Bittersweet Rescue

Bittersweet Rescue

by

Coleen Kwan

Copyright 2014 Coleen Kwan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Coleen Kwan

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following word marks mentioned in this work of fiction: Aston Martin, Technicolor.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover design © 2014 Simon James Mann

Cover photo © Khorzhevska / Bigstock.com

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

About the Author

Other books by Coleen Kwan

Chapter One

Three seconds can change a man’s life.

Drake Crawford didn’t have three seconds to spare. On the cusp of achieving the goal that had burned in him for sixteen years, he was stuck in goddamn traffic. Six pm on a wintery evening, and Military Road was a snarled parking lot. So much for owning an Aston Martin with a top speed of three hundred k’s per hour—it was no match for Sydney’s notorious gridlocked streets.

A gap appeared in the lane to his right. He wrenched the car into the opening then slammed on the brakes as he almost rear-ended the truck in front.

Oh jeez. The woman in his passenger seat stifled a gasp.

He flicked his gaze to her, noting her white-knuckled grip on the black leather. Sorry, but you know I need to make that phone call.

You won’t make it at all if we have an accident.

In the two years you’ve been working for me, have I ever had an accident?

His personal assistant shook her head in mute agreement, as Drake expected, but he couldn’t help glancing at her again. Ellie Sherwood—quiet, efficient, industrious. She kept his office operating like a finely honed Swiss watch without ever raising her voice. At times her ability to anticipate his needs was almost uncanny. She was everything and more he required in a personal assistant. In two years she’d become as vital to him as his right hand. And should have been as forgettable, except...she wasn’t.

By rights she should be. At first glance there was nothing about Ellie to grab a man’s attention. She was twenty-three, average height and build, brown, shoulder-length hair, cocoa-brown eyes. Always neat and demurely dressed—today in a grey skirt and pale pink cardigan over an ivory shirt buttoned up to her chin. A lick of matte pink lipstick, a smattering of taupe eye shadow. She was muted and unexceptional, the kind of woman a guy wouldn’t look twice at...

But if he did, if a man looked at Ellie for long enough, he’d start to notice things, as Drake did. Like her eyes, for example. Usually they were focused on her work, but at other times, for instance when she was reading a book, they shone like glazed honey. On rare occasions, when caught off guard, her eyes held a distant, lost expression that warned him off.

And then there were her shoes. Most days she wore plain, sensible, round-toed pumps, but some days—like today—she swapped them for slim-toed high heels with ankle straps. They weren’t loud, look-at-me shoes; they still conformed with her restrained, careful persona, yet over the past year Drake had come to look forward to these ankle strap shoe days. He found himself appreciating how the shoes highlighted her trim feet and calves, subtly transforming her entire appearance. It was a harmless little pastime of his, wondering what shoes his secretary would wear each day.

Except it had almost blown up in his face at last year’s office Christmas party when Ellie’s new pink-and-black stilettos and his injudicious extra glass of champagne had caused him to overstep the mark. Not by much, and afterwards they had both carried on as if the incident had never happened, but his misjudgement still chafed him. When it came to work relationships, he had strict standards and prided himself on sticking to them.

So he shouldn’t be glancing surreptitiously at Ellie this evening, especially when he was about to sew up the biggest deal of his life. If he succeeded, he stood to make a truckload of money, for him, for Sinclair Equity—the private equity company he worked for—and the other partners in the consortium. But he didn’t care about the money. This deal was all about payback, getting rid of the monkey on his back that had been gibbering and tearing at him ever since he was fourteen. He’d spent months working on the deal, soft-talking sceptical investors, soothing doubts. His plan was coming together; everything was falling into place, except for one missing piece, which he’d have in his grasp within a couple of hours.

I’ll need you to work this weekend, he said, his brain seething with everything that needed to be done.

