Convenient Brides

by Catherine Spencer

  Damien’s brows rose speculatively as he turned his gaze back to Emily. ‘That sounds promising.’

  Emily refused to respond to his satirical look and instead turned to inspect the menu on the table in front of her.

  ‘I saw you on the breakfast show,’ he said, taking the chair next to hers.

  Emily had no choice but to look at him. ‘I’m surprised. I thought you had no time for the media,’ she said, re-inspecting the menu.

  ‘I like to keep myself informed of the latest developments,’ he commented drily.

  Emily shrugged dismissively. ‘I hope you weren’t disappointed.’

  ‘On the contrary. I was surprised you spoke so magnan-imously of me.’

  She met his dark gaze levelly. ‘I could have said a whole lot more, but kind of figured the PG rating of the show would preclude the bit about you forcing yourself on me.’

  He didn’t even flinch. ‘I didn’t realise you had such scruples,’ he said with a wry twist to his mouth. ‘Perhaps I should’ve gone for broke.’

  She glared at him, sparks of vitriol brightening her blue eyes. ‘In your dreams, Mr Margate,’ she drawled insolently.

  He laughed as he shifted his chair to make way for the approaching Nadine, her film crew trailing her like devoted slaves.

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ he said cryptically and, standing, turned to greet the crew.

  They were led to one of the deluxe suites where the lighting men were already setting up. Cameras were being positioned and make-up assistants buzzed about with palettes of foundation to counteract the harsh lighting on Nadine Brereton’s face.

  ‘Now, if Miss Sherwood would sit here—’ Nadine directed her with a perfectly manicured hand ‘—and if Mr Margate sits here, next to me, we can get things rolling. Ready Joe?’

  The head cameraman nodded as he focused in on his subjects.

  ‘Hello, and welcome to Afternoon Muse. This is Nadine Brereton reporting live from the Regent Hotel, and with me are two intriguing guests. Firstly, I have beside me a biographer who is proposing to write about the illustrious, and may I say somewhat mysterious life of one of Australia’s most noted stage actresses, Rose Margate. I also have with me the nephew of Ms Margate, Mr Damien Margate, who has kindly agreed to an interview. Firstly, Miss Sherwood, is it true that you are currently facing intense family opposition in order to document Ms Margate’s life?’

  Emily faced the camera squarely, her expression determined. One whiff, she reminded herself, and her contract would be shredded along with her career.

  ‘No, not exactly. One family member has been incredibly generous with his time and attention. His input has been crucial to my research.’

  Damien’s derisive snort was audible to Emily, but she hoped it would be edited out in the short delay to transmission.

  ‘That would be Rose’s other nephew, Danny Margate?’ Nadine clarified.

  Emily nodded. ‘Danny Margate is extremely fond of his aunt and wanted an authentic and accurate account of her life for the public to enjoy.’

  ‘Is it true that you haven’t actually interviewed Ms Margate personally?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  Nadine Brereton tilted her head in an imitation of puzzlement. ‘But how can one document someone’s life accurately without having directly interviewed the person?’ she asked.

  ‘Biographies don’t usually give word-for-word accounts of people’s lives. Very often biographies of famous people are written long after they have passed away. Writers use various sources of information, such as journals, photographic records, interviews with close friends and family,’ Emily explained.

  ‘But the Margate family—apart from Danny Margate, that is—have been most uncooperative, isn’t that correct?’

  Emily glanced at Damien, who was still sitting to one side of her, his expression inscrutable.

  ‘I’m sure they have their reasons,’ she said diplomatically.

  ‘Mr Margate.’ Nadine turned to Damien. ‘What is your major objection to Miss Sherwood’s account of your aunt’s life?’

  Damien’s eyes slid from Emily’s to face the camera.

  ‘I have no objection to biographies per se. I do, however, have an objection to biographies that are written against the express wishes of family members.’

  ‘So you’ve been against this from the outset? Is that correct?’ Nadine probed.

