Bundle of Brides

by Kay Thorpe

  His tall, broad-shouldered frame, dark hair, with the sculptured facial features of a warrior.

  It was three months since she had walked out of the loft apartment she’d shared with her husband of little more than a year, in a move that had seen her take a flight from his native New York to Melbourne, Australia…and home.

  Three months, three weeks and two days…but who was counting? A qualified lawyer, she had a good job, had leased a nice apartment, and life was good.

  Wasn’t it?

  In her late twenties, she was where she wanted to be, among friends, familiar territory, and far distant from her husband’s high-flying lifestyle. His family, social commitments, and his supposed former lover. Supposed, given his denial any intimacy had occurred.

  Lianne assured herself she should be pleased she’d made the decision to file for divorce. Relieved that she’d chosen to close the final page on a disastrous chapter in her life.

  So why did she feel empty? And the slightly sick feeling in her stomach…what was that?

  She reached the gazebo, turned, and began retracing her steps.

  Eighteen months ago Tyler Benedict had entered her life, swept her off her feet, proposed, and put a ring on her finger. All in the space of a month.

  He’d been her moon, the stars, an entire galaxy, and she’d loved him with every cell in her body, her heart, her soul.

  So when had it all gone wrong?

  It hadn’t been any one thing, Lianne reflected as she re-entered the building foyer and took the lift to her designated floor.

  More a combination of several concerns, each minor in their own way. Except they had added up, multiplied, and become something she could no longer ignore.

  That had been when the arguments and accusations began, for which no apology compensated for the hurt, the pain. Looming over which there had been Mette, the tall, blonde Danish model who vowed a preexisting friendship gave her licence to demand Tyler’s attention. Not to mention Tyler’s family, who didn’t pretend to understand why he’d discarded Mette, the daughter of a lifelong family friend, for someone he’d only known a month.

  The receptionist ignored the persistent burr of an incoming call. ‘Michael Sloane wants to see you a.s.a.p.’

  Lianne’s nerves tightened a little. ‘Senior, or junior?’

  Michael senior was one of three head partners, and a pedantic, fault-finding man who could offer praise one day and verbally vilify the next.

  His mercurial moods were well-known, and one staff member had been sufficiently brave to suggest it was a deliberately adopted persona as a method to keep everyone on their toes.

  Whereas his son, Michael junior, had entered law at his father’s insistence. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he was the spoiled only child of overindulgent parents…a wealthy playboy who charmed clients and who had developed the fine art of appearing busy whilst burdening junior staff with his work.

  ‘Senior.’

  Lianne lifted an enquiring eyebrow and received an expressive eye-roll in response.

  ‘Like that, huh?’

  ‘Oh, yeah.’

  Just what she needed.

  Lianne took a deep breath and walked towards the separate lift accessing the penthouse.

  For it was at this exalted level that the lauded echelon of senior partners occupied individual office suites, each of which comprised the office and a client lounge, manned by the partner’s personal assistant and secretary.

  Three men whose clientele numbered among the cream of Melbourne’s wealthy society.

  A requested meeting with Michael Sloane senior succeeded in sending her vivid imagination into overdrive.

  Had she made some ghastly mistake? Was she in for a metaphorical tap on the wrist for being late this morning? Or perhaps Pamela Whitcroft had filed an unflattering report following their consultation?

  Focus, she admonished silently as she entered the exclusive sanctum where expensive furnishings and valuable antique furniture were the norm and original art graced wall-space.

  There was a smell of lemon beeswax and fresh flowers in a tall wide vase provided a magnificent display.

  ‘My dear, please come through.’

  If Michael Sloane’s personal appearance in the reception lounge came as a surprise, the my dear almost rendered her speechless.

  She couldn’t begin to think, let alone rationalise the purpose as she entered his sumptuous office.

  ‘Make yourself comfortable.’ He indicated a clutch of leather-buttoned armchairs positioned in a gracious curve, waited until she was seated, then he crossed to his executive desk and turned to face her.

