Tycoon's Terms of Engagement

‘You’re not allowed to touch your phone. Nor am I allowed to touch mine,’ said Jack. ‘Not for the next six hours. Not even if they ring or beep or spontaneously combust.’

‘Six hours?’ They were going to be out that long?

‘That okay?’

‘I… I guess.’ It was better than staying the night, right?

‘First to cave loses.’

‘Loses what?’

His sudden unexpected smile was too wicked for her liking.

‘What you should be asking is what the winner receives.’

Stephanie turned in her seat, her heart drumming heavy-metal style. ‘What do you win if I cave?’

‘A taste.’

‘Of…?’

‘What do you think?’ he asked, too softly.

‘My blog is ready to be bought but I’m not on the table, Mr Wolfe,’ she breathed, trying to be icy. And failing.

‘Not yet—and it’s Jack.’

‘Not ever, Mr Wolfe.’

‘You’re afraid I’ll bite? I won’t. I’m talking about one kiss.’

She stared at him. He was driving along as if he hadn’t a care in the world. As if he hadn’t just suggested something wildly inappropriate. And so wildly tempting.

Finally he glanced over at her. ‘You can’t tell me you haven’t considered the idea already.’

NATALIE ANDERSON adores a happy ending—which is why she always reads the back of a book first. Just to be sure. So you can be sure you’ve got a happy ending in your hands right now—because she promises nothing less. Along with happy endings she loves peppermint-filled dark chocolate, pineapple juice and extremely long showers. Not to mention spending hours teasing her imaginary friends with dating dilemmas. She tends to torment them before eventually relenting and offering—you guessed it—a happy ending. She lives in Christchurch, New Zealand, with her gorgeous husband and four fabulous children.

If, like her, you love a happy ending, be sure to come and say hi on facebook/authornataliea, on Twitter @authornataliea, or at her website/blog: www.natalie-anderson.com

Tycoon’s Terms of Engagement

Natalie Anderson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU’RE NOT TO leave me alone with him, you understand?’ Stephanie Johnson—Steffi Leigh to her quadrillion blog subscribers—closed the passenger door and glared at her best friend.

‘Stop stressing. It’s not like he’s dangerous.’ Tara rummaged in her oversized handbag as she walked round to the footpath, not bothering to look up or to lock the car.

‘He’s more than dangerous. He’s like God,’ Stephanie argued. Because Jack Wolfe held her whole world in his hands. ‘And you know I can’t keep the act up for long.’

Long enough for the ninety-second vlogs she recorded in the corner of her bedroom—sure. But staying as ‘Steffi Leigh’ for a three-hour meeting out in the real world? She hadn’t a hope. At least not without help.

Absently she nibbled on her fingernail, only to get a bite of fabric. Ugh. She’d forgotten she was wearing sleek white gloves—their purpose to hide the chewed-to-the-quick ugliness of her nails. Her whole vintage look was to hide her real, slightly screwed-up self.

‘Well, if you’d stop rubbing your face…’ Tara stepped in close, her blusher brush raised like the weapon it was. ‘And stand still…’

As if that was possible. Her kitten-heeled shoes were half killing her toes, her stomach was churning and she was freezing, despite the weather app on her phone reckoning it was thirty-two degrees already. Stephanie waved Tara’s annoying brush away and checked the time on her phone again.

‘Let’s go. We can’t be late.’ She didn’t need the blusher—she’d probably turn beetroot the second he asked her a tricky question.

As she turned towards the hotel her panic sharpened. She was going to give herself away in the first five minutes… Because Steffi Leigh was all fiction. And Stephanie Johnson was a phony.

‘Of course you can be late,’ Tara scoffed, burrowing in her bag again. ‘You’re Steffi Leigh. You’re going to make an entrance.’

Stephanie winced. That was going to happen anyway, given she looked as if she’d just stepped out of a nineteen-fifties sewing catalogue—all full-skirted dress, nipped-in waist, kid gloves, kitten heels and pin-curled hair. She could see people driving past and turning their heads, probably wondering if it was a photo shoot—what with the make-up artist touching up her face on the street.

