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Her Toronto Tycoon

By Ann Malley

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Prologue
Monte-Carlo, Monaco
The end of May


An orange cat with a flashy collar bolted down the hall. Great—another reminder. Caroline “Caro” Linton retrieved her handbag off the floor where she’d dropped it. She dug out her guest key. Her trembling fingers didn’t help. Neither did frayed nerves. She prayed last night would disappear like the cat. It wouldn’t, though. A hookup was a hookup. She’d said yes to temptation. Almost before her interview with Peregrine “Perry” Prichard-Lawrence III. Ginger haired and moneyed enough to buy out his royal relatives twelve times over.
But the blame was hers.
She knew better.
With a push to her glasses, she slunk inside the cliff-side apartment. Her half-sister finagled the Boulevard de Suisse address from an acquaintance. A man, no doubt. The cost of chandeliers, gilt wallpaper, and enough old world luxury to stun a sheik would only dent Genevieve “Gin” Seurat’s inheritance. Unacceptable if avoidable. Caro held no basis for judgment, considering current developments. She shut the door. Quietly, and with what she hoped was a muffled click.
Sunlight poured through the bay window reflecting up off a glittering Port Hercule.
She winced but couldn’t resist a last look. The Vivre la Vie—her interviewee’s superyacht—bobbed in the cerulean water below. It didn’t bob as much as preside; resplendent, glorious, and dwarfing all manner of luxury craft. Like a rare, canary diamond in a dazzling backdrop of lesser nobles. How could she? It was only an interview for heaven’s sake. A fill-in so Gin could check out Dario’s new wheels.
“Now, now, Caro. Frowns make wrinkles.”
The soft rebuke startled her, but not the leopard print slip and matching mules. The jet black demitasse was a given, too.
“I am surprised you’re here, though,” her sister continued. “Not fast asleep.”
Caro wriggled inside the knit dress she’d made for a honeymoon that never happened. “Good morning, Gin.”
“My brain’s on fire. So, no, it’s not good. Not yet.” Gin sipped cappuccino. “Dario… I never want to hear again. Don’t ask.”
Smudged mascara, trails partially wiped away, said she’d been crying. True to form, Gin hung tough. One had to when dating a Formula 1 Grand Prix driver among others. She didn’t look it, though, with her gold hair, long and wavy like Caro’s used to be, puffed-up like a soufflé. But the silly pink sleep mask with applique eyes—blue like both sisters—suited her.
“I tried sleeping, but gave up. Would you like one?” Gin lifted her cup.
“I’d like.” Very much Caro thought, thankful for the camaraderie of extended, albeit unconventional, family. She was glad to see Gin using the mask she’d sent. And caffeine would help.
“What went wrong?”
Gin’s words receded into the kitchenette while Caro hung back. History did not have to repeat itself. It wouldn’t. She may come from party stock, but she was her own person. Her sister would realize the same in time. Never again she promised as a Bentley—distinctive sand touched with silver—merged onto the main street below. God was good. And she should be, too. Better anyway. She had no desire to be on the losing end of a power play. A woman always got the bad end. No matter how much money was tossed her way after the fact.
“Well?” Gin goaded from the throughway.
“Did I say anything went wrong?”
“Stay away from high-stakes poker. But whatever it wasn’t, stop torturing yourself.”
“I can’t help it.” So much for discretion.
Gin flung a defensive glare toward the window then softened, her beetled brows relaxing. “Well, I doubt Perry is missing a step. So don’t give yourself too much grief.”
“How could I, Gin? Honestly?” She’d sworn off the super-rich.
“You’re human.”
“Too human, but tomorrow is another day.” Caro traipsed into the kitchen behind Gin and dumped her purse on the table.
“News flash. Today is the other day.” Gin worked the cappuccino machine like a pro. “Sit down.”
Caro slumped into a wooden chair. She was no Scarlett O’Hara, but the sentiment helped. And forgiveness was the bedrock of her beliefs. It should be anyway. Any lack in that department was her fault, too. Gin abandoned coffee pods to pounce on Caro’s purse, the bulge in it. “What’s in there?” she asked.
