Читать книгу The Magnate's Marriage Demand - Robyn Grady - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

TAMARA trudged in through her apartment’s paint-flaked doorway, holding her wrist, fighting tears of pain and frustration.

For six days she had rushed around at the salon, most of the time on her feet. She’d battled constant morning sickness and had graciously accepted the pitiful wage. But a collision with a fellow employee, which had left her wrist swollen and sore, was the final straw. After writing her resignation and a twenty-minute walk home, she was done in—too exhausted to think, too tired to care. An earthquake could shake the continent and she just might sleep through it.

Her purse dropped with a thud near the bedroom door. After kicking off her flats, she dug a bag of green peas from the ancient freezer and ripped the tea towel from its kitchen rack. With both wrapped around her throbbing wrist, she sank horizontally into the worn velour couch.

She was drifting when the phone buzzed.

Throwing her good hand over her eyes, she groaned. “Not interested. Go away.”

But it could be the employment agency. She might want to crash for a month, but that was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Pushing up, she brushed the stack of overdue bills aside and rescued the side table handset.

Melanie’s voice chirped on the line. “Me and Kristen wondered how you were doing. It’s been over a week. Guess it’s finally sinking in, huh?”

Tamara wedged back into the lumpy cushions and stared at the ceiling. One benefit to being busy and exhausted— she hadn’t been able to mire herself in the depths of grief. Marc was gone; yes, it was sinking in, and she would miss him more than anyone could know. As head of her own company, she’d projected an outgoing personality, but at heart she was shy.

At twenty-six her natural bent was still to do it alone. But she’d felt so comfortable, so herself whenever she’d been with Marc. That was one of the reasons he’d been so special to her and why the baby would mean even more.

She patted the white cotton shirt where she imagined her secret bump had begun to grow. “Thanks for calling, Mel. I’m doing okay.” Her gaze slid to her university textbooks, stacked in a neat pile on the gray Formica table. She coiled one leg around the other, bare foot tucked behind the opposite jean-clad knee, and turned her back. She wasn’t ready to face that challenge just now.

“What about you guys?” she asked. “Keeping out of trouble?”

While Melanie summarized their week—a weepie movie, two new hairstyles—Tamara forced herself to thumb through the bills: a reminder utility notice threatening disconnection and a warning in ugly red letters announcing rent was two weeks late. She wondered how they evicted people these days. Would she be marched out by the scruff of her neck?

A booming rap on the door echoed through the room. Her breath caught and the bill crunched in her hand.

Melanie paused. “Something wrong?”

Stomach sinking, Tamara eased to her feet. “Just the door. I’ll call back.”

If this was the landlord ready to toss her out, no use delaying it. There were always the options of government benefits, or cheaper accommodation. She looked around the matchbox room. Was there anything cheaper than this?

The bell rang next, long and shrill. Ironing back frazzled wisps that escaped from her waist-length ponytail, Tamara moved one foot in front of the other. After touching the cross at her throat, she yanked on the handle and her heart exploded through her chest.

First thing she noticed was dark trousers sheathing long masculine legs like a work of art. Next, an open-necked business shirt, cuffs folded back on hard, bronzed forearms. Higher, stubble smudged a movie-star square jaw, while a lick of black hair hung over a widow’s peak. The gaze was blue, lazy and hypnotic.

Armand De Luca.

Partway recovered, she exhaled in a whoosh. “I thought you said two weeks.”

He hinted at a smile. “Turned into one.”

Still off balance, she rested a cheek against her fingers, which were curled around the door rim, and surrendered to the obvious. “Don’t tell me. You’ve already heard.”

His expression sharpened. “Let me guess. You’ve tossed in your salon receptionist towel.” His attention zeroed in on the wrapped bag of peas pinioned against her lower ribs and he frowned. “I can also see why.” Without invitation, he crossed the threshold and gingerly collected her injured hand.

Her first impulse was to twist away, tell him to keep his distance. She wasn’t at all certain she welcomed what his touch did to her—like being sucked in by the tow of a tidal wave. But she was so tired; avoiding his hands-on concern only seemed childish. Besides, his big tanned hand supporting her much smaller one wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

“I’d invite you in—” she watched him untangle the towel, then gently roll her wrist back and forth “—but you already are.”

His focus was on the swollen joint. “This looks bad.”

The hot pad of his index finger nudged the purple mark, which was turning greenish-yellow, and a searing pain lifted the hair on her scalp. Water flooding her eyes, she broke free of his hold and moved toward the couch, cradling her wrist like a baby.

