Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?

by Nicola Marsh

  He laughed. ‘She can’t be that bad.’

  ‘Worse.’

  Harsh, and not entirely true, but the last thing she needed right now was her mother crossing paths with Rory and the inevitable comparison and judgement that would follow.

  ‘Will I see you Monday?’

  The moment the question fell from her lips she inwardly winced. Since when had she sounded like a needy female?

  ‘Actually, I’ll be tied up in meetings Monday to Wednesday, then I’m heading interstate towards the end of the week.’

  ‘Right.’

  But it wasn’t. Things were far from right. Since she’d declared her plans to stick around he’d been acting strange. Nothing overtly obvious, but a subtle withdrawing that left her wondering if she’d misread the afternoon and feeling more than a little hurt.

  ‘I’ll call you when I get back.’

  ‘Sure.’

  She snagged her backpack from the backseat and leaped from the car before he could say anything else. She’d heard enough for now.

  When he didn’t try to kiss her again, or touch her or speak, she held her head high, hitched her backpack higher, and strode towards the house.

  Not having a clue about relationships sucked. Emotionally clueless, she had a sinking suspicion she’d made a mess of the best day of her life.

  Rory tooted as she reached the front door and she waved, glancing over her shoulder in time to see him pull away. Could he leave any faster?

  Tension banded her forehead with the promise of an incoming headache, and she patted her pocket for her key—only to have the door swing open.

  On the bright side, Rory had left.

  On the down side, Coral hovered on the other side of the door like an avenging angel, clad in head-to-toe Chanel and waving her in like a signaller waving in a jet on an aircraft carrier.

  ‘You’ve got some explaining to do, my girl.’

  Gemma rolled her eyes and trudged inside. ‘At twenty-nine, I don’t need to justify myself to anyone.’

  Coral placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m teasing.’

  Great. Now parting with Rory had her edgy. She heard the uncharacteristic tremor in Coral’s voice and, hating taking her mood out on her mum, she dumped her backpack on the floor.

  ‘I’d kill for a peppermint tea.’

  Coral’s genuine smile made her feel like a cow. ‘Coming right up.’

  Gemma followed her mum into the kitchen, determined to give her the bare basics, scull her tea, and head for her room where she’d grouch and grumble and mull in peace.

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You were with Rory?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  Maybe if she kept up the brief responses Coral would move on to another topic.

  Fat chance.

  ‘Portsea must’ve been chilly with that southerly today.’

  Gemma’s head snapped up. ‘How did you know I was in Portsea?’

  ‘Honey, everyone knows.’

  Her expression benign, Coral pushed the late edition newspaper across the counter and she snatched it, flicking through the pages with flustered fingers.

  There she was again: page eight, on the beach early that morning. She looked a mess, ponytail whipping in the wind, Dictaphone shoved to her mouth, her eyes squinting against sand and sun. She’d never looked good in photos and this one proved it.

  ‘Did you read the article?’

  She rolled her eyes and did just that. Most of the article centred on her expertise and what she brought to the project, along with singing Devlin Corp’s praises.

  The thing reeked of a PR stunt—as if someone at the company had fed some gossip-hungry journo her whereabouts, a few choice lines, and they’d run with it.

  ‘Does it bother you, being in the media?’

  Tossing the paper away, Gemma shook her head. ‘Not really.’

  Coral poured boiling water into teacups and dangled the bags. ‘Was it just you and Rory at Portsea today?’

  ‘Mum, drop it.’

  Sliding a cup across the bench, Coral perched on a bar stool opposite. ‘You’re awfully touchy.’

  That tended to happen when you finally took the plunge and put yourself out there, and the guy you thought was into you didn’t return the enthusiasm.

  Knowing she’d have to give her mum something, she shrugged. ‘We worked most of the day, then chilled out. Nothing serious.’

  Coral raised a knowing eyebrow. ‘You never had a boyfriend growing up. You’ve never mentioned anyone on your brief visits home. Now you seem to be spending a lot of time with this guy—’

  ‘Stop.’

  Gemma slid off her stool so quickly she almost upended the scalding tea. The sensible thing to do would be to zip her lips and march out of there, take time to cool off. But the uncertainty and second-guessing of the last few hours coalesced into an anger directed at the person in front of her—a person who had no right to start acting maternal now, after years of making her feel worthless.

  How she’d yearned for these questions as a teenager, when she’d never fitted in at school but wanted to, when she’d needed her mum’s advice on boys and make-up and clothes but didn’t know how to ask, when she’d craved her mum’s approval and support.

  The lack of support had hurt. It was a hurt she’d locked away and kept hidden beneath an outer layer of bravado and boldness. A hurt that had festered. And having Rory pull away from her, just as her mum had pulled away all those years ago, brought back her insecurities in a rush: maybe she wasn’t girly enough, wasn’t beautiful enough, plain wasn’t enough?

  Shaky and out of her depth, she jabbed a finger in Coral’s direction. ‘Tell me this. Why the interest now? You never gave a damn when I needed you most.’

  She spat each word out, punctuated with the underlying hurt she’d buried deep now bubbling to the surface.

