by Marsh, Susan
‘Well, she’s mistaken. We’re in a relationship.’
‘Yes, we are.’
She held his gaze and he sighed in relief, eternally grateful she’d changed her mind.
As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, she said, ‘I owe you an explanation.’
‘You don’t owe me anything.’
He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek, loving it when she rested against him for a moment before straightening.
‘Actually, I do. You’ve been incredibly patient and I’ve behaved like a brat. I want us to start afresh and to do that you have to know what you’re getting into with me.’
‘Okay, shoot.’
Draining the rest of her champagne, she placed the flute on the console rest before laying a reassuring hand on his leg.
‘I’ve never been involved in a relationship before.’
‘Ever?’
She shook her head, blonde hair cascading around her shoulders like the finest gold.
‘It’s all a bit Freudian, actually. My parents had the perfect relationship. You know, the real soul-mate thing, and as a kid I wanted something exactly like it but that all changed when Mum died.’
‘Why?’
He laid his hand on top of hers, hoping his soothing touch was all the incentive she needed to keep going no matter how painful.
‘She was the love of my dad’s life. He shut down emotionally when he lost her, then tried to make up for it by beginning a never-ending quest for something else to fill the void. I just happened to be along for the ride. Having me around was never enough.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Beth raised her gaze from where she’d been focussed on their joined hands, admiring the strength in Aidan’s and how perfectly hers fitted in it.
‘I am too. Everything I’ve done since he died, how I’ve lived my life, the choices I’ve made, were all shaped by him. Or not wanting to be like him, to be precise.’
‘But you’re nothing like your dad if he shut down. You’re bright and bubbly and live life on full throttle.’
‘Yeah, but somehow the “life’s short, play hard” motto didn’t work when I met you.’
‘Why?’
He frowned and she reached up to smooth it away. ‘Because I was terrified of how you made me feel. You’re the guy I’ve dreamed of meeting my entire life, the guy I want to stick around with for the long haul. The guy who makes me dream of that house with the attic and the oak tree and the old tyre hanging from it. The guy who loves adventure as much as I do but who I was scared of losing because of it.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
He captured her hand as it left his brow and drew it towards his mouth where he placed a slow, lingering kiss on her palm.
‘You’re not going to lose me.’
‘I meant by you travelling around, putting your needs ahead of mine—’
‘That’s not going to happen. We’re a team, a partnership. The gallery is just the start.’
He nibbled his way up towards her wrist, his lips hot against her throbbing pulse as he nibbled the skin over it.
‘I better not lose you.’ She smiled as he nipped at her wrist. ‘You know, I hear archaeology is a dangerous profession. You could fall down one of those giant big holes you dig while searching for some relic. You could get crushed by an ancient ruin tumbling on your head. You could—’
‘Fall even harder than I already have,’ he murmured, silencing her with the type of kiss she could only dream about.
‘Fall?’
‘In love with you.’
Her breath caught as the warmth of his smile reflected in his eyes, bathing her in the reassurance she so badly needed.
‘I love you too.’
She cupped his face in her hands, holding him, beseeching him to understand what it meant for her to verbalise her feelings out loud. ‘And if you’re willing to take a risk on an extroverted, fun-loving metal sculptor with a shoe fetish, I’m all yours.’
‘No risk.’
He captured her hands and slowly slid them down his torso till they rested over his heart, the steady beat another reminder of how good this guy was for her.
He would show her the world and a million different ways to enjoy it; she would build a home for them when they tired of travelling.
He’d feed her thirst for adventure, she’d feed his soul with fabulous reasons to come home.
Yin and Yang.
Two perfect halves making a whole.
‘No risk at all. We’re a sure thing.’
‘Too right,’ she said, sliding her hands out from under his to delve into her bag. ‘By the way, I got you a little going-away present.’
Biting on the inside of her cheek to stop from laughing, she handed him the small black foil-wrapped parcel, which he turned over several times, prodded and shook before slowly pulling on the gold ribbon binding it.
‘Hurry it up. We’ll be in Rio by the time you open it.’
‘Haven’t you heard the old saying good things come to those who wait …?’
The rest of what he’d been about to say died on his lips as the wrapping fell open to reveal a matching pair of exquisite amethyst silk scarves, which he picked up and slid through his fingers, the slow, sensuous movement causing heat to flow through her body as he stared at her with desire.
‘Does this mean you want to tie me up?’
‘For ever,’ she murmured, tugging on the scarves, bringing him close enough to kiss.
‘Sounds like a plan.’
And as the plane taxied down the runway, they made a few more.
‘Six months on the road at digs, six months in Melbourne for you to sculpt?’
‘Deal.’
‘We keep the gallery and use it to showcase our talents?’
‘Deal.’
‘We give this relationship a trial before doing the “till death do us part” thing?’
‘No deal.’
Hating the momentary panic flaring on his face, she said, ‘Who needs a trial? Some smart guy once said we’re both adventurers. So how about it? You in this for the long haul?’
‘With you by my side I’m up for anything.’
‘Really?’
She sent a pointed glance at his groin, raising an eyebrow.
‘You’re killing me, Fancy Feet.’
