The Millionaire's Melbourne Proposal

by Ally Blake

  “Then there’s also the local restaurant,” she went on. “Ambrosia. I think their chef enjoys the fact he’s spending other people’s money. Last time I spoke with the owner he looked like he’d aged a hundred years. When I mentioned I knew a guy who was a whizz with finances he practically fell to his knees in gratitude.”

  Ben turned the corner, the entrance to The Shard in sight.

  “You’ll do it, right?” she asked. “I can send Damon their contact details? Hmm? Hmm? Dust off that invisible cape of yours?”

  Before he could reiterate the impossibility of her request, Bennett was bumped from behind, his wrap knocked free, landing half open on the ground. Phone pressed against his ear, he scooped up the mess and tossed it into the closest rubbish bin.

  “Ben?”

  “I’m here,” he said. “I’m just...” Wet, filthy and hungry. Lost. “Just wondering what the weather’s like there.”

  A beat, then, “Well, I’m looking outside my little office window in the apartment upstairs, and it’s around ten o’clock-ish at night here. So it’s dark. But clear. Clear enough I can see a couple of stars, despite the streetlamps and the night lights from all businesses across the road. How about where you are?”

  Ben, now an island amidst a churning sea of wet, grumbling Londoners, tipped his head back and his umbrella with it, letting the misting rain soak him through. But he also caught the sun, its weak glow shining beyond the smear of grey covering the sky. The same sun that would beam down on her, blue and sunny and warm, in a few short hours.

  The urge to say, I’m booking a flight today filled his throat. Right alongside, What the hell am I doing getting wet like this? I must be going mad.

  He closed his umbrella and ran the last few metres till he was under the protection of The Shard’s entryway. “I’m fine,” he said. Then adjusted it to, “Send me those details, okay?”

  “Really? Oh, my gosh, Ben. You are the best. The absolutely most wonderful best. I could just kiss you! Or maybe hug you. Or shake your hand vigorously at the very least. When might that be possible, do you think?” she asked, her voice suddenly a little husky.

  “The shaking of my hand?” he asked. The doorman smiled politely as Ben passed, as if he didn’t look like a drowned rat.

  “Sure. That.”

  The air-conditioning bled through his wet suit, hitting his skin like a sudden snowstorm. “The florist and the restaurant. Let’s start there.”

  “Okay.”

  There was a pause, then Ben stretched his ears to hear her say, “Bye, Ben.”

  “Goodbye, Nora.”

  When the lift doors closed he was surprised to find a bedraggled giant looking back at him, with a moony grin on his face.

  * * *

  Nora sat on one of the upholstered cane chairs in the sunroom at the back of the house; a blanket over her knees, sipping on her first cup of coffee of the day.

  When her phone rang, Ben, her first thought was: Better than coffee. Which, even in the depths of her early morning state, she knew was a problem.

  “Where are you?” he asked, the moment she pressed answer. Lights flickered behind him; city buildings through a rainy window. His face was all hard-carved shadows in the darkness of what she assumed was his apartment late at night.

  “The sunroom.” Nora checked to make sure Cutie wasn’t nearby—she hadn’t quite got around to sending him back or telling Ben—then panned the camera around the room.

  Sunshine poured through the white shutters, sending shafts of creamy gold over the soft wood floor, the chairs, the jewel-coloured throws and cushions.

  “Go back,” Ben’s voice commanded from the speaker of the phone.

  “What? Which bit?” she asked, with a flare of excitement that something about the house had caught his curiosity.

  “To the bit that looked like your underwear drying in the corner.”

  Nora turned the camera back to her face. “Seriously? There’s nothing to see. It’s basic boyfriend undies in whatever colour is on sale.”

  “Eye of the beholder,” Ben said, waggling his eyebrows.

  Nora snorted. The guy was in a good mood. It suited him.

  “So how about you?” she asked.

  “You want to see what underwear I prefer?”