  ‘You pushed me away, Mum. Rejected me. And I had no idea why.’

  Coral staggered as if wounded, adding to Gemma’s guilt, but the pain of neglect and wishing things had been different flooded out in a torrent she couldn’t control.

  ‘It’s a bit late to pull the caring act now. Where were you when Dad died, when I really needed you? And all those years after, when I needed some kind of acknowledgement you loved me? Where was the concern then, huh?’

  Coral plopped down onto the bar stool, her face a deathly white.

  ‘I—I—don’t know what to say …’

  ‘That’s just it. When I needed you most, you never did.’

  Clutching her churning belly to stop herself being sick, Gemma turned and ran.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  RORY had botched Saturday.

  Big-time.

  He hadn’t told Gemma the truth about those newspaper photos. And he sure as hell hadn’t told her the truth about how he was feeling.

  Therein lay the problem, because damned if he knew.

  As much as he liked her, as much as he wanted to explore what they’d started with their spasmodic flirting, he’d freaked out when she’d said she was sticking around.

  Not that she’d spelled out exactly why, but he knew. By the softness around her mouth when she told him, by the unguarded zeal in her eyes, by the hope on her face, he knew she was doing it for him.

  He couldn’t handle that much responsibility.

  Shove him into the CEO’s chair at an ailing company? Yep, he could cope with his eyes closed. But being responsible for someone’s feelings? Hell, no.

  He’d grown up independent, taking care of himself from an early age, learning not to depend on anyone. It suited him.

  Deep down, he knew this freak-out was probably based on some long-buried rebellion against his parents—a mother more wrapped up in her art than him for the first five years of his life before she bolted, and a father who paid more attention to his constant parade of unsuitable girlfriends.

  He’d accepted his dysfunctional family as a kid with resign
ation, but he’d be kidding himself if he thought his upbringing hadn’t left a lasting legacy.

  He wanted to be nothing like his parents.

  Didn’t want to let a woman close for fear of letting her down like Bert did. Didn’t want to get emotionally involved for fear of finding it too claustrophobic and bolting like his mum.

  The only problem was his deep-seated fear of emotional attachment might cost him a woman he could seriously fall for given half a chance.

  He’d been so blown away by her declaration he’d back-pedalled, desperate to buy time, deliberately staying away an entire week.

  Sadly, time away hadn’t changed the situation. He needed to acknowledge the truth. They’d connected on some innate level that defied logic or explanation, and he needed to recognise it or lose her.

  Considering he’d mucked up appointments, turned up late to an interstate flight and made a general cock-up of things over the last week, he couldn’t lose her.

  He’d missed her that much.

  If losing her wasn’t an option, he had to face facts. Was he ready for a real relationship? What were his expectations? What were hers?

  If she stuck around, for how long? Would she flit off at the first opportunity if a great job offer came her way? If so, how would that affect them?

  Too many questions, not enough answers; none beyond his wild speculations.

  They had to talk.

  After he finished grovelling.

  This had better be good.

  Gemma pushed through the glass door and entered the vegetarian café, wondering what surprised her more: the fact Rory had called or his choice of meeting place.

  Until she realised he probably assumed because she was an environmentalist she was vegetarian too. Considering she’d barely managed to nibble on a cheese scone at their picnic, followed by a blueberry muffin at the Baths Café while he devoured fried eggs and bacon, she could understand how he’d make the leap. She’d save her carnivore side for another time; if there was another time.

  True to his word, he’d been busy all week. Too busy to call or e-mail or text. No one was that busy.

  She’d pretended not to care. She’d worked harder and longer than everyone else, stoked by her plans for energy efficiency and marine conservation and reducing carbon footprints at Portsea coming together.

  During the day and well into the evening she didn’t have time to dwell on Rory’s rationale. But at night, when she lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, she’d rehashed every second of Saturday afternoon, wondering how she could have misread the situation.

  The tiny bell over the door tinkled and the skin on her nape prickled. She knew who’d entered behind her without having to turn around. Crazy how in tune they could be after knowing each other a fortnight.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ he said, placing a hand in the small of her back. The barest pressure sent an instant zap of awareness through her.

  Her brain might know there was no future for them; try telling that to her body.

  ‘No worries,’ she answered, aiming for blithe, sounding ridiculously perky instead.

  He guided her through the small tables, choosing the corner booth furthest from the door, ensuring privacy. That figured. He’d start off with, It’s not you, it’s me.

  He picked up the grease-stained menu, gave it scant attention before sticking it back between the salt and pepper shakers.

  ‘You hungry?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Me either.’

  He clasped his hands together, rested them on the table. Combined with his sombre expression, he looked like a judge about to give an unfavourable ruling.

  Considering the surprising ache in her chest, she was probably not far off the mark.

  ‘I had this spiel worked out—’

  ‘Let me save you the hassle. It’s okay. I get you’re not into me, that you’re not interested in complications. Don’t worry—’

  ‘I’m into you.’

  She only just caught his muttered ‘Way too much to be good for me. ‘

  For the first time all week her mouth curved upwards.

