A Trip with the Tycoon

She hadn’t meant to sound so frosty but then, what was he doing? Flirting? She barely knew him, had seen him three times in the last year out of necessity, so why the familiarity?

‘Too bad.’ He shrugged, his roguish smile widening as he pointed to the bundle in her arms. ‘Do you want help with that?’

Quashing the urge to take her load and run, she nodded. ‘Thanks.’

He grunted as she offloaded the bag perched precariously on top of the rest. ‘What’s in here? Bricks for the new tandoori oven I’ve ordered?’

‘Almost as heavy.’

Her voice wobbled, just a tad, and she swallowed, twice. It was the mention of the tandoori oven that did it.

Her mum had loved tandoori chicken, had scored the chicken to let the spices and yoghurt marinate into it, had painstakingly threaded the pieces onto skewers before grilling, while lamenting the loss of her real oven back in Goa.

Her mother had missed her homeland so much, despite living in Melbourne for the last thirty years of her life. It had been the reason they’d planned their special trip together: a trip back in time for her mum, a trip to open Tamara’s eyes to a culture she’d never known even though Indian blood ran in her veins.

Thanks to Richard, the trip never happened and, while her mum had died three years ago and she’d come to terms with her grief, she’d never forgiven him for robbing her of that precious experience.

Now, more than ever, she needed her mum, missed her terribly. Khushi would’ve been her only ally, would’ve been the only one she trusted with the truth about Richard, and would’ve helped her reclaim her identity, her life.

Hot, bitter tears of regret stung her eyes and she deliberately glanced over Ethan’s shoulder, focusing on anything other than the curiosity in his eyes.

‘Can you take the rest? My arms are killing me.’

She knew he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t ask her what was wrong.

He hadn’t pushed when she’d been detached and withdrawn following Richard’s death while they’d sorted through the legal rigmarole of the restaurant.

He hadn’t pushed when she’d approached him to use Ambrosia six months ago to kick-start her career.

Instead, he’d taken an extended business trip, had been aloof as always. There was a time she’d thought he disliked her, such was his distant demeanour whenever she entered a room.

But she hadn’t wasted time figuring it out. He was Richard’s mate and that was all the reason she needed to keep her distance. Ethan, like the rest of the planet, thought Richard was great: top chef, top entertainer, top bloke.

If they only knew.

‘Sure.’ He took the bulk of her load, making it look easy as he held the door open. ‘Coming in?’

She didn’t need to be asked twice as she stepped into the only place she called home these days.

Ambrosia: food of the gods. More like food for her soul.

It had become her refuge, her safe haven the last few months. Crazy, considering Richard had owned part of it, had been head chef since its inception, and they’d met here when she’d come to critique Melbourne’s latest culinary hot spot.

For that alone she should hate the place.

But the welcoming warmth of Ambrosia, with its polished honey oak boards, brick fireplace and comfy cushioned chairs that had drawn her here every Monday for the last six months was hard to resist and what better place for a food critic determined to return to the workforce to practise her trade?

Throw in the best hot chocolate this side of the Yarra and she couldn’t stay away.

As she dumped her remaining load on a nearby table and stretched her aching arms, her gaze drifted to the enigmatic man lighting a match to kindling in the fireplace.

What was he doing here?

From all accounts, Ethan was unpredictable, blew hotter and colder than a Melbourne spring breeze. His employees enjoyed working here but never knew when the imperturbable, ruthless businessman would appear.

She’d been happy to have the place to herself the last six months, other than the skilled staff and eager patrons who poured through the door of course, had been strangely uncomfortable the few times she and Ethan met.

There was something about him…an underlying steeliness, a hard streak, an almost palpable electricity that buzzed and crackled, indicative of a man in command, a man on top of his game and intent on staying there.

He straightened and she quickly averted her gaze, surprised to find it had been lingering on a piece of his anatomy she had no right noticing.

She’d never done that—noticed him as a man. He was Richard’s business partner, someone who’d always been distantly polite to her the few times their paths had crossed, but that was it.

So why the quick flush of heat, the flicker of guilt?

It had been a year since Richard’s death, two since she’d been touched by a man, which went a long way to explaining her wandering gaze. She may be numb on the inside, emotionally anaesthetised, but she wasn’t dead and any woman with a pulse would’ve checked out Ethan’s rather impressive rear end.

‘If I get you a drink, will you tell me what’s in the bags?’

Slipping out of her camel trench coat, she slung it onto the back of a chair. She didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to show him the culmination of half a year’s work.

She’d come here for privacy, for inspiration, and having him here intruded on that. Ridiculous, considering he owned the place and could come and go as he pleased, but something about his greeting had rankled, something about that damn smile.

‘I’d kill for a hot chocolate, thanks.’

‘Coming right up.’

His gaze lingered on the bags before meeting hers, challenging. ‘I won’t give up until I know what’s in there so why don’t you just tell me?’

He stared at her, unflinching, direct, his persistence indicative of a guy used to getting his own way, a guy who demanded nothing less.

She fingered the hessian holding her future, mind your own business hovering on her lips. His authority niggled, grated, but he’d given her the opportunity to relaunch her career by using this place and she should be civil if nothing else.

‘If you throw in a side of marshmallows, I’ll show you.’

‘You’re on.’

With a half salute and a twinkle in his eyes, he strode towards the bar.

Ah…the pirate was in top form today. Full of swagger, cheek and suave bravado. She was immune to his charm, of course, but for a split second it felt good, great, in fact, to be on the receiving end of some of that legendary charm.

While he headed for the espresso machine behind the bar she plopped onto a chair, stretched her legs and wiggled her toes. She loved these boots, she really did, but they were nothing but trouble for the weather, her feet and her back, which gave a protesting twinge as she sat up.

Though that could be more to do with the tenton load she’d hefted up the street, but she’d had no choice. She held her future in her hands—literally—and, despite the gut feeling she was ready for this, it wouldn’t hurt to get Ethan’s opinion on it. If anyone knew this business inside out, he did.

‘Here you go. One hot chocolate with a double side of marshmallows.’

He placed the towering glass in front of her, a strong Americano in front of him, and slid into the chair opposite, fixing her with a half-amused, half-laconic tilt of his lips.