  “It’s okay. You can just tell me. Y-fronts? Chastity belt? Woollen tights?”

  “Why not commando?”

  At that Nora burst into laughter. Ben really was in a mood. And it really was better than coffee. Just thinking his name made her blood warm, and her skin tingle. She was long since past the realisation that she’d developed quite the crush on Ben Hawthorne.

  The fact that he lived a million miles away? The best kind! Ben wasn’t coming home, not any time soon, so she could indulge in all the lovely daydreams, but none of the hope, or the heartache. A crush on Ben Hawthorne was safe as houses.

  “What exactly is it about me that makes the thought of my going commando so hilarious?” Ben asked.

  “You are kidding, right? I’d be more likely to go commando than you. In fact, I have, more than once, when I’ve waited too long for laundry day. And why do I keep telling you things that I would never tell another living soul?”

  There was a long pause. “I feel like this conversation has spun a little off topic.”

  “Oh, so you didn’t call so that we might talk underwear?”

  “Shockingly, no.”

  The lighting changed as he switched on a lamp. No, he’d opened the fridge door; his face all angles and beauty in the cool light. Nora’s heart thumped and shimmied in her chest.

  “Just quickly, I’ve been talking to some of your friends,” said Ben, his eyes roving back to hers. “The restaurant. The florist.”

  Nora sat up so fast the blanket on her knees fell to the floor. “Ben! Oh, my gosh. Could you help them?”

  “I believe I already have. Now, it might surprise you to find I am not a fan of the social media.”

  “No?”

  “But the upswing in custom both businesses saw after taking you on was marked. You’re very good at what you do. So I’ve told them they need to do whatever it takes to keep you around.”

  Nora’s belly flipped. Then flopped. It might have been one of the nicest things anyone had ever said to her, but it had a heartbreak chaser. Staying wasn’t an option. A girl couldn’t be footloose and fancy-free if she had connections all over the place, constantly tugging on her heart.

  “I concur, I really am quite amazing. But still, it’s nice of you to say.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “But just to be sure, you have other ways to help them, right? You’re not relying entirely on me—”

  “You can park the panic, Nora. I have. I will.”

  “Right. Great.”

  There was a pause. A pause in which she held her breath, waiting for him to sign off, yet hoping he would not. Not yet.

  Then he said, “I think this might be the longest time you’ve gone without asking when I’m coming home.”

  “When are you coming home?” she asked, her voice deadpan.

  His laugh was a deep, sexy rumble. And then he rang off.

  Nora kept the phone cradled in her hands as if it might help keep the warm, fuzzy feelings tucked all around her.

  Crushes were nice, she decided. She might even do this on the regular. With other people. Once the whole Ben Hawthorne saga was done and dusted. Though when she tried to picture someone, anyone, she’d ever met filling that void, she came up blank.

  It was bizarre to think that when Clancy was alive, Ben had barely registered as a person in her head.

  Then he’d morphed into the bad guy in Clancy’s tale. A terrible grandson; selfish, ungrateful, even cruel. Somehow worse, in Nora’s mind, because he’d been adopted, when she’d never had that chance
.

  But now when she thought of Ben—and she thought of him far more often than was in any way sensible—she knew that he was many things. Wry, generous, conflicted, strong-minded, too handsome for his own good, a workaholic. A man who’d dedicated his life to getting people out of trouble. A man, she was beginning to believe, who was rather lonely out there in the big city.

  A confidant.

  A friend.

  Whatever had happened between him and Clancy no longer felt as if it had quite so much to do with her. She’d surprised herself by discovering she had room inside her for liking them both.

  But still, it was just a crush. Nothing so perilous, so terrifying, as actual feelings. Her heart had been far too beaten down by rejection to ever let that happen.

  * * *

  Late Friday afternoon, the stay on the Metropolis Air insolvency had been granted.

  It meant Hawthorne Consultancy had breathing space: six weeks in which to plug the leaks, make a plan to repay creditors, and create the bones of a new business model that would keep the airline’s staff in employment and their planes in the air.

