Swept Away by the Tycoon

“Stop confusing me with one of your employees. Traffic was a bear.”

“Driving wouldn’t be such a problem if you lived in the city.”

“Not everyone can afford the rent.”

“Good grief, you’re a laywer. Of course you can pay the rent.”

“Okay, not everyone can afford your kind of rend. Did I say something funny?” he asked when Ian chuckled.

“Inside joke.” He was wondering what Curlilocks would make of the conversation. She thought he was a bum. The color on her cheeks when she’d made the remark about working betrayed her. He would have corrected her if he didn’t find her mistake so damn amusing. Ian wondered if, when she did find out, he should duck for cover. She looked as if she had quite an arm.

“Must be a good joke, whatever it is. I haven’t seen you smile in a long time.”

Draping his coat along the back of the chair, the silver-haired man sat down in the chair opposite Ian just as his coffee and pastry arrived. He took a large drink, then let out a breath.

“Feeling better?” Ian asked.

“Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that question?”

Yes, he was. Much as Ian wanted to believe Jack’s concern was as much out of friendship as it was obligation as his sponsor, he knew better. “Same as always. One day at a time.

“You’re not...”

He shook his head. “No worries. These days I’m all about the coffee.”

“So I see.” Jack took another sip. “Although you didn’t have to go to such extremes. Most recovering addicts settle for buying cups of coffee, not coffee shops.”

“I’m not most guys in recovery.”

“No kidding. One of these days I expect to walk in here to find you bought a coffee plantation so you can grow your own beans.”

“Don’t think the thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Ian never did believe in doing things halfway. Military service, business, alcohol abuse.

Hurting people.

Jack nodded at the stack of stationery by his elbow. “Still writing letters, I see.”

“Told you when we first started meeting, I had a long list.” He ran a hand across the stack. Twenty years of being a rat bastard left a long tail. “Don’t suppose you have those addresses I wanted tracked down?”

“Again, stop confusing me with an employee.”

“Are you planning to bill me for your law firm’s time?”

When Jack’s look said “of course,” Ian stated, “Then technically, you are an employee. Now, do you have the names?”

“I’m beginning to see why your board of directors ousted you. You’re an impatient son of a gun.” The lawyer reached for his briefcase. “My investigator is still trying to locate a few people.” He held up a hand before Ian could comment. “You gave him a pretty long list.”

“Could have been worse. Tell him to be glad I stuck to Ian Black, the business years.”

“Thank heaven for small favors. You do realize that when the program says you need to make amends, you don’t need to literally contact every single person who ever crossed your path.”

You did if you wanted to do things right. “You make amends your way, I’ll make amends mine,” Ian told him, snatching the papers. He didn’t have the heart to tell Jack the list didn’t begin to scratch the surface.

Quickly, he ran his eyes down the top sheet. Three pages of ex-girlfriends, former friends, employees and associates, all deserving of apologies.

And one name that mattered most of all. He glanced up at his friend. “Is—”

“Last page. At the bottom.”

Of course. Save the worst offense for last. Flipping pages until he got to the last one, he found the name immediately. His biggest mistake.

And the hardest of all to make amends for.

CHAPTER TWO

“WHAT DO YOU mean, don’t call him?” Ian slapped his empty coffee cup on the table. Since they’d started meeting, Jack had done nothing but talk about the twelve steps. Make amends to the ones you hurt, ask forgiveness, etc., etc. Now here Ian was, doing exactly that, and the man was saying he shouldn’t? What the hell?

“I didn’t say you should never call him,” Jack replied. “I’m simply suggesting you slow down. Amends aren’t made overnight.”

“They aren’t made sitting around doing nothing, either.”

“You aren’t doing nothing. He answered your letters, didn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Ian replied, “but...” But letters could say only so much. It was too easy to censor what you were writing. Too hard to read what wasn’t being said. In the end, everything sounded flat and phony.

“Some conversations should be face-to-face. I need him to hear my voice, so he knows I’m sincere.”

“He will, but I think you still need to go slow. You can’t push the kid if he’s not ready.”

“Who says he’s not ready? It’s not like I’m suddenly appearing in his life unannounced.”

