Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?

by Nicola Marsh

  ‘There’s nothing much left for me here any more.’

  She sank onto a nearby log, resting her elbows on her knees, her chin on her hands. He eyed the log warily and she raised an eyebrow at his pause.

  ‘No bull-ants, no spiders—nothing to bite your butt.’

  She blushed again, the faint pink staining her cheeks highlighting the blueness of her eyes, making him forget his five-thousand-dollar suit as he sat just to be close to her.

  ‘Bad break-up?’

  She shook her head, the addictive fragrance of spring mornings and sunshine he’d smelt when they’d first met wafting over him.

  ‘Uh-uh. I just don’t fit in here.’

  ‘What about family?’

  ‘My mum lives in South Yarra. We catch up occasionally. It’s been five years since I’ve been to the beach here, but I made a flying visit to Melbourne two years ago and saw Mum then.’

  She made it sound as if she’d flown in to have a root canal.

  ‘You don’t get on?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Her hand gestured to the vista before them in an all-encompassing sweep. ‘She never understood how special this place was. My dad and I used to camp here. We did a lot of stuff together …’

  She trailed off and for one horrifying moment he thought she might cry. He didn’t do tears, didn’t know how to offer comfort, and he rushed on.

  ‘I take it you didn’t know she’d sold the land?’

  ‘No.’

  That one syllable held so much regret and rawness and retribution he almost felt guilty for delving.

  ‘This means a lot to you.’

  ‘You think?’

  Her sarcasm, tinged with sadness, made him wish he hadn’t probed for answers. If he’d kept this on a purely business level he wouldn’t be feeling like the grinch that stole Christmas.

  When it came to business, he didn’t have time for a conscience. He didn’t feel anything other than soul-deep satisfaction that he was doing what he’d been groomed to do: preserve his family legacy.

  That was when it hit him.

  Their situations were reversed. He’d been given an opportunity to continue his family legacy, to make it flourish, to stamp his flair, to make his mark.

  How would he feel if his dad had run Devlin Corp into the ground or, worse, sold it off to the highest bidder? He’d be gutted. That was exactly how Gemma would be feeling.

  ‘You came home especially for this, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘You know I can’t retract the sale or stop the project from going ahead?’

  The moment the words spilled out of his mouth he wondered where they’d come from. He didn’t owe her any explanations, but something in her defeated posture tugged.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ she said, derision curling her upper lip. ‘I’m not some charity case.’ She swivelled to face him, then fired back, ‘You’re a hard-headed businessman. I get it. All this? Gone. But if I can preserve one iota of this beauty, maybe the people who live here will appreciate it as much as we did.’

  She ended on a little hitch of breath and leaped to her feet, dusting off a butt moulded temptingly by denim.

  ‘Now, let’s get to it.’

  He stood, and before he’d realised what he was doing he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  ‘I’m willing to hear your ideas and keep an open mind.’

  She allowed his hand to linger for a few long, tension-fraught seconds before she shrugged it off.

  ‘Thanks. That’s all I ask.’

  She switched into business mode, the contrast intriguing him as much as her steely determination underlined with a thread of vulnerability.

  He’d never met anyone like her.

  The businesswomen he worked with were only intent on climbing the corporate ladder, while the women he dated were poised, polished and excessively cool.

  They never fought for a cause or were passionate about what they believed in. They didn’t care about the environment unless a passing shower ruined their blow-dried perfection. They rarely wore skinny jeans or paisley scarves.

  They were nothing like Gemma.

  ‘The marine ecosystems in Port Phillip Bay need to be preserved.’ Her eyes narrowed as they swept the horizon. ‘Human-induced environmental changes, such as the mansions you’re proposing to build along here, can contribute to the breakdown of sustainability.’

  Although impressed by the passion shining in her eyes, he kept his tone light. ‘You’re trying to dazzle me with scientific speak.’

  Her glare made him wish he’d kept his mouth shut.

  ‘See these dunes below us? Destroying the vegetation in sand dunes lets the wind blow them away, increasing the coast’s vulnerability to erosion.’ She pointed to the scrubby bush a few feet in front of them. ‘If you’re building mansions behind us, you’ll probably construct a sea wall along here.’ She shook her head. ‘Bad move. Seriously bad move. A sea wall built along a beach only protects the landward property, but ruins the beach by isolating sand behind the wall from the active beach system. This eventually leads to serious erosion problems, and eventually no beach exists in front of the wall …’

  Her voice faded but her eyes had lost none of their spark as they pinned him with ferocious accusation.

  ‘If this beach were left to erode naturally, without a sea wall, it would always be here.’

  And her dad’s legacy would last for ever. She didn’t have to say it. It was evident in every line of her rigid body: in her defensive stance, her crossed arms, her upthrust chin daring him to disagree.

  Her fervour, her passion for her cause was staggering.

  ‘No sea wall. Got it.’

  One eyebrow arched in imperious disbelief. ‘You’re mocking me?’

  Considering he’d noticed her clenched fists, he wouldn’t dare. ‘Honestly? Your dedication is impressive but plans are in place, houses are sold, this project is going ahead.’

