Swept Into The Tycoon's World

This kind of opportunity was exactly why she was at this event, Bree reminded herself firmly, turning with a bright, hopefully professional, smile to give him the card.

He slipped the card into his inside jacket pocket, and popped the rest of the cookie into his mouth. It drew her attention, unfortunately, to the rather sensuous curve of his lips as he chewed.

“Do you want to go for a quick coffee?” he asked her.

A roller-coaster ride!

The invitation seemed to take him by surprise as much as it did her.

“R-right now?” she stammered. “Things are just about to begin. See? People are going through to the auditorium. The program said Crystal Silvers is going to sing first.”

“I don’t care about that.”

One of the most sought-after performers in the Western world, and he didn’t care about that? He cared more about having coffee with her?

This was dangerous territory indeed.

Bree gestured helplessly at her display. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”

“You’re going for coffee,” insisted Chelsea, who had never had a stubborn moment in her life—she was certainly changing things up tonight. Her tone was firm, brooking no argument.

“No.” Bree aimed her best who-is-the-boss-here? look at her assistant.

Chelsea ignored it. “Go, I can handle this.”

“No, I—”

“Go!” Chelsea said, and then, under her breath, she added, “Live dangerously, for Pete’s sake.”

“Unless your husband would object,” Brand said smoothly.

Chelsea snorted in a most unflattering way.

Brand’s gaze slid to Bree’s ring finger. She wanted to hide it behind her back as if its nakedness heralded some kind of failure.

“Boyfriend, then.”

Chelsea rolled her eyes. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

She was as oblivious to the daggered look Bree gave her as she had been to the who-is-the-boss-here? look.

“The last guy she met on e-Us was a loser.”

Since Chelsea was so adept at ignoring Bree’s looks, dancing happily with insubordination, Bree managed to step hard on her foot before she could elaborate on the e-Us thing. Chelsea gave her a sulky look, but clamped her mouth shut.

Even so, damage had been done. Bree could see him registering what e-Us was.

One thing that was obvious about someone like Brand Wallace? He’d never been on a site like e-Us in his life.

“We’ll just go around the corner,” he said persuasively. “Two old friends catching up.”

“Old friends,” Chelsea breathed. “Do you have, uh, a significant other, Mr. Wallace?”

“Does my dog count?”

Chelsea gave Bree a not-so-subtle nudge on her shoulder.

“I don’t think—” Bree began.

“I’m interested in your business. You’ll be back in half an hour,” he assured Bree. “The first set will have hardly started. These things never go off quite on time.”

Meaning he was very familiar with these things. Big surprise.

“I’ll have you back before intermission.”

“I bet he won’t stick you with the bill, either,” Chelsea said helpfully, sidling out of the way before Bree could get her foot again.

The firm line of his mouth registered disapproval as he registered that morsel of information about the sad state of Bree’s dating life.

“Your young assistant looks more than capable of finishing the setup here.” His voice was suave.

Chelsea preened. “More than capable,” she said, and flipped her hair.

It would seem churlish to refuse. It would seem like she was afraid of him, and life and surprises and the very thing she tried to bake into all her cookies.

Magic.

It was that magical thinking that always got her in trouble, Bree reminded herself. He had mentioned business. She was not in a position to turn down this kind of connection to the business world.

“All right,” she said, resigned. “A quick coffee.”

Bree came face-to-face with her truth. She was terrified of believing in good things.

And terrified especially to believe in the happily-ever-after that men like him had made women like her yearn for since the beginning of time.

“For goodness sake,” Chelsea said in an undertone, “lose the apron. And do something with your hair.”

She ran a hand through it, and followed Brand, tilting her chin at him when he held the door open for her.

It was a beautiful spring evening in Vancouver, and Bree was aware her senses felt oddly heightened. The air smelled good from a recent rain, and plump crystal droplets fell from the blossom-laden branches of the ornamental cherry trees that lined the sidewalk.

There were two coffee places around the corner from the concert hall, and Bree liked it that Brand chose the independent shop, Perks, rather than the one that was part of a big chain.

