Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?

by Nicola Marsh

  Relying on someone else left him feeling strangely uncertain—a foreign feeling that didn’t sit well with him.

  ‘What do you think, Rory?’

  He blinked like an owl awakening, embarrassed at being figuratively caught napping. Every occupant at the boardroom table stared at him, expecting an answer, while Gemma’s disappointment slapped him across the face.

  She thought he hadn’t been listening. Way to go with getting her onside.

  ‘I think the idea to have a marine conservation area as part of the community is an interesting one, but I’ll have to ponder further. Time we adjourned.’

  He stood and strode to the front of the room, placing a hand in the small of her back, noticing her slight stiffening.

  ‘I’d like to thank Miss Shultz for her presentation today. It was enlightening.’

  She straightened her shoulders at his praise and he lowered his voice. ‘Wait in my office. I’ll chat with the guys and you’ll have a decision shortly.’

  ‘You’re considering this?’

  If her eyebrows shot any higher they’d reach her hairline.

  Touched by this rare show of vulnerability, he nodded. ‘Great presentation. One of the best I’ve seen. The energy efficiency stuff sounds feasible, the marine proposal more complicated—but, yeah, I’m considering it.’

  Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and before he risked having her fling her arms around him in front of the team he gave her a gentle nudge in the direction of the door.

  ‘I’m not making promises, because the team has to vote—’

  ‘Cut the spiel. You’re the boss. You get the deciding vote and we both know it.’

  Amazed at her boldness, he nudged her again. ‘Go wait for me.’

  With a brisk nod, she picked up her portfolio and waved to the team. Before she took a step, she murmured under her breath, ‘Just for the record, I wait for no man.’

  ‘You’ll wait for me.’

  A spark in her eyes flared at his cockiness. He didn’t care. He had to get the last word in, had to establish control after her über-professional presentation had left him nonplussed.

  She strode for the door; he watched—along with ten pairs of wistful eyes. The married guys were wishing they weren’t, the single guys were wishing they had a shot.

  Like him.

  Startled by the unwelcome thought, he moved to the front of the conference room. The faster he wrapped things up, the faster he could instigate the first stage of his PR plan.

  Gemma paced the office, her toes cramping in the stupid high-heeled pumps she’d worn for the occasion. How women wore these torture devices she’d never know. Give her a pair of hiking boots any day.

  She was playing a part today and the shoes were an essential item in her ensemble: the professional marine environmental scientist businesswoman, who knew her stuff, who could deliver on promises.

  The project guys had eaten it up, but the one man she’d had to convince had appeared unmoved during the presentation.

  Rory Devlin was one cool customer and she hated not being able to read him.

  She’d tried, surreptitiously watching him while she extrapolated her data to the project managers. But his face had remained an impassive mask and to her horror he’d zoned out during question time.

  Not good.

  Whichever way the vote went, the moment he stepped into this office she’d have to give the pitch of her life to ensure her dad’s legacy was well looked after.

  This was it. Last ditch stand.

  If she failed she’d have to pack up and ship out. Something she’d done many times over the years. It never fazed her, yet somehow this time the thought of leaving so soon after she’d arrived left her surprisingly morose.

  Living out of a suitcase, moving from job site to job site, didn’t bother her—but being back in Melbourne had triggered an emotional reaction she hadn’t banked on.

  It had to be the loss of the land. No matter how far and wide she travelled, she’d always had Portsea to come home to, secure in the knowledge it would always be there. The one place she could be herself, cosseted by fond memories and a feeling of belonging she never had elsewhere.

  Losing that felt like losing a piece of her soul, and this unusual sentimentality had her more rattled than she cared to admit.

  That was the moment Mr Conservative chose to stride into his office, impressive in his black pinstripe suit, white shirt and aubergine tie. She’d never gone for suits, but the way he filled one out she was sorely tempted to re-evaluate her preferences.

  ‘You disappoint me.’

