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Interview with a Tycoon
Cara Colter
Kiernan McAllister’s wet hair, the colour of just-brewed coffee, was curling at the tips. The stubble on his face accentuated the hard, masculine lines of his features.
The out-of-the-storm look of his hair and his being unshaven gave him a distinctly roguish look, and despite his state of undress he might have been a pirate, relishing his next conquest, or a highwayman about to draw his sword.
His eyes were a shade of silver that added to her sense that he could be dangerous in the most tantalizing of ways. In the pictures she had seen of him his eyes had intrigued, with a faint light at the back of them that she had interpreted as faintly mischievous—as if all his incredible successes in the business world was nothing more than a big game and it was a game that he was winning.
But of course that was before the accident where his brother-in-law had been killed.
There was the difference. Now Kiernan McAllister’s eyes had something in them as shattered as glass, cool, a barrier that he did not want penetrated by someone looking for a story.
In that moment, Stacy knew he would turn her down flat if she requested an interview.
Interview with a Tycoon
Cara Colter
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CARA COLTER lives in British Columbia with her partner, Rob, and eleven horses. She has three grown children and a grandson. She is a recent recipient of an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award in the Love and Laughter category. Cara loves to hear from readers, and you can contact her or learn more about her on her Facebook page through her website: www.cara-colter.com (http://www.cara-colter.com).
To all those readers
who come to visit me on Facebook, thank you!
Contents
Cover (#u976932ce-4a23-5a99-96ad-ff22de46936e)
Introduction (#u3bd5829c-5bbc-565a-be9e-4e1dc1fc698e)
Title Page (#u4283b1a1-eb5c-5ef5-8fa6-07bfca81e6b6)
About the Author (#uef8e79a1-ce91-5f69-8b80-5f98ac727a6c)
Dedication (#u431446d6-065d-5936-9bb3-f8f9eb63ea2d)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_ae857aeb-6edf-5872-9e06-3d7342f86fde)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_634202b8-e474-5591-a5e2-9954e2adfb78)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_86d9a53a-b462-5d47-be6d-f6b7f124c441)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_17d6f6bc-bd8a-50e5-a427-c41c6c56bcf0)
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)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_6ebc21f5-2a90-5fc5-8537-1a82debeca11)
STACY MURPHY WALKER’S heart was beating way too fast. She wondered, gripping the steering wheel of her compact car tighter, how long a heart could beat this fast before it finally calmed itself out of pure exhaustion.
Or exploded, her mind, with its tendency to be overly imaginative, filled in helpfully.
But, still, she was entirely aware the slipping of her tires on the icy mountain roads was not solely responsible for the too-fast beating of her heart.
No, it was the sheer audacity of what she was doing.
Bearding the lion in his den.
A bronze name plaque, McAllister—in other words, the lion—set in a high stone fence, tasteful and easy to miss, told her she had arrived. Now what? She turned into the driveway but stopped before tackling the steep upward incline.
What was she going to say? I need an interview with Kiernan McAllister to save my career as a business writer, so let me in?
She’d had two hours to think about this! No, more. It had been three days since a friend, Caroline, from her old job had called and told her, that amidst the rumors that his company was being sold, McAllister had slipped away to his Whistler retreat.
“This story is made for you, Stacy,” her friend had whispered. “Landing it will set you up as the most desired business freelancer in all of Vancouver! And you deserve it. What happened to you here was very unfair. This is a story that needs your ability to get to the heart of things.” There had been a pause, and then a sigh. “Imagine getting to the heart of that man.”
Stacy had taken the address Caroline had provided while contemplating, not the heart of that man, because she was done with men after all, but the humiliating fact that what had happened to her was obviously the going topic in the coffee room.
But Caroline was right. To scoop the news of the sale of the company would be a career coup for a newly set loose freelancer. To lace that scoop with insight into the increasingly enigmatic McAllister would be icing on the cake.
But more, Stacy felt landing such an important article could be the beginning of her return, not just to professional respect, but to personal self-respect!
What had she thought? That she was just going to waltz up to millionaire Kiernan McAllister’s Whistler cottage and knock at his door?
McAllister was the founder and CEO of the highly regarded and wildly successful Vancouver-based company McAllister Enterprises.
And what was her expectation? That he would open his door, personally? And why would he—who had once been the darling of the media and graced the cover of every magazine possible—grant an audience to her?
McAllister had not given a single interview since the death of his best friend and brother-in-law almost exactly a year ago in a skiing accident—in a place accessible only by helicopter—that had made worldwide headlines.
Now, Stacy hoped she could convince him that she was the best person to entrust his story to.
And here was the problem with imagination.
She could imagine the interview going so well, that at the end of it, she would tell him about her charity, and ask him...
