Melting the Icy Tycoon
Jan Colley

For Julie Broadbridge

You know grief better than I, my listening friend, and still you bolster us all with your smile and optimism.

Where would we be without you?

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

Coming Next Month

One

Bang! Bang! Bang!

So hot…what is that noise?

“Hello! Anyone there?”

So tired…

Bang! Bang!

Eve reared into a sitting position, her heart pounding. Seconds behind, her mind drifted up through a handful of faraway voices and a swirling crescendo of Tchaikovsky.

And a tremendous thumping. Her upper body swayed in a dizzy spell. The banging continued.

Disoriented, she pushed to her feet. She’d fallen asleep on the couch. The fire had gone out but she was burning up.

“Hang on.” It was the first she’d spoken in days and her throat was shocked into a coughing fit. She took just a couple of steps before she cracked her shin on one of the boxes still to be unpacked. Swallowing a swear word, she staggered toward the door.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

“Your neighbor” came the terse reply.

Neighbor? Where was she? Oh, yes, the new house on Waiheke Island, where she’d moved a few days ago.

Eve leaned on the door, fishing in her pockets for a tissue. The knocking started up again, crashing through her head. She put her hands to her head—but that wasn’t her hair, it was too short. Then Eve remembered. She had cut it off a couple of weeks ago. New beginning, new hair. Cut out the bad stuff—the divorce, losing her job—snip snip.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Coming…” The ancient key was stiff and her wrists weak as spaghetti but finally the door creaked open. Eve swayed with the exertion of the past two minutes, hot and sweaty under her baggy sweatshirt. Even her feet were hot in their thick striped socks.

She looked down. They were half-off, she thought with disgust, then was distracted by enormous shiny shoes and the scissor-sharp creases of slate-gray pants. The jacket matched the trousers. Her eyes roamed up the body—there was a lot of body. Legs that went on forever, the torso just as long but broad, too. Eve paused at her eye level, seriously woozy.

She moved her head back as far as she dared and zoomed in on a somber maroon tie around a lighter shade of smooth collar. Strong chin, wide lips with a definite bow in the center. Lovely green eyes frowned out of a high, wide forehead. The whole attractive parcel was topped with an expensive cut of rich-brown hair, complemented by neat sideburns.

Funny how her mind was fogged with sleep and flu drugs, yet the stranger’s features were indecently clear, as if molded in a lustrous gold.

“Whoa…” Eve succumbed to another dizzy spell. She lurched and caught the door frame.

The man snapped into action and steadied her arm. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t!” she croaked.

He jerked his hand away but did not step back.

“Contagious,” she added, holding the door frame with one hand. She dragged the tissue across her nose and wondered if it looked as raw as it felt.

The stranger appeared concerned but not friendly. At least, she thought, the way she looked and sounded, rape was probably not an option. And if murder was on his mind, she decided death would be a blessed relief.

He stared, and Eve waited for the shock of recognition.

“You’re—Eve Summers.”

“Drumm.” She licked lips that felt like gravel. “Divorced.” New beginning, new name. Technically new-old name, maiden name. Since the divorce was just a few weeks old, it took a bit of getting used to, even for her.

He squinted at her. “You look—different.”

A growing pressure on the bridge of her nose indicated a potential sneeze. “My makeup crew and stylist aren’t unpacked yet,” she rasped.

He peered over her shoulder, frowning. The classical piece blaring out of the national radio program wound up to a revolutionary climax. “Have you seen a doctor?” The question was almost a shout.

Eve flinched. “It’s flu.” Standing in the chill of the open doorway was not helping, but she couldn’t invite him in. The place was a train wreck. She was a train wreck. “It just has to run its course.”

Yet even loaded up with antihistamines, she could still appreciate a fine form of a man when she saw one.

“There are doctors in the village,” he said.

“A doctor would only prescribe bed rest and fluids.”

“And quiet, perhaps.” He obviously did not like Tchaikovsky. “I saw you move in three days ago. Since then there has been no sign of life.”

Eve’s eyes were gritty and dry and she felt hollow. If she didn’t sit down soon she would fall down. “Did you want something?”

Not the friendliest question for a new neighbor, but she would make it up to him some other time. Now she just wanted to be left alone to die in peace.

The man straightened, frowning at her lack of manners. “I was concerned,” he said shortly.

He must be let down to see her like this, a million light-years from her normal public appearance. But Eve was barely surviving a bad enough couple of weeks without someone staring at her as if she was a bug he’d like to squash. “Look, I’d ask you in, but—” she gave a listless wave “—I haven’t unpacked and the place is—” another wave “—and I’m—” dying, burning up, homicidal…take your pick.

His lips thinned and he snapped off a nod. “Before you unpack, I’ve come to make you an offer on the house.”

The need to sneeze redoubled. She was so intent on keeping it in, she didn’t answer.

“This house,” he continued.

“This house?” Eve spread the fingers of both hands wide. He hadn’t even told her his name and he wanted to buy her house?

“I will pay you,” he said distinctly, “ten thousand dollars over what you paid for it.”

Yeah, she was dreaming. Phew! So this gorgeous, expensively dressed man mountain is a figment of overactive imagination and a million milligrams of antihistamine taken a couple of hours ago—or was it yesterday?

She shook her head; it hurt.

“Ten thousand dollars is a tidy sum for no effort on your part.”

“I just bought this house.” The sneeze faded away and indignation pushed her voice up high, setting off another round of coughing.

He grimaced and leaned well back. “Twenty, then.”

“If you wanted this place so badly, why didn’t you make the old owner an offer?” She closed her eyes and silently begged him to go away and leave her alone.

Now he was almost glowering. “Let’s just say Baxter and I did not see eye to eye on a lot of things.”

“He turned you down?”

“He’s a fool. I offered him twice the market value.”

Eve shrugged. “Sorry.”

The man made a sound of impatience. “Well then, I’m offering you twenty thousand over that to sell to me. Cash offer. No agent fees.”

“Why would I buy a house one week and sell it the next?”

“Because you’re smart. It’s twenty grand for doing nothing.”

She massaged her throbbing temples. The stranger handed her a business card, but the words on it phased in and out along with the thumping in her head. She swayed and bumped the door frame again.