If only she was a model. If only she wasn’t going to have to speak and try to sell her site as some stellar investment.

‘Stephanie.’ Tara looked up and eyeballed her. ‘You can do this. You need to.’ Tara smiled. ‘You’ve got to get on with your life.’

Stephanie looked at her friend and a fatalistic determination sank into her bones. Yeah, she could do this. Because she had to—not for her life, but her brother’s.

She tucked her phone into her vintage bag, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was Steffi Leigh, and today she’d do the best job of staying in character ever.

Fake it. Make it. Rake it in.

She walked the few yards to the grand columned entrance. The Raeburn Hotel was one of the oldest, and definitely the most glamorous of Melbourne’s many five-star hotels, and the venue for her meeting with Jack Wolfe, CEO of the massive global media conglomerate that been publishing the world’s most popular and trusted travel guides for years. His company had transitioned well into the online environment, and he was interested in talking to her about her blog.

Monetising had been a key word in the blogging/vlogging/have-your-own-channel world of the internet for years now. Anyone could start yapping online, but getting people to part with their cash to hear what you had to say…? That was the Holy Grail.

But right now an even better grail was within her grasp. Because it wasn’t just a few followers wanting to pay her a couple of dollars a day, or funds from the few ads she could bear to have littering her design, it was a famous heir to a fortune offering a bundle of cash for the lot. And Stephanie was willing to do almost anything to get her hands on a decent amount of money. It was the only hope she had left to lift her brother out of his downward spiral. To get him into study, get his life started again.

A one-off instant cash offer would be incredible.

So Jack Wolfe could never know how much of a faker she was. That the huge platform she’d somehow accumulated was built on a façade that she projected from one corner of her small bedroom. If anyone ever saw the rest of the room…

The CEO of Wolfe Enterprises certainly wasn’t going to. Jack Wolfe was getting nothing but the façade for a few hours. She had to get him to buy it. Literally.

She smiled as the liveried attendant held the door for her, then paused for a moment, trying not to blink in naive appreciation of the marble-columned lobby. It had been a while since she’d got out. And never had she spent much time in a place as opulent and expensive as this.

‘I’m just nipping to the little girls’ room,’ Tara murmured.

‘Now?’

‘Your brother barricaded himself in the bathroom so I didn’t get a chance to go before we left.’ Tara shrugged.

Stephanie forgot the glorious surroundings and stared at Tara in horror. ‘You didn’t tell me that. Was he okay?’ She’d thought Dan had been sleeping. Even now, months since his last operation, he needed his rest.

‘He was fine. He was sulking.’ Tara fossicked in her bag again, as if she’d dropped the Hope Diamond in there. ‘Jeez, that boy knows how to play you.’ She looked up and sent Steffi a disapproving look. ‘Put the phone away. You don’t need him emotionally manipulating you two seconds before this meeting.’

‘He doesn’t emotionally manipulate me.’ Stephanie paused, her phone in her hand, embarrassed that Tara knew she’d been about to call and check up on him.

Tara shook her head and strode to the bathroom, barely watching where she was going, still searching for that elusive lost item in the bottom of her bag.

‘He doesn’t,’ Stephanie muttered under her breath, and clicked her phone to check the time on the screen. And to make sure there were no messages from Dan.

There weren’t.

She didn’t know whether that fact ought to make her worry more.

But Tara had been right—now wasn’t the time. Dan would have to wait a couple of hours. It was for his benefit that she was here. She’d head to the reception desk and get them to let Jack Wolfe know she’d arrived, and hopefully Tara would be back before he made it downstairs.

As she walked towards the beautifully clad reception staff she couldn’t help noticing a lone man standing with his back to her at the far corner of the lounge area. Sleek leather briefcase in one hand, he was talking into his phone. His stance emanated strength… his attire denoted power. And his American accent carried across the clear space.

