The Millionaire

by Victoria Purman

  And likewise with her breathing. She must have been doing that since the minute she popped into the world, but for the life of her, she seemed to forget how to do that, too.

  Because Chris Malone, that’s why.

  He smelled of the ocean and some kind of musky scent she couldn’t place. He felt strong and solid and all man. Ellie lifted her head up so she could look into his face and when he tilted his chin so he could meet her eyes, the ends of his long blond hair tickled her cheek. His shimmery golden beard shadowed his jaw and those eyes, which had seemed so hard before, softened as she gazed into them. Those eyes, which she knew had seen so much in so many terrible places, were making her nervous. Ellie didn’t dare move. If she lifted her hands to steady herself she’d have to touch his strong arms, his muscled arms, and being pressed against him was torture enough.

  He moved instead and that was even worse. As his eyes found her mouth and his hands found her hips, he exerted a gentle pressure on the curves he found there. Ellie’s heart pounded like a drum. She wasn’t sure if he was trying to push her away or hold her there.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  “No trouble,” he said, his voice a gruff whisper.

  And then the air squeezed out of Ellie’s lungs and she blinked him away. She had to. She stepped sideways, took a deep breath. She snapped back to reality. Her reality. Where world famous photographers – or any man for that matter – didn’t turn up on her doorstep without an ulterior motive. And she had a pretty good idea about what his was.

  “Listen, Malone,” she sighed. “I’ve already had the day from hell. Why are you here? How did you find out my name? Not to mention where I live.”

  “You’re such a reporter, you know that?”

  “Not everyone seems to think so.” It still stung to think about what her boss had said to her.

  “I’ve got a question for you, Flannery. How did you know I was going to be at One Mile Beach?” His narrowed eyes were suspicious.

  He probably thought she’d been chasing him all over Sydney for an exclusive interview.

  “It was a total coincidence,” she said. “I was up there to visit my friend and my goddaughter and I went for a walk on the beach, because it was a beautiful morning. What are you doing back in Sydney?”

  Chris regarded her for a moment. “I was looking for some peace and quiet and trying to stay away from people like you.”

  “What do you mean people like me?”

  “I mean, people who want something from me. An interview. Money. You know how often I get requests like yours? Every damn day. And I don’t appreciate the way you’ve portrayed me.”

  “Some of us out in the real world have no option but to ask for money, Mr. Malone. The Royal Flying Doctor is a bloody good cause and it relies on public donations to do its work. So I’m sorry Mr… Mr. Rich Boy Smartypants, if you were offended by my request.”

  “Hang on one minute.” Chris’s voice was steely. “You never said you were asking on behalf of the Flying Doctor. As far as I knew, you could have been representing any one of a hundred dodgy charities that I wouldn’t give two cents to.”

  “You hardly gave me a chance to explain. You turned your back and left pretty damn quick.” Ellie was a mix of confusion, admiration, and flat-out desire for him and all that manifested itself in the pointed finger she was aiming at Chris. She couldn’t help herself. She jabbed her index finger into his belly. It bounced back. Was anything about this man soft?

  He grabbed her hand and held it. His fingers dwarfed her wrist. For a moment they were skin on skin, his touch sending shivers up her arm and bam, right to her chest.

  After a long moment, he gently released her. “You don’t know anything about my life or what I do out of the headlines.”

  “I know more than you think.” She glared up at him and then wanted to kick herself for letting that particular cat out of the bag. She knew so much about him she could write a book. Except for the one thing she was most interested in: why he’d turned his back on his wealth and privilege?

  “Mr. Rich Boy Smartypants?” His chest rose and fell in a hard exhalation and then he grinned. He ran one of his strong hands through his hair. “You think that’s my life, huh?”

  “Well… anyone in Sydney knows about the Malone family and your history. And all those rumours about you being engaged to that European princess just confirm it.”

