The Corporate Raider's Revenge / Tycoon's Valentine Vendetta: The Corporate Raider's Revenge / Tycoon's Valentine Vendetta

Evan clicked off the ignition, grabbed his briefcase and slid out of the car, slamming the door. He rode the private elevator up to his penthouse apartment, angry that she’d believe him of aggravating her father into cardiac arrest.

He was still in a mood when he unlocked his door and was greeted by his mother and two brothers.

They stood in the afternoon shade on his courtyard balcony, with champagne glasses in hand. His mother smiled warmly, her brown eyes twinkling, while his two brothers barely held back smirks.

He glared at his brothers then ran a hand down his face. “Amazing who the doorman lets in these days.” Then Evan walked over to his mother. “I didn’t mean you,” he said with a wink. He bent to give her a kiss. “It’s always good to see you, Mom.”

“Your brothers flew me in from St. Petersburg to surprise you. Did you forget your own birthday, Evan?” she asked, her expression bordering on grim.

“I’ve been busy, Mom. I thought we agreed to celebrate next month in Florida when you hit the big—”

“Don’t say it,” Trent warned.

Brock walked over to hand him a glass of champagne. “You’re taking your life in your hands.”

Rebecca Tyler waved off her boys. “Oh, pooh! I’m not ashamed to admit I’ll be sixty years old next month and you boys know that. But your birthday is today, Evan. I hear you’re working very hard.”

“I’m putting together a deal that’ll put Tempest in a whole different league.”

Rebecca blinked and nodded, then she took a seat on a chaise lounge, looking a bit weary. The three of them took their cue from her and sat, circling her seat. “You’ve already made me so proud. All three of you boys. You’ve got a thriving business with Tempest. I was just hoping…”

She let the sentence drop, but they all knew what she was thinking. Evan glanced at Brock, who glanced at Trent, and neither one of them wanted to look their mother directly in the eyes.

Trent spoke up first. “How old are you today, Ev, thirty-three?”

Evan twisted his mouth. “If you say so.”

“Trent, you know your brother is thirty-two. All of my sons are two years apart.”

“Yeah, but Ev’s the oldest,” Brock said and it was beginning to sound the way it had when they’d been kids, pointing fingers and laying blame.

His mother raised her glass. “To Evan. My oldest son. Happy Birthday, dear.”

Brock and Trent chorused the birthday sentiment and they each raised their glass and sipped champagne.

“I remember the day you were born. It didn’t seem so long ago,” she said, her eyes taking on a distant gleam. Often she appeared that way when she thought of times when their father had been alive. “You gave me the most trouble before you were born. I was nauseous every morning for months, barely had any appetite at all. The doctors worried about me losing weight. They didn’t have those nausea pills like they have now. But you were my easiest delivery.” His mother sighed. “And now you’re the head of a big company.” She sipped her drink then smiled wistfully. “Did I tell you Larissa Brown’s daughter is having another baby and her son is getting married this fall?”

“I don’t think we knew that,” Brock said, “did we, Ev?”

Evan shook his head and kept his mouth shut. “Nope.” He knew better than to engage in a conversation with his mother about marriage and babies. She’d been hinting for years. He couldn’t say he blamed her. She had three sons, all of age and not a one of them was remotely interested in settling down.

“Hey, Mom, I hear you’re finally going on a cruise,” Trent said, changing the subject.

“Yes, Larissa convinced me to go with her. She says I don’t know what I’m missing—all those activities and tours. We’re leaving in two weeks. I’m getting things packed and ready.”

Trent continued asking about his mother’s vacation, giving Evan the best birthday gift of all: a reprieve from his mother’s subtle hints. He’d never minded being the oldest, bearing the burden of helping her raise Trent and Brock, but now Rebecca Tyler wanted more in life. And she looked to Evan to get the ball rolling.