‘I don’t care if he’s busy. I’ve waited long enough,’ he snapped. ‘Arrange it. Now.’

Turning, he stabbed his phone screen and then shoved it in his pocket.

Stephanie lifted her brows at the brusque arrogance of his demand. He was definitely used to giving orders, but he didn’t do it nicely. Curious to see his face, she kept an eye on him as he turned towards the rest of the room. Dark-haired, tanned, ocean-blue eyes. He’d be attractive if all that anger wasn’t radiating from his rigid posture.

He was looking down, but even so she could see the stark expression building in his eyes. Her footsteps faltered as she registered that he was feeling more than angry. He looked hurt. For a moment he looked utterly exposed, and the depth of his unhappiness stole her breath. A flood of sympathy rose unbidden, puckering her heart. For such a man to look so defeated, no matter how momentarily, it had to be something bad. And she understood bad. She knew heartache intimately.

He stiffened suddenly and looked up, across the short distance, right at her. Totally catching her gawping.

Instantly his expression changed. Closed. Hardened.

His blue eyes narrowed, focusing. And then to her astonishment he looked her over—slowly, blatantly—appraising every inch of her. All the way from her kitten-heeled feet to her perfectly curled hair.

Stephanie stood frozen, shocked, and just blinked back at him as he dared sum her up in one stare. His lips pressed into a thin line and his demeanour implied a total thumbs-down. He couldn’t have looked less impressed—or more hostile.

Okay, so she wasn’t Top Model striking, or Cosmo cover potential, but she wasn’t bad. And with Tara having worked her magic she was more than passable. And even if she wasn’t, his visual disapproval and dismissal was just plain rude.

Was he angry because he was embarrassed that she’d heard him? Or that she’d seen him looking upset for a second? She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop—he’d been the one who hadn’t had the courtesy even to try and refrain from letting the rest of the world hear his conversation.

Now she couldn’t be sure she’d seen such bleakness in his eyes. And had she really, just for a moment, felt for him?

Well, she wasn’t going to let him know he’d pierced her pride. Summoning every ounce of Steffi Leigh, she sent him her most sparkling smile—albeit insincere. Without waiting to see his reaction she turned her back on him and his wordless judgement and walked over to the receptionist.

‘Could you please let Jack Wolfe know that Steffi Leigh is here to see him?’

‘I’m Jack Wolfe.’ A deep voice interrupted just behind her.

Stephanie’s heart sank. But her already tense muscles braced even more. She’d known it—the accent had warned her. She just hadn’t wanted to be right.

She smiled her thanks to the receptionist, but the woman wasn’t paying her any attention—she was too busy making eyes at the man who’d spoken.

Yeah, he was like that—vacuuming up the sexual attention of every woman in the vicinity.

Quelling the nerves churning her stomach, Stephanie turned to face him.

The Wolfe Guides were geared towards the independent traveller. Those infinitely cool types who managed to travel around fifteen countries for nine months with only a small backpack on their backs and yet looked hip and stylish every step of the way. But Jack Wolfe wasn’t in a quick-dry shirt. He wore a made-to-measure, made-to-perfection suit. And he definitely had to have chosen the shirt to complement his eyes and make their blue even more blindingly brilliant.

‘You look exactly as you do in your blog profile, Ms Leigh.’ He didn’t make it sound as if it was a good thing.

So he’d recognised her and had still looked at her with such cold dismissal? Nice.

‘Please call me Steffi,’ she invited with crisp politeness, extending her hand. She’d start over. Pretend that intense moment had never happened. Ignore his rudeness.

‘Not Steffi Leigh?’ He took her hand in a firm grip.

‘Just Steffi is fine.’

A pulse of energy shot into her fingers and up her arm, making her glad of the gloves. Because even through the cotton she could feel the warmth and strength of him and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his. It had been too long since she’d looked such a handsome man in the eye. Okay, she’d never actually seen such a handsome man in real life before.

