The Millionaire

by Victoria Purman

  Trev cleared his throat. “C’mon then. We’d better get inside and eat some of Vilma’s jelly cakes. She’ll get a sad on if you don’t.”

  “Don’t worry, Trev. I make it a practice of never saying no to cake.”

  Chris followed the old man inside. If outside was dust and heat and blinding sun, inside was an oasis. The front door opened directly into the kitchen and it was cool and spotless and something smelt delectable, like strawberries and cream. There were cupboards all around the walls of the large room and a big wooden table sat in the centre with a dozen mismatched chairs around it. One end was covered with a white lace tablecloth, and on that, were cups and saucers and a plate of jelly cakes, little round sponges dipped in jelly and filled with cream.

  Chris pulled up a chair next to Ellie. She was pouring tea from the teapot into four fine china cups.

  “Tea?” She raised her eyebrows in a question.

  “Thanks.”

  “Jelly cake?”

  He smiled. He wanted to shake his head at how normal this all seemed. How this was a million miles from the life he’d been leading. “Hell, yeah.”

  The room fell into silence while the tea was drunk and the cakes devoured. Chris couldn’t believe the quiet of it, the peace. No one spoke because no one felt the need to fill in the silence. The clink of a teaspoon against a plate. The sound of Trev chewing appreciatively. The seconds ticking by on a big clock over the back door. Chris took a deep breath and let the feeling seep through him. This moment was the complete antithesis of the past decade of his life and he wanted to soak it up, store it away for when he returned to the world’s disaster zones. This moment, sitting next to the beautiful Ellie Flannery, eating freshly made cakes in the quiet of a farmhouse, in the middle of nowhere, in outback Australia, would keep him going when he needed to hang on to some sense of normality in the chaos of his reality.

  Finally, Ellie broke the silence. “Thanks for being our super model for the photo, Grandpa.”

  Trev scoffed and waved a hand. “You’d better raise lots of money, that’s all I’m saying. Bloody ridiculous thing.” His playful smile undercut the cynicism of his words and Chris got the sense Trev would have posed in drag if his granddaughter had asked him to.

  The love between them was palpable. It was in the way he smiled at her; in the way she leaned over and rested a hand on his tanned forearm. In the way Ellie flicked back her hair and laughed so brightly that the beautiful sound of it filled the room and seemed to echo right through the house and inside his chest.

  This woman was something.

  He didn’t know what it was, but she had a mysterious way about her. She’d somehow managed to get him to agree to things he never thought he’d do again. Like pick up a camera. Or travel halfway across the State to take a shot for a charity auction. Or think about photography. Because he’d been determined to put it all away, to file it like one of the hundreds of thousands of images he’d shot during his career.

  Until her.

  “More cake?” Ellie asked.

  Chris lifted his plate towards her and she placed two on it.

  “How good are they?”

  “Hands down, best jelly cakes I’ve ever had.”

  “Now that’s a recommendation, Nanna. Chris has travelled all over the world. And probably tasted all kinds of cakes in every corner of the globe, right?”

  “True.” He continued to chew, savouring the taste of freshly whipped cream and the peaceful quiet.

  “Why, thank you,” Vilma said as she sipped her tea.

  “Now, before I forget, I have a present to give you both.” Ellie was out of her seat and went to her bag, which Chris had placed by the back door. When she returned, she was waving a big envelope in her hand.

  “What’s this?” Trev asked, with a barely suppressed grin on his tanned and weathered face.

  “You didn’t have to do that, love,” Vilma protested. “Not after you sent all those lovely things to us for Christmas.”

  “Did you like the new Keith Urban CD, Nanna?”

  “Sure did. He’s a hottie, that young man.” Vilma winked at her granddaughter and fanned herself. “I may be old but I’m not dead. Phew.”

  Ellie laughed. “And what about you, Grandpa? Hope you like those woollen socks I sent.”

  “Bloody oath I did, love. They’ll keep the old pinkies warm in the winter.”

