Secrets of a Ruthless Tycoon

He knew that she and Bridget were in touch by phone daily and it took every ounce of willpower not to indulge his rampant curiosity and try to prise information out of his house guest. What was she up to? Had she found a replacement for him in her bed? There was no denying that she was hot; what man wouldn’t want to try his luck? And she was no longer cocooned within those glacial walls of celibacy. She had stepped out from behind them and released all the unbelievable passion he knew her to be capable of. There was no way that she could ever return to living life like a nun. And, however much she had or hadn’t been wrapped up in him, she was ripe for a rebound relationship.

Was that what she was doing right now—engaging in wild sex with some loser from the town or another passing stranger?

He had never considered himself someone who was prone to flights of fancy, but he was making up for lost time now.

All of this introduced a level of coolness to his voice as he stared out of the window and waited for her to come up with an answer.

She damn well wasn’t phoning for an update on Bridget, so why was she?

Brianna picked up the unwelcoming indifference in his voice and it stung. Had he completely detached from her? How was that possible? And how was he going to greet what she had to tell him, were that the case?

‘I...I...need to talk to you.’

‘I’m listening. But make it quick. I was on my way out.’

‘I need to see you...to discuss what I have to say.’

‘Why?’

‘Can’t you be just a little more polite, Leo? I know you have no further use for me, but the least you can do is not treat me as though I’m something the cat dragged in.’

‘Is it money?’ His anger at himself for continuing to let her infiltrate his head and ambush his thoughts transferred into a healthy anger towards her and, although he knew he was being unfair, there was no way he was going to allow himself to be dragged down the apology route.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You know how rich I am now. You must know the lifestyle Bridget’s enjoying—I’m sure she’s told you so. Have you decided that you’d like me to throw some money in your direction for old times’ sake?’ God, was this him? He barely recognised the person behind the words.

Brianna clutched the phone so tightly that she thought she might break it in two. Did he know how insulting he was being right now? Did he care? How could she have misread someone so utterly? Was there some crazy missing connection in her head that allowed her to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, including people who were just bad for her health?

‘You mentioned more than once that the place needed updating: new bar stools, new paint job on the outside, less tatty sofas in front of the fire...’ The sofas had been damn near perfect, he seemed to recall. The sort of sofas a person could sink into and remain sunk in for hours, remain sunk in for a lifetime. ‘Consider it done. On me. Call it thanks for, well, everything’

‘How generous of you, Leo.’ She reined in her explosive rage and kept her voice as neutral as she possibly could. ‘And I suppose this might eventually have something to do with money. But I really need to see you face to face to talk about it.’

Perversely, Leo was disappointed that he had hit the nail on the head. Other women played the money angle. Other women assessed his wealth and expected a good time at his expense. It had never bothered him because, after all, fair’s fair. But Brianna... She wasn’t like other women. Apparently, however, she was.

‘Name the figure,’ he said curtly.

‘I’d rather not. If you could just make an appointment to see me. I could come to London and take the opportunity to look in on Bridget as well...’

‘I have no free time during the day. I could see you tomorrow some time after six thirty, and I’m doing you a favour because that would involve cancelling a conference call.’

‘Er...’ Money she knew she didn’t have disappeared through the window at the prospect of finding somewhere to stay, because there was no way she would be staying at his apartment, especially after she had dropped her bombshell.

‘Take it or leave it.’ He cut into her indecisive silence. ‘I can meet you at seven at a bistro near my office.’ He named it and then, from nowhere, pictured her sitting there at one of the tables, waiting for him. He pictured her face, her startling prettiness; he pictured her body, which would doubtless be concealed underneath something truly unappealing—that waterproof coat of hers of indeterminate green which she seemed to wear everywhere.

On cue, his body jerked into life, sourly reminding him of the way just thinking of her could manage to turn him on.