Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?

by Nicola Marsh

  She’d hazard a guess no one ever stood up to the guy. He had an air of command; when he snapped his fingers people would hop to it.

  She’d been counting on the element of surprise, had wanted to railroad her way into an interview to show him exactly who he was dealing with.

  Her toes cramped and she slipped out of the three-inch heels she hadn’t worn in two years: the last time she’d been home and her mother had insisted she attend a charity ball for sick kids.

  She couldn’t fault the cause, but having to swap her denim for chiffon and work boots for stilettos had been unbearable. Though she’d been thankful she’d kept the outfit, for no way would she have gained access to the Devlin Corp shindig unless she’d looked the part.

  She’d timed her entrance to perfection, waiting until a large group bearing invitations had gathered at the door before inveigling her way in by tagging along.

  No one had questioned her. Why would they, when her mum would have forked out a small fortune for her blue designer dress and matching shoes?

  The rest had been easy, and with her objective achieved she almost skipped down to the car park where she’d left the battered car she’d picked up from the airport earlier today.

  She had no idea how long she’d be in town for, no idea how long it would take to ensure her dad’s land wasn’t pillaged by the corporate giant.

  For now, the ancient VW would have to do. As for lodgings, she had one destination in mind.

  Come first thing in the morning she’d confront Coral, demanding answers—like what had possessed her mum to sell the one place in the world she valued most?

  Gemma awoke to the pale pink fingers of a Melbourne dawn caressing her face and a scuttling in the vicinity of her feet.

  She yawned, stretched, and unkinked her neck stiff from sleeping on her balled-up jacket, squinting around her dad’s workshop for the culprit tap-dancing near her toes.

  Noise was good. Noise meant scrabbling mice or a curious possum. It was the silent scuttlers—like spiders—she wasn’t too keen on. She might be a tomboy but arachnids she could do without.

  A flash of white darted under the workbench and she smiled. How many times had her pet mice got loose in here? Too many times to count, considering she’d left the door open to let them have a little freedom.

  Her dad had never complained. He’d spent eons searching for them, affectionately chastising her while promising to buy new ones if Larry, Curly and Mo couldn’t be found.

  Her dad had been the best, and she missed him every second of every day. He’d died too young, his heart giving out before she’d graduated high school, before she’d obtained her environmental science degree, before she’d scored her first job with a huge fishing corporation in Western Australia.

  Her dad had been her champion, had encouraged her tomboy ways, had shown her how to fish and catch bugs and varnish a handmade table.

  He’d fostered her love of the ocean, had taught her about currents and erosion and natural coastal processes. He’d taken her snorkelling and swimming every weekend during summer, introducing her to seals and dolphins and a plethora of underwater wildlife she hadn’t known existed.

  They’d gone to the footy and the cricket together, had cycled around Victoria and, her favourite, camped out under the stars on his beachside land at Portsea.

  The land her mum had sold to Rory Devlin and Co.

  Tears of anger burned the backs of her eyes but she blinked them away. Crying wouldn’t achieve a thing. Tears were futile when the only place she’d ever felt safe, content and truly at home had been ripped away. The only place where she could be herself, no questions asked, away from scrutinising stares and being found lacking because she wasn’t like other girls her age.

  She’d dealt with her grief at losing her dad, and now she’d have to mourn the loss of their special place too. Not fair.

  As she glanced around the workshop, at her dad’s dust-covered tools, the unfinished garden bench he’d been working on when he died, his tool-belt folded and stored in its usual spot by the disused garden pots, her resolve hardened.

  Now the land was gone, memories were all she had left. They’d been a team. He’d loved her for who she was. She owed him.

  Unzipping her sleeping bag, she wriggled out of it and glanced at her watch. 6:00 a.m. Good. Time for her mum to get a wake-up call in more ways than one.

  To her surprise, Coral answered the door on the first ring.

  ‘Gemma? What a lovely surprise.’

  Coral opened the door wider and ushered her in, but not before her sweeping glance took in Gemma’s crushed leisure suit that had doubled as pyjamas, her steel-capped boots and her mussed hair dragged into a ponytail.

  As for last night’s make-up, which she’d caked on as part of her ruse, she could only imagine the panda eyes she’d be sporting.

  A little rattled her mum hadn’t commented on her appearance, or the early hour, she clomped inside and headed for the kitchen, about the only place in their immaculate South Yarra home she felt comfortable in.

  ‘You’re up early.’

  Coral stiffened, before busying herself with firing up the espresso machine. ‘I don’t sleep much these days.’

  ‘Insomnia?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  A flicker of guilt shot through her. She remembered her mum pacing in the middle of the night after her dad had died, but she’d been too wrapped up in her own grief to worry.

  That was when the first chink in their relationship had appeared.

  Coral had always been self-sufficient and capable and in control, and she had handled Karl’s death with her usual aplomb. While she’d cried herself to sleep each night for the first few months, her mum would stride around the house at all hours, dusting and tidying and ensuring her home was a showpiece.

  It had been a coping mechanism, and when the pacing had eventually stopped she’d thought Coral had finally adjusted to sleeping alone, but considering the early hour and the fact her mum was fully dressed, maybe her sleep patterns had been permanently shot?

