The Tycoon's Ultimate Conquest
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Art didn’t need opposition. He needed to butter up the unruly mob because he had long-term plans for the land—plans that included sheltered accommodation for his autistic stepbrother, to whom he was deeply attached.
He hadn’t gone straight to the site though, choosing instead to make himself known to the woman standing firmly between him and his plans. He was good with women. Women liked him. Quite a few positively adored him. And there weren’t many who didn’t fall for his charm. Art wasn’t vain but he was realistic, so why not use that charm to work its magic on this recalcitrant woman?
If that failed to do the trick then of course he would have to go back to the drawing board, but it was worth a shot.
To this end, he had taken his unprecedented leave of absence. A few days to sort out urgent business that wouldn’t happily sit on the back burner and now here he was.
He was sporting the beginnings of a beard, was letting his hair grow, and the sharp handmade suits had ceded to the faded jeans and a black polo shirt.
‘Really?’ Rose said with a certain amount of cynicism.
‘Indeed. Why the suspicion?’
‘Because you don’t exactly fit the role of the protestors we have here.’
‘Don’t I? How so?’
‘Basically, I have no idea who you are. I don’t recognise you.’
‘And you know everyone who’s protesting?’
‘Everyone and, in most cases, their extended families, as well. You’re not from around here, are you?’
‘Not quite,’ Art murmured vaguely, unprepared for such a direct line of attack before he’d even started writing incendiary messages on a placard.
‘Well, where are you from? Exactly?’
Art shrugged and shifted in his chair. He was beginning to understand why the deputies sent to do this job had failed. Right now, Rose was staring at him as though he was something suspect and possibly contagious that had somehow managed to infiltrate her space.
‘Can anyone say exactly where they’re from?’ he threw the question back at her, which only made her look at him with even more suspicion.
‘Yes. Everyone on the site, for a start. As for me, I’m from here and always have been, aside from a brief spell at university.’
‘I largely live in London.’ Which was technically accurate. He did largely live in London. In his penthouse in Belgravia. He was also to be found in five-star hotels around the world, several of which he owned, or in one of the many houses he owned, although those occasions were slightly rarer. Who had time to wind down in a villa by the sea?
Strangely, that non-answer seemed to satisfy her because she stopped looking as though she had her finger on the buzzer to call for instant backup. ‘So what are you doing here?’ she asked with curiosity. ‘I mean, why this cause? If you’re not from around here, then what does it matter to you whether the land is destroyed or not?’
‘Destroy is a big word.’ Art was outraged but he held onto his temper and looked at her with an expression of bland innocence.
Definitely arresting, he thought. Exotic eyes. Feline. And a sensuous mouth. Wide and expressive. And an air of sharp intelligence which, it had to be said, wasn’t one of the foremost qualities he ever sought in a woman, but it certainly worked in this instance because he was finding it hard to keep his eyes off her.
* * *
Rose fidgeted. To her horror, she felt the slow crawl of colour stain her cheeks. The man was gazing at her with hooded eyes and that look was doing all sorts of unexpected things to her body.
‘It’s exactly the right word,’ she snapped, more sharply than she had intended, a reaction to those dark, sexy eyes.
Never had she felt more self-conscious, more aware of her shortcomings. The comfortable and practical culottes, which were the mainstay of her wardrobe on hot summer days, were suddenly as flattering as a pair of curtains and the loose-fitting vest as attractive as a bin liner.
She reminded herself that she wasn’t the star attraction in a fashion parade. Clothes did not the man, or woman, make!
But for the first time in living memory she had the crazy urge to be something other than the determined career lawyer who worked hard on behalf of the underdog. She had the crazy urge to be sexy and compelling and wanted for her body instead of her brain.
‘Too many developers over the years have whittled away at the open land around here.’ She refocused and brought her runaway mind back on track. ‘They’ve come along and turned the fields, which have been enjoyed for centuries by ramblers and nature lovers, into first a stupid shopping mall and then into office blocks.’
