Miss Prim and the Maverick Millionaire

by Nina Singh

  Seema beamed back at her. “Yes. That dress may as well have been made for you.” She walked over to give Jenna a tight squeeze around the shoulders. Martine, the saleswoman who had encouraged her to fatefully try on this very dress all those weeks ago, gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  A low rumble of thunder sounded through the walls from outside. The forecast this morning called for a major storm far off the coast. No doubt she and Cabe would be saying their vows under a cloudy sky with sprinkles of rain. None of it mattered or could make so much as a dent in her joy. She could weather any storm with Cabe by her side.

  As she turned back to her reflection in the mirror, Jenna’s heart did a little jump at the sight. Was that really her staring back from the glass? Jenna had known the moment Cabe asked her to marry him that this would be her bridal gown.

  She also knew there was no other place on earth she’d rather have her wedding than here, at the Paraiso Resort.

  And no other man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with.

  * * *

  Cabe was in the process of admiring his bride and marveling at his luck when his father surprised him by standing up. His parents were seated at the closest table to the wedding dais, along with Seema and Jenna’s brother. Jenna’s mom remained in Boston, getting the rehabilitation treatment she so desperately needed. That had been part of the deal when the Jordans agreed not to press charges.

  His father picked up his wineglass and raised it, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention. A toast. The roar of chatter gradually diminished as their guests noticed.

  Cabe inhaled and braced himself. He honestly had no idea what his father might say; it hadn’t even occurred to him to ask his father to speak. No doubt his speech would be all about the growth of Jordan Enterprises under Cabe’s leadership. Or something.

  He was wrong. In fact, his dad surprised him and didn’t even mention business.

  James took a deep breath and began. “I’m not sure if I can find the word to adequately express what I want to say. But here goes,” James said and smiled in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He turned toward the wedding guests. “My son has managed to do so much in his life. He’s been a terrific son and he’s achieved more into his thirties than most men do in a lifetime. And now he’s managed to snare himself a wife as accomplished and beautiful as Jenna.”

  Cabe heard Jenna gasp in surprise as she reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. He in turn clung to her fingers.

  His father went on. “You’ve done so much for yourself, Cabe. All on your own. We should have been there for you more than we were. For that, I can only ask your forgiveness.” James looked him straight in the eye as he said the last word.

  Cabe could only stare frozen, unable to come up with anything appropriate to say or do. He stole a glance at his mother and immediately realized there’d be no help from that corner—she was definitely crying. An awkward silence ensued.

  James took a deep breath, opened his mouth to presumably say more, but then suddenly shut it again. He looked to the ground, clearly struggling to find the wherewithal to continue.

  Jenna’s hand slowly released his. He felt the loss of her touch immediately. But then she did something so simple yet so powerful, it reaffirmed why he’d fallen head over heels in love with her in the first place. She stood and slowly started to clap. It wasn’t long before the rest of their guests joined her. The look of gratitude and relief on his father’s face said it all. No, not his father, Cabe corrected himself. His dad. James held the expression of a man who’d just been rescued from drowning.

  And they had Cabe’s new bride to thank for it.

  * * *

  Once the applause died down and everyone had lowered their glasses, Jenna looked up to find Cabe holding out his hand to her.

  She stood and he took her by the waist, led her to the dance floor. As they swayed to the rhythmic reggae song, he leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I love you, Mrs. Jordan.”

  The words, coupled with the magic of the moment, brought tears of happiness to her eyes. “And I’ve always loved you, Mr. Jordan.”

  He laughed and it sent pure pleasure through her whole body, down to her toes. “If only I’d known. Think of all the time we’ve wasted.”

  “It was your fault for never asking me to prom.”

  He affectionately nipped at her ear. “Perhaps. But you know, you could have asked me.”

  “Hmm. You’re right. We’ll just have to find a way to make up for lost time,” she teased.

  He brushed his lips against hers. “I can’t wait to start.”

  Jenna knew they already had.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from

  STRANDED WITH THE SECRET BILLIONAIRE

  by Marion Lennox

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  Stranded with the Secret Billionaire

  by Marion Lennox

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE IMPECCABLE ENGLISH ACCENT had directed Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth twelve hundred kilometres across two states without a problem. From ‘Take the third exit after the Harbour Tunnel’, as Penny had navigated her way out of Sydney, to ‘Continue for two hundred kilometres until you reach the next turn’, as she’d crossed South Australia’s vast inland farming country, the cultured voice hadn’t faltered.

  True, the last turn had made Penny uneasy. The accent had told her to proceed for thirty kilometres along the Innawarra Track, but it had hesitated over the pronunciation of Innawarra. Penny had hesitated too. The country around them was beautiful, lush and green from recent rains and dotted with vast stands of river red gums. The road she’d been on had been narrow, but solid and well used.