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t deliver them to you in person. We’ve had a couple of people leave the paper and I couldn’t get any holidays. But once Chris came up with his brilliant idea to photograph someone for the Royal Flying Doctor fundraiser, and we decided on you, Grandpa, I thought I’d give you both an extra present. To say thank you.”

  Trev and Vilma exchanged warm glances.

  “Here, open it!” Ellie said as she handed it to her grandmother.

  When the envelope was carefully prised open, Vilma pulled out a wad of papers. “What’s this, love?”

  Ellie beamed. “It’s two tickets to the charity ball, plane fares to Sydney and two nights’ accommodation. All on me. You are both going to be the most special guests when we auction off Chris’s photo.”

  Trev exhaled loudly. Vilma wiped tears from her eyes. “I don’t have anything to wear to a charity ball,” she said, half laughing, half crying.

  Ellie jumped up and threw her arms around her grandmother. “That’s what shopping is for, Nanna.”

  “Bloody hell, this’ll cost you a bomb, Ellie,” Trev said. “You shouldn’t have done it.”

  Ellie lifted Trev’s bush hat and smacked a kiss on the top of his head. “Of course I bloody well should have. You two mean the world to me. And you know why.”

  When Ellie started to choke up, Chris wondered if he should leave the room. He felt like an intruder on this intimate scene, this joyous expression of family and love for each other. And she must have sensed it, because she walked to the back of his chair and put her hands on his shoulders.

  “I can feel it in my bones. This charity ball is going to be a spectacular success. You both know Chris is a really famous photographer.” Ellie’s voice grew louder. “I mean, like really famous.”

  “As famous as Lord Snowdon?” Vilma asked as she topped up her cup of tea from the pot. “He was married to the Queen’s sister, that Princess Margaret, may she rest in peace.”

  Ellie giggled. “What do you say to that, Chris?” She squeezed his shoulders and leaned down close to his ear. “Are you as famous as Lord Snowdon? Are you all set to be married to a princess?”

  He shifted in his seat. “No, not quite that famous, I’m afraid, Vilma.”

  Trev shrugged. “I suppose people like to look at nice photographs in the magazines, don’t they?”

  “They’re not always nice, Grandpa. He’s been to war zones and—”

  Chris reached up, placed a hand over hers, squeezed it gently. His move silenced her, which was exactly what he’d intended. When he looked up, Ellie met his eyes, confused. He didn’t want to bring that here. He wanted to fill his head with new scenes, new skies, and new people. He wanted to fill his head with Ellie Flannery.

  “And I happen to love sheep, Trev. Reckon we can shoot you with your flock in the background?”

  “Orright.”

  Ellie yanked her hand from underneath his. “Great.”

  Nine

  ‡

  Embarrassment reddened Ellie’s face as she stomped her way through the farmhouse, through room after room, down the long dim hallway. She’d tried her best to keep her calm, professional demeanour, but she’d blown it. Just now, all that had flown out the window and she’d come over all groupie on Chris, trying to impress her grandparents with his reputation. And what had he done? He’d put her back in her place, with a gentle squeeze of his hand and a knowing look in those sapphire eyes.

  She had to face the truth: despite every attempt to remain calm, she was quivering like a plucked guitar string in his presence.

  And why?
>
  She’d been trying not to think about it, but they were going to be staying the night and she was, at that second, leading Chris to the two guest bedrooms in the farmhouse. The two adjoining guest bedrooms. She’d hadn’t planned on an overnight stay, but the only return flight back to Sydney from Dubbo was early in the afternoon, which Chris had ruled out when she’d told him about it during the week. He’d explained that it wouldn’t give them enough time to make the best of the afternoon light for the shoot and, if they were going all the way out there, he’d wanted to make sure he shot the hell out of this thing.

  Of course, she’d agreed. How could she not? The better the photo, the more money could be raised at the charity auction. Ellie wanted a stunning image as much as Chris did, and had vowed to do everything possible to make sure he got it.