  Emily’s hands tightened in her lap and her breath stalled in her chest as she waited for his reply to Nadine’s question.

  ‘My aunt Rose chose to leave public life fifteen years ago. She gave more than thirty-five years of her life to her fans, oftentimes leaving little time for herself. She has not in any way authorised this account of her life and therefore neither do I.’

  ‘Is it true that you intend to take legal action if this book, Rose’s Cupboard, is released as planned?’

  Damien’s expression became shuttered. ‘I am hoping to avoid legal action,’ he said, flicking a glance Emily’s way.

  Emily crossed her fingers and prayed her editors were so busy with their huge slush pile they wouldn’t be watching.

  ‘Miss Sherwood—’ the camera swung back to Emily ‘—are you prepared to fight for your right to write Rose’s Cupboard, no matter what it takes?’

  Emily met the dark challenging stare of Damien’s eyes before turning back to Nadine.

  ‘Months of work have gone into researching this book. Rose Margate has thousands of fans who long to hear about her life, especially since she disappeared from the theatre. This book will be a collection of photo memorabilia as well as an account of her earlier years, which I’m sure will be of great interest to many.’

  ‘Mr Margate—’ Nadine addressed Damien once more ‘—there will be many who no doubt agree with Miss Sherwood. What harm can it do to have a collector’s item such as Rose’s Cupboard to celebrate the magnificent achievements of one of Australia’s most loved actresses?’

  ‘If Rose’s Cupboard was going to be written with the express wish of highlighting the many outstanding achievements of my aunt I would have no objection. However, Miss Sherwood already has a reputation for exploiting those she chooses to write about, sometimes with tragic consequences. I have nothing against Miss Sherwood trying to make a living, but I am determined she will do it with someone other than a member of my immediate family as her subject.’

  Emily rose angrily in her chair, but the cameraman had swung to Nadine, who was wrapping up for a commercial break at the director’s urgent signal.

  ‘Looks like you, the public, will have to decide for yourselves. Is biographer Emily Sherwood exploiting the Margate name for her own gain? Or is she simply offering the public a treasured documentation of a much loved celebrity’s life? You know the e-mail, you know the phone number, you know the channel,’ she quipped. ‘Let me know what your opinion is. Thank you to my guests, and when we return I’ll be speaking with the head of the new emergency clinic recently opened at St Stephen’s Private Hospital. Back in a moment.’

  ‘That man is going to need more than an emergency clinic before I’ve finished with him!’ Emily hissed at Clarice as she swept past the camera tripods.

  ‘Now, now, my pet,’ Clarice soothed. ‘Think of the extra sales after that little exchange. That’s exactly the sort of publicity you need.’

  Emily glared across to where Damien was standing talking to Nadine Brereton. He looked back at her, his eyes darkening challengingly as they meshed with hers. She turned on her heel and swept from the room, not caring whether Clarice was ready to leave or not. She had to get out of there, and fast, before she lost control. Never had she felt so angry. Damien Margate had manipulated the interview to cast her in the role of devious money-hungry reporter, stopping at nothing to get a cheap story.

  She stomped towards the nearest lift, stabbing at the call button savagely.

  ‘Miss Sherwood?’

  Emily swung round at the sound of his deep voice.

/>   ‘Don’t you “Miss Sherwood” me, you—you—bastard!’

  His brows rose at her vehemence as the lift opened behind her. She stepped in and tried to block him joining her. The lift doors pinged open against the steel of his out-stretched arm and she moved to the back of the carriage, her back tight against the wall, her eyes blazing with rage.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ he said calmly.

  ‘You just did,’ she spat. ‘In front of about three million people!’

  ‘In private. No cameras, no interviewers.’

  ‘Why?’ She regarded him suspiciously. ‘So you can touch me up when you feel like it?’

  His jaw clenched and she felt a thin thread of victory at cracking his cool composure.

  ‘You didn’t offer too many objections at the time,’ he reminded her ungallantly.