  Purported to be in his early sixties, his height and military bearing held formidable authority.

  ‘I imagine you’re curious as to why I’ve summoned you here?’

  That had to be the understatement of the year!

  ‘Surprised, Mr Sloane,’ Lianne amended with polite deference.

  ‘Oh, please…let’s dispense with formality.’ His smile held warmth. ‘As we’ll be working quite closely together, I grant you permission to use my Christian name.’

  Excuse me?

  ‘I see the need for an explanation,’ he said kindly.

  And then some! She felt as if she’d suddenly lost direction. Oh, heavens…Michael? No one got to call any of the three most senior partners by their Christian name.

  ‘Thank you,’ she managed with a calmness she was far from feeling.

  ‘The firm has recently acquired a new client. A very influential client,’ Michael Sloane elaborated. ‘With international status. He already has private residential investments in Australia. He now intends to expand his property portfolio and extend his business interests here.’

  It had to encompass a large scale, Lianne surmised, otherwise Michael Sloane wouldn’t give it his personal attention.

  ‘Primarily in Melbourne?’

  ‘The client will use Melbourne as his base. He has indicated interest in Sydney, the Gold Coast, Brisbane and Cairns.’

  Extensive, she allowed silently. ‘His nationality?’

  ‘American.’

  Her nervous system jolted into active life, and she silently cursed herself for a fool for even thinking Tyler.

  Tyler Benedict and that part of her life was over. She’d dealt with it, and had moved on.

  Liar. Hardly a day went by when she didn’t think about her soon-to-be ex-husband…or a night when he didn’t invade her dreams.

  It was maddening, and frustrating as hell. A few months on it should have become…less. Yet his image was as vivid as the first time she had met him. Worse, she conceded, for then she’d only been consumed with the promise of what they might share…now she had the memory of endless nights spent in his arms, his touch, his kiss, and the way he could drive her beyond ecstasy.

  Stop it.

  There was no purpose to this. Tyler was on the other side of the world, wheeling and dealing, with Mette or some other sophisticated beauty hanging on to his every word.

  He probably didn’t pause to give his in-the-process-of-becoming ex-wife a thought, and if he did it would only be to shake his head at the folly of rushing into a marriage that had been doomed from the start.

  ‘I’m flattered you’ve selected me to assist you,’ Lianne offered quietly, and met Michael Sloane’s thoughtful gaze.

  ‘You’re naturally curious as to the reason why.’

  When he could have chosen his son, or any one of several eminently suitable qualified staff who’d been in the firm’s employ much longer than she? ‘Yes.’

  Her honest response brought forth a faint smile.

  ‘Your personnel file revealed you lived and worked for a time in the States.’

  ‘New York.’ She should feel incredibly pleased to have been plucked from relative obscurity into prominence as Michael Sloane’s assistant. So why was she getting a strange feeling about all of this? It didn’t make sense.

  ‘You will, of course, rec
eive an increased salary package.’ He mentioned a figure that was more than generous. ‘Together with certain privileges.’

  A new office, her own secretary…it was all a bit much. And Michael…who else but Shane Everton and Dante Shell called Michael Sloane Michael?

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You will report to this level, as from tomorrow. A copy of the client’s file will be made available, and you will take instructions from me.’

  ‘I understand. It would help if I could ascertain some background information on the client.’ It would also help her to breathe more easily to eliminate Tyler from the equation.

  He checked his watch. ‘You’ll get to meet him. I expect my personal assistant to announce his arrival within minutes.’

  The communication module on his desk gave a discreet burr and he reached for the receiver. ‘Yes, show him through.’

  Lianne rose to her feet and turned to face the door, aware of an elevated sense of nerves.

  There was a split second when Caroline James stood in the aperture, then she stepped to one side, her smile professionally faultless.

  ‘Tyler Benedict.’

