The Tycoon's Wager

by Olivia Logan

  “I see. Am I live on air?”

  “Naturally. This is a live show, after all.”

  “In that case, London and whoever else maybe listening, as movie premieres and movies in general are clearly not her thing, where do you think I should take CJ on our next date? First five will be up for consideration.”

  “B ... But ...” she sputtered, covering the mic, her eyes wide as a large gasp of air went down the wrong way and she coughed loudly.

  “You were saying?”

  “I was saying that was not in the rules. After all, I am judging on where you decide to take me, not asking the listeners for their ideal dates.”

  “You didn’t listen carefully, CJ. Tsk tsk. That’s your job, isn’t it? Listening. I said I shall look through and choose one from the top five. And since I’m the one who made the challenge, I also make the rules.”

  Damn him! He may have a sexy ass, but right now he was just being an ass.

  “Fine. Is that the end of your dilemma, or can I help you with anything else?” she asked

  “That’s it. Oh, one more thing. I hope you like the present.”

  “The what? Wait, hang on!” Grabbing a pen, she scribbled on her hand.

  “For ...?”

  “Nothing. Enjoy the tunes.” Clicking off the line, she held up her hand to the glass window, displaying large black letters:

  HOLD ON TO THAT NUMBER!

  Two could play at this game. If Jack could call her at work, then she could call him right back.

  She smiled at the genius of her own thoughts and pressed down the mic button at her producer’s nod. “So, listeners, back to you. Any relationship problem, just call, text or tweet me at the usual deets, but till then here is a classic ’80s power ballad just for your pleasure.”

  This was her favorite song, so why wasn’t she feeling relaxed? The present. That was why. The question was, what present was he even talking about?

  • • •

  She had a nice voice. A throaty, husky voice. Pulling the navy tie down, Jack popped the shirt’s top button, glad of the cooling air, and shrugged off the suit jacket, watching as it landed carelessly on the leather sofa. He reached for his iPad, tuning into her radio show and clicking up the volume. It wasn’t his type of music, but it wasn’t bad. Making his way to the marble counter that constituted the kitchen, he reached into the fridge, grabbed a beer and flicked the top, letting the cool liquid bubble down his throat.

  The iPad’s screen jerked alive as an e-mail pinged through, and he frowned at the subject line. Counter Property Plan Proposal. Pushing the can to one side, he picked up his tablet, scrolling down the bright screen with one finger while rage flooded him. He had sweated blood for this deal and had already informed his contractors in Dubai of his plans. A deal less than a month to completion, and once again it had encountered complications. Dragging a hand through his hair, he counted to ten before typing out a response, his finger pressing down hard on the green “send” button.

  He grimaced as a small envelope sign brightened the screen once more, and he opened it, the attachment at the bottom slowly revealing a picture of himself and CJ at the premiere.

  He had been right to call the show that night. His idea that someone linked to the deal had been listening was clearly justified. Jack also knew from what he heard that his opponent, Rakena, the CEO of the opposing business who was also after this deal, played hardball. And the photo proved it. He was trying to use his own PR against him. Jack just wasn’t sure of his angle. All he knew was he was now being watched. He had learned the hard way, thanks to his ex-stepmother’s malicious lies, how much a reputation cost. He never wanted to pay the price he had: his father’s puce face as he accused Jack of sexually attacking his younger third wife, a woman whose innocence act persuaded people she was telling the truth.

  But that was then. This was now and this was business. Adrenaline pumped through him at the smell of challenge in the air, making him sharper, his ideas clearer. It was a sharpness his brother had lacked when he was in charge, which made Harper Inc. suffer despite Jack’s advice from the sidelines. Now Jack was CEO, the business needed to be stronger and he still had seven dates left. Two challenges rolled into one. Game. On.

  After typing a quick reply, he leaned heavily against the countertop and reached for his beer as CJ’s voice filled the empty space in his flat.

