Unlocking the Tycoon's Heart

by Ella Hayes

  She’d liked Theo instantly. Something in his eyes made her heart sprout wings, but he was a complicated man. Successful. A multi-millionaire businessman. Brother of Madelon Mulder! But he was guarded. Secretive. She had no time for secrets—and yet, she’d kept a secret, hadn’t she? In the car to Greenwich it would have been the most natural thing in the world to tell him that she lived in Amsterdam, given that they were talking about it, but she’d kept it to herself. That was lying by omission, which was still lying, even if she’d had her reasons at the time.

  She swallowed hard. Lying was a shameful act, rarely justified. She’d seen hurt in Theo’s eyes and it had felt like a thorn in her heart because the last thing she’d ever wanted to do was hurt him. She didn’t want to hurt anyone.

  What’s meant for you won’t pass you by.

  What to think...? Fate seemed to have thrown Theo across her path again, but what did it mean? Perhaps Lotte was right: she ought to be scorning the stars; after all, they hadn’t shone too kindly on her so far. Maybe it was time to sweep away the stardust along with all her fanciful notions of a grand destiny. Stardust was like any other dust—blinding if it got into your eyes. This time, she’d keep her head, wouldn’t give her heart away until she knew exactly who she was giving it to. Theo Molenaar might be her one in a million, but she had no intention of falling for him on the strength of odds alone.

  * * *

  He looked up, a trace of amusement in his eyes. ‘You sure have a thing for house plants.’

  He was standing exactly where she’d left him, in the centre of the red Persian rug which covered most of the cabin floor. He was still holding his jacket. Subtle! He was putting put the ball in her court. Staying in, going out: it was to be her decision. If only she knew what to do. She folded her arms and looked around, seeing what he was seeing: a tall variegated fig bursting out of one corner; an assortment of ferns dotted about; a peace lily sharing a low table with a baby yucca; a glossy cheese plant on the floor in another corner; and her latest acquisition—a collection of miniature succulents lined up on a narrow shelf over the sofa.

  She met his gaze, gave a little shrug. ‘They’re a sort of legacy.’

  ‘A legacy?’

  ‘The barge belonged to my grandparents.’ The full beam of his attention was messing with her pulse, making it hard to concentrate. She spied her indoor watering can on a shelf, picked it up and started trickling water around the base of a frothy maidenhair fern. ‘My grandparents had a lot of plants. Some of these are the descendants...’ she moved on to a delicate asparagus fern ‘...and I’ve added a fair few of my own since I moved in, so now I’ve got Kew Gardens!’ She moistened her lips, braving his gaze again. ‘Is it a bit much?’

  He smiled. ‘Not at all. You must have very green fingers!’ He leaned over the sofa, surveying the row of succulents. ‘I’ve never owned a plant. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  ‘Aloe vera’s a good one to start with.’ She shook the last drops out of the watering can. ‘It’s great to keep in the kitchen in case you burn yourself. You just snap off a bit of leaf and squeeze the juice onto the burn. It’s magic!’

  His eyes caught hers. ‘Cool!’

  She felt her lips parting slightly and quickly clamped them shut. She held up the watering can. ‘I need a refill.’

  In the galley, she turned on the tap. So much for keeping her head. The salon felt far too small with Theo in it, charging the air with his smile, and that gaze which made her forget how to breathe. She needed to wrestle back control, put herself firmly in the driving seat. She turned off the tap and leaned backwards by degrees so she could peek at him through the doorway. He was flicking through a book on house plants, jacket over his arm, a little frown on his face. There was something endearing about the way he was taking an interest, something about him which made her want to...

  His eyes snapped up.

  She swallowed a little gasp. ‘How about some coffee?’

  He grinned. ‘I’d love some.’

  That settled the going-out-staying-in conundrum!

  When she went back through with the coffee, he was sitting at one end of the sofa with his legs stretched out over the rug, the plant book on his knee. He looked at home and for some reason that warmed her, made her want to be close to him, to find out about him.

  She handed him a cup then settled herself at the other end of the sofa. She sipped her coffee, savouring its dark richness. ‘So, if I promise never to write about it, will you tell me why you and Madelon are both so involved with the refuge?’