  ‘Coffee?’

  Gemma nodded. ‘Please.’

  ‘Have you come straight from a work site?’

  There it was: the first foray into critical territory, a territory Gemma knew too well. How many times had she borne her mum’s barbs after her dad died?

  Have you washed your hair?

  Can’t you wear a dress for once?

  No boy’s going to ask a tomboy to the graduation ball.

  She’d learned to tune out, and with every dig she’d hardened her heart, pretending she didn’t care while wishing inside she could be the kind of daughter Coral wanted.

  ‘I actually got in last night.’

  Coral’s hand stilled midway between the sugar bowl and the mug. ‘Why didn’t you stay here?’

  ‘I did. I bunked down in Dad’s workshop.’

  Horror warred with distaste before Coral blinked and assumed her usual stoical mask. ‘You always did feel more comfortable out there.’

  ‘True.’

  Gemma could have sworn her mum’s shoulders slumped before she resumed bustling around the kitchen.

  Why did you do it? It buzzed around her head, the question demanding to be asked, but she knew better than to bail Coral up before her first caffeine hit of the day. She’d clam up or storm off in a huff, and that wouldn’t cut it—not today. Today she needed answers.

  ‘How long are you here for?’

  As long as it takes to whip Rory Devlin’s butt into shape.

  Devlin’s butt … bad analogy.

  An image of dark blue eyes the colour of a Kimberley sky at night flashed into her mind, closely followed by the way he’d filled out his fancy-schmancy suit, his slick haircut, his cut-glass cheekbones.

  At six-four he had the height to command attention, but the rest of the package sold it. The guy might be a cold-hearted, infuriating, corporate shark who cared for nothing bar the bottom dollar but, wo
w, he packed some serious heat.

  She hated the fact she’d noticed.

  ‘I’m here for a job.’

  She sighed with pleasure as the first tantalising waft of roasted coffee beans hit her.

  Watching her mum carefully for a reaction, she added, ‘Out at Portsea.’

  Coral’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with fear. ‘You know?’

  ‘That you sold out? That you got rid of the one thing that meant everything to Dad?’

  To me?

  She slid off the bar stool and slammed her palms on the island bench. ‘Of course I know.’

  ‘I—I was going to tell you—’

  ‘When? When I returned to Melbourne to build my dream home on that land? The home Dad helped me plan years ago? The home where I’d planned on raising my kids?’

  Okay, so the latter might be stretching the truth a tad. She had no intention of getting married, let alone having kids, but the inner devastation she kept hidden enjoyed stabbing the knife of guilt and twisting hard.

  Coral’s lips compressed into the thin, unimpressed line she’d seen many times growing up. ‘Sorry you feel that way, but you can’t bowl in here every few years, stay for a day, and expect to know every detail of my life.’

  Shock filtered through Gemma’s astonishment. She had every right to know what happened to her dad’s land, but she’d never heard Coral raise her voice above a cultured tsk-tsk if they didn’t agree.

  ‘I’m not asking for every detail, just the important ones—like why you had to sell something that meant the world to me.’

  Fear flickered across Coral’s expertly made-up face before she turned away on the pretext of pouring coffee.

  ‘I—I needed the money.’

  She spoke so softly Gemma strained to hear it.

  Coral—who wore the best clothes, used the most expensive cosmetics and lunched out daily—needed money?

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ she muttered, sorrow and regret clogging her lungs, making simple inhalation impossible.

  She wanted to explain why this meant so much to her, wanted her mum to understand how she’d travelled the world for years, never feeling as sheltered as she did at Portsea.

  She wanted her mum to truly comprehend the vulnerabilities behind her tough-girl exterior, the deep-seated need for approval she’d deliberately hidden beneath layers of practised indifference.

  She wanted her mum to realise her anger was about the loss of another childhood security rather than not being consulted.

  She opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn’t come. Not after all this time. Not after the consistent lack of understanding her mum had shown when she’d been growing up. Why should now be any different?

  When Coral turned around to face her she’d donned her usual frosty mask.

  ‘I don’t question your financials; I’d expect the same courtesy from you.’ Coral handed her some coffee with a shaky hand, making a mockery of her poise. ‘You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, no questions asked, because this is your home. But I won’t tolerate being interrogated like a criminal.’

  Instinctively Gemma bristled—until she realised something. She valued her independence, lived her own life and answered to no one. Including the mother she rarely visited. How would she feel if Coral landed on her doorstep demanding answers to sticky questions? She’d be royally peed off.

  Some of the fight drained out of her and she gave a brisk nod, hiding behind her coffee mug. Besides, the damage was done. The land was sold and nothing could change that. She’d be better off focussing on things she could control, like ensuring Devlin Corp respected the beach while they built their mansion monstrosities.

  ‘There’s a spare key behind the fruit bowl.’ Coral patted her sleek blond bob, an out-of-place, self-conscious gesture at odds with her air of understated elegance. ‘I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, Gemma, but I’m glad you’re here.’

  By the time she’d recovered from her shock and whispered, ‘Thanks …’ Coral had sailed out of the room.

