The Rebel Tycoon's Outrageous Proposal

He needed the integrity Holly brought to her work, the gold standard against which she would measure this deal. So what if she was under investigation for fraud—everyone who mattered knew she could spot a flaky contract a mile off and wouldn’t allow anything remotely marginal in the eyes of the law.

Unlike her, Jared had been known to push the boundaries of legality. He hadn’t overstepped them, but he’d done things others would consider unethical, if not illegal.

Because sometimes the end justified the means.

“I won’t do anything illegal,” she said. “And by that I mean anything that I personally consider to breach the spirit or the letter of the law.”

He couldn’t help smiling at the irony, given her current circumstances. “What you say goes,” he assured her.

He couldn’t afford to have it any other way. This was his chance to avenge the wrong done to his family, and it had been twenty years coming. This deal was big enough to attract the scrutiny of the IRS, the stock market and his competitors. And one person in particular would be watching closely. It had to look squeaky clean.

“I charge plenty, and I need a partial payment next week.” Holly named a sum that startled Jared. He suppressed a grin—not many people would have the effrontery to demand that kind of fee when they were desperate—and agreed to pay.

But he wouldn’t let her think she could walk all over him. So he said, “I still have one concern about you.”

She bristled. “You said the investigation didn’t bother you.”

“Not that. I read an article about you last week.”

For the first time since she’d stalked into his office Holly looked less than one hundred percent sure of herself. “I—You can’t believe everything you read.”

“So the glowing account of your illustrious career wasn’t true?”

“Of course it was.”

“But the other stuff—the control freak part—wasn’t? I have to tell you, Holly, I don’t work well with control freaks.”

“I’m not—well, I guess I am a bit. That article was all my fault,” she said in a rush.

Jared quirked an eyebrow.

“I should never have let that journalist trail me around. It was one of those days when nothing went right and I had to…well…take control of my staff and my clients more than usual. I got off on the wrong foot with the guy. Right at the start he asked how I’d achieved so much in just a few years.”

“And you said?” Jared had a feeling he would enjoy her answer.

“I said…” Holly squared her shoulders and looked Jared in the eye. “I told him first impressions are important. That early in my career I could never have gotten away with dressing like he did, with his shoes all scuffed, his hair too long and his shirt hanging out. That no matter how good you are at your job, people will always judge you by appearance.”

Jared made a point of inspecting his own shoes. They passed muster, by his standards at least. Who knew what level of shine Holly expected? “My shirt is hanging out,” he said.

“Yours appears designed that way,” Holly said stiffly. “In hindsight, it wasn’t a clever thing to say, but he did ask. I gave him an honest answer.”

“And you think he took such offence that he went back to his office and labeled you a control freak?”

“No-o,” she said slowly. “I think he did that because I suggested he could write faster if he held his pen with the proper grip—I was only trying to help. And when it became clear the interview wasn’t going well, I asked to see his copy before it went to press and threatened to sue if he wrote anything I didn’t like. Which, of course, I have no grounds to do, as there was nothing factually incorrect in his article.”

“You don’t pull your punches,” Jared observed, his voice bland.

“I got what I deserved.”

Somehow the blue steel in his eyes—hard but not altogether unforgiving—strengthened Holly’s backbone and impelled her to an openness she hadn’t intended. “That article was a wake-up call for me. I’ve decided to be more tolerant of others.”

His lips twisted, she suspected in cynicism rather than appreciation of her resolution. “So that’s why you’re here. I’m the lucky beneficiary of your newfound tolerance.”

She nodded.

“That’s good. Because I don’t think I could work with the woman described in that article.”

Holly gulped.

“So,” he said silkily, “if you ever feel compelled to comment on the length of my hair or the state of my shoes, the way I hold my pen or the cleanliness of my desk—” Holly was certain he would discern from the guilt in her eyes that she’d already evaluated them all “—I suggest you run to the bathroom and tell it all to your reflection. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” she said.

Jared stood and walked over to his filing cabinet. “I’ll give you a copy of my standard employment contract. Amend the terms to suit yourself, and if I’m happy with it, I’ll sign it.”