  The planes of his face seemed to sharpen suddenly. A trick of the light, perhaps...

  He sipped his coffee slowly, then met her eye. ‘We’re involved because we’ve been there.’ A tiny quiver touched the corners of his mouth. ‘We’ve got the tee shirt.’

  It’s the last thing she was expecting, and it took a moment for the words to sink in. ‘You mean...?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘My father was a drunk and a brute. He liked to beat my mother when the mood took him.’

  Telling her about his father had cost him something. She could see it in his eyes, in the firm, grim set of his mouth. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘It’s not for you to be sorry. It’s in the past.’ He took another sip from his cup, swallowing slowly. ‘When I moved to Amsterdam and heard about the charity, I had to get involved, and then Madelon came on board too. I became a trustee because I wanted to help. Women and children in that situation need support; they need an escape route. Being trapped...being so powerless...is...’ His gaze shifted to the floor. He seemed to lose himself in his thoughts for a moment and then he looked up. ‘How about you? You said you volunteered?’

  He was deflecting. It was understandable, she supposed, given that they hardly knew each other, but there was clearly more to his story than he was telling her. What had he and Madelon been through? What had they seen and heard? Unimaginable. She felt a sudden urge to put her arms around him, but instead she wrapped her fingers more tightly around her cup.

  ‘That’s right. I got involved through Lotte. She’s a professional photographer. She volunteers at the refuge if they need publicity photos. It’s a worthy cause, so I threw my hat into the ring too.’

  ‘Commendable. Both of you.’ He shifted on the sofa, his expression brightening. ‘Lotte’s quite the character. How did you meet her?’

  Mia’s heart seized. They seemed to be jumping from one sombre subject to another, but she wasn’t going to side-step his question. There could be no more omissions. She parked her cup on the floor, felt darkness draining through her. ‘It’s not a very jolly story, I’m afraid.’

  He leaned forward, eyes searching hers. ‘How so?’

  For the second time that evening she was travelling back in her mind. Yet again she heard rainwater splashing over the tops of the gutters, splattering onto the cobbles. ‘It was a horrible evening. Cold and wet and windy. I’d not been in Amsterdam that long. I hadn’t bought my bike yet. I was hurrying home, trying to hang on to my umbrella, when I heard a noise coming from a side street. A struggle: someone crying.’ Her pulse was climbing. ‘I was scared, but I couldn’t ignore it.’

  He was shaking his head. ‘You should have gone for help—phoned the police.’

  ‘There wasn’t time—it sounded bad.’ She snatched a breath. ‘Thankfully my brolly isn’t one of those midget things; it’s quite sturdy. I folded it then made my way towards the noise.’ She could still smell the aroma of hot oil and garlic from the restaurant kitchens on the main drag. She could still see steam billowing through a vent in a wall—details trapped in her memory like insects in amber.

  She swallowed. ‘There was one of those big industrial bins, and on the other side of it I saw Lotte struggling with this big guy. He was all over her, pulling at her clothes.’ Theo’s eyes were burning into hers. ‘I just reacted—thwacked him wit
h the umbrella—gave him such a shock that Lotte was able to get free. She kicked him in the crotch and then we ran for it. I brought her back here.’ Lotte’s face, streaked with tears, teeth chattering, lips trembling... She pushed the image out of her head. ‘We reported it, and after the police had been Lotte stayed the night. We bonded over brandy and a mutual hatred of scumbag men.’

  ‘Did they catch him?’ Theo’s eyes were dark, his lips pale.

  ‘No. He was a tourist. Lotte had met him at a photography exhibition. They’d started chatting. She’d told him right away that she wasn’t into guys and she said he’d seemed cool about it. They went for a drink, just hanging out, and then he’d said he wanted to take some pictures of a side street for a photography project he was working on. That’s why she went with him—because she was interested in his project. But then, when they were out of sight, he jumped her.’

  Theo’s face was rigid. She looked down, saw that his hands were clenched into fists. Maybe she should have edited the story a bit. It was clearly stirring things up inside him that she could only begin to imagine.