  With or without your approval. It was a comment he wisely confined to his head.

  ‘Houses? Don’t you mean luxury mansions worth millions? Millions designed to make your precious company mega-wealthy.’

  ‘You of all people know what land prices are worth along here. I’m just doing what any developer would do.’

  ‘Yeah, plunder the land,’ she muttered, her sagging shoulders the first sign of defeat.

  ‘Construction is going ahead.’ Feeling sorry for her, he softened his tone. ‘What would you suggest to facilitate environmental conscientiousness?’

  He listened carefully as she outlined her plans for solar panels and double glazing and toilets flushed by tank water, trying not to be distracted as the wind toyed with the strands escaping her ponytail and flushed her cheeks.

  When she’d finished, she stared at him with an eyebrow raised in question.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Collate your ideas, back them up with documented research and be ready to present to my project managers day after tomorrow.’

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You mean it?’

  ‘I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean—’

  She cut him off by flinging herself at him and wrapping her arms around his neck, that infernal scarf smacking him in the face.

  He floundered, propriety dictating he unwind her arms and set her back, so as not to blur their business relationship. But by the time his brain processed what he should do it was too late.

  His arms slid around her of their own volition, savouring her soft curves and the way she fitted into him.

  He knew it was wrong, knew he shouldn’t do it, but he rested his cheek on the top of her head, buried his nose in her hair and inhaled, committing the fresh outdoor scent he’d associate with her for ever to memory.

  For ever?

  It was the reality check he needed, and he quickly eased away, grateful when she laughed off their embrace as if it meant nothing.

  ‘Guess
you can’t fault me for exuberance.’

  His terse nod belittled the special moment they’d shared and he glanced at his car, desperate to extract himself from an already precarious situation. One more moment in her ‘exuberant’ company and goodness knew what he’d do.

  ‘Thanks for meeting me out here. I’ll have that presentation ready for you.’

  ‘Ring Denise and she’ll schedule a time.’

  ‘Great.’

  He made a grand show of glancing at his watch, when in fact time meant nothing and he’d much rather spend the afternoon here than listen to a bunch of builders drone on about material costs.

  ‘You go.’ Her face softened. ‘I want to spend a few more minutes here.’

  On her own.

  He couldn’t give her the land back but he could give her the privacy she craved.

  ‘Sure, see you in a few days.’

  ‘Count on it.’

  She smiled, and this time something beyond scary twisted in the vicinity of his heart.

  He did the only thing possible.

  He bolted.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  GEMMA waited until the purr of Rory’s Mercedes faded before she found the nearest ti-tree and banged her forehead against it. Repeatedly. It didn’t help.

  She’d hoped it might knock some sense into her—or, better, eradicate the memory of flinging herself at Rory.

  What had she been thinking?

  That was the problem; she hadn’t been thinking. She’d been so blown away by his offer to present her recommendations to the project managers logic had fled and she’d been running on pure emotion.

  When it came to this place it had always been about emotion, and that was what hurt the most: the fact her mum hadn’t realised its importance in her life—the haven it had provided to an isolated teenager. Or if she had she’d upped and sold it without consulting her regardless.

  She rubbed her forehead, her rueful wince tempered by the incredible view. How many times had she camped here with her dad? Pitching tents, cooking sausages over an open fire, roasting marshmallows. Everything had been an adventure because her dad had made it so. He hadn’t berated her for not brushing her hair or not wearing a dress or not playing with dolls. Her dad had understood her, and standing here in their spot she missed him more than ever.

  She inhaled the briny air, its familiar tang infusing her lungs, releasing some of her residual tension. She’d always been more relaxed here, more at home. From the distinctive ti-trees to the grassy fringes, from the pristine sand to the untamed ocean, she’d never felt anything other than comfortable here. It was a feeling she could never replicate anywhere else—a feeling of righteousness, of oneness, that had been ripped away by a mother who had never understood.

  Another major head-slapping moment. She’d divulged some of her family history to Rory. She should have known the familiarity and contentment of being here would loosen her lips. Her inhibitions too, going by that cringeworthy hug.

  Though it hadn’t been all bad. While she’d been regretting her impulsiveness, and searching for a dignified way to extricate herself and laugh it off, he’d hugged her back. That had been a bigger surprise than his offer to let her present to the team.

  Having his strong arms wrapped around her, being wedged against his firm body, her nose pressed into the side of the neck, where she’d breathed in his woodsy aftershave … after the first few seconds, when the shock had worn off, she’d reluctantly, irrationally, enjoyed it.

  His common sense had kicked in first and she’d braced herself for awkwardness, been pleasantly surprised when they’d moved past the moment.

  The guy kept astounding her, and if she wasn’t careful he’d pull a bigger surprise and actually get her to lower her defences.

  Not on her agenda—and certainly not with a corporate hotshot like him—but for a second, with the recent memory of his arms around her, it was nice to dream.

  When Rory spied the daily newspaper in his stack of periodicals his heart sank.

  His PA left a selection of current financial newspapers and magazines on his desk, refreshing them as needed, but she steered clear of newspapers featuring gossip columns.

