Recluse Millionaire, Reluctant Bride

Stan set the empty glass on the gleaming countertop and rubbed his palms together. “Took care of it.”

“I demand to be relea—” She gaped at him. “What does that mean?” she demanded. “You know you could be arrested.”

“My men—”

“Thugs.”

“—left a memo at your studio explaining your absence.”

“Disappearance.”

He shuttered his eyes to blue slits, considering her veiled warning. “Ms. Ryan, I’m offering you my hospitality as my guest.”

“I’m not your guest.” She tossed her head. “And don’t need or want anything from you.”

He hiked a brow, and she swallowed a lump in her throat. Of course, he had control of her core asset and—

“You’re on a publicity tour … Tokyo, Toronto … family demands,” he explained, his words saturated with meaning. “You’d be returning soon.”

“You dared to—” A tremor vibrated from her head to her toes, shivers prancing on her spine.

He shrugged. “A risk worth taking.”

Stella paled, their one and only meeting zooming to the forefront of her mind.

“Something wrong, Ms. Ryan?” Casually, he slid his hands in his pockets, confident he’d cornered her.

Stella groped for the back of a chair, the wood smooth and hard beneath her fingertips.

Like the man—unbreakable.

“Do you often take such risks?” she tested, her voice brittle.

“Occasion—”

“Why?”

“High stakes.”

“How lofty are they this time?” She tightened her grip on the chair, her heart pounding a warning.

“Riskiest bet of my life,” he admitted.

She wouldn’t be bridled. “Must be, to ditch your life of the rich and famous for that of a recluse.”

He laughed, a dark, ominous sound. “It is.” A shadow swept across his eyes, and a nerve pinched his jaw. He shrugged and didn’t elaborate.

Tenderness pierced through her frustration. She must be mistaken, or nuts. Nuts to feel anything but contempt for the ogre. She shoved the pinch of feeling away. She didn’t care, couldn’t care, refused to care.

“I don’t play cat and mouse games, Mr. R.”

“You do remember.”

The gray at his temples and his beard had thrown her at first. His electrifying blue eyes and commanding tone, capped off with his baiting remarks, cued her a second time in as many hours, how well he knew the game of finance and how well he wielded the rules for his benefit. Yes, she remembered him. He was not a man she could easily forget, nor could she forget how ruthless he could be.

“How do I fit into your scheme of things this time?” Stella asked, her voice crackling with ice.

“Predominantly.”

Chapter 2

Stella’s gaze clashed with his, taut emotion vibrating between them.

Seconds ticked by, seeming endless.

Minni walked in with their lunch and the tension in the air snapped.

“Come, you’ll feel better after you’ve eaten.” Stan stepped to the table and pulled out a chair for her.

Stella didn’t move.

“Hope you’re hungry, dear,” Minni said, her mouth tilting at the corners. “I’ve cooked my favorite Italian recipe with a Scottish zing.” She giggled and her hand fluttered to her mouth.

“It smells delicious.” Stella eyed the hot rolls, the salad, the sticky chocolate cake that was for dessert.

Stan draped an arm around his housekeeper’s shoulders and winked. “Minni is the best cook in town and I’ve got her.”

Stella’s pulse faltered. He wanted, he got. Well, he hadn’t gotten her.

She should feel more joy … maybe it was because she was hungry.

Minni blushed. “Oh, get on with you.” She smoothed an imaginary crease on her apron and pushed the trolley from the room.

Another uncomfortable silence ensued … delectable aroma of lasagna, crowned with bubbly cheese wafted to her and her stomach growled. Stella plunked down on the chair across from the enemy, hoping he hadn’t heard.

He took his own seat and began serving.

“You should try some,” he said between mouthfuls. “It’s good.”

She hesitated, her mouth mutinous, her taste buds watering. Finally … “I’ll have a little.”

A smart man, he said nothing, simply grunted his approval.

Not that she needed his approval about anything, but she was ravenous … no use letting good food go to waste.

At last, she placed the remaining piece of cake in her mouth and stole a glance at him from beneath her eyelashes. Why was he grinning? She licked her lips. His grin disappeared, his gaze darkening. Thinking, chocolate smudged her chin, she swiped at it with her finger and licked the tip. A sound from deep in his throat … a low growl?

