Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?

by Nicola Marsh

  Gemma hated gossip, but she couldn’t pass up an opportunity to learn more about the guy she’d be working with.

  ‘Second wife?’

  Coral grimaced. ‘Cuthbert’s been married four times.’

  ‘No way! ‘

  Coral nodded. ‘I know—unbelievable. He’s had about the same number of facelifts and has been between wives for a year now, so his exploits are frequently fodder for the gossip columns.’

  Poor Rory. Coral might be set in her ways but at least her life wasn’t plastered in the tabloids, embarrassing her kids.

  ‘Rory seems a pretty staid guy.’

  ‘Ethel says he’s nothing like his father. In fact, he’s taken over the reins of the family company after Cuthbert almost ran it into the ground.’

  Ah … So that was why he was so business-focussed. She couldn’t blame him there. If Devlin Corp was his family legacy he’d be fighting tooth and nail to save it—as she would have fought if she’d known her father’s land was being sold off.

  As much as she’d have liked to interrogate her mum again as to why she needed the money, she craved information on Rory more.

  ‘Is Ethel Rory’s mum?’

  ‘Lord, no.’

  Coral’s laugh, devoid of humour, spoke volumes. ‘I can’t see Ethel being a mother to anyone. She married Cuthbert after Rory’s mum took off when he was a youngster. The marriage lasted two years before Cuthbert moved on.’

  Once again she sympathised with Rory. It had killed her to lose her dad. What must it have been like for him, losing his mother, then having to accept a stepmother only to have her move on shortly after? Not the best upbringing to build emotional attachments.

  While she might not have been as close to her mum as she would have liked following her dad’s death, they’d been a family when he’d been alive, and she’d been lavished with the attention and affection every kid needed to thrive.

  ‘Funny thing is they’re still the best of friends.’

  ‘Who? Ethel and Cuthbert?’

  Coral nodded. ‘They frequently hit the town together. Ethel loves the high life; Cuthbert lives it.’

  A shrewd gleam entered her mum’s eye. A gleam she didn’t like one bit.

  ‘I could have a dinner party … invite them and—’

  ‘Stop right there.’

  Gemma held up her hands and slid off the bar stool. ‘I don’t need you interfering.’

  The last thing she needed was her mum poking her nose into her business relationship with Rory and turning it into something it wasn’t.

  ‘I’m only trying to help.’

  She’d never heard her mum’s voice wobble, let alone seen her with a wounded expression, but she couldn’t afford to waver on this. Before she knew it Coral would have them marching up the aisle.

  ‘Thanks, but I can handle it.’

  Coral topped up her glass and Gemma gritted her teeth to stop herself telling her to take it easy. She had no right and if she didn’t want her mum interfering in her life, she had no place doing the same.

  ‘Do you date much?’

  Hell, this was what happened when she tried to bond with her mum. She faced an interrogation she’d rather avoid.

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Anyone serious?’

  She could bluff and throw in a few fake names, but she was proud of her choices, proud she’d built a solid, commendable career at the expense of a meaningful relationship.

  And those doubts that crept into her head late at night, whispering that she’d end up alone if she kept pushing guys away for fear of letting anyone too close? Not worth worrying about—not when she felt more comfortable with marine life than living the high life on the dating merry-go-round.

  ‘Not really.’ This time she reached for the pitcher. ‘Work keeps me busy and I move around a lot.’

  Coral stared at her over the rim of her glass, her eyes huge and filled with worry. ‘What about starting a family of your own one day—’

  That was her cue to leave. She downed the G&T in two gulps and grabbed her laptop, wishing she’d never mentioned raising kids as an argument to flay Coral with for selling her dad’s land.

  ‘I appreciate your concern, Mum, but I’m fine. I’m going away with Rory on business. So don’t over-analyse anything or feel sorry for me, because I like my life just the way it is.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Coral’s easy capitulation raised her suspicions, but she couldn’t see anything beyond an aggravating pity in her eyes before she lowered them to concentrate on her drink.