  Unless Devlin Corp had rated a mention he’d rather avoid.

  Snatching it out of the stack, he laid it flat on his desk and flipped to the middle pages, his suspicions confirmed as he spied a half-page article, complete with picture, about his dad and his latest conquest—a statuesque redhead half his age.

  The article, and the number of times he spied the words Devlin Corp at a glance, riled him.

  Rubbing his forehead, he read the article: the usual drivel about his dad flying the redhead up to the Gold Coast for a whirlwind weekend of wining and dining, speculation whether she’d be the fifth Mrs Cuthbert Devlin, and questions raised over Bert’s uncanny ability to fritter away the family fortune.

  Rory’s fingers convulsed, bunching the newspaper, as the journalists reiterated the fall of Devlin Corp under Bert’s reign, rehashing the frequent overseas jaunts on the company jet, all-nighters at the casino and a birthday bash featuring international singing sensations and chefs and French champagne, while people who’d bought homes in a Devlin Corp project were left homeless when the company stalled.

  The news vultures had even brought up the Port Douglas debacle, citing some protestor’s quote about the rainforest and how big developers pillaged the land.

  He hated having the mistakes of his father flung in his face.

  With an angry growl he balled the newspaper and lobbed it into the bin, where it belonged.

  It had been six months since he’d taken over—six months during which Devlin Corp had fulfilled its obligations and clawed its way back to the top of the property game.

  Reading rubbish like that in the newspaper eradicated all his hard work and that of his dedicated employees. It sucked. Why couldn’t they concentrate on all Devlin Corp had achieved in the last half year? The new communities built, the new homes, the new projects on the horizon.

  The company needed positive publicity, not the same old, same old, from a bunch of journalistic hacks.

  His gaze fell on the scrunched newspaper in the bin as the wheels slowly turned in his head.

  Positive publicity …

  The hacks kept on churning out the environmental angle as often as they reported Bert’s latest arm candy. What if he gave the media a more upbeat focus for their Devlin Corp mentions, affirming the company’s role in protecting the environment?

  No more belittling or second-guessing or implying that Devlin Corp didn’t care about anything but the almighty corporate dollar. No more dubious, inconclusive, unsubstantiated implications.

  What he had in mind would ensure Devlin Corp came out looking like the company most likely to sponsor Greenpeace.

  Maybe it had been fortuitous Gemma Shultz had bulldozed her way into his life? He had a bona fide environmental scientist muscling in on the Portsea Point project. Why not use that to his advantage?

  Having her onboard for this project would raise the profile of his business while ensuring he wouldn’t face the same problems his dad had had with the eco-warriors at Port Douglas.

  Win-win all round.

  A definite solution to the publicity problem.

  Give the newshounds something constructive rather than destructive.

  Clenching his fist in a victory salute, he glanced at the digital clock on his PC screen.

  Time to see how Gemma performed for the project managers and if she had what it took to be the public face for his latest campaign.

  Rory joined in the light applause as Gemma’s pitch concluded.

  For the last half-hour he’d watched her enchant his project managers, each and every one of the hardened building professionals falling under her enthusiastic and passionate spell.

  The guys were putty in her hands, and as they vied for her attention on the pretext of asking questions he sat back, folded his arms, and studied her.<
br />
  She’d pulled her hair back into a low ponytail today, every strand slicked into place, and the severity of the style accentuated her heart-shaped face and large blue eyes.

  She wore no make-up bar a slick of lipgloss he’d hazard to guess had more to do with keeping her lips moist than any reverence to fashion. Her simple tan shift top skimmed to mid-thigh over matching trousers. An unremarkable outfit on a remarkable body. Not that he could see much of it in the drab get-up, but he’d felt it. The way her curves had pressed against him was burned into his memory.

  He didn’t like his gut twisting with unexpected need, so he focussed on another pair of ridiculous earrings—orange starfish surrounded by a silver circle—taking the marine theme to extremes.

  As she elaborated on costing for solar panels as an electricity source for all housing on the Portsea project, he pondered if she’d be right for the job he had in mind.

  He wanted positive PR for Devlin Corp. But depending on Gemma to put a positive spin on his latest project …? Her commitment was undoubted, but no amount of prep work could ensure success.

  Rory had aced everything he touched—from high school exams to his master’s degree in economics. Not from any luck the universe had bestowed on him, but through sheer hard work and determination.

  Nothing beat him. Ever. His grandfather said it was because his mum was an artist with her head in the clouds and his dad couldn’t concentrate on anything for longer than five seconds, so he strove to be nothing like them.

  Not a bad assumption. How his flaky parents had managed to connect longer than a minute to conceive him was unfathomable.

  They’d split when he was young—his mum flitting to some hippy arty commune in California, his dad bedding every female within a hundred-mile radius.

  Bert had the attention span of a hyperactive-gnat in both his personal and professional lives, but his generosity and conviviality and his zest for life made him lovable.

  He tolerated his dad for those qualities, loved him in his own way, but the fact that Bert had nearly driven Devlin Corp into the ground only cemented what he already knew: rely on no one, trust no one. If he wanted a job done, best to roll up his sleeves and get it done.