“Someting amusing?” she snapped, a flush warming her cheeks.

“You look like a sixteen-year old stuffing that cake in your mouth.” His lips twitched in wry amusement.

“Good thing I’m not, or you’d be compounding the charge of kidnapping with that of a minor.”

He squashed the grin between his lips, his cheekbones prominent, a storm brewing in his eyes. “I won’t dignify that with a response.”

Her emotions were bopping, and she wanted to let fly at him, but thought better of it. Control. She could match him in that couldn’t she?

“More coffee?” He picked up the coffee pot and waited.

At her nod, his mouth cracked a fraction, and he filled her cup to the brim. Rich flavor steamed the air. She cradled the cup between her palms and watched him pour another cup for himself.

His lips curved over straight white teeth, and his lower lip a bit fuller gave his mouth an added sensuality. She could just imagine him nibbling… She lowered her eyes to his hands. The man seized whatever he wanted. A shiver shot through her … whomever he desired. Yet, she couldn’t turn away. His sleeves were pushed up almost to his elbows, golden hair feathered his forearms, his muscles defined even by the simple task of pouring coffee.

Slamming the brakes on her thoughts, she tipped the cup to her lips.

“Easy, it’s hot,” Stan warned.

Too late, Stella felt the unwelcome singe on her tongue. “I know now, it’s hot,” she sputtered, dropping the cup back, liquid splashing into the saucer. Grabbing the glass of water beside her plate, she gulped a mouthful and soothed her stinging tongue.

“Good thing that.” A hint of a smile lingered on his lips, and his gaze strayed to the curve of her breast, barely visible by the tear in her sweatshirt.

His eyes darkened, shuttered, his smile vanished.

Her eyes grew wide, lashes fluttering, shielding.

Signals … danger … combustion.

Stella took another gulp of water. “I-it’s not funny.”

“Never said it was.”

“The burn stung.”

“I know.”

Heat infused her body. Was there a double-entendre in that? She set the glass on the table with more force than necessary; the liquid swirled against the clear walls, but didn’t spill. Too bad. She felt like doing injury to something or, she glanced at the man beside her, someone. He certainly didn’t think she could be contained against her will without retaliating?

Tossing a crumpled napkin on the table, he pushed his chair back and motioned her to the sofa by the window. For a second, she debated whether to sit or stand, but not wanting him to think she was on the defensive, plopped on the settee. He lounged on the armchair across from her, trapping her in the lens of his vision like a high-powered combatant’s target.

Breath pocketed in her chest, and she pushed up her sleeves, on guard.

“Stella, I, or rather we” –he crossed one leg over his knee— “have followed your career as a martial artist for some time. Rare to see a woman master the art of self-defense to the professionalism you’ve achieved.”

“Thank you,” she said, wondering where this was leading. If he thought he could lull her into a false security with compliments to get what he wanted from her, he was wrong.

Dead wrong.

“This woman was worth the risk, after all.” She couldn’t help the jab.

“Financially, yes,” he hit back, his tone all business. “You’ve proved a worthwhile asset.”

A silent growl built in Stella’s throat. How dared he talk like she was some inanimate object. Asset, indeed. “So, why bring me here?”

“I wanted the very best for Troy. No one else would do,” he murmured more to himself than to her.

“You wanted the very best of what?” she asked, her curiosity pushing anger aside. “Who’s Troy? And what does he have to do with me?”

A silent moment passed, and he leaned forward, his midnight blue eyes boring into her. “I want to hire you as my son’s martial arts coach.”

“Troy.”

“That’s right.”

“This is ludicrous. Absolutely wild.” She nearly burst out laughing but some innate sense checked it in her throat. “There are plenty of martial arts schools you could enroll him in. There was no need for you and your … er … friends to go through this farce to bring me here. Even if you wanted me as his Sensei—”

“Instructor.”

She nodded. “I’d have been happy to coach him at my studio.”

“I didn’t want Troy in a public class, stared at, ridiculed by other children.” He brushed a hand across his chin. “My son needs a private coach.” His voice deepened, hinting at a deeper, conflicting emotion. “You, Ms. Ryan, will teach him until he feels confident … strong again.”