Later that evening they dined at The Palm, a well-established Los Angeles restaurant known for their specialty of the house—jumbo Nova Scotia lobsters—to celebrate Evan’s birthday. It was his mother’s favorite place to eat when in L.A. Caricatures of famous celebrities who’d frequented the restaurant were painted on the walls and every time Rebecca came in, his mother would find several new cartoons drawn onto the “living murals.”

It was just the four of them and Evan liked it that way. He wasn’t one for big parties and displays. That was more Brock’s style. He and Trent ran the Tempest Hotels in Texas, New Mexico, Colorado and Arizona while Evan kept control of all their California hotels from San Diego to Hollywood to San Francisco. He was also in charge of acquisitions, being the better negotiator of the three. Soon, they’d add the Maui Paradise hotel to their chain.

But Evan wanted more. He wanted The Royals. If he could acquire them in a deal with Laney Royal, not only would Tempest stand to gain more widespread national appeal, but they would have knocked out their biggest competitor. He’d just have to make sure Laney saw things his way tomorrow night.

Actually, he couldn’t wait for the challenge.

Five

Laney pulled her hair back and secured it with a barrette at the nape of her neck. She put on a black suit, a fitted blazer and skirt that screamed all business, no pleasure. She wore little jewelry, but for the diamond stud earrings that had been her mother’s. She’d treat this dinner with Evan as business as usual and nothing more.

That was the plan until she answered the knock on her front door precisely at eight o’clock to find Evan standing there, looking like every woman’s fantasy. Dressed in slate gray, wearing an Italian cut suit, his dark hair groomed and combed back with just a hint of stubble on his face, and no cowboy boots to be found, he earned an admiring stare from Laney.

“It’s good to see you, Laney.” He said it as if he meant it. A shiver of sexual awareness shimmied through her body. She peered over his shoulder to the jet-black limousine waiting. She realized she’d grossly underdressed for whatever Evan had in mind, and normally the fashion faux pas would have plagued her all evening. But tonight she decided to turn the tables on him.

“I think I would have preferred cowboy boots, Evan.”

He took no offense, but only laughed. “Then let’s just make a quick stop to my penthouse and—”

“No, thank you,” she said quickly. “I want to remind you, this is a business dinner.”

Evan studied her hair and the blond waves she’d tucked safely into a sterling silver prison. His gaze traveled to her face, meeting her eyes with a slow searing look before lowering to her lips. Laney’s heart beat harder. Her head swam as he scrutinized her mouth. And when he dipped his gaze lower yet to scan her buttoned lace blouse and the hint of cleavage Laney couldn’t hide, she had to warn herself to be careful. He wasn’t to be trusted.

“You look beautiful.”

“I wasn’t going for beautiful.”

“I know. You can’t help it.”

His compliment shot straight to her head, like a brain freeze after sipping an ice-cold chocolate malt too quickly. But Laney rebelled against it. She retreated back in her doorway. “This isn’t a good idea.”

Evan reached for her hand, wrapping his fingers over hers. “It’s a very good idea.” He softened his tone. “You’re working too hard. Take a break. Let’s have a quiet meal and talk.”

She hated that his touch, the soothing way his hand covered hers, didn’t repel her. Or that the sound of his voice only brought familiar, fond memories. She wouldn’t be fooled again, but she did need answers from him.

Her stomach was back on the blink. She’d barely eaten a bite today, the thought of food making her sick. She only hoped she could make it through dinner tonight with him.

“Okay, fine.” She released herself from his grasp and locked up her house. “Let’s get this over with.”

Evan set a hand to her back guiding her to the limousine, waving off his chauffeur and opening the door for her himself. She settled into the backseat as he closed the door.

Before she knew it, they’d traveled to the beach and headed north up the coastline.

“You ready for some wine? Champagne?”

She looked at the fully stocked bar again, then up at him. “No, thank you. I’m not celebrating anything.”

He leaned back against the cushiony leather seat. “At one time, you didn’t need a reason to have a drink with me.”

“That wasn’t you, Evan.”