âIâm a far better dancer when Iâm allowed to take the lead,â Dawson said meaningfully.
âFunny. I feel the same way.â
âDo you mean to tell me you always lead?â
âFor the most part. You could say itâs a habit.â Eveâs shoulders lifted in a delicate shrug.
He exhaled slowly and shook his head. He felt irritated, frustrated and, God help him, invigorated. âYouâre something else.â
âThank you.â
âIâm not sure I intended that as a compliment.â
âNo? Well, thatâs all right.â She brought her cheek close to his and he felt her breath caress his ear when she added, âIâm going to take it as one anyway.â
Jackie Braun is a three-time RITA® finalist, three-time National Readersâ Choice Award finalist, and a past winner of the Rising Star award. She lives in Michigan with her husband and two sons, and can be reached through her website at www.jackiebraun.com
âIn 1991 I was sure I was getting an engagement ring for Christmas. So were all of my sisters. The first thing they did when Mark and I walked in the door for dinner was grab my left hand and look. But I didnât get a ring. Mark thought that was too predictable. He proposed to me a few days into the New Year, when I least expected it. Iâve never regretted saying yes.â
âJackie Braun,
THE TYCOONâS CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL
Dear Reader
Losing someone dear to us is never easy to accept, but grief can be emotionally crippling if we fail to do so. Thatâs what has happened to my hero in THE TYCOONâS CHRISTMAS PROPOSAL.
Dawson Burke feels responsible for the deaths of his wife and little daughter since he was driving the car at the time of the accident, three years earlier. Since then he has isolated himself from friends and family.
But when he meets personal shopper Eve Hawley, his frozen heart begins to thaw. Life, he soon discovers, has a way of moving on whether weâre ready for it or not, and love is a gift to be treasured.
May all your Christmas wishes come true.
Jackie Braun
For my late father, Walter Braun.
Thanks for sending down a little inspiration
in the wee hours of the morning, Dad.
I miss you.
CHAPTER ONE
DAWSON BURKE was used to people doing things a certain way. His way.
For that reason alone he found the telephone message heâd just retrieved from his voice mail annoying. He flipped his cell phone closed and tapped it against his chin as he stared out the limousineâs windows at the fender-to-fender traffic fighting its way into Denver. What did Eve Hawley mean she would be poppingby his office later today to discuss his gift needs? What was there to discuss?
Heâd only met his previous personal shopper on a handful of occasions during the past several years. All other dealings with Carole Deming had been accom plished by telephone, fax, e-mail or proxy. Dawson provided a list of names and the necessary compensation. In return, Carole bought, wrapped and saw to it that his gifts were delivered. Mission accomplished. Everyone happy.
Well, he wasnât happy at the moment.
Eve said she needed to ask him some questions about the intended recipients on his list. Eve said she preferred to meet with her clients face-to-face at least once before setting out to do their shopping. She said it gave her a feel for their tastes and helped her personalize the purchases she made. Eve saidâ¦
Dawson scrubbed a hand over his eyes and expelled a ragged breath. This was the third voice mail full of comments and requests that heâd received from the woman. He didnât have time to deal with this bossy stand-in any more than he cared to make time for Christmas. He couldnât help but wonder what had possessed Carole, who was recuperating from knee surgery, to suggest this woman as her replacement.
Maybe he should call Carole and see if she could recommend someone else. Someone who didnât ask unnecessary questions. Someone who simply did his bidding and required no hand-holding.
The limousine pulled to the curb in front of the building that housed the offices of Burke Financial Services. His grandfather, Clive Burke Senior, had started the company, which specialized in managing stock portfolios and corporate pensions. Clive Senior had been gone nearly a dozen years and Dawsonâs father, Clive Junior, had retired the spring before last. These days, Dawson was the Burke in charge. And he believed in running a tight ship.
His secretary rose from behind her desk just outside his office the moment the elevator doors slid open on the eleventh floor. Her name was Rachel Stern and her surname suited her perfectly. She was an older woman with steel-gray hair, shoulders as wide as a linebackerâs and a face that would have made a hardened criminal cross to the opposite side of the street before passing her. In the dozen years Rachel had been in his employ Dawson couldnât recall ever seeing her crack a smile. Stern. That she was, but also efficient and dedicated. He swore sometimes she knew what he wanted before he did.