The Tycoon's Desire: Under the Tycoon's Protection / Tycoon Meets Texan! / The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Mistress

“Curiosity satisfied, petunia?” he asked, rising with his empty plate. His tone wasn’t mocking, just matter-of-fact.

“Thank you for telling me,” she said simply, picking up her own plate and utensils and following him inside, where she deposited her load in the sink. “I can’t even imagine how hard it was for you and your mother.”

He leaned back against the kitchen counter, legs casually crossed at his feet. “Yeah, it was devastating for Mom. She went back into nursing to earn some money, but South Boston was all she knew, so that’s where we stayed.”

“You must have been lonely.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I was a terror. My father had been killed and I was mad as hell at the world. I fought, I skipped school and I took unnecessary risks. What finally turned me around was a combination of my mother and some well-meaning high-school teachers meting out tough love, and my own realization that I had a brain and I might as well use it in a way that got me somewhere.”

She went to perch on a bar stool. “Which brings me back to my original question. Why go back to South Boston after all that? You could have gone anywhere after Harvard, and you had every reason to.”

“Like I said, you’re tenacious.” He gave her a once-over with his eyes, then smiled at her scowl. “When I started my business, I was looking to keep overhead low. The neighborhood is changing, but the rent on a rinky-dink apartment in South Boston at the time was the right price. It was as simple as that.”

She nodded. Suddenly, turning down a cushy big law firm job for the DA’s Office while living in a townhouse in exclusive Beacon Hill didn’t seem like much of a sacrifice. “Every time I come across a profile of you in the newspapers or in magazines, they always mention that you headed back to South Boston to start your business.”

He quirked a brow. “You read all the bios of me, princess?”

She felt herself grow red. “Just when the only alternative is reading the instructions on medicine bottles.”

He grinned. “You don’t give an inch do you?”

“You don’t either,” she retorted. “Anyway,” she said, going back to the subject at hand, “Rafferty Security still has an office in South Boston, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, you could say that…”

His hesitancy puzzled her. She knew her information wasn’t wrong and the question had almost been rhetorical. “Well, what else would you say?”

He coughed, then folded his arms.

“Yeees?” she prompted. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he looked uncomfortable.

“It’s not really an office. It’s more like a community-relations clearinghouse.”

She frowned for a second, then laughed. “You mean you operate a charity there?”

He shifted. “That’s about right.”

The urge to tease was irresistible. “Don’t tell me the oh-so-tough Connor Rafferty has a soft spot. Or should I just call you Connor P.—for philanthropist—Rafferty?”

“We don’t call them philanthropists in South Boston, petunia.”

She cocked her head. “Oh, really? What do you call them, then? Benefactors? Charitable donors? People so rich they give their money away?” She was so enjoying this. “Face it, Connor, you’re just like those well-heeled do-gooders you dislike. You know,” she said, throwing his words back at him, “like those debutantes who organize charity auctions.”

He acknowledged her teasing with a raised eyebrow but then shook his head. “I wasn’t born rich. There’s a difference.”

Rather than argue with him, she asked, “What does this charitable organization do? And, by the way—” she held up a hand “—while I’m enjoying this enormously because I like tweaking your nose about your closet philanthropy, I’m delighted you’ve seen fit to try to do good in the world.”

“This ‘charitable organization,’ as you put it, sponsors programs for neighborhood kids.”

“Very good.” She nodded. “I’m just surprised you’re not doing something more tied to Rafferty Security’s line of business.”

He looked surprised for a second.

“What?”

“We are. Good guess.” He added, “We offer self-defense classes and classes on home security.”

“Ah,” she said.

“I can see that light bulb going on in your head.”

“Well, it does explain a lot after all. Your father was into giving back to the community and you grow up and move back to South Boston and set up a charity. Not only that, but your father died thwarting a burglary and you go into the security business.”

He shoved away from the kitchen counter. “Connecting those dots is easy, petunia. Just don’t read too much into it. I don’t.”

“Why? Are you saying your father’s death had nothing to do with it?” she persisted.

“What I’m saying is you ask too many questions,” he grumbled. “But, yeah, I’ll concede the influence.”

Despite his casual tone, she knew she’d finally penetrated a bit below the facade that Connor Rafferty presented to the world. She’d also gained some insight into the source of Connor’s protective instincts.

She really should give him some slack, she thought, even though she disliked the way he had come barging into her life. Having suffered one tragic loss, he was obviously protective of those close to him—and that protective instinct even extended to helping his former neighbors.

“What are you thinking, princess?” he asked. “I can almost see the wheels turning in that head of yours.”

She gave her head a slight shake, her lips curving upward. “It’s hard to believe, but I was feeling almost inclined to like you.”

He stared at her intensely for a moment, then said, “You should smile more often.”

Their eyes caught and held before she looked away, feeling suddenly uncharacteristically shy and awkward.

“What about you, petunia?” he said, leaning back against the kitchen counter and breaking the mood. “Your mother is a judge and you’re a prosecutor. Seems to me you’re just as guilty of some semi-conscious influences.”

She relaxed as they seemed to be back on safer ground. “Psychoanalyze away,” she said lightly, “but you should know the analogy doesn’t work well. If I’d really wanted to make my family happy, I’d have stayed away from prosecuting criminals at the DA’s Office and gone to some nice, comfy law-firm job.” She wrinkled her nose. “You know, doing non-profit law or some such, which would have dovetailed nicely with all those charity auctions I’m supposed to be organizing.”

He grinned, seeming to recognize the jab at him and his comment the night he’d shown up at her townhouse. “All right,” he said, folding his arms, “maybe I was too quick to judge.”

She gave him a look of mock skepticism. “You think?”

Ignoring her bait, Connor realized it was time to turn the tables on her. She’d probed and poked and made him realize and acknowledge more than he’d wanted to. He figured he was entitled to reciprocate. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Work at the DA’s Office when you clearly don’t have to, and when you could have gotten a cushier job, which your family clearly expected you to do.”

She cocked her head to the side and contemplated him for a second, as if considering how much to divulge.

“Fess up, princess. You’re not the only one who knows how to be dogged with questions.” She looked deliciously delectable perched on the bar stool, her long legs encased in snug blue jeans, a cotton top outlining a pert and enticingly rounded chest.