  Nora was right: cape or no cape, helping people did feel good. Turned out the joy in what he did wasn’t just about the numbers, after all.

  Speaking of Nora, when he’d heard the news she was the first person he’d wanted to tell. Part of him was thankful it was the middle of the night in Melbourne, forcing him to pull his head in and make plans with his team, instead. That had to be his focus, now.

  And yet, come Saturday morning, Ben once again felt restless. So restless he’d tossed and turned all night. Which was how he found himself heading into the office late Saturday afternoon, his head filled with mad plans he couldn’t possibly air.

  When the lift doors opened on the twenty-fifth floor, he paused at the sound of chatter. Peering around the door, Ben found the place abuzz, with several desks in use.

  Carly—a go-getter, second-year paralegal, and the assistant he’d had on rotation just before Damon—saw him and stood to attention, hair in a high ponytail, decked out in running gear. Her gaze widened, dropped and lifted; she was clearly discombobulated by the sight of the boss in jeans, jumper and coat.

  “Mr Hawthorne!” she cried, and a ripple went through the place, heads popping out from all over, the chatty noise hushing. “We didn’t think we’d see you till Monday.”

  “I could say the same about you. What’s going on?”

  “Um...”

  “Why’s it so quiet in here?” That was Damon, heading around the corner with phone in one hand, a coffee in the other. “Oh. Hey, boss. Didn’t think we’d see you here till Monday.”

  “We’ve done that bit already.”

  Carly leapt out from her cubicle. “Don’t blame Damon. When he came to us, asking if we’d be keen to get some extra experience on a big account, by helping the Metropolis team get a head start on the grunt work, we leapt at the chance.”

  Another paralegal added, “You work so hard, Mr Hawthorne.”

  Carly nudged back in front of her second and added, “And it’s come to our attention that, while HR insists we take our leave in a timely manner, none of us have seen you do the same. Which doesn’t seem fair.”

  Ben looked over the crowd of young faces, before he found Damon once again, at the back of the small crowd, leaning against a cubicle. “It came to your attention, did it?”

  Damon lifted his coffee in salute.

  Carly popped up onto her toes. “The next couple of weeks are all about data processing, collation, reporting, finding discrepancies and obvious areas of improvement. The grunt work. Right?”

  “That’s right.” Funnily enough, it was exactly what he’d been thinking all night long.

  “We can do that,” Carly insisted.

  “I know you can,” Ben allowed. “It’s why I hired such a bright, self-motivated, energetic team, after all.”

  Carly grinned at her counterparts, who all grinned back.

  Damon—who had ambled over to the group of eight or ten staff who had now collected around Carly’s desk—added, “Leaving you free to swoop in like Superman and save the day at the last.”

  Carly turned and glared at Damon. Then looked from boss’s assistant to boss, as if only just figuring out she was a pawn in someone else’s game. “This is not a coup,” she said, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Well, it hadn’t been...” said Ben, finding himself laughing. For a strange feeling of lightness had come over him. A mix of relief and possibility. “Truly, though, you guys have blown me away. Now, you can all go home, enjoy what’s left of the weekend, and come back fresh and ready to tackle this on Monday. You, on the other hand—” Ben pointed a finger at his assistant “—come with me.”

  Ben made a beeline for his office, where he went straight for the safe tucked behind a picture of a sailing boat on his wall. And he didn’t much care for boats.

  A designer had chosen it. The same one who’d decked out his apartment. And he’d let them. As it allowed him to live like an automaton. Work, home. Work, home. Too busy working, proving himself, building a reputation for honesty and impeccable work, to even pick a comfortable couch.

  He’d built a fortress of self-protection. As if getting comfortable would leave him open to attack, vulnerable to having his life tumbling down around his ears. Again.

  And it was a lonely place to be.

  “You might be looking for this.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Damon holding out Ben’s passport. And a dossier.

