The Millionaire

by Victoria Purman

  A deep voice bellowed and echoed in the cold space. “Chris.”

  Chris and Evelyn turned to see Callum standing at the double doors to the main office.

  Chris stood, winked goodbye to Evelyn, and walked towards his brother. “Mate.” He held out a hand. Callum took it reluctantly.

  Anyone looking on would instantly know they were brothers. Callum matched his big brother in height and weight and they shared the same blue eyes and strong jaw. But while Chris’s hair was long, Callum kept his short and businesslike, and the style cut most of the blond out of it.

  “Your hair is fucking ridiculous,” Callum rolled his eyes.

  “And your short back and sides makes you look fifty, not thirty-two. Loosen up, bro.”

  “Someone’s gotta be the grown up in this family.” Callum let go of his brother’s hand. “Speaking of which, how is it possible that you’ve landed us in the shit again? That’s so typical of you.”

  All Chris saw as Callum turned and walked back into his office was the back of his neatly trimmed hair and the expertly stitched seams of his handmade Italian suit.

  *

  “The PR people are on standby,” Callum announced as he walked to his huge desk in front of the wall of windows overlooking Sydney Harbour.

  Chris had never been envious of the corner office – or any office at all, ever – but he liked this view. It was more than that. He damn well loved the view. He would never get sick of looking at the Sydney Harbour Bridge from up above, its steel arches flexing into the blue sky and its sand-coloured granite pylons at each end like chunky ballast. In the harbour, a cruise liner was moored, and smaller boats beyond it looked like kids’ toys in the spectacular setting. The towering office blocks of the city to his left and right gleamed and sparkled, and the blue summer sky went on endlessly, to the Blue Mountains and beyond.

  “On standby for what?” Chris asked, distracted by the shimmering summer day.

  “To rescue us from this mess, that’s what.” Callum straightened his tie and sat at his desk, his back ramrod straight, his mouth tight.

  Chris crossed his arms. “Listen, mate. It’s not what you think. A woman approached me at One Mile Beach to donate one of my photos to a charity event and I said no. She didn’t mention the Flying Doctor Service. That’s it.”

  Callum narrowed his eyes at his brother. “For someone who works in the media, you have no idea how damaging this is. Everyone thinks you’re a tight arse. And worse than that, a mean tight arse. And that reflects on this family and our business.”

  At least Callum had cut to the chase.

  “Of course,” Chris said. “The family reputation. Now I know what this is about. How could I forget? Why the hell are you so worried about me looking like a tight arse, huh? It means I fit right into this family and this company, doesn’t it? You know, little brother, Malone Enterprises has never given away one red cent to anything. Not sick kids. Not poisoned rivers. Not to cure cancer or build a well so someone in Africa can drink clean water or get vaccinated. Not friends in trouble. Nothing.”

  Callum narrowed his eyes. “Don’t put that on me. That was our father. I had nothing to do with it. We have a generous philanthropic mentality. We give away millions each year.”

  Chris felt his jaw clench. “Oh sure, there’s always money to add a new wing to the old school, isn’t there? Or the club? Or to sponsor a boat in that godforsaken Sydney to Hobart yacht race every Boxing Day. But none of it’s about people. Did you ever realise that?”

  Callum glared at his brother and shook his head cynically. “What a luxury to be so holier-than-thou. Don’t you think I would if I—” Callum stopped.

  “If you what?” Chris demanded.

  “Nothing.” He shook his head ruefully. “Nothing.”

  Chris walked away from the window and rounded the big desk, which was a show of power and authority that his father had always used to great effect. He’d always sat behind it, stoic, silent. Stony-faced and impatient. It didn’t suit Callum. Not one bit. He was wearing it like an ill-fitting suit.

  “The PR people have tracked down the woman mentioned in the original Facebook post. Someone named Bronwyn Hillier wrote it, but it’s about her friend…” Callum checked his screen. “Ellie Flannery. Turns out she’s some suburban journo on one of the papers that craps on endlessly about kids’ playgrounds and local roundabouts.”

