Magnate's Marriage Demand

by Robyn Grady

  “There was no need to continue with the pretense of a vote,” he went on. “Matthew’s arrow split them down the middle. It’ll take watertight strategy to regroup and swing them around now.”

  Which would have to come after the full release of the financial year figures. He had no choice. He needed to make the healthy company profit work to his advantage in this matter and convince them to be proactive rather than overriding the crest of a wave. New angles, new opportunities, new ways of thinking—that was how to stay on top.

  Glass in hand, Tamara eased up, the fall of her gown swishing around her bare feet as she walked toward him.

  “I’m sorry, Armand. It’s hard when a friend doesn’t agree.”

  His chin pulled in. Little wonder her business had crashed; he truly shouldn’t feel responsible for the information scrawled on the note in his pocket. Clearly Tamara couldn’t interpret warning signs when corporate push needed to come to unapologetic shove.

  “Matthew and I could have discussed any concerns before three o’clock today.” Setting his jaw, he gazed, unseeing, at a gilt-framed Monet mounted on the far wall. “This wasn’t about compromise. He wanted to throw the gauntlet down.”

  At his side now, Tamara’s soft floral scent worked to soothe his aggravated senses. God, how he wished this conversation was over so they could get back to where they’d left off this afternoon and simply fall into bed.

  “Matthew wants to challenge you?” she asked. “Why?”

  Armand could guess. “Before the meeting, he showed off a photo of his bride. I’d expected someone around his age, a sweet dear with a blue rinse. Evie Mohill is your age, a Nordic beauty and, evidently, ambitious.”

  “You think she’s convinced him to undermine your authority?”

  “And, possibly, try to keep controlling interest of my company.”

  Tamara’s earring winked in the room’s muted light as she laughed. “Surely Matthew wouldn’t jeopardize your friendship because his wife of a few weeks is a gold digger. No intelligent, already wealthy man would do it.” She wrapped one arm across her waist, rested an elbow on the wrist and positioned her glass for another sip. “You must be wrong.”

  Armand’s deliberations grew darker. He looked at Tamara but saw Matthew’s tanned face and pale eyes evaluating him across the board table earlier today. His pulse throbbed up his throat, booming at his temples as his agitation increased. “I’m not wrong. But you may be right.”

  Her hair cascaded as she set her glass on an occasional table. “Now you’re talking in riddles.”

  “I know Matthew as well as I knew my father. I saw it in his eyes, Tamara. He didn’t hang around to discuss it afterward. He intends to move against me. But, I think you’re dead-on. He wouldn’t throw in all his chips solely to satisfy a woman, even one he so obviously adores.” No thinking man would. “There’s more to it. But I doubt he’ll provide the rest of the puzzle ’til he believes he has another advantage.”

  She slowly exhaled as if unsure of how to help, then gave his sleeve a comforting stroke. “You won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

  “Probably not.” Inspired by her touch, he wove her into the fabric of a meaningful embrace and his blood began to heat and stir. “But at least I’ll be pleasantly distracted for a good part of it.”

  Lifting her chin with a crooked finger, he tasted the seam of her slightly parted mouth and the outer layers of his troubles began to loosen and shed. His left hand shimmied up her outside thigh. As waves of silk built above his hand, she trembled and leaned closer.

  Standing front to front, her breasts pressed against his ribs, he pictured their peaks—delicate rosy-tipped beads. When he imagined how they’d feel pushing against his palms, rolling over his tongue, he decided it was time to adjourn upstairs.

  “Armand…I want to wait.”

  Her words, a ragged whisper brushed against his cheek, held him back. Wait to make love? Grinning, he nuzzled into her neck. “’Til after dinner?” He had no appetite for anything but her.

  “’Til our wedding night.”

  He flinched as his surroundings creaked and warped. His grip on her shoulders tightened even as he audibly scoffed. She was teasing. Had to be.

