by Valerie Parv
“Why don’t we start with who you really are?”
About the Author
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Copyright
“Why don’t we start with who you really are?”
Shaken, Terise slumped in the chair. His anger—for which she couldn’t in all conscience blame him—seemed to accentuate his maleness.
She could hardly believe the thoughts tumbling through her mind. How could she be thinking of him as anything but an enemy at this moment? She knew only that enmity was the last thing she felt.
He angled himself across the corner of his desk and picked up a red folder marked “Confidential.” She waited tensely while he flicked through the contents....
Valerie Parv was a successful journalist and nonfiction writer when she began writing for Mills & Boon in 1982. Born in Shropshire, England, she grew up in Australia and now lives with her cartoonist husband and their cat—the office manager—in Sydney, New South Wales. She is a keen futurist and a “Star Trek” enthusiast, and her interests include traveling, restoring dollhouses and entertaining friends. Writing romance novels affirms her belief in love and happy ending.
Sister of the Bride
Valerie Parv
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN
MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
CHAPTER ONE
CHAOS reigned in the ground floor conference room of the Westmore Building. As fast as workers aligned rows of chairs they were disarranged by hordes of media people, scrambling for the best positions for themselves, their microphones and cameras.
The press conference was due to start in a few minutes. As yet there was no sign of Ryan Westmore himself, but the supercharged atmosphere suggested that he would take his place on the cable-strewn podium very soon.
Intending to tuck herself inconspicuously into a back row to observe proceedings, Terise O‘Neill was startled to have a foot-high stack of folders thrust into her arms. ‘Thank goodness you’re here.’
Around the stack she glimpsed a petite figure, clad in a dress-for-success cream linen suit. The girl had harried young features under a shock of close-cropped red hair. Terise stammered, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t——’
Fingers brushed hers in greeting. ‘Forgive me for rushing you when you’ve just arrived, Miss Ferris, but I’m swamped. I’m Debbie, the executive receptionist. Sue didn’t mean to drop you in the middle of a war zone like this, but neither did she plan to go into premature labour. I’m doing the best I can, but I’m no executive secretary.’
Neither was Terise, although Debbie had obviously mistaken her for one. Still clutching the folders, she wavered. Should she point out Debbie’s mistake, and risk being asked to leave without seeing Ryan Westmore, or play along until her curiosity was satisfied? Seeing him was vitally important.
Curiosity won. ‘What shall I do with these?’
Sighing her relief, Debbie gestured towards the throng. ‘Hand out these press kits then field questions until Mr Westmore arrives.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘He’s due in four and a half minutes and he’s always on time.’
Which rather fitted Terise’s preconception of him as a work-driven tyrant. Handing out the folders gave her the appearance of belonging there, which was an unexpected bonus, although she recoiled from the consequences of inevitable discovery. She hated scenes, and this one would be a lulu when Ryan Westmore found out that his Miss Ferris was really Terise Diane O’Neill. If it hadn’t been for Clair...
It still hurt to think that she was dead. Two years younger than Terise, she had been a vivacious blonde whirlwind, soaking up life’s experiences as a sponge did water. She possessed—had possessed—the exact opposite of Terise’s sober, get-the-facts-first approach to living.
Now she was gone, and Terise wanted to know why. The only person who could tell her was Ryan Westmore.
Her anger flared anew, white-hot, cauterising her fear of crashing Ryan Westmore’s press conference. She had come to see what sort of a monster he was, and fate had handed her the perfect means. What happened afterwards would be well worth it.
‘How highly does Westmore rate Sydney’s chances of hosting the next international trade assembly?’ one of the journalists asked, relieving her of a folder.
Safe ground at least. Last night’s newspaper story about Australia’s chances of securing the prestige trade event was what had alerted Terise to the conference. At the invitation of the Australian government, Ryan Westmore was masterminding the Sydney bid.
‘He rates them very highly, but cautions against over-confidence,’ she quoted from the article, hoping that the journalist wasn’t getting his own words back at him. ‘Any more questions you have will be answered shortly.’
‘How’re you coping?’ Debbie materialised at her elbow as she gave out the last press kit.
‘Surviving.’ Non-committal seemed safest. ‘What else needs doing?’ Please, Lord, not computers—or anything else she wasn’t qualified to tackle, she prayed silently.
‘You could do a microphone check. Sue usually does it to settle things down so Mr Westmore can get right to the point.’
Thanking whatever angels looked after kindergarten teachers, she headed for the microphones. Years of MC-ing Christmas concerts and parent-teacher nights had inured her to such technical matters.
But not to dying of stage fright, unfortunately. Butterflies still did aerobics in her stomach at the thought of appearing in public, but they were hidden under a veneer of confidence. It was thin enough to scratch with a fingernail, but—thank goodness—no one had tried yet.
As Debbie had anticipated, Terise’s appearance at the microphones resulted in quiet attentiveness. She gulped, recognising several television reporters, but got through the test by pretending to be the real Miss Ferris—no doubt a high-powered executive-type, who ate gatherings like this for breakfast.