“Then why didn’t he give you his phone number?”

“Because I didn’t ask,” Ian quickly replied. Truthfully, he should have called long before this. During those early months of sobriety, however, he’d been shaky—and all right, a little scared—so he’d let Jack and the counselors talk him into writing a letter instead. But he was stronger now, more himself, and he needed to face his son. “I’m tired of wasting time,” he told Jack. “I’ve wasted enough.”

Thirteen years, to be exact. Thirteen years during which his ex-wife, Jeanine, had no doubt filled his son’s head with garbage. Even if a good chunk of what she said was true, it wouldn’t surprise Ian if she went overboard to make him look as bad as possible. His ex-wife was nothing if not an expert at deflecting blame. Her influence made repairing his mistakes all the more difficult. He could already sense her lies’ effect in the way Matt phrased his letters. So polite and superficial. Again, it was too easy to read between the lines. The only way he would loosen Jeanine’s grasp was for them to talk face to face. “I’m not expecting us to plan a father-son camping trip, for crying out loud. I simply want to talk.”

On the other side of the table, Jack shook his head. “Still think it’s a bad idea.”

“I didn’t ask what you thought,” Ian snapped. He already knew the older man’s opinion, and disagreed with it. Jack didn’t have children. He wasn’t sitting here with the window of opportunity growing smaller and smaller. A year ago Matt was in high school; now he was in college. Three years from now he’d be out in the world on his own. Ian didn’t have time to take things slow.

“Maybe not.” The lawyer didn’t so much as blink in response to the rude reply. Ian suspected that’s why Jack had been assigned as his sponsor; he was one of the few people who didn’t back down at the first sign of temper. “But I’m giving it to you, anyway. I’ve seen too many men and women fall off the wagon because they tried to do too much too fast too soon.”

“How many times do I have to remind you, I’m not your average addict.” He was Ian Black. He believed in moving, doing. Too many people wasted time analyzing and conferring with consultants. Sooner or later you needed to pull the trigger. Getting to yes meant getting things done.

Which was why, as soon as Jack left for his office, Ian reached for his cell phone. The call went straight to voice mail. Hearing the voice on the other end, he had to choke back a lump. He’d heard it before, but never this close, never speaking directly to him. Hearing his son sound so grown-up... All the milestones he’d missed rushed at Ian. So many lost moments. He had to fight himself not to call back and listen to the message again. They’d speak soon enough.

* * *

Eleven hours later, though, his phone remained silent. He told himself to relax. Kid was probably in class or doing homework. For all he knew, they had lousy reception in the dorms and Matt hadn’t even gotten his message. Ian came up with a dozen reasons.

None made him any less agitated.

Letting out a low groan, he scrubbed his hands over his face.

It didn’t help that he spent the day writing letters of apology. A stack of envelopes sat by his elbow. One by one he’d addressed and ticked off names on the list Jack had supplied.

So many names, so many people who hated his guts and probably—rightfully—danced when they heard he’d been ousted from Ian Black Technologies. As he’d told Curlilocks, nothing beat a healthy dose of karmic blowback. Curlilocks. Aiden said her real name was Chloe, but he thought the nickname suited her better.

He probably shouldn’t be thinking of her at all considering the shocking number of women he finished apologizing to. So many wronged women. Some, like his ex-wife, were women he never should have gone near in the first place. Others were opportunistic bed partners who’d hoped to become more. But many were simply good women who’d offered their affection and whom he’d let down. Their names stung the most to read. Business casualties he could rationalize as part of the industry; personal betrayals showed how toxic a person he could be.

Ian ran his finger across Matt’s name and felt an emptiness well up inside him. The head roads he’d made in this relationship weren’t nearly enough.

To hell with waiting. Patience was overrated. He grabbed his phone and dialed. Voice mail again. He slammed it down on the table, the force causing his empty coffee cup to rattle.

When he’d bought the coffee shop, the first thing he did was order new drinkware, replacing the cutesy china cups with sturdier, heavier stoneware. The kind that, when hurled, would leave their mark rather than shatter. What, he wondered, would happen if he tossed one right now? Would his employees duck in fear as they used to? The new and improved Ian Black vowed not to be a bully. But damn, did he want to heave something right now....