  It was only afterwards that she realised what it would cost her.

  Her good sense, her sanity and perhaps her fingernails.

  “Get a grip,” she muttered to herself. “This is no big deal.” So what if it was going to be just the two of them and her grandparents in a farm house in the middle of nowhere in outback Australia? For the night. Surrounded by nothing but darkness and a billion stars in the night sky. And that door between them? It hadn’t closed properly in years. It had swelled one year when floodwaters had coursed through the house after a huge storm, and it now jammed tight against the slate floor instead of closing neatly in its frame.

  She held the old metal doorknob in a tight grip, took a deep breath, and then entered the first bedroom. Ellie dropped her overnight bag on the freshly made bed, which was covered by one of Nanna’s patchwork quilts. When she turned, Chris was right there. A small rucksack on one shoulder, his camera bag over the other.

  “This is my where I’ll be sleeping. Your bedroom is just through here.” Ellie walked through the adjoining door and waved into the space. She shot a glance at the double bed and realised there was no way he was going to fit in it without parts of him hanging over the edge. She swallowed at the thought of him lying between those sheets and at the thought of which parts in particular might hang over the edge.

  “This looks great,” Chris said as he brushed past her, dipping his head so he didn’t hit it on the low doorframe, and dropped his bags on the stone floor. The sound echoed in the simple room. The window out to the veranda was wide open and a fly screen shaded the view. The walls were painted white and a couple of old watercolour prints of gum trees in dark wooden frames adorned the walls. A pine dresser with a central mirror and three drawers was the only other decoration in the room and there was a vase on it with a few fresh sprigs of lavender.

  How different this must be to the house he’d grown up in, that enormous mansion on Sydney Harbour.

  The only water view from The Plains was the rusting old water tank. Although she loved it, had always adored its simplicity and its honesty, she figured it must appear nothing but ordinary to Chris.

  She nervously played with her earring. “It’s not very big, sorry about that.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t apologise. This is like a five star hotel compared with some of the places I’ve slept in over the years.”

  “I can imagine.” And when Ellie said the words, she felt another wave of admiration for him. She knew his background and the life of privilege he could have had, and was reminded once again that he’d turned his back on it.

  Neither of them said anything for a moment. There was just the sound of her breathing and a deep sigh from him. She was aware of how close Chris was behind her and she goose bumped at the sure knowledge it was mere inches. She couldn’t move, and closed her eyes, trying to wish away the fantasy of having his arms around her, of kissing his lips, of tangling her fingers through his beautiful hair, and of falling back onto the freshly made bed in front of her and having the best sex she’d ever had.

  Because it would be the best sex she’d ever had. Ellie knew that. And it wasn’t because of his name or his reputation or how damn gorgeous he was. She knew it from the small details. By way he looked at her, direct and demanding, his sapphire eyes shining with awareness that she was a woman; the way he was so physically present, so aware of his body and its manliness. She knew it by the laid back attitude and the humour, in his grin and in his jokes.

  Oh, she knew it.

  Chris Malone would have her half-naked before she realised what was going on and sending her to orgasm with the flick of his fingers before she could blink.

  Ellie straightened her shoulders, tried to ignore the heat building at the top of her thighs and the tightening in her stomach, and snapped herself into a reality check.

  When he lifted a hand and brought it to rest on her arm, she stilled.

  “Ellie.” His voice was low and deep. His touch was hot and electric, even through the crinkled fabric of her linen shirt. That heat in her thighs became a raging bushfire.

  “Let me explain about before, when I cut you off. When we were talking with your grandparents.”

  She felt the heat in her cheeks. “You don’t have to.”

  His touch became a grip and he urged her around to face him. Ellie turned and kept her eyes level, meeting the solid wall of his chest, the hard mounds of his pecs beneath his T-shirt and his strong, tanned neck. It took her a moment to find the courage to meet his eyes, because she was afraid of how he might react when he saw what was so evident in them.