  She moistened her lips, went on quickly. ‘Afterwards, Lotte found it difficult to go out on her own. She got panic attacks; she was scared all the time. She went to talk to one of the counsellors at the refuge and the sessions helped a lot. She’s still got a way to go, but at least she can go out without panicking now, which is good... Anyway, that’s why Lotte started volunteering at Saving Grace. She wanted to give something back.’ She smiled. ‘She’s always trying to give back. Trying to help the people who’ve helped her.’

  Theo was staring at her. Tentatively, she touched his arm. ‘Are you all right?’

  He took a breath, seeming to come back into himself. ‘I can’t believe you did what you did. He could have had a knife, Mia—anything.’

  ‘But he didn’t! We got away. If I’d waited for help to come...’ She pressed her lips together. What could have happened didn’t bear thinking about... She took her hand away from Theo’s arm and gave a little shrug. ‘I know I can be impulsive. Ash is always telling me to think first...’ She thought of Greenwich, felt a blush warming her cheeks. ‘But it isn’t that I don’t think. It’s just that if there’s something I can physically do I’d rather do it than waste time with “what ifs”.’

  He smiled softly. ‘Mia the brave...’

  ‘Not brave. Impatient.’

  ‘Brave! Brave enough to ride on the back of a bicycle with a very rusty chauffeur...’

  ‘Impatient to get back and put on a warm sweater, you mean.’ She smiled. ‘Some risks are worth taking.’

  He laughed and then the light in his eyes dimmed. Hesitantly, he stretched out a hand and laid it over hers. ‘But not all risks, Mia.’ His eyes held her, drawing her in. ‘You were lucky that night with Lotte, but it could have gone very differently. Promise me you’ll never do anything like that again.’

  His hand on hers felt warm and protective. For a long moment she held his gaze, losing herself in it. It was disarming that he seemed to care so much about what happened to her, but she’d made a promise to herself, a promise to keep her head and not give her heart away until she knew who she was giving it to. She didn’t belong to Theo and, even though she could tell his intentions were good, he didn’t have the right to ask her for promises.

  She moistened her lips. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t.’

  There was a quick beat of uncertainty in his eyes, a flicker of realisation. He lifted his hand away from hers and pressed it flatly onto his thigh. ‘No—I’m sorry. I was being intense.’ He faltered, smiled sheepishly. ‘Madelon’s always telling me I’m heavy going. What I should have said was, be careful. Will you at least say you’ll be careful...?’

  He’d stood down, tucked all the awkwardness into his own pockets. No wonder he was so successful in business. He had emotional intelligence and the tenacity to extract a portion of what he’d originally pitched for. It was impossible not to smile. ‘Yes! I’ll be careful.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘In that case, I’ll quit while I’m ahead.’ He threw her a smile then rose to his feet, lifting his jacket from the arm of the sofa. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

  She stood up, battling disappointment. It seemed too soon for him to leave. ‘You’re welcome. Thanks for bringing me home.’ Suddenly her heart was drumming. How would they say goodbye? It wasn’t as if they’d been on a date. They’d simply left the event together. Hesitantly, she stepped forward, opened the door then skipped back quickly as Cleuso streaked across the threshold, meowing loudly.

  Theo laughed. ‘Were you expecting visitors?’

  How different his face looked when he was laughing; all the shadows filled in with light. She smiled, grateful for the distraction. ‘Cleuso’s not a visitor; he lives here.’

  ‘Cleuso? What a great name for a cat. He’s...erm...’

  He didn’t seem to be able to find the words. She followed his gaze to where Cleuso was sitting under the cheese plant, butting his head against the underside of a big, glossy leaf. She felt a smile coming. ‘He defies description, really. When I went to choose a kitten, I knew straight away that he’d be picked last, so I took him...’

  She sensed Theo’s gaze and turned to face him. The light in his eyes was soft, a little hazy. His chest was rising and falling. Rising. Falling. She held her breath, waiting, not sure what she was waiting for, and then he leaned in slowly and kissed her cheek.