“For you.” Caro withdrew her booby prize. An ooey-gooey cinnamon roll, wrapped in Belgian linen.
“Check out that glaze. I’m dying here.”
“Courtesy of the man himself. Perry made it,” Caro explained. If he did as much for others, she couldn’t say. “He made them, actually. There were three . . . under glass.” Prepped for Gin no doubt. Caro had been a replacement. Much like Gin’s mom had replaced Caro’s.
“And you’re here?”
“You bet I’m here, but not for long. I can’t do this.” The answer to prayer kicked in or maybe Caro was finally listening. “Monaco, Nice, Cannes. This isn’t me.”
“Not even for a while? You’ve been here before.” Gin split the pastry and set a piece before her sister despite protest. “You’re supposed to be forgetting that whale hugger, remember? And the individual”—she didn’t have to say Perry’s name—“is from Toronto or did you miss that? You might go home only to run smack into him.”
“I could run smack into a train. Why didn’t you warn me?”
“You’re the good sister. You’re not supposed to need warning, remember?”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Enough.” Gin stuffed her mouth, not bothering to sit, while Caro wilted. “The south of France has affected holier souls than you, Sis. So does being unceremoniously dumped because you’re not an endangered species. Although some may call you that.” She poured Caro’s coffee back at the counter and returned with a foaming cup. “Why not stick around and enjoy yourself?”
“With Perry the Perfect.” Monaco’s money bags when he wasn’t being the toast of Toronto.
“Yes. Perry’s too bleeding heart for my tastes. And gingers have never done it for me. But just because a guy has means doesn’t make him evil.”
“Give him time.”
“Cinnamon rolls notwithstanding?” Gin gobbled Caro’s half of pastry. “Sorry. Whatever he did merits a strike in my book. But if shoulds and buts were candies and nuts, we’d all have a merry Christmas.” She dismissed reflection as if it were a waste. “I won’t try again.”
“You didn’t,” Caro groaned. A setup was too much, but she loved cinnamon rolls.
“Hey, the interview was real,” Gin protested. “You know I believe in using my degree.”
“Now and then.” Gin used her credentials as an entrée while Caro tried not to.
“Were you crying last night?”
Gin threaded bare arms while Caro found strength in caffeine, a bolstering black dose of wake up. “Wills could tie the knot with one of his precious humpbacks and I wouldn’t have cared less,” she admitted. Lying would only add insult to injury. “But I can’t roll like this.” Despite Will’s insistence, destiny wasn’t driving her to marry big bucks. The aftermath of being replaced when her newness wore off held no appeal.
“You marry who you meet,” Gin insisted.
Caro grinned at the double entendre. Wills married to a whale. “So you and Uncle Michel keep telling me.”
“A lifetime’s worth of legal advice may be his only claim to blood, but Michel is right. You’re a white-picket-fence kind of girl. One who deserves a husband wealthy enough to keep her in the style to which she should be accustomed. Add some babies and—”
“I’m only 24. Any expiration date is a long time off, so stop.”
“All right. Fine.” Gin shrugged while Caro cringed. “If you’re keen on letting your portion of our father’s guilt-offering run out without making good on it, that’s your decision. Sell that interview if you got it, though. Prichard-Lawrence is money in the bank.”
“I’ll think about it.” For a split second.
“Well, you’ll have plenty of quiet.”
“How’s that?” she asked as Gin licked icing from her lips.
“I’m out of here. You may not want to live the life, but I won’t settle for less. I have another date. If you’re smart”—Gin finished her coffee, stood, and braced hands on her hips—“you’ll stop beating yourself up. That goes for hating money and assorted genetic…. proclivities. Some things are in the blood.”
“Hold that pose.” Caro shimmied her bag and located her smart phone. “I want to remember you. Just like this.” Reason being, she’d never adopt a nature over nurture mindset. Never again. But she loved her sister and always would. “Smile.”












