A Trip with the Tycoon

‘Are you always this blunt?’

‘Always.’

‘So you’ll ignore me if I tell you to butt out, just like you did by gatecrashing my trip?’

He feigned hurt, smothering his grin with difficulty. ‘Gatecrashing’s a bit harsh. I told you, I’m here on business.’

He only just caught her muttered, ‘Monkey business.’

She fidgeted with her handbag, her fingers plucking at the leather strap as she rocked her weight from foot to foot, and he almost took pity on her before banishing that uncharacteristic emotion in a second.

He had to have her, was driven by a primal urge he had no control over and, to do that, he needed to get her to look at him as a man rather than a bug in her soup.

With a bit of luck and loads of charm, he intended to make good on the unspoken promise of their first kiss—a promise of so much more.

‘You’re not still hung up over that kiss, are you? Because, if you are—’

‘I’m not. It’s forgotten.’

Her gorgeous blush belied her quick negation and had him itching to push the boundaries. But he’d gained ground by having her accept his presence so quickly and he’d be a fool to take things too far on the first day.

‘Forgotten, huh? Must be losing my touch.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with—’

He smothered a triumphant grin. He may have lost his mind and kissed her to prove she needed to start living again but her eager response had blown him away. And fuelled his need for her, driving him to crazy things like taking time off work, something he rarely did, to pursue her.

‘Let’s put it down to a distant memory and move on, shall we?’

To his horror, her eyes filled with pain, which hit him hard, like a slug to the guts, and he tugged her close without thinking, enveloping her in his arms.

‘Hell, Tam, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned memories.’

She braced herself against his chest, her palms splayed, and his body reacted in an instant, heat searing his veins as he cradled a soft armful of woman.

She sniffled and he tightened his hold, rather than his first instinct to release her in the hope of putting an instant dampener on his errant libido.

His hand skimmed her hair, thick and dark like molten molasses, soothing strokes designed to comfort. But, hot on the heels of his thoughts of how much he wanted her, his fingers itched to delve into the shiny, dark mass and get caught up in it. He could hold her like this all night long.

‘You okay?’

Ethan pulled away, needing to establish some distance between them, not liking her power over him. He didn’t do comfort. He never had a hankie in his pocket or a host of placating platitudes or a shoulder to cry on. He didn’t do consoling hugs; he did passionate embraces.

So what had happened in the last few minutes? What was it about this woman that undermined him?

‘Uh-huh.’

She managed a watery smile before straightening her shoulders and lifting her head in the classic coping pose he’d seen her exhibit at Rich’s funeral and his admiration shot up another few notches.

How she’d handled her grief after the initial shock of Rich’s heart attack, burying herself in the business side of things, sorting through legalities with him, only to approach him several months later for the use of Ambrosia to get her career back on track, had all served to fuel his respect for this amazing woman.

Quite simply, she was incredible and he wanted her with a staggering fierceness that clawed at him even now, when he was left analysing how he’d let his control slip again in her intoxicating presence.

‘I can see you’re still hurting but if you ever want to talk about Rich, remember the good times, I’m here for you, okay?’

Maybe, if she opened up to him, he could encourage her to get it all out of her system and move on. Highly altruistic but then, when was he anything but?

To his surprise, she wrinkled her nose and he knew it had little to do with the pungent odours of diesel fumes, spices and human sweat swirling around them.

‘Honestly? I don’t want to talk about Richard. I’m done grieving.’

A spark of defiance lit her eyes, turning them from soft moss-green to sizzling emerald in a second. ‘I want to enjoy this trip, then concentrate on my future.’

He’d never seen her like this: resolute, determined, a woman reborn.

He’d seen Tam the society wife, the perfect hostess, the astute businesswoman, the grieving widow, but never like this and a part of him was glad. Releasing the past was cathartic, would help her to move on and he really wanted her to do that on this trip. With him.

‘Sounds like a plan.’

Her answering smile sent another sizzle of heat through him and he clenched his hands to stop himself from reaching out and pulling her close.

Plenty of time for that.

Tamara lay down on the bed, stretched her arms over her head and smiled.

The rocking motion of the train, the clicketyclack as it bounced its way out of Delhi, the aroma of marigolds and masala chai—the delicious tea, fragrant with cardamons—overloaded her senses, lulled her while making her want to jump up and twirl around from the sheer rush of it.

For the first time in years, she felt free. Free to do whatever she wanted, be whoever she chose. And it felt great. In fact, it felt downright fantastic.

While she’d once loved Richard, had desperately craved the type of marriage her folks had had, nothing came close to this exhilarating freedom.

She’d spent months playing the grieving widow after Richard had suffered that fatal heart attack, had submerged her humiliation, her bitterness, her pain.

Yet behind her serene, tear-stained face she’d seethed: at him for making a mockery of their marriage, at herself for being a gullible fool and for caring what people thought even after he was gone.

She hadn’t given two hoots about social propriety until she’d married him, had laughed at his obsession with appearances. But she’d soon learned he was serious and, with his face plastered over every newspaper, magazine and TV channel on a regular basis, she’d slipped into the routine of being the perfect little wife he’d wanted.

While his perfect little mistress had been stashed away in a luxurious beach house at Cape Schanck, just over an hour’s drive from Melbourne’s CBD where they’d lived.

Damn him.

She sat bolt upright, annoyed she’d let bitter memories tarnish the beginning of this incredible journey, her gaze falling on the single bed next to hers. The single bed her mum should’ve been occupying while regaling her with exotic tales of Goa and its beaches, Colva beach where she’d met her dad, her love at first sight for a scruffy Aussie backpacker with a twinkle in his eyes and a ready smile.

Tales of the Taj Mahal, the monument she’d always wanted to see but never had the chance. Tales of an India filled with hospitable people and mouth-watering food, imparting recipes in that lilting sing-song accent that had soothed her as a young girl when the nightmares of losing her dad would wake her screaming and sweat-drenched.

Khushi should’ve been here. This was her trip.

Instead, Tamara swiped an angry hand across her eyes, dashing her tears away.