“You need a doctor. Are you here on your own?”

“I just need sleep,” she insisted, wishing he would take the hint and leave.

He stared at her for a few moments and then nodded. “Perhaps when you’re feeling better.” He took a step back.

Relief sparked a small spurt of defiance. “It won’t be for sale then, either,” she declared. Holding on to the door, she straightened her spine, proud of herself. Eve Summers—er, Drumm—was no pushover, sick or well.

And then the sneeze erupted in a shrill ah-choo! She covered her face with the damp tissue.

The man’s eyebrows rose and she was mortified to see his mouth quirk in one corner. He then turned and strode off down the path.

“My path,” Eve sniffed with satisfaction. She sank against the closed door and slid to the floor. The tissue in her hand was useless, but she could not gather the energy required to cross the room and replace it.

She looked down at the business card he’d pressed into her hand. Connor Bannerman. CEO of Bannerman, Inc. The name was vaguely familiar, but she was in no condition to trawl through the inflamed mush of her mind.

Sleep. Right here if necessary. She lifted her arm, and the crumpled card joined the general bedlam cluttering the floor of her new—old—house.

“Keep me informed.” Conn stepped down from the container that doubled as a construction-site office cum tea room and raised a hand in farewell to his foreman. His face grim, he picked his way across the mud and gravel to the wire enclosure and the sleek corporate BMW waiting.

Damn and blast the council! They were well behind schedule. He was tempted to pay a visit to the council offices himself and knock some heads together.

Conn Bannerman had been in the construction business for nearly a decade. In fact, he was the construction business in New Zealand, two states in Australia and now branching into the South Pacific. What he did not know about building requirements would fit on a postage stamp.

The council was messing him around. It was no secret that the incumbent mayor was opposed to the new stadium. He believed the city’s money would be better spent elsewhere. And there was nothing Conn could do about it until the local body elections, just over a month away.

He opened the back door of the BMW and slid inside.

“The terminal, Mr. Bannerman?”

Conn nodded to his driver and slid his mobile phone from his overcoat pocket. He checked his messages and called the office.

“Pete Scanlon called about the fund-raiser on the twenty-fifth.”

“Apologies,” Conn told his secretary flatly.

“I sent them last week. He wants to make you some sort of presentation for sponsoring his campaign.”

Conn grimaced.

“But I thanked him and said you had a prior engagement.”

“Thank you, Phyll. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Don’t forget…”

“The conference call with Melbourne tomorrow.”

“At ten,” the redoubtable Phyllis ended.

Conn wondered how he had ever managed without his awesome secretary. But for her, he would be in the office seven days a week instead of having the freedom to work from home when he chose.

He scowled and slid his phone back into his pocket. He would gladly work seven days a week for the biggest project of his life, but it wasn’t going to plan. Pete Scanlon was his only hope, which was why Bannerman, Inc. was backing his campaign.

“Monday at nine, Mikey.” Conn buttoned up his overcoat and stepped out onto the accessway of the ferry terminal. Extracting a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, he joined the queue at the newsagent’s. While he waited, his free hand rested on a stack of magazines and he looked idly down.

She stared up from the glossy cover of a women’s magazine. His fingers seemed to stroke her chin. He wondered why every time he saw that face, he could not stop looking.

She was not a stunning beauty, more your girl-next-door type—and wasn’t that a joke? And, as he’d discovered, not nearly as attractive in person or as warm and gracious as she appeared on TV.

That was unfair, given her health at the time.

Her face was more round than heart-shaped and the hint of a double chin somehow added to the charm she projected on screen. The magazine’s photographer had captured her eyes perfectly; the color of the harbor at dusk.

Why I Quit was the headline.

Conn’s workload left him no time for gossip. But the hue and cry that had erupted when the country’s top-rated anchor walked out of the studio a few weeks ago had permeated even his awareness. And now that hue and cry had landed virtually in his backyard.

Conn Bannerman had more reason than most to despise the media. Journalists, reporters, radio jocks—he wasn’t picky when it came to labeling all of New Zealand’s small media circle “scum.” Before he met her, Eve Summers was the only one he might have given the time of day to. Her nightly current-affairs show was about the only time his wide-screen TV flickered into life, unless there was a rugby game on.

With a quick glance around, he opened the magazine and looked for the contents page and found the article.

“Burnout…a recent divorce—” He shook his head in disgust. That celebrities felt they must inflict their sad little problems onto anyone who would listen was bad enough. Why must the media also target people who desired nothing more than to keep their private lives private?

He sensed the customer in front moving and shoved the magazine forward a few inches.

“The usual, Mr. B.?”

He nodded at the Business Review beside the till and held out his money. “Born Evangeline”—pretty name, suited her. “Her father dying…no other TV shows in the pipeline…single…” Conn’s eyes skimmed the article, picking out key words. The newsagent took the bill from his outstretched hand.

With a reluctant last look at the article, Conn closed the magazine, then inexplicably picked it up and laid it on a stack of papers by the till.

Two minutes later he was boarding the ferry with the magazine folded tightly into his Business Review.

What just happened here?

It was his custom to spend the thirty-five-minute ferry ride from the city reading the business newspapers or working, but today the Business Review stayed firmly folded, concealing its shameful secret. Conn had watched the newsagent pick up the magazine and fold it into his paper, incredulous that the man would even think he would buy a women’s magazine. So incredulous that when handed his purchases and change, he could only glare then walk away, feeling ridiculous.

His embarrassment had faded into the occasional rueful shake of the head by the time the ferry docked and he got into his car and drove home. But it returned full force when the object of his discomfort stood outside his door with her hand on the doorbell. Con turned the engine off and shoved the magazine into his briefcase before stepping out of the car.

Annoyance mingled with intrigue. He did not like surprises and considered he had wasted enough time thinking about Ms. A-List Summers tonight. But there was no doubt she interested him. Was that because she was famous? Would he be as interested if she was a nobody?

A quick scan of her body confirmed that he would be. More slender than she appeared on the television screen, but still, she had curves that would turn any man’s head. And she walked as though she knew it. Denim-clad hips swayed as her long legs started toward him and she raised an elegant hand in greeting.