  His hands skimmed over the crests of her shoulders, down her smooth bare back before scooping in her bottom so she fit snuggly against him. Her answering sigh hummed through every channel of his consciousness, ’til all he knew was the throbbing beat of his physical need. Now was not the time for games, unless they were the bedroom variety.

  He rocked her oh-so-gently then, unashamedly focused on her mouth, slow-danced her back toward the couch. “The wedding’s a week away.”

  “I want it to be right.”

  His impulse hardened and grew. “Oh, it’ll be one hundred percent.”

  The back of her knees met the couch and he eased her down, an arm supporting her back as she lay.

  “Then you understand.”

  Her apologetic yet firm tone tapped like a cracking egg on his brain. Poised above her, one knee embedded beside her far hip, the other foot on the carpet, his gaze followed his hand trailing the flow of her naked arm. His mouth joined hers, his attentions more insistent this time. They were both breathless and steaming when he reluctantly pulled back to slip the spaghetti strap from her shoulder. “Understand…about what?”

  She caught his hand. “About holding off.”

  The leg supporting his weight almost buckled. He stared down at her…that kissable mouth and smooth edible throat, terrain he craved to vanquish and make his own.

  Tonight.

  His voice was a husky plea. “You’re not serious.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather wait, too?”

  He rubbed his temple.

  Her gaze was wounded. “You were the one to spout off about the importance of tradition.”

  A sinking feeling, like a dropped missile, sailed right through him. Armand groaned and put her logic together. “Therefore I should want to consummate our marriage on our wedding night and not before.” Dammit, he’d trapped himself.

  She framed his face between her hands, her gaze pleading. “Everything has been so rushed. I want our first night together to really mean something.”

  He was tempted to promise that it would. But her glistening eyes spoke to him at a level that existed beyond lust, and his more noble side stepped up to thrust the howling beast aside. He’d waited this long, knowing eventually his kind of justice would prevail. He would marry and in six months present to the world a legitimate heir to satisfy the will’s obligations.

  Where along the way had the lines blurred? A successful seduction was supposed to help achieve those goals, not become his paramount objective.

  Besides, dammit, Tamara was right. Once they joined, their union would be forever. No turning back or running away from commitment, for either of them. Although every male fiber urged him to convince and claim her now, this wasn’t some heat-of-the-moment sexual conquest. This meant future…family. For that, he could wait.

  Sucking down a calming breath, he found his feet and hauled her up. “It’s getting late. You must be tired. We’ll go to dinner tomorrow night. I’ll walk you to your room.”

  Now she looked like a wide-eyed child who’d discovered her name wasn’t on any of the presents under the tree. Mother of mercy! Now was not the time to play with matches. If he kissed her again, he doubted he could control the inferno.

  Muscles locked, he turned toward his chair and, determined now his mind was made up, stamped down the last of the sparking tinder. “Perhaps I should stay here.”

  An uncomfortable silence stretched out, before she murmured in a resigned but hardly contented tone, “Perhaps you should. Good night, Armand.”

  Nodding, he sent a quick tight smile and let her leave the room before sinking back onto the couch. When he was sure she was gone, he retracted the note from his pocket, which his secretary must have left on his desk sometime Friday, but he’d discovered on
ly after today’s meeting—the icing on the cake, so to speak.

  He unfolded the paper and gazed at the message.

  Wanting to impress, his P.I. had dug a little deeper. Seemed Tamara’s bankruptcy could have been avoided. Payment of that outstanding invoice had been held up unnecessarily. If she’d pushed a little harder, been dogged and resolute, she would have prevailed and shot out the other side into solvency.

  He’d brought home the note half convinced he might reveal this recently unearthed information, but, clearly, passing this on would help no one. Hindsight wasn’t merely useless—at this delicate point in time, it could prove lethal.

  He pushed up and moved to a cedar writing table tucked into a corner where the room’s yellow light barely touched, and from its single drawer retrieved his father’s pipe lighter. Crossing to the wet bar, he flipped the lighter’s catch and the note’s edge danced into flame. His ruby ring flashed as he dropped the burning paper onto a silver tray and watched it crackle and curl in on itself ’til it was black and unsalvageable.

