by Robyn Grady
His mouth twitched. Minx. Quite a change from the gushing society princesses he’d dated—women of a mold who flattered, simpered and left him tepid, as far as sweethearts or long-term relationships were concerned.
Ah, who was he kidding? He didn’t believe in romantic love and hadn’t for some time, though clearly others did.
He studied a patch of sandy ground, searching for the right words. “I know you and Marco were in love. He said you were going to marry and have more children. Obviously it will take time to recover from your loss—”
“Whoa! Hold on.” Tamara waved her hands. “Marc might have been in love with me, but I hadn’t agreed to marry him. I thought of him only as a friend. A very dear friend.”
Armand froze. Every muscle, every thought locked in black ice. Finally he raked a hand through his hair. He wasn’t a saint, but this idea refused to compute. “Do you often sleep with friends, Ms. Kendle?”
She jerked back as if slapped. Grabbing her bag, she shot to her feet. “I’ve heard enough.”
As she spun on her heel, he snared her arm. They weren’t finished yet.
He hauled her back. The skin-to-skin contact jolted a physical response that pumped through his arteries, scorching his flesh, just as it had an hour ago when he’d proposed and she’d buckled against him. Completely aware, he slowly stood and tried to absorb this sensation’s deeper meaning. From her startled gaze, she felt it, too—that current, popping and pulsing like a live wire between them.
His gaze skimmed a hot line over her lips as a dormant beast yawned and stretched inside him. “You weren’t sexually attracted to Marco?”
Yet an unmistakable attraction simmered between the two of them. For obvious reasons, he hadn’t expected this. Didn’t quite know what to do with it—a first for him, in many ways.
Regaining control, she shrugged out of his grasp. “Marc was kind and thoughtful and put everything on hold if a friend needed him. It happened once.” Her bruised heart sat like a shadow in her eyes. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
His chest burned, but he pushed ahead. He had no time to dwell on who the better man had been.
“You’ve had a bad run.” He knew about her house and the fire, too. “But today you have an opportunity to turn things around.”
A hapless smile twisted her mouth. “A marriage of convenience?” The open vulnerability, the innocence of her face, worked to find a way under his ribs and he nodded once. She seemed to digest the sincerity of his offer before fresh wariness dawned in her eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
He didn’t hesitate. “This child will have two parents.”
She waited. “And?”
“You need another reason?”
Tamara Kendle came from a broken home, one far less privileged than his own had been. An absent father and uneducated mother. Tamara’s childhood made his gripes look like too little cake at a Sunday picnic. Surely the security in providing this child a decent family life should be persuasion enough.
A clutch of grounded seagulls scattered as she left him to wander toward the beach fence. The breeze, stronger here, combed her hair, turning it to dark ribbons that danced down her back.
She rotated to face him, her expression perceptive now. “You said I was bright, Mr. De Luca. Please don’t dodge my question.”
After a moment, he exhaled and joined her. Resting both palms on the chest-high railing, he perused the rolling sea. “Yes, there is another reason.” She’d need to know anyway.
She propped one elbow on the railing and cupped her cheek. “I’m listening.”
He clenched the wood. “I need to obtain the controlling interest in my late father’s company. His will left the balance in trust.”
“And I fit in how…?”
“A stipulation must be met before the interest can revert to me. I must produce offspring—a child—by my thirty-third birthday. In other words, I need a legitimate heir seven months from now.”
“My baby?” A disbelieving laugh escaped. “Can people actually do that in their wills? It sounds medieval.”
“Dante, my father, was very much old guard. I’d known for years he wanted to ensure that his legacy continued through me into the next generation.” His jaw shifted as he rationalized. “It’s understandable.”
“And if you don’t produce an heir by the deadline?”
“The controlling interest will remain with my father’s closest friend, the company’s legal advisor.”