Chapter One


Toronto, Canada
Financial District
Toronto Beat Magazine
27 months later

James Le Roux, mustache waxed, Adidas sticking out past skinny jeans, scooted into Caro’s office. Journalists crowded him before he shut the door. Caro still glimpsed frowning faces beyond the inset window. She should have taken the office without one. She should have snuck out, and begun the week she’d planned to spend at home, smart phone off, but no. She sat rooted to her executive chair. Sweating despite its mesh design after Uncle Michel had left; the bomb dropped.
Interview Peregrine Prichard-Lawrence III—again she thought—or go under.
“So…?” James asked.
“That’s a loaded question.” One her assistant would know nothing about if he hadn’t barged in earlier with a coffee urn.
“Hardly. It’s just a decision. So which is it?” His tone challenged, exactly why she’d hired him.
“I’ll keep them.” She lifted the sheaf of biodegradable paper clips he’d deposited on her desk earlier. “Green works for me.”
“Funny, not funny, Caro.”
“I’m serious. They send the right message.”
“Yes, but for how long? That was a free sample.”
“I get that, but we won’t be free if we accept this offer. We’ll be bought. Beholden.” And potentially left when agendas changed or eyes wandered. That’s how rich men rolled. “Toronto Beat is about highlighting hope and stirring readers to acknowledge the need they’d otherwise ignore.” There was no ignoring her need for continued distance. Attachments to money or sugar-pushing billionaires were anathema. “The most dangerous temptations knock softly.”
“Some call that opportunity.”
Caro reared her shoulders. “We’re not an ad agency.”
Names connected to her columns about Canadian soup kitchens and clean water movements received a public relations boost. She got that. The need for funding going into this next business quarter hadn’t escaped attention either. She’d sunk herself into her magazine, everything she had. Not a lot looking back over the year and a half they’d existed against her depleted bank balance. She had a small allowance she couldn’t touch, but discretionary funds were at an end.
Her father’s business contacts, lavished with the attention denied his children, cringed at the sight of her. Uncle Michel, once so indulgent, pulled the reins like he never had. “You’ve gone crazy since Monaco. Spending like you want to be poor,” he’d scolded. James had heard that, too, although he adjusted her blinds instead of commenting.
“We need to stay true to what we are.” She argued as if James were her conscience.
“We’ll be a memory if we don’t do something, Boss.”
“Then let’s get busy.”
She squinted against dancing shafts of light and made for the sitting area where she conducted creative meetings. “We’ll secure some indie radio spot. Independents are always eager for shared publicity.” She stretched out on the couch and sought inspiration from the popcorn ceiling. “A door-to-door-hit-the-streets. That would get the public engaged. A bake-sale outside St. James Cathedral?” Homemade cinnamon rolls not welcome. “Help me out here.” She was trying to avoid temptation.
“Do the interview!”
“No.” She raked back long bangs, longer since her bob had grown out. “No, and I don’t want to discuss it further.”
James moved on to organize a perfectly arranged collection of galley proofs.
“Come on, James.” She hated the silent treatment despite doling it out. “Work with me.”
“Want to know what I think? Minus the niceties?”
She should. Bald honesty had died with Gin. Caro offered a silent, pain-filled prayer like always when her sister came to mind. “Spit it out.”
“You want Toronto Beat to move people beyond themselves. Inspire. Convict. The problem is, you don’t practice the same and”—he waited for her to make eye contact before proceeding—“you’re not thinking beyond yourself. Like it or not, Prichard-Lawrence has. You can’t see it, though, for want of a…”
“Say it.”
“You’ve got a fat head, Caro. A big fat head-on for anyone with a bankroll.”
“What, the heck, is that supposed to mean?”
“You think you’re the only one who can use money for good. With pure intentions,” he clarified. If she didn’t know better she’d think Gin had returned in hipster form.
“That is not true.”
She jumped up from the couch. James stood firm. His quizzical gaze followed as she paced the room, seemingly undeterred by her intermittent frowns. “Tell me right now that you’re not discounting every donor as merely seeking to up his image,” he challenged. “Tell me how you’re wishing your father’s old friends just felt more, cared more, understood—”
“How dare—”
“I dare because I care.” James’ motto hit the mark as always.
“I’m sorry.” She wasn’t.
“Don’t be. Remember. I know where the bodies are, the old notes anyway. And while I wouldn’t dream of getting mixed up in your personal affairs—no offense—I’ll happily remind you that the man you’re sidelining uses card stock poo-pooh paper.”
“That’s low.”
“No, it’s admirable,” he said. So were the organization efforts that led James to discover a cache of letters she’d failed to toss. “Prichard-Lawrence has got it going on. He saves trees and supports third-world business.”
The movement that used elephant lovelies to make paper instead of clear cutting forests was ingenious.
James scratched the back of his head as if he took some pity on her. “Combine that with PL being one of Canada’s most eligible—the world’s most eligible billionaires—and that’s perfect for Toronto Beat. A gift from God if you want to wax religious. I know you’re the spiritual one here, but come on.”