  The charred fumes ate at his lungs and stung his eyes, but he stared until the bones were cool before washing the remains down the sink. Finally he crossed to the doorway and clicked off the dimmer switch.

  His conscience pricked as he closed the door, but he’d taken the only sound course of action. They were starting a new life and needed to set off on the right foot; tonight Tamara had confirmed she wanted that, too. She need never know about the incompetence surrounding her business’s demise, or that the company responsible—Barclays Australasia, the entity that could still make amends—was owned by DLE.

  She might wrongly assume he’d known about this before now and withheld the money to increase his advantage. She might even call off the engagement, and that was not an option. This situation needed to be buried.

  In a week’s time his goal would be achieved and she need never worry again. The will issue would be settled, Tamara would be his and they would be a family unit. At her truest level she would have to agree…that was all that mattered.

  Six

  Tapping her pen at the meals table she sometimes used as a homework desk, Tamara pushed aside her toast to concentrate on the numeric scrawl taunting her from the opened textbook.

  Hovering beside her, Armand finished straightening his aqua silk tie. “Having trouble with the assignment?”

  “You could say that.” Although “headed down the gurgler” sounded more like it.

  “This the last one?”

  Enjoying his forest-fresh scent, she took in the chiseled planes of his face. A couple of days ago she’d agreed to be this man’s wife yet their betrothal still seemed like some fantastic dream.

  Redirecting her gaze, she pushed out a sigh and doodled a C on her pad. “Results for the last assignment were up on the university site this morning. I passed.”

  Thank heaven. But the modules were getting tougher. Then there was the exam and two final units first semester next year. So close and yet so far.

  He crouched beside her, his big tanned hand a toasty oven over hers. The contact, as well as the proximity of his mouth and newly shaven jaw, didn’t help her concentration one bit. Nothing new. He aroused her simply by being near.

  His hand squeezed hers. “Maybe you should give it a break until after the baby’s born. You don’t want to push yourself too hard.”

  A band around her chest tightened as she slid her hand from under his. “I’m struggling a little,” she downplayed, “but finishing this degree is important to me.”

  He found her hand again. “Your well-being is important to me.”

  His touch reassured her, but his adamant tone ruffled her feathers. Gaze reverting to her books, she shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

  Her reasons might not be unique, but they stemmed from the kind of past Armand could never grasp. Every time her mother had pinned up her graying hair and slumped off for another long laundry shift, Tamara reaffirmed her vow: Hell’s flames would turn into a blizzard before she’d slip into her mother’s worn and weary shoes. Education and determination were two ways to ensure that.

  “I understand,” he said, “that you felt you needed to do this, but your situation has changed.”

  Nonplussed, she shrugged. “See?”

  He opened each of her curled fingers then pressed her palm to his lips. “See what?”

  A rush of star-tipped tingles swirled up her arm. Did he have to distract her like that during a serious discussion? This was important.

  Wanting to keep this private, she flicked a glance toward the kitchen, but Ruth had left the room. Tamping down the remaining tingles, she met his gaze and repeated, “You don’t understand.”

  Still crouched, he angled closer and joined his mouth to hers. No embrace to hold her close; his animal magnetism was enough to keep her glued. As his tongue worked with hers, heat flared in her middle then spread like quicksilver through her body, ’til her ears burned and insides pulsed.

  Too soon, the kiss trailed off. Close to melting, she inwardly groaned as he pulled away.

  The curve of his hand trailed her face. “In a few days you will be married to one of the country’s wealthiest men. You won’t have to worry about anything again. I’ll see to it.”

  Tamara drifted back down to earth to collect her thoughts. Men of Armand’s breed solved problems their way—by advancing, protecting and taking ultimate responsibility. In theory, noble qualities that might make a woman feel delicate and precious. But she was more than chattel.

