Tangling with the London Tycoon

by Suzi Jennings

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more category romance titles from Entangled Indulgence… A Millionaire at Midnight

  The Billionaire’s Runaway Fiancé

  The CEO’s Seduction

  The Millionaire’s Revenge

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Suzi Jennings. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Indulgence is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Wendy Chen

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill

  Cover art from iStock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-833-9

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition February 2017

  Chapter One

  Rosco Redmond was an opportunity Kitty couldn’t afford to mess up.

  The door to his Georgian town house lacked any attempt at welcome. It faced the world with immaculate London style—glossy black paint against warm cream stone—handsome but unadorned.

  The peaceful, exclusive inner city cobblestone street oozed understated elegance. Its sweep of heritage buildings an oasis of secluded tranquility, just a few blocks away from London’s hectic commercial center.

  But it had Kitty’s heartbeat thundering in her ears as unwanted memories flooded her in a cold tide of rejection. Memories of the miserable childhood she’d purged from her adult life.

  It was the worst coincidence that the Redmond house looked an awful lot like her childhood home and represented the kind of world Kitty never wanted to be part of again.

  The unexpected shock had all her buried insecurities nibbling at her confidence.

  But she’d never walked away from a challenge since she was sixteen, when her mother died and left her alone. A time of shame, of dark and painful memories usually left undisturbed and firmly in the past where they belonged.

  Shaking them off now, she faced the house squarely, rocking discreetly from foot to foot to ease the ache of her highest heeled boots. She’d chosen them for courage, so she didn’t mind the pain.

  Straightening her back, she commanded her nerves to focus and smiled as her fingers caressed the worn strap of the camera hung around her neck.

  She could do this job.

  Plucked at short notice from the lowest ranks of LJ Redmond Publishing’s contracted photographers for this urgent assignment, she couldn’t believe her luck. It was a matter of timing, the human resources department had informed her, because all of Mr. Redmond’s senior photographers were unavailable at this time.

  She would do whatever was required, as her financial security depended on nailing this project—whatever it turned out to be—and taking her best photos ever.

  Kitty took one last look at the imposing three-story building, sucked in a deep breath, and bounded up the four steps to the porch. She found the discreetly recessed doorbell and pressed it for a long, determined ring.

  Hoisting her camera bag onto her hip, she took another steadying breath as the sound of security locks opening reminded her this was serious business.

  Then Rosco Redmond, CEO of his family’s Investment and Publishing Groups, stood in the doorway. She’d expected a butler in coattails or a housekeeper to answer the door.

  The man himself was tall, lean, and gorgeous. Tailored for business in an impeccable dark suit and blood-red tie.

  Untouchable reserve emanated from him, as if stitched into every precise seam of his clothing. As hard-edged and private as the stone facade of his home.

  And he was sexy.

  She wasn’t prepared for sexy. Certainly not based on the one formal portrait she’d been able to find on the company’s website.

  For a big city, old money tycoon whose name was always in the financial news, her hasty internet search had revealed surprisingly few photos of him. No grainy early morning snaps of him stumbling out of night clubs or tuxedoed celebrity event poses to boost a philanthropic profile. And zilch tabloid love matches.

  “I’m Kitty Mayfair,” she said, finding her voice and infusing it with a firmness aimed to match the sternness of the face looking down at her.

  “You’re late.” His voice, deep and brisk with an unexpected Irish burr, had her toes curling uncontrollably inside her boots, all pain forgotten.

  “Only by ten minutes. Peak hour travel takes time,” she shot back as his hardened blue eyes assessed her.

  The urge to tug on the hem of her suddenly-too-short knitted coat fought with the need to appear totally assured.

  In addition to those favorite confidence-boosting boots, she’d pulled on comfortable winter leggings and anchored her layers of woolens with an oversized leather belt and a raspberry beret, all of which failed to scream professional.

  Why hadn’t she taken five minutes to borrow a corporate-smart suit from her sister? She suppressed a sigh. Typical.

  He grimaced, looking down at her as if she was an untidily wrapped, unwanted parcel planted on his doorstep. “Travel time needs to be pre-planned for an inner city assignment.”

  “Look,” she said, when she really meant stop looking and take me seriously, “your personal assistant gave me two hours’ notice for this meeting. I needed to postpone a client and travel halfway across London.”

  He nodded, his disapproval cool and courteous, but despite his continued glare, she sensed innate good manners. A code of conduct she hoped she could use to her advantage.

  She placed one foot on his doorstep and rested the weight of the camera bag on her thigh. “I’ve prepared as thoroughly as time allowed and packed all the equipment I thought I might need, given that you haven’t provided any assignment details.”

  He nodded again, still not speaking, and she stared back at him, trying to gauge both his mood and her confused reaction to him.

