Her belief that he needed her help to gain access to the old boys’ network to see him complete his latest development opposite the passenger wharves in downtown Auckland needled him though. He thought she’d have done her homework a little better than that. Brent Colby needed no one to be a success in his world. The consents were slow coming through, granted, but they would come through in the end. It was all part of the game of showing who held power in the city, and he was prepared to play that game if it got him to his goal in the end. Since he’d made and lost his first million dollars, he’d learned patience—the hard way. He certainly didn’t need Amira Forsythe’s influence.
He should have turned her down flat. Her crazy idea wasn’t even worth thinking over. The fact that she’d walked away from him when he’d needed her most should have convinced him of that. That she’d walked away from him because of money, even more so.
He thought of the figure she’d named as a settlement if they married. While it was no small sum, it was a drop in the ocean compared to his current wealth.
But then Amira’s grandmother had always coached her well on the importance of financial security. So what if she had to shell out a few million to access many more. He could just imagine what lengths someone like Amira would go to, to get her hands on his bank balance now. Even go so far as proposing marriage, perhaps?
And that’s where something didn’t ring true. Amira had her own wealth. The Forsythe family were among the founding fathers of New Zealand, with business interests that were as far reaching as their reported philanthropy was widespread. And Amira was the end of the line. The approved line, that was. Brent had heard rumors of an Australian-based distant cousin who’d long since worn out his welcome, his credit and his word on the strength of the Forsythe name.
Brent’s inner warning system told him there was more to her request than met the eye. Yes, she’d changed in the eight years since he’d last seen her, but she hadn’t changed so much that he couldn’t tell when she was hiding something from him. And that something piqued his interest.
Brent leaned back in his chair and swiveled it to the window so he could look out over the immaculately manicured lawn leading beyond the tennis court and down to the Tamaki Estuary. He loved this view. The contrast between where he was now and where he’d grown up in a council housing estate across the river was never more prominently displayed than when he looked across the water.
The Amira Forsythes of this world could never understand what it was like to work hard for everything in your life rather than be born into inestimable wealth and privilege by a fluke of nature. He thought back to Amira’s grandmother, Isobel. The harridan had barely tolerated him when he and Amira had started going out—and then only because he’d been featured in the nationwide business papers as New Zealand’s next up-and-coming entrepreneur.
But that had all changed when the imported products upon which he’d started to build his fledgling empire had turned out to be faulty; and in honoring the warranty requirements, he’d cleaned out every last cent he’d made, and then some. Sure, he could have declared bankruptcy. Reneged on the good faith with which his clients had distributed his stock. But he wasn’t that kind of man.
He’d held on to the title to his apartment by the skin of his teeth. With that security he had started the long, soulless road to rebuild his wealth. Bigger than before. Better than before. He knew the value of hard work all right. Over and over again. And that was something that Amira could never understand with her background.
No doubt old Isobel would be turning in the family vault right now if she knew what her precious only granddaughter had proposed. If she’d thought for one minute that her name would be sullied by association with him.
Man, he’d thought he’d struck the jackpot when he’d first met Amira. The Forsythe Princess. With her almost royal demeanor and wealth, and the well-known and much documented disapproval of her grandmother, not many men had dared ask her out. But he had.
Amira hadn’t bothered to hide her surprise when he’d approached her at the Ellerslie race track during Auckland Cup Week. She’d been judged overall winner of the fashion parade and had finally extricated herself from the phalanx of photographers when he’d stepped up, tucked her arm in his and led her away from the intrusive glare of flashbulbs. In lieu of a formal introduction, he’d promised her lunch well away from the seething mass of racegoers and the thunder of hooves on the track. To his surprise and delight, she’d accepted.
Their romance had made headlines for weeks as they indulged in the flush of first love. Sometimes dodging the media, others making the most of the publicity to let the world know how lucky they were to be together.
He’d hardly been able to believe his good fortune. He was brash and raw and everything her family wasn’t. And yet she’d loved him as passionately as if he were her equal. At least he’d thought she did. But Amira had shown her true Forsythe colors when she’d jilted him hard on the news of his financial failure. Just when he’d needed her support and love the most.
He swallowed against the acidic acrimony of the past. Better he’d discovered it then rather than later, his friends and family had pointed out. But hindsight was no salve to his wounded heart or his tattered pride. She’d hurt him. Cut him far deeper than he wanted to admit—then, or now.
He’d never before considered himself a vengeful man, but as Brent studied the fast-moving flow of the outgoing tide on the estuary it occurred to him that in coming to him Amira had handed him the means to a satisfying stroke of revenge on a gold-edged platter.
His pulse quickened as he thought the matter through. She’d made it clear she didn’t want the physical aspects of a relationship, but he doubted she’d resist him forever. Seducing her again would certainly be no hardship. They’d been electric together. Yes, it would give the cutting edge to his plan.
How sweet would it be to stand her up this time, to give her a taste of her own bitter medicine? And how appropriate when she was now the one who stood to lose everything she held dear—the power, the prestige and, most of all, the fortune behind the Forsythe name.