A man with no children of his own. Someone Armand had admired and called uncle growing up. A person he trusted and whom he believed would pass on the balance anyway. But he’d rather comply with his father’s wishes, and, in doing so, avoid placing Matthew, an ethical man, in a not-so-ethical position. Convincing Tamara to marry him would eliminate those glitches and lead to a win-win situation for everyone, including the child.
She looked skeptical. “This doesn’t add up. A man like you would have zero problems finding a more than willing bride. Why leave it ’til now?”
He refused to feel. Refused to remember. Instead he twirled the heavy ruby ring on his right hand. “Let’s just say, true love has eluded me.”
“You want to find true love?”
The visible tension in her jaw eased before she slowly straightened and gave in to her first real smile. The expression was like a candle flickering to life on the inside, making her glow like an angel. He almost smiled back.
“Then you’d understand why this can’t possibly work,” she said. “Why you’ll have to find another way. I want to find that right one, too, just like you.”
He studied her. She was far more attractive than he’d first thought, with creamy skin, long regal neck and a small gold cross shining from the hollow of her throat. And for a cock-eyed moment, he wanted to steal some of her starry-eyed enthusiasm. But he’d tossed believing a long time ago.
Prying his gaze from the curve of her cheek, he focused again on the sea. “You misunderstand. I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
She fell back against the fence, emitting a soft gasp. “You mean you don’t believe in love?”
He bit down, suddenly irritated, but nevertheless well-versed for the argument. Not that this discussion need include an analysis of his personal regrets; he took as his right the discretion of one mistake. He would stick to broader statistics.
“I have a friend who’s a divorce lawyer, but it’s no secret. Half the people who marry for love separate. That’s compared to four percent of arranged marriages. In some parts of the world, such betrothals are considered a privilege.”
She blinked twice. “Good Lord, you’re serious.”
“What I propose is a partnership built on honesty and respect.”
“What you propose is out of the question!”
He held up a hand. “I understand it’s not the best time.”
“Darn right it’s not. Your brother was buried today.” She backed up, disgust dragging on her mouth. “And, whatever you might believe, I’m not a piece of property you can buy to better your business standing, and neither is my baby. Yes, I want honesty and respect from the man I marry. But I also want a history and commitment and passion.”
Her green eyes were all sparks and fire now, all conviction and courage. No interest in material gain…only ideals. “Passion?” he asked, all the more curious.
Her eyes widened as if she’d read his thoughts and wasn’t sure how to take them. “Every woman wants that.”
His gaze roamed her face. “Most men, too.”
He didn’t make choices lightly. He’d lain awake last night and had sat in that chapel today analyzing the pros and cons of marrying a woman he’d yet to meet in order to fulfill the terms of the will and give her child—his blood—the De Luca name. Yet, not once had Armand anticipated this pull, the impulse to frame her face and test her warmth.
The tug in his chest, the heat down below…
Hell. He wanted to kiss her.
She broke their gaze. Co
mbing back hair that waved like a pennant across her face, she looked down at her feet, then over to the busy road. She still avoided his eyes when she said, “You have a plane waiting and I need to go home and get over this day.”
He snatched a glance at his watch. Damn. Where had that hour gone? But he still had time. He’d make time. “I’ll give you a lift.”
He reached for her elbow, but she weaved away. “I’ll take the bus. I mean it,” she insisted when he began to protest. While he reluctantly stepped back, she seemed to gather her thoughts. “I also meant what I said about not excluding you from our lives.” After a hesitant moment, she fished around in her purse. “I suppose you already have my phone number.”
The tension, which had locked his shoulder blades these past few days, eased slightly. He did have her number, but he wouldn’t object if she gave it to him. She was giving him an inch. For now, that was all he needed.
After she’d retrieved a notepad and pen, his gaze settled on the motion of her writing…left-handed, skin smooth, fingers long and slender, made for jewelry. Diamonds, emeralds, maybe even rubies.
