Taming the Takeover Tycoon

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“J.D. was a close friend. I’ve known you since you were a skinny kid with braids. I’m doing precisely, to a T, what your father would want me to do.”

“Except it goes against his final wishes.”

“That can’t have been his intent. Search your heart and tell me you don’t agree.”

Her gaze narrowed again.

“You would never betray me, would you, Jack?”

As a shiver ran up his spine, Jack looked her dead in the eye. “No, Angelica,” he said. “I would never betray you.”

* * *

Jack followed Angelica back to the Lassiter family mansion, which sat on two acres of Beverly Hills north of Sunset. J.D. had bought the Spanish Colonial revival twenty years ago when he’d created the L.A. office. Built in the 1930s, the mansion retained its original wrought-iron detail, leaded glass and homemade Spanish tiles. In recent years, however, Angelica had contributed much in the way of decorating its 11,000 feet of luxury living space. It had been more her home than J.D.’s.

When Jack and Angelica began to go over some figures and she asked him to stay for lunch, of course, he accepted. He even helped her prepare enough egg salad sandwiches to feed ten. Then they sat and ate in the lanai, taking in the sparkling pool and the flawless blue sky of late summer. By the time they had talked through everything and Angelica felt positive again about going forward, the sun was arcing toward the west.

As she accompanied Jack through the living room with its soaring ceiling to the front entrance, for the hundredth time he considered the part he was playing in this unfolding drama. Complex and uncomfortable, even for him. Still, as he had said to Angelica earlier, they need only keep their eyes on the target.

“I shouldn’t have kept you this long.” Angelica looked weary, resting her cheek against the opened door edge as Jack stepped onto the extravagant porch.

“I’m here anytime you need me.”

“Becca Stevens must be wondering where you got to.”

“She probably welcomed the break.”

“I doubt that.”

When Angelica sent him a fond smile, Jack held her shoulder. “You’ll be okay.”

“You were always a good friend to my father...to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to worry about that.”

There was a spring in Jack’s step as he crossed to his car. He had helped Angelica—or not helped, depending on which team a person rooted for. On top of that, even after having his fill of egg salad, Jack was still fanging for those Danishes.

Steering out onto the main road, he put through a call to the Lassiter Foundation and gave his name. He was transferred to Becca’s assistant.

“Sorry, Mr. Reed. Ms. Stevens left for the day.”

Jack checked the dash clock. A little after four. “She’s gone home?” he asked.

“I couldn’t say.”

He reverse head-butted the seat. Damn.

“Do you have her private number?”

“Sorry, sir. I can’t give that out.”

Jack knew he could get it easily enough. Not the point. Nothing was more important to Becca than saving her foundation, which translated into putting all her efforts into trying to talk him around. Surely her nose wasn’t put out because Angelica had needed him earlier.

So, what had come up that was so urgent? Was Becca playing hard to get? He wasn’t that desperate for Danish.

When his cell rang a minute later, he connected without checking the ID.

It wasn’t Becca.

“Hey, Jack. David Baldwin here.”

Jack flinched but put a smile in his voice. “Hey. How’s it going, David?”

“Call me Dave. Have you got a few minutes? I’d like to show you something.”

“Sylvia already mentioned another factory tour.”

“She let me know. You’ve seen enough there.”

“And you’ll have an offer by end of the month.” Silence echoed down the line. “Dave, you there?”

“I wanted to speak with you about a personal matter.”

Damn it. He should’ve checked that caller ID. “I’m not sure I can help with any personal issues.”

“Actually it’s about me helping you.”

“I’m tied up at the moment, but sit tight and we’ll get that offer—”

“This is about family, Jack. It’s about...a journey.”

Jack had heard it all before in a hundred different ways from just as many different people. The times they had spoken, David Baldwin had come across as a good guy who’d worked hard and considered his employees to be just that...family. Now, he wanted Jack to get involved, drag his financial butt out of the fire and save his business. Save the day.

And, hey, there was something about David Baldwin that gave Jack pause. Something in the deep brown of his eyes that made him care. But this association could end only one way and that was not with the two of them sharing Christmas dinners.

“I’ll be in touch soon,” Jack said. “Another call’s coming through. Take care.”

He disconnected. A single beat later, pain ripped through his chest—a stab followed by one almighty twist. Stopping at lights, he winced, massaging the spot.

Not heartburn or, God forbid, a heart attack. Just this Lassiter issue getting to him. The Baldwin business, too. If David wanted to save his family, best of luck. Jack couldn’t help.

And, while she might never accept it—while she would want to see his head on a spike when this was done—Jack couldn’t help Becca Stevens, either.

* * *

The next morning, Jack’s cell phone woke him.

Rubbing his eyes, Jack grabbed it, checked the caller ID—lesson learned—and connected.

“Jack?” Becca sounded puzzled. “Did I wake you?”

He sat up, ran a hand through his hair. The bedside clock read eight-oh-five. Holy crap. He always had trouble getting to sleep, but what the hell time had he finally nodded off last night?

“I thought I’d call early,” she went on. “I have a plan.”

Jack smothered a yawn. “I like plans.”

“Can I come over and tell you about it?”

“I thought you might have been, well...”

“Pissed at you after ditching me yesterday? I understand your situation with Angelica. She feels backed into a corner.”

“The only way out is to fight.”

“Or to accept. Even forgive.”

He swung his feet over and onto the floor. “Ultimately, that’s up to her.”

“It’d help if you stopped pushing her.”

Jack grinned. “I thought you said you understood.”

He heard her sigh. At least she didn’t argue.

“What time can I come over?” she asked.

She certainly was eager. “Why not the office?”

“It’d save time.”

He couldn’t argue with that. “I’ll just jump in the shower.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that he’d wait for her. Bad Jack.

“See you in thirty then,” she said.

Naked, he crossed to the bathroom. “I’ll be here.” With bells on.

* * *

Jack answered his booming doorbell wearing tatty jeans that hung low on his hips. He hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt. When he lifted an arm to lean against the jamb and his epic six-pack firmed up even more, Becca could have drooled.

Look into his eyes. Not the big, bronzed chest or that strip of skin south of his navel, damn it. Look at his eyes.

“Morning,” he said. “You’re late.”

A lousy ten minutes. And she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking where the rest of his clothes were, either. Even his feet were bare; who knew toes could be sexy?

The other time she had visited, an older man with an impeccable air had seen her through to the back lawn. “I thought the butler would answer the door,” she said.

“Merv’s not a butler.” His arm slid down as he stepped back to allow her inside. “He looks after things for me on the home front. It’s his day off.”

“Did you grow up having a person like Merv around to mix your chocolate milk?” she asked, stepping into the double-story, marble-decked foyer that smelled of money.

“I did.”

“Must be nice.”

He laughed. “Still trying to guilt me out?”

“Just saying...”

“Merv does a great job. In return he is paid extremely well.”

She pinned up a smile. “Then everyone’s happy.”

Jack must have been six-two or -three. In peep-toe flats that matched her simple white summer dress, Becca felt way less than her average height. When his scent filled her lungs, she fought the absurd urge to wither against him...even drag her lips all over those pecs. His chest was that good.

Before he shut the door, he did a double-take at her ride parked in the forecourt. “Tell me that’s not a company car.”

“My ’63 Fiat Bambino is what’s known as a true classic.”

He squinted, looking harder—admiring the distinctive light mint-green shade, perhaps. “Are those dinky wheels even roadworthy?”