‘Not yet, but it’s a long flight, Professor,’ she said, draping a blanket over his lap and sliding her hand up his thigh.
He clamped a hand over hers, laughing when she struggled and the blanket became a tug of war.
‘I can get used to this.’ He angled in for a swift kiss, which disarmed her completely. ‘Travelling together, having fun together …’
‘I’m all for fun.’ She tugged the blanket back over both of them and snuggled into him, more content than she’d ever been. ‘And I’m also all yours.’
‘Right back at you.’
And as Aidan hugged her close, the plane soared skywards and Beth hummed ‘Love is in the Air’ under her breath she knew without a shadow of a doubt that some risks were worth taking.
All the way.
TAKEN BY
THE MAVERICK
MILLIONAIRE
ANNA CLEARY
About the Author
As a child, ANNA CLEARY loved reading so much that during the midnight hours she was forced to read with a torch under the bedcovers, to lull the suspicions of her sleep-obsessed parents. From an early age she dreamed of writing her own books. She saw herself in a stone cottage by the sea, wearing a velvet smoking jacket and sipping sherry, like Somerset Maugham.
In real life she became a schoolteacher, and her greatest pleasure was teaching children to write beautiful stories.
A little while ago, she and one of her friends made a pact to each write the first chapter of a romance novel in their holidays. From writing her very first line Anna was hooked, and she gave up teaching to become a fulltime writer. She now lives in Queensland, with a deeply sensitive and
intelligent cat. She prefers champagne to sherry, and loves music, books, four-legged people, trees, movies and restaurants.
For Beth, the heroine of my heart.
PROLOGUE
TOM RUSSELL stood BY his father’s grave and surveyed the rolling pastures. The morning was fresh with smells of earth and grass. All the way to the boundary fence the grass sprang tall, its lush green enriched by its contrast with the flat brown stubble of the farmer’s on the other side. His private creek, fed by the mighty Hunter, was awash, little waterfalls gurgling down its pebbly path, the willows on its bank glowing with new greenery, soaking their privileged toes.
Horse country. Heartland of the Russell newspaper dynasty. And now it was his.
If he could hang onto it.
He drew the crumpled paper from his jeans pocket and smoothed it out. Though he knew them by heart, the spidery words sprang out to gut him afresh.
My son,
By now you’ll know what I’ve done. I want you to understand, boy, that I did it for you as much as for charity. Sometimes a man needs a shock to see what’s important. The big money’s gone, but you’re a true newspaperman at heart, like your old man, and you can probably save Russell Inc if you want to.
Tom, I lost a woman once myself, and I know what it is to grieve. But I also know that the best way to get over a woman is to find another one. You’ve still got your shares in the company and a little bit of property. Find yourself a nice girl who doesn’t care about money …
As always when he reached that line, Tom crushed the letter in his fist and shoved it back into his pocket. The irony of it.
Another woman.
That was always his father’s solution.
As if there could be a woman to replace Sandra. But he could rebuild his inheritance. He could use what was left to claw it all back. In the meantime, he could trade on his reputation and his finance skills to keep what was left of the corporation ticking over. Marry it off to the highest bidder, if necessary. Keep the cash flowing, pay the salaries … Pay the bequests to his stepsisters.
It could be done. It could.
If he could keep his father’s last act a secret. All he needed were weeks. Just a few more weeks …
CHAPTER ONE
MARCUS RUSSELL was dead. Tom, his brilliant, ruthless son, had taken charge of his empire. On the Friday morning of the memorial service, two weeks after the old media magnate had been buried under a Hunter Valley gum tree, cathedral bells rang out across Sydney Harbour, summoning the rich and powerful to pay their respects.
In the dressing room of his hotel suite, Tom Russell gave his reflection a critical last glance. His charcoal suit was cut with the required elegance, enhancing the athletic power of his well-made frame. Likewise, his ebony shirt of finest Italian fabric, his pearl silk tie and hand-stitched shoes. If his blood pressure was slightly elevated, the tense little beat in his temple was contained. His steel-grey eyes held the usual degree of sardonic assurance, his harsh, tanned face the control.
No one would guess the nightmare he was living.
He held out his hands and accorded them grim approval. Steady as a rock.
With his raven hair cut crisp and close, he was as groomed, sleek and polished as any of the race of highflying billionaires he belonged to. Used to belong to. And would again.
He clenched his lean hands. If—if he could keep the lid on.
* * *
From her desk at the Sydney Clarion’s newsroom, Cate Summerfield could see the Russell yacht, its flags at half-mast, embarked on a graceful honour lap of Sydney Harbour.
‘Just look at that,’ Cate glowered, narrowing her green eyes. ‘It’s probably worth enough to feed Africa for a decade.’
The schooner bowed to the swell, its white sails billowing against the glittering blue. It had been reported that Tom Russell had outfitted the luxury vessel into a floating hospital, so the waves could lull his dying father to sleep on the days he could find no rest.
