The Tycoon's Charm. Yvonne Lindsay
office? What was up with that? It had been an impulse on her part. After all, what they were doing was pretty personal. It just seemed like the right thing to do. She’d never expected to feel it. Although to be honest she still wasn’t sure what it was exactly that she’d felt. It was an odd sort of…awareness. Not sexual exactly, but not completely innocent, either. It was as if some deeper part of each of them had risen to the surface and collided, causing a sort of cosmic friction or interference or something. And she could tell, by the look on Adam’s face, that he’d felt it, too.
It had been a weird, but not unpleasant experience. In fact, it felt sort of nice. But that didn’t mean she wanted it to happen again. Unfortunately the more she tried to forget it, forget how smooth his cheek felt, the tangy scent of his aftershave, the more it consumed her.
She couldn’t help sneaking looks his way, wondering if he was thinking about it, too. But she wasn’t being as sneaky as she thought because he finally looked over at her and asked, “Is there a reason you keep looking at me?”
“Am I?” she asked, as if she’d had no clue. “I didn’t realize. I guess I must be doing it unconsciously.”
“Okay,” he said, although he didn’t look as though he believed her. But he didn’t push the issue, either. And she was glad. She made a conscious effort not to look at him again.
Around six when Celia brought them supper on a tray, it was a relief to be able to sit up for a while. Celia set her tray over her lap, then gestured Adam to the opposite side of the bed.
“You, sit,” she ordered.
“I am sitting.”
“Now, niño pequeño,” she said sternly. “Little Boy.” A holdover nickname from when he was small, Katy was guessing.
“Why can’t I eat here?” He sounded like a little boy arguing with his mother.
“Because I said so, that’s why. Now move, before your supper gets cold.”
“You’re seriously not going to let me eat here? In a chair, I might add, that I own?”
“And you honestly think I’m going to let you eat spaghetti on Persian silk? Becca would roll over in her grave.”
He seemed to get that it was a losing battle, because he shoved himself up from the chair and mumbled, “The way you boss me around, a person would think this was your house.”
He rounded the bed, kicked off his shoes and climbed on, sitting cross-legged next to Katy. “Happy now?”
“Good boy,” Celia said, setting his tray in front of him, stopping just shy of patting his head. He looked more than a little annoyed, which Katy was guessing was the whole point. He may have owned the house, but Celia was clearly in charge.
It was one of the sweetest, most heartwarming things she had ever seen. The big powerful billionaire was really just a pussycat.
“Can I get you anything else?” Celia asked.
“A double scotch if it wouldn’t be too much trouble,” Adam said.
She smiled and said, “Of course. Katy?”
“Under the circumstances, I should probably lay off the booze. But thanks for asking.”
“I didn’t mean…” She sighed and shook her head, as if they were both hopeless. “Heaven help us, you’re just as bad as he is.”
She walked out mumbling to herself.
“Niño pequeño?” Katy asked, unable to stifle a smile.
“I swear sometimes she thinks I’m still ten years old,” he grumbled, but there was affection in his eyes. He loved Celia, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
“I think everyone needs someone to boss them around every once in a while,” she said. “It keeps you grounded.”
“Well, then, I should be pretty well-grounded, because she bosses me around on a daily basis.”
And she could tell that though he wanted Katy to believe otherwise, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Celia returned several minutes later with his drink, then left them to eat. Katy just assumed that when they were finished, Adam would sit in the chair again. Instead he fluffed the pillows and leaned back against them. It was probably the most laid-back she had ever seen him. In fact, she’d never imagined he could be so relaxed.
She couldn’t help but wonder if it had anything to do with the scotch. Maybe the alcohol had lowered his inhibitions. She recalled Becca telling her once, a long time ago, that if she wanted something, all she had to do was give him a drink or two and he was about as staunch as a wet noodle. And while Katy didn’t necessarily believe it was ethical to take advantage of an intoxicated person, if it made him open up to her a little…well, what was the harm?
When Celia came back for their dishes, Katy asked her for a glass of orange juice. “And I think Adam could use another drink.”
He looked at his watch, then shrugged and said, “Why not?”
Around nine, after he’d drained his second glass and was clearly feeling no pain—he’d even laughed during one of the shows—she used the bathroom and changed into her pajamas, then climbed back into bed. The program they’d been watching had just ended, so she switched off the television, rolled on her side to face him and asked, “Adam, can we talk?”
He looked down at her and frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, no, nothing,” she assured him. “It just only seems right that I should get to know the father of the baby I’ll be carrying. Don’t you think?”
His brow dipped low. “Oh, you mean you want to talk.”
“What have you got against talking? It’s how people get to know each other.”
He looked uncomfortable. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Maybe it should be.”
“You know, my life isn’t really all that interesting.”
“I doubt that.” She gave him a playful poke. “Come on, tell me something about you. Just one thing.”
“Let me think. Oh, I know. I don’t like talking about myself.”
She laughed. “Adam!”
“What?” he said with a grin. “You said one thing.”
“Something I don’t already know. Tell me about…your father.”
He shrugged. “There isn’t much to tell.”
“Were you close?”
“There were times, when my mom was still alive, that he would occasionally notice me. But then she died, and he checked out.”
That was the saddest thing she’d ever heard. If they were all the other had, they should have stuck together. They could have leaned on each other. The way she and her parents supported each other when Becca died. She supposed that sort of tragedy could either pull a family together, or rip them apart.
“You must have been very lonely.”
He shrugged again. “Celia was there for me.”
He said it so casually, but she had the feeling that losing his mother had scarred him deeper than he would ever admit. How could it not?
“How did your mother die?”
“Cancer.”
Which must have made learning about Becca’s cancer all the more devastating. And scary. “How old were you?”
“Young enough to believe it was my fault.”
She sucked in a quiet breath. That was probably the most honest thing he had ever said to her. Her heart ached for him.