Children could be cruel, but for him to take these extreme measures to get her here was beyond her comprehension. “I don’t understand.”

He paused for a moment, the silence deafening. “He must become healthy again. Feel like a valued human being.”

Was he playing on her emotions? Could he have an ulterior motive?

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rogers,” she said, recalling how callous he could be. “I have a full schedule.” Ignoring her erratic pulse, she cleared her throat and scooted forward. “I’ve spent years building my business and Karate is my life.” She’d practically starved to do it, but he didn’t have to know that. “I can’t abandon it for the whim of a father and his son.” Her words sounded abrasive even to her own ears, but she had to be tough.

Tough with him.

And tougher with herself, because the man was dangerous to her heart, her emotions, her mind … to her whole self.

In one fluid motion, Stan hauled himself from the armchair, eyes blazing and nostrils flaring. Startled, Stella squared her shoulders and shuttered her gaze, ready to dodge if necessary.

“What do you know of pain? Of a child tossed about like chattel who’s—” He shoved a hand through his hair and paced the room, his outburst surprising him more than it did her. “I apologize. You’re not to blame.” His jaw clenched. “Trauma, especially recurring, can scar for life.”

Stella uttered not a word.

Dangerous didn’t describe him. Lethal was more accurate.

The man was lethal.

“When a child is involved, one can become ballistic.”

“And are you?”

“What?” He glanced at her, a blank look across his features.

“Ballistic?”

An unwilling smile flittered across his mouth but he neither confirmed nor denied.

Her pulse leaped. His demeanor oozed sexual energy. Moisture glazed her upper lid. She swabbed it with her thumb, and his eyes zoomed in on her mouth.

A silent moment, a tense moment, a telling moment.

She didn’t want to know … acknowledge the shift in the atmosphere between them. She had to be smart, strong, deliver her blow and get out of there. Fast.

So, she said the only thing that came to her mind, “What’s the matter with him? Your son?”

“That’s not your concern.” His words were like ice chaffing her skin.

“All right,” she said. “Why don’t you teach him how to fight.” She scrutinized the length and breadth of his body to the detriment of another leaping heartbeat. “You … uh … look capable.”

“I could teach him to use his fists, but street fighting isn’t the best for him.” He caught and held her in his sights, a wry twist on his mouth.

Stella struggled, yet didn’t move an inch. But her vitals were going haywire. She had to get out of here, get out … get some air.

“Martial arts, the ancient art of self-defense, exercising the spirit, mind and body would suit him better,” he insisted.

A time bomb was ticking.

“Take the job.”

“No!” She leaped to her feet.

“No?”

She mocked a cough to hide her discomfort, and reverted to her business persona. “I’d like to help, but it’s out of the question.”

“Think again,” he said, voice smooth, silky. “Do it for three months.”

“I couldn’t teach your son Karate in that time,” she said, voice soft. Was she weakening? Where was her tough stance? “It’s a lifetime thing.”

“I understand.” In two strides, he bridged the gap between them, crowding her. “But it would give him a start. Some basics.”

“True.”

He was so close, his body heat warmed, his breath fanned her cheek, the faint scent of Scotch making her want to taste … him. She folded her hands into fists, determined to chase away this overwhelming rush that had her heart battering her chest.

“A philosophy, a discipline underscores the Martial Arts.” She forced the words out. “More important is when and how to use defense technique.”

“I know,” Stan said. “That’s why I didn’t want to hire just anyone.”

“You’re flattering me, Mr. Rogers,” Stella said, lowering her lashes a fraction. “However, three months is impossible.” Good, when she didn’t look at him, she sounded herself, the savvy businesswoman. “I’ve scheduled events I can’t get out—”

“Can’t or won’t.”

“You’ll find someone else to help your boy.” She dared lift her lashes … a mistake. Her breath swept out of her, leaving her deflated. “Someone willing to be on call…” She was fighting herself more than him.

His gaze turned steely. “As you could find another to refinance your mortgage next term.”

He’d beat her to it, delivering his blow first. A hit to the gut.

“You’re playing dirty.”

“I have no choice.”

“I’d have no problem renewing my mortgage from another investment firm,” she tested, every muscle in her body contracting. “Financially, I’m a worthy asset, remember.”