Her peripheral vision was suddenly filled by a man waiting with barely leashed impatience at the door nearest the podium.
Ryan Westmore.
If she hadn’t seen him, Terise suspected she would have felt his presence nearby. He radiated power the way the sun did a corona.
His pictures didn’t do him justice, she thought. They only hinted at a powerhouse physique which seemed almost physically threatening in the flesh. Or was it the piratical way he stood in the wings, long legs slightly apart, like a sea captain athwart his bridge? His photos made him look hard and uncompromising. In person his strong features and the distractingly sensual curve to his mouth suggested that he could do a great deal of compromising if he chose to.
The slight tap of his notes against a muscular leg brought her to her senses. Her Miss Ferris persona managed to lean towards the bank of microphones and say, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Ryan Westmore.’
His taut nod acknowledged the polite applause as he strode to the podium. His glance grazed her in passing, and she drew a sharp breath at what she saw. His eyes burned with an intelligence and purpose which awed her. This was the man she wanted to hurt as he’d hurt her stepsister? Taking on a great white pointer shark would make more sense.
As if he sensed her inner turmoil, Ryan Westmore spared her a second more thoughtful appraisal. She could almost hear him wondering what she was doing here, reaching a conclusion and dismissing her, all in the space of a heartbeat.
The dismissal stung, but managed to strengthen her sense of purpose. He might be formidable but he wasn’t invincible. It shouldn’t be impossible to find some scandal she could link with his name, damaging his chances of the knighthood expected to be his when the bid succeeded. Poetic justice indeed.
Her knees shook, and a swallow did nothing to ease her dry throat as she reached the sanctuary of a side alcove. Watching the man in action might reveal some weakness she could use against him.
Weakness? She almost laughed aloud at the idea as the press conference proceeded. Ryan Westmore treated the assembled media as an orchestra, with himself as conductor. What should have been a media feeding-frenzy turned into an hour-long commercial for the trade assembly bid.
The toughest questions were answered with consummate skill and disarming frankness. When Terise caught herself hanging on to every word, a savage anger ripped through her. His charisma disguised an evil man—couldn’t they see that?
‘He’s amazing, isn’t he?’ With a sigh bordering on hero-worship, Debbie joined Terise in the alcove, dashing her hopes of slipping away unnoticed before the conference ended.
‘Very impressive.’
The shakiness in her voice earned a sympathetic smile. ‘I know he can be intimidating but don’t worry. Sue recommended you highly. She meant to ease you into the routine herself, but——’ she consulted her watch ‘—about now she’s kind of busy. She should have listened to the doctor when she said first babies sometimes come early.’
The pieces started to fall into place. Obviously Sue was Ryan Westmore’s personal assistant and Miss Ferris was to replace her during maternity leave.
Terise had barely had time to speculate about Ryan’s relationship with the new baby when Debbie added, ‘Luckily I had time to tack your name on to the card when I sent flowers to Sue and her husband. Knowing you’re here will set her mind at rest.’
So the child wasn’t the product of an affair with his secretary. Pity. It would have fitted his image as a heartless Lothario. Clair had suggested as much in her letter, but Terise might have known that an office romance was too obvious.
‘Everything’s under control here. Why don’t I show you around while we have a minute?’ Debbie proposed.
There was no alternative but to follow Debbie to the executive lift, which whisked them to the highest office level—one floor below the penthouse suite which, she informed Terise, was Mr Westmore’s Sydney residence.
‘Where does he normally live?’
She shrugged. ‘He has several homes, but his favourite is Westmoreland—a property at Bowral in the southern highlands.’
Her comment stirred a painful memory. Clair’s last letter to Terise had come from there. She and Ryan had spent much of their married life at the property, although Clair had hated it. ‘It’s like being buried alive,’ she’d written, adding, ‘If possible, it’s more conservative than Port Macquarie.’
This was the home town they’d shared after Clair’s mother had married Terise’s father. Clair’s widowed mother, a teacher, had moved to the country out of economic necessity. Odd to think that it had been Terise’s undisciplined behaviour in class which had brought them together. Even odder that she had settled down and become a teacher herself.
Clair had been the opposite—a good student who had then caught up with Terise in spades when she’d reached her teens, surpassing her stepsister’s worst escapades.
When she’d run away to the city it had seemed like a relief to the family. They hadn’t known she’d even met Ryan Westmore—far less married him—until four years afterwards, when desperation over Ryan’s cruelty had moved her to write to Terise.
She’d been pregnant when they married, and too ashamed to write sooner, she’d explained. Terise couldn’t imagine Clair being ashamed of her actions. It suggested a measure of the desperation Ryan Westmore must have driven her to.
It had taken Terise some months to reorganise her life and come to Sydney, only to find that Clair had been involved in a fatal car accident. The cavalry had arrived too late. Forgiving herself was a long way off still.
‘This is your office, and that door leads to the boss’s inner sanctum,’ Debbie was saying.