  Chris’s day just got measurably worse. “So, she’s a reporter.” That explained why she knew about him.

  Callum nodded. “But she’s also helping to organise a charity ball for the Royal Flying Doctor Service, apparently. All in her own time. The PRs have already spoken to the RFDS and come up with a plan of attack for this…” Chris peered closer at this screen. “…this Ellie Flannery.”

  Chris could feel the tension rise. “For fuck’s sake, Callum. She’s not the Taliban.”

  Ellie. Ellie Flannery was her name. The one with the long legs and the full lips, which, if he remembered, had curled up in disdain as she’d muttered something about never meeting your idols. “You’ll only be hugely disappointed,” she’d said.

  He’d said a simple no. He’d been polite and respectful to her, hadn’t he? Then he remembered what he’d looked like in the online photo. Tough and hard. Uncompromising. That wasn’t who he was. Or at least, that wasn’t who he wanted to be.

  “At this point, she’s the enemy, mate. What she’s done has damaged this company and we need to fix it. And fast. It’s been suggested that you do a press conference here later today and we can make a donation and—”

  Chris held up a hand. “Stop it.”

  And there it was again. When they were in trouble, the family firm had no qualms about spending some of their millions for an exercise in damage control.

  “I don’t need a PR firm to tell me how to fix this. I’ll do it.”

  Callum looked shaken, uncertain for the first time in their conversation. Chris took a long look at his brother. He looked older than his years. His eyes were tired and lined and there were touches of grey at his temples. Chris swore those shadows under his eyes weren’t there the last time he’d seen him.

  “I’ve just emailed you everything we know about Flannery,” Callum said. “Where she lives. Where she works. Her mobile number.”

  The two men looked at each other for a long moment. Were they fated to be on opposite sides, not just of this desk, but of the same family? When they were kids, Callum and Cooper had trailed after Chris like he was a god. Four years younger, the twin Malone boys had worshipped him. Now, all that was a memory as indistinct as any other from childhood.

  “I’ll deal with this,” Chris said.

  “Good.” And then finally there was a smile on Callum’s face. “And what’s all this talk about you being engaged to some European princess?”

  Chris waved a hand. “I took her photo at a refugee camp in Africa and suddenly we’re hitched. Those English tabloids are the worst.”

  Callum leaned back in his chair. “Good. I didn’t want to have to warn you about getting a pre-nup. You know how down and out some of the minor European royalty are. All those castles and no visible means of support. I thought she might have been trying to get her hooks into the Malone millions.”

  “Millions? I thought we were up into the billions now,” Chris said with a laugh.

  “If you ever turned up for a board meeting, you’d know for sure.”

  “When hell freezes over, bro. Hey, I forgot to ask. How’s Lulu?”

  There was a beat of silence. Callum swivelled in his leather chair to half face the windows and the view. “We’re getting a divorce.”

  “Shit. Sorry to hear.”

  “Yeah, well. These things happen.”

  Chris looked out to the view, not sure of what to say. He hadn’t been at Callum and Lulu’s wedding – dubbed by every newspaper in the country as the society wedding of the year – because he’d been caught up in the Middle East on a job. And if his little
brother needed any advice about women, he’d come to the wrong man. He checked his watch. “I’d better go sort this out. You know, in case my transformation into Sydney’s most hated man hits the share price when the Stock Exchange opens tomorrow morning.”

  That got a laugh out of Callum. “How long you back for, bro?”

  “A few weeks.”

  Callum looked at his brother. “Maybe we can grab a beer sometime. Come by Lavender Bay and see my new place.”

  “You got yourself a harbour view from home as well?”

  “Yeah. When I manage to get home to look at it, it’s pretty incredible. But I don’t know how much longer I’ll keep the place. Memories, right?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Great.” Chris turned to go. When he got to the doorway he gripped the handle and then looked back with a grin. “Callum?”

  “Yeah?”

  “When’s the last time you went surfing?”

