The Tycoon's Ultimate Conquest. CATHY WILLIAMS
piece of moulding clay ‘—big, powerful developers need to understand the importance of working in harmony with nature or else leaving things as they stand and, as you say, DC Logistics is the mother of all big companies.’ He succeeded in not sounding proud of this fact. When he thought of the work that had gone into turning the dregs of what had been left of his father’s companies, after five ex-wives had picked them over in outrageous alimony settlements, into the success story of today he was pretty proud of his achievements.
Art had lived through the nightmare of his father’s mistakes, the marriages that had fallen apart within seconds of the ink on the marriage certificates being dry. He’d gritted his teeth, helpless, as each ex-wife had drained the coffers and then, after his father had died several years previously, he’d returned to try to save what little remained of the thriving empire Emilio da Costa had carefully built up over time.
Art had been a young man at the time, barely out of university but already determined to take what was left and build it again into the thriving concern it had once been when his mother—Emilio da Costa’s first wife and only love—had been alive.
Art might have learned from the chaos of his father’s life and the greed of the women he had foolishly married that love was for the birds, but he had also learned the value of compassion in his unexpected affection for his stepbrother, José—not flesh and blood, no, but his brother in every sense of the word, who had been robustly ignored by his avaricious mother. The land was integral to his plan to make a home for José—the reason for Art needing to shut this protest down as quickly and as quietly as possible.
‘Yes, it is,’ Rose concurred. ‘So you’re idealistic,’ she carried on in an approving tone.
The last time Art had been idealistic had been when he’d believed in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. Witnessing the self-serving venom camouflaged as true love that had littered his father’s life right up until his death had taken whatever ideals he might have had and entombed them in a place more secure than a bank vault.
‘Well, you’re in the right place.’ Rose gestured to the paraphernalia in the kitchen. ‘Obviously I don’t devote all of my time to this cause. I couldn’t possibly, but I do try to touch base with the people out there on a daily basis.’
‘What’s your main line of work?’
‘Employment law.’ Rose smiled and, just like that, Art felt the breath knocked out of his body.
The woman was more than arresting. When she smiled she was...bloody stunning. He felt the familiar kick of his libido, but stronger and more urgent than ever. Two months without a woman, he thought, would do that to a red-blooded man with a healthy sex drive. Because this outspoken feminist was certainly, on no level, what he looked for in a woman. He didn’t do argumentative and he definitely didn’t do the let’s-hold-hands-and-save-the-world type. He did blondes. Big blonde hair, big blue eyes and personalities that soothed rather than challenged.
Rose Tremain was about as soothing as a pit bull.
And yet... His eyes lingered and his inconvenient erection refused to go away. The blood surging in his veins was hot with a type of dark excitement he hadn’t felt in a very long time. If ever.
‘Come again?’ He realised that she had said something.
‘Your line of work? What is it?’
‘I dabble.’
‘Dabble in what?’
‘How much time have you got to spare? Could take a while.’
‘Could take a while covering your many talents? Well, you’re far from modest, aren’t you?’ She raised her eyebrows, amused and mocking, and Art smiled back slowly—deliberately slowly.
‘I’ve never been a believer in false modesty. Sign of a hypocritical mind. I prefer to recognise my talents as well as my...er...shortcomings.’
‘Well, whatever you do is your business—’ she shrugged and stood up ‘—but if you’re good at everything, which seems to be what you’re implying, then you’re going to be very useful to us.’
‘How so?’ Art followed suit and stood up, towering over her even though she was tall. ‘Useful in what respect?’
‘Odd jobs. Nothing major so no need to sound alarmed.’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘Everyone lends a helping hand when they’re here. It’s not just a case of people painting slogans on bits of cardboard with felt tip pens. Yes, we’re all protesting for the same reason, but this is a small, close community. The guys who come here do all sorts of jobs around the house. They know I’m representing them for free and they’re all keen to repay the favour by doing practical things in return. There are a couple of plumbers behind us and an electrician, and without them I have no idea how much money I would have had to spend to get some vital jobs on the house done.’
‘So this is your house?’ Art thought that it was a bit hypocritical, clamouring about rich businessmen who wanted to destroy the precious space around her so that they could line their evil pockets when she, judging from the size of the house, was no pauper.
Accustomed to storing up information that might prove useful down the line, he sensed that that was a conversation he would have in due course.
‘It is, not that that’s relevant,’ Rose said coolly. ‘What is relevant is that most of the town is behind us, aside from the local council, who have seen fit to grant planning permission. I’ve managed to really rally a great deal of people to support our cause and they’ve all been brilliant. So if you’re a jack-of-all-trades then I’m sure I’ll be able to find loads of practical ways you can help, aside from joining the sit-in, of course. Now, shall I take you to the scene of the crime...?’
‘YOU HAVE A nice house,’ Art commented neutrally as they exited the cluttered kitchen, out into the main body of the house which was equally cluttered. ‘Big. You rent out rooms, I take it?’ He detoured to push open the door to one of the huge ground-floor rooms and was confronted with an elderly man holding court with an image of a bunch of flowers behind him on the wall. The image was faded and unsteady because the projector was probably a relic from the last century. Everyone turned to stare at Art and he saluted briskly before gently shutting the door.
‘If it’s all the same to you, Mr Frank, I’ll ask the questions. And please refrain from exploring the house because, yes, other organisations do avail themselves of some of the rooms and I very much doubt they want you poking your head in to say hello. Unless, of course, you have something to impart on the subject of orchid-growing or maybe some pearls of wisdom you could share with one of our Citizens Advice Bureau volunteers?’
‘I’ve never been into gardening,’ Art contributed truthfully. He slanted his eyes across to Rose, who was walking tall next to him, her strides easily matching his as they headed to the front door. The walls of the house were awash with rousing, morale-boosting posters. Voices could be heard behind closed doors.
‘You’re missing out. It’s a very restful pastime.’
Art chuckled quietly. He didn’t do restful.
‘Wait a minute.’ She looked at him directly, hands on her hips, her brown eyes narrowed and shrewdly assessing. ‘There’s one little thing I forgot to mention and I’d better be upfront before we go any further.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know who you are. You’re not from around here and I’m going to make it clear to you from the start that we don’t welcome rabble-rousers.’
Stunned, Art stared at her in complete silence.
He was Arturo da Costa. A man feared and respected in the international business community. A man who could have anything he wanted at the snap of an imperious finger. Grown