  ‘I need to get ready.’

  ‘Would you like some help?’

  If the impromptu chat she’d had with her mother hadn’t bamboozled her enough, Coral’s invitation to help her get ready sent her into a tailspin.

  She’d rarely dated as a teenager—guys had tended to be intimidated by her ability to kick the football further, score more points in basketball and swim the fastest and furthest in any race—so they’d never done the mother/daughter tizzy stuff. Surely it was too late to start now?

  Then she made the fatal mistake of glancing at her mum. Her hopeful expression combined with her trembling hand as she twirled the glass undermined her instant refusal.

  ‘I could do your hair? Lend you this incredible new mineral make-up that looks like you’re not wearing any?’

  She’d never seen Coral anything other than poised and elegant and confident, even after her dad’s death, and the fact her mum was practically begging to help went some way to breaching the yawning emotional gap between them.

  Besides, in the dress-to-impress department she needed all the help she could get.

  ‘Okay.’

  Coral’s tremulous smile made her feel something she hadn’t in a long time when it came to her mum: hope. Maybe it wasn’t too late to bridge the distance between them after all this time?

  ‘You go up. I’ll finish stacking the dishwasher and be up to give you a hand shortly.’

  Feeling more light-hearted than she had in years, Gemma took the stairs two at a time, the fizz in her veins lending an extra spring to her step.

  Had to be the gin, and nothing at all to do with the tentative overtures of her mum or the prospect of spending the night in the company of one seriously hot guy—albeit for business.

  That was her excuse and she was sticking to it.

  ‘What on earth is all that?’

  Gemma took one look at the paraphernalia in her mum’s arms and stepped back, instantly regretting her acceptance of Coral’s offer to help her get ready.

  Moving faster than Gemma had seen in years, Coral dumped her booty onto the bed and rubbed her hands together.

  ‘Hair straightener. Curling tongs. Epilator. Eyelash curler. Make-up brush set. Light mirror.’

  Gemma shook her head, not encouraged by her mum’s determined smile.

  ‘I was going to wear my hair in a ponytail, so I don’t need all that hair stuff.’ She batted her eyelashes. ‘That curler? Redundant. Nothing could curl these straight pokers.’ Puffing out her cheeks, noting their pallor, she exhaled. ‘The make-up? Couldn’t hurt.’

  Coral picked up a small square device with a bristly steel head. ‘What about the epilator?’

  ‘That depends. What does it do?’

  ‘Hair removal.’

  Coral’s glance dipped to her legs as realisation hit: her mum thought she might need to de-fuzz. Which meant her mum also thought there was a fair chance her legs would be bared tonight.

  Dying from embarrassment, she held up her hands. Yeah—as if that would ward off an incoming beauty expert hell-bent on making her over.

  ‘Let’s stick to the make-up.’

  Coral swapped the epilator for one of the hair thingies. ‘And the hair. Nothing like sleek hair to glam up.’

  ‘I don’t do glam,’ she muttered, but her protest fell on deaf ears as her mum urged her to sit on the stool in front of the mirror while she bustled around, plugging in the straight
ener, unfolding her satchel of brushes, laying out make-up on the dresser.

  As she glanced at her bare face in the mirror, at the frizzy blond strands spiking out of her loose plait, she couldn’t help but be thankful she’d accepted her mum’s offer.

  She might be confident in her abilities, but she’d be lying if she didn’t admit to being the teensiest bit intimidated at the thought of standing up in a room full of suited-up guys who’d probably pick her proposal apart.

  She’d be judged on appearances too, and presenting a confident front would work wonders. She’d nail this pitch if it killed her.

  She loved a challenge—always had. Land the biggest fish of the day? She wouldn’t move off the pier until she’d caught it. Swim in the freezing ocean on a winter’s day? She’d be first off the boat and ride the boom-net the longest. See the first Bottlenose dolphin of the season? She’d don wetsuit and fins every day, waiting for a glimpse of her beloved creatures.

  Have a super-confident, commanding millionaire in control, thinking she’d quiver in her work boots in front of a roomful of his highflying cronies?