Rubbing a set of knuckles over his sandpaper jaw, he followed. “That needs to be looked at.”

“It just needs rest.”

He took her in, from her muzzy ponytail to her naked toes, and sent a disapproving look that made her feel ten years old. “You need rest.”

Bingo! “You’re right. So if you don’t mind…” She made to crowd him back out the door, but she had more chance of moving Ayres Rock. For now, she was beaten.

She pasted on a plastic smile, not intending to hide her frustration. “So, what can I do for you today, Mr. De Luca?”

His voice deepened, part velvet, part growl. “It’s Armand. And you can come home with me.”

His statement pushed her back with the force of a shove. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words, and presence, affected her.

Her grin was haughty. “Persistence must be your middle name. ‘Come home with me,’ just like that.” She fell back into the couch. Her wrist screamed and she yelped at the pain.

His athletic frame folded down beside her. The ledge of his broad shoulders swung over and the room seemed to shrink. “Not just like that. Not only are you injured, you’re forgetting our conversation last week.”

Too aware of his animal magnetism and intoxicating woodsy scent, she slid farther away. “I haven’t forgotten anything.” Including the fact he’d approached her with that ludicrous offer of marriage at Marc’s funeral.

He looked past her and frowned. Oh, great. He’d spotted the bills. When he swept them up—an obstinate man with a mission—more than instinct said it was a waste of time to protest. She assumed an unconcerned air while her heartbeat clattered wildly.

Finally he set the bills down. “Do you have anywhere to go?”

She forced a laugh. The sound came out more strangled than amused. “It’s not as bad as all that.”

His bland expression let her know he didn’t agree.

As tense seconds ticked by, the walls pressed in, and as much as it pained her, Tamara was forced to face the hard, cold truth. Aside from Marc, she didn’t have anyone close. Melanie and Kristin, and a couple of university buddies, but she didn’t have any let-me-crash-on-your-living-room-floor-type friends.

Her mother lived in Melbourne, but they rarely communicated, which both saddened and appeased her. How strange to love someone in whose company you felt, more times than not, invisible. Once she would’ve performed somersaults to get her mother’s attention. Later it seemed wiser to save her energy. Elaine Kendle had been stuck in a deep dark “if only” hole—probably was still stuck—and there was little Tamara could do about it.

Slapping his muscular thighs, Armand pushed to his feet. “I won’t argue. If you want to stay ’til they come to evict you, which must be any day now, that’s your choice.”

He headed off and her mind froze. The walls that only a moment ago suffocated her, had receded until all she saw was Armand reaching for the tarnished knob. Opening the door. Walking away.

Her throat closed over.

“Wait!”

He pivoted back and their gazes fused. But she couldn’t speak or move. Dammit, she wasn’t used to accepting help.

From across the room, the light in his eyes changed from calculated disinterest to anticipation. In a measured gait, he returned and carefully reached out. She hesitated, then blew out a defeated breath and placed her hand in his.

As his fingers curled and swallowed hers, his warmth suffused her skin and swam up her arm, making every nerve ending skip and tingle. A smile lifted one side of the mouth. A masculine, sexy, wonder-how-it-feels mouth.

“Tell me what you need to take,” he said, helping her up.

She nodded and together they collected a few things—some clothes, her books, and Einstein, her plant. But their movements, her situation, this handsome, insistent man…it all seemed surreal.

When the door clicked shut fifteen minutes later, she was still in a daze. Once more, her life had taken an acute, unexpected turn. She studied Armand, strong arms full of her “stuff” as he negotiated the stairwell, and wondered which of her barriers he’d attempt to break down next.

A big, baggy, chocolate-brown gaze, and breath that would bring water to a garlic clove’s eye greeted Tamara.

Kneeling in Armand De Luca’s enormous kitchen, she mentally blocked her nose and ruffled the sleepy bloodhound’s ears with her good hand. “How long have you had Master? Since the last ice age?”

One hip propped against the island bench, shoulders set at an angle, Armand concentrated as he shuffled through mail he’d swept off the black granite counter. His gaze flicked up and he grinned a lopsided smile that made her stomach muscles flutter.

“Don’t know about ice age,” he said, attention returning to the mail. “Maybe around the time I started wearing long trousers.”

Tamara’s eye line slid down. “Long” by no means covered it. Nice in trousers, but delicious in the low-riding indigo-rinse jeans he’d changed into soon after they’d arrived home. And home, for the time being, was a magnificent Mediterranean-style residence in Sydney’s most exclusive neighborhood.

