bring her.” He slapped his hand on the mahogany desk, his words chips of ice. “Today.”

***

Friday 10:00 a.m.

He was behind it. Stella sensed it in her gut, and that made him a dangerous adversary. Perspiration seeped from her pores and made her jogging suit stick to her skin. A moist drop slid between her breasts. The sun’s glare made her squint. Her mind catapulted.

“I asked you to bring her here,” he muttered, his words directed at her two sheepish escorts. “But not floundering in a fish net.” He bounded over the two steps of the mountain lodge and landed with ease, the gravel crunching beneath his boots.

In two strides, he bridged the distance and halted not two feet from her. His heat filtered to her … his aftershave … she wrinkled her nose. Scents of spruce blended with it, and she couldn’t place it. Couldn’t place him. A niggle nudged her brain, and then vaporized.

“You all right?” he murmured, his hawk-like gaze on her.

Stella’s knees almost buckled, and she gripped the trunk of a nearby pine. Her knuckles grazed the bark. A sliver pierced her skin, and she sucked in a breath, gritting her teeth against the sting of the abrasion.

“Take it off her at once.”

While the two bumblers fumbled to extricate her from the twine, Stella staked out her surroundings and zoned in on her captor.

He towered above her, with his legs slightly apart, and shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans; the movement stretched his sweater—of Native Indian design—taut across his chest, hinting at the muscle beneath. His casual stance bespoke of power, ownership, confidence.

Sexual energy.

Her side stitched a warning.

He looked rugged as the Canadian Rockies, and hard. Flint hard.

Autumn sunlight glinted off the gold in his hair. A shade lighter than his close-cropped beard, it brushed his shoulders. His laser-sharp eyes reminded her of an ocean storm…dark, turbulent. The oddest feeling rocked her stomach; the force of his gaze set off signals of another sort in her brain, yet unclear. Through the racket in her head, a spark of a memory flared, but she couldn’t grasp it.

“This is the ogre,” she murmured to herself. Goosebumps skittered on her skin, and not entirely caused by the November air piercing her clothes.

The flick, Shrek, flashed through her mind, and a smile struggled for a place on her mouth. She bit it away. The man looming over her didn’t appear as a benevolent green giant.

And she was no princess; just an ordinary working girl.

So what did he want with her?

“What’s going on?” Stella rubbed her uninjured hand over her arm to ward off the chill. “Explain.”

“Of course.” He stroked his chin and tilted his head. A golden earring glittered, and it was like a sledgehammer hit her brain.

Blood drained from her face and her heart smashed against her ribs.

By sheer force of will, she stood her ground and flexed her fingers. At the slightest provocation, her hands could morph to hammer fists. This man, Stan Rogers, could destroy her. She reeled and the past rushed in…

She had stood at the entrance of the downtown high-rise, every nerve in her body on alert, her mind pounding, this is your last chance. Hoping the spring rain didn’t frizz her hair, she wiggled her foot and the piece of cardboard covering the hole on the bottom of her shoe bumped her big toe. She tapped her toe on the pavement for a better ‘fit’. Dressed in her one and only suit, she’d pinned her hair at the nape of her neck and clipped gold –ninety-nine-cents-worth hoop earrings on her ears. She mustn’t look as ‘hungry’ as she felt.

She’d done every menial job on the face of the planet–from dishwasher, to cook, to janitor, to waitress, to sales—to put herself through the University of British Columbia. Her parents back in Toronto had enough to worry about with her two brothers; she didn’t want to be an added burden.

Penny-pinching, she managed to scrape enough for a down payment to open her own martial arts studio. But without a solid credit rating, reserve funds and income details, she was considered a high-risk commodity. She laughed but it came out as a groan. Every bank had turned her down.

R&R Financial had built its multi-million-dollar global chain by picking up the high riskers nobody wanted. Stella took a deep breath and let it seep out through her lips, the sound almost a snort. There’d be a catch.

She glimpsed her reflection in the dusky glass and clutched her purse, doubts bombarding her brain. Gulping down her uncertainty, she ventured through the revolving doors into the enemy’s lair.

“Give me one good reason why I should spend my hard-earned money on you.” Stan Rogers had curled his lip, studying her beneath his shuttered gaze.

“A good businessman would take a risk,” she countered, her words brave, but her hands clammy.