She looked a hundred percent better than their first meeting. It was nearly dark, and his security light lit up the driveway and picked out the shine of her hair. It was several different shades, one of which clashed spectacularly with her very pink sweater. And she must have found her makeup crew, because the face was just like it was in the cover photo. Flawless skin. Practiced smile.

A warning flashed through his mind. Just remember, to a newshound, there is no such thing as “off the record.”

Then she stood in front of him, and his misgivings were obliterated by a most pleasurable and searing rush of desire. It hit him low and hard and snatched away his breath.

Okay, it had been a while since his last sexual encounter, but he should be able to control his libido better than that. A fourteen-year-old should be able to control his libido better than that.

Conn thanked heaven for heavy cashmere overcoats.

“Howdy, neighbor,” she said, with a bright but hesitant smile. She’d dropped her arm to her side, and her palm rubbed her hip, and it occurred to him she was a little nervous. Charming, he thought. Dangerous. Why would a woman who made a living out of meeting people and setting them at ease be nervous?

“Ms. Summers.”

“Eve,” she told him, rubbing her hip harder. “I thought we’d give this neighbor thing another try, without the medication this time.”

Eve had felt fully recovered and excited about exploring her new surroundings, and so she’d decided to pay her neighbor a visit, partly to apologize for her lack of manners but also to see if he lived up to the intrigue. Not just his looks, though she’d had several tempting flashbacks featuring his face, but his reasons for wanting to buy her house.

His house was little more than five minutes’ walk up a gentle incline. It had felt wonderful to stretch her legs after being laid low with flu for weeks.

His name may have escaped her but, standing in front of him now, she knew her memory hadn’t done justice to such impressive shoulders. He was big. Eve was almost overwhelmed, not only by his size but a physical presence that seemed to invade her space, making her want to step back. Puzzled, she searched his inscrutable expression for a sign of welcome. “Um, it was kind of you to be concerned the other night.”

He tilted his head to the side, watchful and silent.

Eve chewed her lip. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t as friendly as I could have been.”

“You weren’t friendly at all,” he murmured.

She picked at a seam on her jeans, not sure how to respond. People were generally happy to see her, to converse. She was not one to put any store on celebrity, but this level of detachment toward her was not customary. “O-kay. I apologize for the other night. Can we start again?”

He rubbed his jaw with large, well-tended fingers.

“I’m afraid I lost your card. I don’t even know what to call you.”

“Conn.” He did not extend his hand. “Bannerman.”

Once again, Eve thought she’d heard that name before.

“Great place you have here.” She flicked her eyes over the house she had been admiring before he arrived. It was built on the edge of a cliff, far above the ferry terminal. One-storied, a long, low expanse of wood, concrete and glass in a sleek half-moon design. Glass dominated, as it should in this setting. She bet the views would be exceptional from every room.

“Would you like to come in?”

She turned back to him, remembering her manners. “I wouldn’t like to impose.”

He led her into the house through the garage. Eve felt eclipsed by the breadth and length of the hallway, and the way his head made it through the doorway with mere inches to spare. Big man, big house. They walked into a huge kitchen/dining/living area with wall-to-wall windows. The floor was polished timber, magnifying the feeling of space. Neutral colors and the clever use of partitioning walls and differing ceiling heights made it seem as if the areas were separated, but it was, in effect, one massive room. There were no lights on and did not appear to be any drapes or blinds.

Far across the harbor, the tall buildings and towers of the city sparkled, interspersed by patches of dark—hills and parks. The curve of the island was dotted with sparse lights from the tiny settlements that made up the five thousand residents. To the right stretched the inky sea and the darker shadows of the other Hauraki Gulf islands, jutting up like fists.

Conn Bannerman tossed his briefcase onto a ten-setting kauri table and began to unbutton his coat. “Would you like some coffee? Something stronger?” He moved to the cooking area and flicked a couple of lights on.

“Coffee’s fine,” Eve answered, still entranced by the view. “Can I help?”

He did not answer. She turned to watch him. His back was to her. The suit jacket had come off now, and he was rolling his shirtsleeves up strongly muscled forearms. “Did you build this house?”

He turned around holding two enormous coffee mugs and a percolator. He flicked her a brief nod, then filled the pot with water and measured coffee grounds.

“Are you a builder?” Eve leaned on the twenty-foot-long kitchen island and searched the shadows of his face. The light was behind him, but he had a chin Superman might covet.

“I’m in construction, yes.”

In a flash, her mind clicked into recall. “CEO of Bannerman, Inc. You’re the Bannerman Stadium guy.”

“The Gulf Harbor Stadium guy,” he corrected, setting milk, sugar and teaspoons on the marble-topped counter between them.

She recalled the euphoria that gripped the country when the International Rugby Board announced that New Zealand would host the next World Cup. The building of the stadium was a contentious issue but it wasn’t something she had followed closely.

She would have if she’d known that the man bestowed with the responsibility of building that stadium was such a hunk. His profile was stern and strong and in perfect proportion to his muscular bulk. He would look wonderful on camera….

He seemed at home in his kitchen, his movements efficient and effortless. She bet he’d never drop a spoon or cup, the complete opposite of her.

Hmm. If he was efficiently at home in his kitchen, did that imply there was no Mrs. Bannerman lurking about?

“Shall we sit down?”

Eve lifted her mug with both hands. They moved to the big table. One end was covered in papers, files and a laptop. His keys sat in a striking blue-and-white-striped pottery fruit bowl alongside bananas, kiwifruit and tangelos. She was glad he wasn’t phobic about neatness.

He saw her glance at the clutter. “I work from home a lot of the time. I have an office but I enjoy this room.”

“I can see why.”

They sipped in silence for a moment. It was deathly quiet. She fought an insane urge to cry “Hello!” and listen for the echo. Eve couldn’t bear to be without the constant hum of TV or music. “You know, I think my whole house would fit in this one room.”

Conn sipped his drink and looked at her with interest. “Have you thought about my offer?”

Eve toyed with the handle of her mug. “My mind was mush at the time. I didn’t think you were serious.”

“I was, most definitely.” His eyes were on her face. Attentive. Sharp, even, and really a nice shade of green. She amended her previous impression of coolness. More apt to say controlled. Unflappable.

Unforgettable.