Visible through an adjacent floor-to-ceiling window, towering pines decorated vast stretches of emerald-green lawn—foreground to a priceless harbor view, complete with colorful yachts and distant opera house shells. Inside, marble floors, stone columns, ornate skylights… the very air proclaimed unsurpassed extravagance and echoing space.

“This place is so big,” she murmured. And quiet. She ruffled the dog’s ears again. “I wonder if Master gets lonely.”

There was no doubt that Armand spent most of his time at the office, and anyone could get lonesome, even a dog.

When Armand dropped the letters and moved toward her, Tamara held her bandaged wrist and reminded herself to breathe. His gait was predatory, but also languid, like a panther who wasn’t the least concerned its kill would get away.

“The groundsman and Master have been friends for years. And he loves my housekeeper. You’ll grow to love Ruth, too.”

She’d met Ruth Sherman earlier and she did seem nice. But Tamara didn’t plan on developing a relationship. She pushed to her feet. “I won’t be here that long.”

He knotted powerful arms over an equally powerful chest. His hanging shirttails taunted her to come close and touch the washboard abs she felt sure lay beneath.

“So, you must have a plan.”

Gaze snapping up, she focused. “Of course.”

Crossing back to the gold-rimmed bench, he retrieved two steaming cups, one raspberry leaf tea (she carried a small supply in her handbag these days), one coffee freshly brewed in a contraption that probably cost more than a decent vacation. “Let me guess. Your plan is to find another job.”

Her chin lifted. “Until recently, I’ve never been out of work.”

“Not since leaving school at junior level.”

His high-born barb pricked, but he’d seen the university textbooks. She was close to finishing a business degree, which, admittedly, had been a challenge, particularly her current unit of study; her second attempt at data analysis wasn’t any easier than the first. Nevertheless she’d concede his point.

She moved to a meals table, which was tucked away in an all-glass bay window decorated with hanging baskets of lush maidenhair fern. “Yes, I did finish school early. And eventually went on to own my own company.”

“Exemplar Events, an events coordination enterprise.” Black glazed cups and saucers in hand, he joined her. “A hairdresser by trade, you found your true calling by accident after offering to organize events for friends and charity.”

Forgetting to be annoyed at his detective work, she remembered back and smiled. “Christmas parties, school fetes, a couple of dinner fund-raisers.” She had been so over mixing dyes and sweeping hair, and those events had been such fun.

“But the step up to corporate events was a steep one,” he continued.

Full-scale pyrotechnics, first-class catering, together with clients’ diverse special needs—each job had been exciting and she’d done well on her own…for a while. Ultimately, however, lack of business savvy had caught up. Figures weren’t exactly her forte—not data analysis and not accounts receivable. When she ran aground, nothing could pull her free.

Armand slid the cups onto the table’s sparkling glass surface. “A dissatisfied customer refused to pay for an extravagant function. The loss was too much on a shaky overdraft. The bank called in the loan. No other institution would bridge. You lost your business.”

She gripped the back of a white wicker chair as regret and anger flooded her. “I lost everything.” Thanks to Barclays Australasia.

Her five-year-old red coupe was the first to go. She’d loved that car. Then came the garage sales, the desperation. The repossession of her modest but dearly loved house would have been next, if the fire hadn’t taken care of it first. Small print in the insurance policy translated into “goodbye, picket fence, hello tiny apartment.” The deposit she’d sweated blood to save, all down the drain.

He pulled out her chair. “Life isn’t always fair.”

Though his words echoed her own thoughts, they sounded trite coming from Armand’s privileged mouth. A millionaire couldn’t possibly know the struggles small-business people faced to keep afloat.

She took her seat. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, maybe he did. Either way, she couldn’t help a dig. “Perhaps we should take another ride in your Bentley and you can tell me about what’s fair.”

His eyes glittered, with mischief or warning? “Retract the claws, Felix. I’m here to help, remember?”

More like help himself.

Armand’s housekeeper breezed into the room, breaking their tension. Ruth defied all the rules associated with the term housekeeper: tall, svelte, smart civilian clothes rather than a drab uniform. In her early sixties, perhaps, she was still a striking woman: a salon-cut copper blonde with elegant sapphire starburst ear studs. The only giveaways to her vocation were an apron and brutally short nails. As Ruth laced her hands before her, hazel eyes half-mooning above a kind smile, Tamara wondered if she had grandchildren.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

Armand’s smile was fond. “I’ll take care of everything from here on, thanks.”

Ruth’s comfortable gaze jumped to Tamara. “Good meeting you, Ms. Kendle.”

