by Nicola Marsh
Unfazed by his curtness, she pointed to his computer. ‘By now I’m sure you’ve researched me and found a virtual plethora of information. So how about we skip the formalities and cut to the chase?’
Intrigued by her forwardness, he nodded. ‘Which is?’
‘I want you to hire me for the Portsea project.’
‘And I want to buy the island next to Richard Branson’s—but, hey, we don’t always get what we want.’
Her eyes narrowed at his levity.
‘I’m the best in the business. Give me a month on the project and I’ll ensure every home you build is energy-efficient while maintaining viability in the surrounding environment and ensuring the beach is protected.’
‘I’ve already had consultants look over the project—’
‘Hacks.’
She leaned forward and planted her palms on his desk, her chest temptingly at eye level.
‘You’re a smart man. You know in the construction business it’s the bottom dollar that counts. That beach? Last on the priority list. Which is why you need me. I incorporate scientific knowledge with environmental nous.’ She straightened, shrugged. ‘I’m a specialist in the marine field. You’d be a fool not to hire me.’
After the public debacle his father had made of the Port Douglas project, the company and himself, if there was one thing guaranteed to push his buttons it was being seen as stupid.
He stood so fast his chair slammed into the filing cabinet behind him, and he leaned across his desk—within strangling reach.
‘I can assure you, Miss Shultz, I’m no fool. You’ve had your say. Please leave.’
She didn’t recoil or flinch or bat an eyelid and his admiration notched further.
‘Not till you’ve interviewed me.’
She sat, crossed her legs and rested her clasped hands on one knee.
‘You promised me an interview so start asking questions.’
Stunned by her audacity, he shook his head. ‘I can call Security.’
‘You won’t.’
Her blue eyes grew stony as she met his stonewalling gaze head-on. ‘I’ve done my research too. You’re new to this job. You want the best for Devlin Corp. Let’s cut the small talk and use my remaining minutes here wisely.’
He fell into his seat and rubbed his forehead, where the beginnings of a headache were stirring.
Fine, he’d play this her way. He’d go through her little game for the next five minutes, then he’d personally escort her out and slam the door on headstrong, pushy women once and for all.
‘Why don’t you go ahead and tell me why a successful, headhunted, environmental scientist who has worked around the world wants to work on a Devlin Corp project?’
For the first time since she’d strutted in he glimpsed uncertainty as she tugged on an earring, before she quickly masked it with a toss of her hair.
‘I like to diversify. The size of a project isn’t important to me. It’s the probable impact on the surrounding environment. And the Portsea project captured my attention for that reason.’
Her eyes glittered with unexpected fervour as she sat forward, her hands waving around to punctuate her words. ‘Portsea’s a gorgeous spot. Beaches along the Mornington Peninsula are special. You can’t just dump a fancy-schmancy housing development in the middle of it and hope for the best.’
Increasingly frustrated that she saw him as some dollar-grabbing corporate raider, he had to cut this short.
‘Contrary to your belief, Devlin Corp doesn’t dump anything. When we take on a project of this magnitude we do extensive environmental studies—’
‘Done by consultants. So you’ve said.’
She waved away his explanation, leaving him gobsmacked for the second time in twenty-four hours.
‘I’m not besmirching your company’s reputation. All I’m asking for is forty-eight hours to head out to the site, collate my findings and present them to you.’
‘That’s all?’
She ignored his sarcasm, beaming as if he’d agreed to share CEO duties with her.
‘I promise you won’t regret it.’
‘I already do,’ he muttered, thinking he must be mad to contemplate giving in to her demands.
But something she’d said rang true: he’d hired consultants previously used by his dad, and while he couldn’t fault their findings he had to admit environmental outcomes weren’t his area of expertise.
The consultants presented their findings, he went ahead with the project regardless, and while no red flags had jumped out at him, how well had the consultants studied how the land lay, so to speak?
He had an expert in the field sitting in front of him, offering her services for two days. Businesswise, he’d be a fool to pass up expertise of that magnitude. Personally, he wanted to boot her out before she coerced him into anything else.
‘What do you say?’ She held up two fingers. ‘Two days is all I’m asking for.’
‘If I agree to this—’ her grin widened and he held up a hand to rein her in ‘—and it’s a big if at this stage, how much are you charging?’
She leaned forward as if to impart some great secret.
‘For you? Free.’
He reared back. He’d learned from a young age that if something looked too good to be true it usually was.
‘What’s the catch?’
She shrugged. ‘No catch.’
He glimpsed a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the pinch around her mouth, the fiddle with her earring.
‘Here’s the deal. If you tell me the truth about why this is so important to you, I’ll give you two days.’
She paled and he almost felt guilty for holding her over a barrel. Almost. For all the grief she’d put him through he should rejoice he’d finally gained the upper hand. No one got the better of him, but in twenty-four hours this woman had come close.
Indecision warred with yearning, before she finally sagged into her chair, the fight drained out of her.
‘My family owned that land.’
There she went again, flooring him without trying.
‘We bought it from the Karl Trust.’
She gnawed on her bottom lip. Her vulnerability was softening the hard shell he’d erected around his heart. Not from any grand passion gone wrong but for the simple reason he didn’t have the time or inclination for a relationship.
He dated extensively, squiring women to corporate events and charity balls and the theatre. But dating and getting involved in a relationship were worlds apart and he liked to keep it that way. He had one love in his life—Devlin Corp—and it suited him fine.
‘Karl Shultz was my dad. The land had been in his family for a few generations, in trust. It meant a lot to us—him.’
Her slip-up told him all he needed to know. This land had personal value to her, which made him wonder why she’d let it be sold in the first place. Financial liability, most likely, but it wasn’t his place to question her personal status.
‘I get it. This land meant something to you and you want to ensure it’s treated right.’
She clasped her hands so tight her knuckles stood out. Her reluctance to discuss anything deeper than superficialities was obvious.
‘Something like that.’
She clamped her lips shut to stop herself from saying more but he’d heard enough.
‘I’m a stand-up guy, Miss Shultz, and I value honesty. Especially in business.’
He held out his hand for her to shake. ‘You’ve got yourself forty-eight hours to do your worst.’
Her answering smile made something unfamiliar twang in his chest.
‘Thanks, you won’t regret it.’
She placed her hand in his, her callused fingers skirting along his palm and creating a frisson of electricity that disturbed him as much as the urge to hold on longer.
‘And call me Gemma. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other before this project is through.’
He opened his mouth to correct h
er, to reiterate it was two days only, but as she shook his hand and smiled at him as if he’d announced she’d won the lottery he couldn’t help but think seeing more of her might not be such a bad thing after all.
CHAPTER FOUR
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.