Ellie nodded agreement, as he’d automatically expected. She never objected when he asked her to work overtime. It was a Friday evening, and all over town young, single women like her would be making plans to go out, to hit the bars and restaurants, to party and relax. But not Ellie. He couldn’t recall her ever going on a date or mentioning a boyfriend. Then again, she was reserved, and theirs wasn’t a chatty, cosy boss-employee relationship. For all he knew she could have a secret lover stashed away somewhere, a guy with hairy hands and a fetish for ankle-strap shoes—

For Christ’s sakes quit thinking about Ellie. He had to stop. It was messing with his head, distracting him.

He revved the engine. Pointless in this traffic. Goddamnit.

You’re sure Mrs Whitman knows about the phone call? he asked Ellie, determined to stick to business. It’s been hell tracking her down. I don’t want her missing the call.

I double-checked with her lawyer. She’ll be there. Ellie’s tone was patient even though he’d asked her about Mrs Whitman several times today. Whether you can persuade her to sell those shares, is up to you.

Drake drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and scowled at the bank of red brake lights ahead of him, an impenetrable barrier between him and his home.

She’ll sell, he said with grim determination. The forty-year-old widow might appear flighty and capricious, but when it came to money she was as shrewd as a Wall Street trader. She won’t be able to resist the premium price I’ll be offering.

Winter had sent Mrs Whitman scurrying overseas to the French Riviera, and the time difference with Sydney meant the call to her hotel would take place at night at Drake’s Mosman residence rather than the office. Drake preferred this. Less chance of any leaks or interruptions. By the end of the weekend, the deal would be done, and he, along with the private equity consortium, would own a controlling stake in Leone Enterprises.

On Monday morning the chairman and CEO of Leone Enterprises, Anthony Leone, would be eating breakfast when the news broke. The old bastard would choke on his cornflakes. Good. Soon he’d have even more unpalatable news to swallow, and Drake intended delivering that news in person. He hadn’t seen Leone face-to-face for sixteen years; he looked forward to renewing their acquaintanceship. Since their last meeting, Drake had metamorphosed, but he was willing to bet the old man would recognise him in a heartbeat.

The price you’re willing to pay is nearly too exorbitant, some might say, Ellie murmured, almost to herself.

"Is that what you think?" He couldn’t help swivelling around and staring at her. This had to be the first time his personal assistant had ever offered any comment on his work, and she seemed to be criticising him. Unbelievable. Maybe she thought she could take liberties with him because of what had happened—almost happened—at the Christmas party.

Her hands tensed together on her lap as a faint blush rose in her cheeks. She was quiet, but he knew she wasn’t timid. No-one who worked for him could afford to be timid, or they wouldn’t last a week in the job. He knew, because before she came along none of his assistants had lasted more than three months.

I-I’m not sure. She hesitated before adding, I’ve never seen you chase a deal so hard before. It must mean a lot to you.

Her voice trailed off, leaving an unspoken question hanging in the air between them. Impatience spiked in Drake’s stomach. He wasn’t going to satisfy her curiosity. It was none of her business. She was just his secretary, not his priest. He didn’t have to explain himself to her, to anyone.

It means I’ll be an investment director at Sinclair Equity. He plucked from his mind the least of his ambitions, but the one most socially acceptable. Charles Sinclair was a tough boss but fair. At thirty, Drake might be young for such a responsible position, but he’d earned it.

And remember I’ve got skin in the game. To the tune of several million dollars, half of it a bank loan. I stand to make a nice killing when we turn Leone’s company around and sell it off.

A soft sigh escaped Ellie’s lips. She seemed disappointed, like she knew he’d fobbed her off.

In that case, I hope you get what you want.

He’d wanted this ever since he was fourteen. Ever since Anthony Leone had scoffed at Drake’s plea for help, slapped him across the face, and thrown him out of his Belrose estate, literally. Leone was built like a buffalo, with bulky shoulders, a thick mane of hair, and a pugnacious nose. The teenage Drake had been frightened of the man’s reputation; only desperation had driven him to seek him out. But it was all in vain, and he’d been forced to return home and tell his mother he’d failed her. His mother hadn’t expected him to succeed anyway—he’d been a letdown to her even before he was born—and three months later she was dead, sunk by the weight of decades of disappointment and sour resentment.

