‘Is it true that you intend to take legal action if this book, Rose’s Cupboard, is released as planned?’
Damien’s expression became shuttered. ‘I am hoping to avoid legal action,’ he said, flicking a glance Emily’s way.
Emily crossed her fingers and prayed her editors were so busy with their huge slush pile they wouldn’t be watching.
‘Miss Sherwood—’ the camera swung back to Emily ‘—are you prepared to fight for your right to write Rose’s Cupboard, no matter what it takes?’
Emily met the dark challenging stare of Damien’s eyes before turning back to Nadine.
‘Months of work have gone into researching this book. Rose Margate has thousands of fans who long to hear about her life, especially since she disappeared from the theatre. This book will be a collection of photo memorabilia as well as an account of her earlier years, which I’m sure will be of great interest to many.’
‘Mr Margate—’ Nadine addressed Damien once more ‘—there will be many who no doubt agree with Miss Sherwood. What harm can it do to have a collector’s item such as Rose’s Cupboard to celebrate the magnificent achievements of one of Australia’s most loved actresses?’
‘If Rose’s Cupboard was going to be written with the express wish of highlighting the many outstanding achievements of my aunt I would have no objection. However, Miss Sherwood already has a reputation for exploiting those she chooses to write about, sometimes with tragic consequences. I have nothing against Miss Sherwood trying to make a living, but I am determined she will do it with someone other than a member of my immediate family as her subject.’
Emily rose angrily in her chair, but the cameraman had swung to Nadine, who was wrapping up for a commercial break at the director’s urgent signal.
‘Looks like you, the public, will have to decide for yourselves. Is biographer Emily Sherwood exploiting the Margate name for her own gain? Or is she simply offering the public a treasured documentation of a much loved celebrity’s life? You know the e-mail, you know the phone number, you know the channel,’ she quipped. ‘Let me know what your opinion is. Thank you to my guests, and when we return I’ll be speaking with the head of the new emergency clinic recently opened at St Stephen’s Private Hospital. Back in a moment.’
‘That man is going to need more than an emergency clinic before I’ve finished with him!’ Emily hissed at Clarice as she swept past the camera tripods.
‘Now, now, my pet,’ Clarice soothed. ‘Think of the extra sales after that little exchange. That’s exactly the sort of publicity you need.’
Emily glared across to where Damien was standing talking to Nadine Brereton. He looked back at her, his eyes darkening challengingly as they meshed with hers. She turned on her heel and swept from the room, not caring whether Clarice was ready to leave or not. She had to get out of there, and fast, before she lost control. Never had she felt so angry. Damien Margate had manipulated the interview to cast her in the role of devious money-hungry reporter, stopping at nothing to get a cheap story.
She stomped towards the nearest lift, stabbing at the call button savagely.
‘Miss Sherwood?’
Emily swung round at the sound of his deep voice.
‘Don’t you “Miss Sherwood” me, you—you—bastard!’
His brows rose at her vehemence as the lift opened behind her. She stepped in and tried to block him joining her. The lift doors pinged open against the steel of his outstretched arm and she moved to the back of the carriage, her back tight against the wall, her eyes blazing with rage.
‘I want to talk to you,’ he said calmly.
‘You just did,’ she spat. ‘In front of about three million people!’
‘In private. No cameras, no interviewers.’
‘Why?’ She regarded him suspiciously. ‘So you can touch me up when you feel like it?’
His jaw clenched and she felt a thin thread of victory at cracking his cool composure.
‘You didn’t offer too many objections at the time,’ he reminded her ungallantly.
She didn’t have the chance to retaliate as just then the lift doors opened and he began shepherding her out towards the hotel exit.
‘What are you doing?’ She tugged at his hold on her arm. ‘I’m not going with you!’
Damien’s hold tightened as he signalled for the concierge to hail a cab.
Emily was speechless. His hand around her slim wrist was biting into her flesh, and even though she dragged her feet as he tugged, her body kept following in his wake as if of its own volition.
He bundled her unceremoniously into a cab and barked out an address that in her distress and anger she didn’t quite catch.
‘This is abduction!’ she railed. ‘Excuse me!’ She tapped on the perspex shield surrounding the cab driver. ‘This man is abducting me—please take me to the nearest police station.’
The cab driver just smiled, muttered something and shook his head uncomprehendingly. Emily glared at the driver’s identification photo on the dashboard and swore. The name printed there was as foreign as his heavy, unintelligible accent, and she stamped her foot in anger and frustration.
‘I’ll have you charged,’ she flared at Damien.
‘You and whose army?’ he mocked.
She ground her teeth and dug her nails into his arm where it still had hold of her other wrist.
‘Stop it, you little wildcat!’ He swore as he sucked at his arm.
A funny sensation pooled in Emily’s lower belly at his action. Her breath caught in her lungs as she watched as his mouth salved the broken skin of his forearm.
The cab pulled in to the kerb and Emily instantly recognised Damien’s Double Bay house. He reached across to pay the fare and she flinched as his arm brushed against her breast.
‘Get out,’ he said, opening the door for her.
