Tycoon's Terms of Engagement

‘Well, if you’d stop rubbing your face…’ Tara stepped in close, her blusher brush raised like the weapon it was. ‘And stand still…’

As if that was possible. Her kitten-heeled shoes were half killing her toes, her stomach was churning and she was freezing, despite the weather app on her phone reckoning it was thirty-two degrees already. Stephanie waved Tara’s annoying brush away and checked the time on her phone again.

‘Let’s go. We can’t be late.’ She didn’t need the blusher—she’d probably turn beetroot the second he asked her a tricky question.

As she turned towards the hotel her panic sharpened. She was going to give herself away in the first five minutes… Because Steffi Leigh was all fiction. And Stephanie Johnson was a phony.

‘Of course you can be late,’ Tara scoffed, burrowing in her bag again. ‘You’re Steffi Leigh. You’re going to make an entrance.’

Stephanie winced. That was going to happen anyway, given she looked as if she’d just stepped out of a nineteen-fifties sewing catalogue—all full-skirted dress, nipped-in waist, kid gloves, kitten heels and pin-curled hair. She could see people driving past and turning their heads, probably wondering if it was a photo shoot—what with the make-up artist touching up her face on the street.

If only she was a model. If only she wasn’t going to have to speak and try to sell her site as some stellar investment.

‘Stephanie.’ Tara looked up and eyeballed her. ‘You can do this. You need to.’ Tara smiled. ‘You’ve got to get on with your life.’

Stephanie looked at her friend and a fatalistic determination sank into her bones. Yeah, she could do this. Because she had to—not for her life, but her brother’s.

She tucked her phone into her vintage bag, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. She was Steffi Leigh, and today she’d do the best job of staying in character ever.

Fake it. Make it. Rake it in.

She walked the few yards to the grand columned entrance. The Raeburn Hotel was one of the oldest, and definitely the most glamorous of Melbourne’s many five-star hotels, and the venue for her meeting with Jack Wolfe, CEO of the massive global media conglomerate that been publishing the world’s most popular and trusted travel guides for years. His company had transitioned well into the online environment, and he was interested in talking to her about her blog.

Monetising had been a key word in the blogging/vlogging/have-your-own-channel world of the internet for years now. Anyone could start yapping online, but getting people to part with their cash to hear what you had to say…? That was the Holy Grail.

But right now an even better grail was within her grasp. Because it wasn’t just a few followers wanting to pay her a couple of dollars a day, or funds from the few ads she could bear to have littering her design, it was a famous heir to a fortune offering a bundle of cash for the lot. And Stephanie was willing to do almost anything to get her hands on a decent amount of money. It was the only hope she had left to lift her brother out of his downward spiral. To get him into study, get his life started again.

A one-off instant cash offer would be incredible.

So Jack Wolfe could never know how much of a faker she was. That the huge platform she’d somehow accumulated was built on a façade that she projected from one corner of her small bedroom. If anyone ever saw the rest of the room…

The CEO of Wolfe Enterprises certainly wasn’t going to. Jack Wolfe was getting nothing but the façade for a few hours. She had to get him to buy it. Literally.

She smiled as the liveried attendant held the door for her, then paused for a moment, trying not to blink in naive appreciation of the marble-columned lobby. It had been a while since she’d got out. And never had she spent much time in a place as opulent and expensive as this.

‘I’m just nipping to the little girls’ room,’ Tara murmured.

‘Now?’

‘Your brother barricaded himself in the bathroom so I didn’t get a chance to go before we left.’ Tara shrugged.

Stephanie forgot the glorious surroundings and stared at Tara in horror. ‘You didn’t tell me that. Was he okay?’ She’d thought Dan had been sleeping. Even now, months since his last operation, he needed his rest.

‘He was fine. He was sulking.’ Tara fossicked in her bag again, as if she’d dropped the Hope Diamond in there. ‘Jeez, that boy knows how to play you.’ She looked up and sent Steffi a disapproving look. ‘Put the phone away. You don’t need him emotionally manipulating you two seconds before this meeting.’

‘He doesn’t emotionally manipulate me.’ Stephanie paused, her phone in her hand, embarrassed that Tara knew she’d been about to call and check up on him.

