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A Very Private Revenge
HELEN BROOKS
An intimate vendetta!Tamar had made it her business to find out all Jed Cannon's secrets. The notorious playboy had destroyed her cousin's happiness - and her reputation. Now Tamar was determined Jed must be made to pay. It was time to put her plan into action!Tamar intended to play Jed at his own game: seduce him, the publicly jilt him! But the more she flirted with him, the more she realized Jed wasn't the ruthless man he seemed. Maybe it wasn't really revenge she wanted after all… .
“You don’t like me, Tamar. Why?” (#u4c89e595-a32b-5c27-9dd4-3dd27bd8adc3)About the Author (#u5f8f3315-a8d8-59fe-9353-d3168f3cb4c7)Title Page (#u60a21dac-7678-5d87-9a1e-f3ae7c3a0c85)CHAPTER ONE (#u34a1f4e7-80ca-5834-abc0-8ab84d189990)CHAPTER TWO (#uff8fcd66-fdaa-50be-a578-a570a66e3f98)CHAPTER THREE (#uebaa7296-bb3b-5ca4-a716-76bbd9d92e46)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“You don’t like me, Tamar. Why?”
“I never said that—”
“Oh, you’re attracted to me...physically,” Jed continued darkly, “but that’s all.” If he only knew. Tamar stared at him, her mouth dry. But he mustn’t guess, not ever, the way she felt about him.
“What have you heard about me that has filled you with such suspicion?”
Tamar continued to stare at him, her mind racing. “I don’t know. You...you’ve got something of a reputation, I suppose,” she managed at last, her voice shaking. She couldn’t tell him the truth.
“I can buy that.” He nodded soberly, moving closer. “And you aren’t prepared to look beyond the reputation, to give me a chance?”
HELEN BROOKS lives in Northamptonshire, England, and is married with three children. As she is a committed Christian, busy housewife and mother, her spare time is at a premium, but her hobbies include reading, swimming, gardening and walking her two energetic, inquisitive and very endearing young dogs. Her long-cherished aspiration to write became a reality when she put pen to paper on reaching the age of forty, and sent the result off to Harlequin Books.
HELEN BROOKS now concentrates on writing for Harlequin Presents
, with highly emotional, poignant yet intense books we know you’ll love!
A Very Private Revenge
Helen Brooks
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
‘OH, YES, Miss McKinley, Mr Cannon is expecting you. If you wouldn’t mind taking a seat...?’
Jed Cannon’s secretary was exactly how Tamar had pictured her from her voice on the telephone, all cool, ice-blonde efficiency and stunning good looks, and as Tamar sank into the proffered chair she felt a nervous bubble of laughter rise in her throat, which she quashed immediately.
None of that, none of that. The little voice in her mind was strong and stern as Tamar watched the other woman glide into the inner sanctum after a reverent knock on Jed Cannon’s interconnecting door. You’ve come this far, you’ve cornered the wolf in its lair, don’t blow it now... But Miss Rice-Brown was so absolutely right for him, she really was, from the top of her ash-blonde bob to the tips of her Italian leather shoes...
‘Miss McKinley? Mr Cannon will see you now.’
Tamar didn’t have time to reflect further as she rose from the deep-cushioned pale cream chair and waded through the ankle-deep carpeting to the room beyond, passing the other woman in the doorway with a polite nod and smile.
‘Miss McKinley?’
The big male figure behind the massive walnut desk was broad-shouldered and dark; that was all Tamar took in initially, along with the fact that the deep, cold, clipped voice was formidable in itself.
‘Yes, how do you do, Mr Cannon?’ It was the opening she had rehearsed, and it came out like clockwork, respectful but reserved.
And then he stood up, holding out a hand as he said, ‘I understand you have some properties you think I might be interested in, Miss McKinley?’—and he came into focus. Oh, boy, did he come into focus...
‘I... I...’ Don’t lose it, Tamar, not now. ‘I think there are one or two in particular that would suit your requirements admirably, Mr Cannon,’ she said with a coolness she was far from feeling, shaking the big hand for as brief a moment as decorum would allow, and praying her initial hesitation hadn’t been picked up by those riveting silver-grey eyes.
She had to keep the businesslike approach sharp and crisp, but she just hadn’t expected him to be quite so—her mind balked at the word ‘handsome’ and substituted ‘overpowering’—in real life. His picture had captured none of the latent power of the man.
‘One or two?’ The voice was slightly husky, almost a gravelly texture evident in the slight accent she knew was from his American heritage, and it was very, very sexy, in a magnetic, toe-curling sort of way. It went hand in hand with the six-foot-plus frame, coldly handsome face and piercingly silver eyes. And those same eyes had flickered slightly as they took in her slim red-gold fragility and dark chocolate-brown eyes.
