Interview with a Tycoon
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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.”
He was right. Her feet were stylishly clad in a ballet slipper style shoe by a famous designer. She had bought the red slippers—`a la Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz—when she had been more able to afford such whims.
The shoes had no grip on the sole. Stacy was no better prepared for snow than her car had been, and she was inordinately grateful for his steadying hands on her shoulders.
“What have you got on?” he asked, his tone incredulous.
The question really should have been what did he have on—since she was peripherally aware it was not much—but she glanced down at herself, anyway.
The shoes added a light Bohemian touch to an otherwise ultraconservative, just-above-the-knee gray skirt that she had paired with dark tights and a white blouse. At the last moment she had donned a darker gray sweater, which she was glad for now, as the snow fell around her. Nothing about her outfit—not even the shoes—commanded that incredulous tone.
Then, she dared glance fully at her rescuer and realized his question about what she had on was not in the context of her very stylish outfit at all. He was referring to her tires!
“Not even all seasons,” he said, squinting past her at the front tire that rested on top of what had been, no doubt, a very expensive shrub. His tone was disapproving. “Summer tires. What were you thinking?”
It was terribly difficult to drag her attention away this unexpectedly delicious encounter with the Kiernan McAllister and focus on the question. She felt as if her voice was coming from under water when she answered.
“I’ve never put winter tires on my car,” she confessed. “And if I were going to, it would not occur to me to do it in October. It is the season of falling leaves and pumpkins, not this.”
“You could have asked for me to send a car,” he said sternly.
Stacy contemplated that. She could have asked the Kiernan McAllister to send a car? In what universe? Obviously—and sadly—he was expecting someone else.
Or, was there the possibility Caroline had done more than give her an address? Did she have some kind of in with him? Had she set something up for Stacy?
That was her imagination again, because it was not likely he would be so intent on giving an interview he would send a car!
“Were you not prepared at all for mountain driving?”
“Not at all,” she admitted. “I was born and raised in Vancouver. You know how often we get snow there.”
At his grunt of what she interpreted as disapproval, she felt compelled to rush on. “Though I’ve always dreamed of a winter holiday. Skating on a frozen pond, learning to ski. That kind of thing. Now, I’m not so sure about that. Winter seems quite a bit more pleasant in movies and pictures and snow globes. Maybe I should just fast-forward to the hot chocolate in front of the fire.”
Was she chattering? Oh, God, she was chattering nervously, and it wasn’t just her teeth! Shut up, she ordered herself, but she had to add, “Humph. Reality and imagination collide, again.”
Story of her life: imagining walking down the aisle, her gorgeous white dress flowing out behind her, toward a man who looked at her with such love and such longing...
She did not want to be having those kinds of treacherous thoughts around this man.
“I always liked this reality,” McAllister said, and he actually reached out his free hand and caught a snowflake with it. Then he yanked his hand back abruptly, and the line around his mouth tightened and Stacy saw something mercurial in his storm-gray eyes.
She realized he had recalled, after the words came out of his mouth, that it was this reality—in the form of an avalanche—that had caused the death of his brother-in-law.
Sympathy clawed at her throat, as did a sense of knowing he was holding something inside that was eating him like acid.
It was a lot to understand from a glimpse of something in his eyes, from the way his mouth had changed, but this was exactly what Caroline had meant about Stacy’s ability to get to the heart of a story.
For some reason—probably from the loss of her family when she was a child—she had a superhoned sense of intuition that had left her with an ability to see people with extraordinary clarity and tell their stories deeply and profoundly.
Not that McAllister looked as if he would be willing to have his story told at all, his secrets revealed, his feelings probed.
Stacy had a sudden sense if she did get to the heart of this man, as Caroline had wistfully suggested, she would find it broken.
McAllister’s face was closed now, as if he sensed he had let his guard down just for that instant and that it might have revealed too much to her.
“What did you do when you lost control?” he asked her.
Of her life? How on earth could he tell? Was he has intuitive as she herself was?
But, to her relief, his attention was focused, disapprovingly, on her tires. He was still keeping her upright on the slippery ground, his hand now firmly clamped on her elbow, but if he was feeling the same sensation of being singed that she was, it in no way showed in his face. He had the look of a man who was always composed and in control.