She shook herself. “One thing at a time!”
It was a shot in the dark, after all. And speaking of dark, if she did not get her act together soon, she would be driving back down this road in the dark. The thought made her shudder. She had some vague awareness that ice got icier at night!
She inched forward. She was nearly there, and yet one obstacle remained. The driveway had not been plowed of snow, and the incline looked treacherous. It was in much worse shape than the public roads had been in, and those had been the worst roads Stacy had ever faced!
At the steepest part of the hill, just before it crested, her car hesitated. She was sure she heard it groan, or maybe that sound came from her own lips. For an alarming moment, with her car practically at a standstill, Stacy thought she was going to start sliding backward down the hill.
In a moment of pure panic, she pressed down, hard, on the gas pedal. The wheels spun, and in slow motion, her car twisted to one side. But then the tires found purchase, and as her car shot forward, she straightened the wheel. The car acted as if it had been launched from a canon and careened over that final crest of the hill.
“Oh, God,” she exclaimed. “Too fast!”
She practically catapulted into the courtyard. The most beautiful house she had ever seen loomed in front of her, and she was a breath away from crashing into it!
She hammered on the brakes and yanked on her steering wheel.
She’d been on a ride at the midway once that felt just like this: the car spun like a top across the icy driveway. She bumped violently over a curb, flattened some shrubs and came to a stop so sudden her head bounced forward and smashed into the steering wheel.
Dazed, she looked up. She had come to rest against a concrete fountain. It tipped dangerously. The snow it was filled with fell with a quiet thump on the hood of her car.
She sat there in shock, the silence embracing her like that white cloud of snow on her hood that was obliterating her view. It was tempting to just sit and mull over her bad luck, but no, that was not in keeping with the “new” Stacy Walker.
“There’s lots to be grateful for,” she told herself sternly. “I’m warm, for one! And relatively unhurt.”
Relatively, because her head ached where she had hit it.
Putting that aside, she shoved her car into Reverse, hoping no one had seen what had just transpired. She put her foot down—gently, this time—on the gas, and pressed, but aside from the wheels making an awful whining noise, nothing happened. When she applied more gas, the whining sound increased to a shriek, but the car did not move.
With an edge of franticness, she tried one more time, but her car was stuck fast and refused to budge.
With a sigh of defeat, she turned the car off, rested her aching head against the steering wheel and gave in to the temptation to mull over her bad luck.
No fiancе.
No job.
Those two events linked in a way that had become fodder for the office gossip mill. And possibly beyond. Maybe she was the laughingstock of the entire business community.
At least she still had her charity work. But the sad fact was, though the charity was so worthwhile, it limped along, desperately needing someone prominent—exactly like Kiernan McAllister—to thrust it to the next level.
So engrossed was she in her mulling that she shrieked with alarm when her car door was yanked open, spilling cold air into it, stealing the one thing she had been grateful for—warmth—instantly. She reared back from the steering wheel.
“Are you all right?”
The voice was deep and masculine and might have been reassuring. Except for the man it was attached to.
No. No. NO.
This was not how she had intended to meet Kiernan McAllister!
“I seem to be stuck,” Stacy said with all the dignity she could muster. After the initial glance, she grasped the steering wheel and looked straight ahead, as if she was planning on going somewhere.
She felt her attempt at dignity might have failed, because he said, his voice the calm, steady voice of someone who had found another standing at the precipice, “That’s all right. Let’s get you out of there, and see what the damage is.”
“Mostly to your garden, I’m afraid.”
“I’m not worried about my garden.” Again, that calm, talking-her-down-from-the-ledge tone of voice.
“Here. Take my hand.”
She needed to reclaim her dignity by insisting she was fine. But when she opened her mouth, not a single sound came out.
“Take my hand.”
This time, it was a command more than a request. Weakly, it felt like something of a relief to have choice taken away from her!
As if in a dream, Stacy put her hand in his. She felt it close around hers, warm and strong, and found herself pulled, with seemingly effortless might out of the car and straight into a wall of...man.
She should have felt the cold instantly. Instead, she felt like Charlie Chaplin doing a “slipping on a banana peel” routine. Her legs seemed to be shooting out in different directions.
She yanked free of his hands and threw herself against his chest, hugging tight.
And felt the warmth of it. And the shock. Bare skin? It was snowing out. How was it possible he was bare chested?
Who cares? a little voice whispered in accompaniment to the tingle moving up her spine. Given how humiliating her circumstances, she should not be so aware of the steely firmness of silky flesh and the sensation of being intimately close to pure power. She really should not be proclaiming the experience delicious.
“Whoa.” He unglued her from him and put her slightly away, his hands settled on her shoulders. “Neither you nor your car appear properly shod for this weather.”
