Taming the Tycoon (3 page)

A thought popped into his head and he smiled. “Okay. Fine. I have the perfect thing. You want to pay me back? Call off your protest campaign.”

She frowned. “You don’t get this at all, do you?”

Of course he didn’t bloody get it. It was just plain kooky as far as he was concerned. Her hair beads clicked and Nathaniel found himself wondering what it looked like out of all of those ridiculous plaits. Part of him wanted to reach out and feel the intricate weaving, follow the tight rows with the pads of his fingers.

Dear God, let it be the morphine.

“It’s bigger than that,” she continued. “More self-sacrificing. Like giving you my kidney. Or my life savings. Or bailing you out of jail—”

“I don’t need a kidney, I’m richer than God, and if I ever need bailing out of jail”—which he probably would if she decided to keep torturing him and he gave in to the urge to murder her—“I have a very good, very expensive lawyer. A whole team of them, actually.”

Her smile looked welded to her face as she said, “Maybe you just need saving from yourself?”

Nathaniel, at the end of his tether, was about to threaten her with a restraining order when his phone rang. Margaret picked it up on the second ring. “Hi, Delphine. Yes, he’s back from X-ray.” She passed him the phone. “She wants to talk to you.”

Nathaniel grimaced. “Hello, Mother.”

“Nate, darling, how are you? Be a dear and put me on speaker. I want Margaret listening in so you won’t be able to lie to me.”

Nathaniel chuckled despite his situation. He pressed the speaker button, motioning Margaret to stay close.

“Now, you will be coming on Sat’day still, won’t you?”

Nathaniel looked at his banged-up leg. He finally had an out for his grandmother’s eightieth birthday bash. A legitimate one. He glanced at Margaret, who narrowed her eyes and gave him a stern shake of her head.

“Well, I’m not sure if I’ll be up to—”

Margaret pursed her lips. “He’ll be there.”

“I can’t drive with this leg.”

Margaret smiled at him sweetly. “Just as well you’re richer than God, then. You can hire a limo.”

“And a date, Nate. You promised your grandmother you’d bring a date.”

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. His grandmother’s obsession with seeing him married and producing a great-grandchild bordered on the ridiculous. “There’s no one special at the moment, Mother,” he hedged.

“Well, it seems to me every time I open a magazine or a paper there’s some girl on your arm. Are you ashamed of us, Nate?”

He looked at Margaret and sighed. “Of course not, Mother. She never likes anyone I bring home, anyway.”

“I know, my lovely. So bring home someone she will.”

“Mother…”

“Nathaniel, you promised.”

Nathaniel sighed. His mother never called him by his full name unless she was really serious, and the reproach in her voice had a predictable effect. He felt like he’d just shot one of her prize alpacas.

He glanced at Margaret guiltily as his mother ticked off a list of his broken promises to his grandmother.

“What about Addie?” Margaret mouthed.

Nathaniel frowned, his mother’s voice droning in the background not pausing for a breath amidst the litany of his sins. His PA had taken total leave of her senses.

“She’s perfect,” Margaret said.

“She’s crazy,” he whispered.

“This whole paying-it-forward thing…,” she said, her voice low, “it might be quicker just to indulge her, sir. And your mother will love her, not to mention Eunice.”

Nathaniel glanced over Margaret’s shoulder at the woman who in a few short hours had turned his life upside down. Margaret was right as usual—Addie and his mother could have been carved out of the same block of marble.

It would certainly garner him brownie points and get his grandmother off his back for a while. Strategically, it was a win-win. And he’d built a fortune on employing solid strategy.

“One moment, Mother,” he said, putting the phone to his shoulder to obstruct the microphone.

Addie didn’t like the way both Margaret and Nathaniel Montgomery had turned to look at her. “What?” she asked wary of the calculating gleam in those wild-blue-yonder eyes.

“Are you serious about owing me something?”

“Absolutely.”

“I need a date for my grandmother’s eightieth birthday bash at my family’s alpaca stud in the wilds of Devon this weekend. Does that count?”

Addie swallowed as all his blue-eyed intensity focused in on her. “Not really.”

“Well, it’s what I want,” he said, his jaw clamped in steely determination. “Take it or leave it.”

