The Last-Minute Marriage

by Marion Lennox

  The Last-Minute Marriage

  Marion Lennox

  Peta and Marcus had a wonderful whirlwind wedding-but their vows are a sham: it's a marriage of convenience! Now billionaire Marcus Benson is showering his bride with gifts and offering a life of luxury. Surely that would be a dream come true for penniless Peta? No! Peta wants him-not gifts or money! She's startled to realize she's falling in love with her convenient groom. But Marcus has built impenetrable walls around his heart. Has Peta got what it takes to knock them down?

  Marion Lennox

  The Last-Minute Marriage

  © 2004

  CHAPTER ONE

  MARCUS BENSON shoved open the fire-escape door-and ran straight into Cinderella.

  Marcus running into anyone was unusual in itself. The influence of the Benson Corporation reached throughout the international business community, and Marcus, at its head, was a man held in awe. Bumping into people was unheard of. A path usually cleared before him.

  It wasn’t just power, wealth and intellect contributing to the aura surrounding him. He was in his mid-thirties, tall and superbly fit, with jet-black hair and striking, hawklike features. His charisma and influence were such that women’s magazines were unanimous in declaring him to be America’s most eligible bachelor.

  And Marcus was likely to stay that way.

  Well, why not? His experience of family life had been a disaster. His time in the armed forces had taught him loyalty and friendship, but loyalty and friendship had ended in tragedy. So Marcus Benson was a man who walked alone.

  But that was before he met Peta O’Shannassy.

  And Peta’s kids, dogs, cows and catastrophe.

  He didn’t see that now, though. All he saw was a kid who reminded him oddly of Cinderella.

  But Cinderella should be in her castle kitchen, tending the fire. Hungry. Wasn’t that how the story went? Surely she shouldn’t be eating her lunch on the landing of a New York fire-escape.

  Maybe Marcus was making a few assumptions. He assumed this was Cinderella. He assumed it was lunch. In reality, all Marcus saw was a spilled yellow drink, a flying bagel, and, underneath, a tattered kid with bright chestnut curls and skimpy clothes.

  So maybe she wasn’t Cinderella.

  Who, then? A street kid? She was wearing shorts, a frayed T-shirt and battered sandals. His first impression was of a waif.

  His second sensation was horror as waif-and lunch-fought for balance, lost, and tumbled to the next landing.

  What had he done?

  He’d been in too much of a hurry. There weren’t enough hours in the day for Marcus Benson. He had people waiting.

  They’d have to wait. He’d just knocked a kid down half a flight of stairs. She was crumpled in a heap on the next landing, looking as if she wasn’t going anywhere.

  It seemed an eternity while she slid, but in fact it was two or three seconds at most. The next moment, Marcus was brushing the bright curls away from her face. Trying to see the damage.

  Again he had to do a rethink. She wasn’t a street kid-or not the type that he recognised.

  She was clean. Sure, she was covered in what remained of her bagel and her milkshake, but her mop of curls were soft to touch. Her shorts and her T-shirt were freshly laundered under the mess he’d made, and she was…

  Cute?

  Definitely cute.

  She wasn’t a kid.

  Maybe she was about twenty, he thought. Her eyes were closed but he had the impression that it wasn’t unconsciousness that was causing her eyelids to stay shuttered. There was a sense of exhaustion about her, as if she was closing her eyes to shut out more than the pain and shock of the moment. Dark shadows smudged deeply under her eyes. She was thin. Far too thin.

  His first impression solidified. Cinderella.

  Her eyes fluttered open. They were wide green eyes, deep and questioning. Pain-filled.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he said urgently and she focused on his face, questioning.

  ‘Ouch,’ she whispered.

  ‘Ouch?’

  She appeared to consider.

  ‘Definitely ouch,’ she said at last, and the strain in her voice said she was trying hard to make light of something that was worse than just ouch. She didn’t move; just lay on the steel-plated landing as if she was trying to come to terms with a catastrophe that was just one of a series. ‘I guess I spilled my milkshake, huh.’

  ‘Um…’ He looked down to the next flight of steps. ‘Yeah. Definitely.’