“Should I get out my umbrella?”

He looked up to find Curlilocks looming over his table. Even with his black mood, a rush of male admiration managed to pass through him. At some point during the day she’d corralled her curls into a high ponytail that controlled, but didn’t completely tame them. She must have walked a few blocks because her nose and cheeks were bright pink from the harsh winter air that had taken up residence in the city that night.

“Little late for you to be roaming the streets, isn’t it?” It wasn’t like him not to notice her entrance. He wondered how long she’d been standing by his table. Long enough to witness his little meltdown?

“Working late. Came here for a refuel, because the office coffee stinks.” For the first time, he noticed she was holding two coffee cups, one hot, one cold. She slid the hot one in his direction. “Here.”

“What’s this?”

“Call it a random act of kindness.”

Ian stared at the white cardboard cup. Kindness didn’t suit him at the moment. “No, thanks.”

“Seriously, go ahead. I owe you for spending your money on me this morning.”

Right, because she thought him down on his luck and was probably worried that he didn’t have the money to waste. This morning he found her mistake amusing, but tonight it merely emphasized his current position, and the mistakes he’d spent the last eleven hours trying to amend. “I don’t need your coffee. You want to feel charitable, try the guy on the corner.” Someone who deserved the gesture.

Her eyes widened, their chocolate warmth replaced by humiliation. Ian immediately regretted his response. “Look, I just meant—”

“Forget it!” She held up her hand. “I was paying you back for this morning, is all. You don’t want the coffee, then you give it to the guy on the corner.”

“Chloe—” A blast of cold air killed the rest of his apology.

So much for the new and improved Ian Black. Why didn’t he go kick a kitten, too, so he could really be a jackass?

* * *

Chloe strode from the shop as fast as she could. You try to do a guy a favor. Jeez, she’d bought him a cup of coffee. No need for him to make a federal case out of it. What did he think she wanted to do? Save him? Only reason she bought him the drink was because the café was about to close, and he’d looked a little lost staring at his empty mug. He didn’t have to toss her good deed back in her face.

What had caused his sudden mood shift, anyway? The guy had been happy-go-lucky enough this morning. Did the day just wear him down? Lord knows sitting alone in a coffee shop all day would do that to her. Such a waste of what looked like a strong, capable man. More than capable, really.

Not that she studied him all that closely.

The wind bit her cheeks, reminding her that, at the moment, she was the one braving the cold, not her slacker. She flipped up the collar on her coat. It wasn’t much protection against the wind, but at least she could bury her chin a little. With her eyes focused on the sidewalk, she dodged the sea of homebound commuters, wishing she could be one of them. Stupid slacker. It was his fault she was dodging anything. If she hadn’t wasted half her day wondering about his story, she’d be on her way home, too, instead of heading back to the agency.

The attack came out of nowhere. One minute she was rushing down the sidewalk, the next her shoulder was being ripped backward. A pair of hands slammed into her back, hard, knocking the air from her lungs and her body off balance. Before she could so much as gasp she was pitching forward, face-first onto the sidewalk. Stars exploded behind her eyes as her hands and chin struck the cement.

From behind her, she heard a shout, followed by the scrambling of feet and a second, deeper cry of pain. A second later, she felt an arm around her waist.

“You all right, Curli? Damn, look at your chin.”

“Wh-what?” Chloe was too dazed to answer. The arm around her waist felt warm and safe, so she leaned in closer.

“Your chin,” her savior repeated, his voice soft and rough. “It’s bleeding.”

She touched her face, flinching when she felt sticky wetness. The dampness trailed down her scarf to the front of her coat. She tried to look down, to see the damage, but everything was dark.

“It’s mostly coffee,” he told her, but we should make sure your chin doesn’t need stitches. Do you have anything in your bag I can use to wipe the skin clean?”

“I don’t think—my bag!” She sat up a little straighter. That had been the tug she’d felt on her arm. The jerk had stolen her pocketbook.

“Right here.” The soothing arm disappeared from her waist. A second later, a brown leather bag appeared in her lap, minus the strap. Chloe fingered the jagged end where the mugger cut the strap free. The bag had been her twenty-fifth birthday present to herself. Now it was ruined. Because some thug had got close enough to...

