Jan Colley - Melting The Icy Tycoon

Easing the car into gear, he drove across the road, stopped, then leaned over and opened the passenger door.

Eve actually looked like she was going to refuse. She pursed her mouth, giving the empty streets a last look. Conn began to hope she would turn him down. But then she picked up his briefcase from the passenger seat and slid into the car.

“Nice of you.”

He grunted, inhaling something tangy and lemony. They set off sedately. Conn forced himself to relax his knuckles so they would not whiten around the wheel. His knee began to ache. It always did in times of stress. The demolition of that knee in the accident had ruined his rugby-playing career, but that was a small price to pay for the taking of a life.

“Working late?” she asked eventually.

“Business dinner.” The road was dark with dew. Conn hated wet roads. “Don’t you have a car?” he asked curtly.

“It’s in a garage in town. I thought I might get a scooter to have on the island.”

“Not suitable for the gravel road on the ridge.” In the silence that followed, he chided himself for sounding so abrupt.

Eve sighed and leaned her head on the rest.

The engine droned in Conn’s ears. He thought about her talking and laughing with the purser just minutes ago.

“How’s the job hunting going?” he asked, lifting one damp hand off the wheel to wipe over his thigh.

“I landed a job today, actually.”

Conn flashed her a quick glance. She seemed more subdued than elated.

“It’s part-time,” she continued. “Only a few hours a week from home.” She looked at him and her chin tilted up. “It shouldn’t interfere with my renovations.”

His lips compressed. If she was planning renovations, she was not thinking of moving.

She looked tired. He decided to cut her some slack and steer clear of the house subject. “What’s the job?”

Her voice warmed. “Gossip columnist, would you believe? For the New City.”

Conn snapped a look at her, incredulous. “Gossip columnist?”

“It should be fun.” Now she sounded defensive.

“Perfect,” Conn muttered, shaking his head in derision.

There was a long silence and then she sighed gustily. “What is it exactly that you don’t like about me?”

That jolted him. He wondered what she’d do if he told her he liked her so much, he’d bought a women’s magazine about her. “I don’t know you well enough to have formed an opinion.”

“What is it—my politics? My interviewing style?”

He liked her interviewing style, always had. He admired the way she put her subjects at ease, and he had never watched a show of hers that involved the badgering technique employed by so many others. She was enthusiastic and expressive, especially her hands; she used her hands constantly on TV.

A rabbit shot across the road in front of him. Adrenaline flooded his body. It took a superhuman effort not to swerve or pound at the brake pedal.

Conn focused on the road and his breathing. You can do this, you do do it. Every muscle in his body vibrated with tension.

A minute dragged by. When his breathing had calmed, he cleared his throat. “I think you should know, Ms. Summers, I regard the whole media machine as a level below stepping in spit.”

Her cheeks blew out in a little huff of exasperation, and she turned away to stare out the window. Conn knew he would feel bad later, but right now he was too tense to address it.

Finally they approached their turnoff and he swung the car onto the gravel road. His eyes pricked with relief at the sight of her dilapidated letterbox a few hundred meters away. He flexed his aching leg and eased off the gas, indicating he was about to turn into her driveway.

“Just here is fine.”

The big car rolled to a halt opposite her house. Conn peeled his hands off the steering wheel. Inhaling, he laced his fingers together, pressed down and cracked each knuckle, one by one. He saw her grimace, but the flow of tension ebbing out of his extremities was exquisite.

She handed him his briefcase and held his gaze for a second. “Not friends, then,” she murmured and turned to get out of the car. “But I do thank you for the lift. Good night, Mr. Bannerman.”

Arrogant pig! Eve slammed her way inside the empty house and flicked the kitchen radio on. Some neighbor. Living in the city, you expected detachment and disinterest from neighbors. Here there were just the two of them for miles around.

She felt like a glass of wine for the first time since the flu. Pouring a large glass, she wandered into the lounge and stabbed at the TV with the remote.

Why did Conn Bannerman hate her? He could barely bring himself to speak to her. To think she had found him attractive. She wandered into her second bedroom and booted the computer up. The attraction was certainly not mutual.

Wine was the nectar of the gods, she thought, sipping. She and James had been passionate about it. Had an enormous collection in London—she wondered what had become of it after she’d walked away.

After the miscarriage…

The phone rang. Frowning, she checked her watch. It was her friend Lesley, one of the reporters who worked—had worked—on her show.

Eve’s mood perked up. If she was going to be the New City newspaper’s gossip columnist, there was no one better than Lesley to know what was going on in town. “How are you bearing up, Les?”

The very worst thing about being fired was that it affected all the people working on her show.

“I’m fine, Evie. Don’t worry about me. There’s plenty of work around. How’s life in the slow lane?”

While she chatted with Lesley, Eve came across the card Conn had given her the other night. She typed in his company Web site. Waiting for the screen to come up, she asked her friend if she’d heard of Conn Bannerman.

“‘Ice’ Bannerman? The guy building the stadium?”

“They call him ‘Ice’?” Eve asked, thinking how apt that was.

“Fearless on the field. Used to play rugby for New Zealand.”

Eve raised her brows. That explained the killer bod.

New Zealand was a small country on the world stage but punched well above their weight in rugby. And they treated members of their national team like kings. Even past members. “Why haven’t I heard of him?”

“Long time ago. Ten, eleven years.”

“Ah, I was on the big OE.” Overseas, backpacking around, producing the news in far-flung places. “Anything personal?”

“Hmm. I don’t think he does interviews.”

I sort of got that, Eve thought.

“Self-made millionaire. I think there was something—an accident, finished his playing career before it really took off. I’m not sure. But Jeff will know. I’ll get him to look it up.” Lesley’s boyfriend was a sports editor.

“Now listen up. Have you checked your e-mails? Your mystery contact called today.”

Eve banged her glass down, slopping wine in her rush to sign into her e-mail.

“He’s sent you a teaser,” Lesley continued. “A couple of photos. They say a picture tells a thousand words.”

Eve flopped back in her seat, staring at the monitor.

The photos were poor quality, grainy and unfocused. It wasn’t the skimpily clad, almost prepubescent girls that widened Eve’s eyes. Nor the opulence of the yacht the subjects were on. It was the three middle-aged men the girls were draped over that had her scrambling for a pen and scribbling frantically on her deskpad.

Three well-known names.

One, a businessmen who was at the very top tier of big business. The second man was the current police commissioner. The third—she groaned in disgust—was on the board of the government-owned television network. The one she’d worked for.

“What else? Did he say anything else?”