  She didn’t have the chance to retaliate as just then the lift doors opened and he began shepherding her out towards the hotel exit.

  ‘What are you doing?’ She tugged at his hold on her arm. ‘I’m not going with you!’

  Damien’s hold tightened as he signalled for the concierge to hail a cab.

  Emily was speechless. His hand around her slim wrist was biting into her flesh, and even though she dragged her feet as he tugged, her body kept following in his wake as if of its own volition.

  He bundled her unceremoniously into a cab and barked out an address that in her distress and anger she didn’t quite catch.

  ‘This is abduction!’ she railed. ‘Excuse me!’ She tapped on the perspex shield surrounding the cab driver. ‘This man is abducting me—please take me to the nearest police station.’

  The cab driver just smiled, muttered something and shook his head uncomprehendingly. Emily glared at the driver’s identification photo on the dashboard and swore. The name printed there was as foreign as his heavy, unintelligible accent, and she stamped her foot in anger and frustration.

  ‘I’ll have you charged,’ she flared at Damien.

  ‘You and whose army?’ he mocked.

  She ground her teeth and dug her nails into his arm where it still had hold of her other wrist.

  ‘Stop it, you little wildcat!’ He swore as he sucked at his arm.

  A funny sensation pooled in Emily’s lower belly at his action. Her breath caught in her lungs as she watched as his mouth salved the broken skin of his forearm.

  The cab pulled in to the kerb and Emily instantly recognised Damien’s Double Bay house. He reached across to pay the fare and she flinched as his arm brushed against her breast.

  ‘Get out,’ he said, opening the door for her.

  ‘Get lost.’

  He reached for her wrist with an exasperated sigh and she found herself bundled out on to the pavement with little regard for either the short skirt she was wearing or the expensive silk stockings which hadn’t appreciated the seatbelt buckle on the way past.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done!’ She indicated the long ladder running up under the hem of her skirt.

  ‘Touché,’ he said, indicating the blood-lined scratch on his arm with a sardonic tilt of his dark head.

  She had no choice but to accompany him inside. He practically frogmarched her to the front door, deactivating the alarm on his way through, only letting go of her arm once the heavy door had shut behind him.

  She faced him mutinously, her chest still pumping with fury at his mishandling of her. ‘If you so much as lay a finger on me I swear I’ll—’

  ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  Emily crossed her arms protectively across her chest. ‘Then why the kidnap routine? Or is this how you usually ask a girl round for coffee?’

  He gave a disarming laugh.

  Emily felt her own mouth twitching but clamped her teeth down to stop it. He had a nice laugh; she’d give him that. Deep and melodious. And the way his dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners softened his normally harsh features, making him almost handsome.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ he asked, still smiling.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to have a coffee, so come and talk to me while I get it ready.’ He left her standing there, so, rather than stare at her own outraged reflection in the huge mirror in the foyer, she followed him into the spacious kitchen down the hall.

  ‘If you weren’t researching my aunt what would you be working on right now?’ he asked conversationally, and she wished she’d stayed put. She didn’t want to talk to him about herself. She didn’t want to talk to him, period.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said despondently, perching on a stool against the granite bench. ‘More’s the pity.’

  ‘Money troubles?’ he asked, reaching for the kettle.

  ‘Not if I get an advance on this book,’ she said, giving him a hard look, wondering if he’d been investigating her financial records.

  He spooned ground coffee into the jug and filled it with boiling water, then leaned back to study her.

  ‘I hope you understand that this is nothing personal. I don’t wish you to face financial ruin, but then neither do I wish to see my aunt exploited to pay for your next holiday.’

  ‘Nothing personal?’ she fired at him. ‘You damn near assaulted me! What could be more personal than that?’

  ‘As is typical of people with your choice of career, your imagination is once again working overtime.’

  ‘And I suppose it was my imagination that ripped my stockings to shreds and dislocated my wrist?’

  He closed the distance between them and picked up her arm, turning it over in his hands as gently as if it were priceless porcelain.

  ‘No bruises,’ he said, letting it go again.