Rose half expected him to jump in here and heatedly side with her but he remained silent and she wondered what was going through that impossibly good-looking head of his.
‘And this lot?’
‘DC Logistics?’ She loosed a sarcastic laugh under her breath. ‘The worst of the lot. Certainly the biggest! They want to construct a housing development. But then I don’t suppose I’m telling you anything you don’t already know. Which brings me back to my question—why the interest in joining our protest?’
* * *
‘Sometimes—’ Art played with the truth like a piece of moulding clay ‘—big, powerful developers need to understand the importance of working in harmony with nature or else leaving things as they stand and, as you say, DC Logistics is the mother of all big companies.’ He succeeded in not sounding proud of this fact. When he thought of the work that had gone into turning the dregs of what had been left of his father’s companies, after five ex-wives had picked them over in outrageous alimony settlements, into the success story of today he was pretty proud of his achievements.
Art had lived through the nightmare of his father’s mistakes, the marriages that had fallen apart within seconds of the ink on the marriage certificates being dry. He’d gritted his teeth, helpless, as each ex-wife had drained the coffers and then, after his father had died several years previously, he’d returned to try to save what little remained of the thriving empire Emilio da Costa had carefully built up over time.
Art had been a young man at the time, barely out of university but already determined to take what was left and build it again into the thriving concern it had once been when his mother—Emilio da Costa’s first wife and only love—had been alive.
Art might have learned from the chaos of his father’s life and the greed of the women he had foolishly married that love was for the birds, but he had also learned the value of compassion in his unexpected affection for his stepbrother, José—not flesh and blood, no, but his brother in every sense of the word, who had been robustly ignored by his avaricious mother. The land was integral to his plan to make a home for José—the reason for Art needing to shut this protest down as quickly and as quietly as possible.
‘Yes, it is,’ Rose concurred. ‘So you’re idealistic,’ she carried on in an approving tone.
The last time Art had been idealistic had been when he’d believed in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. Witnessing the self-serving venom camouflaged as true love that had littered his father’s life right up until his death had taken whatever ideals he might have had and entombed them in a place more secure than a bank vault.
‘Well, you’re in the right place.’ Rose gestured to the paraphernalia in the kitchen. ‘Obviously I don’t devote all of my time to this cause. I couldn’t possibly, but I do try to touch base with the people out there on a daily basis.’
‘What’s your main line of work?’
‘Employment law.’ Rose smiled and, just like that, Art felt the breath knocked out of his body.
The woman was more than arresting. When she smiled she was...bloody stunning. He felt the familiar kick of his libido, but stronger and more urgent than ever. Two months without a woman, he thought, would do that to a red-blooded man with a healthy sex drive. Because this outspoken feminist was certainly, on no level, what he looked for in a woman. He didn’t do argumentative and he definitely didn’t do the let’s-hold-hands-and-save-the-world type. He did blondes. Big blonde hair, big blue eyes and personalities that soothed rather than challenged.
Rose Tremain was about as soothing as a pit bull.
And yet... His eyes lingered and his inconvenient erection refused to go away. The blood surging in his veins was hot with a type of dark excitement he hadn’t felt in a very long time. If ever.
‘Come again?’ He realised that she had said something.
‘Your line of work? What is it?’
‘I dabble.’
‘Dabble in what?’
‘How much time have you got to spare? Could take a while.’
‘Could take a while covering your many talents? Well, you’re far from modest, aren’t you?’ She raised her eyebrows, amused and mocking, and Art smiled back slowly—deliberately slowly.
‘I’ve never been a believer in false modesty. Sign of a hypocritical mind. I prefer to recognise my talents as well as my...er...shortcomings.’
‘Well, whatever you do is your business—’ she shrugged and stood up ‘—but if you’re good at everything, which seems to be what you’re implying, then you’re going to be very useful to us.’
‘How so?’ Art followed suit and stood up, towering over her even though she was tall. ‘Useful in what respect?’