The song “Unforgettable” started up in her mind and she hummed it absently until she saw his blink of surprise and stopped. It was a stupid, if harmless, habit of hers that unsettled some people.

Conn recovered and looked at her expectantly. Eve glanced around the room and opened her arms wide. “Why would you want my house when you have this house?”

“Why would a TV star want to live on this side of the island?”

The emphasis on “TV star” somehow compelled her to feel defensive. Was it intentional?

Conn’s eyes were still on her face. “I don’t know if Baxter told you. I own all of the land here from the turnoff, except that one little piece your house is on.”

Without taking her eyes off him, she murmured, “So, don’t be greedy.”

Conn raised his chin and pointed it at the window. Eve followed the line of his gaze—to her house. In the glow of her porch light, she caught the gleam of her white crushed-shell path. A rush of affection for her tumbledown house swelled her chest. Funny to think she had bonded so quickly with the rising damp, threadbare carpet and creaky floorboards.

She was smiling when she turned back to him, but that faded when she saw his resolute expression. With sudden clarity, she understood exactly his purpose. “You think my house spoils your view.”

“If it was any other room, I could dismiss it,” Conn said. “But not this room.”

Eve frowned. Snippets of the conversation with the previous owner returned. Mr. Baxter had not liked his neighbor one little bit. He gleefully accepted her offer on the house, saying that at least Mr. High and Mighty up the hill wouldn’t get his hands on it.

He wanted to pull down her house? “Not wanting to state the obvious, but my house has been there for sixty or seventy years.”

Conn did not reply.

“If you didn’t like the look of it,” she continued, “why did you build this room so that you could see the house from here?”

He shrugged. “The old man couldn’t live forever.”

“He’s not dead. He’s in a rest home.”

“I am aware of that, Ms. Summers. But it’s academic now, isn’t it?”

She ignored the use of her married name—again. “And everyone’s got their price, right?”

His look sharpened. “What’s yours?”

Under that intense green gaze, Eve struggled to hold her temper. His arrogance eroded all of the attraction she’d felt a few minutes ago.

Moving here had been about giving herself time to decide what the next chapter of her life would bring. She was twenty-eight years old, never a day out of work and now unemployed. Divorced. Childless. She knew without doubt that she needed to put down roots. Come to terms with her regrets, which all seemed to have caught up with her since her sacking. She was actually grateful that the crazy life of a TV presenter was no longer hers. It had never been the real Eve Drumm.

She would not be pushed.

“Mr. Bannerman…” She gave him what she hoped was a sweet smile.

“Conn,” he said smoothly.

“I am sorry if the sight of my house is something you can’t live with, but grown-ups learn they can’t get everything they want all of the time.”

“Grown-ups also learn the value of money, especially money they don’t have to work for.”

“I may be out of work right now but it’s still not for sale,” she said firmly. “I can’t believe you want to pull down my little old house for something so—self-indulgent.”

Conn leaned back, the barest hint of a smile compressing his lips. To her eyes, he looked thoroughly indulged.

“I can afford to be self-indulgent, Eve. Can you?”

“I have a bit to come and go on, thank you.”

“Name your price.”

Her temper stirred and stretched. “You can’t afford it.”

For the first time she saw anger flare in his eyes. Not much, carefully controlled, but he definitely had not learned that he couldn’t get everything he wanted all of the time.

Her heart gave a thump, but it wasn’t fear or even apprehension she felt facing him down. It was excitement, in its purest form. And it was very worrying. “I will be making improvements,” she told him, tossing her head. “In the meantime, get some blinds.” She drained her cup and stood. “Thank you for the coffee.”

Her neighbor stood also, forcing her to look up. His eyes drilled into her face. “You didn’t answer my question. Why is a big-shot TV star interested in living on this side of the island, anyway?”

Eve shot him a look of disdain and stalked to the door. This hadn’t gone well at all. With her back still to him, she said quietly, “I am not a big TV star. I’m just a regular person who wants a bit of peace and quiet.”

She looked over her shoulder. The physical distance between them strengthened her. The distance in his eyes depressed her. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. I thought with the two of us being close neighbors and no one else for miles around—well, it would be nice to have someone to call on in an emergency, is all.”

That square jaw rose and he glared down his long nose at her. “The trendy artists and café set in the village will welcome someone like you. Up here the natives are not so friendly.” He paused ominously. “In the meantime, an emergency is acceptable. Discussing my open offer on your house is acceptable. Unannounced visits are not.”

It took all of the willpower Eve possessed not to slam the door in his face. Striding down the hill in the dark, it occurred to her he hadn’t even offered her a lift home. She wouldn’t have accepted, anyway.

“Put him out of your mind,” she muttered to herself. There were bigger, more important things to think about.

She had an election to disrupt and an old enemy to vanquish.

Two

Conn almost groaned aloud when he saw Eve sitting up front, chatting to the purser. He considered turning and walking off the ferry, but this was the last one of the night. It was now or the office couch.

He slipped warily into a seat at the back. The ferry was almost empty. With a bit of luck, he could get off before she saw him when they got to Waiheke. He stretched his long legs out, pulled his coat collar up around his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.

He knew he had been arrogant and the passage of a few days was not long enough to let him forget. She’d made an overture of friendship, and he had thrown it back at her. He could still see her lovely face streaked with embarrassment and something worse, as if her eyes were bruised. Had it been so long that he’d forgotten how to act around a woman?

Forgotten how to act around people, period. Conn avoided interaction with people. Even his parents had nearly given up on him. They had been a happy family unit once. Now he was lucky to speak to them once a month.

It used to be so different.

He could hear Eve’s voice the whole way. It was a nice voice, warm, lilting, bright with humor. He pried his eyes open occasionally to watch her. Her hair swung and her hands were never still. The purser had a smile a mile wide.

Finally they docked and Conn did not look back. Of course she would have seen him; there were only a handful of passengers. He got into his car, feeling like a heel, and watched her walk across the road to the taxi rank. The deserted taxi rank.

Damn.

He and Eve were the only people who lived up on the ridge far above the terminal. Being only thirty minutes by ferry to New Zealand’s largest city, Waiheke Island was a popular place to reside—if you could afford it. In the summer, day-trippers and tourists tripled the population, and the many hotels, resorts and hostels were full.

