Recluse Millionaire, Reluctant Bride

Stan Rogers had to bring her here, even if he had to resort to ‘unusual’ methods. He had to get the exotic beauty to agree to his terms. He rubbed the sting from his eyes and the crick from his neck.

A gust of air hurled through the half-open window of his office, bringing with it the scent of Douglas fir. He didn’t even flinch at the icy bite on his face. A wake-up call? Rolling up his sleeves, he dismissed the foolish notion and flicked the desk lamp on. The glare sliced across the shadowed room.

He had no choice. It was either her or his son. He’d asked once and she’d refused. Clamping down on the pricking of his conscience, he swiveled in his chair and paced the two burly men’s approach.

“Bring her.” He slapped his hand on the mahogany desk, his words chips of ice. “Today.”

***

Friday 10:00 a.m.

He was behind it. Stella sensed it in her gut, and that made him a dangerous adversary. Perspiration seeped from her pores and made her jogging suit stick to her skin. A moist drop slid between her breasts. The sun’s glare made her squint. Her mind catapulted.

“I asked you to bring her here,” he muttered, his words directed at her two sheepish escorts. “But not floundering in a fish net.” He bounded over the two steps of the mountain lodge and landed with ease, the gravel crunching beneath his boots.

In two strides, he bridged the distance and halted not two feet from her. His heat filtered to her … his aftershave … she wrinkled her nose. Scents of spruce blended with it, and she couldn’t place it. Couldn’t place him. A niggle nudged her brain, and then vaporized.

“You all right?” he murmured, his hawk-like gaze on her.

Stella’s knees almost buckled, and she gripped the trunk of a nearby pine. Her knuckles grazed the bark. A sliver pierced her skin, and she sucked in a breath, gritting her teeth against the sting of the abrasion.

“Take it off her at once.”

While the two bumblers fumbled to extricate her from the twine, Stella staked out her surroundings and zoned in on her captor.

He towered above her, with his legs slightly apart, and shoved his hands in the back pockets of his jeans; the movement stretched his sweater—of Native Indian design—taut across his chest, hinting at the muscle beneath. His casual stance bespoke of power, ownership, confidence.

Sexual energy.

Her side stitched a warning.

He looked rugged as the Canadian Rockies, and hard. Flint hard.

Autumn sunlight glinted off the gold in his hair. A shade lighter than his close-cropped beard, it brushed his shoulders. His laser-sharp eyes reminded her of an ocean storm…dark, turbulent. The oddest feeling rocked her stomach; the force of his gaze set off signals of another sort in her brain, yet unclear. Through the racket in her head, a spark of a memory flared, but she couldn’t grasp it.

“This is the ogre,” she murmured to herself. Goosebumps skittered on her skin, and not entirely caused by the November air piercing her clothes.

The flick, Shrek, flashed through her mind, and a smile struggled for a place on her mouth. She bit it away. The man looming over her didn’t appear as a benevolent green giant.

And she was no princess; just an ordinary working girl.

So what did he want with her?

“What’s going on?” Stella rubbed her uninjured hand over her arm to ward off the chill. “Explain.”

“Of course.” He stroked his chin and tilted his head. A golden earring glittered, and it was like a sledgehammer hit her brain.

Blood drained from her face and her heart smashed against her ribs.

By sheer force of will, she stood her ground and flexed her fingers. At the slightest provocation, her hands could morph to hammer fists. This man, Stan Rogers, could destroy her. She reeled and the past rushed in…

She had stood at the entrance of the downtown high-rise, every nerve in her body on alert, her mind pounding, this is your last chance. Hoping the spring rain didn’t frizz her hair, she wiggled her foot and the piece of cardboard covering the hole on the bottom of her shoe bumped her big toe. She tapped her toe on the pavement for a better ‘fit’. Dressed in her one and only suit, she’d pinned her hair at the nape of her neck and clipped gold –ninety-nine-cents-worth hoop earrings on her ears. She mustn’t look as ‘hungry’ as she felt.

She’d done every menial job on the face of the planet–from dishwasher, to cook, to janitor, to waitress, to sales—to put herself through the University of British Columbia. Her parents back in Toronto had enough to worry about with her two brothers; she didn’t want to be an added burden.

Penny-pinching, she managed to scrape enough for a down payment to open her own martial arts studio. But without a solid credit rating, reserve funds and income details, she was considered a high-risk commodity. She laughed but it came out as a groan. Every bank had turned her down.

R&R Financial had built its multi-million-dollar global chain by picking up the high riskers nobody wanted. Stella took a deep breath and let it seep out through her lips, the sound almost a snort. There’d be a catch.

She glimpsed her reflection in the dusky glass and clutched her purse, doubts bombarding her brain. Gulping down her uncertainty, she ventured through the revolving doors into the enemy’s lair.

“Give me one good reason why I should spend my hard-earned money on you.” Stan Rogers had curled his lip, studying her beneath his shuttered gaze.

“A good businessman would take a risk,” she countered, her words brave, but her hands clammy.

“A calculated one.” He brushed his fist across his jaw and reclined in his chair, his eyes piercing … cold. “He’d be a fool to rush in blindly.”

He raised his arms and locked his hands behind his neck, flattening the golden hair at his nape. An earring glinted. The muscles of his forearms flexed beneath his rolled-up sleeves, and his shirt with a red tie loose at the open collar, stretched tight across his torso.

“Which are you, Miss … or should I say Ms. Ryan? A sure thing or a hidden hazard?”

Stella ignored the knock to the preface of her name and edged forward in her chair. “Neither.” She met his gaze head on and glimpsed the navy flecks in his irises.

A jolt shot through her.

He laughed, a humorless sound.

She scooted back.

“In my experience, a female is the biggest risk tempting mankind.” He unclasped his hands from behind his neck and brought them to rest on the polished surface of the desk. From the blotter, he picked up a pen and twirling it between his fingers, assessed her. “And you’re very much a woman.”

She barely heard the murmur from his lips, her gaze glued on the pen he toyed with … was he imagining it was her? She laughed, hiding her nervousness. Silly. The door was two feet behind her—a quick exit.

She went on the offensive. “And a male is—” she began, about to string a line of choice words after that particular species but he beat her to it.

“Trustworthy, dependable, steadfast.” A grin twitched the corner of his mouth.

“Matter of opinion.”

“Dare one ask yours?” he asked.

“Arrogant, self-centered, controlling …”

He held up a hand. “Present company excepted, of course.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I see.” He replaced the ballpoint pen on its stand. “Are you an exception to the superficiality of most women?”