He was attracted to her. She had seen that same look in too many male eyes in the past to doubt its portent. And that was good, that was very, very good—exactly what she had planned when she had dressed with such care that morning. She loathed this man, hated and despised him, but he mustn’t know, not yet.
‘Yes, we never like to put our clients in a position where they have a choice of one.’ What would Jed Cannon say if he knew he was being hunted? Tamar asked herself with a touch of wry cynicism as she smiled coolly into the hard face. Here was a man with the world at his feet, figuratively speaking. A wealthy, powerful millionaire, who wore his women in the same way as he did his designer suits—to complement and enhance his own spectacular image.
He’d already had more women that she had had hot dinners, if only half the stories about him were true, and there was a queue a mile long to be the next female on his arm. Perhaps he expected her to fall in a little heap at his feet? Perhaps they all did? Anyway, she had to be careful. Very, very careful. She had to be different from all the rest.
‘Please, do sit down, Miss McKinley. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?’ He didn’t offer everyone coffee, she knew that, in fact she knew enough about Jed Cannon to fill a book...
‘No, thank you.’ She kept the smile in place as she took the chair he indicated, knowing that once she lowered her head his eyes would be sweeping all over her hair, her face, her body. ‘I have another appointment that is somewhat pressing when I leave here.’
Nice touch, that, Tamar, she told herself as she raised her head with the words and noticed them register in his eyes. He wasn’t used to women refusing anything from him.
‘I see.’ He hadn’t liked it, she just knew he hadn’t liked it, but you would never have known from the smooth, even tone of voice and polite face. Oh, he was good at what he did—you had to give him that. She could see how he’d risen from relative obscurity to where he was now in just ten years. ‘Well, I’m interested in what you have to offer, of course’—he sat down opposite her and she noticed how his lean, muscled frame caused the massive executive chair to shrink—‘but how did Taylor and Taylor know I was looking for a property in the London area? I wasn’t aware you were one of the estate agents my secretary contacted.’
You know dam well we weren’t. ‘We thought it appropriate to bring the mountain to Mohammed,’ she prevaricated quietly, trying a sweeter smile this time. It worked.
‘Well, no matter.’ He smiled back, and she had to admit the effect was devastating. The harsh, masculine face mellowed, the ice-grey eyes crinkled and the whiteness of his perfect teeth would have done credit to any toothpaste commercial. And it left her cold. She was determined it would leave her cold. Her rapid heartbeat, the sudden dryness in her mouth, the rush of blood in her veins—it was all to be expected in the circumstances, and was due purely to the increased adrenalin pumping through her system.
There was a great deal hanging on this meeting, more than Jed Cannon would ever know. She had to get him interested now, she might not get another chance, and she had researched her intended quarry very carefully over the last few months.
‘I understand it is the property, rather than the specific area, which is of prime importance?’ Tamar asked steadily, consulting the fat file on her lap before steeling herself to meet those strangely beautiful eyes again. She had seen people with grey eyes before, but never with the mercurial silver tint this man’s had, and his thick black lashes and black eyebrows threw the brilliant gaze into even more prominence, making it quite unnerving.
‘Uh-huh.’ Again the faintest trace of an American accent was there—due to his living and working in the States for some years after he left university, the dossier in her brain reminded her.
Born and educated in England—only the very best of public schools followed by Oxford, of course, for the great Jed Cannon—of an American mother and English father, he had one sibling—a younger sister—who was now his only close relative, his father having died when Jed was at university, and his mother just two years later. The facts were seared on her brain. He had inherited a considerable fortune at the tender age of twenty-four—the same age she was now—and in the ten years since then had gone on to carve out a name for himself in the world of finance, rising through the ranks of lesser mortals with meteor-like swiftness. Of course his money had talked...
She caught the thought as soon as it formed, a stab of honesty killing it stone-dead. No, that wasn’t fair, and she knew it Fortunes were won and lost all the time in the world in which Jed Cannon lived, and, although his wealth might have given him a safety net in the beginning, it was his own ruthless flair and determination that had made him into a multimillionaire at the age of thirty-four. And if anyone was ruthless, Jed Cannon was...
‘And you want absolute privacy, plenty of ground, definitely not a flat or an apartment?’ Tamar continued evenly, moving her head just the slightest, so the red-gold mass of curls which just brushed her shoulders in a gleaming cascade of colour would catch the light.
She normally wore her hair pulled back in a severe knot for work, or in a high but sedate ponytail if she didn’t have any clients to see—male interest could be distracting and annoying, or even downright dangerous when she was showing prospective buyers round the more isolated properties—but this wasn’t a normal situation. And Jed Cannon definitely wasn’t your average bright-eyed and bushy-tailed man either.
‘You have been very thorough, Miss McKinley.’
