Читать книгу The Husband Test - HELEN BIANCHIN, Helen Bianchin - Страница 6

KATRINA felt her breath hitch a little as her voice rose in disbelief. ‘You’re not serious?’

It was a joke. A tasteless, sick joke. Except lawyers didn’t sink to this level of facetiousness during a professional consultation. ‘Dear God,’ she said irreverently. ‘You are serious.’

The man seated behind the imposing mahogany desk shifted his shoulders, and eased into a well-rehearsed platitude. ‘Your late father expressed concern at the difficulties you might incur.’

Difficulties didn’t even begin to describe the shenanigans her extended dysfunctional family were heaping on her head.

Not that this was anything new. She had been the favoured one for as long as she could remember. Daddy’s golden girl. His only child. A constant, immovable thorn in the side of his second and third wives and their child apiece from previous marriages.

No one could say her life hadn’t been interesting, Katrina reflected. Three paternal divorces, two scheming ex-wives, and two equally devious stepsiblings.

During her formative years she’d been able to escape to boarding school. Except for holidays at home, most of which had been hell on wheels as she’d fought a battle in an ongoing war where reality had been a seething sea of emotional and mental one-upmanship beneath the façade of pleasant inter-family relationships.

The time between each of her father’s divorces had proved to be the lull before the next storm, and instead of bowing her down it had merely strengthened her desire to be a worthy successor to his extensive business interests.

Much to the delight of the man who’d sired her.

Now, that same man was intent on reaching out a hand from the grave to resurrect a part of her life she fought on a daily basis to forget.

Katrina cast the lawyer a penetrating look. ‘He can’t do this,’ she refuted firmly as she attempted to hide the faint tide of panic that was slowly invading her body.

‘Your father had your best interests at heart.’

‘Making the terms of his will conditional on me effecting a reconciliation with my ex-husband?’ she queried scathingly. It was ridiculous!

‘I understand a divorce has not been formalised.’

Her level of desperation moved up a notch. She hadn’t got around to it and, as no papers had been served on her, neither had Nicos.

‘I have no intention of allowing Nicos Kasoulis back into my life.’

Greek-born, Nicos had emigrated to Australia at a young age with his parents. As a young adult he’d gained various degrees, then had entered the hi-tech industry, inheriting his father’s extensive business interests when both parents died in an aircraft crash. Katrina had met him at a party, their instant attraction mutual, and they’d married three months later.

‘Kevin appointed Nicos Kasoulis an executor,’ the lawyer relayed. ‘Shortly before his death, your father also appointed him to the board of directors of Macbride.’

Why hadn’t she been apprised of that? Dammit, she held a responsible position in the Macbride conglomerate. Choosing not to take her into his confidence was paternal manipulation at its worst.

Her chin lifted fractionally. ‘I shall contest the will.’ Dammit, he couldn’t do this to her!

‘The conditions are iron-clad,’ the lawyer reiterated gently. ‘Each of your father’s ex-wives will receive a specified lump sum plus an annuity until such time as they remarry, sufficient to support a reasonable lifestyle in the principal residence they gained at the time of their divorce. There are a few bequests to charity, but the remainder of the estate passes in equal one-third shares to you and Nicos, with the remaining share being held in trust for your children. There is a stipulation,’ he continued, ‘making it conditional both you and Nicos Kasoulis refrain from filing for divorce, and reside in the same residence together for the minimum term of one year.’

Had Nicos Kasoulis known of these conditions when he’d attended her father’s funeral less than a week ago?

Without doubt, Katrina decided grimly, recalling how he’d stood like a dark angel on the fringes, watchful, his touch cool, almost impersonal, as he’d taken her hand in his and had brushed his lips to her cheek.

He’d uttered a few words in condolence, politely declined to attend the wake held in Kevin Macbride’s home, and had walked to his car, slid in behind the wheel, and driven away.

‘And if I choose not to heed my late father’s request?’

‘Nicos Kasoulis retains control in the boardroom, and a financial interest in Macbride.’

She didn’t believe him, couldn’t accept Kevin had gone to such lengths to satisfy a whim to have his daughter reconcile with a man he had considered more than her equal.

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Katrina refuted. She was the rightful heir to the Macbride business empire. Dammit, it wasn’t about money…nor bricks and mortar, stocks and bonds.