‘Odd jobs. Nothing major so no need to sound alarmed.’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘Everyone lends a helping hand when they’re here. It’s not just a case of people painting slogans on bits of cardboard with felt tip pens. Yes, we’re all protesting for the same reason, but this is a small, close community. The guys who come here do all sorts of jobs around the house. They know I’m representing them for free and they’re all keen to repay the favour by doing practical things in return. There are a couple of plumbers behind us and an electrician, and without them I have no idea how much money I would have had to spend to get some vital jobs on the house done.’
‘So this is your house?’ Art thought that it was a bit hypocritical, clamouring about rich businessmen who wanted to destroy the precious space around her so that they could line their evil pockets when she, judging from the size of the house, was no pauper.
Accustomed to storing up information that might prove useful down the line, he sensed that that was a conversation he would have in due course.
‘It is, not that that’s relevant,’ Rose said coolly. ‘What is relevant is that most of the town is behind us, aside from the local council, who have seen fit to grant planning permission. I’ve managed to really rally a great deal of people to support our cause and they’ve all been brilliant. So if you’re a jack-of-all-trades then I’m sure I’ll be able to find loads of practical ways you can help, aside from joining the sit-in, of course. Now, shall I take you to the scene of the crime...?’
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOU HAVE A nice house,’ Art commented neutrally as they exited the cluttered kitchen, out into the main body of the house which was equally cluttered. ‘Big. You rent out rooms, I take it?’ He detoured to push open the door to one of the huge ground-floor rooms and was confronted with an elderly man holding court with an image of a bunch of flowers behind him on the wall. The image was faded and unsteady because the projector was probably a relic from the last century. Everyone turned to stare at Art and he saluted briskly before gently shutting the door.
‘If it’s all the same to you, Mr Frank, I’ll ask the questions. And please refrain from exploring the house because, yes, other organisations do avail themselves of some of the rooms and I very much doubt they want you poking your head in to say hello. Unless, of course, you have something to impart on the subject of orchid-growing or maybe some pearls of wisdom you could share with one of our Citizens Advice Bureau volunteers?’
‘I’ve never been into gardening,’ Art contributed truthfully. He slanted his eyes across to Rose, who was walking tall next to him, her strides easily matching his as they headed to the front door. The walls of the house were awash with rousing, morale-boosting posters. Voices could be heard behind closed doors.
‘You’re missing out. It’s a very restful pastime.’
Art chuckled quietly. He didn’t do restful.
‘Wait a minute.’ She looked at him directly, hands on her hips, her brown eyes narrowed and shrewdly assessing. ‘There’s one little thing I forgot to mention and I’d better be upfront before we go any further.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know who you are. You’re not from around here and I’m going to make it clear to you from the start that we don’t welcome rabble-rousers.’
Stunned, Art stared at her in complete silence.
He was Arturo da Costa. A man feared and respected in the international business community. A man who could have anything he wanted at the snap of an imperious finger. Grown men thought twice before they said anything they felt might be misconstrued as offensive. When he spoke, people inclined their heads and listened. When he entered a room, silence fell.
And here he was being accused of being a potential rabble-rouser!
‘Rabble-rouser,’ he framed in a slow, incredulous voice.
‘It’s been known.’ She spun around on her heel, headed to the door and then out towards a battered navy blue Land Rover. ‘Idlers who drift from one protest site to another, stirring up trouble for their own political motives.’
‘Idlers...’ Art played with the word on his tongue, shocked and yet helpless to voice his outrage given he was supposed to be someone of no fixed address, there to support the noble cause.
‘Granted, not all are idlers.’ Rose swung herself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind her, waiting for him to join her. She switched on the engine but then turned to him, one hand on the gearbox, the other on the steering wheel. ‘But a lot of them are career protestors and I can tell you straight away that we don’t welcome that lot. We’re peaceful. We want our voices to be heard and the message we want to get across is not one that would benefit from thug tactics.’
‘I have never been accused of being a rabble-rouser in my life before, far less a thug. Or an idler...’
‘There’s no need to look so shocked.’ She smiled and pushed some of her curly hair away from her face. ‘These things happen in the big, bad world.’
