Swept Away by the Tycoon. Barbara Wallace
They’d been dancing around this moment all weekend; both of them afraid of what would happen if they let their guard down.
She was tired of being afraid. She wanted him. Wanted him in a way that went far beyond sex.
“I’ve got all I need right here.”
In case he didn’t believe her, she forced his gaze to meet hers. Every muscle in his body was tense, shaking from restraint. In the shadowed blue light, she saw the desire struggling to break free. “Right here,” she repeated, and brushed a kiss against his lips.
A groan tore out of his throat and he wrapped an arm around her waist. Chloe found herself yanked tight against his body. “Do you have any idea how difficult you are to resist?” he growled.
The roughness in his voice turned her insides raw. “Show me,” she challenged, her rasp matching his.
He did.
Swept Away
by the Tycoon
Barbara Wallace
BARBARA WALLACE is a lifelong romantic and daydreamer, so it’s not surprising that at the age of eight she decided to become a writer. However, it wasn’t until a co-worker handed her a romance novel that she knew where her stories belonged. For years she limited her dreams to nights, weekends and commuter train trips, while working as a communications specialist, PR freelancer and full-time mom. At the urging of her family she finally chucked the day job and pursued writing full-time—and she couldn’t be happier.
Barbara lives in Massachusetts with her husband, their teenage son and two very spoiled, self-centred cats (as if there could be any other kind). Readers can visit her at www.barbarawallace.com and find her on Facebook. She’d love to hear from you.
To Kumkum Malik.
Without your help and advice I would never have started my publishing journey. Thank you.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
PLEASE SAY SHE was not watching her boyfriend hit on another customer.
Okay, perhaps boyfriend was too strong a word. After all, she and Aiden had never said they were exclusive. Still, Chloe Abrams figured they were, at the very least, serious enough that he wouldn’t pass his number to other women while she was standing six feet away!
Wasn’t as though he couldn’t see her. Last time Chloe checked, between her height, her heels and her hair, she stood above the crowd by a good couple inches. Yet there he was, flashing his heavy-lidded smile at some blonde on the other side of the coffee bar, and Chloe would bet it wasn’t because the woman had asked for an extra shot of syrup.
From behind her, she heard a chuckle. “I wondered when you’d catch on.”
Great. As if the moment wasn’t humiliating enough, the resident slacker decided to chime in.
“You know she’s not the first one, right? Dude gives out his number more than directory assistance.”
Chloe dug her nails into the strap of her designer handbag and pretended not to listen. A difficult task, since the slacker’s voice had a silk-over-sandpaper quality that made him hard to ignore.
“Funny, he always gives out his number. He never asks the women for theirs. I can’t figure out if it’s because he thinks his company is that desirable or if it’s because by having them call him, he gets off the hook for paying. You wouldn’t want to weigh in, would you, Curlilocks?”
The strap on her bag crumpled, Chloe was squeezing so tightly. Problem with narrow city coffee shops was that it was hard to escape the crowd. In this case, the owner had crammed tables along the brightly colored walls, which meant that during the morning rush the patrons in line stood on top of those sitting down.
The slacker had first appeared shortly after the new year. If she was being honest, slacker wasn’t the right word, but she couldn’t come up with anything better. Every time Chloe came in—which was obscenely often—she would see him nursing a cup of coffee. A permanent ginger-haired fixture. Sometimes he read. Other times, she’d spy him bent over a pile of paper, scribbling away. Rugged, unshaven, bundled in a worn leather jacket, his no-nonsense presence jarred with Café Mondu’s trendy atmosphere. Usually he kept to himself.
Until today, anyway.
“If you ask me,” he continued in his quiet growl, “a woman like you could do a lot better.”
Not really, Chloe thought, but she didn’t feel like arguing the point.
“Your iced coffee is ready.” In an obvious show of female solidarity, the other barista called out Chloe’s order in an overly loud voice. First the slacker, now Aiden’s coworkers. Was there anyone who hadn’t noticed her humiliation?
“Thanks,” she replied. If the slacker wanted to assume the acknowledgment was for his comment, too, let him. Stepping toward the counter, she loosened her grip on her strap, the motion causing the leather satchel to slide downward slightly and brush the blonde’s hip. The woman stopped flirting long enough to glance over her shoulder. That got Aiden’s attention. He immediately looked in Chloe’s direction.
And winked.
Winked! Un-freaking-believable. He could have at least looked embarrassed over getting caught. No, the jerk winked, as if she was in on the joke.
“You okay, Curlilocks?” the slacker asked.
Okay? Try furious. Discovering Prince Charming was a jerk, she could handle. She was used to jerks. But to have him make a fool of her in front of the slacker and everyone else in the place? No way.
“Excuse me,” she said, tapping the blonde on the shoulder, “but you’re going to want stand back.”
“Why?” the woman asked.
“Because of this.” She raised her drink over Aiden’s head and poured.
“What the—?” Coffee and ice streamed down the sides of the barista’s face, plastering his shiny black mane