Taken by the Tycoon

By Normandie Alleman

Violet has just gone through a divorce.

But just because love is the last thing on her mind, that doesn't mean she won't find it when an extremely wealthy younger man enters her world and brings her to her knees with his dominating ways.

Taken by the Tycoon is an exhilarating romance novella featuring a youthful billionaire and a woman in her prime that proves that sometimes true love comes around when you're least prepared for it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Normandie Alleman
• Release date: Apr 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215644522

Normandie Alleman

A former psychologist, Normandie has always been fascinated by human behavior. She loves writing quirky characters that are all too human. Fiber arts, baking, and Pinterest are a few of her favorite pastimes. A shamelessly proud basketball mom, Normandie lives on a farm with a passel of kids, an adorable husband, and a pet pig who’s crazy for Red Bull. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

The attractive blond sitting across the table from Violet was no longer a child. Youthful to be sure, but the person chattering at her appeared more woman than girl.

How did this happen? When did my baby grow up? Violet sighed, resenting her ex-husband for the umpteenth time for insisting Margaret attend boarding school. Her daughter had done much of her growing up without Violet around to see it. Why hadn’t she divorced him earlier and raised her daughter at home? Violet tapped her fingers on the white tablecloth.

″Mom. Hello? Mother."

″Yes, I’m sorry darling. Violet smiled at her only child. What were you saying?"

″My friends and I want to go to Europe this summer. Paris, Milan, Rome, London, you know—backpack through Europe." Margaret bobbed her head expectantly.

″Backpacking? Really? Violet narrowed her eyes. You haven’t carried a backpack since you were seven." She eyed Margaret’s Louis Vuitton satchel in the chair next to her.

″Figure of speech, Mom." Margaret shrugged.

″That’s something I’ll have to think about. Your father will want to have a say. Where will you stay, for heaven’s sake?" Violet took a bite of her Caesar salad.

She’d brought Margaret to the country club for lunch to celebrate her upcoming graduation. It was difficult to believe she had a daughter who was old enough to be graduating from high school. Each time she remembered how old Margaret was, Violet forced herself to breathe in deeply. It helped calm her, or at least that’s what all those New Age gurus on television said.

″I don’t know. Maybe a hostel, maybe a hotel—I’ll be with friends." Margaret’s nonchalance was typical of the teenage species, but it irked Violet all the same.

″A hostel? Good Lord, isn’t that the title of a horror film? Darling, surely your father can pay for you to stay in a hotel at least." Violet’s heart raced, picturing her baby alone, in Europe, with no one to call for help, thousands of miles away from her family. The breathing technique was not helping at this point.

″What about Sophie? Did she ever hear from Vassar?" Violet asked, changing the subject to Margaret’s roommate. The topic of the poor girl’s quest to get into the college her family had attended for several generations eased Violet’s nerves.

″Not yet. Being wait-listed sucks," Margaret said, picking up her phone to answer a text.

Wait-listed. That sounded like Violet’s love life. After years of languishing in a loveless marriage, Violet was ready to find the right guy. But waiting, as Margaret would say, sucked. Violet gazed out the wall of windows that made up most of the casual dining room, referred to as The Clubhouse. The vast emerald expanse was the brightest jewel in the crown of the Sugar Oaks Country Club. The immaculately groomed greens brought in golfers at the pinnacle of the sport from all over the world.

For those who didn’t give a fig about golfing, the view made a luscious backdrop for luncheons, debutante parties, and weddings. Violet peered out over the lush green landscape nestled under a canopy of ancient oaks when something caught her eye.

Or rather someone.

A man she couldn’t help but notice strolled towards the building accompanied by his golfing partner. He drew attention to himself with a magnetic force as he sauntered by, his easy manner reflecting an air of supreme confidence, though he couldn’t be more than thirty years old.

A turquoise polo shirt hung majestically from his broad shoulders, and he wore khaki shorts that showed off impressive calf muscles. His blond hair was wild, damp with sweat. When he took off his visor and wiped his brow just outside the door, the muscles in Violet’s abdomen tightened.

Unable to drag her eyes away from the Adonis about to enter the dining room, Violet couldn’t resist asking her daughter, Who is that man in the blue shirt? He looks familiar. She’d seen him somewhere before, but couldn’t place him.

It was absurd for her to forget a man who looked like that, but her life had been so upside down during the past few years dealing with her divorce that there were days Violet believed it was an achievement to remember her own name.

″Mom, you’re kidding. That’s Stuart Swearingen." Margaret shook her head, a silent indictment of Violet’s recently flighty behavior.

″It is? Oh my goodness. I guess I haven’t seen him in a long time. He looks… older, I guess."

″Well, duh. That’s what happens. People get older." Margaret rolled her eyes and went back to texting.

The texting annoyed Violet, but if it gave her a few moments to study Stuart Swearingen undetected, she’d let it slide. She looked at her daughter’s plate and saw she’d already finished her meal. Besides, starting in on her now would only ruin their lunch. Margaret had gone the whole meal before gluing herself to her phone again. As a parent, you had to pick your battles.

Violet turned her attention back to the delicious hunk of man who now sat a few tables away. He was facing her direction so she took care not to gawk at him. Clearly she had not seen a photograph of Stuart Swearingen recently, or she would have immediately recognized him. Stuart was one of the wealthiest men in Texas.

Stuart’s father, Rex Swearingen, had been a friend of Violet’s older brother. Rex had been a legend when it came to wildcatting. He was known across the state for having a nose for finding oil. Just about every time he drilled, he struck black gold. Violet’s brothers and all his cronies swore he could literally smell it trickling beneath the ground.

To her recollection, Rex died when his son was a toddler—kicked in the head by a polo pony during a match. A tragic end for the larger-than-life oilman who’d become a well-respected business mogul. Violet wasn’t sure what happened to the child’s mother, for after her husband’s death the woman became quite a recluse. Over the years Violet had seen photographs of Stuart occasionally in magazines or newspaper articles. As the face of the family’s colossal business empire, he was frequently featured.

Violet remembered Stuart as a teen, had seen him at various occasion at the club over the years. Their families were acquainted, but he was so much younger than she was that she hadn’t taken much notice, and she hadn’t realized he’d grown into a man. Her memory of him was that of a fresh-faced adolescent zipping around in a golf cart.

The young tycoon was better looking than ever, but it was more than his looks that captured her attention. He moved with the grace of an athlete and the self-assurance of a man who had been born to great privilege. She didn’t realize she was staring until his eyes met hers. Deep aquamarine pools mesmerized her from across the room. Mortified at being caught gaping at him, she wanted to pull her eyes away, yet something stopped her.

Stuart made direct eye contact with her, stopped speaking to his companion, and took stock of her. His gaze raked over her like the relenting rays of sunshine in August, then his eyes sparkled, and his lip curled in amusement.

Violet shifted her eyes to the opposite wall, pretending to observe something of great interest. Her cheeks burned, and her heart beat erratically. What must he think? The old bag over there’s checking me