by Robyn Grady
He looked tanned and healthy. But the difference went beyond that. When Armand released Matthew’s right hand, he found the answer shining on his left. A gold band. Disbelief fell through him, then a startled laugh coughed out. “My God, you’re married!”
Looking like the old tomcat who’d eaten the last of the cream, Matthew moved toward the maroon chesterfield. “We met at a legal colleague’s retirement party three months ago.” A far-off, contented gleam softened ice-blue eyes as he folded into the settee and flicked open his jacket buttons. “I thought I was well over such foolishness. Evie changed all that.”
Shock didn’t begin to describe the emotion, but if Matthew was happy, Armand was happy for him. Clapping his hands and rubbing, he set off for the wet bar. “This calls for a toast.”
When Armand returned with two glasses, they saluted and drank. “Vintage Macallan?”
“A special malt for a special occasion.”
Matthew focused on the younger man then slowly shook his head. “Never once did I dream I’d beat you to the altar.”
“You were a confirmed bachelor. She must be special.”
Swirling his glass, Matthew raised his brows and sighed. “She is at that.” He studied the liquor’s oak-tint color for a long moment. “No new love interest on your horizon, I suppose.”
Regularly since his father’s death, Matthew had tentatively asked about prospective fiancées, after which he would mention the will then, just as predictably, assure Armand not to worry. The balance of the trust was in good hands…his hands. He was an experienced lawyer, loyal board member and devoted family friend. No matter if the heir came a little late, Matthew would ensure Armand got what he deserved. If all went according to plan, today would be the final time Matthew need ask.
Confident, Armand replied, “Actually, I intend to announce my own wedding date very soon.” Despite his friend’s assurance about the trust, he wanted to get the matrimonial legalities cleared up.
Matthew’s expression sagged in astonishment and his face blanched. A hand funneled through his high silver-gray hairline as he released a laugh. “Well, do I know the lucky girl?”
Armand swallowed his scotch and grunted in the negative. “She’s not society.”
“From humble beginnings then?”
Armand nodded.
“Like your mother.”
Fingers of tension circled Armand’s throat. He swallowed past the sensation and turned to his desk. He didn’t need the comparison. Six years ago he’d asked for the hand of a woman who hailed from an impeccable family line, and look how that turned out. Christine Sawyer had tried to hock the ring—a family heirloom, for Pete’s sake. So much for blue-blood pedigree. So much for true love.
Matthew’s apologetic voice followed him. “Forgive me. That was unnecessary. I’m sure she’ll fit in beautifully. What’s her name?”
Armand set down his glass and drew in his chair. “Tamara Kendle.”
Matthew nodded, sipped, smiled. “Eager to start a family, no doubt.”
“You could say that.”
Throughout the week, Tamara’s bouts of morning sickness had left her wan, but by evening her face glowed. Not that she would admit her favorable adjustment anytime soon. She was, indeed, a minx, constantly challenging him with her jibes and bold green eyes. But last night she hadn’t mentioned leaving once. Progress. Tonight he planned to push that advantage as far as it would go.
Armand’s attention landed on the file he’d been working on and his mind clicked over. He caught the time on his watch. After five. Matthew would want to return to his bride, but a quick nod here first would be appreciated.
Armand rapped the file. “Do you have a minute?”
Matthew unraveled his legs. “China?” His expression filled with interest, as he moved to stand beside Armand’s chair.
Armand opened the file and flipped through. “The consultant had it right. At least two areas would fit our needs exactly.” He indicated a map, pointing out Shanghai and Hang Zhou. “Of course we’d still keep our plants in Australia, but increase output by expanding and make a decent profit, even factoring in shipping. The businessmen I spoke with over there are keen.”