  That was the question she’d failed to ask him earlier. If she were a decent journalist, she wouldn’t waste this chance to get an answer out of him. But when the words were hanging in the air between them, a curious feeling lodged in her chest. The idea of his arms around another woman stung. So, it wasn’t just his photos she’d admired. She’d had a crush on him for years. The idea of him, she corrected herself. Not the real him. Because the real Chris Malone was turning out to be someone not quite so admirable after all.

  “Why does everyone keep asking me about her?” He met the challenge in her eyes with a pretty good one of his own.

  Ellie flicked a glance at his left hand. “Because everyone’s wondering that if you’re madly in love and engaged to Princess Whatever-The-Hell-Her-Name-Is, Designer-Clothes-Wearing, Skiing-Holidays-in-Gstaad Gothe von Hindenburg, what are you doing back in Australia without her?”

  Chris’s eyes brightened and his lips tightened. His gaze dropped to her lips and his shoulders began to shake. He lowered his chin, his hair fell forward covering his jaw like a silken curtain and then he chuckled. He laughed like Ellie had just told the funniest joke at the Sydney Comedy Festival.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  He pressed a hand to his flat belly and kept laughing. “You are.”

  The doorbell rang right in Ellie’s ear. “That had better be my dinner.”

  *

  Chris moved into the smallish living room to the right of the front door to let Ellie deal with the delivery. The space was cosy and neat. A well-worn sofa was covered in scatter cushions and a bookcase on the opposite wall was groaning with books. There was a small TV and an old wooden desk with a computer on it, surrounded by papers and folders. On the mantelpiece were a variety of framed photographs. He stepped around the low coffee table to see them up close. Ellie standing alongside a bride, her hands hidden by a bouquet of pink flowers. An old couple on a wide, country veranda, a battered farm hat askew on the man’s head. A middle-aged couple on a bush track, wearing sturdy walking shoes and backpacks. A Golden Retriever peering down the lens, his wet, black nose up close and stretched out of proportion. They were simple family snaps. Each captured a moment, and their placement on such a prominent place revealed Ellie’s love for the people in them.

  There was a scent of vanilla wafting in the room from a candle burning on an occasional table by the bookcase, and the fading, early evening light created shadows. Chris fought back the urge to sit on that sofa, put his feet up and just stop. It was that kind of room. And, mysteriously, unexpectedly, Ellie was that kind of woman.

  He was trying damn hard to be cool and controlled around her, but man, she made him laugh. And that was not all she was doing to him. He wanted to stay, talk to her. Get to know this hellcat who wasn’t afraid to serve it up to him. And if he was honest, he had other things in mind, too.

  A minute later, Ellie appeared in the living room. Empty handed. She sighed, planted her hands at her waist and cocked a hip. He took in her long legs, from her bare feet up, up past the curve in and out of her calves to her thighs. They were strong and lean and he wondered what if would be like to have them wrapped around him. He thought about what her sassy mouth would feel like crushed under his. When his eyes settled on her breasts, the hint of sexy curves under her shirt, she clutched a hand to her neck and grabbed her collar.

  He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Man, that food smells incredible.”

  “Yes. My local is brilliant. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to eat. After the day I’ve had, it’s this, a packet of Tim Tam
s, and a romantic comedy. Closely followed by lots of wine.”

  Chris shrugged. “Sounds great.”

  Ellie got his hint. He could see it in the way her eyes widened and her lips pursed. And in the way she blushed.

  “It’s been nice officially meeting you, Malone, but I think you’d better go. I need to get on with my evening and you obviously want to get on with your life.”

  Chris glanced at the sofa. The red velvet looked brushed flat and worn. He wanted to run his hands over it, feel the pile, soft and giving, under his fingers. He wanted to sit on that sofa something bad. And he wanted her next to him. Or on his lap, either would do.

  “Listen, Flannery. I’ll make you a deal.”

  His words silenced her. He could see by the guarded expression in her dark eyes that her mind was whirring.

  “What kind of a deal?” she finally asked.