  “That was one of my personal faves. Now over to you guys. It seems once again Mr. Harper has stolen the show with yet another one of his genius ideas. You have been texting in droves, but sadly, as per the instructions, we could only pick the first five and here they are. Drum roll please. Trip one, a visit to Cuba. Trip two, a weekend in St. Barts. Trip three, going to see the Northern Lights. Shockingly, trip four is a skiing weekend in the French Alps or trip five—and thank you to @bagelsRus for the suggestion—a date night in their restaurant. Those are the options, and if Mr. Harper is listening, he too thanks you. As usual I will tweet after the date, but I will say this: The first top four are all away dates, which, in my opinion, count as a few dates. There is having coffee together, dinner the first night and dinner the second night. Therefore the grand total is three dates in one. Phew, that was a mouthful ... Wait. Sorry, what?”

  Jack could almost hear her fuming as she paused and a new sound came across the air waves. He had to give credit where it was due. They had called themselves the loudest a cappella band in London and they were right. It hadn’t taken much to negotiate with the head of the station for security to let the all-male quartet in, especially when he had told them that it was all part of his lead up to the next date. He was unable to hold back his bark of laughter at the song’s crescendo, the happy sound bouncing off the walls. Was that really him? He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed. Not just politely but a full-throated laugh. The kind he used to share with his brother before Brice died in a sailing accident.

  “Well. I don’t know if you were lucky enough to have heard all that, listeners, but that was The Candy Stripes a cappella group, singing one of their hit love songs, courtesy of that romantic soul, Mr. Jack Harper. Wow, I am such a lucky, lucky girl! Be sure to follow hashtag 8dates1month to find out what happens next. Before we hit the lines, I just want to wish a warm welcome to my new followers and listeners. Glad to have you on board. So back to the lines ...”

  He drained his can quickly, tapping it against his chin as she began to read an e-mail, his brows drawing together. She’d called the whole movie experience meh, worked while at the premiere and acted as if she had seen and done it all before, yet CJ had seemed taken aback when he had given her the rose. Worldly on one hand and ingénue on the other.

  And why couldn’t he stop thinking about her? Sure, he had given up his old “a different girl a week” life, but he had not been celibate. She wasn’t even his type. He dated designers, models, actresses. Not sharp-tongued radio DJs. Not that he could have ignored what she had said about him, but he could have sued the station or paid her to retract the comments. All things he had planned to do until he saw her sitting in her chair like an angry kitten with multicolored hair.

  The question was, where to take her next? Judging from the attached picture in the e-mail, he knew the opposition’s team was watching, and closely. He couldn’t afford for the date to be somewhere she would only find okay. “Okay” dates meant she hadn’t enjoyed them. If she hadn’t enjoyed them, then it made him look like he hadn’t planned them carefully enough. Not cared enough to plan them. Okay, the public knew this was a wager, but he also knew they expected some authenticity.

  The whole point of these dates was to prove he was serious, no longer a loose canon. With people, with business. It was to prove his business worth. A worth, a genius not many knew about. A genius he hid from the world after his father discarded him. This wager would show the world that Jack wasn’t the feckless playboy of legend. Especially now when PR had alerted him that reporters were sniffing around, trying to find a story i
n the last few weeks before his ex-stepmother’s wedding.

  But neither could he afford to be away from work for too long, so the first three suggestions were out, and since he needed something really good, the bagel meal was just not going to happen. The skiing weekend, though, had promise, and even if she couldn’t ski, there were always the hot tubs.

  No! Quelling the purely physical thought, Jack shook his head at his own stupidity. The small blue bubble emerging on his tablet caught his eye.

  +447848205109. That was not funny, Harper. And I meant what I said about the dates. I would count them as THREE!

  A grin pulled at his lips as the first bubble was followed by an ellipses.

  It’s CJ if you didn’t know.

  He could imagine her in the worn chair, her face pink with anger, trying to keep the smile in her voice for the sake of her listeners. Clicking reply, he let his fingers flow rapidly over the touchscreen. Clearly the remainder of his evening was not going to be as boring as he first thought.