Addie hesitated. At least he was giving her a way in. It was hardly long enough to address some of his issues, but it was a good place to begin. “It’ll do. For a start.”

He shook his head. “No deal. One weekend. No more. Then we go our separate ways.”

Addie looked at the grim determination stamped into the hard planes of his face. A weekend may not be long enough to tame the tycoon in him completely, but she could still accomplish a lot. She could certainly make her case for keeping the rose garden. “Okay…”

He narrowed his eyes. “I mean it.”

Nathaniel Montgomery may well be rich and smart and the sexiest man she’d clapped eyes on, but he knew zip about what was truly important in life. Teaching him the import of stopping to smell the roses, preferably the ones at St Aggie’s, was exactly the way to repay him. And to do that, she had to get her foot in the door.

“Of course.”

He nodded once and she watched as he confirmed he’d be a plus-one, then quickly hung up.

Addie beamed at him. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She ignored his grunt determined to make the most of this opportunity. “So it’s a party…what should I wear?”

She weathered his disparaging assessment of her attire. “That kind of thing is pretty perfect.”

Addie wasn’t convinced as Margaret’s throaty chuckle settled around them. But she couldn’t deny the little thrill of anticipation that pulsed through her at the challenge ahead.

Despite Nathaniel’s lack of enthusiasm, she couldn’t wait to get started.

Chapter Three

Three days later, Addie was knocking on the door of Nathaniel Montgomery’s apartment at his exclusive St. Katherine’s Docks address. After some haggling, she’d managed to convince him that paying off part of her debt should involve driving him to his grandmother’s shindig as well.

It was simple, she’d explained. He couldn’t drive because of his sprained ankle, which was her fault, and she
could
drive, so…

Simple.

Then he answered the door and his damp hair was curled around his collar and simple had never seemed more complicated.

He was wearing an exquisitely cut dark brown suit. A mulberry shirt, open at the neck, picked out the fine slate pinstripes in his trousers and unbuttoned jacket. It was funky and striking and a far cry from the conservative suit he’d worn to the garden protest.

She could only presume this was his attempt at being casual, although his smooth jawline belied that. How much more casual—more sexy—would he look with a three-day growth?

Not that he looked like the kind of guy who did three-day growths—not professional enough for Mr. Workaholic, she suspected.

Still, it was a gorgeous garment that fit him to absolute perfection and even leaning on his crutches in a suit most gay men would covet, he vibrated more potency than any male she’d ever known.

Addie felt completely out of her depth in the presence of such overwhelming masculinity. She looked down at her own informal appearance, then back at him. For the love of all that was holy, did the man not own a T-shirt?

“You’re still on crutches?” she asked, hoping her voice didn’t squeak as his gaze swept her from head to toe. “I thought it was just a sprain.” She should have suspected he’d downplay it. She only found out about his thigh hematoma from Margaret.

“I only use them if I need to walk any kind of distance or on stairs,” he dismissed. And then he frowned at her. “Your…hair is different.”

Addie touched it self-consciously. “Yes.”

She noticed him following the movement of her hand as it pushed into the layers and scrunched at the blond strands.

“Why?”

“The corn rows start to look a bit scruffy after a few days and the maintenance is a bit of a pain.”

“Oh. I see,” he said, which plainly he didn’t. “Why wear it like that at all?”

Addie smiled at his male logic. “Because I can,” she said. After surviving cancer, hair was one of the many things she’d vowed she’d never take for granted ever again.

He gave her a puzzled look. “Okay. Let’s get this over and done with.”

Addie heard the long-suffering note in his voice and decided to ignore it. She was determined to enjoy the weekend. Determined that he would enjoy it, too. “Where’s your bag?” she asked, looking pointedly behind him trying to see inside his apartment. All she could make out was acres of light, and large white marble tiles, which only whetted her curiosity.

What would his living space look like? Would it be a typical minimalist bachelor pad with cold chrome and black leather, or would it have a woman’s touch? What would the docks look like from the penthouse suite? Did he have a good view of Tower Bridge?

He reached for something obscured from her view near the door and straightened, slinging a leather satchel over his neck, settling it on his hip.

“This is all I need. I keep clothes at home.”