  Chris crossed the room and sat down on the faded red velvet. As he sank back into it, something like relaxation flowed through him. He stretched an arm out and rested it on the back of the sofa.

  “Wait a minute. What are you doing?” Ellie stammered. “Don’t make yourself at home. We can talk deals standing up.” There was a little twitch at the corner of her mouth and she was still holding her collar tight. There was a blush blooming in her cheeks and she was shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She checked her watch.

  “If we’re going to work together, Ellie, there’s something you need to understand about me. I only do deals when I’m sitting down.” Chris patted the seat next to him and looked over at Ellie through the fine dust that had floated into the air from the seat. “And over dinner. So, if you want to do a deal for your charity, I suggest you grab that food and that wine you mentioned earlier, and I’ll tell you what I’ve got in mind.”

  Five

  ‡

  Ellie stared at him. “You’re not serious.”

  Chris crossed his arms and maintained a casual air. “Deadly serious.”

  After a long moment, she muttered under her breath and stomped out to the kitchen. Doors banged. Cutlery clattered. There was some indignant stomping and what sounded like muffled cursing. It amused him more than he thought it would. Her mix of funny and beautiful and dogged and snippy was turning into an enticing combination in his books.

  Having dinner and wine with Ellie Flannery had not been on Chris’s agenda when he’d driven to her house half an hour before. He’d meant it when he’d told his brother that he knew how to fix the fact his reputation was being trashed all over Sydney. He was used to dealing with journalists – had worked with them for years before he’d become the headline himself – and knew their modus operandi. He didn’t want Ellie to be bullied by the PR company Callum had on retainer to keep Malone Enterprises out of the news, because he understood that would make things even worse. And he knew demanding that she retract the story would be pointless, because at least half of it was factual.

  The part about him saying no to helping her was true.

  The part about saying no to the Royal Flying Doctor Service? That wasn’t true and it stung. If she’d mentioned it when she’d approached him in the café, he’d have come to an arrangement with her. He made it his practice these days to only donate to charities that involved real and direct contact with people. Sure, those involved with the environment and other causes did great work, too, but given what he’d seen, what had happened to Nate, the suffering and loss all over the globe, people would always come first.

  Until the moment she’d opened the door and turned those big brown eyes his way, he’d been planning to organise a bank transfer and leave. He’d been taught by the experts that money talks, and handing over a sizeable donation from his own bank account would surely help to change the headlines from “Sydney’s biggest charity scrooge” to “Chris Malone’s Generous Flying Doc Donation”.

  He knew how things worked.

  The only way to kill a story was to give the reporter an even bigger story.

  He’d wanted it to be done. This bit of business was getting in the way of his down time. The longer he had to spend dealing with this, the less time he had to clear his head and plan his return to work.

  Until he’d met Ellie Flannery.

  Until she’d dragged him inside and slammed up against him.

  So damn close, with her breasts crushed up against his chest, her long legs pressed against his, she was shampoo and soap, floral and fresh. When he’d found her hips, let his hands graze there to steady her, she was softness and curves and all woman. He’d looked down into her face and seen her shock as much as he felt his own. Her brown eyes, flecks of gold and amber in them, had widened in response to his touch. Her full, pale lips had opened in surprise and damn if it he didn’t want to kiss her.

  And he was about to when she’d pulled away.

  Kissing her then might have been damn good – he knew full well it would have been damn good – but it would also have been impulsive and rash. Those traits had been mandatory for his career as a freelance photographer and he’d made a career out of taking risks and gambling with his life. He had the images and the scars to prove it.

  So right there, at that moment, he’d decided on another plan of attack. It had a little to do with the flying docs and a lot to do with spending more time with Ellie Flannery.

  There was more stomping and a moment later Ellie was back in the living room, placing two glasses and a bottle of white wine on the low coffee table.

  Chris stood quickly and reached out for it. “Why don’t I do that while you get the food? It’s the least I can do.”