  Callum rubbed a palm over his jaw. “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, you’ve gotta do something, because you look like crap. Go surfing, will you? Or better still, get laid.”

  *

  Ellie had had the afternoon from hell. She’d left One Mile Beach and driven back to Sydney in a traffic jam that rivalled those in downtown Los Angeles. Once she’d made it to her flat, in trendy Newtown in the city’s inner west, she’d been hauled over the coals by her editor more than once in the same phone call for “missing” the Chris Malone story. Words which sounded suspiciously like, “You’ll never work in this town again” were still ringing in her ears as she turned the key and went inside.

  It was dinnertime and, after she’d showered and changed into cut-off denim shorts and a loose-fitting, tangerine, long sleeved top, she’d ordered Vietnamese take out. She was simply too irritated to cook. Nervous tension and flat out fury did that to a girl. She was moderately angry at Chris Malone for saying no to her request, and for being rude, but she was mostly annoyed at herself. The truth was, she didn’t like chasing people and sticking a recording device in their face, hassling them to talk to her when they really didn’t want to. Deep down, she knew she lacked the killer instinct a reporter needed to survive in Sydney. If she’d had it, she wouldn’t be working for a small suburban paper. She’d be at the big end of town with the hard core journalists and, if she were one of them, she would have chased Chris Malone up the beach and barricaded herself in front of his car until she got the story. A hard core reporter wouldn’t have forgotten all about an interview and asked him about her passion instead.

  Ellie’s passion had turned out to be fundraising. While she couldn’t convince people to reveal their sad stories, she’d turned out to be brilliant at getting people to donate things: money, goods for the charity auction, and beer and wine for the ball. She’d been volunteering ever since Grandpa Trev had to be evacuated from his property in western New South Wales the year before. He’d had chest pains for a couple of days, and when the local GP diagnosed a heart attack and the need for immediate surgery, the flying docs headed over and did an emergency retrieval to get him to the nearest hospital. He had the surgery on time, was now under strict instructions to lower his cholesterol, and was back home.

  Home. Her grandparents’ property, The Plains, held a special place in Ellie’s heart. It had become a place of refuge and healing for her, twenty-one years before, when she’d needed it the most. It was the summer holidays of the year she’d turned eleven and she’d managed to convince her parents, both nurses, that she was responsible enough to stay alone until they got home from their early shift. Being an only child, she’d learnt to be independent from an early age and relished the time alone. She got to watch her favourite movies and turn her favourite radio station up too loud; bring her cat Leo inside and let him sit on her lap on the sofa, something she wasn’t allowed to do when her parents were home. She had responsibility and freedom all at the same time. And it had all worked well, until the day she’d tried to boil an egg for lunch.

  She’d left the handle of the saucepan pointing outwards and she’d knocked it. The near boiling water had spilled over her, soaking up in her T-shirt, clinging to her, searing her skin. She could still hear her own screams. She’d called an ambulance herself and was taken to the same hospital where her parents worked, their racking sobs echoing in the emergency room when they’d seen her for the first time.

  A month later, Ellie went to The Plains. Her parents had figured it would be easier for her that way, to be away from Sydney’s beaches and pools, not having to invent excuses about why she had to stay out of the sun or why she might want to hide her body. And in her grandparents’ comforting embrace, she learnt she didn’t have to hide herself away. She wore clothes that were comfortable in the heat without fearing the looks or stares of strangers. Within the fences of The Plains, she was free to be who she was, to not be afraid or embarrassed.

  Her grandfather’s recent health scare had shocked her to the core. The thought that these two wonderful people, who’d embraced her and shown her compassion and love, should be separated, was unbearable. Her way of saying thanks for his survival was to give her time and her energy to the service that had saved his life.

  And she’d had loads of that enthusiasm and passion – until today. Until she’d failed as a reporter and failed as a volunteer fundraiser. Now, she felt humiliated and small. She’d been scolded like a child by her boss and as a result, every ugly doubt about her ability nagged at her once again, and her much-tested confidence felt as wilted as a flower in a heatwave.

