Page 8 of Her Diamond Deal with the CEO

Only his grandfather had ever followed through. Chivvying him, coaxing him,caring. Abruptly, he put the frame down on the shelf, and as he did so he spotted it. A piece of paper, folded in half, with his name written in block capitals.

He picked it up and opened it.

Just popped out to get some milk. Back soon. Don’t wander off. O

O.

He could see Ondine’s mouth forming the shape of the letter just as it had on the beach when he’d draped the hoodie over her shoulders and suddenly his skin was prickling again.

Was that why he had kissed her? That mouth.

He frowned, his mind liquid, the memory swelling and changing direction like a raindrop sliding down a windowpane. Or had she kissed him?

Not that it mattered.

Ondine wasn’t his type. Too serious, too snitty, plus she was seriously bossy, he thought, remembering how she had more or less frogmarched him into the medical centre. Looks-wise, her hair was a fairly boring mid-brown, her cheekbones a little too pronounced, and those startlingly blue eyes seemed to be permanently narrowed in his direction so that he shouldn’t have found her beautiful and yet—

That mouth.

Great legs too. A pulse of heat danced across his skin as he remembered her toned calf muscles, that smooth skin.

He blinked the memory away. For him, that kiss was about the moment, not the woman. He had just nearly drowned; he’d needed to feel the warmth of breath, the firmness of lips, the pulse of life beating through him. And lust, desire, hunger, whatever name you gave it, was the opposite of those tenuous, liminal moments beneath the water. It was a sure thing, a talisman, as solid and real as any lifebelt.

And the reason his skin was tingling now when he thought about it was because of the salt. All he needed to do was shower and it would be as if nothing had ever happened.

The bathroom was next door. It was small—the elevator in his Manhattan apartment was larger—but the shower itself was surprisingly spacious, and there was a pile of clean towels folded on top of a wicker laundry basket.

Stripping off, he took a breath and stepped under the shower head, keeping the jet of water trained on his back.

He should have just stayed in the bar. He hadn’t felt like partying and he hated boats. But everyone had wanted to go on the yacht. Plus, Carrie had stormed off by then and he hated being on his own more. If he was on his own then all those thoughts he usually had no trouble keeping at bay would come creeping out of the dark corners. Thoughts that made it impossible to sit still, because whenever you sat still they crept up and smothered you like a fog.

When he was a child everyone thought he had ADHD, and it was true that he shared some of the symptoms. But for him, it was elective. To keep moving was to keep one step ahead. He took risks too, like today. Stupid, pointless risks that flooded his body and brain with adrenaline. And if that wasn’t an option then he partied because surrounding himself with people, acting as if he didn’t care about what they or anyone else thought, made it easier to not think about his parents’ rejection.

Except he did care what his grandfather thought.

Picking up the soap, he rubbed it over the muscles of his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath his fingertips.

The world knew John D. Walcott IV as an oil tycoon. The man who had turned a moderate family business into a household brand. A global company for the modern world. But to him, he was just Grandpa. Always there, always firm but fair; kind, tolerant, endlessly patient.

Until two months ago. When his patience had abruptly run out.

Even now he could picture the look of disappointment on his grandfather’s familiar, lined face. And it was his fault.

Having come out of yet another meeting where his suggested investment in a renewables project had been long-grassed, he was feeling thwarted and frustrated at the Walcott Energy Corporation’s snail’s-pace transition to greener energy and so was careless and impatient, skim-reading a geological report rather than giving it the forensic attention it deserved before signing off on the deal.

Naturally, because not all the people employed by WEC were related to his grandfather, and therefore didn’t have the luxury of letting their frustrations affect their work, the issue was spotted but by then it was too late. The paperwork was being processed and so the Canadians had to be paid off in order to terminate the deal.

To add insult to injury, when the proverbial hit the fan, he was partying in Turks and Caicos.

It was the last and very final straw for John D. Walcott IV.

He summoned his eldest grandchild to the WEC head office and told him bluntly that he needed to grow up. And that until he could demonstrate the maturity expected of an heir in waiting, the position of CEO was no longer his by birthright. As of immediate effect he was to step down from the board and clear his desk. His newly expanded free time should be spent evaluating his life, his lifestyle and his future.

Jack stared down at the water swirling into the plughole.

He had been shocked, disbelieving at first, then angry, but above all else it had hurt, and far more than he could have imagined, to experience such cool objectivity where he had only been used to indulgent affection. After everything that had happened with his parents, he hadn’t known he could still feel, still care, but he did, the more so because it was his fault, and because he hated knowing that he had let his grandfather down.

Of course his grandpa couldn’t stay angry for long—

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