But this was out of season and, except for the ferry commuters, the roads were deserted. There would only be one or two taxis operating at this time of night.

His hands clenched the wheel.

The very thought of driving another person froze his guts. Conn was comfortable enough driving himself—he had taught himself to be. Driving was necessary to living in the twenty-first century.

But the thought of anyone else in the car when he was at the wheel had him straightening and shrinking from an ice-cold trickle of sweat. Because of Rachel.

He breathed in deeply. He could do this. It wasn’t like he never drove anyone these days. But he generally liked to prepare himself. Give himself a pep talk beforehand.

He knew he could not drive past his new neighbor in the dark of a late-autumn night.

Easing the car into gear, he drove across the road, stopped, then leaned over and opened the passenger door.

Eve actually looked like she was going to refuse. She pursed her mouth, giving the empty streets a last look. Conn began to hope she would turn him down. But then she picked up his briefcase from the passenger seat and slid into the car.

“Nice of you.”

He grunted, inhaling something tangy and lemony. They set off sedately. Conn forced himself to relax his knuckles so they would not whiten around the wheel. His knee began to ache. It always did in times of stress. The demolition of that knee in the accident had ruined his rugby-playing career, but that was a small price to pay for the taking of a life.

“Working late?” she asked eventually.

“Business dinner.” The road was dark with dew. Conn hated wet roads. “Don’t you have a car?” he asked curtly.

“It’s in a garage in town. I thought I might get a scooter to have on the island.”

“Not suitable for the gravel road on the ridge.” In the silence that followed, he chided himself for sounding so abrupt.

Eve sighed and leaned her head on the rest.

The engine droned in Conn’s ears. He thought about her talking and laughing with the purser just minutes ago.

“How’s the job hunting going?” he asked, lifting one damp hand off the wheel to wipe over his thigh.

“I landed a job today, actually.”

Conn flashed her a quick glance. She seemed more subdued than elated.

“It’s part-time,” she continued. “Only a few hours a week from home.” She looked at him and her chin tilted up. “It shouldn’t interfere with my renovations.”

His lips compressed. If she was planning renovations, she was not thinking of moving.

She looked tired. He decided to cut her some slack and steer clear of the house subject. “What’s the job?”

Her voice warmed. “Gossip columnist, would you believe? For the New City.”

Conn snapped a look at her, incredulous. “Gossip columnist?”

“It should be fun.” Now she sounded defensive.

“Perfect,” Conn muttered, shaking his head in derision.

There was a long silence and then she sighed gustily. “What is it exactly that you don’t like about me?”

That jolted him. He wondered what she’d do if he told her he liked her so much, he’d bought a women’s magazine about her. “I don’t know you well enough to have formed an opinion.”

“What is it—my politics? My interviewing style?”

He liked her interviewing style, always had. He admired the way she put her subjects at ease, and he had never watched a show of hers that involved the badgering technique employed by so many others. She was enthusiastic and expressive, especially her hands; she used her hands constantly on TV.

A rabbit shot across the road in front of him. Adrenaline flooded his body. It took a superhuman effort not to swerve or pound at the brake pedal.

Conn focused on the road and his breathing. You can do this, you do do it. Every muscle in his body vibrated with tension.

A minute dragged by. When his breathing had calmed, he cleared his throat. “I think you should know, Ms. Summers, I regard the whole media machine as a level below stepping in spit.”

Her cheeks blew out in a little huff of exasperation, and she turned away to stare out the window. Conn knew he would feel bad later, but right now he was too tense to address it.

Finally they approached their turnoff and he swung the car onto the gravel road. His eyes pricked with relief at the sight of her dilapidated letterbox a few hundred meters away. He flexed his aching leg and eased off the gas, indicating he was about to turn into her driveway.

“Just here is fine.”

The big car rolled to a halt opposite her house. Conn peeled his hands off the steering wheel. Inhaling, he laced his fingers together, pressed down and cracked each knuckle, one by one. He saw her grimace, but the flow of tension ebbing out of his extremities was exquisite.

She handed him his briefcase and held his gaze for a second. “Not friends, then,” she murmured and turned to get out of the car. “But I do thank you for the lift. Good night, Mr. Bannerman.”

Arrogant pig! Eve slammed her way inside the empty house and flicked the kitchen radio on. Some neighbor. Living in the city, you expected detachment and disinterest from neighbors. Here there were just the two of them for miles around.

She felt like a glass of wine for the first time since the flu. Pouring a large glass, she wandered into the lounge and stabbed at the TV with the remote.

Why did Conn Bannerman hate her? He could barely bring himself to speak to her. To think she had found him attractive. She wandered into her second bedroom and booted the computer up. The attraction was certainly not mutual.

Wine was the nectar of the gods, she thought, sipping. She and James had been passionate about it. Had an enormous collection in London—she wondered what had become of it after she’d walked away.

After the miscarriage…

The phone rang. Frowning, she checked her watch. It was her friend Lesley, one of the reporters who worked—had worked—on her show.

Eve’s mood perked up. If she was going to be the New City newspaper’s gossip columnist, there was no one better than Lesley to know what was going on in town. “How are you bearing up, Les?”

The very worst thing about being fired was that it affected all the people working on her show.

“I’m fine, Evie. Don’t worry about me. There’s plenty of work around. How’s life in the slow lane?”

While she chatted with Lesley, Eve came across the card Conn had given her the other night. She typed in his company Web site. Waiting for the screen to come up, she asked her friend if she’d heard of Conn Bannerman.

“‘Ice’ Bannerman? The guy building the stadium?”

“They call him ‘Ice’?” Eve asked, thinking how apt that was.

“Fearless on the field. Used to play rugby for New Zealand.”

Eve raised her brows. That explained the killer bod.

New Zealand was a small country on the world stage but punched well above their weight in rugby. And they treated members of their national team like kings. Even past members. “Why haven’t I heard of him?”

“Long time ago. Ten, eleven years.”

“Ah, I was on the big OE.” Overseas, backpacking around, producing the news in far-flung places. “Anything personal?”

“Hmm. I don’t think he does interviews.”

I sort of got that, Eve thought.