He opened the top drawer and began to rummage through it. To stop herself from noticing how the drawer was stuffed higgledy-piggledy with papers, Holly picked up the cup of coffee Jared’s PA had brought in. She took a sip of the now-cold liquid. As she put the cup back on the desk, a splash of coffee slopped over the side onto the polished beech surface.

On automatic pilot, Holly whipped a tissue out of her purse and mopped the puddle. Then she noticed a smear of dust all along that edge of the desk and ran the tissue over it.

“What are you doing?” Jared thundered.

Holly jumped. “I spilled coffee,” she said. “I was just—”

“You were dusting my desk,” he accused.

“No! Well, maybe a little. I happened to notice—” She stuffed the dusty, coffee-soaked tissue back into her purse.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. In addition to the other things I mentioned, you are not to do any tidying or cleaning anywhere near me.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“Do you?” He advanced toward her and Holly instinctively shrank back in her seat, even as she reached to take the contract from him. “Are you sure?”

He picked up her three-quarters full cup of coffee and slowly, deliberately, poured its contents over the surface of his desk.

Holly squawked and leaped to her feet, looking wildly around for a cloth, napkins—anything. Finding none, she dredged the sodden tissue back out of her purse…

And stopped. Jared was standing immobile, watching her, impervious to the liquid spreading over his desk toward his laptop and the papers he had stacked on one end of his desk.

Holly swallowed. She dropped her tissue into the wastepaper basket, and forced her gaze away from the desk. “So,” she said briskly. “When do I start?”

Jared almost applauded. Ignoring that mess was the exercise of an iron will—he was struggling himself. “I’ll brief you over dinner tonight.”

ONE PROBLEM DOWN, two thousand to go.

Holly peered in the mirror on her visor, stifling the memory of the last time she’d done that—had it only been Tuesday?—and then found herself barred from her office. It was unlikely she’d be refused admittance to the Green Room, Seattle’s swankiest restaurant, if only because Jared wouldn’t let it happen.

She knew that much, though she knew little else about the man. She’d spent the past couple of days surfing the Internet at AnnaMae’s house, searching for information about her new employer. For someone who was never out of the headlines, the search yielded surprisingly insubstantial results.

Harding Corporation had succeeded where so many dotcoms had failed, creating a series of viable Internet businesses. The press had reported with a mix of admiration, envy and resentment the deals Jared had signed with companies and people no one else would touch. He’d cleaned some of them up and stripped some of them down for their dubious assets. He’d bought businesses for their possibly illegally inflated tax losses and offset them against his more profitable operations.

And rumor had it Jared hadn’t paid a penny in personal or company taxes in five years.

It might be true. But Holly doubted it could be both true and legitimate. So he’d better have meant it when he’d said she could do as she wanted with this deal.

She walked the block from her car to the restaurant and pushed open the heavy wooden door with the brass handle. The maître d’ made a dignified rush to meet her.

Holly followed him across the intimate space of the dining room. Jared rose to greet her and she slid into the booth-style seat that wrapped around two sides of the corner table.

Jared had changed his clothes. This morning he’d worn a casual gray shirt, which, as he’d pointed out, hadn’t been tucked in to his dark pants. Tonight, a black polo and a zip-fronted jacket made him look too cool for words. Holly was still wearing this morning’s suit.

“I would have changed, but I don’t have any more clothes,” she said, then clamped her mouth shut.

“I’d no idea things were so tough in the accounting trade.”

“I wasn’t allowed back into my home after the FBI searched it yesterday,” she said. “And they froze my bank accounts, so I couldn’t get any cash. And when the bank realized that, they canceled my credit card.”

Her voice quivered. Holly bit her lower lip. She’d explained the situation to AnnaMae without shedding a single tear. Even lying awake in AnnaMae’s spare bed the past two nights, she’d been shocked, but dry-eyed.

“You’re not going to cry, are you?”

“Not in front of you,” she said stiffly.

With overt relief he handed her a leather-bound menu. Thankfully she wasn’t someone who lost her appetite under stress.

