The Tycoon

And it usually worked like a charm.

When I was called into court as a witness for a client in a custody battle—I wore this suit. That date I went on last year—I wore this suit. The media interview with the Austin newspaper—this suit was on my body.

And at each of those events, I’d felt great. Well, not the date, but it wasn’t the suit’s fault.

Any attempt to give myself a pep talk felt stupid so I didn’t try, but I did tell myself not to remember.

To go up to that office and do everything I could not to remember the last time I’d been there. The lunch date and what Clayton had done to me behind his desk. The pleasure with which he’d lifted my skirt and made me come.

“You’re so pretty,” he’d said. “You’re so pretty when you come for me.”

Yeah. Don’t remember that.

There was a new man sitting behind the reception desk on the top floor. A wet-behind-the-ears puppy who looked like an extra on Battlestar Gallactica with his headpiece.

“Can I help you?” he asked and gave me the impression of a smile.

“Veronica King here to see Clayton Rorick.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I sighed and wanted to shake the poor kid. My name was on the goddamn building. “No. But I think he’ll want to see me.”

The boy lifted his eyebrow, expressing sincere doubt about my importance, but he put the message through to Clayton’s assistant.

And, to the receptionist’s surprise, Clayton arrived in the reception area almost immediately.

“Ronnie,” he said, and my old nickname out of his mouth pierced me like a knife. “What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk,” I said.

“I could have come to the ranch.”

“I was in the city to see Madison.” I shrugged like everything was no big deal. “This seemed easy.”

And cold. And unemotional. Everything I wanted when it came to this conversation. The ranch was haunted by that night—the ghost of the girl I’d been.

That ghost was here, too, but less so.

And I had my suit and my lipstick as armor.

“Would you like to come into my office?” he asked. “Or perhaps lunch?” He went to reach into his pocket but stopped himself.

The watch.

“Would breakfast be better? I’m not sure what time it is,” he said.

It was barely 9 a.m., which made me wonder how long he’d been here.

“No,” I said quickly. “Your office is fine.”

I couldn’t imagine being trapped with him at a table, waiting for our food, eating. God, no.

He stepped back, letting me walk in front of him. I waited for him to say something smarmy, something about the last time I was here. But that was never his style.

He was always excruciatingly polite. Respectful. Restrained, really. The only time the control slipped was when we were in bed together—but you’re not thinking about that.

I’d thought his restraint was compelling back then. Mysterious. So exciting it made me throb.

Now it seemed dangerous. Like he was a shark waiting in the shallows for me to get close enough to eat.

His office had been remodeled in the last five years. It looked, if such a thing could be said about a CEO’s office, slightly more welcoming. The modern chrome-and-leather furniture had been replaced by chairs far less severe. The rug on the floor was bright with color, like an abstract sky at twilight. The art had changed, too; he had beautiful photography on his walls now. Black-and-white and bright color. There was one of a woman holding a bird that was kind of cool.

I was about to tell him I liked what he’d done with the place, but that wasn’t exactly the tone I wanted to set.

“Can I get you a water? Coffee? Tea? I still have that English—”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly, because I wasn’t interested in how he was still stocking my favorite English tea.

“All right.” He gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk and I sat like a prim old woman, smoothing down my skirt, crossing my ankles, and sitting up straight. He leaned back against his desk a few feet from me and I did everything I could not to notice the lean angles and curves of his body.

But for one horrifying second I couldn’t not think of him naked.

“Ronnie?”

“Veronica,” I corrected.

He nodded as if committing it to memory.

“What can I do for you?”

“The email to my brother bounced. He’s closed down his account.”

The words tasted terrible coming out of my mouth. Burnt and sour at the same time. I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to look at him. Right at him. His eyes, not his knees. “The lawyer has assured me that the will is legal and binding and there’s not much I can do.”

“And that’s why you’re here?”

“Right. To see what you can do. The twenty acres of land—”