by Olivia Logan
The Tycoon’s Wager
Olivia Logan
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2015 by Olivia Logan.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-9040-0
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9040-5
eISBN 10: 1-4405-9041-9
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9041-2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123RF/curaphotography
To the original Jack-Jack, forever in out hearts and minds, and Dot Angel, an actual angel and lifesaver. Thank you for saving my behind on so many occasions.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
More from This Author
Also Available
Chapter 1
“That was the late, great Freddie Mercury, folks. If you’re just tuning in then welcome to ‘The Midnight Hour’ with me, your host, CJ Stratt. With a 99.1 percent relationship advice success rate, they don’t say I sit at Venus’s right hand for nothing. So get dialing on the usual digits or you can tweet me @cjstratt, hashtag midnighthourshow. No relationship problem is too big or too small, and you can be sure I will tell it to you straight. Till then, sit back and relax to one of my all-time Motown faves.”
Flicking on the red button that started the track, CJ pushed down the oversized headphones and slumped back against the threadbare wheelie chair. Who was it who said life didn’t throw at you more than you could handle? It was bad enough that her rent had gone up, but thanks to the dip in ratings shown over the last quarter from just over a million listeners to only 800,000, she was in danger of losing her one true love, her show. That was, unless her ratings regained their former glory. Goodness knew how. She had it written into her contract that she would not do any PR, though maybe ... she tapped her foot distractedly against the floor. Maybe the lack of PR might in part explain her waning ratings. Yes, the lack of external PR stopped prying journalists from finding out about her own lack of a love life, but she knew from experience people could be fickle.
Kicking the chair further away from the desk, she frowned at the small scuff marks on her patent cherry-red knee-high boots. Bugger! And she’d only had them a few days. Dragging a hand through her bleached, ice-white hair, she pulled the pastel-coloured tips up for closer inspection. She was growing bored of their sugary shades—maybe a darker hue was long overdue. Expelling a low breath, CJ slumped down further in the seat. Usually her 10:00 p.m. till 2:00 a.m. kept her busy, but today she couldn’t shake the tiredness that hung over her. Maybe it was a spring cold. Perfect. Just in time for another lonesome Valentine’s Day. No, that sounded too pitiful. It was out of choice that she worked the one day of the year when the world fell in love. Santa worked on Christmas; CJ worked on Valentine’s Day.
Okay, so maybe her drive to help others had contributed in part to her own relationships falling flat on their faces, and she was the first to admit she was from the school of “Those that can’t ... teach,” taking pride in successfully helping those whom Cupid had played a bad hand, too.
“Heads up, CJ, last tweet is in. I’m sending it through now.” Her producer’s voice floated through the headphones, and she shook herself out of her musings, adjusting them up over her ears. Pulling the chair forward with her feet, she pushed the microphone button.
“On it.” The last notes of the song reached her ears and she scanned the computer screen in front of her as a green line of text appeared.
Showtime!
“Welcome back to ‘The Midnight Hour’ with CJ Stratt. We have our last tweet of the night from one @msiheartshoes. Funnily enough, so do I, Ms. Shoes. Let’s see what we’ve got here. My ex finds it hard2commit ... Okay, Ms. Shoes, my first question is if it’s an ex, why are you worrying about his commitment issues? No, wait guys, Ms. Shoes adds, He didn’t think our breakup through.”
Oh good grief! CJ rolled her eyes. She was one of those. “Ms. Shoes, I am assuming he is in control of all his faculties? In which case, I am guessing he did think the breakup through. Ms. Shoes goes on to say FYI, he wasn’t exactly a BF.”
Her fingers instinctively began to twist around the silver skull ring that was a permanent fixture on her finger. This was just getting weirder and weirder.
“Okay Ms. Shoes, so you guys were just casually seeing each other. Let’s read on. Tho I’d have 2B a piece of v. high-end property for Jack@HarperInc to care!”
Pulling back sharply, CJ frowned at the microphone. Why would the woman feel the need to mention him by name or his property preference? Especially the fact that it was “high end.” Unless ... As far as she was concerned, the only time anyone mentioned those details was to impress, and she’d had enough of that in her old life. A life where patent boots weren’t the same as patent loafers and the only pastel shades allowed had to be in twinsets, not hair. The small cough from her producer bought her back to the present with a jerk—she still hadn’t answered the woman’s question.
“So, guys, that was the end of Ms. Shoes’s tweet. Call me, text me, tweet me. What do you think she should do? Then I’ll tell you what I think, straight up, CJ style ...”
• • •
What the hell had they done to his radio? It was bad enough they had kept his precious Jag in for a week too long, but this, too? Surfing through the channels only to be greeted each time with a grating buzz, Jack Harper gritted his teeth. Like hell was he going to pay for this inconvenience.