“I know what’s best for my magazine.” And for herself.
“Yes, you do.” James grinned. “Your tycoon’s recent break from his hermit hole is cash in the bank, too.”
“Why now, though?” Perry had no reason to help her. And he wasn’t hers.
“Ask him.”
She should. Perry should celebrate her going under. She’d ghosted him. Her world-tour excluded both him and Gin. No contact. She’d been too cowardly to confront either of them. The more she thought about being set up, the more reality set in. Caro needed a break if she hoped to engage higher instincts and stop the family cycle. The subsequent silence—Perry dropping off the map after Gin’s death in a fiery crash with a new beaux—was all his doing. Nobody could reach him, not that she’d tried.
But how could Caro casually discuss Perry’s life while still suffering the heartburn of hers?
If not for him, she’d have spent more time with Gin. She wouldn’t have wasted precious moments. Afraid of her own feelings, resenting her sister, and sensing, whether it was right or wrong, that she had an incredible debt to repay. “I can’t, James. I’m sorry,” she said.
“Would you prefer writing severance checks?” he asked. “We could get things wrapped up by the end of today, although some may bounce.”
“You don’t pull punches.”
“Would you like it if I did?”
“No.”
The worm turned in her mind, however. A splashy interview—something like the one she’d never sold—would pump numbers. The magazine could ride the bump for months. James was right about Perry’s ongoing support of various movements. And Uncle Michel, as promised, would encourage investment. The picture of Gin in her silly sleep mask taunted her from the desk. Caro’s heart squeezed, the pain too much.
Another framed photo, one of Caro and her mother outside Casa Loma Castle—Toronto’s own fantasy land built by an early 20th century mogul with cash to burn—sent a shudder through her. Angie Linton suffered horribly before the cancer won out, but she’d taken every pain as a penance for a misspent youth. Party girl turned to trophy wife and then a bitter divorcée. Caro had no desire to repeat mistakes, her mothers or her own.
“I can’t see him.” Never again.
“Don’t see him…. don’t do the interview.”
“I’m not getting you.”
“Because you keep thinking of me as your assistant. Not a journalist,” James replied. “Once in the secretarial pool… always in the secretarial pool?”
“Stop it. You know I’m not like that.” She hoped she wasn’t, but she hadn’t been in business that long.
“Then let me interview the beast.”
Caro crossed her arms. “Go on.” She liked his beast talk.
“Schedule the interview and”—James doubled up and groaned—“I’m so sick.”
“You want me to lie?”
“You don’t need to. The man makes you ill.” James raised matching peace signs, twitching his fingers into scare quotes. “NEVER AGAIN. I filed those reminders exactly as instructed. And post-traumatic stress does all manner of things to a person. I’d say get a mirror, but I think you’re feeling my drift. Meanwhile, you could scratch worrying about anyone catching wind of your past connection. That could happen if someone else gets this interview, or wonders why you turned it down.”
“And you already know.” Not details thank goodness. Perry had been discreet. “Did I say you were good?”
“Only every day.”
“Okay. A compromise.” The words settled like her first and last taste of caviar. Fishy and overrated. “Michel only said we needed to get Prichard-Lawrence.” God was good, too. He wouldn’t toss this opportunity her way only to snatch it back because she committed to avoid temptation. As for being ill, she was. She’d just become accustomed to working no matter how she felt.
“We’ll get him,” James said.
“And you’ll get a byline. While relieving me of any broken heart mumbo.”
“That’s assuming you broke anyone’s heart.”
“Do you want this chance?” Caro sat back on the couch.
“I deserve it. Besides, you don’t have any men on your writing staff.” His mention of her oversight stung. “You’ve had no dates since I’ve known you either.”
“Neither have you.”
“I’m a slow mover, but I didn’t buy these paperclips.” He slipped them into her desk drawer.
“That freckled service manager from Eco Office?” Caro considered a tit for tat. “I’ll be needing a new assistant if this all works out.”
“Kendra would love it here. She’s picking me up for lunch.”
“Great. So long as you don’t think you’re moving too fast.” The curvy brunette had been stalking James before Toronto Beat’s debut. She was cute, kind, and Caro was pleased to see James blush. “Welcome to the writing staff.”
Whatever that meant at a flailing magazine she didn’t need to consider now. She’d take her week off. With James in a new position, and the topic off her personal life, she could move past this Prichard-Lawrence thing. Gin had gifted her with an interview once and now she was paying it forward. Caro still wished she could see Perry’s face when a mustached man appeared at the appointed hour. Early next week. She laid back on the couch, put both feet up, and clasped her hands behind her head.
“Catch the lights, would you?” She closed her eyes. “And, please, let everyone know they’re secured through Christmas.”
Switches clicked.
The door swung open behind her.
“I’m so sorry. Am I interrupting?” Perry Prichard-Lawrence’s honey butter voice was no dream.