You’ll never know. His voice had carried a shadow of wry complacency, and Tamar knew why. He had noticed her movement with the hair, and thought she was out to secure more than just his interest in a property. Which she was. But she knew better than to make it too easy for him.
He only had to reach out his hand and pick up the telephone, and any number of beautiful, willing females would be panting at the leash. But he was going to have to work hard for the pleasure of her company, if he did but know it.
‘Thoroughness is our trademark at Taylor and Taylor, and of course the firm is excellent at procuring what the client wants.’ It was typical soft soap, but he mustn’t even begin to suspect that her research on him resembled a dissertation.
‘I’m sure it is.’ Again the note of cynicism was there—he knew, and he knew she knew, that her employers were any one of a number of mediocre estate agents dotted about the London area.
‘Perhaps you would like to glance at these three properties first?’ Tamar asked brightly, passing some papers across the desk and making sure their hands didn’t touch in the process.
He had big hands—capable hands—she thought musingly, keeping her gaze trained on the desk and not on his face as he looked at the first of the folders she had handed to him. Fingernails cut short and immaculately clean, no rings, fingers long and surprisingly artistic...
She didn’t like where her thoughts were leading, and raised her head abruptly despite her previous decision that he mustn’t think she was ogling him. He probably wasn’t in the slightest bit artistic, she told herself firmly. In fact she would bet her bottom dollar he wasn’t.
His eyelashes were far too generous for a man—she knew girls who would kill for such thick, long lashes—and the chiselled cheekbones and hard, strong mouth formed an interesting contrast... This time she jerked her eyes away to the file on her lap, pretending to sort through the remaining paperwork as she waited for him to finish, and furious with herself when she found that her hands were trembling.
‘I actually like all three.’ He raised his head and looked straight at her as he spoke.
He was hiding it well, but he was surprised, she thought intuitively—as well he might be. He’d never know what it had cost to get those properties on their books in the last few weeks. For the first time in her life she had employed the sort of strong-arm tactics she despised in others, and she wasn’t proud of it. But needs must, and business was business after all. And she had known exactly what to go for—the months of patient research on Jed Cannon had finally paid off, and in a manner she’d never hoped for. Talk about a gift from the gods...
‘That’s good, Mr Cannon.’ She was aware the silver eyes had narrowed at her cool lack of emotion, and allowed the most formal of smiles to brush her lips before she continued, ‘Viewing can be arranged at your convenience, of course.’
‘It needs to be soon; I’m already seeing a couple of other places this week,’ he said immediately, standing as he spoke, and moving round the enormous desk to sit on one corner as he handed her the papers. ‘We’ll try the top one first That one has something about it I particularly like.’
‘Certainly.’ Her voice wasn’t as crisp as she would have wished it to be, mainly because of the overall height and breadth of him now he was so close, and the way his pose brought the suit trousers tight over fiercely masculine hips. She didn’t like him, she could never be attracted to a loathsome low-life like Jed Cannon, but...he’d got something. Much as she hated to admit it. Call it charisma, male magnetism, sheer old-fashioned pulling power—he had got it
‘Tell me a bit about each property and the present owners—advantages and disadvantages, how soon they can move out, that type of thing,’ he said smoothly, watching her as she made some notes in her appointment book. ‘Is there anyone who is locked into a chain, for example?’
He made no effort to return to the chair behind the desk after she’d handed the property particulars back to him, holding the papers in one hand as he viewed her from his casual stance, his eyes glittering and metallic in the sunlight streaming in through the big plate-glass window at the side of them.
Don’t gabble, don’t gabble. Tamar forced herself to speak concisely and clearly as she outlined information about each of the houses he had looked at, but she couldn’t do anything about the colour staining her cheeks, much as she would have liked to. Unfortunately the tendency to blush went hand in hand with her red hair, and had been the bane of her life for as long as she could remember. It was useless to tell herself that this intimidating attitude was one he had honed to perfection in the course of his life, that all her data on this man screamed ruthlessness and power obsession, that he was a megalomaniac of the first order.
She knew it all—in her head—but that didn’t help much when she was face-to-face with the living reality. Nevertheless, she got through her little discourse without disgracing herself, finishing with, ‘But of course there is nothing like viewing the properties themselves. Buying a home is often much more of the heart than the head.’
‘You think so?’ His mouth twisted, and again the dark aura was so strong she could touch it. ‘I disagree—but only for myself, that is. I never let my heart rule my head, Miss McKinley.’
‘No?’ She knew that only too well, but she kept her voice light when she said, ‘You must miss a lot of fun that way, Mr Cannon.’
‘Possibly,’ he agreed coolly. ‘Although that would probably depend on one’s definition of the word “fun”.’
She couldn’t be drawn into anything of this nature—not now, it was too soon—and so Tamar shrugged gracefully, dropping her eyes from his as she closed the file on her lap and murmured demurely, ‘You may well be right.’