After tomorrow, the tightness that always encircled Drake’s chest would begin to ease, and when he confronted Leone and told him of his fate, he’d finally be able to breathe freely and easily, like any normal man.

I always get what I want, he said.

Ellie’s eyes widened, the whites of her eyes shining in the dim interior. A faint whiff of gardenia drifted into his nostrils and pushed his sombre thoughts aside. Her elusive scent thrummed through his senses, setting his imagination alight. For a second he was overwhelmed by her, this quiet woman with her whisper-soft hair, her buttoned-up shirt, her pliable lips. For a second he imagined her eyelashes brushing against his cheek, his fingers encircling her narrow ankles, his name heaving on her breath. For a second he imagined the forbidden, and need blazed through him like an exploding fireball, hot, potent, and shocking.

He yanked his gaze from her. Hell. He had to get home and put some distance between them before he did something really stupid.

Screw this, he muttered and spun the car into a skidding turn off the clogged main road. I’m going to find a back road through this mess.

As the two hundred thousand dollar car bucked its way down the narrow side street, he glimpsed Ellie grimacing. But she didn’t breathe a word as he dodged impatiently through the on-coming traffic, the sleek power of his Aston Martin cowing everyone into giving way.

Sydney’s lower north shore was a jigsaw puzzle of peninsulas and inlets, home to picturesque, prime real estate, but a bugger to negotiate by car. For the first time, Drake regretted buying his harbour-side Mosman house. Why didn’t he just have a penthouse in the city close to the office? Up ahead he saw a bus pull over, blocking the entire road, and with another curse he swung the car into the nearby reserve, a strip of parkland which ran along the harbour front.

The speed limit’s forty, Ellie said, clutching her seat.

Reluctantly he eased off on the accelerator. A drizzle had set in, turning the wintery evening even gloomier. He flicked on the wipers as the black tarmac glistened like oil in his headlights. Usually the road snaking through the reserve would have a few joggers at this time of day, but the cold and the rain appeared to have kept them away. He tamped on the brakes as they approached a tight bend.

Ellie’s briefcase slipped off her seat. She bent to retrieve it, lifting one leg slightly. As her skirt pulled up, out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of her inner thigh and couldn’t help staring. In the dimness her tender skin gleamed like the petal of an ice-berg rose.

She tugged at her skirt, and his gaze lifted to her face—cheeks pink, confusion in her eyes—goddamnit, she’d caught him checking her out. She ducked her chin down, her hair fanning over her face.

Ellie—

Three seconds can change a man’s life. A second to look up at the road ahead. A second to recognise the danger. A second to react.

Three seconds. That’s all it took to change his life.

In the glare of his headlights metal flashed. The eyes of a ghost stared back at him.

His hands moved of their own accord, jerking the steering wheel to the left. Tyres juddered and brakes screeched as they hurtled over rough ground. A low, stone wall loomed in the headlights. The car slammed the wall at an angle and flipped over it.

Airbags exploded. They plunged through space, upside down.

A sickening crunch as they smashed into the water. The roof of the car crumpled like foil. At the same time, his head seemed to explode with pain that ripped through him like a grenade.

Through the shudders of agony, he heard someone screaming. Ellie.

He’d never heard anyone scream like that, so filled with blind terror it made his blood run cold. He turned to her, but the axe cleaved through his skull once more, and it was almost a relief to find himself tumbling into black oblivion.

***

I’m going to die.

In the past three years she’d wondered a thousand times why she hadn’t died, instead of Zoe. Maybe fate was finally getting it right.

Funny how she could accept the reality, and yet at the same time she couldn’t stop screaming. Because, even though a stoic part of her acknowledged death was closing in on her, most of her was terrified. She had no control over her voice, her body. The car groaned and