He moved out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him, managing the maneuver on the crutches with ease. Addie glanced at the closed door wistfully before turning to watch him striding ahead, making headway with each powerful swing on his crutches as if he’d been born with the damned things.

She rolled her eyes. Even supposedly incapacitated, the man had to be in front of everyone else. She hurried to catch up to him and made it in time for the lift arrival.

Nathaniel indicated for her to precede him, and then regretted it as her faded denim cutoffs and the way they pulled across her pert bottom drew his gaze. She turned, leaning against the back wall, and he noted the raggedy edging at her delicate knees and the way the fabric left no inch of her slender thighs to the imagination.

His gaze moved upward. Some kind of Celtic-looking cross encrusted with crystals hung from a brown leather thong and sat in the hollow of her throat, centering his attention on her chest. Breasts that stretched a red round-necked T-shirt to its absolute limit kept it there.

Very nice breasts.

She peered at him through longish bangs that brushed her eyelashes with each owlish blink. He’d spent the last few days wondering what her hair would look like loose, and she’d delivered. The tight rows of frivolous plaits had gone, replaced with long wispy strands of hair in varying shades of blond, falling in layers around her face and over her shoulders.

He didn’t understand women’s obsession with their hair. Why choose a hairstyle that required such upkeep? That just didn’t seem rational.

He hesitated before getting in. She looked so small and harmless in the cavernous lift, but everything about her screamed danger. She’d been fascinating enough in her hippie skirt and corn rows the other day, but looking practically normal in her denim cutoffs and conservative T, she was potentially lethal.

What the hell had he agreed to?

Three days ago he hadn’t known this woman from Adam, and now he was taking her home to meet his mother and thinking of other ways for her to repay her crazy debt to the universe. Like maybe getting her naked and seeing firsthand whether her hair completely covered her bare breasts.

Obviously, his usually discerning libido had been damaged in the fall and was not to be trusted.

“Mr. Montgomery?”

Nathaniel blinked. Her bangs obscured her furrowed brows, but he could tell by the uncertainty clouding her big, gray eyes that his hesitation was making her nervous.

He gave himself a mental shake. “Do you think we could dispense with the ‘mister,’ Addie?” he said as he swung into the lift and punched the lobby button. “You are supposed to be my date, after all.”

“Of course, sorry.”

The door closed and suddenly the huge lift seemed very small indeed, as a waft of something that reminded him of Christmas—eggnog or mulled wine—gently encompassed him. Nathaniel wondered if she tasted as good. He turned away from her, facing the lift panel and leaning heavily on his crutch as the silence stretched. “You didn’t have any problems finding me, then?”

“Hardly. I live here, too.”

What the—?
Nathaniel almost dropped a crutch as he turned to face her. The woman looked like she slept in a gypsy caravan. “
You
live at St. Katherine’s Dock?”

She laughed as the lift settled with cushioned ease on the ground floor. “You are such a snob.” The doors opened and she pushed off the back wall, brushing past him.

He watched her go, dumbfounded. It wasn’t until the doors started to slide shut that he realized he hadn’t moved. He shoved his crutch between the closing doors and they obediently opened again.

“You don’t live in Ivory House,” he called after her as he exited the lift.

Nathaniel liked to have every angle covered when doing a deal, whether it was buying a place to live or closing a multimillion-dollar property settlement. He’d had each owner of the luxury, loft-style apartments that inhabited the converted nineteenth-century merchant’s warehouse checked out before he’d purchased his. He didn’t like surprises.

Which probably explained why Addie Collins unsettled him so much.

So if she didn’t live in Ivory House, where did she live? There were a small number of townhouses within the docks, but this was an exclusive area. He watched the threadbare patch on the back of her thigh and wondered how on earth she could afford this kind of real estate.

Maybe she’d inherited family money? Unfortunately, that unsettled him even more. Pampered princesses were not his cup of tea. Another good reason why his inexplicable attraction to Addie should be put down to temporary insanity from the bump he’d had to his head.

And certainly
not
be acted upon.

He exited the building and pulled up short. She was standing still, eyes shut, her face turned skyward, the sun reflecting off those damn purple sunglasses she’d worn to the protest. Lunchtime crowds reveling in the September sunshine careened around her but she stood unperturbed, a look of utter bliss on her face.