He laughed, the harsh sound grating in the tense atmosphere between them. “A solid investment would be considered.” He curled his mouth into a cruel smile. “With so many foreclosures in this business, very few would bite anything else. Too risky.”

“I have good credit,” she blurted, a slight waver in her voice.

“Sure now?”

Stella shoved him back, another blunder; touching him rocked her to her toes. He didn’t move, so she did. Back two steps, three … a raging flame ignited her words. “You wouldn’t dare mess with my credentials.”

His jaw jutted, and the flecks of navy in his eyes turned granite. “We’ll have you, Ryan, or no one.” His veiled threat hung in the air.

She glared at him long and hard. Oxygen fueled her lungs and shot out of her. She’d never run from anyone in her life and she didn’t intend to start now. “What you want,” she advanced two steps closer to reclaim her space, “you get, by fair means or foul,” another step brought her within an inch of him, “is that it?”

“You have a problem with that?” He bent his head within an inch of her mouth, his breath a caress.

She would not start hyperventilating. She would not. Steeling her nerves, she gave him stare for stare. Dear God, she was falling into the ocean of his eyes.

He shifted.

Relief. Breathing room.

Or was that an illusion. Was he preparing for another hit?

Doubts zigzagged through her mind; her temples throbbed. She had learned never to allow an opponent to sense her uncertainty and here she was, letting him shake her confidence. Quickly regrouping, she stiffened her spine and raised her chin. She wouldn’t wait to see what he would do. She’d go on the offensive, deliver her strike and get out of the ring.

“I’m sorry you went to all the trouble to get me here, but I must decline your offer of employment.” She prayed her refusal sounded intractable this time. Without the renewal of her mortgage on terms she could afford, she could lose her business, her livelihood, her future. A quiver tore through her, but she stood resolute.

“Stubborn woman,” he muttered beneath his breath. “Haven’t learned to cut your losses yet, have you, Ryan?”

“I don’t intend to have any.”

“Don’t push my hand,” he growled, stalking to the window and contemplating the outdoors.

Stella stared daggers at his rigid back.

Finally he turned, his gaze frosty. “Fred will drive you back to town.”

She started in surprise. “You’re letting me go?”

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” he queried.

Chapter 3

“Yes.”

He searched her face, then nodded in acquiescence.

Unusual. Him being so accommodating.

Stella rubbed her nape, settling fine hair on end. Until she was safely tucked in her own bed, she wouldn’t put anything past him.

“The library’s down the hall … you can wait there.” He strode to the door, tossing over his shoulder, “When it’s time, Minni will come for you.”

“Thank you,” Stella murmured, surprised she’d uttered the civil words. But by then, she stood alone in the middle of the dining room, so he must’ve missed them. For some inexplicable reason, she felt deserted.

Foolish, girl.

She strolled to the library and her shoulders sagged. No computer, no cell phone. Just shelves of books, comfy furniture and flames blazing in the grate. Cozy. Warm. Unlike the owner. Either he enjoyed his solitude or turned into a recluse for some reason. His son?

Browsing, she pulled out a volume, by-passed the sofa and sat cross-legged on the carpet. Logs crackled and hissed, shooting off sparks. Absent-mindedly, she flipped the pages, her mind wandering to her captor. It was obvious he loved his son, but a harshness underlined it, sharp and cutting in intensity. Who or what had caused the bitterness in his life? And how much did it have to do with him taking such drastic measures to bring her here, then quickly releasing her? Hmm, she set her mind on rewind…

Stella had been jogging along the English Bay beach walk near her studio home as dawn colored the sky when the two men accosted her.

“We’re not here to hurt you, Miss,” the man said, dressed in a dark suit and smoothing his reddish mustache.

“That’s right.” The other one flipped his dark hair off his brow with the back of his hand, revealing a mole at his temple.

The simple action triggered her memory.

“You two came to my studio last week,” Stella said, gauging them.

“That’s right,” the red-haired one admitted. “Since you turned his offer down, we … er … are inviting you to come see the boss himself.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” the dark one agreed. “We’re to drive you there.”