Armand leaned back, hands laced behind his head. Innovative growth strategies and organizing new trade links not only kept him alert, but such measures were also vital. Building upon De Luca Enterprises’ place in today’s competitive manufacturing and corporate world meant breathing a constant stream of fresh air into the business. Without new initiatives, DLE could stagnate, stumble, or worse, risk takeover. He didn’t advocate violence, but he’d sooner fight to the death than hand over his heart and soul to any man.
Concentrating on the file, Armand tipped forward again. “I still estimate we need to shift between eighteen and twenty percent of primary holdings to fund establishment costs.”
He waited while Matthew perused the figures, absently correcting the knot in the tie Armand hadn’t seen before; a frugal man of habit, Matthew had worn either the crimson, the green or the striped gray for countless years. Armand grinned. The little woman must be making changes.
Matthew closed the folder, then tucked it under an arm. “Let me take this and go through the negotiation side. You need to be sensitive when dealing with other cultures. Don’t want to get anyone offside by coming across as ignorant,” he said, chuckling, “or arrogant.”
Appreciating the advice, Armand smiled and nodded. “The groundwork’s complete. I’d like to move forward and propose this ASAP, before the half-year profit report and dividend announcement is released.”
The interim report had indicated a healthy profit, but final figures wouldn’t be available for, perhaps, three months. He didn’t want to give the conservative element of the board a chance to fixate upon concrete profit margins, then veto his expansion plans as unnecessary or risky. Armand preferred to see his plans as discerning.
For some odd reason, Armand felt a niggling doubt but quickly pushed the frown away. This man was loyal. There was no reason to believe Matthew wouldn’t stand by him now.
When Matthew moved away and Armand stood to show him out, his thoughts reverted to the earlier news. “We four must do dinner soon.” Once everything was set with Tamara.
Matthew clapped his protégé on the back. “I’ll let Evie know.”
Half an hour later, Armand was home. Loosening his tie and releasing his collar button, he called out a hello, then strode from room to room. Ruth had the afternoon off. She now knew about the situation between himself and Tamara, and that tonight he planned to take their guest to a new restaurant with superb, glittering night views and the best chocolate mousse truffles in all of Sydney. But Master was MIA, too. And where was Tamara?
A brainwave struck and he marched into her favorite room in the house. He scouted around the library, even angling a look upward over the vast shelves that reached to the vaulted, paneled ceiling. Tamara said she loved the smell of so many books.
Jaw clenched, he strode out.
She wouldn’t have left without a word. She knew he’d only track her down. Besides, as this week had unfolded, her resistance had lessened. He noticed her leanings in subtle ways, like her growing practice to sit with him in the evenings. Long legs tucked under, she would read a fat novel or her study book while he went over figures or proposals in his wing chair, Master sprawled out near the footstool.
He noticed an increase and variety in Tamara’s conversations, too, not simply about their situation, but more commonplace interests—current affairs, music, movies. Romantic comedies weren’t his speed, but he’d enjoyed listening to her laugh when they’d watched a recent release.
He also enjoyed the way her body looked draped over the chintz couch…smooth cinnamon-tinted skin, long hair, shiny as black satin. When she lost herself in a chapter, her full lips would part and her breasts would rise and fall a little faster with her breathing. She’d twine a length of hair with her index finger, ’round and ’round ’
til he wanted to leap over and grab her hand, then coax her mouth still wider using solely the persuasion of his own.
Hands low on hips, he cast a blank look around that lounge room now. Where the hell was she?
Then it dawned.
He found her swimming laps in the indoor pool’s sparkling blue length, wrist obviously mended, barely a ripple in her wake. Her flawless movements, that stream of hair…everything about her exuded grace, precision. Beauty.
His groin and heart throbbed in tandem.
Sexual attraction was one thing; they had that going for them in spades and very soon he’d have her admit it. But this emotional tug?
Armand butted his shoulder against the twenty-foot jamb, clenching then flexing a hand.