  “Hair,” Kitty heard herself squeak before she could stop it. She cleared her suddenly parched throat. “You have hair.” She couldn’t rein in her accusatory tone. “You’re bald on your website.” He was supposed to be bald. Bald, paunchy, pipe-smoking, maybe.

  Not sexy.

  He frowned and, almost absent-mindedly, brushed his hand through his thick dark waves. “A close shave for a favorite charity. Very cold in winter. Not to be repeated.”

  Interesting. A one-off look, yet the one he chose to represent his business. And some dry humor hidden behind his unsmiling demeanor. But before she could process that contradictory mix—bald but not, formidable but willing to “let his hair down” for charity—he parried back with a personal barb of his own.

  “You’re not the person I was expecting. You’re much too young. Show me your identification.”

  S
he bit down on a rude reply and fumbled in her bag for ID. Don’t get defensive, she warned herself as she felt her temper flare. It’s his employer’s right to check out his employees.

  She held his gaze as she flashed her photo ID. The importance of getting into this man’s house and taking her best photos ever fired up her resolve again.

  Kitty needed this assignment to develop her studio. And to cement her financial contribution to the business complex she was developing with her four half sisters. Sisters she hadn’t known existed until just eighteen months ago.

  Plus, she had a dream photography proposal of her own to submit to LJ Redmond Publishing, and this sudden elevation up the ranks to actually meet the CEO himself made that a possibility.

  No, she hadn’t scrambled to keep this appointment to be left on the doorstep.

  Rosco quirked a challenging eyebrow at her, and Kitty lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes right back at him, ready to fight for this opportunity.

  He might be the country’s most successful publisher of the high-end photography books everyone wanted on their coffee table, but he wasn’t going to put her off that easily.

  “Young? Not very…” she said, aiming for breezy but mature with a touch of irony. “I’m cursed with a twenty-nine-year-old baby face and an untimely taste for mashed vegetables.”

  There was no answering acknowledgement of humor. “But I know how to use a camera.” His gaze still didn’t soften. “Expertly.”

  An odd feeling of silent impasse settled between them and prickled along her own hairline.

  She remained braced. Every muscle tensed to continue the fight. Every hormone called to order as they vibrated in an unwanted response to his warrior pose—a man in command of his territory.

  A sudden commotion on the street made them both jump, and Kitty turned her head to see what the noise was. But she wouldn’t take her foot off the doorstep and risk losing her advantage.

  Two scooters had clattered over the cobbles and screeched to a halt, their front wheels mounting the shallow first porch step.

  Cameras clicked. Male voices called from faces hidden behind black helmet visors. “Titania. Rosco. Look this way. Beauty and money, Rosco. Mixing business and pleasure, eh mate?”

  Kitty ducked her head in horror. Paparazzi. The last thing she wanted was to be aligned to that brand of photography.

  Rosco growled in Kitty’s ear and snagged his arm around her shoulders, spinning her toward him. Her nose grazed the soft silk of his tie as she steadied herself against his chest.

  “Inside. Now,” he ordered, his contemptuous tone a whisper. His breath was warm against the top of her head.

  A hint of sharp citrus cologne cut through her senses as her nose remained buried against him, and she wriggled to put some breathing space between them. She needed air.

  Pulling back a fraction, her chin grazed his chest as she raised her eyes to his. Hot anger glittered back at her before thick black lashes shut her out.

  But it was too late to protect her from the burn. The heat of his anger froze her in his embrace. She was in danger. Past and present trapping her in a public nightmare that made no sense.

  “You’ve got some explaining to do,” she told his tie, its precision knot tight at his throat, its dark red color perfectly matching her mood.

  Dimly, she heard more shouts. “Titania. Look this way. Rosco. What’s the duke going to say about this?”

  Rosco growled again and pulled her into the house, her heels skittering on the marble floor as he slammed the door shut.

  She clutched at his arm for balance, breathing a little heavier. She steeled herself against both his grim, angry glare and another flutter low in her stomach.

  His muscles clenched taut and strong beneath her fingers. The fine wool of his suit jacket an expensive symbol of business success and power.

  He steadied her quickly and moved away.

  “What was that all about?” she said, anger and nerves making her jittery. “Who is Titania?” she asked, annoyed at the slight wobble in her voice. This was a drama she could do without.

  “You really don’t know?”

  His tone was hard and uncomfortably close to disbelief. “No, I really don’t know anything about any of this.” She worked to keep her voice steady and professional.

  “We’ll see if that’s the truth,” he said through gritted teeth as they heard the scooters roar off with a cheeky blast of their horns. “Titania is my celebrity event–organizing sister’s famous client and bridesmaid.”

