Her Tycoon Lover: On the Tycoon's Terms / Her Tycoon Protector / One Night with the Tycoon. Lee Wilkinson
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and we’ll go straight to my place.”
“Luke,” she said in a clipped voice, “I will not sleep with you.”
“I haven’t asked you to. Give me your flight times.”
She made an indecipherable noise expressive of frustration and fury. Then he heard her shuffling papers. She read the information tonelessly, finishing, “I’ll see you tomorrow. If you’re not at the airport, I’ll assume you’ve changed your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind. Goodbye, Katrin.” Very quietly Luke replaced the receiver.
She didn’t want to share his bed; she was sticking to the deal they’d made in the kitchen of her house. One night together and no more. All he had to do was stick to it, too.
And why wouldn’t he? Hadn’t he run away from all the implications of that passionate lovemaking in her little house beside the lake?
CHAPTER TWELVE
AT THE airport, Luke saw Katrin before she saw him. She was among the many deplaning passengers, searching for him in the crowd at the arrivals area. She was wearing a tailored lime-green suit, the jacket hip-length, fastened all the way to her throat with big gold buttons; the skirt was narrow-fitting, skimming her knees. Her hair was loose, straight, smooth and shiny. On her head she’d perched a lime-green straw hat, tilted at an audacious angle. She looked both sophisticated and unapproachable.
Not like the naked woman who’d twined herself around him just two weeks ago.
As Luke moved forward, Katrin caught sight of him. Briefly she faltered. But the other passengers carried her with them; seconds later, she was standing in front of him. Luke kissed her lightly on both cheeks. “You look very elegant.”
“I’m a wreck.”
“Then you’re doing a wonderful job of hiding it. Let’s get your luggage.”
Her eyes kept flicking over the crowds; she was fiddling with the strap of her shoulder bag. Normally she wasn’t a restless woman. As Luke took her by the arm, he discovered her muscles were as unyielding as a chunk of wood. He led the way to the carousel, where her one suitcase soon arrived. He picked it up. “I’m in the parking lot…let’s go.”
But as they emerged onto the sidewalk and the heat of a California afternoon, a crowd of reporters who had been waiting outdoors rushed toward them, mobbing them. A camera was thrust in Katrin’s face, the bulb flashing with blinding rapidity. A barrage of questions was flung at her, microphones assaulting her on all sides. “Mrs. Staines, how does it feel to be back in San Francisco? What do you think about this latest development in the murder case? Did you ever suspect Edmond Langille was the murderer? Sir, your name, please?”
Luke said curtly, “Hang on, Katrin.” Using her suitcase to shield her, his other arm tight around her shoulders, he pushed through the crowd with brute strength. But his strong-arm tactics only prolonged the interrogation; the reporters pursued them into the parking lot, their ceaseless questions shredding his self-control. “Is this man your lover, Mrs. Staines? Will you remarry now that you’re proved innocent? Would you ever move back to San Francisco?”
His car was in one of the first rows. Luke dropped Katrin’s case, unlocked the passenger door and pushed her down onto the seat, slamming the door in one man’s face. He dumped her case in the trunk and went around to his side of the car. But before he got in, he said furiously, “What Mrs. Staines does with her life is none of your goddamned business—why don’t you just leave her alone? You’re a flock of vultures, and yes, you can quote me on that.”
A flashbulb popped in his face. Ignoring it, he got in the car, put it in reverse, and accelerated backward. To his considerable satisfaction the reporters scattered like startled hens. He said tightly, “My God, I’m naive…I was expecting a couple of local journalists, but nothing like that. I don’t know how they tracked you down. It sure wasn’t anything I said.”
He swung out of the lot, his anger still very close to the surface. Aware that Katrin had yet to say a word, he glanced over at her. Her head was bent, her hands clenched in her lap. Even as he watched, a tear plopped onto the back of her left hand.
Swiftly Luke checked his rearview mirror to make sure none of the reporters was pursuing them. Then he pulled over into a business complex grouped with palm trees, and parked in the shade. “Katrin,” he said urgently, “don’t cry. They’re not worth it.”
Her knuckles tightened until the skin was white. Another tear splashed on her hand. As Luke put his arm around her and pulled her to his chest, her hat fell to the floor. He cradled her head to his shoulder, wishing with all his heart that he could protect her from the next couple of days.
But he couldn’t.
He didn’t like feeling so helpless. So inept.
Despite the heat, she was shivering; her tears soaked through his cotton shirt. He stroked her hair, murmuring her name, trying his best to comfort her. Then he heard her mutter, “I have to blow my nose.”
He reached into the back of his car, grabbed the box of tissues and pulled out several, passing them to her. She blew her nose and wiped her tearstained cheeks. Her makeup was no longer impeccable; the tip of her nose was pink. Filled with a ridiculous tenderness, Luke said roughly, “I should have driven over the whole crew of them. Cameras and all.”
With a shaky laugh, she said, “You’d have been put on trial for murder. It’s not worth it, trust me.”
That she could joke when she was so clearly upset brought on another of those irrational surges of tenderness. “I couldn’t even protect you from them,” Luke said in frustration.
Katrin looked right at him. “You did your best, and a very impressive display it was. But the odds were something like twenty-five to one, Luke—give yourself a break.”
“Yeah…” Very gently he reached over and dabbed at a tear on her jawline. “You never cry. So you said.”
“Those reporters brought it all back,” she said unevenly. “On and on it went, day after day, until I thought I’d have hysterics, or else collapse in a puddle on the floor…I never did cry in front of them, though.”
“It’s okay to cry in front of me,” Luke said clumsily.
She shot him an unreadable glance, sat up straighter and said with attempted lightness, “Fancy car.”
He’d said something wrong, although he had no idea what. But two could play that game. As he turned back on the road, Luke said, “I always wanted a silver sportscar that could go from zero to sixty in less than five seconds. Is your hat okay?”
She bent to pick it up, then rolled the window partway down, leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. She murmured, “Wake me when we get there.”
Luke took the 101 and gunned the engine. He needed a respite; there’d been altogether too much emotion in the last half hour. But before he was quite ready for it, he was turning into his driveway in Pacific Heights. Katrin stirred, opening her eyes. “This is your house?”
He nodded. “The owner before me didn’t like Georgian brick. So he tore down the original house and built this instead.”
“Minimalist,” she said politely.
“Hideous,” said Luke.
“Deconstruction’s all the rage.”
“Tear it down, you mean?” He laughed, delighting in her mischievous smile. “I’m about ready to sell it and move outside the city. Or maybe to Presidio Heights, I’ve seen a couple of places I like there. Let’s go in.”
After he’d unlocked the front door, Katrin entered ahead of him, preceding him into the living room with its sparse, modern furniture. “The view is wonderful,” she said spontaneously.
He could see all the way from the