Melting The Icy Tycoon. Jan Colley

and he got into his car and drove home. But it returned full force when the object of his discomfort stood outside his door with her hand on the doorbell. Con turned the engine off and shoved the magazine into his briefcase before stepping out of the car.

      Annoyance mingled with intrigue. He did not like surprises and considered he had wasted enough time thinking about Ms. A-List Summers tonight. But there was no doubt she interested him. Was that because she was famous? Would he be as interested if she was a nobody?

      A quick scan of her body confirmed that he would be. More slender than she appeared on the television screen, but still, she had curves that would turn any man’s head. And she walked as though she knew it. Denim-clad hips swayed as her long legs started toward him and she raised an elegant hand in greeting.

      She looked a hundred percent better than their first meeting. It was nearly dark, and his security light lit up the driveway and picked out the shine of her hair. It was several different shades, one of which clashed spectacularly with her very pink sweater. And she must have found her makeup crew, because the face was just like it was in the cover photo. Flawless skin. Practiced smile.

      A warning flashed through his mind. Just remember, to a newshound, there is no such thing as “off the record.”

      Then she stood in front of him, and his misgivings were obliterated by a most pleasurable and searing rush of desire. It hit him low and hard and snatched away his breath.

      Okay, it had been a while since his last sexual encounter, but he should be able to control his libido better than that. A fourteen-year-old should be able to control his libido better than that.

      Conn thanked heaven for heavy cashmere overcoats.

      “Howdy, neighbor,” she said, with a bright but hesitant smile. She’d dropped her arm to her side, and her palm rubbed her hip, and it occurred to him she was a little nervous. Charming, he thought. Dangerous. Why would a woman who made a living out of meeting people and setting them at ease be nervous?

      “Ms. Summers.”

      “Eve,” she told him, rubbing her hip harder. “I thought we’d give this neighbor thing another try, without the medication this time.”

      

      Eve had felt fully recovered and excited about exploring her new surroundings, and so she’d decided to pay her neighbor a visit, partly to apologize for her lack of manners but also to see if he lived up to the intrigue. Not just his looks, though she’d had several tempting flashbacks featuring his face, but his reasons for wanting to buy her house.

      His house was little more than five minutes’ walk up a gentle incline. It had felt wonderful to stretch her legs after being laid low with flu for weeks.

      His name may have escaped her but, standing in front of him now, she knew her memory hadn’t done justice to such impressive shoulders. He was big. Eve was almost overwhelmed, not only by his size but a physical presence that seemed to invade her space, making her want to step back. Puzzled, she searched his inscrutable expression for a sign of welcome. “Um, it was kind of you to be concerned the other night.”

      He tilted his head to the side, watchful and silent.

      Eve chewed her lip. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t as friendly as I could have been.”

      “You weren’t friendly at all,” he murmured.

      She picked at a seam on her jeans, not sure how to respond. People were generally happy to see her, to converse. She was not one to put any store on celebrity, but this level of detachment toward her was not customary. “O-kay. I apologize for the other night. Can we start again?”

      He rubbed his jaw with large, well-tended fingers.

      “I’m afraid I lost your card. I don’t even know what to call you.”

      “Conn.” He did not extend his hand. “Bannerman.”

      Once again, Eve thought she’d heard that name before.

      “Great place you have here.” She flicked her eyes over the house she had been admiring before he arrived. It was built on the edge of a cliff, far above the ferry terminal. One-storied, a long, low expanse of wood, concrete and glass in a sleek half-moon design. Glass dominated, as it should in this setting. She bet the views would be exceptional from every room.

      “Would you like to come in?”

      She turned back to him, remembering her manners. “I wouldn’t like to impose.”

      He led her into the house through the garage. Eve felt eclipsed by the breadth and length of the hallway, and the way his head made it through the doorway with mere inches to spare. Big man, big house. They walked into a huge kitchen/dining/living area with wall-to-wall windows. The floor was polished timber, magnifying the feeling of space. Neutral colors and the clever use of partitioning walls and differing ceiling heights made it seem as if the areas were separated, but it was, in effect, one massive room. There were no lights on and did not appear to be any drapes or blinds.

      Far across the harbor, the tall buildings and towers of the city sparkled, interspersed by patches of dark—hills and parks. The curve of the island was dotted with sparse lights from the tiny settlements that made up the five thousand residents. To the right stretched the inky sea and the darker shadows of the other Hauraki Gulf islands, jutting up like fists.

      Conn Bannerman tossed his briefcase onto a ten-setting kauri table and began to unbutton his coat. “Would you like some coffee? Something stronger?” He moved to the cooking area and flicked a couple of lights on.

      “Coffee’s fine,” Eve answered, still entranced by the view. “Can I help?”

      He did not answer. She turned to watch him. His back was to her. The suit jacket had come off now, and he was rolling his shirtsleeves up strongly muscled forearms. “Did you build this house?”

      He turned around holding two enormous coffee mugs and a percolator. He flicked her a brief nod, then filled the pot with water and measured coffee grounds.

      “Are you a builder?” Eve leaned on the twenty-foot-long kitchen island and searched the shadows of his face. The light was behind him, but he had a chin Superman might covet.

      “I’m in construction, yes.”

      In a flash, her mind clicked into recall. “CEO of Bannerman, Inc. You’re the Bannerman Stadium guy.”

      “The Gulf Harbor Stadium guy,” he corrected, setting milk, sugar and teaspoons on the marble-topped counter between them.

      She recalled the euphoria that gripped the country when the International Rugby Board announced that New Zealand would host the next World Cup. The building of the stadium was a contentious issue but it wasn’t something she had followed closely.

      She would have if she’d known that the man bestowed with the responsibility of building that stadium was such a hunk. His profile was stern and strong and in perfect proportion to his muscular bulk. He would look wonderful on camera….

      He seemed at home in his kitchen, his movements efficient and effortless. She bet he’d never drop a spoon or cup, the complete opposite of her.

      Hmm. If he was efficiently at home in his kitchen, did that imply there was no Mrs. Bannerman lurking about?

      “Shall we sit down?”

      Eve lifted her mug with both hands. They moved to the big table. One end was covered in papers, files and a laptop. His keys sat in a striking blue-and-white-striped pottery fruit bowl alongside bananas, kiwifruit and tangelos. She was glad he wasn’t phobic about neatness.

      He saw her glance at the clutter. “I work from home a lot of the time. I have an office but I enjoy this room.”

      “I can see why.”

      They sipped in silence for a moment. It was deathly quiet. She fought an insane urge to cry “Hello!” and listen for the echo. Eve couldn’t bear to be without the constant