And he wanted her with a fierceness that scared the hell out of him.

Nathaniel blinked at the searing insight.

“So?” he demanded as he drew level. “Where do you live?”

Addie sighed, opening her eyes to look at him. “I live over there.”

Nathaniel followed the direction of her extended arm, trying to pinpoint the exact location. He frowned. “You live at the Dickens Inn?”

Addie laughed. “No. A little to the left.”

He remembered that laugh from the other day. It was light and tinkly and it distracted him momentarily from the fact that the only thing to the left of the Dickens was the water.

He dragged his mind back to the conversation with difficulty. “This isn’t where you tell me you’re actually a mermaid, is it?”

It would certainly explain the spell she seemed to be weaving around him. If he believed in that kind of thing.

Which he didn’t.

She laughed again. “No. I live on the
Ida May
. A forty-seven foot long boat.”

Nathaniel stared at her and then looked back to the area she’d been pointing, where a variety of boats from sleek multimillion-dollar cruisers to colorful canal boats bobbed side by side in their moorings.

Of course. He should have guessed.

“I inherited it from a great aunt and the best thing about it is it’s only a hop, skip, and a jump from work.”

Nathaniel’s brain reeled. “You
work
here, too?”

Addie was starting to get a little ticked by Nathaniel’s attitude, and trying to find her center wasn’t cutting the mustard. Surely a savvy businessman knew not to judge books by their covers?

“Tell me, Nathaniel. Does it surprise you that I work here or that I work at all?”

He ignored the jibe and she watched as his busy mind connected the dots. “Oh God, you work in the crystal shop, don’t you?”

Addie glared at him. “If you mean Soul Food
,
then yes. And I don’t just work in it, I own it. It’s mine.”

Nathaniel’s gaze fell on the crystal-encrusted pendant around her neck. “You own a shop that sells
crystals
?”

Addie shoved her hands on her hips as her center moved further and further away. “It’s an organic gourmet food outlet with a thriving Internet ordering arm that turns over half a million pounds a year.”

Nathaniel blinked. “Then what the hell is with the
crystals
?”

“I like them,” she snapped. “They’re pretty. And customers buy them to give them a focus during meditation.”

“Meditation? Jesus, no wonder you believe in this paying-it-forward crap.”

“Yes,” she hissed, her center so far away she doubted she’d ever be able to find it again. He was looking at her as if she’d just confessed to breeding unicorns rather than indulging in a form of ancient relaxation. “Meditation. You should try it sometime. Maybe it’ll help with the whole uptight, arrogant, stuffed-shirt thing you’ve got going on.”

Addie stormed off, aware of him following her at a more sedate pace. She stopped to let a bunch of rowdy lunchtime pub goers get through a narrowed walking area. A couple of lads leered at her and she suddenly felt Nathaniel’s presence looming behind her, the guys seemingly thinking better of going beyond gawking.

“You’re pissed at me,” he said as they passed by. “Let’s call it off.”

Addie took a deep, calming breath. No way. She’d see this through to the end if it killed her. Someone had to save Nathaniel Montgomery from himself. Unfortunately, the universe had decreed it be her. “Not on your Nelly. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

He sighed. “At the risk of you publicly eviscerating me, can I inquire as to whether you actually own a motor vehicle?”

She opened her mouth to give him a piece of her mind. She doubted she’d ever met someone so quick to judge, but he quickly held up his hands. “I’m not doubting your financial ability to do so. I just don’t know where you would keep one, given that your place of residence doesn’t have a garage.”

Addie searched his face for any signs of criticism. “I’ve borrowed Penny’s van.”

He frowned. “The Kombi from the other day? Are you serious?” Addie just stared at him and waited for him to realize she was. “You’re serious.” He shook his head. “Ah, no. I don’t think so.”

It was on the tip of Adie’s tongue to inquire whether his gold-plated arse was too precious for a lowly Kombi, but she refrained. His suit jacket had ridden up and she could see how well put together his backside was—the less she referred to it the better.

And she would not let his negativity cloud her aura. “It’s perfectly capable of getting us to Devon.”

“I doubt it. It’s a bomb.”

Addie held her ground. “It’s vintage.”

“It reeks of paint. We’ll be high as kites by the time we get there.”