When they’d ordered, he said, “Since you’re going to work for me, you’d better tell me about this investigation. Just the facts.”

He was entitled to that much, Holly conceded. “David Fletcher and I went into business together two years ago, after we met at a conference. We were both unhappy with our jobs, and our different skills meshed well—he’s good at client relationships.”

“The schmoozing, you mean.” Jared looked her up and down with that faintly insulting scrutiny. “I can see you’re not a schmoozer.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She sat back in her seat while the waiter set her appetizer in front of her—a salmon kebab in a coconut curry sauce. It smelled divine, and she took a moment to inhale its spicy perfume, eyes closed.

That sensual gesture took Jared by surprise. Holly had ordered her food in a no-nonsense series of instructions—the waiter had practically saluted when she’d finished. Now she acted as if she’d dreamed of a meal like this her whole life.

Jared hadn’t planned on wine with their meal. But if Holly really wanted to appreciate her salmon, he knew just the Sonoma Chardonnay to go with it. She didn’t look worried when he ordered a bottle—just sent him an appreciative glance from beneath lowered lids, in a way he found curiously appealing. He shook his head. Holly Stephens was not his type.

For a few minutes, they ate in silence.

“How’s your salmon?” he asked eventually.

“Superb. And this wine is great with it. How’s your tuna carpaccio?” she asked.

“Excellent.” Belatedly, he realized she was eyeing the wafer-thin slices of raw tuna with the anticipatory delight of a tax inspector scenting a scam. “Would you like to try it?”

“Yes, please.” She pushed her side plate across the table toward him.

“What’s that for?”

“Put it on there—the tuna.” It was the same tone she’d used to give orders to the waiter earlier.

He forked a piece of tuna and held it across the table an inch from her lips. “Here.”

She frowned. “Just put it on the—oomph!”

Jared had taken advantage of her mouth being open and pushed the fork right in. Involuntarily, Holly detached the tuna before she pushed the fork away. He was right, it was excellent. But that wasn’t the point.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped. “No, don’t answer that. Just quit playing games.”

“You’re the boss.” Sarcasm edged his voice, and he said no more until he’d demolished the rest of the tuna without offering her another taste. With a satisfied sigh, he resumed the conversation.

“How do you think Fletcher got away with his crime, given you’re so eagle-eyed?”

“You don’t know Dave is to blame. He may be on vacation just as he said. The Mexican authorities have confirmed that he flew into the country last Saturday.”

“Who else could it be—if it’s not you?”

“It’s not,” she said sharply. “The FBI suspects me because my PIN was used to transfer client funds.”

“Who else knew your PIN?”

“No one.” Holly grimaced. “As I repeatedly told Agent Crook before he revealed that my number was used.”

Jared frowned. “You should have a lawyer with you to talk to the Feds.”

“I didn’t think I needed one. I didn’t think there could be any evidence to link me to the crime.”

Jared looked as if he might argue with her logic. Then he gave a small shrug. “So somehow Fletcher found your PIN?”

“I don’t keep it written down,” she said. “The only way he—whoever did this—could have found it would be with one of those security-cracking computer programs that reads your PIN when you enter it online, and e-mails it to the thief.”

Jared nodded. He’d been offered those programs several times over the years—and had resisted the temptation, even when he would have dearly loved an inside track on the machinations of the man he planned to ruin.

“If Fletcher did do it,” he said, “how come you never figured out what was going on?”

Holly’s gaze centered somewhere above Jared’s head. When she spoke, her voice was uncharacteristically diffident. “Dave and I became more than business partners over the past year.”

Jared gave a low whistle. “Didn’t anyone tell you not to mix business and pleasure?”

She scowled, and he figured that despite her intention of being more tolerant, Holly was mortified that Jared, a man she considered her moral inferior, was in a position to take the high ground.

“We got to be friends, that’s all. But recently Dave said he wanted to take things further. I wasn’t keen, so I avoided him, tried not to stay late at the office if he was there. I was less likely to notice if he was doing anything unusual.”

“So you weren’t sleeping partners?”