  She really needed wine and chocolate. Or perhaps just wine.

  When the doorbell rang, her stomach growled.

  “Coming,” she called as she grabbed her purse and trudged to the front door. When she yanked it open, she realised the day from hell was about to descend even further.

  Because it was Chris Malone.

  Four

  ‡

  If Ellie’s day had been crazy up until this point, it was now spinning into orbit.

  Chris Malone was standing on her doorstep. Looking tall and tanned, and wearing the same well-worn and sexy outfit she’d seen him in earlier that morning at One Mile Beach. Anyone who said a soft grey T-shirt and worn jeans wasn’t sexy should have their heads read. And even though Ellie was less impressed with him right now than she had been ten hours ago, and really, really trying not to be impressed with him at all, it was still him. Even though he’d been rude and said no, he was still the creative genius she’d admired for years. And that body of his was sending her hormones on dangerously high alert, like an Australian country town on a bushfire day.

  “Hey.” He pushed his sunglasses onto his head and his lips curved ever so slightly into a glimmer of a smile. His eyebrows rose in what some people might interpret as a friendly gesture, but Ellie could see through it. His eyes weren’t smiling. Those sapphire pools of gorgeousness looked as hard as the stone itself. The realisation that he was putting on a performance set Ellie even further on edge.

  “Hello.” She was trying very hard for I-Don’t-Care-Who-Are nonchalance.

  “We didn’t actually properly meet before. I’m Chris Malone.” He held out a hand but Ellie glared at it.

  “Of course you are. And if you’ve tracked me down to my house, like some kind of stalker, you clearly already know who I am.”

  “Yes I do. Ellie Flannery. Nice name. Irish?”

  “Look, let’s cut the small talk. I know why you’re here. You’ve seen the news reports, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.” The pretend smile disappeared.

  “And you’ve come to berate me for it, right?” She crossed her arms and stared up at him. “Well join the bloody club.”

  Chris looked down at her curiously. “Why are you in trouble over it?”

  “Because apparently I’m not half the journalist my friend Bron is, even though she’s given the whole rat race away to have babies.”

  They both heard the squeak
of a screen door and turned towards the noise.

  Ellie’s neighbour, Mrs. Dexter, stepped outside and peered in their direction. The old woman had been her neighbour for three years and could talk for Australia. Most times, Ellie didn’t mind a chat and her company, and she really was a lovely old lady, but Ellie so didn’t need to be engaged in a conversation with her right now. Not when she had a Norse god on her doorstep, a day from the seventh circle of hell behind her, and a vicious craving for chocolate. And where was her takeaway?

  “You all right, Ellie dear? I heard some shouting.”

  Ellie peered around Chris’s enormous shoulders and gave her neighbour a cheery wave. “Everything’s fine, Mrs. D. Just having a joke here.”

  Mrs. Dexter might have been eighty-two years old and short-sighted, but she clearly still had radar for a handsome man, because she slowly started walking in Ellie and Chris’s direction.

  “Hello, young man. Here to visit our Ellie? How lovely. It’s been a long time since she had a man come calling. Ooh, and such a handsome one, too.”

  “Oh no,” Ellie murmured under her breath.

  Chris looked at her with a sexily raised eyebrow.

  She had two choices. Old lady or world’s most handsome man?

  It was a no brainer.

  “I’ll catch up with you, Mrs. D. I’m making that Jubilee Cake I was telling you about, and I haven’t forgotten it’s my turn to do morning tea. But this young man and I have some business to sort out.” Ellie waved at her neighbour who waved back and turned back to her house.

  Then she reached for Chris’s arm and pulled him towards her. “Inside. Now.”

  *

  That was how she ended up slammed up against Chris Malone in her hallway. She’d tugged him inside, closed the door behind them, lost her footing and ended up bang up against him, pressed against Chris’s hard as rock chest.

  Ellie had learned to walk when she was ten months old, according to her parents. So coordinated, they’d bragged to every relative, perhaps a future sports star for Australia. How was it then that her feet had failed her and she couldn’t seem to move?