  Her heart plummeted. ‘How?’

  ‘I expected you to be handcuffed to my desk at the very least.’

  She managed a tight smile in relief. The fact he’d made a joke had to be a good sign.

  ‘What’s the verdict?’

  He paused, his poker face driving her crazy as she shuffled her weight from foot to foot, impatience taking precedence over the annoying pinching of the infernal shoes.

  When he finally looked her in the eye, she had her answer before he spoke.

  ‘You’re in.’

  She let out an exalted whoop, her spontaneous happy dance, complete with hip swivel and shoulder shimmy, earning an amused lip quirk.

  At least it was an improvement on flinging herself into his arms: she’d given herself a stern talking-to on that front. The memory of her faux pas had lingered way too long, popping into her head at inopportune moments, like last thing at night, first thing in the morning and at regular intervals throughout the day. Beyond annoying.

  ‘On one condition.’

  ‘Anything,’ she said, buoyed by the fact he’d hired her to ensure her dad’s beach was preserved in the construction phase, as well as ensuring the mansions he built were energy efficient and environmentally sound.

  ‘Anything?’

  He stepped into her personal space and her pulse took off like a rocket.

  ‘You sure about that?’

  Never one to back down from a challenge, she tilted her head to look him in the eye.

  ‘Whatever it takes to get the job done.’

  The sudden, unexpected flare of heat in his eyes caught her off guard and she eased back, only to have his hands shoot out and grip her arms.

  The answering zing of electricity pinging through her body short-circuited her self-preservation mechanism—the one that warned standing this close to him, having him hold her, was tantamount to sticking her finger in a power point.

  ‘You want to work on this project? Sell your ideas to the investors. They’re the money men.’

  His confident grin snatched her breath.

  ‘Without their approval, my backing means nothing.’

  Another pitch? Not a problem. She’d wowed the project managers, had convinced him. She could do this.

  So why the clammy palms, fidgety fingers and tumbling tummy? Had to be his proximity. Hyper-awareness zapped between them, their bodies radiating enough heat to fuel the entire project.

  She noticed small, inconsequential things—like a tiny mole beneath his left ear, a shaving nick along his jaw, an old scar near his right temple. Seeing his imperfections made him more accessible, leaving her seriously unnerved.

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  She eased away and he released her, his expression inscrutable.

  ‘Great. We leave tonight.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The investors are holding a golf tournament at the Sebel Heritage in the Yarra Valley. They’re playing all day tomorrow, so if you want to make a pitch it’ll have to be later tonight. They’ll convene and give a decision tomorrow.’

  ‘We’re staying overnight?’

  He nodded. ‘Problem with that?’

  His confident stance grated: legs apart, hands in pockets, shoulders squared. He held all the power—knew she’d have to do whatever he said if she wanted to nail this and have a say in how her dad’s land was treated.

  She d
idn’t like over-confident men: their cockiness, their self-assurance that the world revolved around them. While Rory didn’t come across as arrogant, he had total control over this situation and it irked, big time. Or was that because his aura of assurance made him slightly irresistible?

  ‘No problem. E-mail me the details.’ Gritting her teeth at being left no option, she forced a smile. ‘What time do you want me there?’

  ‘I’ll pick you up.’

  She opened her mouth to protest and he held up a hand.

  ‘Doesn’t make sense to drive down in separate cars. Surely car-pooling is more environmentally friendly?’

  His mouth curved into a sardonic smile and her heart gave a strange ka-thump.

  ‘Besides, you can prepare for your presentation on the way.’

  Damn him for his perfectly logical, perfectly thoughtful reasons.

  She didn’t want to spend a few hours holed up with him in a car, didn’t want to rely on him for anything. But she had to wow the investors, and honing her pitch made more sense than battling evening traffic in the decrepit rental.

  His probing stare focussed on her ear, and she belatedly realised she’d been tugging on her earring. She hated showing a sign of nerves.