  ‘And my bagel?’ Her accent was Australian, he thought. It was warm and resonant, with a tremor behind it. From shock? From pain?

  But she was worried about her bagel. He smiled at that, albeit weakly. If she was worried about her bagel, chances were that she wasn’t suffering injuries that were life-threatening.

  ‘I’d imagine your bagel is at ground level,’ he told her. ‘It’ll have turned into a lethal missile by now.’

  ‘Oh, great.’ She closed her eyes again and his impression of exhaustion deepened. ‘I can see the headlines. Australian drops New Yorker with jelly-loaded bagel. I’ll probably get sent to prison-for-terrorists on the first flight out of here.’

  ‘Hey.’ It was too much. Marcus Benson, who seldom-well, never, in fact-let himself get involved, put his hand on her cheek in a gesture of comfort. Good grief. He’d blasted her down a flight of stairs. He’d ruined her lunch. He’d hurt her-and she was trying to turn it into a joke.

  ‘Australian Braining New Yorker with Bagel is the least of our legal worries,’ he told her. ‘How about Corporate Idiot Shoves Australian Downstairs?’

  She opened one eye and looked up at him. Cautiously. ‘You mean I can sue?’

  ‘For at least the cost of a bagel,’ he told her, and his words produced a smile.

  It was a great smile. A killer smile. Her eyes were deeply green and they twinkled, as if it was their permanent state. Maybe she wasn’t twenty, he thought. Maybe she was older. With a smile like that… Well, a smile like that took practice.

  He’d never seen a smile like it.

  But he couldn’t stop and think about a woman’s smile. Or he shouldn’t. He was in a rush. The reason he’d used the fire stairs was that he was in a hurry. The lift had jammed at just the wrong time. His assistant would be waiting at street level, checking her watch. He had a deal to close.

  But he couldn’t just leave this kid here.

  He lifted his cellphone. ‘Ruby?’ he snapped as his assistant answered.

  ‘Marcus.’ This was a busy day, even for the super-efficient Ruby, and his assistant sounded worried. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m on the fire-escape. Can you come up, please? I have a situation.’

  As he tucked his phone back into his jacket he found himself suppressing a grin. A situation on the fire-escape. That’d have Ruby having kittens all the way up. Ruby was efficient but things like…well, situations on fire-escapes were unusual, even for Ruby.

  She’d cope, he thought. Ruby always coped. But until the cavalry arrived he needed to focus on the girl.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, and found she was staring straight up at him now, both her eyes fully open. She’d rolled over on to her back. There was a dollop of jelly wedged under her curls near one ear, and he had the weirdest desire to wipe it away…

  Heck, cut it out, Benson, he told himself. This was getting personal. He didn’t do personal. That was what Ruby was for.

  But apparently the waif didn’t want his attention just as much as he didn’t wish to offer it. ‘Thank you for asking,’ she said politely. ‘But I’m fine. You can go away now.’

  He blinked. ‘I can go away?’

  ‘You’re in a rush. I sat in your way. You’ve s
quashed my bagel, you’ve spilled my milkshake and you’ve hurt my ankle, but hey, it’s my fault. I’m-’

  ‘You’ve hurt your ankle?’

  ‘It appears,’ she said with cautious dignity, ‘to be hurt.’

  He checked her out. Her legs were long and tanned and smooth. Really long, in fact, and really tanned, and really smooth. They were great legs. It was incongruous that they ended up with shabby leather sandals that looked as if they came from a welfare shop.

  The shoes weren’t the only jarring note. One ankle was puffing while he watched.

  ‘Hell.’

  ‘Hey! It’s me who’s supposed to swear. Why don’t you just go away so that I can?’

  ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘A lady doesn’t swear in front of a gentleman,’ she told him, lifting her ankle so she could see it. Mistake. She winced and let it drop. Cautiously. But still the determination was there to move on. Ignoring pain. ‘While I might not be a lady, by the look of the suit you’re wearing, you must be a gentleman,’ she managed. ‘That’s about the most gentlemanly suit I’ve ever seen.’

  Here they were again. Talking about him. He found himself glancing down at his Armani suit and thinking, Yeah, that’s all it took. Wear a suit that cost a few thou’ and bang, you’re a gentleman.

