Taming The Tycoon. Kathryn Taylor
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Shannon grimaced at Wendy’s inquisitive tone. He’d made an impression, all right. One she didn’t want to admit to, even to herself. “How was Chelsea?”
“She was great. But she missed her auntie Shane.”
“Did she?” she asked a bit uncertainly.
When Shannon had found herself the guardian of a toddler, she panicked. What she knew about children would fit on the head of a pin. To give Chelsea some semblance of a normal life she had returned to the small suburban town where she had spent her teenage years, armed with a library of parenting books.
Finding a high school classmate as her neighbor had eased her return. Wendy’s outgoing nature and blind acceptance of others’ imperfections gave Shannon her first real friend.
“What’s my little princess up to?” Shannon asked.
“She’s watching ‘Sesame Street’ with Anna.” Wendy placed a tray on the table and took a seat. “So tell me more about Mr. Bradford. If he’s Chelsea’s brother, does that make you his aunt?”
“Very funny. Actually, I was a little disappointed. I thought... well, never mind what I thought.” Taking a deep breath, Shannon pushed the troubling concerns from her mind. “He’s made it clear he plans to uphold that Bradford family tradition of ignoring Chelsea’s existence.”
Wendy stared thoughtfully, then let out a small giggle. “Why, Shannon Moore, you’re nothing more than a closet optimist. You figured he would learn about his sister and he’d be bursting with sibling love and pride.”
Hearing her delusional fantasies described like that, Shannon realized how naive she was. She took a sip of coffee and leaned back in the chair with a wistful sigh. “Maybe I did. But if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it. I have a reputation to maintain in this town as a high-powered, no-nonsense barracuda.”
“But a barracuda who shows us how to invest our money. And we love you for it. Not to mention that you keep a lot of us employed.”
“Because I can’t do anything pertaining to house maintenance by myself.” Shannon blessed the education and the business connections that allowed her to continue serving her clients and still be at home for Chelsea. Otherwise the upkeep on a house would have been beyond her means. “And this mothering thing is a whole lot tougher than Donna Reed and June Cleaver made it out to be.”
“Suzy Homemaker, you ain’t,” Wendy agreed. “Give up those ridiculous books on raising children and follow your instincts. As long as love is there, you’ll do fine.”
Shannon sighed. Where her friend’s house smelled of potpourri and fresh-baked pies, she usually had to air out the odor of burned cookies. As for following her instincts, she had none. Her own parents’ self-serving emotional tugs-of-war had left her unprepared for the role of a supportive parent.
“I’m glad I wasn’t looking for a sympathetic shoulder.” She could only hope her friend was right and her love for the little girl who had taken up residence in her heart would be enough.
“Do you want me to lie to you?” Wendy asked.
“Please. I’ve had about as much of the truth as I can stand today.”
“Lord, Shannon. I’ve never known you to let any man rattle you. Even when we were back in high school.”
“I’m not rattled. I’m in complete control.”
If that were true, why had Ian been able to provoke her into losing her temper, something no man had ever done before? How had his stone-cold glare generated an unfamiliar heat in her? She couldn’t be attracted to the man.
Then why couldn’t she banish his image from her mind?
Two
Ian glanced around the office. The old cherrywood furniture he’d dragged up from storage returned the room to the way he remembered it from his childhood visits. No matter how much of the past he tried to recreate, one fact could not be denied. His grandfather was not yet the sole owner of Westervelt Properties again.
In the past few weeks Ian had prepared himself for an inevitable showdown with Shannon Moore. Actually, he had been looking forward to another meeting. Why hadn’t she contacted him or Jenkins? He didn’t believe she would walk away from the inheritance without a fight. At the very least, he figured she would take the money. The only thing he hadn’t expected was her silence.
After twenty years, a two-week wait should be easy. It had been hell. What was her game? Instead of turning over the daily running of the company to his grandfather as he had planned, he had come in every day expecting to hear from her. He had to get back to his own business.
He scanned the mail then tossed it aside. His gaze returned to the pile. The top letter had no return address, but the Walton, New York, postmark struck a familiar chord. He slit open the top of the envelope and removed the contents. Between a folded slip of paper were two halves of a child support check written out to Shannon Moore.
Shannon sucked in a deep, calming breath. Her cream-colored slacks had a bright red stain on the leg and a pile of SpaghettiOs covered one suede pump. The plastic bowl Chelsea had tossed from the table rolled around the kitchen floor. Only yesterday the pasta dish had been the child’s favorite.
“That wasn’t nice, Chelsea. Say ‘I’m sorry.’ ” Shannon kept her voice quiet but stern.
“No.”
“You have to apologize or go to your room for a time-out.”
Chelsea folded her small arms across her chest and pushed out her chin. “No.”
Shannon tried to recall what the book said to do in this situation. Lose your temper and you lose control. Had Dr. What’s-his-name ever worn a bowl of spaghetti? Limit your admonitions to the deed, not the child.
She placed her hand on Chelsea’s shoulder. “I’m very disappointed by your behavior.”
An earth-curdling scream reverberated around the room. Shannon’s jaw dropped. How could such a horrific sound come from a little girl? She reached for the book on the counter and thumbed though the chapter on temper tantrums.
What was she doing wrong? Her every attempt to reach the petulant child had failed. Chelsea shied away from demonstrative gestures and met friendly overtures with wary silence.
Chelsea’s psychologist had assured Shannon that Chelsea would emerge from her introverted shell when she got used to her new surroundings. Was this show of defiance an improvement? During her years as a Wall Street broker Shannon had handled nervous and often angry clients with detached calm, yet one small child reduced her to near helplessness.
She tossed the book in the garbage and fell back on the same strategy she used when dealing with any irrational adult. She walked away for a coolingoff period. A headache pounded against her temples. To make matters worse, the doorbell rang. She had visions of the police breaking down the front door and arresting her on child endangerment charges.
Obviously, parenthood had taken what little sanity she had once possessed.
Just when she thought she had hit bottom, she opened the door to find Ian Bradford leaning against the support beam on her front porch. His deep blue eyes ran an appraising gaze over her unflattering appearance. His laughter topped off an already rotten morning. She glanced over her shoulder at the child, then back to him.
“Is this a family visit?” she asked.
“Are you having a bad day?” Did he have to look so damned pleased?
“No. I normally walk around the house covered in tomato sauce while Chelsea serenades me in the key of C.” Why didn’t those child-rearing experts with their psychobabble warn her to change out of her business clothes before feeding a child? “What do you want?”
“May