‘As in “the customer is always...”?’ he drawled drily.
‘What?’ She was too taken aback to be polite.
‘Forgive me, Miss McKinley, but I feel your response was more of the head than the...heart?’
The pause before the word ‘heart’ was intentionally provocative, and Tamar could have kicked herself a moment later when she shot back with, ‘You’re right, as always, Mr Cannon.’
‘Ah...’ It was speculative. ‘I see my reputation has gone before me.’
‘Your reputation?’ Her voice was too defensive. She realised just a second too late that he had been speaking generally when she saw the narrowed eyes sharpen, and she said hastily, ‘Oh, yes, your reputation... Well, you are quite well known in the City—’
‘Too late.’ It was very dry. ‘I gather whatever you’ve heard was not complimentary, but I won’t embarrass you further by asking for gory details.’ His tone stated quite clearly that it was more the fact that he couldn’t care less than her tender feelings which had prompted the magnanimity.
‘So...’ He paused, levering his powerful frame off the desk before offering her his hand to shake. ‘You are sure you can fix viewing for this afternoon on that first property?’
‘Absolutely,’ Tamar said firmly.
‘And you will ring me later this morning to confirm?’ he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘Ask for me personally, okay?’
He was still holding her hand, Tamar realised a little desperately as she looked up—a considerable way up—into the dark, male face.
She was wearing her one and only original designer suit—which had been bought at a fraction of the price second-hand, but still looked like a million dollars—and her hair and make-up was immaculate, so why, why was he reducing her to the consistency of a melted jelly? she asked herself helplessly. And why did she feel so gauche?
It probably wasn’t very clever to snatch her hand away so abruptly. In fact it definitely wasn’t, she acknowledged exasperatedly as she watched the cool grey eyes freeze to silver ice, but she knew—as she further compounded the gesture by stepping back a pace and pushing her hair away from her hot cheeks in order to give her hands something to do—that she couldn’t have left her fingers enclosed by his warm, male flesh for one more moment.
‘I’ll ... I’ll be in touch, Mr Cannon,’ she said shakily, after swallowing hard. ‘Later this morning, as arranged.’ Oh, don’t stammer, girl, she told herself disgustedly—this is Jed Cannon for goodness’ sake. He isn’t worthy to lick your boots, and you owe it to Gaby to carry this off without any hiccups. Jed Cannon was going to regret the day he ever heard the name of Tamar McKinley ... ‘Fine.’
He was looking at her as though she were slightly mad, Tamar thought with a sudden faint touch of hysteria, and she really couldn’t blame him. And she had planned to be so cool, so very contained and in control! Oh, she hoped she hadn’t blown it.
It appeared she hadn’t.
‘What are you doing for lunch?’ he asked suddenly, with unnerving directness.
She almost said, Lunch? before she choked back the gormless reply and said instead, her voice as cool as she could make it in the circumstances, ‘Oh, I’ve appointments all day, but no doubt I shall manage a sandwich between engagements.’
‘All day?’ He frowned, and it was formidable. ‘Then how are you going to set up a visit to Greenacres for this afternoon?’
She had wanted to drop this little nugget into the proceedings over the telephone when she rang him later, but she would have to do it now, Tamar decided quickly.
‘I have a number of colleagues who would be only too pleased to show you the property, Mr Cannon,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Our Mr Richard is a partner in the business, and he can—’
‘Your Mr Richard could be the man in the moon,’ Jed Cannon bit back tightly, ‘but he won’t do. I want you to do it.’
‘I really can’t—’
‘I insist on dependability, Miss McKinley—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Hell, I can’t keep saying that mouthful. You have got another name, I take it?’ he asked irritably.
Her stomach was turning over, but she managed to sound both polite and unconcerned as she nodded briskly and said, ‘Tamar.’
‘Tamar?’ His mouth lingered over the name, the deep, husky voice bringing it alive in a way she had never heard before. ‘Unusual.’
She smiled, but said nothing. He was going to have to dig for every little bit of information he got from her on a personal level. He was used to women relating their life history at one lift of those sardonic eyebrows, but this was one female who wasn’t going to fall at his feet in humble adoration. No way, no how.
‘The McKinley is Scottish, I take it?’ he asked quietly, when the silence began to stretch.
‘My father was Scots, yes.’
Her tone wasn’t conducive to further questions, but she wasn’t unduly surprised when he persisted softly, ‘And your mother?’
‘My mother was French,’ she said, a little stiffly now.
‘And it would have been your mother who chose the name Tamar,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘What makes you say that?’ He was right, as it happened, but she wasn’t going to tell him so.
‘The French like beautiful, exotic-sounding names; the Scots are a little more conservative,’ he said with sweeping generalisation.