Terise had left the lift, and followed the woman around the office on autopilot.
‘If you need anything, ask me. The conference ends in fifteen minutes and Mr Westmore will brief you on anything urgent when he returns. Until then, Sue left some notes for you on the computer.’
A shaky smile was all Terise could muster. “Very efficient, our Sue.’
Debbie smiled. ‘I forgot that you two know each other. Is that how you got hired so quickly?’
‘You can be lucky sometimes.’
She grinned. ‘I wonder if you’ll still think so at seven o’clock tonight.’
‘I thought the workday ended at five?’
‘Maybe for human beings with lives outside the company,’ said Debbie. Then, looking faintly alarmed at her own temerity, she withdrew and closed the door.
The message was obvious. Human beings with lives outside the company didn’t include Ryan Westmore. The man was not only a monster but a slave-driver as well. Charming.
Since the real Miss Ferris could arrive at any moment, Terise decided that she’d better make the most of the twist of fate which had given her access to Ryan Westmore’s private office.
All the same, she hesitated before opening his door, half expecting him to be waiting behind the vast marble slab which comprised his desk. Like everything else in the room it was black. An appropriate colour for a black-hearted man.
The matt black bulk of a compact filing system loomed in his office, seductively accessible. Heading for it, she came up short, aware of eyes boring into her. It was only a portrait, and humiliation washed over her in waves at her foolishness.
If she hadn’t just seen the subject for herself she would have questioned the artist’s interpretation. Ryan Westmore was thirty-two, which made this a recent portrait. It exactly captured his fiercely aquiline features, which would have been scholarly on a less prepossessing man, as well as the intensity in the steel-grey eyes—right down to the smoky rim around the irises. Terise felt as if the painting was looking at her, not the other way around.
The eyes seemed to follow her to the files. The trade assembly material was far more voluminous than she’d expected. Even a cursory inspection would take time.
‘Good. You’re reviewing the files I requested.’
The brisk statement, delivered in a vibrant baritone voice, chilled her into immobility. Debbie had said he was punctual but he was five minutes early, damn him.
‘Welcome to the company, Miss Ferris,’ he said, crossing the office with purposeful strides and sliding behind the desk. He must have been an athlete at some time, to move so economically.
The Zegna suit was expertly tailored, and hinted at muscles sculpted by hard and conscientious use. The hints were enough to leave her mouth arid. He’d been quoted as saying good health was a business asset, especially in a chief executive. If so, his body must have been worth a fortune to Westmore Incorporated.
What was it about him which made her mind shoot off at tangents? she thought furiously. Who cared what shape he was in, or how potent his personal charm? It was probably those very qualities which had beguiled Clair into marrying him and making the biggest mistake of her life.
‘My name is Terise,’ she supplied, since he seemed to expect something from her. Her throat felt so constricted that it was an effort to speak, but he was absorbed in paperwork and didn’t seem to notice.
The breath caught in her throat. Why had she given her real first name? Evidently the absent Miss Ferris didn’t possess a first name, because he showed no reaction. At least Terise could answer to her own name for now, hopefully for long enough to escape before being unmasked.
Even without Clair’s disturbing letters, she didn’t fancy being on the receiving end of this man’s wrath.. It would be
more fun sitting through a cyclone.
‘Very well, Terise.’ A faint smile lifted the corners of his full mouth. Finding that she was staring, she looked away. Such a smile should be declared a lethal weapon. Knowing what kind of man he was hadn’t prepared her for the impact of his personality. No wonder Clair had found it impossible to fight him.
The fog lifted long enough for Terise to register his look of wry amusement. He gestured to the files fanned in her hands. ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable reading those in your office?’
Was it going to be this easy? Her face tightened with the effort to remain impassive. ‘Of course, Mr Westmore. I don’t want to disturb you.’
His eyes travelled lazily over her figure, which was carefully disguised beneath the most businesslike suit she possessed, chosen to blend in at the press conference. Evidently it was not well disguised enough, judging by the frank interest she saw in his eyes.
She knew she wasn’t beautiful. An underdeveloped figure topped by gamine features hardly had model potential, and then there was her hair—a positive cascade of shoulder-length curls which always created the impression that she’d rushed to get where she was going.
The only redeeming feature, she thought, was her colouring. Her genes had kindly combined to provide peach skintones, avocado-green eyes and a hair-colour of soft taupe—like a lion’s mane, her father had described it. It hardly warranted the level of attention Ryan was paying her.
‘You are disturbing me,’ he agreed, unaware of how incredibly mutual the feeling was. He passed a hand over his jaw, as if fighting fatigue. ‘But, since you are, does your union permit you to make coffee for me?’
An unwelcome surge of compassion was hastily suppressed. So he was tired. She ought to be cheering. ‘How do you like it?’ she asked briskly.
‘Black, strong. You’ll find what you need through there.’
Depositing the files in the outer office, she explored through the door he’d indicated, finding a well-equipped kitchenette. He must work late a lot.