Her lower lip started to quiver. That made her teeth and chin hurt more.

“Shh, don’t cry, Curlilocks. It’ll be all right.”

No, it wouldn’t. “I—I was m-m-mugged.” The word hurt to say. She felt dirty and violated.

“I know. I know.” His whisper reached through the cold, calming her. “If it’s any consolation, they’re hurt worse than you.”

“They?” There were two? She started to feel nauseous. “I didn’t see them.”

“That’s how it works. They find someone who’s not paying attention and grab the bag from behind.”

Fingers brushed the hair from her face. Tender fingers, but they made her tremble nonetheless. “You stopped them,” she said.

“Right place, right time.” The fingers found their way to her jaw. Tilted her face until she could see his pale blue eyes. Under the streetlight, his stubble looked more blond than red, the freckles across the bridge of his nose more prominent. “We really need to treat that cut,” he said. “Do you have anything in your bag?”

Chloe shook her head. “Afraid not. I cleaned the thing out this morning.” Thank goodness, too. Any heaver and the force of it being ripped away might have dislocated her shoulder.

“Lucky for you, I’m good at improvising.” Before she could ask what he meant, he’d shed his jacket and begun peeling the sweatshirt over his head.

“What are you doing?”

“Relax. The shirt’s fresh from the laundry.” He mopped at the cut with one of the sleeves.

Chloe caught his wrist. “You’re ruining your sweatshirt.”

“A sacrifice for a worthy cause,” he replied.

By now, they’d attracted curiosity and several people had stopped to check on them.

“We’ll be fine,” the slacker told them. “Doesn’t need stitches.”

“How do you know?” She hated to admit it, but with the gentle way he was dabbing at her wound, she wouldn’t care one way or the other.

“Let’s say I’ve seen my share of cuts and wounds. How are your hands?”

She turned them over. Road burn marred her palm. “I’m betting your knees match,” he said. “Come on, I’ll take you back to the coffee shop and clean you up properly. We can call the police from there, too. Chances are there’s not much they can do at this point, but you should file a report, anyway—just in case.”

Chloe could do little more than nod. The way her insides were shaking, she couldn’t think straight if she tried.

Meanwhile, the slacker took charge, effortlessly. Letting someone else carry the load for a change felt good. When his arm returned to her waist, and he helped her to her feet, she couldn’t help curling into his body. He smelled of coffee and wood. Strong, masculine, solid scents that filled her insides with a sense of security.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said, realizing that fact almost with surprise. “Slacker” definitely no longer applied.

He paused a moment before answering. “Ian Black.”

Ian Black. The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t figure out why. Didn’t matter; her rescuer finally had a name. “Thank you, Ian Black,” she said, offering a grateful smile.

“You’re welcome, Chloe.” Hearing him use her proper name only made her smile wider.

They held each other’s gazes, not saying a word. Finally, Ian stepped back, his arm slipping away from her waist. “What do you say we get you cleaned up?”

Right, her chin. Unbelievably, Chloe had forgotten.

“I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t happened along when you did,” she told him as they walked slowly back.

With the immediate drama over, adrenaline had kicked in, causing her legs to shake. She was afraid her knees would buckle beneath her if she moved too quickly. Ian kept pace a few inches from her elbow, not touching, but close enough to grab her should something happen. He held her bag tucked under his arm. The big leather satchel looked ridiculous, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I’m only sorry I didn’t arrive a minute earlier. I might have spared your chin,” he said.

Which throbbed. To make walking easier, Chloe had taken over the job of pressing it tight. She was pretty sure the bleeding had stopped long ago, but Ian insisted she maintain pressure. “I don’t care about my chin.” She’d suffered worse playing college ball. “I’m more bummed out about my bag.”

“Pocketbooks can be replaced.”

“Not at that price,” she muttered.

“Then on behalf of your bag, I’m sorry I didn’t move faster.”

“You showed up. Better than nothing.”

Why did he show up, though? He’d been sitting at his table when she’d left. She started to frown, only to have pain cut the expression short. “Were you following me?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Oh.” At least he scored points for honesty. She scooted an inch or two to the right. “Why?”