  • • •

  What an arrogant ... Swallowing back a string of curses, CJ re-read the message once more.

  So glad you liked it and you’re welcome. Should I ask how you got this number?

  Her right thumb moved rapidly over the flat screen as her other pushed the radio switch to the commercials.

  Magic, and I never said thank you.

  Pressing send quickly, she glanced at the lights flicking on the switchboard lit up in front of her shining like the Christmas lights on Regent Street. Hopefully, that had been a fluke, and the show’s regained popularity would take off without the aid of a certain pompous tycoon.

  Pushing up her glasses as she rubbed her eyes, she sat forward. She was exhausted and it wasn’t from what Bill thought. Jack Harper was trouble with a capital T. When she found time to date again, she would pick a reliable, hard-working man, not a hedonistic playboy. The one reason she couldn’t sleep was her mutinous brain thinking about him. Or maybe it had been the manic flat cleaning the next day to wipe him from her mind. Who knew?

  Clapping a hand over her mouth to quickly stifle the wide yawn, she pulled the mic closer, breathing an inward sigh of relief as her eyes caught the clock. Normally she hated leaving her show. What, or who, was wrong with her tonight that she couldn’t wait to?

  Working quickly, she switched on the show’s closing jingle, deposited the headphones on the side and grabbed her phone and jacket, hurrying out the door.

  Punching the lift button hard, she willed it to hurry and stepped in, leaning heavily against its metal sides. Wherever date two landed, her show would be covered. Although that meant if she were axed, she would just as easily be replaced. She couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t give up the freedom she had worked her ass off for. Freedom from the constraints of a titled life.

  Shrugging on her jacket, she turned her phone on, blinking in surprise at the missed call. Ignoring her heart rate at a sudden warp speed five, she drew her coat closer to her, stepped out of the lift and made her way into the chilly February night. Hitting redial, CJ pressed her lips firmly together at the deep, smooth tones on the other end.

  “Good evening, CJ.”

  “I think you’ll find the more appropriate greeting would be good morning, seeing as it’s 2:00 a.m. I got your missed call.”

  “I have decided where we are going next.”

  “Oh? Pray do tell. I’m quivering in anticipation.” Shivering more like.

  The deep rumble on the other end caused a hot, edgy sensation to uncurl in the pit of her stomach.

  “A skiing weekend in the French Alps.”

  “A whole weekend? Whatever happened to the good old-fashioned second dates like ...”

  “Going to a movie?”

  Ignoring his unhelpful suggestion, she carried on. “I was going to say, before I was interrupted, something along the lines of a restaurant.”

  “But your listeners didn’t pick a restaurant.”

  “Aha! Yes they did. A bagel restaurant. It’s unusual, it’s quirky ...”

  “It’s out of the question. Can you ski?” His tone brokered no argument.

  “I haven’t in a very long time.” Keeping her voice as bland as possible, she was glad he wasn’t standing in front of her right now to see her chewing her lip. It wasn’t like she was lying. Technically, she hadn’t been skiing since she was ten when she won the junior ski run trophy at boarding school. That was sixteen years ago, which was a long time by anyone’s standards.

  “At your age, I doubt you have many years behind you to call a very long time.”

  “My age? Didn’t we cover this already? Pfft, why would we? This is hardly traditional dating, is it? I’m twenty-six. What’s yours?”

  “Thirty-one. So you’re aware, the plane will be flying tomorrow.”

  “To the Alps? You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “No I’m not.”

  She was afraid of that. “How do you propose flying out at such late notice? Or do you have a magic carpet in the back of your limo?”

  “No. A private jet and a chalet.”

  “Oh.” That single piece of news sucked the air out of her lungs, but she collected herself quickly. “You do realise that the whole weekend equates to three dates—”

  “Yes. I understood that the first few times you told me and all the listeners in London,” he cut in.