She handed him the paper, shot out a quick goodbye and was gone, swift as a frightened hare. Watching her move through the shade of bobbing palm fronds toward a bus stop, he shifted his weight to one leg and scratched his temple. Fourteen days and nights in China suddenly seemed like a very long time.
Walking to his car, Armand opened her note. He stopped in his tracks to read the message three times.
Give me some space!
His grin was slow. He’d give her two weeks. After that, he couldn’t promise anything.
Two
Tamara trudged in through her apartment’s paint-flaked doorway, holding her wrist, fighting tears of pain and frustration.
For six days she had rushed around at the salon, most of the time on her feet. She’d battled constant morning sickness and had graciously accepted the pitiful wage. But a collision with a fellow employee, which had left her wrist swollen and sore, was the final straw. After writing her resignation and a twenty-minute walk home, she was done in—too exhausted to think, too tired to care. An earthquake could shake the continent and she just might sleep through it.
Her purse dropped with a thud near the bedroom door. After kicking off her flats, she dug a bag of green peas from the ancient freezer and ripped the tea towel from its kitchen rack. With both wrapped around her throbbing wrist, she sank horizontally into the worn velour couch.
She was drifting when the phone buzzed.
Throwing her good hand over her eyes, she groaned. “Not interested. Go away.”
But it could be the employment agency. She might want to crash for a month, but that was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Pushing up, she brushed the stack of overdue bills aside and rescued the side table handset.
Melanie’s voice chirped on the line. “Me and Kristen wondered how you were doing. It’s been over a week. Guess it’s finally sinking in, huh?”
Tamara wedged back into the lumpy cushions and stared at the ceiling. One benefit to being busy and exhausted—she hadn’t been able to mire herself in the depths of grief. Marc was gone; yes, it was sinking in, and she would miss him more than anyone could know. As head of her own company, she’d projected an outgoing personality, but at heart she was shy.
At twenty-six her natural bent was still to do it alone. But she’d felt so comfortable, so herself whenever she’d been with Marc. That was one of the reasons he’d been so special to her and why the baby would mean even more.
She patted the white cotton shirt where she imagined her secret bump had begun to grow. “Thanks for calling, Mel. I’m doing okay.” Her gaze slid to her university textbooks, stacked in a neat pile on the gray Formica table. She coiled one leg around the other, bare foot tucked behind the opposite jean-clad knee, and turned her back. She wasn’t ready to face that challenge just now.
“What about you guys?” she asked. “Keeping out of trouble?”
While Melanie summarized their week—a weepie movie, two new hairstyles—Tamara forced herself to thumb through the bills: a reminder utility notice threatening disconnection and a warning in ugly red letters announcing rent was two weeks late. She wondered how they evicted people these days. Would she be marched out by the scruff of her neck?
A booming rap on the door echoed through the room. Her breath caught and the bill crunched in her hand.
Melanie paused. “Something wrong?”
Stomach sinking, Tamara eased to her feet. “Just the door. I’ll call back.”
If this was the landlord ready to toss her out, no use delaying it. There were always the options of government benefits, or cheaper accommodation. She looked around the matchbox room. Was there anything cheaper than this?
The bell rang next, long and shrill. Ironing back frazzled wisps that escaped from her waist-length ponytail, Tamara moved one foot in front of the other. After touching the cross at her throat, she yanked on the handle and her heart exploded through her chest.
First thing she noticed was dark trousers sheathing long masculine legs like a work of art. Next, an open-necked business shirt, cuffs folded back on hard, bronzed forearms. Higher, stubble smudged a movie-star square jaw, while a lick of black hair hung over a widow’s peak. The gaze was blue, lazy and hypnotic.
Armand De Luca.
Partway recovered, she exhaled in a whoosh. “I thought you said two weeks.”
He hinted at a smile. “Turned into one.”
Still off balance, she rested a cheek against her fingers, which were curled around the door rim, and surrendered to the obvious. “Don’t tell me. You’ve already heard.”