  Damon wandered into the office. “List of daily flights to Melbourne, a map of Melbourne with the address of your grandmother’s house circled in red, some Aussie cash, and your passport. I’ve had it ready for the last week.”

  Ben carefully took the dossier from Damon’s hand. “I’m not sure if you’re the best assistant I’ve ever had, or if I should change the locks.”

  Damon grinned. “Figure it out later. After your holiday.”

  Ben’s fingertips pressed hard into his palm, as if trying to alert him to the fact he might be about to do something uncalculated. With too many variables to control. Something bonkers.

  He uncurled his fingers, knowing all of that and wanting to go anyway. Needing to go. It was time. “Set up a meeting with the heads of department for Monday.”

  “Emails are drafted, letting them know you’re taking time off. No meeting necessary. I press send, you’re good to go.”

  “So, it is a coup.”

  Damon grinned. Then followed Ben out of the office door.

  In between staff members calling out, “Have a good break!”

  “Get a tan!”

  “Bring back some sunshine!”

  Ben told Damon, “I might be out of town, but I still require constant updates. You be my firewall. Filter as you need to. I trust you.”

  Damon’s next smile held none of its usual cockiness. “Thanks, boss. Fair warning, there might be a slight bump in doughnut purchases to keep this ragamuffin bunch going, but with my new title and company card I can take that on.”

  “And what title is that?”

  “Permanent attachment to the Desk of Bennett J Hawthorne.”

  “You want to remain as my assistant?” Ben asked as he moved into the lift, slapping the dossier against his palm, feeling the telling bump of his passport.

  “For now. So I can learn at the feet of the master. Because in the long term, I plan to be you. I’ll keep your seat warm while you’re gone.”

  Ben’s laughter echoed as the lift doors closed.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NORA’S EYES HAD just started to drift shut, the Harlan Coben book she was reading tipping precariously towards her nose, when she was startled awake at the sound of a knock at the front door.

  A few woozy bli
nks and a glance at the clock on her phone told her she still had a couple of hours for a last tidy before the cleaner came. It was likely someone selling electricity plans.

  Having stayed up way too late re-watching the entire second season of Fleabag for the zillionth time, then spending the morning preloading a bunch of content for a couple of local businesses before tying off their contracts, a nap was necessary.

  She rolled over, laid her arm over her eyes and—

  Knock-knock-knock.

  “Argh! Okay!” she shouted, sitting up so fast her head spun.

  Dragging herself out of bed, Nora tugged at her vest top—it would do—then grabbed a pair of ancient cut-off denim shorts from the top of her clean-clothes pile and dragged them over her undies.

  Knock. Knock-knock!

  “Sheesh. I’m coming!” Nora called, twirling her wild hair into a messy bun atop her head as she jogged down the precariously skinny stairs.

  At the door she checked to make sure Cutie wasn’t about—he had a habit of licking door-knockers half to death—then she opened the front door a crack.

  Only to swing it open wide when she found Bennett Jude Hawthorne standing on Clancy’s front porch.

  “Oh, my God. You’re here!” she blurted.

  “That I am,” he said in a voice that—up close, in person—was, if possible, deeper than over the phone. Lit with a loose, lackadaisical drawl.

  The backs of Nora’s knees began to tingle, while her feet felt as if they weren’t quite attached to her body.

  Because he was there. He was really there! He wasn’t merely a warm voice on the phone, or a two-dimensional image on a screen, or some impossible crush she could happily indulge as he lived on the other side of the planet.

  He was here. He was real. And, boy, was he beautiful.

  There was no other word for it.

  Misty hadn’t been kidding when she called him mountainous, for the man was tall. With serious shoulders filling out a brown suede jacket, all kinds of heft filling out dark jeans, and if his boots weren’t kidding his feet were huge. Add thick, dark, wavy hair with a perfect smattering of silver over his ears she’d never noted before, and those intense eyes; the man oozed fire-crackling, log-cabin-on-a-winter’s-night deliciousness.