The Tycoon's Forced Bride

She couldn’t leave the car. Couldn’t leave Mickey. This was a mistake, she thought. She couldn’t go to St. Barts.

She should be home right now. She needed to keep her routine. Bad things always happened when she changed her schedule, or did things differently. “No. I can’t do this,” she said, drawing back from the door as Mickey came around to open it for them. “It’s not a good idea.”

“There’s no reason to panic—”

“There’s every reason in the world! When I change things, do things differently, everything falls apart. I fall apart. I don’t want that to happen, and neither do you.”

“You’re not getting rid of me, Ava.”

“I know what Jack needs, and it’s not me.”

“What about me?” he demanded, his voice low, terse. “Are you going to speak for my needs as well?”

She stared up into his face, searching his eyes. “I know—”

“Ava, you don’t know. And while I love that you have a mind of your own, and a fierce desire to be independent, in this instance, you are wrong.” His voice dropped, deepening. “I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve tried to let you do things at your pace, but my patience is gone. It’s time to do what I think is right, for you, for Jack, and for me.”

“Which means?”

“That we’re going to figure us out. Once and for all.”

He scooped her into his arms, stepped from the car, and carried her past Mickey, to walk the short distance from the car to the parked jet. The first snowflakes were falling in dizzying whirl of white.

“Put me down!” Ava demanded, pressing against Colm’s thick shoulders and then giving him a shove in the middle of his chest. Snowflakes were sticking to his jacket and dusting their heads. She supposed it was cold but she was too upset to feel it.

Malcolm ignored her, crossing the tarmac in long, determined strides.

Ava glanced back at Mickey who was standing next to the car, arms folded, looking very much like a sentry, except he shouldn’t be standing there frozen. He should be coming to her assistance. “Mickey, help me!” she cried, pounding on Colm’s chest again. “Don’t let him take me. You can’t let him do this—”

“Stop shouting,” Colm cut her short her. “He’s not going to help you. Mickey works for me. He’s always worked for me. Everything you have has been provided by me. Your apartment, your job, your security detail—”

“My security detail?”

“Yes. Your security detail. Robert, your doorman. Mickey, your driver. Peter at the Ballet—”

“Peter, the custodian?”

“He’s not a janitor. He’s a retired Secret Service agent, and he’s there to protect you. So stop shouting and flinging yourself around before you get hurt.”

Her jaw dropped. Her expression was one of shock. “You hired all of those people?”

“Screened them. Hired them. Monitored them.” He shifted her weight in the arms and mounted the stairs, climbing the folding stairs quickly, effortlessly.

“Why?”

“To keep you safe, dammit!”

She stared at him, appalled. “You are out of your mind.”

“Maybe,” he admitted grimly as the crew closed the jet door, securing it. He nodded to the pilots and then the male flight steward even as her put her down in one of the oversized leather chairs in the main galley. “Buckle up,” he said. “We want to get out of here quickly. Conditions are worsening. If we’re going to take off tonight, we need to do it now.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go.” She tried to stand.

He pushed her back down. “You want to go. You’re just being stubborn.”

“Now you’re making me angry,” she snapped as he reached across her lap to buckle the seatbelt.

“And you’re being difficult.” He dropped into the seat across from hers and buckled his belt. “We’re here. We’re going. End of discussion.”

She leaned towards him, spitting mad. “This is why we’re not together! You’re arrogant, and controlling, and overpowering—”

“That’s not why we’re not together. We’re not together because we had a spat in Palm Beach a year ago and you ran away.”

“It wasn’t a spat! It was a catastrophe. And you said as much.”

“I said things I regret,” he agreed. “But I’ve apologized too many times to count.”

“So maybe you should take the hint and leave me alone.”

“I refuse to give up on us.”

“It’s pathetic.”

He shot her a dark, fierce look. “Maybe it’s time we stopped talking and just enjoyed the flight.”

*

For the next thirty minutes all was quiet. Colm was sitting with his head tipped back and his eyes closed. Ava stared out the window until she couldn’t stand it any longer and then turned to focus on Malcolm.

Eventually, he sighed, and without opening his eyes, said, “Jack does the same thing. But he’s three, not twenty-nine.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The staring thing. It’s his favorite game when I’m working.”

“I’m so mad at you.”

“For taking you on a Caribbean holiday when Manhattan is going to be buried under a foot of snow and ice?”

“That’s not the point and you know it. And even if I’d wanted to go with you—”

“You did agree, initially.”

“Initially.” She stressed. “And then I changed my mind. And even if I hadn’t changed my mind, you didn’t even let me pack anything. I’ve no suitcase. I don’t have any clothes.”

“There are clothes for you at the villa.”

“Whose clothes?”

“Yours.” He finally opened his eyes, looked at her. “I ordered them for you thinking you’d be with us this Christmas.”

He’d hoped she’d be there with them for Christmas? A pang shot through her and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. The sharp emotion made her thoughts scatter. It took her a moment to focus. “Don’t try to make me feel guilty.”

“You can feel guilty if you want. I’m just stating facts.”

Facts. Details. It was a good reminder. She needed to make some notes, write down what was happening, and why. But she couldn’t find the notebook on her, and she patted her coat that she’d draped across her legs but couldn’t find it there.

She turned the coat inside out to check the coat’s lavender silk interior, feeling for the hidden pockets.

“What are you looking for?” Colm asked after a moment.

“My notebook.” She lifted the wool coat, shook it hard, and checked the outside pockets once more. “I could have sworn I put the notebook in this pocket when we were leaving the school. I always put it in this pocket.” She looked at him, trying not to panic but worried. She couldn’t imagine getting through a day without the notebook much less a long weekend. “I need it. I use it for everything.”

“We can get you a new one.”

“I don’t want a new one. I need my book. It has all my information in it. Plans, calendar, descriptions and directions…how to do things…when to do things.”

“I can see why you’d want it in Manhattan, but we’re going to be on holiday. Can you not survive without it for a few days?”

She bit her lip, glanced to the window, but could see nothing but darkness beyond the glass. “I just don’t know where I dropped it. I don’t know if it’s in Mickey’s car or—” She broke off as she turned towards him. “And that reminds me, you deceived me. You’ve been deceiving me for months…maybe even years. Mickey wasn’t my driver. He was yours. He worked for you.”

“Yes.”

“And Robert, my doorman. How is it you could hire him?”

“It’s my building, so I have a say in who works there.”

Your building, she silently repeated, staring at him, torn between shock, awe and horror. Maybe what she felt was a little of all three. “Your building. Your doorman. Your driver. And the

job at the ballet? Was that yours, too?”

“Yes. No.”

“Which is it?”

“I asked them to put together a position for you, but the promotions and increased hours and responsibilities, that was all you.”

“But who paid for my salary, and each of the increases that came with the promotions? From the ballet company? Or from you, funneling it to the company?”

He didn’t say anything but that was answer enough. She knotted her hands in her lap, fingers locking tight. She was heartsick. Embarrassed. All this time she’d felt so independent. She’d thought she was accomplishing something, doing something…