It was what they represented. The sweat and toil of a young Irish lad from Tullamore who at the age of fifteen had worked his way to Australia to begin a new life in Sydney as a brickie’s labourer. At twenty-one he’d formed his own company and made his first million. At thirty he’d become a legend, and had been fêted as such. With the pick of Sydney’s society maidens to choose from, he’d acquired a wife, sired a babe, and had developed a roving eye. Something that had got him into trouble and out of marriage a few too many times. A lovable rogue, as Katrina’s mother had referred to Kevin Macbride on a good day.

To Katrina he’d been a saint. A tall dark-haired man whose laugh had begun in his belly and had rolled out into the air as a full-blooded shout. Someone who’d swept her up into his arms, rubbed his sun-drenched cheek against her own fair one, told stories that would have charmed the fairies, and who’d loved her unconditionally.

From a young age she’d played pretend Monopoly with his kingdom, sitting on his knee, absorbing every business fact he’d imparted. During school holidays she’d accompanied him to building sites, had had her own hard hat, and had been able to cuss as well as any hardened labourer—mentally. For if Kevin had caught even a whisper of such language falling from her lips he’d never have allowed her on any site again.

Something that would have hurt far more than a paternal slap, for she’d inherited his love of creating something magnificent from bricks and mortar. Of siting the land, envisaging architectural design, selecting the materials, the glass, seeing it rise from the ground to finish as a masterpiece. Houses, buildings, office towers. In later years Kevin Macbride had delegated, but everything that bore his stamp had received his personal touch. It had been his Irish pride, and her own, to see that it was done.

To imagine conceding any of it to Nicos Kasoulis was unconscionable. She couldn’t, wouldn’t do it. Macbride belonged to a Macbride.

‘You refuse?’

The lawyer’s smooth tones intruded, and she lifted her chin in a gesture of defiance. ‘Nicos Kasoulis will not gain sole control of Macbride.’

Her eyes were the green of the fields of her father’s homeland. Brilliant, lush. Emphasised by the pale cream texture of her skin, the deep auburn hair that fell in a river of dark red-gold silky curls down her back.

For all that Kevin Macbride had been a big man, his only child had inherited her mother’s petite frame and slender curves, the hair and eyes from her paternal grandmother, and a temper to match.

Too much woman for many a man, the lawyer mused, who’d long been intrigued by the private life of one of the city’s icons whose business interests had commanded large legal fees over the years.

‘You will, therefore, adhere to your father’s wishes as set out in his will?’

Live with Nicos Kasoulis? Share a home, her life, with him for one year? ‘If that’s what it takes,’ Katrina vowed solemnly, and he was willing to swear he caught a hint of tensile steel that boded ill for any man hoping to bend her will.

Was Nicos Kasoulis that man? He would have thought so, given the look of him. Yet, despite the marriage, they’d separated after a few brief months, and rumour rarely held much basis for fact.

His business was to ensure Kevin Macbride’s wishes were legally maintained. Not to wonder at the man’s private life, nor that of his only child.

‘I shall despatch formal notification of your willingness to comply.’

Katrina lifted one eyebrow, and her voice was dry and totally lacking in humour. ‘Did my father specify a date for this reconciliation?’

‘Within seven days of his passing.’

Kevin Macbride had never been one to waste time, but a week was over-zealous, surely?

She looked around the sumptuous furnishings, the expensive prints adorning the walls, the heavy plate-glass and caught the view out over the harbour.

Suddenly she wanted out of here, away from officialdom and legalities. She needed to feel the fresh air on her face, to put the top down on her Porsche and drive, let the breeze toss her hair and bring colour to her cheeks. To be free to think, before she had to deal with Nicos.

With determined resolve she rose to her feet. ‘I imagine we’ll be in touch again before long.’ There would be documents to sign, the due process of winding up a deceased’s estate. She extended her hand in a formal gesture that concluded the appointment, murmured a few polite words in parting, then she moved into the corridor leading to Reception.

The lawyer walked at her side, then stood as she passed through the double glass doors and stepped towards the lift.

There was no doubt Katrina Kasoulis was a beautiful young woman. Something about the way she held herself, her grace of movement, and that hair…

He hid a faint sigh, for she burned as a bright flame, and a man could get singed just from looking.

Katrina rode the lift down to the ground floor, crossed the street to the adjacent car park, located the relevant floor, and slid in behind the wheel of her car.

It was almost five, the day’s office hours reaching a close, and she eased the Porsche onto street level, then entered the stream of city traffic.

Katrina drove, negotiating the choked roadways until she’d covered distance and the traffic dissipated. Then she moved into a higher gear, heard the muted response of the finely tuned engine, and revelled in the speed.