It was cozy inside, with mismatched sofas and scarred old tables with brightly painted chairs clustered around them. It smelled heavenly, of coffee and exotic spices.

“Have you been here before?” he asked her.

“Just to introduce them to Kookies. They passed.”

“Fools.”

Brand said it with such genuine indignation. It was going to be hard to keep her defenses about her. But she had known that when she was trying to refuse his invitation.

“Thank you for saying so. But it wasn’t personal. They already had a contract with someone.”

“Humph.”

She had managed to get rid of her apron, but remembered Chelsea’s instruction to do something with her hair. “If you’ll excuse me for just a sec, I’ll go freshen up.”

“What can I get you?”

She was going to say hot chocolate; coffee was out at this time of evening. But in the spirit of living dangerously and allowing life to astonish her, she didn’t. “Surprise me,” she said.

“Oh. That sounds fun.”

Somehow, she was not at all sure he was talking about beverage selection! She excused herself hastily before he could see the blush moving up her neck.

She found the washroom, slipped inside and looked at herself in the mirror. What she saw was so ordinary as to be discouraging. Her light brown hair, average at the best of times, was pulled into a tight bun—even worse. She had gone very light on the makeup, so faint freckles stood out on her nose. She had on no lipstick, and she had worn glasses tonight instead of her contacts. A wholesome, old-fashioned look was exactly what she wanted when she was behind the table giving out cookie samples.

To have coffee with an old crush—who could coax a blush out of her with a turn of phrase—not so much!

She pulled her hair out of the bun. It fell, stick-straight, to her shoulders. She rummaged in her purse for a brush and added a touch of lip gloss.

It was an improvement, but she was aware she still felt very ordinary, the kind of workaday girl who was virtually invisible.

“Not in his league,” she told herself. But then she saw the plus side of that: she could just relax. It was just old friends catching up, after all. Nothing would ever come of it, except maybe a beneficial business connection.

She went back out into the main room. He had chosen two love seats facing each other with a round coffee table in between. She walked over and sat opposite him.

“You’ve let your hair down,” Brand said.

Physically, not figuratively, despite her intention to relax. She hoped he didn’t think she had done it to impress him.

“More comfortable,” she said.

“I always liked the color of your hair. It reminds me of sand on a sun-warmed beach.”

He had remembered the color of her hair? She gawked at him. Sand on a sun-warmed beach?

Do not gawk at the celebrities, she ordered herself. And do not take it personally, she also ordered herself. It was obvious he knew his way around women. He had found her one redeeming feature and flattered her about it. And it had worked some terrible magic on her. She could feel her nerves humming so hard it felt as though her skin was vibrating.

“I always considered it mousy brown,” she said.

“That is ridiculous.”

If she wasn’t careful, she was going to gawk again. Probably with her mouth hanging open.

Thankfully, the beverages were delivered. Two steaming cups were set in front of them. She took hers, blew on it gently so as not to blow a blob of foam right onto his forehead and took a sip.

“What is this?” she asked, delighted.

“So I did manage to surprise! You’ve never had it before?”

“No.”

“It’s a chai latte. Spiced sweet tea with steamed milk. You like?”

“Wonderful. I can taste the tea, which is so ordinary, but then the spices and the mound of sugar-crusted foam raise it to a new level.”

Suddenly she wondered why he had picked it for her. And she found herself looking at ordinary in a different light.

“And what are you having?” she asked him.

“Coffee, black.”

“Given the variety on the menu, that seems unadventurous.”

“I save my adventuring for other arenas.”

She was going to blush again! No, she was not. She would not give him the satisfaction.

“You have had some great adventures in business,” she said, pleased that she did not miss a beat. “I’ve been reading about you, Brand,” she said. “You’ve done so well.”

“Ah, the City article. I had no idea that magazine was so widely read.”

Bree doubted it had been before they featured him on the cover!