  In contrast, the Innawarra Track looked hardly used. It was rough and deeply rutted.

  Penny’s car wasn’t built for rough. She was driving her gorgeous little sports car. Pink. The car had been her father’s engagement gift to her, a joyful signal to the world that Penny had done something he approved of.

  That hadn’t lasted. Of course not—when had pleasing her father lasted? Right now she seemed to be doing a whole lot wrong.

  She was facing a creek crossing. It had been raining hard up north. She’d heard reports of it on the radio but hadn’t taken much notice. Now, what looked to be a usually dry creek bed was running. She got out of the car, took o
ff her pink sandals and walked across, testing the depth.

  Samson was doing no testing. Her little white poodle stood in the back seat and whined, and Penny felt a bit like whining too.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she told Samson. ‘Look, it only comes up to my ankles, and the nice lady on the satnav says this is the quickest way to Malley’s Corner.’

  Samson still whined, but Penny climbed back behind the wheel and steered her little car determinedly through the water. There were stones underneath. It felt solid and the water barely reached the centre of her tyres. So far so good.

  Her qualms were growing by the minute.

  She’d estimated it’d take her two hours tops to reach Malley’s, but it was already four in the afternoon and the road ahead looked like an obstacle course.

  ‘If worst comes to worst we can sleep in the car,’ she told Samson. ‘And we’re getting used to worst, right?’

  Samson whined again but Penny didn’t. The time for whining was over.

  ‘Malley’s Corner, here I come,’ she muttered. ‘Floods or not, I’m never turning back.’

  * * *

  Matt Fraser was a man in control. He didn’t depend on luck. Early in life, luck had played him a sour hand and he hadn’t trusted in it since.

  When he was twelve, Matt’s mother had taken a job as a farmer’s housekeeper. For Matt, who’d spent his young life tugged from one emotional disaster to another, the farm had seemed heaven and farming had been his life ever since. With only one—admittedly major—hiccup to impede his progress he’d done spectacularly well, but here was another hiccup and it was a big one. He was staring out from his veranda at his massive shearing shed. It was set up for a five a.m. start. His team of crack shearers was ready but his planning had let him down.

  He needed to break the news soon, and it wouldn’t be pretty.

  Hiring gun shearers was half the trick to success in this business. Over the years Matt had worked hard to make sure he had everything in place to attract the best, and he’d succeeded.

  But this afternoon’s phone call had floored him.

  ‘Sorry, Matt, can’t do. The water’s already cut the Innawarra Track to your north and they’re saying the floodwaters will cut you off from the south by tomorrow. You want to hire me a helicopter? It’s the only alternative.’

  A helicopter would cut into his profits from the wool clip but that wouldn’t bother him. It was keeping his shearers happy that was the problem. No matter whose fault it was, an unhappy shed meant he’d slip down the shearers’ roster next year. He’d be stuck with a winter shear rather than the spring shears that kept his flocks in such great shape.

  So he needed a chopper, but there were none for hire. The flooding up north had all available helicopters either hauling idiots out of floodwater or, more mundanely, dropping feed to stranded stock.

  He should go and tell them now, he thought.

  He’d cop a riot.

  He had to tell them some time.

  Dinner was easy. They had to provide their own. It was only at first smoko tomorrow that the proverbial would hit the fan.

  ‘They might as well sleep in ignorance,’ he muttered and headed out the back of the sheds to find his horse. Nugget didn’t care about shearing and shearing shed politics. His two kelpies, Reg and Bluey, flew out from under the house the moment they heard the clink of his riding gear. They didn’t care either.

  And, for the moment, neither did Matt.

  ‘Courage to change the things that can be changed, strength to accept those things that can’t be changed and the wisdom to know the difference...’ It was a good mantra. He couldn’t hire a chopper. Shearing would be a surly, ill-tempered disaster but it was tomorrow’s worry.

  For now he led Nugget out of the home paddock and whistled the dogs to follow.

  He might be in trouble but for now he had every intention of forgetting about it.

  * * *

  She was in so much trouble.

  ‘You’d think if there were stones at the bottom of one creek there’d be stones at the bottom of every creek.’ She was standing on the far side of the second creek crossing. Samson was still in the car.

  Her car was in the middle of the creek.

  It wasn’t deep. She’d checked. Once more she’d climbed out of the car and waded through, and it was no deeper than the last.

  What she hadn’t figured was that the bottom of this section of the creek was soft, loose sand. Sand that sucked a girl’s tyres down.

  Was it her imagination or was the water rising?