It was almost six when she pulled to a halt on the grassy bank overlooking the beach. There was a tanker on the horizon, easing slowly down towards the inner harbour, and a few children frolicked in the shallows beneath the watchful eye of their parents.

Gulls crested low over the water, dipped, skidded along the surface and settled, only to move their wings in a graceful arc to skim onto the sand.

It was a peaceful scene, one she desperately needed to ease the ache of recent loss. There had been so much to organise, family to deal with.

And now there was Nicos.

It was over, done with. And she’d healed.

Liar.

She only had to think of him to remember how it had been between them. Not a day went past that her subconscious didn’t force a memory. He invaded her mind, possessed her dreams, and became her worst nightmare.

All too frequently she woke in a sweat, his hands, his mouth on her so real she could almost swear he’d been there with her.

Yet she’d always be alone, the security system intact, and she’d spend what remained of the night reading or watching a late movie on television in an attempt to dispel his haunting image.

Occasionally she bumped into him at social gatherings around the city, professional soirées where her presence was de rigueur. Then they greeted each other, exchanged polite conversation…and moved on. Except she was acutely conscious of him, his steady gaze, the latent power he exuded, and his sensual heat.

Even now her pulse quickened to a faster beat, and her skin warmed, the soft body hairs raising in awareness. Sensation unfurled deep inside, and spread through her body like a lick of flame, activating each pleasure pulse, every erotic zone.

This was crazy. She took a deep, steadying breath and held onto it, then slowly exhaled. Two, three times over.

Focus, she bade silently. Remember why you walked out on him.

Dear Lord, how could she forget Nicos’s ex-mistress relaying news of a confirmed pregnancy and naming Nicos as the father of her unborn child?

Georgia Burton, a model whose slender beauty graced several magazine covers, had delighted in informing a conception date coinciding with a time when Nicos had been out of town on business.

Georgia’s assurance her affair with Nicos hadn’t ended with his marriage was something Katrina couldn’t condone, despite Nicos’s adamant denial, and after one argument too many she’d simply packed up her things and moved into temporary accommodation.

Even now, several months later, the memory, the pain, was just as intense as it had been the day she had left him.

The peal of her cell phone sounded loud in the silence, interrupting the solitude, and she checked the caller ID, saw it was her mother, and took the call.

‘Siobhan?’

‘Darling, have you forgotten you’re joining me for dinner and the theatre tonight?’

Katrina closed her eyes and stifled a curse. ‘Can we skip dinner? I’ll collect you at seven-thirty.’ She could just about make it if she edged over the speed limit, took the quickest shower on record, and dressed.

‘Seven forty-five. I have tickets, and valet parking will eliminate several minutes.’

She made it…just. Together they entered the auditorium and slid into their seats just as the curtain rose.

Katrina focussed on the stage, the actors, and blocked out everything else. It was a technique she’d learned at a young age, and now it served her well.

Between acts she gathered with her mother among patrons in the lobby, sipped a cool drink, and indulged in conversation. Siobhan owned a boutique in exclusive Double Bay, and had in the years since her divorce become an astute and extremely successful businesswoman.

‘I’ve put something aside for you,’ Siobhan relayed.

Her mother’s taste in clothes was impeccable, and Katrina proffered a warm smile. ‘Thanks. I’ll write you a cheque.’

Siobhan pressed her hand on that of her daughter. ‘A gift, darling.’

A prickle of awareness slithered down Katrina’s spine, and she barely caught herself from shivering in reaction.

Only one man had this effect on her, and she turned slowly, forcing herself to skim the fellow patrons with casual interest.

A difficult feat when all her body’s self-protective instincts were on full alert.

Nicos Kasoulis stood as part of a group, his head inclined towards a gorgeous blonde whose avid attention was almost sickening. Two men, two women. A cosy foursome.

Yet even as she was about to turn away he lifted his head and captured her glance, held it, those dark eyes steady, mesmeric, almost frightening.

He had the height, Katrina conceded, the breadth of shoulder, the stance, that drew attention.

Sculptured facial bone structure inherited from his Greek ancestors—wide cheekbones, strong jaw, not to mention a mouth that promised a thousand sensual delights and eyes as dark as sin—merely added another dimension to a man who wore an aura of power as comfortably as a second skin. Thick dark hair worn longer than was currently conventional added an individualistic tone to a man whose strength of will was equally admired as well as feared among his contemporaries.

If he thought to intimidate her, he was mistaken. Katrina lifted her chin, and her eyes flashed with green fire an instant before she deliberately turned her back on him.