  “And ...” she continued, a new thought hitting her.

  “And ...?”

  “I demand separate rooms.”

  “Separate rooms?” Amusement laced his voice, and she could picture the dimpled smile lighting his face.

  “Yes. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the concept. It means the man and woman don’t share a room or, more especially, a bed.”

  “I understand what separate rooms mean, CJ. And in answer to your ... what was it? Demand?”

  “Think of it more as a guest request.”

  “Separate rooms can be arranged,” he replied, ignoring her snarky comeback.

  “Good because I don’t ... you know ... sleep with people on the second date.” Second date, third date. Ever. Probably because her only experiences of foreplay were with her ex and were not ones she’d care to repeat, which ruled out sex in her book. Yet, strangely, she had never felt that pow, oomph, sucker-punched moment that made her feel all woman and less agony aunt. At least that was until Jack.

  “That’s good because neither do I, ” he said, breaking into her thoughts.

  Sure, and there went a flying stick of bacon! Stifling a snort as she walked toward the stop for her night bus, she pulled her jumper sleeves further down her hands, her stomach grumbling at the thought of a fry-up.

  “Was that a snort?”

  “Not quite. It was on its way to becoming one, but I got too cold to bother. Not sleep with someone on the second date? Mmmm.”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” he said, his voice ominously dark. “Recklessness is not a luxury I can afford.”

  “So you can afford a private jet and a chalet but not to be reckless? What is the price of recklessness these days then? I follow the financial papers on Twitter, and I’ve seen no stock prices on it. Maybe worth investing in if the price is right.”

  “The price is cheap, the loss is a billion dollar deal.”

  CJ let out a low whistle, shooting out one hand to flag down her bus, then flipping her pass at the driver as she jumped on. She hated the night bus, but until she bought a car, she refused to pay extortionate taxi fare.

  “Fair enough, I ... urgh.” She wrinkled her nose at the spilled contents of someone’s dinner on the only free chair. Standing it was then.

  “Urgh?”

  “Never mind. So should we say 6:00 p.m. outside work again?”

  “The jet will have to leave earlier for air traffic control, so the limo shall pick you up at four.”

  Moving the phone away from her ear, she poked her tongue at the b
right screen and the man behind the high-handed directive. “I’ll let the station security know.”

  “Why?” His tone was as curious as it was incredulous.

  “No idea. Common courtesy maybe or just in case we have a celebrity interview and their limo takes precedence.”

  “That won’t be necessary. The limo will pick you up from your flat.”

  “No it won’t.” As in no, it definitely wouldn’t!

  “It will be easier for the driver. He is the same guy who dropped you home the night you—”

  “Okay, okay. I get your point,” she cut in quickly.

  “I was going to say fell on my lap. What were you going to say?” The laughter in his voice floated down the crackling line.

  “I was going to say ... um, the exact same thing.”

  Pulling the phone away from her ear again at the loud beep, she groaned inwardly at the red flashing battery light. Just what she needed. Now she’d have to listen to the choral attempts of the drunks on the way home.

  “So. I’m going to go now. My battery is dying. I guess I’ll see your guy at my place tomorrow at four.”

  “Good. And, CJ, don’t keep me waiting.”

  She felt her jaw slacken, a sarcastic retort springing to her lips but not before his phone clicked and she heard the final beep signaling the death of her own. Great. Just great.

  Chapter 4

  She shouldn’t be impressed. Her family hadn’t owned their own private jet, but she had been in one. Admittedly it hadn’t been off the ground either, but she had definitely been in one. Sliding down into the overstuffed chair, CJ sighed contentedly. She would recommend these chairs at the next station meeting to replace the worn one she’d been given.

  “Comfortable?”

  Jackknifing up at the familiar deep voice, she dragged a hand through her hair, the multicolored ends flipping down again softly, and she swallowed the unnatural dryness in her throat at the sight of him. “It’s very comfortable, thanks.” She had promised herself she’d do her best to be polite, even if it killed her.