Clearly his connection to this woman was based on the baby she carried. Marco could choose to ignore the family name and legacy, even after barriers had been erased. But Marco’s child would be raised knowing he was a De Luca. As Tamara had so wisely pointed out, family was important, more important than anything—and now nothing stood in the way of cementing that moral foundation and putting words into practice. The long-ago wrong would finally be righted.
Rounding off a lap, Tamara jettisoned out of the middle lane onto the expansive terracotta tiles. One knee bent up, the other dangled in the water—sweeping languidly back and forth—she wrung her heavy mane then shook it out. Droplets flew, darkening the tiles in a splatter of dots.
Aware of his elevated heartbeat and perspiration forming along his brow, Armand could only gaze at long slim limbs and high firm breasts that talked to him of sin and more sin. But her hair beguiled him most, spilling over her shoulders. Shoulders he would knead when he pressed her into silk sheets on their wedding night.
Much sooner than that, if he had anything to do with it.
Wide eyes centered on his. She pushed to her feet then, with two hands, smoothed back tangles of hair that had fallen over her face. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed her surprise. “I didn’t expect you home so soon.”
“My last meeting was cancelled.” No need to tell her he’d been the one to defer.
She lowered her arms. “And there wasn’t a single thing to keep you occupied? I’d pegged you for a workaholic.”
He found a plaintive tone. “It is Friday.”
Her lips curved into a teasing smile. “Well, I suppose, in that case…”
She ran a speculative eye all the way down to his shoes before catching herself and moving in a purposeful step to a nearby deckchair. When she flicked a large white towel from its back and patted each arm, both anticipation and regret hummed through his veins. He didn’t want her dry. He wanted that red one-piece plied against him, wet, warm and salaciously wanting. Today that seemed more likely than ever.
He hadn’t imagined her mounting curiosity, the inquisitive looks ventured beneath lowered lashes, the way the air steamed and thickened whenever they were close enough to touch. She still grieved for Marco, but as a friend; the fairy-tale feelings she yearned for weren’t involved.
He couldn’t give her the fantasy, either; that part of him was buried forever. However, if she wanted the illusion of love so badly, if she wanted to believe their future would be built on violin chords and bow-strung cupids, what harm was there? In fact, it could work in his favor.
Sauntering over, he released one gold cufflink, then the other, and weighed them in a palm. “Have you made a decision regarding my proposal? You’ve been here a week.”
She visibly paled before spilling out a laugh. “Right. One whole week.”
“You understand the time restraints.”
Unmoved, she dabbed her throat. “Your birthday’s months away.”
“Arrangements need to be made.”
Towel cupping one side of her face, she stopped to stare as if he’d spouted horns. “This isn’t a small decision.”
He dropped the links into his top pocket. “It’s a huge decision, but the right one for your child. For you, too, Tamara.”
She quarter-turned from him, not listening. A number of adjectives besides headstrong sprang to his mind. Best try a different tack.
Hands slotting into his trousers’ pockets, he moved closer. “How’s the assignment going?”
Leaning over to towel one gorgeous calf, she faltered. “It’s…coming along.”
“If you want help, figures are my second language.” Not that she’d need that degree when they were married.
She lashed the enormous towel under her arms, sari-style. All that remained of that sensational view were ankles and red-tipped toes.
Time to pull out the big guns.
Stopping inches away, he peered down, willing her to bend and submit to the inevitable. He wouldn’t give up. Quitting wasn’t in his makeup, and if she lost the bravado, she could admit she wanted him, too.
Heat spread in his chest and his expression purposely softened at the same time their smoldering connection strengthened and swelled. He spoke to her lips. “Say you’re considering it.”
Hitching up the towel, she gave him a shaky, glassy-eyed smile. “I’m fine with the assignment, truly.”
“Not the assignment.” His hands came out of his pockets. “My proposal.”
They shared a meaningful look, her darkening eyes betraying more than she might like. She abruptly averted her gaze, pushing more hair from her face. “Can we talk about this later?”
Not a chance.
“Say it.”