His expression sharpened. “Let me guess. You’ve tossed in your salon receptionist towel.” His attention zeroed in on the wrapped bag of peas pinioned against her lower ribs and he frowned. “I can also see why.” Without invitation, he crossed the threshold and gingerly collected her injured hand.
Her first impulse was to twist away, tell him to keep his distance. She wasn’t at all certain she welcomed what his touch did to her—like being sucked in by the tow of a tidal wave. But she was so tired; avoiding his hands-on concern only seemed childish. Besides, his big tanned hand supporting her much smaller one wasn’t exactly unpleasant.
“I’d invite you in—” she watched him untangle the towel, then gently roll her wrist back and forth “—but you already are.”
His focus was on the swollen joint. “This looks bad.”
The hot pad of his index finger nudged the purple mark, which was turning greenish-yellow, and a searing pain lifted the hair on her scalp. Water flooding her eyes, she broke free of his hold and moved toward the couch, cradling her wrist like a baby.
Rubbing a set of knuckles over his sandpaper jaw, he followed. “That needs to be looked at.”
“It just needs rest.”
He took her in, from her muzzy ponytail to her naked toes, and sent a disapproving look that made her feel ten years old. “You need rest.”
Bingo! “You’re right. So if you don’t mind…” She made to crowd him back out the door, but she had more chance of moving Ayres Rock. For now, she was beaten.
She pasted on a plastic smile, not intending to hide her frustration. “So, what can I do for you today, Mr. De Luca?”
His voice deepened, part velvet, part growl. “It’s Armand. And you can come home with me.”
His statement pushed her back with the force of a shove. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words, and presence, affected her.
Her grin was haughty. “Persistence must be your middle name. ‘Come home with me,’ just like that.” She fell back into the couch. Her wrist screamed and she yelped at the pain.
His athletic frame folded down beside her. The ledge of his broad shoulders swung over and the room seemed to shrink. “Not just like that. Not only are you injured, you’re forgetting our conversation last week.”
&nbs
p; Too aware of his animal magnetism and intoxicating woodsy scent, she slid farther away. “I haven’t forgotten anything.” Including the fact he’d approached her with that ludicrous offer of marriage at Marc’s funeral.
He looked past her and frowned. Oh, great. He’d spotted the bills. When he swept them up—an obstinate man with a mission—more than instinct said it was a waste of time to protest. She assumed an unconcerned air while her heartbeat clattered wildly.
Finally he set the bills down. “Do you have anywhere to go?”
She forced a laugh. The sound came out more strangled than amused. “It’s not as bad as all that.”
His bland expression let her know he didn’t agree.
As tense seconds ticked by, the walls pressed in, and as much as it pained her, Tamara was forced to face the hard, cold truth. Aside from Marc, she didn’t have anyone close. Melanie and Kristin, and a couple of university buddies, but she didn’t have any let-me-crash-on-your-living-room-floor-type friends.
Her mother lived in Melbourne, but they rarely communicated, which both saddened and appeased her. How strange to love someone in whose company you felt, more times than not, invisible. Once she would’ve performed somersaults to get her mother’s attention. Later it seemed wiser to save her energy. Elaine Kendle had been stuck in a deep dark “if only” hole—probably was still stuck—and there was little Tamara could do about it.
Slapping his muscular thighs, Armand pushed to his feet. “I won’t argue. If you want to stay ’til they come to evict you, which must be any day now, that’s your choice.”
He headed off and her mind froze. The walls that only a moment ago suffocated her, had receded until all she saw was Armand reaching for the tarnished knob. Opening the door. Walking away.
Her throat closed over.
“Wait!”
He pivoted back and their gazes fused. But she couldn’t speak or move. Dammit, she wasn’t used to accepting help.
From across the room, the light in his eyes changed from calculated disinterest to anticipation. In a measured gait, he returned and carefully reached out. She hesitated, then blew out a defeated breath and placed her hand in his.