“You tell boss-man,” Stella bit out, “if he wants to talk to me, he can telephone and make an appointment at a decent hour at the studio.”

“It isn’t that simple, Miss,” the man in front of her answered. “He—”

“Listen, I have a business to run,” she cut him off, starting to backtrack away from them. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to it.”

The two men glanced at one another. “We hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” One sighed, the other shrugged, and both made a grab for her.

She’d fought them, but when they threw the fishing net over her, she was caught …

Stella shifted on the carpet and eased the cramps from her knees. She may be caught, but not for long. Warmth from the fire soothed, and she turned on her side, cushioning her head on her folded arms.

“Mmm, this feels nice,” she murmured.

The altercation with his two goons, followed so soon with the confrontation with the ogre, had left her physically and emotionally exhausted.

She lowered her lashes, just for a second.

After what seemed mere moments, Stella fluttered her eyes open, prickles on the back of her neck. Except for the flickering flames in the grate, the room had grown dark, the sun having set long ago. She blinked to orientate herself to her surroundings and collided with his electrifying gaze.

“What’re you doing here?” She leaped up and swayed at the sudden movement. Calm as you please, he lounged on the sofa, watching her beneath his bushy brows. Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, she swept up the pillow and blanket from the floor, and hugged them to her bosom.

Stan had the urge to snake his arm out and haul her into his arms, burying his face in her hair, sliding his hands beneath her disheveled jogging suit … sweat and all. He didn’t care. Her warmth and her scent, with a hint of the Ivory soap she’d used during her shower, lassoed him.

His gut jerked, or was that his heart?

Her eyes a deep sapphire from slumber, mesmerized. He wanted to nuzzle her nape, taste … abruptly, he checked the motion.

Utter foolishness.

Hadn’t he learned his lesson in college when he got hitched on a dare? She’d taken him for a ride … every penny he had … and still after his scalp … and his son. Then, he’d been young, proud, reckless. Now, older and he hoped wiser— What the heck are you doing with this woman here? He shrugged the irksome thought aside.

If he wanted a woman, he could get one at the snap of his fingers. They were easy to come by when one was endowed with wealth. He wondered if they wanted him or his loot—if they’d even glance his way if he pumped gas at the local garage. He curled his lip in a silent snarl, and, thinking it was directed at her, Stella took a step away from him.

Fever.

Blood pulsed through his veins and pooled in his groin. He bit down an expletive. He didn’t want a woman, not now. And certainly, not this one. Too stubborn, too shrewd, too outspoken, too beautiful … he sucked in a breath and let it blast out between his teeth.

“Is it time to go?” she asked.

Let her go? Never again.

“A change of plans,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Oh?” Stella moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

Sexual awareness flared. Stan tightened his jaw.

“You won’t be leaving today, after all.” At her outraged expression, he was quick to add, “A problem with the truck.” Under the circumstances, he had trouble believing the lame excuse himself. Just happened to be true s’all. Whether she believed him or not was her problem. Yeah, right.

“How convenient.”

“Actually, it’s not,” he muttered. “The group wanted to get to town and stock supplies before first snow.”

“Snow?”

He ignored her query. “Fred was going to check on the limo and halfway there, the Hummer broke down. He had to hike back.”

“Poor him.”

He didn’t even blink at her sarcastic rejoinder. “The outing will be postponed until tomorrow, together with your return.” A pause and, “Poor you?”

“Go to he—”

“I’ve already been,” he ground out. “Don’t recommend it.”

About to shoot back, she thought better of it. Stoking the already volatile situation wouldn’t get her out of there. And that’s what she wanted.

Definitely.

“Doesn’t look like snow to me, not by a long shot,” she said again.

“At least not for another couple of months.”

“We like to be prepared in case it’s early this year.” He hauled himself off the sofa and reached out for the blanket and pillow.

She clutched them tighter, like a protective device. “What about trekking to the limo and driving from there?”

“Not in this darkness, unless it’s an absolute emergency,” he said, tone flat. “Dangerous, especially if you’re not familiar with the trail.”

“To me, this is an emergency.”

“Not enough to risk a broken leg in a pot hole. Be serious, Ms. Ryan.” He raised a brow. “What’s one more day going to matter? You could leave early tomorrow without risk.”