Barbara Wallace - Swept Away by the Tycoon

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.”

The answer hit her like a ton of bricks. Good Lord, but she could be dense, “You’re the new owner.”

“Guilty as charged. Ow! What was that for?”

She’d kicked him in the shin. If her knees didn’t hurt, she’d kick him someplace else. “For making me think you were down on your luck,” she snapped.

“I didn’t make you think anything. You drew your conclusions all on your own.”

“You still could have said something. Do you have any idea how much—” Time I spent thinking about you? Thankfully, she caught herself before the rest of the sentence left her mouth. The hole she’d dug herself was deep enough, thank you. “Why didn’t you correct me?”

“Let’s say I found the misconception entertaining.”

“Glad I could amuse you.”

“Trust me, Curli, you did.” His eyes met hers, their sparkle so bright and smug Chloe would have glared in return had her stomach not chosen that moment to do a somersault. She felt like an idiot. Her and her big grand gesture. “No wonder you told me to give the coffee to the man across the street.”

“Figured he could use the warmth more than me.” Moving closer, Ian lifted the sweatshirt from her chin. The fabric tugged the skin where the cloth had dried in place, causing her to wince. “Sorry,” he said, tossing the garment aside.

“For the chin or for misleading me?”

“Both. Now, tip your head back so I can clean you up.”

Although annoyed, Chloe did what she was told. A second later, Ian’s fingertips brushed across her throat. She jumped, her frazzled nerves making the touch feel far more intimate than it was.

Ian sensed her discomfort. “Shhh.” His thumbs stroked her pulse points. Again, intimate, but soothing. “I need to see how deep the cut goes.”

As he spoke, he leaned in tight. Once again, Chloe found herself breathing in coffee and wood, strong, manly scents that calmed her nerves. His hands were softer than she expected. Given his gruff exterior, she would have guessed them to bear signs of exposure and hard labor. These fingers, however, had the surface of silk, with a touch to match. Hard to believe they belonged to the same strong hands she’d seen gripping a coffee mug this morning. Until he fanned his thumbs along the base of her throat, that is. Then she felt every ounce of their strength thrumming below. Controlled but ever present.

“You know,” he said, his breath ghosting warm across her skin, “that was one of the reasons I ran after you. I wanted to set the record straight.”

The sting of a wet cloth pressing against her cut kept her from responding. “Wasn’t fair to keep stringing you along the way I was, especially after you made such a nice gesture.”

“Nice, but irrelevant.”

“Being irrelevant doesn’t erase what you were trying to do.” He rinsed out the towel and began dabbing at her chin again. “Good intentions should be acknowledged.”

His answer brought back the odd fluttering sensation from earlier. She wanted to press her hand to her stomach, but their position made doing so impossible. Somehow, while cleaning her cut, he’d moved so close his knee had wedged itself between her legs. Or had her legs parted for his knee? She felt the seam of his jeans pressing against her flesh, making annoyance increasingly difficult to maintain.

“One,” she said suddenly, grabbing the first distraction that came to mind. “You said setting the record straight was only one of the reasons you ran after me. What was the other?”

“I already told you, I wanted to apologize for being a jerk. I had no business biting your head off.”

“Why did you?”

The only sound was that of water being wrung from the towel. “Long story.”

And guessing from the sour way he spoke, not a very pleasant one. “Want to share?”

“Ever wish you could turn back time?”

Having expected him to say no, his question caught her off guard. “Beyond tonight?”

“Yeah,” he replied, tossing the cloth into the bowl. Water splashed over the sides, leaving a puddle on the table. “Beyond tonight. Muggings don’t count.”

Then what did? Relationships? Bad decisions? “All the time,” she answered. More than he could possibly know. She gave a soft laugh, trying to inject a little humor into what was otherwise a pathetic situation. “You met Aiden.”

“True enough. What on earth did you see in him, anyway?”

“A really sexy Irish accent. What can I say?” she added, when Ian arched a brow. “I’m shallow.”

“Aren’t we all?” he replied with a smile.

Right now, the shallow part of her had noticed the shadows behind his eyes. The darkness alternately marred and enhanced their blue color, giving his gaze depth. “So why are you turning back time?” she asked him. “Don’t tell me you have relationship issues.”

“I’ve got issues up the ying yang, Curlilocks.” His hands cradled her jaw again, tilting her head backward. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

“Will I live, Doc?” She really wanted to ask what he meant, but those were the words that came out.

Ian was quiet as he studied the wound. Amazingly, his touch was even more gentle than before. Between the featherlight contact and his breath blowing warm at the base of her throat, Chloe found herself fighting not to break out in a warm shiver.

“You already have a scar,” he said after a moment.

“Took a header going in for a layup. College ball,” she added for clarification.

“A six-foot-tall woman playing basketball. There’s a stereotype.”

“Six feet and a half inch, thank you very much.” She lowered her chin, a mistake, since she found herself nose to nose with him. The shiver she’d been fighting broke free. “And playing ball helped pay for school.”

“Lucky you.”

“Suppose that’s one way of looking at things.” If you call being born with pterodactyl-length arms lucky. “I didn’t really have a choice.”

“We all have a choice,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

Busy pawing his way through the bandages, Ian didn’t answer right away. “Exactly the way it sounds. We always have a choice. We don’t always make the right ones.”

“You can say that again,” she replied. “I’ve made enough bad decisions to qualify as an expert.”

“Nonsense, you’re just a baby. Talk to me when you’ve made as many mistakes as I have.” He tore open a Band-Aid. “Then you can call yourself an expert.”

Chloe recalled her thoughts this morning, about whether Ian had battled karma. Apparently he had, although not as victoriously as she’d supposed.