Читать книгу Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire? - Nicola Marsh - Страница 11

AS THE elevator doors slid open on the ground floor, and Gemma stepped into the elaborate glass-and-chrome foyer of Devlin Corp, she wrinkled her nose. The place was lit up like a Christmas tree, despite the gorgeous sun outside, and she’d hazard a guess those lights weren’t dimmed at night. What a waste of electricity.

Not to mention the fancy flyers lying in discreet piles on strategically placed tables—way to go with conserving trees—and enough water coolers to irrigate an entire African village.

Maybe once she’d finished with the Portsea project good old Rory would let her overhaul his business.

Considering his perpetually bemused expression whenever she was around, she doubted it.

Exiting the glass monstrosity, she skipped down the marble stairs onto bustling Collins Street.

She’d hustled her way into that interview using bold tactics, and she intended on continuing to bombard Mr Conservative from left field.

He’d read up on her, from that folder sitting in front of him that he’d tried to slide under a pile of documents when she’d entered.

She’d expected nothing less from a go-get-’em businessman in his position, but he’d surprised her with his intuition. He’d picked up on why the land was important to her and laid out a little blackmail of his own.

He’d left her no choice but to come clean about her reasons for wanting to be involved, but rather than criticism she’d seen understanding in those perceptive blue eyes.

He’d understood. Surprising. It made her like him a tad. Enough to wonder why a rich, successful, good-looking guy in his early thirties—her research had been thorough too—wasn’t engaged or married or in a relationship.

She’d seen only a few internet hits of him in the glossies or newspapers. A guy like him should have had loads printed in the gossip columns, but there’d been surprisingly little bar a few pictures of the requisite arm-candy blondes/brunettes/redheads—stick-thin women in haute couture accompanying him to various corporate events.

For the CEO of Australia’s biggest luxury property developer, she’d expected more enlightening hits. Interesting.

As she threaded her way through the corporate suits rushing down Collins Street, with everyone in a great hurry to get where they needed to be, she took the time to look around. It had been years since she’d strolled through her home city. Her flying visits usually consisted of work and a quick obligatory visit with her mum.

As much as she loved Melbourne’s beautiful gardens and trams and café culture, she’d never really felt at ease here. Attending a private girls’ high school had exacerbated her alien feelings. She’d had few friends once the girls had discovered she enjoyed windsurfing and rock-climbing and camping more than sleepovers and manicures and make-up.

Throw in her love of physics and chemistry over art and literature, of participating in soccer games rather than tittering on the sidelines watching the local boys’ school, and her classmates’ shunning had been ensured.

She’d pretended she didn’t care—had blissfully retreated to Portsea on the weekends, where she could truly be herself in a non-judgemental environment that nourished rather than criticized. But after her dad died and her relationship with her mum went pear-shaped, the insecurities her mother fed at home had festered at school, leaving her emotionally segregated from everyone.

She’d learned to shelter her emotions and present a blasé front to the world. A front that thankfully had held up in Rory Devlin’s intimidating presence and gained her an opportunity to pitch. She had complete confidence in her abilities and knew once he’d heard her presentation he’d hire her.

Besides, she thought he had a soft spot. She’d seen the shift from cool businessman to reluctantly interested when she’d mentioned her family had owned the Portsea land. Who would’ve thought the guy had a heart? It humanised him and she didn’t like that. Didn’t like how it added to his appeal. He was a means to an end, nothing more.

The fact she hadn’t been on a date in months had to be the reason she’d noticed how his eyes reminded her of a Santorini sky, how his lips would tempt a nun to fantasise.

When they’d shaken hands her fingers had tingled with the residual zap, making her wonder what he’d do with those strong, masterful hands in the throes of passion.

Not good to be thinking along those lines. Not good at all.

She loved her job, threw herself into it one hundred percent, but moving from place to place had consequences: she didn’t have time to form attachments to any guy.