“To apologize,” he told her. “I had no business being so rude to you earlier. You bought the coffee to be nice. I was wrong to bite your head off.”

Had all that taken place tonight? The exchange seemed like eons ago. “Be pretty rude of me not to accept now, wouldn’t it?”

“You wouldn’t be the first person.”

It was such a strange response, Chloe couldn’t help frowning again. “What do you mean?”

She didn’t get an answer. They’d rounded the corner to the coffee shop. A Closed sign hung in the window. “Shoot,” Chloe muttered. “I’d hoped we’d get here before they locked up for the night.”

“No worries.”

There was a female barista wiping down the counter. Ian rapped on the window to draw her attention. Her chin must have looked pretty bad because the woman immediately stopped what she was doing and unlocked the door.

“Oh my God, what happened?”

Once again, Ian took charge, steering Chloe straight to the table in the corner. “We’re going to need the first aid kit, Jesse.”

Now, Chloe knew she had to be a mess, because the woman obeyed without a word. On the other hand, Ian’s demeanor didn’t exactly invite discussion.

While the barista disappeared into the back room, Ian made his way to the sink behind the coffee bar. Reaching into an upper cabinet, he retrieved a fresh towel. Then, grabbing a stainless steel bowl that was drying on the counter, he filled it with water.

“You look pale,” he said when he returned. No surprise there. The shaking in her legs had spread to the rest of her body. Took all she had not to fall off the chair.

“Hold on.” He crossed the room again, this time to help himself to a bottle of water from the display case. “Here. Drink some of this.”

“Thank you.” Drinking and keeping the sweatshirt pressed to her chin proved difficult, especially with her free hand trembling. Some of the water dribbled past her lips and onto the shirt.

“You’re really making a mess tonight, aren’t you Curli?”

Chloe was about to comment when she caught the twinkle in his eye. A smile tugged the corners of her mouth. “Good thing you didn’t give me coffee. I might have stained your sweatshirt.”

“Heaven forbid. Coffee’s such a bitch to get out.”

As opposed to blood. “I hope this wasn’t your favorite shirt.”

“A worthwhile sacrifice,” he said again, then ran his index finger down the bridge of her nose before giving the tip a playful tap.

Fighting to keep to the color from flooding her cheeks, Chloe looked away. Maybe it was the change in temperature after being outside, but her chill had begun to fade, replaced by an odd fluttering deep in her muscles. Like shivers, only more intense and without the nervous edge.

“Here’s the first aid kit. I can’t vouch for the contents. Been awhile since we’ve had to use anything in it.” Jesse’s return removed some of the electrical charge from the moment. “I grabbed some plastic bags, too. In case you want to make an ice pack.”

“Good idea. Could you make me a couple? You might want them for your knees,” he added to Chloe.

As soon as he mentioned them, she lifted her skirt for a peek. Sure enough, both knees had quarter-size scrapes right below the kneecap. Dark red marred the outer skin, the beginnings of what would be large purple bruises. The cuts didn’t hurt now, but they would soon. She looked around for a way to prop her legs so she could balance the ice bags. Finding none, she left her feet dangling. She’d ice the bruises later.

Meanwhile Ian was sorting through the first aid kit. “I see what you mean about the contents,” he said tossing a half a roll of gauze on the table. “Better make an extra ice pack for her chin, too.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Boss? The sweatshirt pressed against her chin was the only thing keeping Chloe’s jaw from dropping. “You work here?” she asked Ian.

“Something like that.”

“Define something.” She’d caught the look Ian and the barista exchanged. Either he worked there or he didn’t. Why the evasive answer?

Ian didn’t reply. “We’re going to be here awhile, Jess,” he told the other woman. “Will you be all right getting home?”

“I’m meeting my boyfriend up the street for drinks.”

“Be careful. We don’t need a second incident.”

Chloe waited until Jesse said goodnight before resuming her questioning “You could have told me you were an employee here.” Might have saved her an afternoon of speculating if she’d known there was a perfectly logical reason for him to be hanging around. Not to mention saving her from being mugged.

“Could have, if I was an employee.”

“But she called you boss.”

“Uh-huh.”