Glancing down at the radio’s blinking sign, his eyes alighted on the glossy cover of the latest Business Now magazine where a serious-looking image of himself stared back. The camera loved his all-American dark-blond hair, navy-blue eyes and chiseled jaw, but much to their consternation, he had deliberately avoided smiling. The deep dimples would only remind the corporate world that he was once viewed as nothing more than an irresponsible playboy who counted nothing off limits, even his father’s young wife. As the bile of the slanderous accusation burned in his throat, he flipped the magazine over.
It had taken time, but at the age of thirty-one, three years after taking over after his brother’s unexpected death, Jack was now able to fly solo as the face in front and the brains behind the operations. After finally working off the playboy label, all he needed now was to complete this latest deal, and then he and Harper Inc. would be global.
Flicking on the car’s headlights, Jack frowned into the misty darkness. Barring the odd orange-tailed fox, at almost two in the morning, the west London streets were deserted. It wasn’t often he couldn’t sleep, but since this deal had begun encountering difficulties, he had found himself sleeping less and less. His ex-stepmother’s upcoming nuptials didn’t help the insomnia. It only revived the scandal creating PR complications he really didn’t need.
He reached into his pocket at th
e small vibration against his chest, the bright blue of his phone flashing the name of his PR manager alongside the words, “URGENT. Midnight Hour Show. 109.3 FM. @HarperInc. Now!”
What the ...? Had the man taken leave of his senses? And why was he using his Twitter handle? Not that Jack, as CEO, used that personally. He had a whole department to manage his social media affairs for him. So what had rattled the cage of the normally stoic Jim beyond the usual day-to-day rubbish the gossip papers could manufacture? Grimacing at the crackle from the broken radio, Jack turned the damn thing off. Pressing his thumb lightly over his phone’s screen, he tapped the globe icon, typed in the name of the show and clicked up the volume as a smooth, husky voice that made the hairs rise on the back of his neck began to speak. An agony aunt! Jim marked it urgent for him to listen to an agony aunt? Weren’t those usually old ladies who made their living butting into everyone else’s business? Though from the sound of her voice, she didn’t seem old. Her voice was beside the point. Tomorrow he’d find out what his man had been thinking to text at 1:30 a.m.
Turning the key in the ignition, he paused, his other hand clutching the steering wheel in a death grip as the words @msiheartshoes and Jack@HarperInc filled the air. There was only one Jack@HarperInc and it was him—and more importantly, his company. But how would the DJ know? His hand curled tighter around the steering wheel ... where had he heard the name @msiheartshoes? That was the same company name as ... his ex. If ex was a proper term to use. After seeing firsthand the way love turned a sane man into a fool, especially in the case of his father, Jack didn’t want any of it. Long-term relationships couldn’t be trusted. And now this woman, whom he had made no promises to, was tweeting an agony aunt for relationship advice. On him!
“Those are some great suggestions, London. Now what I think Ms. Shoes should do,” the agony aunt continued, “can be summed up in two words. Forget him! From what you are telling me, this man, thanks to his paycheck, is probably used to getting his own way all the time. Selfish, in other words. The only defense he could possibly have was that he made you no promises. Implied promises are not real things. Sometimes it is easier to hold on to something, but let him go, Ms. Shoes. He is a false economy, fool’s gold. And if he did promise you a future in any shape or form, which it seems he didn’t, then clearly you can’t trust him nor his word. You are the victim of his silver tongue and his gold-lined pockets.”
False economy, selfish. Untrustworthy! Turning the key around, Jack felt the engine judder to a stop under him, his anger building with every second. The crazy woman had one thing right at least. He had made his ex no promises.
“So @msiheartshoes and London, you’ve heard what I had to say. Now it’s back to you, the listeners. If you have a love dilemma, you can tweet me @cjstratt, hashtag midnighthourshow or call me on 0208 908 4141.”
Pressing the phone’s speaker, Jack quickly keyed in the number. Selfish, fool’s gold, untrustworthy was he?
“Welcome to Sound radio, how can I—”
“Put me through to CJ Stratt. Now!” he barked, unprepared for the squeal of delight from the other end.
“One sec. I’ll put you through.”
What was wrong with these people? He was angry, he sounded angry. So why did the person on the other end sound so happy to hear from him?
“We have a live one here, guys. Welcome to the ‘Midnight Hour Show,’ caller. What can I do for you?”
“Do? You can stop throwing out slanderous comments before I sue you.”
The command clearly had the effect he was after, judging from the silence on the other end. The unladylike snort of laughter that followed it, he was not expecting. When he used that voice in the boardroom, the whole room shook, not snorted.
“Ah. Let me guess. You must be Ms. Shoes’s infamous ex. Am I right?”
“No shit! And you may want to check your facts before giving so-called advice.”
“Right.” Was it his imagination or did she sound a little more tense than before? “Okay, so let’s hear your side.” Clearly he had been wrong and she was taking her sweet time to manufacture more slander.
“I have none.”
“Then why are you calling a radio show that gives relationship advice?”
“I’m calling because you are defaming my character on air.”
“Defaming? Please! I am simply giving relationship advice to someone who asked for it. And if you’re so worried about your reputation, maybe you should rethink how you let someone down in the first place. If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.” The laughter in her voice vibrated through the car.