If she were completely honest, she didn’t have the inclination either. She socialised—dinner, drinks, the occasional movie—but no one had captured her attention for longer than a few dates. Leading a transient life suited her. Moving on to the next job site gave her the perfect excuse to not get emotionally involved.

Garett, her regular date for functions in London, had accused her of being deliberately detached, of putting up barriers against a deeper relationship. Probably true. She’d switched to a new date for the next business dinner.

She’d mulled over her reluctance to pursue a long-term relationship at length, and while it suited her to blame her work, she knew deep down she wanted what her mum had had: the complete love of a man who adored and one hundred percent accepted you.

Her dad had been patient, kind, generous with his time and affection, and completely non-judgemental. He had been the one person who truly understood her, and once he’d died her mum’s rejection had only served to increase her feelings of being an outcast.

The emotional walls she’d erected had been deliberate, a coping mechanism at the time, but they’d become such an ingrained part of her she didn’t know how to lower them. Or didn’t want to.

Letting a guy get too close, opening herself up to possible rejection again? Uh-uh. She might be many things, but a masochist wasn’t one of them. Better to push them away before they shut her out. She’d learned that the hard way.

She had a brilliant job she adored, a freedom envied by her married colleagues, and the ocean—a place she could immerse and lose herself anywhere in the world. Why risk all that? No guy was worth it, not in her experience.

That buzz she’d experienced when Rory had shaken her hand? Nothing more than static from the posh rug in his office.

She bumped into a businessman, who shot her a filthy glare, and she apologised, sidestepped and picked up the pace, obliterating thoughts of a handsome millionaire—the least likely guy she’d be attracted to.

Rory stood on the crest and surveyed the endless indigo ocean stretching to the horizon.

Gemma’s place.

That was how he’d started thinking of this stretch of beach, and he shook his head. He didn’t have room for sentimentality in his life, and certainly not in his business, but there was something about her never-say-die attitude in regards to this land that plucked at his heartstrings.

She’d gone to extreme lengths to gain his attention, and while he didn’t approve of her methods he couldn’t fault her enthusiasm. This place meant a lot to her. He’d granted her request to provide him with assessment findings to humour her, but he had to admit he was curious. Curious about her scientific skills, curious about her work ethic, and curious about what she’d do once he vetoed her findings.

The project was ready to go, excavation set to commence in a month, and he had every intention of getting it done on time. Houses were sold, shareholders had invested, sub-contractors had been hired. Amendments were doable at this stage, but anything else she might come up with? Pie-in-the-sky dreams.

A gunshot made him jump and he whirled around, squinting at the road where it had come from. When a dented pale blue VW rolled over the hill, and backfired again before pulling up next to his Merc in a cloud of dust, he stifled a grin.

Of course she’d drive a beat-up old banger; though how environmentally safe a car like that was remained debatable.

She tumbled out of the car, all long denim-clad legs and red jumper, a gaudy floral scarf fluttering in the wind and her plait unravelling as she hurried towards him.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

He jerked a thumb in the direction of the vehicle. ‘Car trouble?’

‘How’d you guess?’

‘That thing belongs in a museum. Where’d you get it? Rent-a-Bomb?’

She blushed.

‘You know the emissions from that can’t be good for the environment?’

It was like waving a chainsaw in front of a greenie.

She squared her shoulders, her eyes flashing blue fire. ‘Considering some of us aren’t flush with funds like other people—’ her scathing glare encompassed him and the Merc ‘—we make do with what we’ve got.’

He opened his mouth to respond and she held up a finger.

‘As it so happens, they had nothing else available. Once I know how long I’m in town for I’ll be chasing up something more suitable. Satisfied?’

‘Immensely.’

Her eyes narrowed at his tongue-in-cheek response, but before she could flay him again he gestured to the land.

‘How long since you’ve been here?’

‘Five years.’

Her wistful sigh cut through his distraction.

‘That’s a long time to stay away from home.’

She angled her head away from him, but not before he’d glimpsed fleeting pain.