“A calculated one.” He brushed his fist across his jaw and reclined in his chair, his eyes piercing … cold. “He’d be a fool to rush in blindly.”

He raised his arms and locked his hands behind his neck, flattening the golden hair at his nape. An earring glinted. The muscles of his forearms flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, and his shirt with a red tie loose at the open collar, stretched tight across his torso.

“Which are you, Miss … or should I say Ms. Ryan? A sure thing or a hidden hazard?”

Stella ignored the knock to the preface of her name and edged forward in her chair. “Neither.” She met his gaze head on and glimpsed the navy flecks in his irises.

A jolt shot through her.

He laughed, a humorless sound.

She scooted back.

“In my experience, a female is the biggest risk tempting mankind.” He unclasped his hands from behind his neck and brought them to rest on the polished surface of the desk. From the blotter, he picked up a pen and twirling it between his fingers, assessed her. “And you’re very much a woman.”

She barely heard the murmur from his lips, her gaze glued on the pen he toyed with … was he imagining it was her? She laughed, hiding her nervousness. Silly. The door was two feet behind her—a quick exit.

She went on the offensive. “And a male is—” she began, about to string a line of choice words after that particular species but he beat her to it.

“Trustworthy, dependable, steadfast.” A grin twitched the corner of his mouth.

“Matter of opinion.”

“Dare one ask yours?” he asked.

“Arrogant, self-centered, controlling …”

He held up a hand. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I see.” He replaced the ballpoint pen on its stand. “Are you an exception to the superficiality of most women?”

“One way to find out.”

“And that is?”

“Approve my loan.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes but it quickly diminished beneath his frown. He remained silent for so long, she thought she had lost the gamble. Sighing, she stood up to go, but his next words stopped her.

“Done.” He hauled himself from the chair. “With a three point higher interest rate. If you default on payment”, he paused and delivered his final shot, “I’ll clean you out, lock, stock and caboose.”

“You bast—”

He arched an eyebrow.

“You’ve been baiting me.”

“Those are the terms.” He stepped around, hitched up his pant leg and propped his hip on the edge of the desk. “Take it or leave it.”

Stella warred with common sense, with bravado, and with something more … her determination to build a business for herself. If she accepted his offer, she’d be shackled to him until she paid off the mortgage. It could take years. If she didn’t, she’d be ‘clocking in’ at a low wage for someone else to reap the profits. Either way, it would be a grueling cycle.

“Agreed.” If she had to slave away at work, she preferred to do it on her own turf.

She extended her hand and he clasped her fingers in a firm grip, the calluses on the ridge of his palm grazing her flesh.

High voltage charged into her. Her heart leapt, her breathing bumpy.

“Sealed,” he said, his gaze unwavering.

She snatched her hand away, but it was too late. The scent of his cologne wrapped around her like a forbidden caress, and made her pulse climb. She gulped, feeling like she’d sold herself to him…

That had been four years ago, and she’d never seen the American financier again. He passed her account to one of his associates at the Canadian branch and flown to his New York headquarters. She smirked. On his private jet no doubt. Being a small fry in a pond of sharks, she couldn’t turn him a fast profit, and he’d ditched her.

That had left her wondering why he approved her unsecured loan in the first place. Was she about to find out?

Stella shivered.

“Come in, Miss Ryan,” Stan invited, studying her. “We’ll talk over lunch.”

The Budweiser Lite curls brushing her face but not hiding the smudges on her cheeks were inherited from her Nordic father. Her almond-shaped eyes from her Japanese mother. He knew. He’d Googled her profile. At his blatant scrutiny, her violet-blue pupils glittered with anger.

She was east and west … light and dark … fire and ice.

The contrast was striking. Rare.

An exotic beauty—a dangerous beauty.

She made him feel again. Something he didn’t want.

A slight tilt of her chin, and she set her mouth in a straight line.

He caught the hint of a quiver on her bottom lip, and his conscience pummeled the vicinity of his heart. His gut turned to lead, his jaw to steel. She had left him no alternative; he had to bring her here.

“What if I don’t?” She challenged, taking several steps backward.

“We’ll park beneath that pine and rap.” Stan stood his ground.

Slender, she moved with the agility and light step of her profession—just as he remembered from their one meeting long ago. At that time, he’d locked her into a contract with a severe penalty clause, for business.

Now, he had to do the same, this time for personal gain.