Earlier the housekeeper had prepared a snack. With pregnancy hormones ambushing her appetite, ham and cheese on whole grain never tasted so good. “Thanks again for the sandwich, Ruth. It really hit the spot.”

Headed for a corner of the kitchen, the older woman brushed the compliment aside. “Wait ’til you taste my beef Wellington.” She hung her apron on the back of the pantry door. “It’s his favorite.”

Sitting alongside Tamara now, Armand scooped a heap of sugar into his cup. “Your choc-mint cheesecake is my favorite.”

Ruth mouthed to Tamara, “Sweet tooth,” then said aloud, “I’ll be in early tomorrow. Master needs to go to the vet—”

“I’ll take care of that,” Armand let her know, stirring. “Have a good weekend.”

Ruth winked at Tamara and headed out the room. “See you Monday.”

Shoulders sagging, Tamara gave in to a sigh. Guess she would at that.

While she gathered her cup close and filled her lungs with the sweet herbal aroma, Armand set their conversation back on track.

“We were discussing the death of your business.”

A nasty shiver ran through her. Did he have to put it like that?

She set her cup down. “I might be in a tight place at the moment, but I’ll get by.” She always had.

His furrowed gaze challenged hers. “Like your mother got by?”

Her throat swelled, cutting off air. Despite the neglect, she loved her mother and wanted to include her in her baby’s life. And if he dared mention her father…!

Some things were best left buried.

“My mother has nothing to do with this.”

He weighed her statement before he cocked a brow and drank. The cup landed back in its saucer with a clatter. “You’re right. This is about you and what opportunities you, as a mother, decide to give or deny your child.”

A knot twisted in her stomach. Money didn’t guarantee happiness. Still, given her less than stellar start in life, Tamara knew full well food and clothes didn’t materialize out of thin air. She leveled him a look. “That’s not fair.”

“I believe we’ve had that discussion.”

So cool. So suave. So blasted infuriating!

She surged up from her chair.

By the window, she dragged a gaze around the outside view to where a bust of what looked like a satyr guarded a garden entrance. Orderly, pristine, clutter-free. Must cost a fortune to maintain.

Her days wouldn’t shorten after the baby was born, particularly once she was ready to rebuild her business. On top of that, having no partner meant not only long hours on the job, but longer childcare hours, too.

The tip of her index finger trailed down the glass, then drew three times over a horizontal figure eight.

A marriage of convenience…to Armand De Luca… no more struggle…no more treading water.

A razor-sharp pang coiled inside of her. Her hand clenched and dropped.

What on earth was she thinking? She wanted to be in love with the man she married, not indebted. Surely that wasn’t expecting too much, even with all the uncertainty clouding her life. Even given the way Armand made her feel…temporarily rescued.

Her stomach jumped when Armand’s heat-infused palm came to rest on her shoulder, but she dared not face him. The flare of his touch was enough to unhinge her. She wouldn’t risk more confusion by looking into those eyes.

His breath warmed her crown as his voice rumbled at her ear. “Weigh your options carefully. Consider the opportunities you’d give your child, now and in the future.”

A future with opportunities, security, a name that opened doors. And all she had to do was marry a stranger.

She chewed her lip and struggled to form the question that had scratched at her mind since this man, more like a phantom, had swept into her life.

“Don’t get the idea I’m saying yes, because I’m not, but…” Her mouth was cracker-dry. She fought to swallow against the choking beat of her heart vibrating up her throat. “If we were to wed, if we were to become man and wife…”

A hot flush washed through her. She couldn’t say the words.

“Would the marriage include conjugal rights?”

As his question soaked in, cool dots of perspiration broke along her hairline. From the corner of her eye she saw his long blunt fingers splayed over the shoulder of her white cotton shirt, the glint of his dress ring’s ruby catching the last of the day’s old-gold light. Suddenly she couldn’t get enough air. Couldn’t stop the mad thudding in her chest.

Shoulder dipping, she edged away. His hand withdrew. Good. Some space. She couldn’t think straight otherwise.

She filled her lungs with oxygen and courage. Conjugal rights. She cringed. “That’s such an old-fashioned term.”

“Marriage is an old-fashioned and serious institution.” Though he didn’t touch her again, she felt the vacuum of his natural heat to her core, the somber conviction of his words. “Creating, and maintaining, physical bonds are an important part of a relationship.”

“Physical.” A typical male response. “What about emotional bonds?”