‘Work keeps me pretty busy.’

‘Same here.’

He knew exactly how many years she’d worked overseas, but hearing her audible regret only exacerbated his curiosity. If she loved her job so much, her regret must be personal. He’d bet some jerk had done a number on her.

‘Melbourne doesn’t hold good memories for you?’

She reared back as if he’d poked her in the eye. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘Your time spent away, your defensiveness.’

He expected her to clam up. So of course she did the opposite, surprising him yet again.

‘There’s nothing much left for me here any more.’

She sank onto a nearby log, resting her elbows on her knees, her chin on her hands. He eyed the log warily and she raised an eyebrow at his pause.

‘No bull-ants, no spiders—nothing to bite your butt.’

She blushed again, the faint pink staining her cheeks highlighting the blueness of her eyes, making him forget his five-thousand-dollar suit as he sat just to be close to her.

‘Bad break-up?’

She shook her head, the addictive fragrance of spring mornings and sunshine he’d smelt when they’d first met wafting over him.

‘Uh-uh. I just don’t fit in here.’

‘What about family?’

‘My mum lives in South Yarra. We catch up occasionally. It’s been five years since I’ve been to the beach here, but I made a flying visit to Melbourne two years ago and saw Mum then.’

She made it sound as if she’d flown in to have a root canal.

‘You don’t get on?’

‘Something like that.’ Her hand gestured to the vista before them in an all-encompassing sweep. ‘She never understood how special this place was. My dad and I used to camp here. We did a lot of stuff together …’

She trailed off and for one horrifying moment he thought she might cry. He didn’t do tears, didn’t know how to offer comfort, and he rushed on.

‘I take it you didn’t know she’d sold the land?’

‘No.’

That one syllable held so much regret and rawness and retribution he almost felt guilty for delving.

‘This means a lot to you.’

‘You think?’

Her sarcasm, tinged with sadness, made him wish he hadn’t probed for answers. If he’d kept this on a purely business level he wouldn’t be feeling like the grinch that stole Christmas.

When it came to business, he didn’t have time for a conscience. He didn’t feel anything other than soul-deep satisfaction that he was doing what he’d been groomed to do: preserve his family legacy.

That was when it hit him.

Their situations were reversed. He’d been given an opportunity to continue his family legacy, to make it flourish, to stamp his flair, to make his mark.

How would he feel if his dad had run Devlin Corp into the ground or, worse, sold it off to the highest bidder? He’d be gutted. That was exactly how Gemma would be feeling.

‘You came home especially for this, didn’t you?’

‘Yep.’

‘You know I can’t retract the sale or stop the project from going ahead?’

The moment the words spilled out of his mouth he wondered where they’d come from. He didn’t owe her any explanations, but something in her defeated posture tugged.

‘I wouldn’t expect you to,’ she said, derision curling her upper lip. ‘I’m not some charity case.’ She swivelled to face him, then fired back, ‘You’re a hard-headed businessman. I get it. All this? Gone. But if I can preserve one iota of this beauty, maybe the people who live here will appreciate it as much as we did.’

She ended on a little hitch of breath and leaped to her feet, dusting off a butt moulded temptingly by denim.

‘Now, let’s get to it.’

He stood, and before he’d realised what he was doing he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

‘I’m willing to hear your ideas and keep an open mind.’

She allowed his hand to linger for a few long, tension-fraught seconds before she shrugged it off.

‘Thanks. That’s all I ask.’

She switched into business mode, the contrast intriguing him as much as her steely determination underlined with a thread of vulnerability.

He’d never met anyone like her.

The businesswomen he worked with were only intent on climbing the corporate ladder, while the women he dated were poised, polished and excessively cool.

They never fought for a cause or were passionate about what they believed in. They didn’t care about the environment unless a passing shower ruined their blow-dried perfection. They rarely wore skinny jeans or paisley scarves.

They were nothing like Gemma.