“Of course not.” Her eyes widened as if the possibility had never occurred to her. “We worked well together, we enjoyed each other’s company, we liked the same books and videos, but—”

Jared yawned conspicuously. “Give me a woman who doesn’t understand me anytime. Did it occur to you Dave might have died of boredom—his body might be waiting to be found?”

“It did occur to me he might be dead.” Holly’s seriousness provoked an unwelcome twinge of guilt in Jared. “Leaving your ridiculous conjecture aside, I did wonder if someone blackmailed Dave, then killed him.”

For an accountant, she had a good imagination. There was even a chance she could be right. But with the FBI tipped off that Holly was the thief, it seemed more likely Fletcher had done a runner and was trying to distract the Feds.

“Imagine for a minute you’re wrong, and Fletcher did steal the money just because he wanted to.” Jared grinned at Holly’s frown. Imagining she was wrong obviously didn’t sit well with her. “Where would Fletcher go? Does he have family?”

Holly’s brow wrinkled as she tried to remember. “He has a sister in upstate New York. His parents are dead. His mother was from New Zealand—he may have family there.”

“Did you tell the FBI that?”

“I didn’t remember until you asked me. Anyway, I don’t believe Dave stole the money, so it’s not relevant.”

Jared slapped his forehead. “Why are you so reluctant to admit you made a bad call going into business with him? Your clients’ money is missing, your partner has vanished—” she opened her mouth to correct him “—and don’t give me that crock about him being on vacation. Face it, two and two add up to four.”

She sat still for maybe half a minute, absorbing his words. Then she said, “I went into business with Dave because I trusted him. The FBI thinks the evidence points to my guilt, but I know their two and two doesn’t add up to four. So I have to give Dave the benefit of the doubt, too. This is about truth and…and justice and… and the American way.”

“You’re relying on Superman to get you out of this?”

She pinkened. “It’s about playing fair.”

Didn’t she know life wasn’t fair, that applying her high-and-mighty ethics to the situation wouldn’t change anything? He’d learned the hard way that unless you fought against it, injustice would prevail. “If you want to find Dave, to set your mind at ease, I know someone who could help.” But he was wasting his breath.

“Leave it, Jared,” she said. “I don’t need your help, or your private detectives, or your theories about the missing money. I’ll fight my own battles, my way.”

The woman was pigheaded to the point of impossibility, and bossy. Jared had never liked bossy women.

Given the way he planned to use her, it was better to dislike her. Better not to feel a thrill of challenge when she gave back as good as she got.

He switched the conversation to business. “You understand my own accountants will present whatever deal you work out to the market.”

“Of course.”

However much Holly got on his nerves, as they talked through some of the projects she’d handled, Jared could see why her clients loved her. Animation lit her face, adding to her feminine appeal. Had Fletcher really been attracted to her, before greed overtook him? Or had he been fooling her from the start, setting her up to take the fall? Jared may not be pure as the driven snow, but he was no Dave Fletcher.

Holly struggled to keep her mind on what Jared was saying, but his insinuations about Dave ate at her. She wanted to trust Dave. It galled her that she could have been wrong about him, when every day she relied on her instincts to steer her. Those same instincts warned her now to be wary of Jared. Yet here she was, working for him, confiding in him. Holly sighed as she licked the last of her roasted strawberry crème brûlée off her spoon.

“Coffee?” Jared asked.

She shook her head. “I have to get back to my friend’s place and wash my blouse for tomorrow.” She wished AnnaMae wasn’t a petite size two. It would be so much easier if Holly could just borrow her clothes.

He gave her a pained look. “You mean, you’re going to wear this outfit every day?”

“It’s practical.” She glared at him. “I don’t dress to vamp up the office.”

“Obviously.”

“Do you want to give me an advance on my fee,” she said, “so I can buy some clothes?” She could pop into Nordstrom for a new blouse and some underwear, at least. Beyond that, she’d need every penny she earned for those college fees.

He snickered. “Are you saying this is a cash job?”

“I will, of course, declare any cash advance for tax purposes,” she said stiffly.