‘Get lost.’
He reached for her wrist with an exasperated sigh and she found herself bundled out on to the pavement with little regard for either the short skirt she was wearing or the expensive silk stockings which hadn’t appreciated the seat-belt buckle on the way past.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ She indicated the long ladder running up under the hem of her skirt.
‘Touché,’ he said, indicating the blood-lined scratch on his arm with a sardonic tilt of his dark head.
She had no choice but to accompany him inside. He practically frogmarched her to the front door, deactivating the alarm on his way through, only letting go of her arm once the heavy door had shut behind him.
She faced him mutinously, her chest still pumping with fury at his mishandling of her. ‘If you so much as lay a finger on me I swear I’ll—’
‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
Emily crossed her arms protectively across her chest. ‘Then why the kidnap routine? Or is this how you usually ask a girl round for coffee?’
He gave a disarming laugh.
Emily felt her own mouth twitching but clamped her teeth down to stop it. He had a nice laugh; she’d give him that. Deep and melodious. And the way his dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners softened his normally harsh features, making him almost handsome.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ he asked, still smiling.
She shook her head.
‘I want to go home.’
‘Well, I’m going to have a coffee, so come and talk to me while I get it ready.’ He left her standing there, so, rather than stare at her own outraged reflection in the huge mirror in the foyer, she followed him into the spacious kitchen down the hall.
‘If you weren’t researching my aunt what would you be working on right now?’ he asked conversationally, and she wished she’d stayed put. She didn’t want to talk to him about herself. She didn’t want to talk to him, period.
‘Nothing,’ she said despondently, perching on a stool against the granite bench. ‘More’s the pity.’
‘Money troubles?’ he asked, reaching for the kettle.
‘Not if I get an advance on this book,’ she said, giving him a hard look, wondering if he’d been investigating her financial records.
He spooned ground coffee into the jug and filled it with boiling water, then leaned back to study her.
‘I hope you understand that this is nothing personal. I don’t wish you to face financial ruin, but then neither do I wish to see my aunt exploited to pay for your next holiday.’
‘Nothing personal?’ she fired at him. ‘You damn near assaulted me! What could be more personal than that?’
‘As is typical of people with your choice of career, your imagination is once again working overtime.’
‘And I suppose it was my imagination that ripped my stockings to shreds and dislocated my wrist?’
He closed the distance between them and picked up her arm, turning it over in his hands as gently as if it were priceless porcelain.
‘No bruises,’ he said, letting it go again.
She pouted and cradled her arm against her stomach.
‘It still hurt like hell.’
As he depressed the filter his gaze settled on the petulant bow of her mouth.
‘You are such a drama queen. You’re wasted as a writer—I can think of at least three daytime soaps you’d slot into brilliantly.’
She spun away from his mocking smile and moved to inspect the view from the kitchen window.
‘How do you have your coffee?’ he asked.
‘Black with—’ Then she remembered she wasn’t having coffee. ‘Nothing. I’m having nothing.’
He poured two mugs of coffee and handed her one.
‘The sugar’s on that shelf behind you; teaspoons are in the drawer in front of you.’
Emily breathed in the aroma of freshly ground coffee and wished she hadn’t been so adamant. She’d been up since four a.m. and the breakfast show had offered her everything but breakfast.
Damien leaned his hip against the granite bench and sipped his drink, his eyes never leaving her face.
‘I have decaf, if you’d prefer,’ he offered laconically.
‘What I’d prefer is you being straight with me. What’s the point of all this?’ She waved her arm to encompass the scene before them. ‘You didn’t bring me here to have coffee.’
‘The coffee’s a bonus.’
She rolled her eyes expressively. ‘Let’s cut through the play-acting and get to the point. What do you want from me?’
He pushed himself away from the bench and closed the distance between them. He put his coffee cup down beside her own untouched one and his eyes locked with hers. She drew in a sharp little breath that pricked at her lungs all the way down.
‘I told you what I wanted the other day,’ he said, his voice gravelly and deep.
Her eyes flickered to his mouth and back to his chocolate gaze.
‘I…I can’t do that.’ She swallowed. ‘I just can’t.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
She licked her bone-dry lips, fighting for time. ‘Please, I need to write this book and I need it to sell. You’re in finance—surely you must know how it is? I can’t survive without it. I have commitments, a mortgage—’
‘Withdraw the book proposal and I’ll see to your commitments.’
‘What?’ She gawped at him.
‘You heard. Withdraw it and I’ll settle all your debts.’
‘You can’t be serious?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘Surely there must be some sort of catch?’
‘There is,’ he stated simply.
‘And that is?’
He paused. She held her breath, somehow knowing instinctively that she wasn’t going to like this. She was right.
‘I want you to marry me.’
Emily’s mouth dropped open and her eyes threatened to pop right out of her head. ‘Is this some sort of sick joke?’ she asked once her voice returned.
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘No joke— I’m serious.’
She stared at him in horror. ‘You’d go that far to stop me?’
He shrugged again. ‘Take it or leave it. I have the means to set you up so you don’t have to pen another unscrupulous word.’