Brent spun his chair back to the desk and reached for his phone, flicking it to speaker and punching in the numbers to Amira’s mobile phone.
“This is Amira Forsythe.” Her voice filled his office again, and deep inside of him something clenched tight.
“I’ll marry you.”
“Brent?” she sounded unsure.
“You were expecting it to be someone else?”
“No. I just didn’t think you’d make up your mind so soon.”
“Afraid you’re losing your appeal, Amira?”
“No, not at all. I’m just…surprised, is all, but pleasantly so. Obviously we’ll need to meet to sort out a few things. How are you placed tonight? Shall we say dinner at eight thirty?”
She mentioned the name of the waterfront restaurant that had been their favorite haunt so long ago.
“If you’re happy to be in the public eye together so soon. It’ll raise questions you might not want to answer just yet.”
“Rather sooner than later, don’t you think?” she replied, totally matter-of-fact. “What time can you pick me up? It’s better that we arrive together.”
Brent confirmed a time with her that would allow them ample time to get to the restaurant from her place.
“Great. I’ll see you then. And Brent? Thank you for doing this. You won’t regret it.”
The relief in her voice was palpable, making his internal warning system go to high alert and making him even more certain she was hiding more than she was letting on. As he said goodbye and disconnected the call, Brent smiled grimly.
Regret was for fools, and no one had ever accused Brent Colby of being a fool.
Three
Amira let herself into her suite of rooms later that afternoon. She’d managed to finish earlier than expected at the Fulfillment Foundation’s office and looked forward to a little down time before going
back on show tonight with Brent.
She’d long been thankful she had her own entrance to her rooms at the Forsythe Mansion in Auckland’s premier suburb of Remuera. The privacy it gave her had negated the supercilious once-over from her grandmother every time she came and went during the day. It never mattered how immaculate her outfit, how perfect her grooming, Isobel had always managed to convey that she found fault somewhere.
Most people would probably have thumbed their noses at the matriarch. But Amira wasn’t most people. She knew how lucky she was to have been given a home and a future by her grandmother after her parents’ untimely deaths in a yachting accident on the Waitemata Harbour. She’d been given every opportunity to get ahead. So, she wasn’t the academic genius her grandmother had hoped for, and she took after her mother more in looks than Isobel’s own son, Amira’s father. But despite her shortcomings, Amira had her strengths and her grandmother hadn’t been averse to using them in the course of running the many charities whose boards she sat on. And it had been rewarding work—always. Not least of which because finally there was something Amira was darned good at.
Even now, although she had no need to slip in unnoticed, old habits died hard. She preferred her own small apartment anyway. The sheer size and age of the main part of the house, more like a museum than a home, was overwhelming to most visitors and she’d been no different. Amira had never quite shaken that first impression she’d gained when, after a vicious and public court battle between Isobel and her parents’ chosen guardians, she’d arrived to live here. It was more than her bereaved ten-year-old mind could take in.
Isobel had kept an iron grip on all Forsythe affairs up until the last six months before her death, when a series of strokes rendered her incapable of holding the reins any longer. Not a single word had passed the old woman’s lips in those last months, but every last glare had been a criticism. For Amira, trying to juggle her grandmother’s home care as well as her charity commitments had been wearing in the extreme.
She noticed the message light was flashing on her machine as she kicked off her heels. Amira reached across the table to press the play button. A vaguely familiar male voice oozed from the speaker, making her skin crawl.
“Amira, darling. I’ve just received the written confirmation of the terms of dear Aunt Izzy’s will and couldn’t wait to tell you how much I’m looking forward to moving in. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement—a mutually satisfying arrangement—about your accommodations. Eighteen months seems so long to wait.”
She hit the erase button with a shudder, wishing she could clear the memory from her mind as easily. Roland Douglas, her second cousin on Isobel’s side of the family, had about as much presence as a cockroach—and he was just as hard to get rid of. Isobel had long since cut ties from that side of the family, but for some reason, prior to the stroke that had robbed her of her speech, she’d made a codicil to her will naming Roland as default beneficiary should Amira not be married or have “borne live issue” by the time she turned thirty.
Whether Isobel had intended it to be a catalyst, to get Amira to hurry up and find the right kind of man to be her consort as she assumed the Forsythe mantle, no one would ever know. But one thing was certain—without marriage Amira would lose everything, even the annuity that she received to cover her living costs.
When Amira had questioned if her grandmother had been of sound mind at the time of drawing up the codicil, she’d been assured that a neurologist had sworn an affidavit to the effect that while Isobel was physically impaired her mind remained as sharp as her legendary tongue. She didn’t stand a chance of appealing against the will’s terms.
Amira stepped through to her bathroom, eager to wash away the taint of Roland’s words. He really took sleaze to new heights, and his unsettling phone calls bordered on harassment. If worse came to worse and he inherited, there was no way they’d be coming to any arrangements, satisfying or not.
A shudder ran through her body. Too much rode on her ability to come into her inheritance. Too many hopes and dreams. If marriage was what it took, then marriage it would be.