“Can you think of a better way to feel close to someone than sexual intimacy? If you agree to marry me, Tamara, you agree to share my bed, and no one else’s.”

“You make it sound like a command.”

But the sparks firing over her skin weren’t entirely from indignation. Part of her shrank from the idea of sleeping with a man she barely knew. Another more secret part wondered at the idea of sampling his kisses, coming to know the rasp of his end-of-day beard as he held her, exploring, coaxing. If it was wrong to think that way, if it was somehow disrespectful to Marc’s memory, God help her, she couldn’t help it. Not with Armand so close, speaking about his bed and marriage and sex.

As if reading her mind, he nudged closer. Her back to him, she felt his hot gaze climb her bare arm, leaving a fog of steam in its wake.

“The idea of consummating our marriage worries you?”

As his deep voice strummed through her blood like a chord of bass music, an image of his mouth claiming hers came to mind, a vision of his strong naked body pinning her own. A drugging heat seeped through her tummy and her eyes drifted closed.

This was too intense. Too soon.

She turned a tight circle to face him—or, rather, the wall of his chest and the subtle tease in his gaze. Steeling herself, she shouldered past him, back toward the table. “You’re dealing with a woman who believes in fairy tales. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. De Luca.”

“Armand, remember?”

A slanted grin enhanced the seductive line of his mouth. Palm pressed against her jumping stomach, she pried her gaze away. They’d talked enough.

She headed for a twelve-foot-high archway that led to a sweeping staircase and, eventually, the privacy of the suite she’d been shown earlier. “I was on the phone when you arrived at my apartment. If I can use the extension in my room, I’d like to call her back.”

“A friend?”

“Melanie Harris. Marc’s friend, too.”

“Does she know about the baby?”

Tamara’s heart contracted and her pace faltered. She’d told no one but Marc. In fact, the only two people in the world who knew were in this room. “No one knows about that night but you,” she said over her shoulder.

“Good.”

She frowned. Maybe she hadn’t heard him right. She stopped and inched around. His eyes looked incredibly dark, as if something lurked beneath. A tremor of unease rippled through her system. “What do you mean, ‘good’?”

Slotting hands in his back jeans pockets, he seemed to choose his words. “The will stipulates a legitimate heir.”

She took a moment to digest his deeper meaning. “You want people to believe this baby is…” She hunted for a clinical phrase. “Biologically yours and mine?”

“The law views any child born after marriage as legitimate… unless paternity is challenged. No one knowing simply makes it more—” he hesitated again “—convenient.”

He spoke as if the issue of paternity held no emotional worth. “You don’t want anyone to know about the true father to make doubly sure the terms of a will are met?”

She could never do that to Marc, and this child certainly deserved to know the name of his father. Tamara only wished she’d been given that courtesy.

Armand’s eyes flashed before his hands withdrew from his pockets and he moved closer. “To the contrary. It’s only respectful to acknowledge your roots, no matter the circumstances. When the child is old enough, everything will be settled and he will know his origins.”

The double knot in her chest released a bit. Breathing again, she nodded and they walked together beneath the arch. For Armand to gain control of his empire, De Luca Senior had stipulated he produce a legitimate heir. The solution seemed obvious.

“Can’t a nephew or niece be a legitimate heir? What about an adopted child?”

“Not under the terms of this will. The clause is specific.” Armand’s concerned gaze skimmed her face. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. You look tired.”

Not tired, she realized anew. Utterly drained. Her legs felt like lead logs. “It would be good to lie down,” she conceded, aware of his hand on the small of her back as he steered her through an adjoining sitting area where a portrait of a stern-looking man presided over a limestone chimneypiece.

“Wrist hurting?”

Hauling her gaze away from the picture’s flint-hard dark eyes, she shucked off a shiver. “It’s fine.”

“I’m not sure I did a good enough job on that bandage. I’ll take you to a doctor tomorrow. And not just for your wrist.”

“The bandage is fine.” He’d taken great care to wind it neither too loose nor too tight. “And if you’re referring to the baby, I’ll see my own doctor.” A general practitioner, not a specialist, whom Tamara felt comfortable with and trusted. An OB would come later.

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow.” His tone indicated his mind was made up.

Surprisingly, curiosity overrode irritation. “Are you always this bossy?”

His face remained deadpan. “Occupational hazard.” They reached the stairs and ascended in step. “After the doctor, we’ll head in to town and choose wedding invitations.”

A chorus of alarm bells blared in her head. She hadn’t agreed to anything yet! She pitched him a distressed glance.

Those devilish blue eyes were grinning. “I like to be prepared.”