At that moment the electronic buzzer sounded, heralding patrons to return to their seats.

Katrina’s focus was shot to hell, and the final act passed in a blur of dialogue and action that held little consequence. Her entire train of thought was centred around escaping the auditorium without bumping into the man who’d stirred her to passionate heights, the mere thought of which caused her equilibrium to crash and burn.

An escape Nicos would contrive to allow, or not, as the mood took him.

Not, she perceived as they made their way through the lobby to the front entrance.

‘Katrina. Siobhan.’

His voice was like black satin, dark and smoothly dangerous beneath the veneer of sophisticated politeness.

‘Why, Nicos,’ her mother breathed with delight as he bent to brush his lips to her cheek. ‘How nice to see you.’

Traitor, Katrina accorded silently. Siobhan had been one of Nicos’s conquests from the beginning. Still was.

‘Likewise.’ He turned slightly and fixed Katrina with a deceptively mild gaze. ‘Dinner tomorrow night. Seven?’

Bastard. The curse stopped in her throat as she caught her mother’s surprise. Nicos, damn him, merely arched an eyebrow.

‘Katrina hasn’t told you?’

She wanted to hit him, and almost did. ‘No.’ The single word escaped as a furious negative.

Siobhan looked from her daughter to Nicos, who merely inclined his head in silent deference to Katrina.

Grr! She wanted to scratch his eyes out, and for a wild nanosecond she actually considered it.

He knew, darn it. She could tell from the faint musing gleam evident, the slight quirk at the edge of his mouth as he waited for her to pick up the ball and play.

There was no way around it, and better the truth than prevarication. ‘Kevin, in his infinite wisdom,’ she declared with heavy irony, ‘has made it a condition of his will that I reside in the same house with Nicos for a year. If I don’t, Nicos gains a majority control of Macbride.’ She threw him a dark look that would have felled a lesser man. ‘Something I absolutely refuse to let happen.’

‘Oh, my,’ Siobhan voiced faintly, her eyes clouding as she glimpsed her daughter’s simmering temper.

Siobhan knew her ex-husband well. The iron will beneath the soft, persuasive Irish charm. It had been a time ago, and she’d long forgiven him. For the one good thing to come out of their union had been Katrina.

‘The man’s a meddling fool,’ she said quietly, and saw her daughter’s wry smile. But a smart one. Oh, yes, Kevin Macbride had been nothing if not astute. And he’d developed an instant liking for the attractive Greek his daughter had wed. Maybe, just maybe, the father might achieve in death what he hadn’t been able to achieve while he’d been alive.

Siobhan, how could you? Katrina seethed silently. While I’m capable of slaying my own dragons, I expected you to stand beside me, not welcome the enemy with grace and charm.

Nicos discerned each and every fleeting expression on his wife’s features. She’d lost weight, her skin was pale, and at the moment she was a seething bundle of barely controlled fury. A bundle he was hard-pressed not to heft over one shoulder and carry kicking and cursing out to his car. And ultimately into his bed.

Katrina glimpsed the intent in those dark eyes, and wanted to hit him. ‘Goodnight.’

The word was evinced as a cool dismissal. Icy, with a tinge of disdain meant to convey the edge of her temper.

She saw what he was going to do an instant before his head descended, and he anticipated her move, countered it, and captured her mouth with his own in a kiss that destroyed her carefully erected defences.

Brief, possessive, evocative, it brought a vivid reminder of what had been.

And would be again.

The purpose was there, a silent statement that was neither threat nor challenge. Merely fact.

Then he straightened, and his lips curved into a musing smile as he caught the unmistakable edge of anger in her glittering green gaze.

‘Seven, Katrina,’ he reminded her with deceptive quietness, and saw her chin tilt fractionally.

Cool, control. She’d had plenty of practice at displaying both emotions. ‘Name the restaurant, and I’ll meet you there.’

One eyebrow arched. A silent, faintly mocking gesture that put a serious dent in her bid for independence.

‘The foyer of the Ritz-Carlton.’

An established, élite hotel situated a few blocks from her Double Bay apartment, negating the need to take her car.

She had no doubt it was a deliberate choice on his part, and she was sorely tempted to stamp her foot in childish repudiation. Instead, she offered him a cool glance and kept her voice neutral. ‘Fine.’

Nicos inclined his head towards Siobhan, then he turned and began weaving his way through numerous patrons converging near the entrance.

‘Don’t say a word,’ Katrina warned in caution as they gained the external pavement.

‘Darling, I wouldn’t dream of it,’ her mother evinced with a soft chuckle.