The Tycoon's Forced Bride

Chapter One

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He knew Ava’s daily routine down to the minute.

It wasn’t a difficult routine to learn. She never varied her routine. It was the same Monday through Friday. A car picked her up promptly at eight ten for work. She was at her desk at the ballet school by eight thirty. She taught two classes before she had lunch at her desk, and then two more in the afternoon, in between meetings with the school and company.

The same town car that dropped her off in the morning returned at six to collect her. Back home, she rarely went out in the evenings. She rarely ordered food for delivery. On weekends she stayed in, except for the special evening where she attended a performance, and, then again, she traveled in the town car, arriving a full hour and a half before the performance to give her time to get into the theater before the crowds arrived, and then returning a full hour after, when the crowds had dispersed. It wasn’t just because she moved slowly, but she preferred obscurity. She didn’t want anyone to see her, or recognize her, not when she’d once been Manhattan Ballet’s principal ballerina, loved and adored for her grace, talent, and beauty.

Ava’s life consisted of work and the ballet. Just as it had always been work, and the ballet, although before she’d been on the stage, not in the back row of seats in the auditorium.

He knew her routine because he had her followed. The security detail was discreet and she never even knew they were there, just as she didn’t know the town car was his, and the driver his, too. She didn’t know the Manhattan Ballet had initially given her the first part-time teaching job because he’d insisted the company arrange something for her—or he’d pull his support. The company listened. He was their largest benefactor, after all.

She didn’t know he’d been in the background opening doors, smoothing the way for her return, and he didn’t want her to know.

It was enough that she was working, and that she’d been promoted several times from a part-time, assistant teacher for the children in the dance school, to working with the older students and the professional dancers in the corp.

Malcolm McKenzie didn’t mind the money. It wasn’t that much, considering. Not when one was looking at the long-term, and he was looking at the long-term. Ava was his wife and the mother of his son.

The only problem was that while she remembered young Jack, Ava didn’t remember marrying Malcolm.

Chapter Two

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It was cold and the cold made her hurt even more than she normally did, which meant she moved even more slowly.

Ava smiled gratefully at her doorman as he patiently held the apartment building’s front door open for her. He was such a nice man, so patient, too. “Thank you, Robert,” she said, aware that she was moving like an old woman, feet inching along, more like a shuffle than a walk. The cold made her stiff, and the stiffness knocked her off balance. If she had the energy, she’d go back upstairs and get her cane. This was one of those days when she could have used the support.

“Need a hand, Ms. Galvan?” Robert asked, obviously concerned by her limping progress. It was the progress of a snail. She was certain it was painful to watch.

She flashed the doorman a small, fierce smile, wanting to put him at ease. How could she complain to him when he stood for hours in the bitter weather?

“No, I’m good. I’ve got this,” she answered, glancing at the pavement in front of her, checking for ice. It’d only take one misstep and today she’d go crashing down and then she’d really hurt.

“Sure you don’t want me to lend you an arm—”

“No, Robert. I’m twenty-nine, not eighty-nine.”

He laughed, as she’d intended. “Very good, Ms. Galvan. You have a good day.”

*

“You, too.” She focused her attention on the black sedan parked at the curb waiting for her. Put one foot in front of the other, she sang in her head, teeth gritted against the pain, and soon you’ll be walking out the door….

She blinked back tears as she sang the line again. Oh, she hurt. Hurt bad today. Where was that cane? Why had she thought she’d manage without it? Ava hadn’t wanted to leave bed today. Hadn’t wanted to shower and get dressed and come downstairs to travel across town to the Manhattan Ballet Company and School, located on Eighth and Forty-Eighth.

But she had forced herself up. And she forced herself to shower and dress and now she was here, almost to the car. She had to get up and go to work, because it was all she had now. She couldn’t let the cold, or her stiffness stop her. She needed the Manhattan Ballet. It was all she had left.

Her driver, Mickey Fitzgerald, moved towards her and took her elbow. “Mind the ice in front of you,” he said.

“You and Robert are like little old ladies fussing, always over me,” she scolded, even as she leaned on his arm, secretly thankful for Mickey’s support.

“Now those are fighting words, Ms. Galvan, and you don’t want to fight Mickey Fitzgerald. I’m a former featherweight champion—”

“Yes, and not just Irish, but world.” She smiled up at him. “How could I forget that the great Mickey Fitzgerald is my very own chauffeur, shuttling me to and from work every day?”

“I am thinking I hear a little disrespect,” he said, shifting his grip to keep her supported as she bent her knees to slide into the back of the town car.

She winced as she brought her legs into the car, one by one. “No disrespect,” she said, drawing a ragged breath. “You know I love you too much for that.”

“Hmph!” His gruffness couldn’t hide his fierce protective streak, though.

Mickey treated her like a princess. Ava didn’t know how she’d lucked out, finding a driver as kind and good as Mickey Fitzgerald. He closed the door behind her and went around to the driver side.

As he got behind the wheel, he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “It’s a cold one, though, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she agreed, glancing up at the steel gray sky.

Snow was expected late tonight. The storm was supposed to dump

seven to eight inches, possibly more. If that happened, the city would shut down. She prayed that wasn’t the case. It was miserable being trapped in her apartment.

“This would have been a good day for your cane,” he added, shifting into drive, and merging effortlessly with traffic.

“Or my walker.”

“Or your walker,” he agreed. He shot her another glance in the rear view mirror. “But you’re too proud, aren’t you?”

She rolled her eyes. “People treat me differently when I use them.”

“You are different. You’re special. Don’t forget that.”