  “The very least,” Ellie said before going to get the takeaway and the plates. When she returned, they quickly began devouring the aromatic dishes. The tastes and aromas of chilli and cilantro and lime were incredible, and Chris savoured every mouthful.

  “So, Malone, tell me about this deal you mentioned before?” Ellie chomped down on a spring roll.

  Chris took another mouthful of Pad Thai. He was quickly learning that there was no such thing as small talk with Ellie Flannery.

  “I’ll donate a photograph to your fundraiser.”

  Ellie almost choked on her food. She sputtered and took a good gulp of wine before turning to him. “You will? Just like that, without me having to berate you anymore?”

  Chris chuckled at her joke and then stopped. Her beautiful face, wide eyes, full mouth, that pert little nose with its smattering of freckles, was transformed from cover girl to comic by the presence of a leaf of cilantro on her chin. For the first time in a long time, he itched to have his camera in his hand. The indignant expression on her face, undercut by the comical green strand on her chin, would make a stunning portrait.

  “Oh, funny. You’re teasing me again aren’t you? This was all just a ruse to get some of my dinner.”

  “I’m laughing because you’ve got food on your face.”

  Ellie’s fork clattered on her plate and she brushed her chin. “Where? Is it gone?”

  Chris leaned in closer; let his gaze zero in on her lips. If he kissed her right then, she’d taste of noodles and wine and it would be so damn delicious he might never want to stop. He plucked the strand from her face and dropped it on to the edge of his own plate.

  “You’re good,” he said.

  Ellie dropped her eyes and twirled up a forkful of noodles. “Thank you.” Then she laughed. “For the donation, I mean, not the warning about having food on my face. I can’t thank you enough for what you’re doing. I just know a photograph of yours will not only raise money, but it’ll mean we can get some extra publicity for the auction at the charity ball.”

  Ellie looked over at him and smiled. And then damn it if her cheeks didn’t blush again.

  “I’m happy to do it,” Chris said as he studied her face.

  “I know your work. Your images from the tsunami were extraordinary.”

  “Thanks,” he said quietly.

  “In fact, all your work is. Have
you ever had an exhibition?”

  Something clenched inside Chris’s chest and he stared down at his half empty plate. Fragments of what he’d photographed flashed like a slideshow in his head. And none of it was pretty. It was death and devastation and disease. It was human suffering at its worst and political folly at its most dangerous. How many times had he peered down the lens of a camera, taken a shot, and tried to block out everything but the image? He didn’t want to count. The thought of poring over those photographs to choose one to use as part of a celebration of an incredible and respected Australian emergency service was incongruous and impossible.

  “I don’t think so, Ellie.” Chris took a slug of wine. “I won’t donate one of my old photographs.”

  Ellie’s forehead creased in confusion. “Why not? Aren’t they what made you who you are today? Aren’t they precisely what you’re famous for?”

  “I don’t want to be famous for that anymore.” Chris put his plate down and stood, walked around the coffee table to the mantelpiece. He reached for one of the photos and held it up for Ellie to see.

  “Who took this?”

  “I did,” Ellie answered with a smile, which was quickly replaced by a stricken look. “Look, it was only a happy snap on my iPhone. I know it’s a little blurry and the framing isn’t quite right and—”

  “Relax, Ellie, I’m not going to give it a score out of ten. Who are these people?”

  Ellie put down her plate and joined Chris. “That’s Grandpa Trev and Nanna Vilma. They’re my grandparents on my mother’s side.” He could hear the change in her. The nervousness had disappeared and was replaced with a warmth and a dreaminess in the tone of her voice.

  “Where did you take this?” Chris asked. She moved closer and took the photo from his hands.

  “At their property, out west past Gilgandra. They were sitting on their front veranda after lunch one day and I thought that if anything happened to either of them, that’s how I’d want to remember them. On that bench. The two of them together. They’ve been married for a million years and still hold hands. Isn’t that wonderful?”