Swept Away by the Tycoon. Barbara Wallace

But letters could say only so much. It was too easy to censor what you were writing. Too hard to read what wasn’t being said. In the end, everything sounded flat and phony.

      “Some conversations should be face-to-face. I need him to hear my voice, so he knows I’m sincere.”

      “He will, but I think you still need to go slow. You can’t push the kid if he’s not ready.”

      “Who says he’s not ready? It’s not like I’m suddenly appearing in his life unannounced.”

      “Then why didn’t he give you his phone number?”

      “Because I didn’t ask,” Ian quickly replied. Truthfully, he should have called long before this. During those early months of sobriety, however, he’d been shaky—and all right, a little scared—so he’d let Jack and the counselors talk him into writing a letter instead. But he was stronger now, more himself, and he needed to face his son. “I’m tired of wasting time,” he told Jack. “I’ve wasted enough.”

      Thirteen years, to be exact. Thirteen years during which his ex-wife, Jeanine, had no doubt filled his son’s head with garbage. Even if a good chunk of what she said was true, it wouldn’t surprise Ian if she went overboard to make him look as bad as possible. His ex-wife was nothing if not an expert at deflecting blame. Her influence made repairing his mistakes all the more difficult. He could already sense her lies’ effect in the way Matt phrased his letters. So polite and superficial. Again, it was too easy to read between the lines. The only way he would loosen Jeanine’s grasp was for them to talk face to face. “I’m not expecting us to plan a father-son camping trip, for crying out loud. I simply want to talk.”

      On the other side of the table, Jack shook his head. “Still think it’s a bad idea.”

      “I didn’t ask what you thought,” Ian snapped. He already knew the older man’s opinion, and disagreed with it. Jack didn’t have children. He wasn’t sitting here with the window of opportunity growing smaller and smaller. A year ago Matt was in high school; now he was in college. Three years from now he’d be out in the world on his own. Ian didn’t have time to take things slow.

      “Maybe not.” The lawyer didn’t so much as blink in response to the rude reply. Ian suspected that’s why Jack had been assigned as his sponsor; he was one of the few people who didn’t back down at the first sign of temper. “But I’m giving it to you, anyway. I’ve seen too many men and women fall off the wagon because they tried to do too much too fast too soon.”

      “How many times do I have to remind you, I’m not your average addict.” He was Ian Black. He believed in moving, doing. Too many people wasted time analyzing and conferring with consultants. Sooner or later you needed to pull the trigger. Getting to yes meant getting things done.

      Which was why, as soon as Jack left for his office, Ian reached for his cell phone. The call went straight to voice mail. Hearing the voice on the other end, he had to choke back a lump. He’d heard it before, but never this close, never speaking directly to him. Hearing his son sound so grown-up... All the milestones he’d missed rushed at Ian. So many lost moments. He had to fight himself not to call back and listen to the message again. They’d speak soon enough.

      * * *

      Eleven hours later, though, his phone remained silent. He told himself to relax. Kid was probably in class or doing homework. For all he knew, they had lousy reception in the dorms and Matt hadn’t even gotten his message. Ian came up with a dozen reasons.

      None made him any less agitated.

      Letting out a low groan, he scrubbed his hands over his face.

      It didn’t help that he spent the day writing letters of apology. A stack of envelopes sat by his elbow. One by one he’d addressed and ticked off names on the list Jack had supplied.

      So many names, so many people who hated his guts and probably—rightfully—danced when they heard he’d been ousted from Ian Black Technologies. As he’d told Curlilocks, nothing beat a healthy dose of karmic blowback. Curlilocks. Aiden said her real name was Chloe, but he thought the nickname suited her better.

      He probably shouldn’t be thinking of her at all considering the shocking number of women he finished apologizing to. So many wronged women. Some, like his ex-wife, were women he never should have gone near in the first place. Others were opportunistic bed partners who’d hoped to become more. But many were simply good women who’d offered their affection and whom he’d let down. Their names stung the most to read. Business casualties he could rationalize as part of the industry; personal betrayals showed how toxic a person he could be.

      Ian ran his finger across Matt’s name and felt an emptiness well up inside him. The head roads he’d made in this relationship weren’t nearly enough.

      To hell with waiting. Patience was overrated. He grabbed his phone and dialed. Voice mail again. He slammed it down on the table, the force causing his empty coffee cup to rattle.

      When he’d bought the coffee shop, the first thing he did was order new drinkware, replacing the cutesy china cups with sturdier, heavier stoneware. The kind that, when hurled, would leave their mark rather than shatter. What, he wondered, would happen if he tossed one right now? Would his employees duck in fear as they used to? The new and improved Ian Black vowed not to be a bully. But damn, did he want to heave something right now....

      “Should I get out my umbrella?”

      He looked up to find Curlilocks looming over his table. Even with his black mood, a rush of male admiration managed to pass through him. At some point during the day she’d corralled her curls into a high ponytail that controlled, but didn’t completely tame them. She must have walked a few blocks because her nose and cheeks were bright pink from the harsh winter air that had taken up residence in the city that night.

      “Little late for you to be roaming the streets, isn’t it?” It wasn’t like him not to notice her entrance. He wondered how long she’d been standing by his table. Long enough to witness his little meltdown?

      “Working late. Came here for a refuel, because the office coffee stinks.” For the first time, he noticed she was holding two coffee cups, one hot, one cold. She slid the hot one in his direction. “Here.”

      “What’s this?”

      “Call it a random act of kindness.”

      Ian stared at the white cardboard cup. Kindness didn’t suit him at the moment. “No, thanks.”

      “Seriously, go ahead. I owe you for spending your money on me this morning.”

      Right, because she thought him down on his luck and was probably worried that he didn’t have the money to waste. This morning he found her mistake amusing, but tonight it merely emphasized his current position, and the mistakes he’d spent the last eleven hours trying to amend. “I don’t need your coffee. You want to feel charitable, try the guy on the corner.” Someone who deserved the gesture.

      Her eyes widened, their chocolate warmth replaced by humiliation. Ian immediately regretted his response. “Look, I just meant—”

      “Forget it!” She held up her hand. “I was paying you back for this morning, is all. You don’t want the coffee, then you give it to the guy on the corner.”

      “Chloe—” A blast of cold air killed the rest of his apology.

      So much for the new and improved Ian Black. Why didn’t he go kick a kitten, too, so he could really be a jackass?

      * * *

      Chloe strode from the shop as fast as she could. You try to do a guy a favor. Jeez, she’d bought him a cup of coffee. No need for him to make a federal case out of it. What did he think she wanted to do? Save him? Only reason she bought him the drink was because the café was about to close, and he’d looked a little lost staring at his empty mug. He didn’t have to toss her good deed back in her face.

      What had caused his sudden mood shift, anyway? The