  She’d checked the important things a girl should know before coming out here—like telephone reception. It was lousy so she’d spent serious money fitting herself out with a satellite phone, but who could she ring? Her father? Dad, come and get me out of a river. He’d swear at her, tell her she was useless and tell his assistant to organize a chopper to bring her home.

  That assistant would probably be Brett.

  She’d rather burn in hell.

  So who? Her friends?

  They’d think it was a blast, a joke to be bruited all over the Internet. Penelope Hindmarsh-Firth, indulged daughter of a billionaire, stuck in the outback in her new pink car. A broken engagement. A scandal. Her first ever decision to revolt.

  There wasn’t one she would trust not to sell the story to the media.

  Her new employer?

  She’d tried to sound competent in her phone interview. Maybe it would come to that, but he’d need to come by truck and no truck could reach her by dark.

  Aargh.

  Samson was watching from the car, whimpering as the water definitely rose.

  ‘Okay,’ she said wearily. ‘I didn’t much like this car anyway. We have lots of supplies. I have half a kitchen worth of cooking gear and specialist ingredients in those boxes. Let’s get everything unloaded, including you. If no one comes before the car goes under I guess we’re camping here while my father’s engagement gift floats down the river.’

  * * *

  There was a car in the middle of the creek.

  A pink car. A tiny sports car. Cute.

  Wet. Getting closer to being swept away by the minute.

  Of all the dumb...

  There was a woman heaving boxes from some sort of luggage rack she’d rigged onto the back. She was hauling them to safety.

  A little dog was watching from the riverbank, yapping with anxiety.

  Matt reined to a halt and stared incredulously. Reg and Bluey stopped too, quivering with shock, and then hurled themselves down towards what Matt thought must surely be a hallucination. A poodle? They’d never seen such a thing.

  The woman in the water turned and saw the two dogs, then ran, trying to launch herself between the killer dogs and her pooch.

  She was little and blonde, and her curls twisted to her shoulders. She was wearing a short denim skirt, a bright pink blouse and oversized pink earrings. She was nicely curved—very nicely curved.

  Her sunglasses were propped on her head. She looked as if she was dressed for sipping Chardonnay at some beachside café.

  She reached the bank, slipped in the soft sand and her crate fell out of her hands.

  A teapot fell out and rolled into the water.

  ‘Samson!’ She hauled herself to her feet, yelling to her poodle, but Reg and Bluey had reached their target.

  Matt was too stunned to call them off, but there was no need. His dogs weren’t vicious. This small mutt must look like a lone sheep, needing to be returned to the flock. Rounding up stray sheep was what his dogs did best.

  But Matt could almost see what they were thinking as they reached the white bit of fluff, skidded to a halt and started the universal sniffing of both ends. It looks like a sheep but...what...?

  He
grinned. The troubles of the day took a back seat for the moment and he nudged Nugget forward.

  There wasn’t a thing he could do about his shearing problems. What he needed was distraction, and this looked just what the doctor ordered.

  * * *

  She needed a knight on a white charger. This was no white charger, though. The horse was huge and black as night. And the guy on it?

  Instead of armour, he wore the almost universal uniform of the farmer. Moleskin pants. A khaki shirt, open at the throat, sleeves rolled to the elbows. A wide Akubra hat. As he edged his horse carefully down the embankment she had the impression of a weathered face, lean, dark, strong. Not so old. In his thirties?

  His mouth was curving into a smile. He was laughing? At her?

  ‘In a spot of bother, ma’am?’

  What she would have given to be able to say: No bother—everything’s under control, thank you.

  But her car was sinking and Samson was somewhere under his dogs.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said grimly. ‘I tried to cross but the creek doesn’t have stones in it.’

  His lips twitched. ‘How inconsiderate.’

  ‘The last creek did.’

  He put his hands up, as if in surrender. ‘I cannot tell a lie,’ he told her. ‘I dropped stones in the first crossing but not this one. The first floods all the time. This one not so much. There’s a lot of water coming down. I doubt you’d get back over the first crossing now.’

  ‘You put the stones in...’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She stood and thought about it. She had bare feet—a pair of bright pink sandals had been tossed onto the bank on this side. Obviously she’d waded through first, which was intelligent. Driving into a flooded creek with a sandy base was the opposite.

  But now wasn’t the time for judging. The water was rising by the minute. ‘Would you like me to help you get your car out?’

  And any hint of belligerence died. ‘Could you? Do you know how?’

  ‘You have cushions on your passenger seat,’ he said. He’d been checking out the car while they talked. A big car might be a problem but this looked small enough to push, and with the traction of cushions... ‘We could use those.’