She’d never actually gone weak at the knees before either.

It was nerves, right? Or some Neanderthal woman instinct—to be drawn to the most powerful male in the room… She could use her brain better than this.

Tara had been wrong. This man was dangerous.

‘Is Steffi short for Stephanie?’ he asked.

She nodded, withdrawing her hand as quickly as she could. No one called her Stephanie now, aside from her brother. And only then when he was mad with her. Which was, unfortunately, quite often.

‘Stephanie is a lovely name,’ he said. But the chill in his voice undermined any chance his comment had of being a compliment.

And what, exactly, was he implying about her pseudonym, then? Stephanie ground her teeth even as she maintained her smile and channelled her alter ego.

Steffi Leigh always acted as if anyone could be wrapped around her little finger. Just because this guy looked as if he was made from titanium, it didn’t mean she couldn’t pretend.

‘Shall we snap a selfie to record the moment?’ She forced a laugh. In terms of coming up with content, getting pictures for her social media accounts nearly killed her—this would be a good one.

‘No.’

Flat. Uncompromising. Unimpressed.

Way to start, Steffi. She nibbled the inside of her cheek, momentarily set back. But the ‘Steffi Leigh’ scene was what he wanted, right? This was the deal—the personality and pop culture vibe was what he wanted to buy.

‘No? I’ll go solo, then.’ She wasn’t going to let him crush her. She held out her phone and quickly took a shot. She’d never use it, but he didn’t need to know that.

‘You do that often?’ he asked in a low voice.

‘I do whatever it takes.’ She smiled at him, refusing to hear the sarcastic, slightly improper thread to his question. ‘My followers enjoy my pictures.’

Most of her pictures didn’t actually feature her—usually she put together some quirky set piece with a new product, or made a meme to amuse.

‘Are you going to spend the next two hours tweaking the image with filters and Photoshop?’ he asked.

‘I don’t do that either. Most of my photos are unfiltered.’

He looked at her—another slow appraisal, up and down. ‘Yes. That I can believe. You obviously took the two hours to apply filters in real life.’

Actually, that wasn’t far from the truth. Her perfectly blended layers of concealer, foundation, blusher, powder and eyeshadow had taken Tara almost two hours, and Stephanie was sure it was melting off already.

What was this guy’s beef? Why be so pointed when he was the one who’d requested this meeting? But she was the one who needed it. So she had to play nice.

‘You got me.’ Determinedly she kept smiling up at him from between thickly mascaraed lashes.

‘What do you look like without it?’

‘Even more amazing,’ she flipped back at him, unable to stop her irritation sparking.

‘I’d like to see that.’

Never going to happen.

She glared at him, her eyes locking with his. And, even though she hadn’t voiced it, she was certain he knew exactly what she was thinking. He thought she was some painted-up doll and an airhead to boot.

Patronising jerk.

But suddenly, finally, the man smiled.

Stephanie almost gasped in shock as another bolt of electricity kicked through her. If she’d thought him attractive in a ruthless kind of way before, now he was just meltingly gorgeous. He looked younger, more fun, more mischievous. Yeah. Total personality transplant.

It might have been better if he’d stayed icy and unimpressed.

‘I’m sorry if I’ve been abrupt,’ he said. And he was still totally abrupt, but with that winning smile it didn’t seem so rude. ‘I was distracted when you first arrived.’

Yeah, and she needed distraction now.

Think, brain. Think.

Then she remembered she’d made a plan. She’d known there was no way she was going to manage sitting across a table from him for three hours. Steffi Leigh only did twenty-second intros, then used what was around her—products, lists, the totally random—to fill in the time. So she was going to take Jack Wolfe on tour.

‘No problem—no one’s perfect,’ she said smoothly, still inwardly stunned by his apology. ‘Look, here comes Tara.’ She gestured towards the slim woman walking towards them, mentally muttering thanks to the heavens. ‘She’s my assistant.’

But Jack didn’t look at Tara. He kept his too blue eyes on her.