“I must say I didn’t treasure anonymity nearly enough when I had it. Everyone suddenly knows who I am. It’s a little disconcerting. But thank you. The success part seems to be luck and timing. I jumped on an opportunity.”

“My dad loved the quote—‘opportunity meets preparation.’ He always thought very highly of you. He admired your work ethic. He was fond of saying, ‘That young man is going places.’”

“He used to say the same thing to me. When not another person in the world was. I feel as if he was the first person who truly believed in me. That goes a long way in a young man’s life, especially one with no father figure. I don’t think I ever had a chance to tell him that. What his faith in me meant. I regret it, but I’m glad I’ve been given this opportunity to tell you.”

It became evident to her this was why he’d invited her for coffee. It was an opportunity to tell her what her father had meant to him.

It was lovely.

So, why did she feel faintly resentful—as if she was a chai latte that had just been demoted to a very ordinary cup of Earl Gray?

He watched her now over the rim of his coffee cup. “I called several times after your dad died. I spoke to your mother. Did she tell you?”

“Yes, she said you had called and asked after me.”

“One day I called and the number was out of service. I dropped by the house and it was empty. For sale, if I recall.”

Bree took a sip of her drink, and let the spicy aroma fill her nostrils and warm the back of her throat before she replied. “I left for college. My mother felt lonely in the house, so she sold it quite quickly. Then she remarried and moved to San Francisco.”

“Is she happy?”

“Yes, very.” She did not say it seemed her mother had moved on to happiness with unseemly swiftness. Bree had felt so abandoned. Of course, there was nothing like feeling abandoned to leave a young woman looking for love in all the wrong places.

“What did you take? In college?”

Heartbreak 101.

“I took a culinary program. I’m afraid I didn’t finish.”

He cocked his head at her. “That doesn’t seem like you, somehow.”

She cocked her head back at him. “Doesn’t it?” she asked, deliberately unforthcoming, and letting him know that really, he knew very little about her, past or present.

“In some ways, you are very changed,” he told her.

For a moment, she felt panicked, as if the sad ending of the pregnancy that had forced her to leave school was written all over her. She hoped her face was schooled into calmness, and she made herself release her stranglehold on her mug.

He still made her nervous.

“Your confidence in high heels for one thing.”

Relief swept through her at his amused reference to her clumsiness on the night of the prom.

“Oh, geez, you must have had bruises on your arm the next day. I should have practiced. I clung onto you most of the night.”

“And I thought you were just trying to feel my manly biceps.”

Despite herself, she giggled.

“It was a really nice thing for you to do,” she said. “To take the boss’ dateless daughter to her senior prom. I don’t think I thanked you. Of course, it didn’t occur to me until later that it probably wasn’t your idea.”

“It wasn’t,” he confessed. “I didn’t date girls like you.”

“Girls like me?”

“Smart,” he said. “Sweet.”

Not quite as smart as anyone had thought.

“I bet you still don’t,” she said wryly.

“I’m more the superficial type.”

He made her laugh. It was as simple as that.

“So,” he said, leaning forward and looking at her intently, “tell me how you have passed the last years. For some reason, I would have pictured you the type who would be happily married by now. Two children. A golden-retriever puppy and an apple tree in the front yard.”

Happily-ever-after.

She could feel that same emotion claw at her throat. It was exactly the life she had wanted, the dream that had made her so vulnerable.

He had her pegged. Well, you didn’t rise as fast in the business world as he did without an ability to read people with some accuracy.

There was no sense denying it even if it was not in vogue.

“That is my type. Exactly,” she said. She heard the catch in her voice, the pure wistfulness of it.

“It’s what you come from, too. I can see that you would gravitate back to that. Your family was so...”

He hesitated, lost for words.

“Perfect,” she said, finishing his thought.

“That’s certainly how it seemed to me. Coming from one that was less than perfect, I looked at the decency of your dad and the way he treated you and your mom, and it did seem like an ideal world.”

One she had tried to replicate way too soon after the passing of her father, with a kind of desperation to be loved like that again, to create that family unit.