  ‘You could sound a little more enthusiastic.’

  He frowned. ‘Sorry, I’m making a hash of this again.’

  She could make it easier for him, but after the week he’d put her through? Not likely.

  He leaned back in his chair and hooked his clasped hands behind his head—a powerful businessman out of place in this tiny café in a Melbourne side street. What really commanded her attention was the play of emotions across his face: uncertainty, regret, hope. She focussed on the hope.

  He took a deep breath, blew it out through pursed lips. She waited.

  ‘You threw me.’

  He wasn’t the only one. She’d done a fair job of shocking herself the last fortnight.

  ‘You come across as this independent, fearless, in-control woman who travels the world and muscles her way into jobs and doesn’t like permanency. And that suited me just fine.’

  He ruffled the top of his hair, spiking it. ‘I liked you, but after the way we’d been flirting, then how we connected on the boat, hearing you say you were sticking around …’ He shrugged. ‘I kinda freaked out.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  Some of the tension drained from his rigid shoulders when she didn’t snap, and he lowered his hands, stretching his neck from side to side like a boxer about to enter the ring.

  ‘I guess what concerns me is you’re giving up some of your freedom.’

  He didn’t add for me but he knew. Knew how much her independence meant—knew what she’d be sacrificing if she stuck around. For him.

  ‘I don’t play games. That’s why I gave it to you straight. I like you. I want to spend some time exploring the spark we share. I’m not giving up my freedom for anyone. This is for me.’ She clapped a hand to her chest. ‘It’s what I want to do.’

  Admiration glittered in his eyes but she wasn’t finished.

  ‘I can’t give you any promises about how long I’ll stick around, and I’m certainly not angling for a commitment, but for the next few months I want to stay in Melbourne.’ She pointed at him. ‘To hang out with you.’

  He snagged her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss in her palm and curling her fingers over it. She needed little encouragement to hold on to a kiss like that.

  ‘There’s something else—’

  ‘Do I really need to hear it? Because right now we’re in a good place.’ She waved her free hand between them. ‘If you’re going to disturb that, leave it.’

  He hesitated, the frown between his brows only finally easing when she pulled a face, imitating him.

  ‘Don’t look so serious. We’re dating, not getting married.’

  She couldn’t blame him for chuckling in relief.

  ‘Am I allowed to say anything?’

  ‘Only if it’s good news.’

  His smile faded. ‘The building commencement date has been moved forward. They start Monday.’

  While she’d known this day was coming—heck, she’d been working towards it with a team—it didn’t make the reality any easier. Her dad’s land was being carved up. And there wasn’t one damn thing she could do about it.

  ‘In a fairytale world I’d give you back the land if I could. But there are too many people’s livelihoods invested in this project—people’s jobs, millions of dollars—’

  ‘You don’t have to justify this. You bought the land fair and square, and I gave up believing in fairytales a long time ago.’

  She tried to sound matter-of-fact, but her voice quivered and he clasped her hands across the table.

  ‘You mentioned you used to camp out there with your dad. How about we do that this weekend?’

  As a distraction technique from her misery, it worked.

  ‘Seriously?’

  He nodded. ‘Give you a chance to say goodbye.’

  A chance of closure, to farewell her favourite spot in the worl
d, to move on in her mind. She’d never forget how safe Portsea made her feel, its familiarity warming her as much as her memories, but her haven would soon be gone and she needed to come to terms with that. It made sense. But did she really want to share a guaranteed poignant, sad and potentially blubbery weekend with Rory?

  Sensing her reticence, he squeezed her hands. ‘Or, if you’d prefer, you camp out there alone. Though it’s mighty lonely along that stretch of beach and I’d probably worry—’

  ‘Fine. You can come.’

  She rolled her eyes—an effective move against the sting of tears.

  ‘Though I have to warn you there’s this wombat that used to attack us, and he had a few feral wallaby mates. Then there’s the snakes and redback spiders and—’

  To her amazement, he paled.

  ‘You’ve been camping before, right?’

  Being a typical male, he squared his shoulders and uttered famous last words. ‘How hard can it be?’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ‘NEED some help?”

  Rory straightened and clutched at his middle back. ‘No, thanks, I’m almost done.’

  ‘Right.’

  Gemma sent a pointed glance at the storm clouds gathering, before staring at his lame attempt at pegging the tent.

  He frowned and turned his back on her, hefting the mallet high over his head and bringing it down with a resounding thud. It skidded off the peg and landed on his boot.

  He cursed, and she turned away in case he looked up and caught her smiling. It wasn’t her fault the guy had to go all macho on her—especially when he’d never been camping before.

  In a way it was very sweet, him giving her the opportunity to camp here one last time. It had touched her in a way she hadn’t expected—especially coming from a business-oriented guy who wouldn’t have a sappy bone in his body. But he really should have let her take care of everything instead of divvying up tasks.

  She understood he needed to feel in control. Typical guy. But judging by the time it had taken him to struggle to this point in erecting the tent, perhaps he should’ve assigned that particular task to her. Goodness only knew what he’d packed in the way of food.

  ‘Isn’t there something you should be doing?’