* * *
‘Oh, I know all about what happens in the big, bad world,’ Mr Frank murmured softly and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end because his deep, velvety voice was as seductive as the darkest of chocolate.
In the sultry heat of the Land Rover, she could almost breathe him in and it was going to her head like incense.
‘And before you launch into another outrageous accusation—’ he laughed ‘—something along the lines that I don’t know about the big, bad world because I’m a criminal, I’ll tell you straight away that I have never, and will never, operate on the wrong side of the law.’
‘I wasn’t about to accuse you of being a criminal.’ Rose blinked and cleared her throat. ‘Although, of course,’ she added grudgingly, ‘I might have got round to that sooner or later. You can’t be too careful. You should roll your window down. It’ll be a furnace in here otherwise.’
‘No air conditioning?’
‘This relic barely goes,’ she said affectionately before swinging around to expertly manoeuvre the courtyard which was strewn with cars, all parked, it would seem, with reckless abandon. ‘If I tried to stick air conditioning in it would probably collapse from the shock of being dragged into the twentieth century.’
‘You could always get a new car.’
‘For someone who dabbles in a bit of this and that, you seem to think that money grows on trees,’ she said tartly. ‘If I ever win the lottery I might consider replacing my car but, until then, I work with the old girl and hope for the best.’
‘Lawyers,’ he said with a vague wave of his hand. ‘Aren’t you all made of money?’
Rose laughed and shot him a sideways look. He was slouched against the passenger door, his big body angled so that he could look at her, and she wondered how many women had had those sexy dark eyes focused on them, how many had lost their head drowning in the depths.
She fancied herself as anything but the romantic sort, but there was a little voice playing in her head, warning her that this was a man she should be careful of.
Rose nearly laughed because her last brush with romance had left a nasty taste in her mouth. Jack Shaw had been a fellow lawyer and she had met him on one of her cases, which had taken her to Surrey and the playground of the rich and famous. He had been fighting the corner for the little guy and she had really thought that they were on the same wavelength—and they should have been. He’d ticked all the right boxes! But for the second time in her adult life she had embarked on a relationship that had started off with promise only to end in disappointment. How was it possible for something that made sense to end up with two people not actually having anything left to say to one another after ten months?
Rose knew what worked and what didn’t when it came to emotions. She had learned from bitter childhood experience what to avoid. She knew what was unsuitable. And yet her two suitable boyfriends, with their excellent socialist credentials, had crashed and burned.
At this rate, she was ready to give up the whole finding love game and sink her energies into worthwhile causes instead.
‘Not all lawyers are rich,’ she said without looking at him, busy focusing on the road, which was lined with dense hedges, winding and very narrow. ‘I’m not.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Maybe I chose the wrong branch of law.’ She shrugged. ‘Employment law generally doesn’t do it when it comes to earning vast sums of money. Not that I’m complaining. I get by nicely, especially when you think about all the perfectly smart people who can’t find work.’
‘There’s always work available for perfectly smart people.’
‘Is that your experience?’ She flashed him a wry sidelong glance before turning her attention back to the road. ‘Are you one of those perfectly smart people who finds it so easy to get work that you’re currently drifting out here to join a cause in which you have no personal interest?’
‘You’re still suspicious of my motives?’
‘I’m reserving judgement. Although—’ she sighed ‘—I can, of course, understand how easy it is to get involved if you’re a nature-lover. Look around you at the open land. You can really breathe out here. The thought of it being handed over to a developer, so that houses can be put up and the trees chopped down, doesn’t bear thinking about.’
* * *
Art looked around him. There certainly was a great deal of open land. It stretched all around them, relentless and monotonous, acres upon acres upon acres of never-ending sameness. He’d never been much of a country man. He liked the frenetic buzz of city life, the feeling of being surrounded by activity. He made some appreciative noises under his breath and narrowed his eyes against the glare as the perimeters of his land took shape.