#

“Not at all,” said the mustached kid with his fingers wrapped around the doorknob. “Come in.”
“Thank you.” Perry stepped forward and glanced around. A shadowed Caro lay on the couch.
“Lights,” she said.
She sounded the same. Looked the same as the kid complied. Tousled gold hair, irritated expression, and a supple figure that made a man think gymnast came into view. Perry didn’t have to think past her straightforward attire of skirt and blouse or anywhere else. He remembered. Caro swiveled to a sitting position, stroking a hand down the back of her head, and stood.
Perry cleared his throat.
Whatever was going on in Caro’s office was her concern. She may deserve a mid-morning nap. Meanwhile, his reason for being here was growing by the second—a wriggly instigator that had him catching naps more often than not.
“A young woman I assumed was your secretary said I should knock.” Perry straightened his tie. “The brunette with freckles. Although I didn’t get the chance.” Caro had a right to her own choices, he reminded himself, even if he didn’t like them. It had been over well over two years since they’d seen one another. And they only shared one, unexpected night.
A few hours.
“Oh… oh, I see.” Caro tossed the guy at the door an uneasy look. “No worries. You’re here now. Come right in, Mr. Prichard-Lawrence.”
“Perry, please.”
Her flash of white teeth set his on edge. “This is James Le Roux. My newest reporter. He’s an excellent acquisition. An absolute asset.”
Perry thrust out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m honored,” Le Roux responded with a firm shake. If he smiled any harder, he’d bust a cheek. “Really. I’m a great admirer. Prichard-Lawrence is an institution. Your handling of Bauer and Bauer’s Asia-Pacific take down was remarkable. A real coo. You must have made a killing.”
“We’re all proud of the company’s success, Mr. Le Roux, but our investors come first. Our personal portfolio follows a happy second.” Perry wanted to know if Caro had been tracking the company. She should as a journalist. As a humanitarian, too.
Maybe that’s was why she’d been so brittle.
He did what he could, although chaining himself to a tree and shouting down another’s livelihood was something he’d never do. Perry sized up present company. James Le Roux was no high-powered executive. Not that there was anything wrong with that. But Caro sure seemed comfortable with the man. A little too cozy considering he was a new acquisition. The secretary outside seemed hesitant.
“Michel suggested I stop by to arrange the details of the spread.” Perry would have anyway. “Do you have a moment? It won’t take much time.”
“It shouldn’t, no.” She whisked back her bangs. “Please, come and sit.”
He sidled toward the armchair she suggested at the head of the low-lying coffee table.
Caro waited until he settled himself then spoke suddenly as if a world of thought had passed in a single moment. “James here will conduct your interview, Mr. Prichard-Lawr… Perry. He’s really the best we have.”
“Outside yourself.”
“You’re too kind. I’m out of the office for the next week, however.”
“Are you going someplace special?” With someone special? “Michel said your calendar was clear.”
“It is, and it isn’t. I have plans. Although James has offered to take you on. I wouldn’t trust you with anyone else,” Caro said. She waved the reporter over as she sank back down on the couch, crossing those lovely legs. Pale as ever much like her face.
“So it’s James, eh?”
“If you’re still intent on giving us an exclusive,” she answered. “Yes.”

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