Jared got to his feet and waited for her to do the same. “I never doubted it.” As they left the restaurant another idea struck him. “The FBI might let you collect a few things from your condo if a lawyer asks them. I could get my attorney to—”

“I’m in enough trouble as it is.” Holly stepped away from him as if he’d just offered to deal drugs with her right there on the sidewalk. “Any lawyer who works for you probably brings up a red flag on the FBI’s system.”

Jared had taken plenty of insults in his life and never given a damn. So he couldn’t explain why Holly’s rock-bottom assessment of his character should leave him feeling sucker-punched. Not only was she rude, she was a hypocrite. She’d said she wanted to be more tolerant, then proceeded to label him little more than a criminal, right after eating an expensive meal that he’d paid for.

He fumed as he watched Holly drive away. Time to show Ms. Stephens who’s the boss.

On impulse, he decided to drive by Holly’s condo on Queen Anne. He told himself it was only a slight detour, worth it to see where the Accountant From Hell lived.

He’d memorized both her addresses from her résumé: the neatly typed home address and the hand-written address of the place she was staying right now. But even if he hadn’t got it quite right, the yellow crime scene tape across the front door and downstairs windows of the condo, incongruous in the upscale street, were a dead giveaway. There was no guard on the door, no one watching the property as far as he could tell. Looking at the darkened windows, Jared suddenly knew just how to annoy the hell out of Holly and at the same time solve her problem.

Just as she’d asked—no—ordered him not to.

CHAPTER THREE

JARED COMMITTED to his plan without taking even a moment to weigh it up. Weren’t his best initiatives the product of pure gut instinct?

He parked around the corner on a quiet side street. Within seconds he was heading for the wrought-iron gate of the communal garden typical of these fancy complexes.

He tugged at the gate—locked. A card swipe mechanism on the brick wall blinked a red light, telling him he wasn’t welcome. Jared took a closer look at the wall. It really wouldn’t be too difficult to scale. He threw his jacket over—the need to retrieve it would be added incentive for success—and hoisted himself up. He went right on over the other side before any of Holly’s neighbors could look out a window and alert the police to an intruder.

To his disgust, each condo had a small, private backyard, also walled. Holly must be raking it in to afford this. Unless, of course, she really had stolen her clients’ money. No doubt the thought had crossed the Feds’ minds.

As he judged the height of this second barrier, Jared considered the wisdom of what he was about to do. This wasn’t just a wall he was about to breach. It was the boundary between his strictly business relationship with Holly and something…irregular. A degree of involvement in her problems that he didn’t want. He dismissed the thought. No way was he chickening out.

He hauled himself over the smaller wall and started across her immaculate patch of lawn. He’d bet the Feds hadn’t set the condo’s alarm, so their people could come and go easily. But the back door and downstairs windows had more yellow tape across them. Best not to disturb it.

Jared climbed the fire escape to reach the largest upstairs window, which he guessed was Holly’s bedroom. He draped his jacket over his elbow and smashed the glass. Too late, it occurred to him she was the sort of woman who would have dead bolts on her windows. He fumbled in the darkness to find the window catch. Yep, a dead bolt.

With the key in it. Suppressing an exclamation of triumph, he unlocked the window and slid it open. He stepped gingerly into the room, partly to avoid the broken glass, partly out of the crazy notion that the more carefully he moved the less likely he would be to trigger an alarm.

When he was sure the only sound he could hear was the thudding of his heart—surely breaking and entering hadn’t been this stressful the last time he tried it?—he pulled the heavy draperies shut behind him and snapped on the bedside lamp.

Holly’s bedroom was as neat as he would have expected. If the FBI had searched it, they’d done a good job of tidying up afterward. The white damask counterpane on the double bed was unwrinkled, with two square pillows propped carefully on single points against the light-colored wood of the headboard.

Twin matching nightstands flanked the bed, both surfaces clear of clutter. Next to the tallboy dresser, a small armchair was upholstered in a light-blue check. The walls, he guessed in the dim lamplight, were cream or off-white.

It could have been sterile. But it felt simply… honest.

On the wall opposite the bed hung framed photographs of two teenagers, a boy and a girl.

On the other wall, directly above the bed, hung something so out of place it had to be important.