  It was more than fangirl adoration now. The way she felt about Chris Malone had officially clicked over into impossible longing. He hadn’t moved his hand from her shoulder. God, how she wanted to step forward and rest her cheek against his chest, let her hands wander over his body; feel the strength of his back and the curve of his tight ass.

  “It’s not that. It’s just…” He paused, searching for words. “Sometimes I don’t want to be that Chris Malone.”

  Ellie met his eyes, searching for more. She wanted to know more about this man. She wanted to know everything about this man. “Why?”

  This wasn’t a reporter’s question. This one was from the heart, from the overwhelming desire to know and to understand Chris Malone.

  “Because when I’m that guy with the camera, I’m ruthless and competitive and detached. My life is about finding the next tragedy so I can make the front page of The New York Times or Le Monde or the Sydney Morning Herald. The people I photograph don’t have names. They’re the injured and the dead. Sometimes… I don’t want to be that man. When I’m with you, I don’t want to be that man.”

  His fingers tightened on her shoulder and the sharp sting of tears pricked in her eyes as everything clicked into place. When she’d met Chris on the beach almost a week ago, he’d been friendly enough, until she revealed she knew who he was. And once it was out in the open, his name and his reputation, he’d immediately put up his guard.

  “I understand,” Ellie said as she reached up and covered his hand with hers. “I understand about wanting to forget. But it’s not that easy, you know, no matter how hard you try. Is that why you’re back in Sydney?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How long are you back for?”

  “A couple more weeks.”

  She moved her hand from his, tangled her fingers around her earring.

  “Will that be long enough?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s what I do, Ellie.”

  “I know. And you’re amazing at it.”

  He lifted his hand from her shoulder and stroked her cheek, the backs of his knuckles so soft against her skin that she wanted to melt into the feeling of his strength.

  “All your grandparents need to know is that I’m helping you out with your charity fundraiser. Let’s keep it simple. No more explanations.”

  “Okay,” she murmured.

  He tangled his fingers in the strands of hair that fell forward on to her chest. “This is your gig, Ellie. You’re the boss on this shoot. I’m here to do whatever you want.”

  “Whatever I want?”

  Aro
und and around, he wove her locks tightly on his finger. “Anything you want.”

  She stepped back. “I think we’d better head out and scout some locations, don’t you?”

  “I’ll get my camera bag.”

  *

  It had been a long day. Ellie was still weary from getting up so early, wound tight as a drum with tension about being so close to Chris, sweltering in the heat, bothered by the flies that had arrived in their millions and she really, really wanted a cold beer.

  But she wouldn’t have swapped this experience for the world.

  The spot Chris had chosen for the photo was damn near perfect.

  The setting sun lit up the red earth so it looked aflame, and a picturesque flock of sheep grazed in the far background, a smudge of ivory on the landscape. An old windmill stood forlorn in the paddock and Chris had skilfully positioned Trev so those three elements would frame the picture. The colours of the outback and iconic images of the bush. An old man who’d been on the land his whole life and, thanks to the Flying Doctor, was still there.

  Ellie loved watching Chris work. There was a fluidity about him and his camera, the manner in which he looked and moved, peered down the lens and then looked up, surveying the scene to ensure he grabbed the best angle. And the way he talked to her grandfather was relaxed and easy. He’d asked about the property and the drought, and the chance of rain from the dark clouds hovering in the distance. Once Trev was on a roll, talking about his beloved bush, he’d seemed to forget the camera was there at all.

  Which had been Chris’s modus operandi, obviously.

  He’d drafted Ellie in to holding the reflector, a large silver shimmering disc, which caught the light and bounced it into her grandfather’s face to rid it of the shadows caused by the bright outback sunshine. She followed Chris’s patient instructions about moving left, right, and angling the reflector so the details of Trev’s face would be highlighted. When he’d had to stand behind her and lean over her, his arms around her, reflecting the light at just the right angle, her knees almost betrayed her.