As she removed her clothes and stepped under the pounding shower, she let the heated water sluice away the tension of the day. Seeing Brent again had been difficult enough, although the stress of that meeting had dissipated somewhat when he’d agreed to marry her. No, the thing that worried her most was the Fulfillment Foundation—the charity she herself had established for the purpose of fulfilling the dreams of sick and dying children and their families. They were running on an absolute shoestring, and her administration staff’s wages were now nearly a month overdue.
It said a lot for their belief in her and in the charity that they hadn’t up and left by now. But the length of time it was taking to get serious financial backing in a world continually hungry for sponsorship dollars had begun to put the mission of the foundation in jeopardy. Somehow she had to get those wages paid—soon, before her staff were forced to leave and seek other employment.
Going out with Brent tonight was a stroke of brilliance. It would pique public interest in their reunion, and she had every intention of selling their story to the highest bidder. The more conjecture and speculation she could drum up in the short time they had available before announcing their engagement, the better.
Amira closed her eyes and sighed as the shower spray drenched her hair and she lathered up her shampoo. She’d stopped by Auckland’s children’s hospital, Starship, on her way home from the city and could still see little Casey McLauchlan’s face now. All the orphaned five-year-old wanted was the chance to see Disneyland with her new adoptive family. Something that might never happen if her leukemia, now hopefully in remission, came back before the foundation was firmly on its financial feet. Amira had promised the little girl, who’d already lost so much in her short life, she’d have her wish, but the reality of being able to make that happen became more remote by the day.
Brent had said yes, she reminded herself, and if everything went to plan she’d come into her inheritance on the day of the wedding and everything would be all right. She just had to grasp hold of that and make sure it happened.
She’d almost convinced herself of it by the time she’d completed her shower and dressed in a pair of light-weight track pants and a tank top. She had a couple of hours before she had to get ready for dinner with Brent so she might as well make the most of the time, she thought, and indulge in some much missed reading time. She stretched out on her sitting room couch, a towel across the arm of the chair where her hair spread to air dry into lush natural curls, and tried to focus on the words that danced across the page of the novel she’d been trying to read for the past few weeks.
Amira woke with a start to a darkened room and the echo of her doorbell still ringing in her ears. She bolted upright from the couch and took a swift look at the antique carriage clock on the mantelpiece as she stumbled to the door. Damn! It was a quarter past eight already. How on earth had she allowed herself to fall asleep like that?
Brent tapped his foot impatiently as he waited for someone to open up. Just as he reached to press the doorbell again, the door suddenly swung open. His eyes narrowed in appreciation at the sight of Amira, her hair a sexy disheveled mass of curls. One thin shoulder strap of her tank top slid down her arm, and the lack of awareness left by deep sleep remained prominent in her pale blue eyes. As she identified him, the thin fabric of her top peaked around her nipples. She really needed to work on that Forsythe cool.
“Brent! I’m so sorry. I fell asleep. If you can give me ten minutes I’ll be ready. Please, come in and pour yourself a drink or something—” She fluttered her hand in the direction of her sitting room. “I’m sure you remember where everything is.”
“I’ll let the restaurant know we’ll be a little delayed.”
Brent gave her a pointed look and was amused to see a flush of color steal across the sweep of her cheeks.
“Of course. Look, I’m really sorry about this.”
“Don’t worry. Just get ready.”
Brent silently doubted she’d be finished in the ten minutes she’d said, but she must have moved like the wind because in no time she was back in the sitting room wearing a wraparound gown, in a deep red-wine color, teamed with a set of heels that almost brought her eye to eye with him. She’d tangled her hair up with a bunch of clips on her head, and her makeup, as ever, was immaculate. The Forsythe Princess was very firmly back in residence—a total contrast to the enticing creature who’d met him at the door.
He recognized her shield, for want of a better word, for what it was. He’d identified it early on in their previous relationship. Any time she felt insecure about a situation, she became even more impossibly regal and untouchable than ever. He’d started to gauge how comfortable she was by the height of her heels, and if tonight’s ice picks were anything to go by she was battling for supremacy.
“Okay, I’m ready. Let’s go,” she said, slightly breathless.
“Just one thing.”
He might not be able to get her to change her shoes but he could do this. Brent stepped close to her and reached to slide out the pins holding her hair. He let them fall to the floor as he extracted each one then, with both hands, he ran his fingers through the honey-blond tresses.
“There, that’s better.”
Damn, he shouldn’t have touched her. His fingers tingled from the silky contact of her hair, and his body had reacted with a burning awareness that was destined to make their evening very uncomfortable.
Amira gave him an icy glare. “If you say so,” she answered before turning a cold shoulder to him and stalking out the door.
Brent held the door of his Porsche 911 open for her, catching a glimpse of her legs as she lowered herself into her seat. He waited a moment, counting slowly to ten, as she scooped up the fabric and arranged it to hide the tempting golden tanned curve of her thighs. He should have brought one of his other cars, something that would have afforded them both some distance between them, rather than this—his latest toy.
Convenient Marriage, Inconvenient Husband Page 3