  For a mindless few seconds everything came to a screeching halt…including Lianne’s heartbeat.

  It was almost as if she was viewing a Technicolor movie and someone hit the pause button.

  Dear God.

  It was only a week since she’d indicated her intention to set divorce proceedings in motion. Seven days during which she’d agonised over his possible reaction.

  Was he intent on playing a deliberate game? Or was his presence here now merely coincidence?

  Even thinking it might be the former set her nerves into a jangling mess.

  ‘Tyler. I trust you had a good flight?’

  ‘Thank you. Yes.’

  The sound of his voice, pure New York drawl, curled round her nerve-endings and tugged a little.

  Lianne forced herself to meet his gaze, aware of just how much effort it took to retain it.

  He looked…incredible, she conceded.

  In his late thirties, the European tailoring fit his tall broad frame as if it had been made especially for him. Which it probably had. He possessed an innate grace that reminded her of a sleek jungle animal, all muscular power and a waiting, watchful quality that boded ill for an unwary prey.

  Broad-boned facial structure, piercing grey eyes and a mouth that promised a thousand sensual delights.

  And had delivered, Lianne reflected, remembering all too easily how it had felt to move beneath him, over him. To become one, and forget who or what she was…except his. Only his.

  The warmth of his smile, the way his eyes had softened whenever he looked at her…the antithesis of the impersonal demeanour now evident, for there was a hardness apparent, a ruthlessness that was almost chilling.

  ‘My assistant, Lianne Marshall.’ Michael Sloane effected the introduction, and for a millisecond she thought she glimpsed a primitive darkening in Tyler’s grey eyes. Then it was gone and she was left to wonder if it had merely been a trick of the light.

  Tyler inclined his head fractionally, his expression impossible to read as he subjected her to a lingering, almost searching, appraisal, taking in her petite frame with its slender curves, attractive facial features, upswept ash-blonde hair, the sapphire-blue eyes.

  ‘Lianne,’ he acknowledged with drawled politeness.

  ‘Please—’ Michael senior indicated a selection of leather chairs ‘—take a seat.’

  Awareness fizzed through her veins, activating every nerve-end until her whole body hummed with sensual heat. A reaction that brought a sense of helpless anger…with herself, him.

  Act. And remember to breathe. Slowly.

  You can do this, she assured herself silently.

  Tyler chose the chair next to her own, and this close she could sense the subtle tones of his cologne mingling with the faint clean smell of freshly laundered clothes.

  There was something else, an indefinable essence that was intensely male and uniquely his.

  It attacked the fragile tenure of her control and tested it. She didn’t like it, didn’t want it…just as she would rather be anywhere but here.

  Except she was sufficiently mature to separate her business and private lives. Wasn’t she?

  And this was solely business. Following this initial meeting, it was doubtful she’d have much contact with Tyler.

  Tyler would consult with Michael Sloane. Her participation would be restricted to behind the scenes, checking documentation, title searches, liaising, making endless phone calls and relaying all relevant information to her boss.

  How difficult could it be?

  Who do you think you’re kidding?

  Tyler’s manner was pleasant, but only a fool would fail to detect the underlying steel as he outlined his modus operandi, his expectations of Sloane, Everton, Shell and Associates, and Michael Sloane senior in particular.

  Tyler was there, in her face, and his presence taxed her composure to the limit.

  It came as a tremendous relief when he brought the consultation to a close.

  Every minute seemed to have crawled by at snail’s pace, and she hid her surprise as a surreptitious glance at her watch revealed only twenty minutes had passed.

  ‘Michael.’ Tyler inclined as he rose to his feet, then he turned towards her. ‘Lianne.’

  She forced herself to meet his gaze, glimpsed the coolness in those dark grey eyes, and matched it for a few seconds before she inclined her head.

  It was over…for now. Impossible not to add that qualification as Michael senior crossed the room, opened the door and ushered Tyler into the care of his personal assistant.