‘The marine ecosystems in Port Phillip Bay need to be preserved.’ Her eyes narrowed as they swept the horizon. ‘Human-induced environmental changes, such as the mansions you’re proposing to build along here, can contribute to the breakdown of sustainability.’

Although impressed by the passion shining in her eyes, he kept his tone light. ‘You’re trying to dazzle me with scientific speak.’

Her glare made him wish he’d kept his mouth shut.

‘See these dunes below us? Destroying the vegetation in sand dunes lets the wind blow them away, increasing the coast’s vulnerability to erosion.’ She pointed to the scrubby bush a few feet in front of them. ‘If you’re building mansions behind us, you’ll probably construct a sea wall along here.’ She shook her head. ‘Bad move. Seriously bad move. A sea wall built along a beach only protects the landward property, but ruins the beach by isolating sand behind the wall from the active beach system. This eventually leads to serious erosion problems, and eventually no beach exists in front of the wall …’

Her voice faded but her eyes had lost none of their spark as they pinned him with ferocious accusation.

‘If this beach were left to erode naturally, without a sea wall, it would always be here.’

And her dad’s legacy would last for ever. She didn’t have to say it. It was evident in every line of her rigid body: in her defensive stance, her crossed arms, her upthrust chin daring him to disagree.

Her fervour, her passion for her cause was staggering.

‘No sea wall. Got it.’

One eyebrow arched in imperious disbelief. ‘You’re mocking me?’

Considering he’d noticed her clenched fists, he wouldn’t dare. ‘Honestly? Your dedication is impressive but plans are in place, houses are sold, this project is going ahead.’

With or without your approval. It was a comment he wisely confined to his head.

‘Houses? Don’t you mean luxury mansions worth millions? Millions designed to make your precious company mega-wealthy.’

‘You of all people know what land prices are worth along here. I’m just doing what any developer would do.’

‘Yeah, plunder the land,’ she muttered, her sagging shoulders the first sign of defeat.

‘Construction is going ahead.’ Feeling sorry for her, he softened his tone. ‘What would you suggest to facilitate environmental conscientiousness?’

He listened carefully as she outlined her plans for solar panels and double glazing and toilets flushed by tank water, trying not to be distracted as the wind toyed with the strands escaping her ponytail and flushed her cheeks.

When she’d finished, she stared at him with an eyebrow raised in question.

‘What do you think?’

‘Collate your ideas, back them up with documented research and be ready to present to my project managers day after tomorrow.’

Her eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You mean it?’

‘I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean—’

She cut him off by flinging herself at him and wrapping her arms around his neck, that infernal scarf smacking him in the face.

He floundered, propriety dictating he unwind her arms and set her back, so as not to blur their business relationship. But by the time his brain processed what he should do it was too late.

His arms slid around her of their own volition, savouring her soft curves and the way she fitted into him.

He knew it was wrong, knew he shouldn’t do it, but he rested his cheek on the top of her head, buried his nose in her hair and inhaled, committing the fresh outdoor scent he’d associate with her for ever to memory.

For ever?

It was the reality check he needed, and he quickly eased away, grateful when she laughed off their embrace as if it meant nothing.

‘Guess you can’t fault me for exuberance.’

His terse nod belittled the special moment they’d shared and he glanced at his car, desperate to extract himself from an already precarious situation. One more moment in her ‘exuberant’ company and goodness knew what he’d do.

‘Thanks for meeting me out here. I’ll have that presentation ready for you.’

‘Ring Denise and she’ll schedule a time.’

‘Great.’

He made a grand show of glancing at his watch, when in fact time meant nothing and he’d much rather spend the afternoon here than listen to a bunch of builders drone on about material costs.

‘You go.’ Her face softened. ‘I want to spend a few more minutes here.’

On her own.

He couldn’t give her the land back but he could give her the privacy she craved.

‘Sure, see you in a few days.’

‘Count on it.’

She smiled, and this time something beyond scary twisted in the vicinity of his heart.

He did the only thing possible.

He bolted.