It was a far cry from the care Cate could afford for her darling gran. The frail souls at the Autumn Leaves Nursing Home counted themselves lucky even to have beds to rest their aching old bones in. The nurses didn’t even have time to feed the helpless ones. Patients like Gran, who was on the waiting list for heart surgery, had to rely on their relatives to come in and help them eat their evening meals. It was probably that cold reality that had spurred Cate to be unusually terse in the obituary she’d written for the media mogul.
She’d done thorough research, digging through the archives of all the rival news chains—Russell’s own, even the powerful Wests. Conscientious in her attempts to achieve balance, she hadn’t shrunk from quoting some of his harshest critics, including a choice selection of the epithets his enemies had used to flay him. The piece was her best so far, in her modest opinion. Honest, she’d judged it, though Marge on the neighbouring desk had called it ‘biting.’
She’d held her breath after she’d filed it, but it had made it past the legal hawks and gone to press. Afterwards people in the newsroom seemed to look at her differently. Steve Wilson, the Clarion’s star reporter and resident heartbreaker, had stopped referring to her as Blondie for at least a day, and Harry, their Chief of Staff, whom she’d never seen show any emotion in two years, had raised his eyebrows and whistled.
Still, even a work of art wouldn’t win her a spot on the front page. That would go to the journalist lucky enough to cover the memorial service.
Cate turned her gaze to the newsroom. Though early, already above the ceaseless background buzz of the television monitors the room was alive with the tapping of keyboards, and the constant ringing of the phones.
‘The sharks are circling.’ Marge winked towards a little cluster of glory chasers gathered around the news desk.
The news journalists were lounging about, swapping languid yarns, but everyone knew what they were after. They were waiting for Harry to announce whom he’d chosen to represent the Clarion at the memorial, salivating for the chance to corner Tom Russell.
Cate’s money was on Steve, who boasted more contacts than Telstra. Even though she’d been engaged to him for a stressful forty-seven days, and knew how clever he was, to her mind Barbara, whose lovely face and sleek hair accompanied a razor-sharp brain, or tough, experienced Toni, who chewed politicians for breakfast, were equally deserving. They all had a special sort of gloss that had nothing to do with conditioning treatments.
She sighed and pushed a long, wavy strand of her pale hair back behind one ear.
If—when—she joined that elite group, she’d write stories that mattered. She’d build up a readership, renegotiate her salary. Make it big with a few stories, earn some respect …
Cate grimaced. Dream on, girl. The Clarion was renowned for its fearless battle against corruption in high places. It had taken down many a politician or dishonest businessman, but she couldn’t take personal credit for any of them. In her two years there, she’d worked on everything except the columns that counted.
On the night their engagement had crashed, among other vicious remarks Steve Wilson had made about what he called her obsessive concern for Gran, he’d sneered that she was too soft to make a top news reporter. Even Marge said she tried too hard to think the best of people.
They couldn’t be more wrong. Underneath Cate’s annoying curls, pale skin and the soft curves bequeathed to her by some Scandinavian ancestor, she was tougher than she looked. Long before Gran’s heart emergency, she’d been dying to rip open the fat underbelly of the privileged rich and expose them with her brave, incisive words.
All she needed was a chance to report on someone living. Dead people, even dead media legends, didn’t generate scoops. Scoops went with live players. And if she was ever to get off Obituaries, a scoop was what she had to have.
She leafed back through her photo file to a rare shot she’d unearthed of Tom Russell. Now, he was alive. At thirty-four, his harsh, sardonic face with his glinting grey eyes, arrogant cheek
bones and firm, masculine chin, was stirring in its vitality.
‘Did you manage to dig any dirt on him?’ Marge said, peering over at the image, her lively brown eyes alight with interest.
Cate hesitated. She’d dug up heaps on old Marcus. It had been easy.
As a young woman, Gran had worked for one of his big dailies, before he’d sacked her and some of her colleagues in order to turn his respected newspaper into a trashy tabloid. Everything he’d done since had only reinforced Gran’s anger with him.
Gran had never missed an opportunity to point out the evils of his ways. Even in Cate’s eyes he’d done nothing of value with his wealth, except to indulge his own extravagant tastes and flamboyant lifestyle.
His son, though, was a more elusive target. Tom Russell had spent a number of years in England, running the Russell media enterprises there. Gran had never had much to say about him.
‘I only found what everyone knows,’ she said, handing Marge the photo. ‘You know, about how he came back here to take over a few years ago when the old man first took ill. The ruthless strategic war he’s waging against Olivia West’s chain—’
‘Not to mention the ruthless strategic war he’s waging against us.’
Cate shrugged. ‘Well, he is a businessman. It’s strange, though. I couldn’t find a thing about his private life, except the tragedy, of course. Nothing at all about girlfriends.’
The truth was that, since the death of Tom Russell’s wife in a car accident in England a couple of years ago, very little of a personal nature was ever reported about him. He was never seen at the big society bashes or charity dos.
‘His wife was somebody famous, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she a scientist?’
Marge nodded. ‘Medical research. Some genetic studies, I think.’
‘Well, she doesn’t sound like the usual trophy wife men like him seem to go for. Are you sure there would be dirt?’ Cate met Marge’s cheerful, cynical gaze. ‘Maybe Tom isn’t over her death.’