  Bring it on.

  ‘Ready?’

  Coral hovered over her and Gemma nodded, trying not to stiffen when her mum tugged the elastic off the end of her plait and unravelled it with her fingers.

  How old had she been when she’d last submitted to having her hair done? Eight? Nine? It was one of the few girly things she remembered truly enjoying as a kid, having her mum brush her hair every morning and night with strong, smooth strokes that lulled.

  ‘You’ve always had such lovely healthy hair,’ Coral said, picking up a brush and running it from her scalp to the ends in the same reassuring way she’d done as a child.

  ‘Thanks,’ Gemma said, the word squeezing past the unexpected lump in her throat, and when their gazes met in the mirror she knew Coral understood her gratitude was for more than brushing her hair.

  In a way, she hadn’t only lost her dad when he’d died. She’d lost her mum too. She’d put it down to mourning at the time, both of them withdrawing into their private worlds to cope. But later, when the initial horror had faded, replaced by an insidious sadness invading on a daily basis, she’d needed her mum. Had needed comforting and hugs and reassurance.

  She hadn’t got it. They’d been so consumed by their initial grief that once it eased they were different people, virtual strangers, and neither knew how to reach out to the other.

  The lump in her throat grew as Coral gently ran thick strands of her hair through the heated straightener, a small satisfied smile curving her lips as she bit down on the tip of her tongue in concentration.

  How could something so simple bring so much satisfaction to her mum?

  ‘There. All done.’

  As Coral ran her palms over her shiny hair, hanging like a sleek curtain past her shoulders, their gazes caught in the mirror again and Gemma had her answer.

  Her mum’s eyes were filled with hope and yearning, and the sheen of tears accentuated what she’d already suspected. Offering to help her prep for her presentation meant more than the grooming and appearances Coral valued.

  This had been an olive branch.

  When she tried a tentative, grateful smile, and watched her mum’s expression transform into one of joy, she knew she’d done the right thing.

  Interrogating her about the land could wait.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RORY had always been upstanding, always played by the rules, always played fair.

  Hiring Gemma for her profile more than her expertise niggled, but after seeing Devlin Corp besmirched yet again in the papers, courtesy of dear old dad, he had to do something.

  Not that his plan was all that nefarious. Gemma’s presentation had genuinely impressed him, and he could see the viability of her proposal. But he’d orchestrated the meeting with his investors with one goal in mind.

  To have her front and centre as the environmental face of the Portsea Point construction.

  The investors had already received a memo from him this afternoon, outlining why hiring her was a viable proposition.

  They’d been amenable to seeing her presentation, and from early feedback he’d received via e-mail she’d have to botch it for them not to go for it.

  Not that he’d told her any of this. He wanted to see her pull out all stops, wanted her to prove herself—if for no other reason than to cement this decision as a purely business one, and eradicate the constant nagging feeling that he wasn’t averse to having her stick around for a while.

  He’d been distracted at work all afternoon, thinking about her unusual qualities and why she piqued his interest when she was nothing like the women in his sphere. No smoothness, no polish, no artifice; she intrigued and terrified him.

  He didn’t like surprises as a rule. He’d had a gutful of them growing up, whenever Bert had brought home his latest conquest and introduced her as yet another stepmum-to-be. Those vacuous, self-absorbed usurpers who’d seen his dad as an easy meal-ticket and had sucked up to him because they’d thought it would curry favour with the old man.

  He’d hated every moment of it and had grown immune to them, relying on practised indifference to get him through.

  Surprises sucked. Yet Gemma Shultz had been one big surprise wrapped up in a very attractive package since he’d met her.

  Who knew? Maybe some surprises weren’t so bad after all?

  As he strode up the manicured path towards her front door she slipped out, hoisting a small, scruffy backpack that had seen its fair share of travel, and quickly shut the door.

  He raised his hand in greeting, immediately regretting the dorkish gesture. The whisky he’d consumed at work with his deputy burned in his belly, spreading its heat outwards, making him sweat, and he surreptitiously slid a finger between his tie and collar.

