The Tycoon's Proposal. Shirley Jump
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“How about this? You give me advice. If at the end of the month, the business is still sinking under my direction, I will sell it to you at a very fair price.”
A ghost of a smile whispered across Mac’s face.
For a moment, that smile made him look handsome, desirable. The kind of guy you’d sit down with at the end of a long day, with a glass of wine and a view of the water.
Good Lord. Now she was waxing romantic about the corporate raider who wanted to destroy her family’s pride and joy.
Savannah perched on the edge of the desk. “You know, if you agree to my plan, people might start to call you nice and charming.”
“That’s your best reason for why I should help you? To change public perception?”
“That, and earn a chunk of good karma points. Everyone needs those, even evil corporate raiders.”
His gaze locked on hers. “I’m not evil.”
She leaned in, closing the distance until she caught the scent of his cologne, something dark and mysterious, like the man who wore it. “Then prove it.”
* * *
The Barlow Brothers: Nothing tames a Southern man faster … than true love!
The Tycoon’s
Proposal
Shirley Jump
New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author SHIRLEY JUMP spends her days writing romance so she can avoid the towering stack of dirty dishes, eat copious amounts of chocolate and reward herself with trips to the mall. Visit her website at www.shirleyjump.com for author news and a booklist and follow her at facebook.com/shirleyjump.author for giveaways and deep discussions about important things like chocolate and shoes.
To my friends who are always there with a hug or a laugh when I need it most. You know who you are—and you know I’d do the same for you.
You make the hard times easier and the good times even better.
Contents
When Mac Barlow was born, people claimed they heard his grandpa say, “That boy is gonna be somethin’ when he grows up. I can just see the fire burnin’ in his belly.” Grandpa Barlow had died twenty years ago, so there was no one to prove or disprove that moment when Earl Ray Barlow held his first grandson. But the rumor had stuck in the family, growing into a legend, embellished by aunts and uncles and siblings, like extra tinsel on a Christmas tree.
Of course, anyone who knew Mac Barlow knew he’d definitely grown up and into those words. His days did indeed revolve around a roaring fire in his gut for more, his life filled to the brim with long lists of things to do, people to call, deals to make. He’d started when he was a freshman in college, starting with a little seed money he’d accumulated working part-time at a car lot while he was in high school. From the day he’d collected his first paycheck, and had grown into one of this year’s Thirty Under Thirty touted in Forbes magazine.
So when he roared into Stone Gap, North Carolina, on a Sunday afternoon, it was to kill two birds with one stone—attend his brother Jack’s wedding and finalize a business purchase that would add to the Barlow Enterprises coffers.
A purchase that was being thwarted at every possible turn by one singularly stubborn woman. But Mac had never met an obstacle he couldn’t beat, a deal he couldn’t close, which was what had him here, in person, to get Savannah Hillstrand to see the light, literally, and sell to him. Today.
Mac roared down the streets of Stone Gap, a passing figure on a Harley some might think a ghost, considering he was dressed all in black and driving, as usual, at breakneck speed. He leaned into the curve, nearly kissing the asphalt as he turned on to the street where he’d grown up. These moments on the bike, too few for his liking, were when Mac was finally able to shed the skin of the executive he was during the week. No suit, no tie, no one calling him or emailing him or knocking on his door, wanting a decision. Just him, the bike and the road. It was about as close to a vacation as Mac Barlow got.
He passed through Stone Gap in a moment, like the blip it was. Parts of the town were still frozen in time like some antebellum reenactment of the gentrified pre–Civil War days. He barely slowed for the light downtown, hardly glanced at the buildings that hadn’t changed in decades. He kept on going, taking the Oak Street shortcut to the highway. Once he hit I-95, the road opened up and he pushed the throttle. The wind whipped past him, fighting the Harley every mile he rode. Ten miles up, he exited the highway and pulled into the parking lot of an office building.
For a meeting that was only going to end one way—with Mac getting what he wanted.
One lone car sat in the parking lot, a pale blue Toyota that had seen better days. Mac flipped out his cell phone and dialed