‘So you’ve lived here all your life,’ Art murmured as she slowed right down to access the bumpy track that followed the outer reaches of his property. ‘I’m taking it that some of the guys protesting are relatives? Brothers? Sisters? Cousins? Maybe your parents?’
‘No,’ Rose said shortly.
Art pricked up his ears, detecting something behind that abrupt response. It paid to know your quarry and Harold had been spot on when he’d said that there was next to no personal information circulating out there about the prickly woman next to him. Amazing. Social media was the staple diet of most people under the age of thirty-five and yet this woman had obviously managed to turn her back firmly on the trend.
Since he was similarly private about his life, he had to concede some reluctant admiration for her stance.
‘No extended family?’
‘Why the Spanish Inquisition?’ She glanced across at him. ‘What about you? Brothers? Sisters? Cousins? Will some of your extended family be showing up here to support us?’
‘You’re very prickly.’
‘I...don’t mean to be, Mr Frank.’
‘I think we should move onto a first name basis. That okay with you? My name’s Arturo. Arthur if you prefer the English equivalent.’ Which was as close to the truth as it was possible to get, as was the surname, which hadn’t been plucked from thin air but which was, in fact, his mother’s maiden name.
‘Rose.’
‘And you were telling me that you weren’t prickly...’
* * *
‘I’m afraid the whole business of an extended family is something of a sore point with me.’ She half smiled because her history was no deep, dark secret, at least locally. If Arthur, or Arturo because he looked a lot more like an exotic Arturo than a boring Arthur, ended up here for the long haul, then sooner or later he would hear the gossip. The truth was that her background had made her what she was, for which she was very glad, but it wasn’t exactly normal and for some reason explaining herself to this man felt...awkward and a little intimate.
Aside from that, what was with the questioning? Shouldn’t he be asking questions about the land instead of about her?
On a number of levels he certainly didn’t respond in the predicted manner and again Rose felt that shiver, the faintly thrilling feathery sensation of being in slightly unchartered territory.
‘You asked about me,’ he said smoothly, filling the silence which had descended between them, ‘and extended family is a sore point for me, as well. I have none.’
‘No?’ They had arrived at the protest site but Rose found that she wanted to prolong the conversation.
‘Do you feel sorry for me?’ Arturo grinned and Rose blinked, disconcerted by the stupendous charm behind that crooked smile. She felt it again, a whoosh that swept through her, making her breath quicken and her stomach swoop.
‘Should I? You don’t strike me as the sort of guy someone should be feeling sorry for. How is it that you have no extended family?’
‘First, I’ll take it as a compliment that you think I’m the kind of dominant guy people should fear, respect and admire instead of pity...’
‘Did I say that?’ But her mouth twitched with amusement.
‘And, second, I’ll tell you if you tell me. We can hold hands and have a girly evening sharing confidences...join me for dinner later. I’d love to get to know you better.’
Hot, flustered and suddenly out of her depth, Rose gaped at him like a stranded fish, scarcely believing her ears. She reddened, lost for words.
‘Is it a promising start that I’m taking your breath away?’ Arturo drawled, his voice rich with amusement.
‘No... I... You’re asking me on a date?’
‘You sound as though it’s something that’s never happened to you before.’
‘I...no... I’m very sorry, Mr Frank, but I...no. I can’t accept. But thank you very much. I’m flattered.’
‘Arturo.’ He frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘Because...’ Rose smoothed her wayward hair with her hand and stared off into the distance, all the while acutely aware of his dark, sexy eyes on her profile, making a nonsense of her level head and feet-firmly-planted-on-the-ground approach to life. She was no frothy, giggly bit of fluff but he was making her feel a bit like that and anyone would think that she was a giddy virgin in the company of a prince!
‘Because...?’
‘Well, it’s not appropriate.’
‘Why not? I may be about to join your cause, but you’re not my boss so no conflict of interest there.’
‘I...’ Rose licked her lips and eventually looked at him, leaning against the open window. ‘I...’
‘You’re not married. You’re not wearing a wedding ring.’