Her hunted gaze snapped up. She shook her head, bit her lip. Good God, that swimsuit had looked fine. How his fingers burned to reach out and touch.
Finally, after a torturous moment, she gave in to a halfhearted growl and a shrug. “Oh, hell. All right. Yes, I’m considering it.”
Again his attention strayed to her lips, dusky pink, naturally full, meant to be kissed, and kissed often.
He lifted one brow. “Anything I can do to tip the scales?”
A droplet trailed from the gold cross to her cleavage as she inhaled deeply. “Giving me a place to stay and stocking me with a wardrobe Hollywood starlets would envy is plenty for now.”
After seeing her couple of inexpensive outfits, he’d put his assistant on the case. Twenty-four hours later, a leading fashion consultant had delivered a range of outfits to his door. The sizing, styles and color choices had been perfect. By the third day, Tamara had given up protesting.
“You’ll need another gown soon,” he told her in a low, compelling voice. “A wedding gown.”
While he imagined her in a stunning white sheath and streaming veil, she stumbled back. “Wait a minute. I haven’t decided anything yet.”
That higher impulse, reshaping and growing each day, saw its chance. “Then let me help.”
A single arm wound out and he swept her close. Eyes bulging saucer-wide, she gasped as their bridged kindling leapt into flame. Relishing her damp frame against his body, he hushed her parted lips with the pad of his thumb a heartbeat before his mouth came down.
She bucked. Wedged between them, her small fists squirmed against his shirtfront. But, with one large hand cupping her rump and the other bracing her head, he held her mouth on his. He knew what he was doing. Just a second or two more…
He deepened the kiss ’til her already weakened chains fell and her natural scent and budding desire mingled to surround and invite him in. Finally she melted, her fingers spreading to knead rather than push at the sinew beneath his shirt.
When she sighed soft and deep in her throat, his every participating cell upped a gear, from pleasurable tactic to ready fascination. Raw heat snaked through his bloodstream, lava edging over stone, warming the back of his knees, leaving pinpoints of fire where her finger pads pressed.
He shifted, his right hand threaded through the silky underbrush of her hair. He massaged her nape and she melted more.
After an endless moment, they slowly parted, mouths soft and moist. The surroundings seeped into his consciousness, but while his eyes relu
ctantly opened, hers remained closed. As physical longing fermented and bubbled up through his layers, Armand smiled.
This could work out nicely.
His fingers trailed down the sweep of flesh that joined her throat to her shoulder. He squeezed gently and she trembled. “Tamara.”
Her dreamy eyes flickered open. Fond recognition instantly shuttered behind a vulnerability that made his throat grow thick even as the embers in the pit of his stomach smoldered bright red.
Her mouth pressed together. She looked so torn. “I’m still thinking.”
“Perhaps you’re making the decision harder than it needs to be.” The residue of smoky passion evaporated from her eyes and she wrenched to be free, but he overlooked her wavering and declined to release her. Their gazes fixed again, hers fierce, his placating yet assured.
“I’m not the enemy, Tamara.” His earlier thought resurfaced and he veered down another path. “All the best fairy tales begin with conflict. Look at Beauty and the Beast.”
She didn’t buy it. “You don’t believe in fairy tales.”
“Maybe I just need that special someone to help me believe.”
He pushed aside a twinge at such shameless deceit and focused on the future, on her changed expression—wondering, hopeful. When his fingertip feathered down her temple around her chin, she shivered but didn’t jerk away. He ought to kiss her again; she wouldn’t resist. But the most successful seductions used a number of devices, including the guarantee of time. It meant delaying gratification, but even the brightest day eventually surrendered to the night.
His hand sluiced down her arm before he edged away. Her posture slumped the barest amount as if, despite her grit, she’d relied on the support. He hid his satisfaction behind a quiet smile.
“We’re going out tonight,” he announced, turning on his heel. “Wear something elegant.” No need to suggest she leave her hair down. Thankfully she usually did.