  ‘Goodnight, Mia.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THEO POURED HIS coffee and leaned into the warmth of the old Dutch range. His interior designer, Direk, was trying to convince him to go for a sleek, streamlined kitchen design—black gloss units, black granite work surfaces—but that didn’t seem sympathetic to the spirit of the old canal house. Direk kept telling him that it would be cool to ‘subvert expectation’ but a kitchen was for cooking; a kitchen was the heart of a home. Why subvert it? Besides, he didn’t want his home to have a black heart.

  He picked up his cup and eyed the deep window-sill over the sink. An aloe vera plant might fit there. Mia had said that it would be a good plant to start with. He’d looked it up in her plant book: leaves like fleshy blue-green lances, little serrations along their edges. It was a desert plant. They could grow to quite a size, but he supposed there’d be a way of containing the growth—she’d know how to do that.

  She’d filled every nook and cranny of her compact sitting room with plants. ‘Kew Gardens’, she’d called it.

  He smiled. He’d liked her plants. He’d liked her barge. Everything scaled down, cleverly designed to fit the narrow space. There’d been something of the playhouse about it, something magical, and yet it had felt like a proper home. The sofa had been comfortable; the faded Persian rug on the floor had felt plush under his feet. He’d looked around while he waited for her to get changed. Her books were the classics, mostly, and collections of poetry. There’d been a stack of interiors magazines and a few copies of the Paris Review on a side table, and along the top of the bookcase there’d been photos of Ash and herself as kids in smart school uniforms, then in shorts and tee shirts at the beach. He’d noticed in particular a picture of a happy young couple—her parents, presumably—taken in a dry, exotic location. India, or Africa maybe...

  He set his cup down and surveyed the old plaster walls around him, the myriad shades of ancient. It was two days since he’d cycled through the city streets with her laughing and squealing behind him. He smiled at the memory: the way she’d yelled an apology to the scattering tourists; the warmth of her hand on his back...

  When he’d asked her to leave the fundraiser with him, he thought he’d known what he was doing. He’d wanted to spend some time with her. He’d wanted to get to know her better but, on the barge, his feelings had started to run away with him. As she’d recounted the tale of how she’d stopped Lotte’s attacker, he’d felt a ferocious tangle
of emotion. Admiration for her bravery, fury that she’d put herself into such a dangerous situation and...tenderness. He’d felt an overwhelming desire to protect her, but then he’d overstepped the line, asking her for a promise he’d had no right to ask for, and in that moment he’d realised he was in trouble.

  He was so drawn to her, to the warmth in her eyes, to the courage in her heart... Caring so much about someone he barely knew—someone who seemed to be able to draw things out of him with just a look and a smile—had thrown him into a flat spin. He’d felt out of his depth, unsure of what was happening to him. He’d had to leave; take some time to sort out his thoughts and feelings.

  He pushed himself away from the stove and walked slowly around the huge scrubbed table where he cooked and ate. He couldn’t get it out of his head: Mia confronting Lotte’s attacker...

  The scumbag could have turned around, blocked the umbrella strike, smashed his fist... He could have thrown Mia to the ground, used his feet... He stopped, felt a cold shudder travelling through him. She’d have understood why he’d asked her to make that promise if she’d seen what he’d seen.

  He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of his mother’s sobs, chairs crashing, Bram launching himself at their father, fists flying, shouting at him to take Madelon away... He’d grab Madelon’s hand, pull her from the house clutching her dolly.

  ‘Let’s run a race, Maddy...fast as we can to the canal... One, two, three... Go!’

  He’d once asked his mother why she’d married his father. She’d told him that things had been different in the beginning. She’d said she didn’t know what had triggered the drinking, but that when his father had started turning up to lectures drunk she’d known it wouldn’t be long before he lost his job at the university. When it happened, she said, he’d been angry, angry all the time, lashing out more and more. Afterwards he’d be full of remorse, begging for forgiveness. For the sake of the man he’d been, she’d held on, hoping that things would change. They didn’t. The irony, she’d told Theo, was that his father had always sworn that he would never be like his own father, Theo’s grandfather, who’d also been a violent drunk.