Jan Colley - Melting The Icy Tycoon

“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?”

“He asked for your phone number—I told him you would have to agree to that. I guess he’ll be in touch. And he wants you to know he’s sorry if you got sacked on his account.”

Eve frowned. How did he know she was sacked? The official word was she’d quit.

“Oh, and he said to tell you it’s not always about money.”

Eve pondered that. How did this relate to Pete Scanlon?

She hadn’t seen her nemesis since she was fifteen. It had been a huge shock to her when he’d burst onto the political scene here six months ago. No one knew anything about him. He was progressive and personable. He was handsome and articulate. People said he was vibrant.

Eve had invited him on the show but he declined, knowing full well she detested him. She made the comment on air that perhaps the show should go to his home town down south—her home town—and find out what his peers thought, since he chose to be so elusive.

Then an anonymous businessman called her at the studio, claiming Pete’s tax consultancy had involved him and other prominent businessmen in shady deals amounting to tax evasion. While trying to persuade him to name names publicly, Eve proposed exploring the issue in a segment on the show. Her boss said no which had led to a huge row and Eve being fired.

Then she’d gotten sick, moved and succumbed to a relapse.

Now Pete Scanlon was set to shake this city of one and a half million on its head. So much more scope for damage than a few country bumpkins. Eve intended to make sure the people of her adopted city knew what they were getting before they cast their votes.

“You really have it in for this guy, don’t you?” her friend asked.

Eve took a large sip of wine and swirled it around her mouth to dilute the bad taste the thought of that man always left. “You know that old adage about a leopard changing its spots? That will never happen to Pete Scanlon. He is bad, through and through.”

Lesley promised to pass on her phone number when the contact called again. Eve stared at the photos on the screen for minutes after hanging up, wondering what they meant.

It’s not always about money.

What did an opulent yacht, some underage girls and two out of the three men working for the government have in common with dodgy tax deals?

Only that Pete Scanlon was involved. The lightbulb went on. Blackmail and corruption, so much more his style than business.

Praying her mystery man would contact her again soon, she considered her options. The only weapon at her disposal now was the gossip column. First thing tomorrow she would contact the legal team at the paper. Her words would have to be very carefully chosen to avoid slam-dunking the fledgling paper into a defamation war.

Eve signed out, her mood grim, but her path ahead was clear. Stop Pete Scanlon.

Her eye was drawn to the business card of the CEO of Bannerman, Inc. For the second time, she crumpled the card in her hand and tossed it on the floor.

And told herself to stop thinking about Conn Bannerman!

Conn paused by his secretary’s desk. “Phyll, do you read the New City?”

His secretary looked surprised. “No, Mr. Bannerman.”

He carried on into his office. As he removed his jacket, Phyllis followed him in, held out a wad of messages and took his coat from him in the same movement. “I think I saw one in the tearoom.”

Conn looked at her blankly.

“The newspaper. Shall I get it?”

“Thank you.”

To anyone who did not know her, his secretary looked unperturbed. Conn, however, knew the level of astonishment she displayed in her arched brows and pursed lips. He read only the business papers. The New City was hardly what one would call a serious newspaper, chock-full as it was of entertainment news and fashion.

Eve Summers invaded his mind for the umpteenth time today, as she had every day since their last meeting. He had seen her once since giving her a lift home. She’d been chopping wood into kindling in the lopsided lean-to she used as a wood shed. She hadn’t turned and waved as he drove past. He had not expected her to.

He could hardly be blamed for being so unpleasant the other night. If she only knew what it cost him to drive her.

Phyllis tapped on the door and entered the room, placing the newspaper on the corner of his desk. Conn pretended to concentrate on his work. He bet Phyll would know how to make amends to a minor acquaintance she had slighted.

He bet Phyll would have a coronary if he asked her.

Alone again, he reached out for the folded paper and noted the small advertising box on the front page: Our New Gossip Columnist, Perennially Popular EVE DRUMM! (formerly SUMMERS!)

How could she stoop so low? Conn’s lip curled. She’d described the position as fun. People’s embarrassments and misfortunes all thrown into the pot, mixed well and served up as fun?

He tossed the paper back on the desk and bent his head to his work.

After a hectic day, Conn settled on the ferry and finally opened the New City newspaper. He proceeded to read the thing from cover to cover, leaving her column till last. It was almost like postponing his reward.

That was his mistake. Had he read her column first, the flash of temper it inspired would have had longer to cool by the time he drove up Eve’s driveway. Conn may have taken a moment to wonder whether the article itself angered him or it was just an excuse to see her again.

“Damn it all!” he muttered, throwing the car into park. He strode up her pathway as if he could outrun the steam coming out of his ears. It was bad enough that there was a celebrity living next door. He’d already heard music on the night air a couple of times. The glitzy parties were bound to start anytime. There would be cars cluttering up the roads and fancy caterers’ vans and no doubt photographers hiding in the bushes.

But the fact that she was also a gossip columnist—the lowest of the low—only added to his ire.

She opened the door to his loud knocking, a startled look on her face. Conn did not wait for an invitation. He brushed past her, saluting her with the paper. After several moments she closed the door and followed him into the kitchen.

Conn slapped the paper down on top of the table while she moved to switch off the radio on the bench. It didn’t make any difference; there was still music blaring.

“You’ve gone too far,” he told her loudly.

Frowning, Eve turned to the window and pulled the curtain back. She wore the same pink sweater as the other night and black pants. Very slinky black pants, the kind with no zip in front.

“What are you doing?” he demanded of her shapely hip as she peered out into the twilight.

“The thunder clap’s arrived,” she said drily. “Where’s the lightning?” She let the curtain fall and turned back, leaning her hip against the bench.

Conn stared at her, biting the inside of his lip to stop himself from smiling. Damn it! He raised the folded newspaper and gave it a loud flick. “You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face when my legal team is through with you.”

“Oh, the column.” Her face cleared and she fluttered her fingers at the paper he held. “Funny. I didn’t pick you as a fan of gossip columns.”

“I’m not!” he snapped. “It was—brought to my attention.”

A wariness sharpened her gaze. “What’s he to you?”

Conn raised his tense shoulders. “For your information, my company is backing Pete Scanlon to the hilt in the mayoralty campaign.”

That seemed to jolt her. Two little lines appeared between her wide-set indigo eyes. “You mean financially?”