“Self-made millionaire. I think there was something—an accident, finished his playing career before it really took off. I’m not sure. But Jeff will know. I’ll get him to look it up.” Lesley’s boyfriend was a sports editor.

“Now listen up. Have you checked your e-mails? Your mystery contact called today.”

Eve banged her glass down, slopping wine in her rush to sign into her e-mail.

“He’s sent you a teaser,” Lesley continued. “A couple of photos. They say a picture tells a thousand words.”

Eve flopped back in her seat, staring at the monitor.

The photos were poor quality, grainy and unfocused. It wasn’t the skimpily clad, almost prepubescent girls that widened Eve’s eyes. Nor the opulence of the yacht the subjects were on. It was the three middle-aged men the girls were draped over that had her scrambling for a pen and scribbling frantically on her deskpad.

Three well-known names.

One, a businessmen who was at the very top tier of big business. The second man was the current police commissioner. The third—she groaned in disgust—was on the board of the government-owned television network. The one she’d worked for.

“What else? Did he say anything else?”

“He asked for your phone number—I told him you would have to agree to that. I guess he’ll be in touch. And he wants you to know he’s sorry if you got sacked on his account.”

Eve frowned. How did he know she was sacked? The official word was she’d quit.

“Oh, and he said to tell you it’s not always about money.”

Eve pondered that. How did this relate to Pete Scanlon?

She hadn’t seen her nemesis since she was fifteen. It had been a huge shock to her when he’d burst onto the political scene here six months ago. No one knew anything about him. He was progressive and personable. He was handsome and articulate. People said he was vibrant.

Eve had invited him on the show but he declined, knowing full well she detested him. She made the comment on air that perhaps the show should go to his home town down south—her home town—and find out what his peers thought, since he chose to be so elusive.

Then an anonymous businessman called her at the studio, claiming Pete’s tax consultancy had involved him and other prominent businessmen in shady deals amounting to tax evasion. While trying to persuade him to name names publicly, Eve proposed exploring the issue in a segment on the show. Her boss said no which had led to a huge row and Eve being fired.

Then she’d gotten sick, moved and succumbed to a relapse.

Now Pete Scanlon was set to shake this city of one and a half million on its head. So much more scope for damage than a few country bumpkins. Eve intended to make sure the people of her adopted city knew what they were getting before they cast their votes.

“You really have it in for this guy, don’t you?” her friend asked.

Eve took a large sip of wine and swirled it around her mouth to dilute the bad taste the thought of that man always left. “You know that old adage about a leopard changing its spots? That will never happen to Pete Scanlon. He is bad, through and through.”

Lesley promised to pass on her phone number when the contact called again. Eve stared at the photos on the screen for minutes after hanging up, wondering what they meant.

It’s not always about money.

What did an opulent yacht, some underage girls and two out of the three men working for the government have in common with dodgy tax deals?

Only that Pete Scanlon was involved. The lightbulb went on. Blackmail and corruption, so much more his style than business.

Praying her mystery man would contact her again soon, she considered her options. The only weapon at her disposal now was the gossip column. First thing tomorrow she would contact the legal team at the paper. Her words would have to be very carefully chosen to avoid slam-dunking the fledgling paper into a defamation war.

Eve signed out, her mood grim, but her path ahead was clear. Stop Pete Scanlon.

Her eye was drawn to the business card of the CEO of Bannerman, Inc. For the second time, she crumpled the card in her hand and tossed it on the floor.

And told herself to stop thinking about Conn Bannerman!

Three

Conn paused by his secretary’s desk. “Phyll, do you read the New City?”

His secretary looked surprised. “No, Mr. Bannerman.”

He carried on into his office. As he removed his jacket, Phyllis followed him in, held out a wad of messages and took his coat from him in the same movement. “I think I saw one in the tearoom.”

Conn looked at her blankly.

“The newspaper. Shall I get it?”

“Thank you.”

To anyone who did not know her, his secretary looked unperturbed. Conn, however, knew the level of astonishment she displayed in her arched brows and pursed lips. He read only the business papers. The New City was hardly what one would call a serious newspaper, chock-full as it was of entertainment news and fashion.

Eve Summers invaded his mind for the umpteenth time today, as she had every day since their last meeting. He had seen her once since giving her a lift home. She’d been chopping wood into kindling in the lopsided lean-to she used as a wood shed. She hadn’t turned and waved as he drove past. He had not expected her to.

He could hardly be blamed for being so unpleasant the other night. If she only knew what it cost him to drive her.

Phyllis tapped on the door and entered the room, placing the newspaper on the corner of his desk. Conn pretended to concentrate on his work. He bet Phyll would know how to make amends to a minor acquaintance she had slighted.

He bet Phyll would have a coronary if he asked her.

Alone again, he reached out for the folded paper and noted the small advertising box on the front page: Our New Gossip Columnist, Perennially Popular EVE DRUMM! (formerly SUMMERS!)

How could she stoop so low? Conn’s lip curled. She’d described the position as fun. People’s embarrassments and misfortunes all thrown into the pot, mixed well and served up as fun?

He tossed the paper back on the desk and bent his head to his work.

After a hectic day, Conn settled on the ferry and finally opened the New City newspaper. He proceeded to read the thing from cover to cover, leaving her column till last. It was almost like postponing his reward.

That was his mistake. Had he read her column first, the flash of temper it inspired would have had longer to cool by the time he drove up Eve’s driveway. Conn may have taken a moment to wonder whether the article itself angered him or it was just an excuse to see her again.

“Damn it all!” he muttered, throwing the car into park. He strode up her pathway as if he could outrun the steam coming out of his ears. It was bad enough that there was a celebrity living next door. He’d already heard music on the night air a couple of times. The glitzy parties were bound to start anytime. There would be cars cluttering up the roads and fancy caterers’ vans and no doubt photographers hiding in the bushes.

But the fact that she was also a gossip columnist—the lowest of the low—only added to his ire.

She opened the door to his loud knocking, a startled look on her face. Conn did not wait for an invitation. He brushed past her, saluting her with the paper. After several moments she closed the door and followed him into the kitchen.

Conn slapped the paper down on top of the table while she moved to switch off the radio on the bench. It didn’t make any difference; there was still music blaring.

