Barbara Wallace - Swept Away by the Tycoon

“One of these days, I’m going to insist on meeting somewhere less crowded,” Jack Strauss grumbled as he unbuttoned his cashmere coat.

“Excuse me for frequenting my own business.” Ian nodded at the girl behind the register, who immediately moved to get Jack a coffee. “And you’re late.”

“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.