At twenty-seven, she gave the impression of a delicate blonde. He curved his mouth but didn’t quite make it to a grin. He knew better. The lady had a quiet strength and a determination that couldn’t be beaten. Wasn’t that what had turned his hand to approve her loan? It had been foolish, of course. But her courage had stirred something inside him—hadn’t he fought the same financial battle twenty years ago when he was first stepping out—

Savagely, he hurled the reminder from his mind and trekked to the house. That was then, this was now. He couldn’t afford going soft on her.

Not with what was at stake. He had to crack through her defenses and he’d use any means at his disposal.

“Take her to Minni.” He tossed the command at the two men bungling to fold the net. A pause on the veranda, and he turned to her. “She’ll remove the splinter from your hand.”

“I don’t need—” she mouthed back, but he disappeared indoors.

Stella dismissed the tick to her pride and raised her arms, stretching.

“Ahh, freedom.”

She could ensue another battle, but weary from the first ordeal at the beach and the long bumpy ride, decided to bide her time. An opportunity would present itself. When it did, she’d be ready. In the meantime, sweaty and disheveled, she’d welcome a chance to freshen up before facing him again. Without a doubt, they were headed for another clash.

Joe, the dark-haired body guard escorted her inside the lodge, then left to go find Minni. Fred-the-red stuck to her like glue.

She caught his reflection in the wall mirror; he was shifting on his feet. She grinned. One on one … better odds. Her hands itched for action, but she wouldn’t get far if she made a move now. She scanned the hallway. A Tiffany lamp—a possible weapon—was set on a shelf beneath the mirror.

The coat rack in the corner—another possibility. Beyond the arch in front of her, a stairway curved to the second floor, fueling her curiosity.

“Over there is the living room and library.” A petite woman with a motherly smile and warm brown eyes walked through the portal, and Fred backtracked out of sight.

“Opposite on the left is the kitchen,” she said in her bubbly voice. “My favorite place.” She hugged a first-aid kit to her bosom and motioned for Stella to follow. “By the way, I’m Minni, Joe’s wife. I’ll be lookin’ after ye while ye ’re here.”

“I won’t be staying.”

“Joe and I’ve been with Mr. Rogers eight years now,” Minni rambled on as if she hadn’t spoken. “Shoulda heard the goings on ’round here a few months ago. The place turned upside down and all because of that poor child …” She paused for breath and picked her way up the stairs.

Halfway down the corridor, Minni opened a door and ushered her inside. “Mr. Rogers had this room specially prepared for you.”

“He did, did he?” Stella muttered, an uncanny sensation pricking the back of her neck.

“I did.”

She spun around. “Too bad you wasted your time.”

“Time is money, Ms. Ryan.” Stan winked at Minni. “I never waste either one.” He walked right past her, ruffling air between them. A hint of his scent floated to her. Fresh as the outdoors, it should have soothed, but instead, it made her ire rise.

“Nor do I,” she fired back, but he’d already bounded down the stairs.

“Come on then,” Minni called from inside the room.

Stella debated, thinking the ogre took a lot for granted, but the best she could do now was get as much information as she could. Smiling, she stepped through the door…and Minnie was her source.

“So, this a busy place?”

“It can be.” Minnie plonked the first-aid kit on a stack of magazines on the bureau by the bed, bumping the long-stemmed red rose in the crystal vase. “This won’t hurt a bit.”

Stella extended her hand. “You like living up here?” She scoped the room. Sunlight filtered through the curtains of a window—a possible escape route—she filed that away in her mind. “Ouch!” She winced as Minnie yanked out the splinter with a pair of tweezers.

“There, that should do it.” She smiled and blotted the scratches with antiseptic.

Stella turned to thank her and a splash of solid color on the bed caught her eye. She stretched across the laced bedspread and shoving the cushions aside, snatched up the uniform—a Karate gui.

“Hope it fits.” Minni fussed around her with a Band-Aid in her hand.

“Why?”

Minni turned quiet. After she bandaged her knuckles, she patted her hand. “There.” She swept up the first-aid kit and murmuring about lunch, made her exit.

Stella made a beeline for the window, turned the latch and raised it. She leaned out and gauged the distance to the ground. Too high to jump but she could climb down. Just then, Fred-the-red appeared from behind the corner of the house and gave her a brief nod. She waved a half-hearted greeting, realizing she’d have to be extra quiet and time it just right.