‘We’re kidnapping you,’ Stephanie added brightly.

‘You’re kidnapping me.’ He glanced down at her dress again. Then looked at himself. Raised one eyebrow. ‘You have chloroform with you?’

So there was a size difference. A huge one. But her being small didn’t mean she didn’t have strength. Or cunning.

‘Charm is more effective.’ She smiled.

‘Charm, you say?’ A gleam lit in his eye. ‘I’m not sure I’d call what you have charm.’

Stephanie’s blood heated, but she refused to rise to the bait and ask what it was he did think she had. Not going to do it. And she was not going to respond to his low, alarmingly sexy chuckle either.

‘Tara’s our chauffeur for the afternoon,’ she told him. Chauffeur, make-up diva, sidekick. Saviour.

‘Sorry about that…’ Tara breezed towards her, looking down and rubbing her hands. ‘There was this hand cream in there that I just had to try, only it had—’

‘Tara.’ Stephanie interrupted quickly. ‘This is Jack Wolfe.’ The man didn’t need to know about Tara’s insatiable cosmetics fetish.

‘You’re Jack Wolfe?’ Tara finally stopped admiring her hands and looked up at him. Her stunned expression would have been comic if it hadn’t been so annoying. that the guy had this effect on everyone?

‘I’m afraid so,’ he said, with surprising softness. ‘Were you expecting someone else?’

‘No. You’re… perfect as you are.’

‘Thank you.’ He shot Stephanie a sideways look and echoed even more softly, ‘Hear that? Perfect.’

Stephanie eyed him coldly and then turned back to Tara.

But Tara’s eyes had rounded and she looked from Jack to Stephanie and back again. Her mouth opened. Then closed. And then she smiled.

It wasn’t a smile Stephanie trusted.

‘Shall I go get the car?’ Tara said chirpily. ‘I’ll bring it to the main entrance.’

Stephanie stared, aghast, as her so-called friend left her alone with the man—again.

‘Why do we need the car?’ Jack asked.

‘As I said, we’re kidnapping you. You’re going on the Steffi Leigh tour of Melbourne.’ She pulled on her best smile again. ‘You only arrived in Australia this morning, right?’ His assistant had sent his schedule to her—all efficiency. And apparently he travelled without an entourage.

He frowned.

‘Or would you like to stay in the hotel for high tea instead?’ Stephanie’s heart sank. ‘We can go over the paperwork I’ve brought…’

‘I’m not hungry.’

Really? He looked it. He was about six feet tall, and sharp muscled in a lean way—as if he’d been fed only just enough to maintain optimal performance capability, like a caged cheetah kept on rations, so he’d run world-record-fast for the kill.

‘You’re sure?’ she queried.

He nodded.

‘Then that’s it.’ She smiled between gritted teeth. ‘The abduction goes ahead.’

Without waiting for him to say anything more, she turned and walked back across the expansive lobby to the door. Surely she could do the comebacks, put on the charm, maintain the persona just long enough to seal the deal? She was not going to let him annoy her into slipping and lowering her guard again.

‘Why can’t you drive?’ he asked, keeping pace alongside her.

‘I’m going to be talking to you.’ Selling it to him.

‘I thought women were good at multi-tasking.’

‘Actually, I think it’s better to focus on one task at a time and do it to the best of your ability.’

‘I’ll drive, then.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’ll drive.’

As if Tara was ever going to let him near her precious car. And as if he’d want to be seen behind the wheel of it once he saw it.

‘Will you be able to listen and drive?’ Stephanie asked.

‘That’s going to depend on whether what’s being said is interesting enough.’

He’d thrown down the gauntlet now. Stephanie straightened. Could he smell the desperation clinging to her? She couldn’t let him see just how badly she wanted this deal.

‘Tara can drive us,’ she said firmly. ‘So it’s not going to be a problem.’

‘Does Tara own the blog or do you?’ he asked, and stopped walking. Forcing her to stop and face him.

‘I do.’