It was only now, years after her miscarriage, that she was beginning to tiptoe back into the world of dating, looking again to the dream of happily-ever-after. So far, it had been a disaster.

“Are you, Bree? Happy?”

She hesitated a moment too long, and his brow furrowed at her.

“Tell me,” he commanded.

Ridiculous that she would tell him about her happiness, or lack there of. He had worked for her father a long time ago, and somehow been persuaded to take the hopeless daughter to her prom. They were hardly friends. Barely acquaintances.

“Deliriously,” she lied brightly. “My little company builds a bit each day. It’s fun and it’s rewarding.”

“Hmmm,” he said, a trifle skeptically. “Tell me, Bree, what do you do for fun?”

The question caught her off guard. She could feel herself fumbling for an answer. What could she say? Especially to someone like him, who moved in the sophisticated circles of wealth and power?

She couldn’t very well say that she had all the Harry Potter books and reread them regularly, with her ancient cat, Oliver, leaving drool pools on her lap. That after Chelsea, seamstress extraordinaire, had showed her how, she had individually quilted each of the cookies on her aprons. That she was addicted to home-renovation shows, especially ones hosted by couples, who had everything, it seemed, that she had ever dreamed of. That she trolled Pinterest features about homes: welcome signs, and window boxes, and baby rooms.

It would sound pathetic.

Was it pathetic?

“My business takes an inordinate amount of time,” she said when her silence had become way too long.

“So you don’t have fun?”

“Maybe I consider developing new cookie recipes fun!”

“Look, my business takes a lot of time, too. But I still make time for fun things.”

Just then a man came over and squatted on the floor beside her. He stuck out his hand. “Miss Evans? I’m the manager here. Mr. Wallace leads me to understand you have a line of cookies. We’d love to try them. Have you got a minute?”

She looked over the manager’s shoulder at Brand. He was smiling. He nodded encouragingly at her.

“Yes, I have a minute,” she said. The manager got up and sat beside her. She started to tell him about Kookies.

When she looked over at Brand, he was gone. The love seat across from her was empty.

No goodbye.

But at least he hadn’t stuck her with the bill.

Fifteen minutes later, she left Perks. They were going to give Kookies a trial term of six months.

She walked back to the concert hall. Outside the door, before going in, Bree debated only for a full five seconds before she pulled out Brand’s business card with his phone number and called him.

“Hello?”

She had been expecting it to go to voice mail, since she thought he was probably now in the front row for the Crystal Silvers performance. But there was no background noise.

“I was expecting to leave a message,” she said.

“Bree. What an unexpected pleasure.”

“I was rehearsing my message!”

“Okay, just pretend this is my voice mail.”

“All right. Hello, Brand. Thank you for a pleasant evening and for buying me coffee. I wanted you to know Perks is going to try my cookies for a trial period.”

“Excellent!”

“Voice mail does not respond,” she reminded him primly.

“Oh, yeah. Forgive me. Continue.”

She took a deep breath. “Thank you, but you didn’t have to use your influence for me.”

“Of course I didn’t have to. But what exactly would be the point of having influence if you didn’t use it to help others?”

And then he was gone, no goodbye again. She contemplated the kind of man that would make a statement like that.

This was what her father had always seen: the decency of Brand Wallace, a guy who could be trusted to do the right thing, even with a starry-eyed eighteen-year-old girl, desperate to be kissed.

His innate decency made her feel shivery with longing. He appeared to be the polar opposite of Paul Weston, the college professor who had taken what was left of her heart after the death of her father and run it through the meat grinder.

But it would be a form of pure craziness to think that a woman like her could ever have a man like Brand Wallace.

On the other hand, who had ever looked at her hair before and seen sun-kissed sand?

She went in the doors, and could hear the music blasting out of the auditorium. Chelsea, looking a little worse for wear, was behind a completely rummaged-over sample table, dancing enthusiastically by herself to the loud music spilling out into the foyer. She danced salsa competitively and managed to look ultrasexy even in the cookie apron and beret.