  CHAPTER THREE

  RORY flipped the rough-textured business card between his fingers. Recycled paper, no doubt, but there was nothing second-hand about the information staring him in the face.

  He’d had the company’s PI run a background check on Gemma Shultz last night, after she’d thrust her business card in his hand and exited his display like a queen.

  He had to admit the results of the investigation surprised him as much as the woman had last night. She wasn’t some crackpot lobbyist, hell-bent on delaying his project or, worse, ruining it.

  Gemma Shultz was the real deal.

  He ran his finger down the list: qualified as an environmental scientist at Melbourne University, spent a year at a major fishing company in Western Australia, specialising in marine conservation, two years working for a beachside developer in Spain, and the last few years freelancing for seaside construction companies keen on energy-saving and protecting the planet.

  Impressive.

  Not a hint of scandal among the lot: no throwing herself in front of bulldozers, no chaining herself to trees, no arrests for spray-painting corporate headquarters or flinging paint at fur-wearers.

  Thank goodness. Bad enough she’d blackmailed him into giving her an interview. The last thing he needed was for the media to get a whiff of anything untoward.

  His dad had done enough while he’d been in charge, gracing the covers of magazines and the front pages of newspapers with a constant parade of high-profile women while living the high life.

  It was a pity Cuthbert Devlin—Bert, to his friends, and there had been many hangers-on—had been more focussed on squandering money than on running the company entrusted to him.

  Rory shuddered to think what would have happened if Bert hadn’t abdicated in favour of chasing some model to Europe, though he had a fair idea.

  Devlin Corp would have been driven into the ground and his grandfather’s monumental efforts in building the company from scratch would have been for nought. And what he’d been trained to do from his teens would have meant nothing.

  He still couldn’t understand why Bishop Devlin had handed the reins to his recalcitrant son—not when he’d been groomed for the job for so long. Until his grandfather had explained he needed to give Bert a chance to prove himself, to see if his son was made of sterner stuff.

  Rory loved his dad, faults and all, but he couldn’t understand why anyone would pass up the opportunity of a lifetime to run a major company.

  A small part of him had been glad his dad had botched the top job, because he’d known it was only a matter of time till he got his chance. Now he had that chance no way would he let anything derail him—including a smart-mouthed, intelligent environmental scientist with seawater in her blood.

  His intercom beeped and he hit the answer button. ‘Yes, Denise?’

  ‘Gemma Shultz to see you.’

  ‘Send her in.’

  He threw her business card into the dossier and snapped it shut. Armed with more information than last night, he was prepared for a confrontation: on his terms. When the sassy blonde sauntered through his door he’d be ready.

  Until the moment his door opened, she stepped into his office and his preparation of the last few minutes evaporated.

  His gut inexplicably tightened at the sight of her in a staid black trouser suit and a basic white business shirt. Nothing basic about the way she wore it, though. The top two buttons were undone to reveal a hint of cleavage, and her fitted trousers accentuated her legs. Legs that ended with her feet stuck into work boots.

  And what were those God-awful dangly things hanging from her ears? Dolphins? Whales? Burnished copper fashioned into cheap earrings that did nothing for her plain outfit.

  His mouth twisted in amusement. Gemma Shultz was nothing if not original. She wore an off-the-rack outfit, no make-up, ugly shoes and horrid earrings. Yet she intrigued him.

  He couldn’t fathom
it.

  She’d blackmailed her way into this interview and that had had his back up from the start. He didn’t like having his authority questioned, didn’t like some upstart environmentalist bulldozing her way in with unethical tactics, but what made it infinitely worse was he couldn’t for the life of him fathom why he’d agreed to this meeting.

  What was it about this woman that had him so tetchy?

  ‘We meet again.’

  Rather than offering her hand for him to shake, she surprised him again by shrugging out of her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, making herself completely at home. And making his hands clench with the effort not to yank it off the chair and insist she put it back on again, so he wouldn’t have to notice the faint outline of a lace bra beneath the semi-transparent white cotton of her blouse.

  Weren’t environmentalists supposed to wear hessian sacks and hemp bracelets and dreadlocks?

  Annoyed at his reaction, he mentally slashed her interview allotment by five minutes. The sooner he got rid of her, the sooner he could get back to what he did best. Building the best luxury homes Melbourne had ever seen.

  ‘Considering your tactics last night, you left me no choice.’

  A smug smile curved her lips, and in that moment he knew that whatever came of this meeting Gemma Shultz could become the bane of his existence if he let her.

  ‘I half expected you not to follow through on your promise of an interview.’

  ‘I always keep my promises.’

  He crossed his arms, recognised his defensiveness, and immediately uncrossed them. Only to find his hands itching to reach across the desk and see if her hair felt as silky-soft as it looked.

  Damn, what was wrong with him?

  She was nothing like the perfectly polished women he dated, with their trendy fashions and manicures and cleverly highlighted hair. Women who wouldn’t be caught dead in a cheap suit and work boots. Women who wore diamonds for earrings, not copper marine life. Why the irrational buzz of attraction?

  ‘Your fifteen minutes has been cut to ten. Start talking.’