‘I can’t believe you’d go to such lengths—’
‘It would be a marriage in name only,’ he said.
‘Now who’s auditioning for a daytime soap?’ she quipped drily.
‘I mean it. I find myself in the unenviable position of needing a wife on paper. Taxes and so on, if you understand.’
‘I hear there are desperate women in Asia looking for an Australian passport,’ she put in.
‘I’ve decided that you’ll do.’
‘I’m flattered—I think.’ She frowned at him darkly. ‘Tell me, what was it that won you? My looks, or my way with words? Or perhaps it was that glimpse you got of my inner thigh when you slaughtered my stockings in the taxi?’
He laughed and reached for his coffee. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ He chuckled. ‘You’d be wasted on a daytime soap. You deserve your own show.’
‘I’m glad you’re finding this amusing because I sure as hell am not. What am I supposed to say to my agent, not to mention my publisher?’
He sipped at his coffee in a leisurely manner before answering her. ‘I think you should tell them you’re getting married and wish to stall the writing of your book for a few months.’
‘Months?’
‘Weeks, then,’ he acceded. ‘Who knows? By then, if you behave yourself, I might even arrange for you to interview Rose personally.’
Emily stared at him, her heart leaping in her chest. ‘You’d allow that?’
He shrugged again. ‘Let’s wait and see. I’ll make a decision after we’re married.’
‘So, either way you win?’
‘That depends on the way you look at it,’ he said smoothly. ‘You stand to gain the biggest scoop of your career in exchange for being my wife.’
‘I guess you’re right,’ she said, reaching for her nearly cold coffee. ‘It depends on the way you look at it.’
CHAPTER FIVE
DAMIEN watched the play of emotions on Emily’s face as she stoically finished her coffee.
‘There are a few issues we need to discuss if you do decide to take me up on my offer,’ he said as she put her cup down.
‘What sort of issues?’ She looked up at him suspiciously.
‘A marriage of convenience is exactly that. One of convenience, hopefully for both parties.’
‘Oh, really?’ Her look was scathing. ‘Do I get three guesses as to who’s the winner in these particular convenience stakes?’
‘I know you like to think you’re paying the ultimate price, but in reality if you refuse you might be missing out on the chance of a lifetime.’
She shot him another scornful look over her shoulder as she strode towards the front door. ‘You must think I’m a complete fool if you think for one minute I’d accept your offer of marriage.’ She wrenched at the doorknob but before she could turn it Damien’s large hand closed over hers and turned her effortlessly to face him.
‘Think about it, Emily,’ he said in that silky tone that sent shivers of reaction up her spine every time. ‘No more money worries. No more deadlines. You could sit back and relax, just do what you want to do, write exactly what you want to write, without the pressure of others’ expectations.’
‘And what exactly is it you get?’ she asked, trying to create some distance between the heat of their bodies.
He took his time answering. His eyes scanned her face for long seconds before dipping to the shadow between her still heaving breasts, returning to her outraged blue gaze with an unreadable light in his own.
‘I get the privilege of your charming company. What more could a man want?’
Emily’s resentment knew no bounds at his taunting tone. She scowled at him furiously and tried to remove her hand from his but he held her firm.
‘I won’t sleep with you,’ she said flatly.
‘Of course not!’ She gave her hand a vicious tug and freed herself. He laughed and opened the door behind her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home. We can talk about this some more in a few days.’
Emily followed him out to where he had two luxurious sports cars garaged. She set her mouth in a tight line and muttered as she got into the Lamborghini he’d opened, ‘I think it’s disgusting for people to have more than one car. You can only drive one at a time anyway, so what’s the point other than to show off an obscene amount of wealth?’
Damien slid into his own seat and started the car with a throaty roar before glinting across at her. ‘Tell me, Emily. How many pairs of shoes do you have?’
‘Shoes?’ She looked at him blankly.
‘I’ll rephrase my question. How many pairs of feet do you have?’
‘One, but that’s totally different and you know it. I need different shoes for different outfits. A car is a car. It gets you from A to B and that’s all you need it to do.’
‘I use my cars in much the same way you would use shoes. It depends on my mood.’
‘So what sort of mood are you in on a Lamborghini day?’ she asked, twisting slightly to look at him.
He returned her look with a dark glint in his deep brown eyes. ‘You’d better put your seat belt on, Emily,’ he warned. ‘You’re in for one hell of a ride.’
Emily sucked in her breath and snapped the belt into place. But, although his driving was both fast and powerful, somehow she knew he wasn’t talking about the car.
Emily didn’t know whether to be relieved or resentful when she heard nothing from Damien Margate for over a week. It was a long few days, especially as the owner of the restaurant she worked at had informed her regretfully that he no longer needed her services. The news of her dismissal couldn’t have come at a worse time. She was already a month behind on her credit card repayments, and the bank had called twice about the mortgage on her small apartment. Never had she needed an advance on a book more than now, but with the looming spectre of Damien Margate standing over her she had little chance of achieving it.
His Inconvenient Wife Page 5