  With a brisk nod, she hitched her portfolio under her arm.

  ‘Okay, sounds like a plan.’ She didn’t understand the triumphant glint in his eyes, and nor did she like it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  GEMMA didn’t care that the VW backfired as she pulled into her street. She had more important things to worry about, like nailing a presentation twice in the same day.

  She’d kicked some serious butt with the project managers, and had been riding high on Rory’s decision until he’d added the stipulation about wowing the investors. Made sense. The money-men had to approve her proposed changes. But it didn’t make it any easier.

  A golf trip, he’d said, and she’d inwardly groaned. She could imagine a boys-only club where she’d be scrutinised for what she wore, how much make-up she slathered on and how her hair fell.

  Nightmarish, but she’d do it, play whatever game she had to, in order to protect the Portsea land that should have been hers.

  As she neared home, she saw cars worth more than her annual salary lined the driveways and kerbs around the house, which could only mean one thing: Coral was entertaining.

  With a scowl, she parked halfway up the street and trudged back, her ire building with every step. Yep, the stupid shoes were still pinching, but her sour mood had more to do with the well-modulated, well-cultivated voices floating on the breeze and the clink of martini glasses than any shoes.

  How many times had she hidden away during one of her mum’s sojourns, or snuck out of a window to avoid the stares? There’d been plenty of those on the odd occasion when she’d been sprung, from women with their noses ten feet in the air, looking down on the scruffy tomboy, their confusion unable to crinkle their Botoxed brows as they wondered how coiffed Coral could produce an offspring like her.

  They’d never said anything, not to her face, but what had rankled more than their visible derision had been the pinching around her mum’s mouth—as if she’d sucked on a lemon. Not once had Coral wrapped an arm around her and included her in the conversation, proud of her daughter no matter what clothes she wore.

  No, Coral had flashed a brittle smile, sagging in relief when she left, and that had hurt more than all those snooty cows put together.

  The voices grew louder as she neared the back garden and she stopped, hating how the insecurities of the past had the power to affect her now. She was a professional, head-hunted by beach authorities the world over, years away from the teenage tearaway she’d been. No way would she slink around as she’d used to. She’d walk through their snobby soiree, head held high.

  Decision made, she stepped around the side of the house and walked into a wall of expensive perfumes, each as overpowering as the next, trying to outdo each other as much as their owners.

  They sat around a glass-topped wrought-iron table—hat-wearing socialites in dresses worth more than her rent-a-bomb car. The buzz of gossip hung in the air, and the G&Ts were flowing as freely as the name-dropping. She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the inevitable air-kisses.

  Hitching her portfolio higher under her arm, she pasted a bright smile on her face and strode forward.

  The buzz faded into silence as eight pairs of eyes looked her up and down, expressions ranging from puzzled to suspicious.

  ‘Hi, ladies,’ she said, enjoying their bemusement as Coral entered the back yard holding a tray of canapés. Her expression was the best of the lot: a mixture of surprise and wariness and ill-disguised discomfort.

  In that moment some of her exhilaration at this morning’s success evaporated on a cloud of regret. Regret that she could never be the daughter her mum wanted, regret that they were so different, regret that the one person she wanted to share her successes with was so inaccessible.

  ‘Would you care to join us?’ Coral’s brusque tone made her bristle.

  ‘No, thanks. Wouldn’t want to disrupt your private party.’

  Her mum hovered, uncertain, and Gemma waved her forward. ‘Go ahead. I’m going to grab a bite to eat then work on the Portsea project.’

  Coral’s lips compressed at the P word. ‘The Portsea project?’

  ‘I mentioned it.’

  But she hadn’t elaborated, considering she hadn’t spoken to her mum beyond pleasantries since she’d arrived. The two of them had been doing an avoidance dance bordering on the ludicrous.

  While she liked not having to make polite small talk like a stranger, a small part of her—the part that wished Santa existed—wished her mum would just welcome her with open arms.