“You’ve gone too far,” he told her loudly.

Frowning, Eve turned to the window and pulled the curtain back. She wore the same pink sweater as the other night and black pants. Very slinky black pants, the kind with no zip in front.

“What are you doing?” he demanded of her shapely hip as she peered out into the twilight.

“The thunder clap’s arrived,” she said drily. “Where’s the lightning?” She let the curtain fall and turned back, leaning her hip against the bench.

Conn stared at her, biting the inside of his lip to stop himself from smiling. Damn it! He raised the folded newspaper and gave it a loud flick. “You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face when my legal team is through with you.”

“Oh, the column.” Her face cleared and she fluttered her fingers at the paper he held. “Funny. I didn’t pick you as a fan of gossip columns.”

“I’m not!” he snapped. “It was—brought to my attention.”

A wariness sharpened her gaze. “What’s he to you?”

Conn raised his tense shoulders. “For your information, my company is backing Pete Scanlon to the hilt in the mayoralty campaign.”

That seemed to jolt her. Two little lines appeared between her wide-set indigo eyes. “You mean financially?”

“Yes, financially. What else?” How she stirred him up! Every reaction he had around this woman was extreme. There were no nice soft corners. It was all slashes of anger, of suspicion, of confusion.

Of desire.

“Are you close?”

Conn snorted. “What do you mean, close? I give him money for his election campaign. I do that because I need him to win. I need him to win so I can do my job.”

There was some hideous piece of opera playing in the next room. He could hardly hear himself think. Eve leaned three feet away, her chin jutting out in defiance. Once again, he had put her on the defensive by being insufferable.

“So you don’t socialize with him?”

“I hardly know the man,” Conn told her impatiently. Surely she’d noticed he was not the type to socialize. “But I won’t have him slandered in rags like this.”

Eve lifted her shoulders and placed both palms on her chest. “My legal team went through it with a fine-tooth comb. You won’t find a word in there you can do anything about.”

Conn struggled to keep his eyes on her face and not the indentations her fingers made, pressing in on her front. “You know what I think? You made it up.”

“Think so?” she taunted softly. Either she had lowered her voice or the music was getting louder. Her eyes were wide and teasing. Her mouth, half smiling, baited him. All he could think was would she still be smiling after he kissed her?

“Can we turn that blasted racket off?” he barked.

That wiped the complacent look off her face. She threw her arms up in the air and stalked into the lounge. He was one step behind her as she swerved to avoid a cluster of sanding gear, masks and tins of paint stripper on the bare floor.

“Your attempt to discredit Scanlon is a publicity stunt. Admit it.”

She stopped in front of the stereo and whirled on him. “No, it’s gossip. You know, a lighthearted dig about how pleased his former subjects are that he’s moved on to bigger and better pastures.”

When she didn’t move, Conn reached over her shoulder, his finger jabbing at the stereo power switch. The opera was cut off midaria but the television set in the corner of the room was still chattering. “Your career is over and you can’t accept that because you have an insatiable need to be in the public eye. Because you people make up things to draw attention to yourselves.” He could not believe how heightened his senses were, how his blood seemed to surge through his veins.

“I do not!” she retorted, not backing up one inch.

“Why then, Ms. Summers…” He leaned in close. Since his finger already had its dander up, he employed it to wag in front of her astonished face. “Why are there no names? No confirmations? But mostly, why is yours the lone voice in the wilderness?”

She grabbed his finger.

He started, unable to believe it. A jolt of energy crackled and popped through him at the contact. Yes, she had a tight hold on his index finger and was holding it away, so there was nothing in between them.

Nothing but air and madness.

In a flash his big hand totally encompassed her small one and he laced their fingers together.

She tossed her head back, inhaling sharply. “Because, Mr. Bannerman,” she said, dragging her incredulous eyes from their entwined fingers to his face, “Scanlon cultivates friends in high places. He always has.”

Conn moved a step closer, tugging her hand gently toward him. “Really, Ms. Summers?”

“The New City paper isn’t part of the old-boy network. It…it can’t be bought off like the others.” Her breathing seemed shallow and rapid, her voice not as certain as before. But she did raise her chin. “And it’s Drumm, not Summers.”

Their wrists had locked together and he felt her pulse hammering against his. “Sorry. Ms. Drumm.” He bowed his head mockingly. “A rag’s a rag. Pete Scanlon has probably never even heard of it.” There was no heat in his voice now, the anger dissipating with the feel of her unresisting hand in his. Unresisting but not unresponsive. When he saw her eyes flick to his mouth and away, his blood began pumping to another beat. It wasn’t opera.

“I bet he has now,” she murmured and something glowed in him to hear her breathlessness.

Conn brought his other hand up and took her free one. She sucked in a breath but her warm fingers closed around his and her eyes flicked back and stayed on his mouth. He moved closer, dipping his head.

“Conn?” she breathed. Her eyes were wide and dark, her chest rose as his body connected with hers.

“Eve.” He took her mouth. Soft and cool and firm. His anger and tension fell away. Sighing, he pulled her closer. This was the argument he had wanted to have with her since day one.

She made a little humming noise in her throat and flexed her hands, but he wasn’t giving them up just yet. He eased her arms behind her and placed their laced hands on her rump. They swayed together, mouths locked, pressing up against each other.

He touched his tongue to hers, and exhilaration fizzed through him—that she tasted like heaven, that she was compliant, that maybe she was as greedy as he was.

Conn was so hungry for this warmth, this need, her acceptance. He was no monk, but it had been a long time. His infrequent affairs were more like arrangements, begun with the objective of completion. There wasn’t this blind need reaching out from him, building out of all proportion to the situation. Right out of proportion for a first kiss for two people who couldn’t even decide if they trusted or liked each other.

He leaned over her a little and angled her head back so he could kiss her more deeply. His desire built relentlessly and it flowed like tendrils of silk, binding them closer. He felt her slim fingers tightening rhythmically around his and her hips swaying as she arched against him. She was leading him into madness, and he’d never been more willing in his life.

When her tongue slid against his, the room began to swirl and he knew he’d reached his point of no return. She was leading him somewhere he might not be able to leave.