Tara shook her head and strode to the bathroom, barely watching where she was going, still searching for that elusive lost item in the bottom of her bag.

‘He doesn’t,’ Stephanie muttered under her breath, and clicked her phone to check the time on the screen. And to make sure there were no messages from Dan.

There weren’t.

She didn’t know whether that fact ought to make her worry more.

But Tara had been right—now wasn’t the time. Dan would have to wait a couple of hours. It was for his benefit that she was here. She’d head to the reception desk and get them to let Jack Wolfe know she’d arrived, and hopefully Tara would be back before he made it downstairs.

As she walked towards the beautifully clad reception staff she couldn’t help noticing a lone man standing with his back to her at the far corner of the lounge area. Sleek leather briefcase in one hand, he was talking into his phone. His stance emanated strength… his attire denoted power. And his American accent carried across the clear space.

‘I don’t care if he’s busy. I’ve waited long enough,’ he snapped. ‘Arrange it. Now.’

Turning, he stabbed his phone screen and then shoved it in his pocket.

Stephanie lifted her brows at the brusque arrogance of his demand. He was definitely used to giving orders, but he didn’t do it nicely. Curious to see his face, she kept an eye on him as he turned towards the rest of the room. Dark-haired, tanned, ocean-blue eyes. He’d be attractive if all that anger wasn’t radiating from his rigid posture.

He was looking down, but even so she could see the stark expression building in his eyes. Her footsteps faltered as she registered that he was feeling more than angry. He looked hurt. For a moment he looked utterly exposed, and the depth of his unhappiness stole her breath. A flood of sympathy rose unbidden, puckering her heart. For such a man to look so defeated, no matter how momentarily, it had to be something bad. And she understood bad. She knew heartache intimately.

He stiffened suddenly and looked up, across the short distance, right at her. Totally catching her gawping.

Instantly his expression changed. Closed. Hardened.

His blue eyes narrowed, focusing. And then to her astonishment he looked her over—slowly, blatantly—appraising every inch of her. All the way from her kitten-heeled feet to her perfectly curled hair.

Stephanie stood frozen, shocked, and just blinked back at him as he dared sum her up in one stare. His lips pressed into a thin line and his demeanour implied a total thumbs-down. He couldn’t have looked less impressed—or more hostile.

Okay, so she wasn’t Top Model striking, or Cosmo cover potential, but she wasn’t bad. And with Tara having worked her magic she was more than passable. And even if she wasn’t, his visual disapproval and dismissal was just plain rude.

Was he angry because he was embarrassed that she’d heard him? Or that she’d seen him looking upset for a second? She hadn’t intended to eavesdrop—he’d been the one who hadn’t had the courtesy even to try and refrain from letting the rest of the world hear his conversation.

Now she couldn’t be sure she’d seen such bleakness in his eyes. And had she really, just for a moment, felt for him?

Well, she wasn’t going to let him know he’d pierced her pride. Summoning every ounce of Steffi Leigh, she sent him her most sparkling smile—albeit insincere. Without waiting to see his reaction she turned her back on him and his wordless judgement and walked over to the receptionist.

‘Could you please let Jack Wolfe know that Steffi Leigh is here to see him?’

‘I’m Jack Wolfe.’ A deep voice interrupted just behind her.

Stephanie’s heart sank. But her already tense muscles braced even more. She’d known it—the accent had warned her. She just hadn’t wanted to be right.

She smiled her thanks to the receptionist, but the woman wasn’t paying her any attention—she was too busy making eyes at the man who’d spoken.

Yeah, he was like that—vacuuming up the sexual attention of every woman in the vicinity.

Quelling the nerves churning her stomach, Stephanie turned to face him.

The Wolfe Guides were geared towards the independent traveller. Those infinitely cool types who managed to travel around fifteen countries for nine months with only a small backpack on their backs and yet looked hip and stylish every step of the way. But Jack Wolfe wasn’t in a quick-dry shirt. He wore a made-to-measure, made-to-perfection suit. And he definitely had to have chosen the shirt to complement his eyes and make their blue even more blindingly brilliant.

‘You look exactly as you do in your blog profile, Ms Leigh.’ He didn’t make it sound as if it was a good thing.