  She pouted and cradled her arm against her stomach.

  ‘It still hurt like hell.’

  As he depressed the filter his gaze settled on the petulant bow of her mouth.

  ‘You are such a drama queen. You’re wasted as a writer—I can think of at least three daytime soaps you’d slot into brilliantly.’

  She spun away from his mocking smile and moved to inspect the view from the kitchen window.

  ‘How do you have your coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘Black with—’ Then she remembered she wasn’t having coffee. ‘Nothing. I’m having nothing.’

  He poured two mugs of coffee and handed her one.

  ‘The sugar’s on that shelf behind you; teaspoons are in the drawer in front of you.’

  Emily breathed in the aroma of freshly ground coffee and wished she hadn’t been so adamant. She’d been up since four a.m. and the breakfast show had offered her everything but breakfast.

  Damien leaned his hip against the granite bench and sipped his drink, his eyes never leaving her face.

  ‘I have decaf, if you’d prefer,’ he offered laconically.

  ‘What I’d prefer is you being straight with me. What’s the point of all this?’ She waved her arm to encompass the scene before them. ‘You didn’t bring me here to have coffee.’

  ‘The coffee’s a bonus.’

  She rolled her eyes expressively. ‘Let’s cut through the play-acting and get to the point. What do you want from me?’

  He pushed himself away from the bench and closed the distance between them. He put his coffee cup down beside her own untouched one and his eyes locked with hers. She drew in a sharp little breath that pricked at her lungs all the way down.

  ‘I told you what I wanted the other day,’ he said, his voice gravelly and deep.

  Her eyes flickered to his mouth and back to his chocolate gaze.

  ‘I…I can’t do that.’ She swallowed. ‘I just can’t.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  She licked her bone-dry lips, fighting for time. ‘Please, I need to write this book and I need it to sell. You’re in finance—surely you must know how it is? I can’t survive without it. I have commitments, a mortgage—’

  ‘Withdraw the book proposal
and I’ll see to your commitments.’

  ‘What?’ She gawped at him.

  ‘You heard. Withdraw it and I’ll settle all your debts.’

  ‘You can’t be serious?’ She stared at him incredulously. ‘Surely there must be some sort of catch?’

  ‘There is,’ he stated simply.

  ‘And that is?’

  He paused. She held her breath, somehow knowing instinctively that she wasn’t going to like this. She was right.

  ‘I want you to marry me.’

  Emily’s mouth dropped open and her eyes threatened to pop right out of her head. ‘Is this some sort of sick joke?’ she asked once her voice returned.

  He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. ‘No joke—I’m serious.’

  She stared at him in horror. ‘You’d go that far to stop me?’

  He shrugged again. ‘Take it or leave it. I have the means to set you up so you don’t have to pen another unscrupulous word.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’d go to such lengths—’

  ‘It would be a marriage in name only,’ he said.

  ‘Now who’s auditioning for a daytime soap?’ she quipped drily.

  ‘I mean it. I find myself in the unenviable position of needing a wife on paper. Taxes and so on, if you understand.’

  ‘I hear there are desperate women in Asia looking for an Australian passport,’ she put in.

  ‘I’ve decided that you’ll do.’

  ‘I’m flattered—I think.’ She frowned at him darkly. ‘Tell me, what was it that won you? My looks, or my way with words? Or perhaps it was that glimpse you got of my inner thigh when you slaughtered my stockings in the taxi?’

  He laughed and reached for his coffee. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’ He chuckled. ‘You’d be wasted on a daytime soap. You deserve your own show.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re finding this amusing because I sure as hell am not. What am I supposed to say to my agent, not to mention my publisher?’

  He sipped at his coffee in a leisurely manner before answering her. ‘I think you should tell them you’re getting married and wish to stall the writing of your book for a few months.’

  ‘Months?’

  ‘Weeks, then,’ he acceded. ‘Who knows? By then, if you behave yourself, I might even arrange for you to interview Rose personally.’