  ‘I’ve been hired as the marine environmental consultant on the luxury mansions Devlin Corp is building on Dad’s land, pending final approval from the investors.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’

  Coral’s exuberance stunned her. But not half as much as her mum putting down the tray of canapés to give her a swift hug.

  ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she said, before releasing her.

  Gemma would have reeled back in shock without the wall behind her.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Her jaw ached from the effort not to gape at her mum’s rare display of affection as she watched Coral play the perfect hostess, offering canapés and topping up drinks.

  Had she imagined the last few minutes, or had her mum actually said she was proud of her? Better—embraced her in front of the blue-rinse brigade?

  This was why she loved the ocean. Tides and ecosystems and shifting sands were real—much easier to understand than humans.

  A low tittering filled the air as Coral waved in her direction with a smile and Gemma took that as her cue to bolt. They were talking about her, and she had no intention of being a bystander.

  After an hour spent honing her presentation until she could recite it in her sleep, Gemma had no option but to consider the next part of impressing the investors: her limited wardrobe.

  Cold, hard facts she could handle. A mascara wand and stilettos? No way.

  She’d taken a step towards her bedroom when Coral entered the kitchen.

  ‘Guests gone?’

  Coral nodded, her shoulders drooping in weariness, and Gemma noticed the wrinkles fanning from the corners of her mum’s mouth. They shocked her as much as her mum’s hug and declaration had earlier, for Coral had used to spend a fortune on cosmetics to maintain her youth.

  A sliver of guilt lodged in her conscience. She’d been so wrapped up in her life the last few years she’d barely paid attention to her mum on her brief visits home. Whenever they’d caught up it had been out of obligation, but while they’d never be bosom buddies something had shifted when she’d walked into that garden party and been welcomed.

  ‘Want a drink?’

  Considering the number of used empty glasses on the tray, she raised an eyebrow.
Coral shrugged and topped up two glasses from the pitcher she’d brought in.

  ‘After sitting through another of those shindigs, I need it.’

  Shock number two—hearing her mum voice anything other than cultivated glee at gossiping with her cronies.

  Maybe she needed that drink after all. ‘Sure.’

  Coral handed her a glass and raised hers. ‘To my clever daughter.’

  Shock number three, and Gemma couldn’t resist saying something. Aiming for levity, she pointed at Coral’s glass. ‘How many of those have you had?’

  ‘Not enough,’ she muttered, downing half her G&T in one gulp.

  Oo-kay, something was definitely wrong—but Gemma wasn’t skilled at this kind of thing. She didn’t know whether Coral got stuck into the gin regularly and this was the alcohol talking, or a sign of some deeper malaise.

  Whatever the cause, awkward and out of her depth didn’t begin to describe how she felt having this kind of conversation.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  Coral focussed cloudy eyes on her for a long moment before shaking her head. ‘Just tired.’

  There was more to it, but Gemma didn’t want to delve—not when she’d be ill-equipped to handle the answers.

  Desperate to change the subject, she blurted, ‘I’m going away tonight.’

  Coral instantly perked up. ‘With who?’

  ‘Rory Devlin.’

  Coral definitely didn’t do Botox, for her eyebrows shot so high her forehead resembled a Sharpei.

  ‘He gave the go-ahead on my pitch this morning, but the investors need to have the final say and they’re golfing in the Yarra Valley, so we’re heading down there this evening.’

  Coral clearly hadn’t unglued her tongue from the roof of her mouth, for she nodded and downed the rest of her drink, but there was a glint in her eyes that made Gemma want to clarify the purpose of this trip.

  ‘It’s business.’

  The glint turned into a matchmaking gleam. ‘Sounds lovely.’

  She hadn’t seen her mum so animated in years, and she wondered if it was the gin or genuine interest in her life.

  ‘I’m good friends with his father’s second wife.’