  “This isn’t about landing a rich man, then living a privileged life. Finishing this degree is about who I was and what I always wanted to achieve.”

  His lazy gaze seemed to sympathize as his thumb rubbed her wrist. “I always wanted a family. I assumed you wanted one, too.”

  “A fresh cup before you leave, sir?”

  While Tamara caught the breath she’d lost, Armand, infuriatingly composed, glanced over at Ruth, who had returned and looked set to hand-beat a chocolate muffin mix at the counter.

  “Thanks, Ruth—” he snatched a look at his watch “—but I’m running late.”

  As if understanding, Master grizzled and scrambled from his navy-colored toweling mat laid out near the French doors. He knocked his coconut-sized head under his best friend’s elbow. Armand obliged with a ruffle then sprang up. His six-foot-plus height, the breadth and depth of his chest…Armand was built like a tower no one could threaten and nothing could topple. A modern-day corporate warrior…

  Who wanted a family.

  Initially she believed his objective in marrying her was based solely on expediency, blended with obligation; he needed an heir and had subsequently decided her baby needed his name. But just now he made having a family together sound so natural, even fated, as if they’d talked about it every other Sunday for a year.

  “I’ve looked into obstetricians,” he said, tossing Master a piece of croissant from his vacated plate. “Dr. Fielding isn’t taking new clients, but she’s the best. I’ll get an appointment before the wedding.”

  That air of authority again. But on the heels of his always-wanted-a-family statement, frankly, his manner now made her feel less like a chattel and more like a lady with her knight. Still, there was no need to bust down the good doctor’s door. “My GP checked me out late last week. Everything’s fine.”

  Although she hadn’t much liked the blood samples she’d given for some tests her doctor had suggested. She didn’t like needles—not the sting so much as the mere thought.

  Armand’s expression as he patted his hands on a napkin said he’d do what he deemed best. “I’ll be home early.”

  His eyes twinkled, but a ghost of some other emotion, an echo from an earlier conversation, dulled the sparkle. She’d seen that set of his jaw many times since her request that they wait until their wedding night. He hadn’t been happy about the delay in taking their intimate relationship to a sizzling summit, but she had to give him credit.
Even when she had had second thoughts, he’d remained within limits.

  Oh, there’d been plenty of embracing and kissing, like a moment ago, or in the pool. The mix of hard muscle, cool water and hot passion never failed to leave her a quivering, syrupy mess. But before their mounting friction could combust, he leapt out of the water, lashed a giant towel around his washboard waist and strode directly to the shower. No need to guess why. He wanted her. Bad. God, how she wanted him, too.

  Armand headed for the counter, where his black leather briefcase waited. “You haven’t thought of anyone else you’d like to invite?”

  Married. I’m getting married.

  And on Christmas Eve. Prepared as always, Armand had lodged the required paperwork before she’d even accepted. Presumptuous, but she hadn’t complained.

  “I contacted everyone on my list yesterday.” Her contribution to the numbers comprised maybe a dozen people. All had been home and said yes, except one.

  “No one from your school days, or your old neighborhood?”

  She supposed she could invite a couple of nice neighbors and some acquaintances from the Exemplar Events days. But it was such short notice. Besides, she looked forward to seeing only those people she truly wanted to help celebrate their day, including her mother.

  Tamara hoped Elaine Kendle would reply. Their phone conversations were down to a three or four a year, but this could be a fresh start. They had the best reason to forget their barren past. Elaine would be a grandmother soon.

  “I want to prepare you,” Armand said, swinging his case off the counter. “Matthew will be there.”

  Tamara spluttered in her raspberry tea. “I thought you two were arguing.”

  He raised a brow. “It’s much worse than that.”

  “Then why are you inviting him?”

  “Have you heard the phrase ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’?” He took a mouthful from a cup Ruth had poured anyway. “Besides I don’t want to inflame the idea of a widening rift. Many of the board members are coming and will expect Matthew to be there, too.”