She stopped when she saw Bree coming toward her. Sadly, it did not appear her sudden cessation of movement was because it had occurred to her it might be inappropriate that the table in front of her was badly in need of straightening.

“Did you have wine?” Chelsea demanded.

“No, I had a chai latte.” Bree decided, then and there, she probably would never have one again. Those smoky, spicy exotic flavors would remind her of a surprisingly pleasant evening—and forbidden longings—for as long as she lived.

“Oh, you’re all glowy.”

Bree was pretty sure glowy was not a word, not that she wanted to argue the point.

“What has happened to the table?” Bree asked, not wanting to encourage an interrogation from Chelsea. “It’s a mess.”

“Oh! About ten minutes before Crystal Silvers started to sing, the people just started to pour through the front door. They were on me like the barbarian hordes. Just grabbing things, ripping open boxes, uninvited. I have tidied, you know. There were wrappers all over the place. Anyway, somehow samples made it back to the lady herself. She sent out an assistant to tell me she loved our cookies, to expect a big order for her birthday blowout.”

It was more than Bree had hoped for! So why did she feel curiously flat about it?

If that came through, along with the extra business from Perks, there would be no time for thinking about happily-ever-after, or lack thereof, as the case might be.

Thank goodness.

“Oh, there goes the glowy look,” Chelsea said. “The frown line is back. Miss Worry rides again.”

Bree deliberately relaxed her forehead. She hadn’t even realized until tonight she was endangering her chances of aging gracefully because of her perpetual frown. Despite the fact she knew better than to encourage Chelsea, she could not stop herself from asking.

“What color would you say my hair was?”

Chelsea regarded Bree’s hair, flummoxed, clearly thinking this was a trick question that she was not going to answer correctly.

“Brown?” she finally ventured.

Bree nodded sadly. “Just as I thought.”

CHAPTER THREE

YOU DIDN’T HAVE to use your influence for me.

After Brand had disconnected the phone and put it back in his pocket, he made his way through the rain-glittered streets. He had decided to walk home. Going back to the gala after being with Bree Evans would have felt like getting dumped onto an eight-lane freeway after being on a quiet path through the country.

Despite her new proficiency with high heels, and the way she filled out her trim white blouse, she was still sweet and smart. Definitely adorable. Totally earnest.

And completely refreshing.

Those words—you didn’t have to use your influence for me—just reinforced all those impressions of her.

Everybody wanted him to use his influence for them. Even the manager at Perks had approached him, not the other way around. He’d recognized him from that blasted City article.

Brand came to his house, and stood back for a second, gazing at it through the walkway opening in the neatly trimmed hedge. His architect had called it colonial, a saltbox, and, thankfully, it was less ostentatious than most of the mansions on his street.

Inside, Beau, who seemed to be largely telepathic, had figured out he was home, and gave a deep woof of welcome.

When people asked why he’d gone with a single-family house instead of a superglamorous condo, he said he’d purchased the Shaughnessy heritage home because it was close to his office tower in downtown Vancouver, his golf course and the VanDusen Botanical Garden.

That seemed much easier than admitting he had purchased the house because he thought his dog would prefer having a tree-shaded backyard to a condo balcony.

He opened the front door he never locked. Anyone with the nerve to try and get by his one-hundred-and-thirty-pound bullmastiff deserved a chance to grab what they could before dying.

The dog nearly knocked him over with his enthusiastic greeting, and Brand went down on his knees and put his arms around him. They wrestled playfully for a few minutes, until Brand pushed away Beau, stood up and brushed off his clothes.

“You stink.”

The dog sighed with pleasure.

“I met a woman tonight, Beau,” he told the dog. “More terrifying than you.”

Beau cocked his head at him, interested.

“And that was before she laughed.”

Since the events of this evening were about the furthest thing from what he had expected when he’d headed out the door, it occurred to him that life was indeed full of little surprises. He had the renegade—and entirely uncomfortable—thought that maybe her cookies held predictions in them after all.

And he had eaten that one.