Nicola Marsh - A Trip with the Tycoon

Throw in the best hot chocolate this side of the Yarra and she couldn’t stay away.

As she dumped her remaining load on a nearby table and stretched her aching arms, her gaze drifted to the enigmatic man lighting a match to kindling in the fireplace.

What was he doing here?

From all accounts, Ethan was unpredictable, blew hotter and colder than a Melbourne spring breeze. His employees enjoyed working here but never knew when the imperturbable, ruthless businessman would appear.

She’d been happy to have the place to herself the last six months, other than the skilled staff and eager patrons who poured through the door of course, had been strangely uncomfortable the few times she and Ethan met.

There was something about him…an underlying steeliness, a hard streak, an almost palpable electricity that buzzed and crackled, indicative of a man in command, a man on top of his game and intent on staying there.

He straightened and she quickly averted her gaze, surprised to find it had been lingering on a piece of his anatomy she had no right noticing.

She’d never done that—noticed him as a man. He was Richard’s business partner, someone who’d always been distantly polite to her the few times their paths had crossed, but that was it.

So why the quick flush of heat, the flicker of guilt?

It had been a year since Richard’s death, two since she’d been touched by a man, which went a long way to explaining her wandering gaze. She may be numb on the inside, emotionally anaesthetised, but she wasn’t dead and any woman with a pulse would’ve checked out Ethan’s rather impressive rear end.

‘If I get you a drink, will you tell me what’s in the bags?’

Slipping out of her camel trench coat, she slung it onto the back of a chair. She didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to show him the culmination of half a year’s work.

She’d come here for privacy, for inspiration, and having him here intruded on that. Ridiculous, considering he owned the place and could come and go as he pleased, but something about his greeting had rankled, something about that damn smile.

‘I’d kill for a hot chocolate, thanks.’

‘Coming right up.’

His gaze lingered on the bags before meeting hers, challenging. ‘I won’t give up until I know what’s in there so why don’t you just tell me?’

He stared at her, unflinching, direct, his persistence indicative of a guy used to getting his own way, a guy who demanded nothing less.

She fingered the hessian holding her future, mind your own business hovering on her lips. His authority niggled, grated, but he’d given her the opportunity to relaunch her career by using this place and she should be civil if nothing else.

‘If you throw in a side of marshmallows, I’ll show you.’

‘You’re on.’

With a half salute and a twinkle in his eyes, he strode towards the bar.

Ah…the pirate was in top form today. Full of swagger, cheek and suave bravado. She was immune to his charm, of course, but for a split second it felt good, great, in fact, to be on the receiving end of some of that legendary charm.

While he headed for the espresso machine behind the bar she plopped onto a chair, stretched her legs and wiggled her toes. She loved these boots, she really did, but they were nothing but trouble for the weather, her feet and her back, which gave a protesting twinge as she sat up.

Though that could be more to do with the tenton load she’d hefted up the street, but she’d had no choice. She held her future in her hands—literally—and, despite the gut feeling she was ready for this, it wouldn’t hurt to get Ethan’s opinion on it. If anyone knew this business inside out, he did.

‘Here you go. One hot chocolate with a double side of marshmallows.’

He placed the towering glass in front of her, a strong Americano in front of him, and slid into the chair opposite, fixing her with a half-amused, half-laconic tilt of his lips.

‘I’ve kept my side of the bargain, so come on, what’s in there?’

‘A girl can’t think without a sip of chocolate first.’

She cradled the mug, inhaled the rich chocolate-fragrant steam, savoured the warmth seeping into her palms and, closing her eyes, took a deep sip, letting the sweet lusciousness glide over her taste buds and slide down her throat.

Ethan made a strange sound and her eyes flew open, confused by the flicker of something darker, mysterious in his eyes before he quickly masked it.

‘Right. One sip, you said.’ He tapped the nearest bag. ‘Now, let’s have it.’

‘You hotshot businessmen are all the same. Way too impatient.’

She placed her mug on the table, unzipping the first bag and hauling out a folder.

He tilted his head on an angle to read the spine. ‘What’s that?’

‘A list of every restaurant in Melbourne. The new list I’ve been compiling over the last six months.’

Her tummy quivered as she glanced at the folder, at what it meant for her future.

‘I’m ready.’

His eyes sparked with understanding and she wondered how he could do that. He’d read her mind, whereas Richard hadn’t a clue what she’d been thinking after three years of marriage. Then again, considering what he’d been up to, he probably hadn’t cared.

‘You’re going back to work?’

‘Uh-huh. Thanks to your chef whipping up those amazing meals and letting me get my hand back into critiquing, I reckon I’m finally ready.’

She gnawed on her bottom lip, worrying it till she tasted the gloss she’d swiped on this morning.

‘Think I’m crazy?’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Crazy? I think it’s brilliant. Just what you need, something to focus on, get your mind off losing Rich.’

She hated the pity in his eyes, hated the fact she still had to fake grief, still had to pretend she cared.

She didn’t.

Not since that first incident four months into her marriage when the man she’d married had given her a frightening glimpse into her future.

She’d thought Richard was the type of guy to never let her down, the type of guy to keep her safe, to give her what she’d always wanted: stability, security—something she’d never had since her dad had died when she was ten.

But Richard hadn’t been that guy and, from the accolades of his adoring public and coworkers, she was the only one who knew the truth.

That Richard Downey, Australia’s premier celebrity chef, had been an out-and-out bastard. And it was times like this, when she had to pretend in front of one of his mates, that an all-consuming latent fury swept through her.

If he hadn’t upped and died of a heart attack, she would’ve been tempted to kill him herself for what he’d put her through, and what she’d discovered after his death.

‘This has nothing to do with Richard. I’m doing it for me.’

Her bitterness spilled out in a torrent and she clamped her lips shut. He didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of her resentment towards Richard. She’d wasted enough time analysing and selfflagellating and fuelling her anger. That was all she’d been doing for the last year since he’d died—speculating, brooding over a whole lot of pointless ‘what-ifs’.

What if she’d known about the affair?

What if she’d stood up to him and for herself, rather than keeping up appearances for the sake of his business?

What if she’d travelled to India with her mum when Khushi had first asked her years ago? Would any of that have changed her life for the better?

‘I didn’t mean to rehash any painful stuff for you.’

Shaking her head, she wished the simple action could wipe away her awful memories.

‘Not your fault. It’s not like I don’t think about it every day anyway.’