  “The pop star? That Titania is your sister’s bridesmaid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I here for a celebrity shoot?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “That would have been a surprise. There’s nothing like that in my portfolio. But Titania is hot right now.”

  “Too hot for me,” he said with an edge of disgust. “And nothing to do with me. Whatever the papers want to invent.”

  “I’m with you there,” she said, thinking fast and deciding to ignore his questioning her honesty. She knew she was telling the truth and she couldn’t let this mayhem affect her contract. “I hate celebrity gossip.”

  “You arrived with the cameras,” he said as he folded his arms across his chest and remained braced against the door, keeping the world out and her pinned in his sights.

  “I. Did. Not.” There was no wobble in her voice now. Hot indignation blazed through her. She might not look like a corporate professional, but tipping off the paparazzi was something she would never do. She had some personal appreciation of how awful media scrutiny could be, but she wasn’t about to explain that to him.

  “This is not my choice. They must have thought I was your Titania.”

  “I told you, she isn’t my Titania.”

  “Just a mix-up then. I guess we’re both tall with long dark hair.” She’d appeal to his fairness, hoping he had some.

  “Well, you certainly don’t have her pop star glamour.”

  Kitty bristled. She had nothing to be ashamed of. He’d looked down on her since he’d opened the door, and his light Irish brogue didn’t soften the words.

  “You don’t trowel on the makeup, I’ll give you that,” he continued, eyeing her face with obvious dislike. It was a backhanded compliment, but she grabbed it as a path back to the reason she was here.

  “My profession is in the background. I don’t want to be the center of attention, but I do want to do my best work.” She hoisted her bag higher on her hip and turned away from him. “I didn’t tip off the paparazzi,” she said forcefully.

  She was inside his house. And she wasn’t leaving. Not without a contract. And certainly not to face another round with the paparazzi. Not without an explanation of why she had unknowingly been invited to walk into their ambush.

  Stepping into the center of the foyer, she finally registered her surroundings. The warmth. The delicious aroma of home cooking. The spacious splendor of marble flooring and a sweeping staircase leading her eye up to a double-vaulted ceiling.

  Memories swirled around her. Snapshots of her childhood. “It’s just as I remember,” she whispered, the sudden loneliness chilling her. Snapshots minus a father and crowded with her mother’s wealthy “gentlemen friends.”

  “You’ve been here before?” Rosco’s tone revealed how unlikely he thought that would be.

  Kitty turned; she’d almost forgotten him for a second. “No.” She ignored his tone with its edge of condescension. “I grew up in a house like this. Not far from here.”

  “Hmmm…” he said with a wealth of skeptical evaluation just under his breath.

  Damn, this guy with his all-male control was getting to her.

  She never dwelt on her childhood and—until today—she’d been able to avoid revisiting any reminders of her mother’s world. Switching off the past had suddenly gotten harder.

  “This way,” he said, interrupting her memories. “We have just a few minutes to finalize our contract.�
�

  He led her into a gracious, comfortable living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows arched over a lush autumn garden, and a warm fire glowed beneath a solid marble mantle lined with family photos.

  They neatly framed the differences between the Redmond world and hers. Images of family occasions hadn’t added any weight to Kitty’s rucksack in the eight years she’d traveled the world as a photographer.

  Family commitment just wasn’t in her DNA.

  She turned her back on the pictures and perched on the edge of a plush cream chair, carefully placing her bag at her feet.

  “You will be undertaking all photography for my sister’s wedding this weekend,” he said, getting straight to the point while gathering contract papers from a writing desk beside the fire.

  Kitty let stunned silence fall between them. She’d never been a wedding photographer, had no albums in her portfolio or on her website.

  And this probably wasn’t the time to enlighten him about her views on marriage. She didn’t do weddings. Happily-ever-afters in taffeta and tiaras didn’t ring true for her.

  “You will be recompensed for any work lost, and I’ll expect you to be available starting today.” He sat on the sofa opposite her. “Tomorrow, Friday, I will expect you at the wedding rehearsal. The wedding will take place on Saturday afternoon at a confidential rural location.”

  Questions raced across her mind, and she tried to sort them into two logical lists. Sensible to ask. Unwise to ask. The last thing she wanted to do was jeopardize this contract.

  “Why am I here if you think I look too young for the job?” she blurted out before any list making was completed. His words still prickled her pride.

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I thought you were older. Fifty-something. Your personnel file obviously has an incorrect date of birth. An unacceptable mistake made by my HR department.” He angled another critical glance at her and then quickly looked away.

  “So the paparazzi confusing me with Titania was as shocking to you as it was to me?”

  “Quite.” He cleared his throat.

  “Your photography style is real and totally lacking in glitz. That’s what I want for my sister’s wedding album. I’ll be supervising you closely and advising on all details.”