Jack ran a hand through his hair, growling as the ornate cufflink scratched at his face.
“Helloooo. Are you still there?”
“Of course I am,” he barked “What do you take me for?”
“Good. To hurry this conversation, as you are holding up the line for other genuine callers, I am going to go against my better judgement and ask which comment, in your opinion, ‘defamed’ you?”
“Which comment, as in one? All of them,” he ground out.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific. Was it selfish, untrustworthy or something else entirely?”
She was mocking him. No one laughed at Jack Harper. “What part of all don’t you get? What evidence, other than the word of a woman who parted ways with me four months ago, do you have to give me these ... these labels?”
“Aha! So at least I have a time frame to work from. Four months is a long time. But as for evidence, all I can say is men like you who are wealthy and/or born into wealth seem to think they own the world and the women in it.”
He could feel his jaw slacken in shock.
“And have you met many men like me, Ms. Stratt, that you can label all of us the same? Been a victim of our silver tongues and gold-lined pockets, I think you said.”
Silence.
Good. He seemed to have struck a nerve. The seconds beat silently along and he drew in a breath, preparing for his final takedown speech, infamous across stateside and European boardrooms.
“No, thankfully, but then I don’t have to eat mud to know I won’t like it. But let’s examine your situation. Your ex said that she would have to be a very high-end piece of property for you to care, and she did kind of mention you by name, Mr. Jack@HarperInc. In which case, if you are the Jack Harper from the financial pages that she was talking about, your reputation definitely proceeds you.” Her sugary tone belied the sharp comment.
He bit back a curse. Careful, you’re live on air. “Your powers of deduction are indeed great, Ms. Stratt, but that still doesn’t excuse you of your defaming comments.”
“I say it as I see it, Mr. Harper.”
“As you see it? But we haven’t met, Ms. Stratt. In fact ...” Wait. He had already been mentioned on air by name. If by misfortune his competitors had heard, he could kiss the last three years of working his ass off goodbye. He needed a new strategy and fast. “In fact, why don’t we meet, and then you can accurately inform your listeners what sort of character I am. What is the studio’s address?”
He heard her breath catch, her stammered excuse making a feral smile pull at his lips, the scent of victory in the air. “The studio is locked. Besides, I think the lack of red carpet on your arrival will put you off.”
“The address is 34 High Court Road, Central London, WC2L 8HY,” said the squealing voice from earlier, shortly followed by the agony aunt’s “What the hell, Bill?”
Typing it into the satnav, Jack eyed the clock on the screen blinking the journey time. “See you in twenty-five minutes, Ms. Stratt.” He grinned, tapping off the speaker phone to the sound of sputtering on the other end.
• • •
CJ poked one finger at the glass wall and the man behind it, the other pressing hard on the microphone button.
“Ratings, CJ, ratings. You remember those high numbers we used to have and need back?”
“With a caller’s ex?”
“Ex, schmex. Past history. Not even dating. And I’m not about to look a 1:30 a.m. ratings bump gift horse in the mouth. He’ll be here in twenty minutes; rig up the other head mic so he can jump on.”
“No. I’m sorry, Bill. Normally I go along with your crazy schemes but enough is enough. Besides, in exactly twenty minutes, I am off the clock.” There, that should do it.
“That’s true, but at this point, it’s ratings or the road, honey.”
Sitting down heavily, she pulled at the second pair of headphones, wiring them up for her esteemed guest. She was annoyed, angry even. Why else would her heart be hammering so crazily? Yes, his voice sounded dangerously smooth; yes, it made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end—but so what. He was who he was. She needed some tunes. Pushing on her headphones, she flipped the music on, making them play in a continuous row. Music always calmed her.
“Shake a tail feather, sweetheart, you have a visitor,” her producer said over the headset.
Sitting up straighter, she pushed down the headphone hair she was sure she must have. Not that she cared about what he thought, but she was a professional and Bill was right about one thing. She needed the ratings back, badly.
“So, listeners, hope you enjoyed the extended songs, but we have a special treat for you. Mr. Harper has deigned to join us from on high to give us his ...” Her voice faltered as she caught sight of her new “co-host.” This was not what she expected. Not the tall, muscular man striding toward her booth, Mr. Harper’s hair was long enough to flop in front of his eyes. Eyes she had no idea yet what colour they were, though at the speed he was walking, it wouldn’t take her long to find out. He looked like he had just come from a meeting, despite the lack of tie, and she could tell even from this distance that the suit and shirt must be expensive.
“Sorry, lost my train of thought there. So yes, he has come to share his opinion on, I guess, my opinion.”
The smell of leather and new car wrapped itself around her as he entered, and she refused to give into the inner voice telling her to move closer. She could feel his eyes rake over her. From the top of her hair to the black rectangle-shaped glasses hiding her light blue eyes to her chipped, glittery nail varnish and black hoodie, ripped jeans and patent boots.