They came apart slowly, watching each other. Conn’s mouth tingled and his body ached with desire, and he felt that it would for the rest of the night. Eve looked into his eyes as if she had never seen him before.

He slowly leaned back, bringing their still-joined hands to her front. Her tight grip relaxed but she did not pull away.

He took a deep breath, inhaling that tangy citrus lotion or shampoo or whatever it was she wore. “I’m—sorry. That was not meant to happen.”

Her head jerked. Big eyes, as big as his, no doubt.

He released her hands with one last gentle squeeze. “I think I made my point,” he said, with little certainty. Then he nodded and walked out to his car.

Eve was a pacer. When alone and troubled, she would pace while conversing out loud, throwing her arms around to accentuate her points. But minutes after the sound of Conn’s car faded away, she stood exactly where he’d left her.

The initial clamoring of desire, from scalp to toes, was fading, too—into worry. She didn’t want to regret this kiss. Why should she regret something that warmed her through, reminded her of the joy of being a woman? She loved that stomach-plummeting feeling, like dreaming you’re falling off a cliff—scary but not fatal. Her blood was pumping and, yes, her juices flowed and it felt fantastic.

But this was a path already trodden. Eve did not trust lust. It had led directly to her marriage. In fact, if you wanted to think about it, her ex-husband’s lust—for other women—had led directly to her divorce.

Oh, no. She could not, she would not be drawn again into a relationship based on the physical.

“Don’t trust lust.” That would be her mantra. That night, she recited it until she fell asleep, and again when she woke up. Eve made a firm resolution to stay away from Conn Bannerman unless—unless her house was on fire.

Wouldn’t he just love that? she thought wryly.

The next day she received a small packet of newspaper clippings about Conn’s past from Lesley’s boyfriend. Not yet she thought, tossing it unopened in a kitchen drawer. Not with the taste of his kiss still fresh in her memory.

She spent the next few days following leads on Pete Scanlon. In a worrying turn of events she discovered that her ex-boss, Grant, was also thick with the mayoral candidate. She’d been fond of Grant. There was a kindliness in him unusual in the cutthroat world of TV ratings. She suspected sacking her had been difficult for him and he’d certainly copped a lot of public flak since her departure.

However, for Pete Scanlon to be friendly with two leading personnel of the national TV station put a sinister slant on Eve’s exit from that station.

A call from the mystery businessman gave her insight into a surprisingly clever money laundering and tax scam. Eve was surprised. The Pete Scanlon she knew was boorish and unrefined. Yet he had devised a simple but effective way to exploit the gray area between tax avoidance and tax evasion.

But then her contact moved onto the blackmail part of it, and that involved not only the businessmen he had already compromised but also government and police officials, politicians, media moguls. Private yacht trips, everything supplied—drugs, girls, gambling, whatever took their fancy. And, of course, the hidden camera.

“It’s not money that spins Pete’s wheels,” the man told her. “It’s power. Turn the screws and keep the favors coming. Forever.”

Oh, yes, this was so much more his style.

“Will you go on record?” Eve implored, without much hope. The stakes were far higher than she’d realized.

“Not on my own,” the man said. “If this all comes out, a couple of the players could get jail time. Others—and I’m in that category—will get massive fines and destroyed reputations.”

“He will win this election,” Eve fretted, her faith in the incumbent mayor dwindling. “Benson’s stale. The people want something new.”

“You have around three weeks to do something about it. Else there won’t be a clean cop or politician or newsman in this city.”

Eve was jarred by the sudden realization that Conn could be one of the business cartel involved in the money laundering. Or worse, what if the not-so-honorable mayoral candidate had something awful hanging over his head?

The packet of clippings had taunted her for two days. Her resolution to stay away from him was strong. But if her neighbor was implicated in Pete’s web of deceit, best she be prepared.

Her hand trembled as she slit open the plastic envelope. Conn’s past, all rubber-banded in chronological order, fell out.

The car’s tires crunched to a halt in her driveway. “Check one,” Eve muttered and stood up from the couch, smoothing her top.

A car door slammed. “Check two.” She picked up the full wineglass from the mantel where it had been warming.

Determined footfalls pulverized her shell footpath. “Check three,” she whispered, and her heartbeats thumped in tandem with her steps down the hall toward her door.

Bang! Bang! Bang! “Check four,” she said under her breath, and turned the lock.

The thunderous glower. Check five. She smiled serenely and offered him the glass.

Conn gaped. What started as a terrific frown slowly smoothed out into confusion. His eyes moved from her face to the glass and back.

“Come in. It’s cold.” Eve stepped closer, holding out the glass, and he had no option but to take it. She ushered him in and closed the door. “Come down to the lounge. The fire’s going.” She turned and walked down the hallway.

Doing her best to appear unperturbed, she poked the fire, then picked up her glass off the mantel and sipped the brackish red liquid. It was a full twenty, nail-biting seconds to the beat of an old Pink Floyd song, before Conn appeared. He stood, dwarfing the doorway, looking at her.

She took another big sip and let it rest in her mouth for a few moments while she submitted to the rake of his eyes. She had taken care dressing and was comfortable under his scrutiny, even if her pulse thumped in her ears.

After a long perusal, Conn raised his glass and sipped.

“Is the wine okay?”

He swallowed and inclined his head.

She carefully let her breath out and watched while he did a leisurely circle of the room. He reminded her of a wild animal, marking his territory. He paused often, studying every object: her four-foot wooden tiger, the burnished, naked art torso on the wall that seemed to move in the flickering firelight, a couple of family photos. Once his hand reached out to smooth over a section of wall that she had stripped and sanded for painting. He glanced at the candles on the coffee table and again at the line of tea lights on the mantel. He stared for quite a few moments at the platter of cheese and olives and dipping oils for the little chunks of crusty bread.

Eve inhaled. If he was going to lose it, it would be now.

Not once did he glance her way until he had come full circle. Then he stopped by the couch, brows raised sardonically in a pretence of asking her permission to sit.

Eve nodded.

When he was seated, he took another sip of wine, then leaned forward and placed the glass on the coffee table.

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.” He pointed his chin at the glass. “Wine. Food. Candles.” He looked up at her standing in front of the fire. You. The unspoken word danced in his eyes as they flickered and glowed up and down her body like the reflected flames.