  Lianne’s relief was palpable, although she managed to disguise it as her boss closed the door and took a seat behind his impressive desk.

  ‘The client has orchestrated a punishing schedule.’

  Lianne could almost visualize Michael senior using a mental calculator as he added up an obscene amount in legal fees.

  Instinct warned that Tyler’s presence in Australia, Melbourne, and specifically his choice of Sloane, Everton, Shell and Associates as his legal advisors wasn’t coincidental.

  Which meant he’d kept tabs on her.

  Wondering why occupied her mind for what remained of the afternoon, while she fought peak hour traffic to suburban Brighton, and as she rode the lift to her apartment.

  The marriage was over, divorce was her considered option, they hadn’t exactly parted as friends, and she’d refused to take any one of his phone calls.

  What hellish game was Tyler intent on playing?

  CHAPTER TWO

  LIANNE inserted the key into the lock and breathed a sigh of contentment as she entered the apartment and closed the door behind her.

  With automatic movements she slid off her stilettos and unbuttoned her jacket with one hand whilst discarding her briefcase with the other.

  A cool drink, a shower, comfortable clothes, then she’d assemble a salad, add some protein, and relax.

  It had, she determined as she padded into the kitchen, been a fraught day.

  The contents of her refrigerator offered a few choices, and she snagged a bottle of mineral water, twisted the top free, then drank long before capping it as she wandered into the lounge.

  She adored this apartment…furnished, modern, situated on a high floor with a fabulous view and comprising a spacious lounge, dining room, kitchen, three bedrooms, utilities.

  The rent was affordable, and with the addition of a desk and bookshelves she’d converted the smaller bedroom into a study, leaving the main bedroom and a guest room.

  She’d added a few personal touches, flower pots on the balcony and a small wrought-iron table and chair where she often had breakfast. Indoors there were vases holding displays of silk flowers and prints adorned the walls.

  Hers, by virtue of a generous lease renewable subject to agent approval.

  A faint sound broke the sile
nce. For a moment she thought it came from inside the apartment, except that was crazy. No one would break in…surely? Security measures made it difficult, and besides—

  There it was again. This time it sounded like the sliding of a shower door…and it came from the direction of the main bathroom.

  Lianne felt every muscle tense.

  There was someone inside the apartment.

  She knew the drill…phone the triple digit emergency number.

  With considerable care she retraced her steps into the lounge, opened her briefcase, retrieved her cell-phone, then keyed in the numbers.

  ‘Police,’ she directed quietly, and was about to state her name and address when the cellphone was taken from her hand.

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’

  The voice was male, its New York drawl achingly familiar, and her anger rose to fever pitch in the few seconds it took to face Tyler.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She lashed out a fist and connected with his shoulder. ‘Dammit! How did you get in?’

  He was close, much too close, damp, and the towel carelessly secured at his hips exposed a superbly muscled chest beneath broad shoulders, enviable biceps, powerful thighs…and far too much naked flesh.

  ‘With a key.’

  She wanted to move back a pace, but angry pride forbade it. ‘Which you secured…how, and from whom?’

  Building security was…secure. It had been one of the major factors which attracted her to this particular group of apartments.

  ‘By right of ownership,’ Tyler informed, watching the twin flags of colour along each cheekbone as realisation dawned. He read and interpreted each fleeting emotion, saw the anger deepen as she did the maths.

  ‘The apartment.’ Which made him her landlord.

  ‘The building,’ he corrected mildly.

  Now why did that surprise her?

  It explained the low rental she’d thought too good to be true in this particular locale. It also brought a host of queries tumbling from her lips.

  ‘A set-up from the start? What did you do?’ Her eyes flashed blue fire. ‘Circulate my photo to every realtor in the entire city?’ He was capable of more, much more. Her voice held bitter resignation. ‘Chance didn’t enter the equation, did it?’ ‘No.’