  He couldn’t breathe. The air was sucked out of his lungs as she strolled towards him. He was confounded by his reaction to this extraordinary woman.

  ‘I knew you’d bring your fancy car.’ She jerked her thumb towards the Merc.

  ‘Better than squeezing into that.’ He pointed at the rusty rental and she nodded, toying with an earring—a black seal in spun gold this time.

  ‘It’s not so bad.’

  He’d rarely seen her anything other than bold and sassy, so her flash of uncertainty as she glanced at the run-down car made him want to haul her in for a comforting hug.

  ‘You look great, by the way.’

  ‘Really?’

  Her fingers tugged at the end of her flowing peasant top, smoothed the sides of her denim skirt, and her nervousness struck him again.

  ‘Yeah, really.’

  His gaze skimmed her glossy hair, shimmering like the sun. Her eyes were accentuated by subtle cosmetics, making them appear glistening and seductive.

  His gut wrenched. He liked it better when she stuck to ugly suits, ponytails and no make-up.

  Her eyes widened, as if she’d read his thoughts. ‘I’ve got my suit in here.’ She tapped the backpack. ‘Benefits of non-crushable fabric and travelling light.’

  ‘Your room should be ready, so you’ll have plenty of time to change once we check in.’

  Considering the way his mind had taken a detour from the business at hand, he felt the need to state the obvious—separate rooms—if only for his benefit.

  ‘Good to know.’

  Her mouth quirked into a playful smile, socking him like a jab to the jaw.

  ‘Just in case I had the wrong idea.’

  Her soft laughter taunted and, unable to rein in the insane impulse to touch her, he reached out and slid his palm over her hair, shiny and sleek, framing her expertly made-up face like a stunning backdrop.

  It trailed through his fingertips like silk, tantalisingly soft, and he bit back a groan when his bemused gaze clashed with hers.

  He had no idea if her eyes held promise or if his imagination was working overtime, but whatever the hell was going on here he had
as much control over it as he did over his father: absolutely none.

  Her tongue flicked out to moisten her bottom lip and his fingers convulsed.

  Screw propriety. Screw appearances.

  He’d spent a lifetime doing the right thing, trying to be the opposite of his dad, but in that second he’d never wanted to kiss a woman more.

  So he did.

  He leaned forward and placed a kiss just shy of her glossed mouth, lingering longer than he should, but not giving a damn. The way he was feeling—reckless and floundering—she was lucky he didn’t go for the lips.

  He stiffened when she smiled against his mouth and eased away.

  ‘If you’re trying to distract me in the hope I’ll botch the presentation and you’ll be rid of me, think again.’

  Her teasing smile slugged him in the chest. Time to back-pedal. Fast.

  ‘We’re going to be late.’

  He picked up her backpack, wishing he’d never offered to pick her up, wishing he’d never kissed her. He hated his abrupt tone, hated the laughter in her eyes chastising him for being a stuffy fool, but if he didn’t get behind the wheel right now and concentrate on the road who knew what he’d end up doing?

  ‘Wouldn’t want that.’

  He ignored her smirk, mentally chastising himself for being a fool and unnecessarily complicating matters.

  It wasn’t until they’d hit the freeway that Rory realised he hadn’t given the Portsea project a second thought once Gemma had strutted out through her front door.

  The moment Rory drove through the Sebel Heritage front gate and along its long, winding, tree-lined drive Gemma was catapulted back to her teens.

  Arriving at a party to find the girls decked out in make-up and dresses while she wore jeans and her best T-shirt.

  Walking into class to find her classmates discussing manicures while she wanted to chat about the weekend footy scores.

  Coming downstairs every day to find her mother immaculately made-up, no matter what the hour, while she slouched around in whatever shorts were clean.

  She’d never fitted in.

  Since her teens she’d been the odd one out, and while she’d grown to value her individuality as she got older entering this exclusive enclave resurrected her old doubts like nothing else.