On her way to the bathroom, she paused to smell the rose and sucked in a breath, the force of it burning her throat. Her face was splashed on the cover of the magazine topping the stack on the dresser. Headlining the current issue of Sports Unlimited, Stella Ryan: the woman, the sensei, and the competitor at the International Karate Tournament in Tokyo. Air pressure fizzed between her teeth. She bolted into the bathroom and locked the door.

Twisting on the shower, she stepped beneath, the warm spray soothing her body, but not her mind. Two minutes tops, and she swabbed herself dry. Throwing on her clothes, she wondered what other surprises … er … shocks were in store for her.

Preferring to face-off her demons, Stella marched downstairs and halted outside the dining room. She wiped her damp palms on her thighs, took a deep breath to steady her nerves and pushed the double panels open. She paused on the threshold.

Eight chairs fringed a table in the centre of the floor, the lace table cloth and sparkling crystal were a marked contrast to the somber tones of the room. Minnie’s feminine touch, she thought, not missing that this was to be a lunch á deux…

“Come in, Ms. Ryan.”

The ogre’s gruff voice made her jump, and she hesitated for a fraction of a second. She’d always confronted that which she feared and thereby conquered it. This … this man would be no exception. She took a bold step inside and another until she stood in the middle of the room.

He stood behind the bar, choking a bottleneck between his fingers, his intense gaze shooting into her. She cringed at her choice of words and her bandaged hand flew to her throat. Chills chased up her spine. She stood her ground and glared back at him.

Silence fueled the room. Thickened. Smothered.

He feigned a cough and splashed Scotch into a glass. The sound of liquid over ice shattered the tension between them. Stella dropped her hand to her side. She was trained to protect herself, her body her weapon … yeah, but here you are anyway.

“What’s your pleasure?” He seized the tumbler and motioned to an army of liqueurs on the counter. In a lazy sweep, his eyes toured her head to toe, then his lashes flickered, concealing a glint of something indefinable in his pupils.

A blush warmed her skin.

“My pleasure is to get out of here,” she snapped on an intake of breath. Boldly, she allowed her eyes to do some appraising of their own.

Fortyish. Over six-feet. He exuded strength and power.

Raw sexuality.

Her stomach flipped. Her heart raced.

The walls seemed to close in.

She shook her head, blinked. This man could crush her. She inhaled a mouthful of oxygen. Exhaled. Okay. She twitched her lips, but didn’t smile. She knew from experience that size and strength were not the key. The right move combined with speed and accuracy could bring anyone down. Including Stan Rogers.

Tempting.

But, timing played into it and this was not quite the moment for it. Patience was not her greatest virtue.

“I figured you’d prefer clean clothes after your shower.” Stan took a swig of the amber liquid and studied her over the rim, amusement tugging the corner of his mouth.

“You figured wrong.” She ventured forward a few paces, not wanting him to think she was afraid. “I’ll wear what I please, when I please and how I please. And, I’m not in the habit of wearing borrowed threads and certainly” –she paused for effect— “I don’t dine in a Karate gui.”

“Of course.” He brushed a thumb across his fuzzy chin. “A sweaty jogging suit is so” –his gaze dropped several notches, zeroing in on the rise and fall of her breasts— “much more appealing.”

Stella was about to blast him with a string of verbal bullets, when he held up a hand, warding off her attack.

“How remiss of me not to consider your lack of attire,” he said, a tone of formality in his voice.

Stella twisted her lips. Attire? Get with the times, mister.

“I’ll speak to Minni about it.”

“Don’t bother.” She narrowed her eyes, sizing him up like an opponent in a ring. “I intend to leave here within the hour, and if you try to stop me, I’ll have you charged with kidnapping.”

“You’re not a prisoner here, Ms. Ryan,” he said, tone cool. “You’re an invited guest with whom I wish to discuss business.”

“Why didn’t you call or e-mail or drop by my studio to discuss your … er … business?”

“In a sense, I did.”

“Stop talking in riddles.”

He shrugged.

And that had her hackles rising.

“This charade is utter nonsense.” She moved another few steps closer, the table a barrier between them. “I don’t like being manhandled.”

The deep sound of his laughter ricocheted off the walls. “Heard it was the other way around.” He saluted her with his drink.

Stella shook her head, pointing her finger at him. “Look here, I have a business to run. Right now, my students are at the dojo waiting for me.”