  Even if he did toss kids downstairs.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ he told her, and she nodded as if she’d been waiting for it.

  ‘I wondered when we’d get around to that.’

  She took him aback. It wasn’t just her accent that was unusual, he decided. It was everything about her. She was hurting-hurting badly. He could see it behind her eyes. But she wasn’t letting on. She was sassy and smart, and she wanted him to disappear so she could swear in private. Or do whatever she had to do in private.

  ‘Is it only your ankle that’s hurting?’ he asked.

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘I guess it is.’ He touched her foot, lightly probing, and saw that it hurt. A lot. ‘That was quite a fall.’

  ‘You thumped out of there hard.’

  ‘I guess I did.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said, and he knew that, though she was trying to keep things light, there was a load of bitterness behind the words. ‘Leave me be.’

  ‘That ankle might be broken.’

  ‘Yeah, with my luck…’ She broke off and seemed to try to haul herself together. She even managed to produce that smile again. Almost. ‘No. Don’t worry. It’d be hurting more if it was broken.’

  ‘Can I help you inside?’ He motioned to the door he’d just come from.

  ‘To the offices of Charles Higgins?’ Her eyebrows hiked up in mock incredulity. ‘Attila in there wouldn’t let me sit on her settee and eat my bagel. You think she’ll let me sit on her settee now I’m covered with banana milkshake?’

  ‘I guess she wouldn’t,’ he said, his voice a trifle unsteady. Attila… He knew exactly who she was talking about. Charles Higgins’s secretary.

  ‘You were waiting to see Charles?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Marcus knew Charles Higgins. The man was sleaze. A king-sized ego with the morals of a sewer rat. Because of renovations-the same renovations that were causing problems with the lifts now-Marcus had been forced to share a corporate washroom with Charles Higgins for the last few weeks. But that was as far as their relationship went. The man’s brains were in his balls. He had a reputation for dealing dishonestly with dishonest money.

  Marcus owned this building. He might lease part of it to Higgins but it didn’t mean he had to like the man.

  He couldn’t understand for a minute what business this girl would have with a slime-ball of a lawyer like Higgins.

  ‘You had an appointment?’

  ‘At ten this morning. Three hours ago.’ She was still lying on the landing, her fingers tentatively probing her ankle. ‘Attila keeps fobbing me off. Finally I was so hungry I dived out and got lunch and Attila told me I’d have to eat out here. Enter you.’

  That made sense. Higgins’s secretary, a woman of indeterminate years and with a bosom like plate armour, had a reputation for being nastier than Higgins himself. If that was possible.

  ‘You know…’ It was a crazy conversation. Any minute now Ruby would arrive and rescue him, but meanwhile maybe he could give her a bit of advice. It couldn’t hurt. ‘You know, maybe if you want to talk to high-powered New York lawyers, then maybe shorts and T-shirt and scruffy sandals aren’t going to cut it.’

  ‘Scruffy…’ She probed her ankle and winced yet again but she was able to focus on what he was saying. ‘You’re saying my sandals are scruffy?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said firmly, and he almost got that smile again. Not quite. She was in real pain, he thought. Where on earth was Ruby? ‘Scruffy is a polite way of describing them, really.’

  ‘They’re my aunty’s.’

  ‘Um…good?’

  ‘She’s dead,’ the girl said as if that explained all. It didn’t. But he had to say something.

  ‘Oh,’ he said and this time he definitely got the smile.

  It was worth working for. It was a great smile.

  ‘I brought corporate clothes,’ she told him. ‘I’m not silly. But I’ve come from Australia. I came in a hurry because my aunt was dying, but I did pack decent clothes. Unfortunately the airline is playing keepings-off with them.’

  ‘Keepings-off?’

  ‘I put my clothes on the plane in Sydney. I put me on the plane in Sydney. I got off the plane here, but clearly my suitcase fell out somewhere around Hawaii. So now someone in Hawaii’s wearing my good, Charles-facing suit while I’m forced to wear the only clothes I have. I had one pair of decent shoes but I was stupid enough to use the same pavement as a New York mutt with poor choice in toilet placement. With ten minutes to make it here, Aunt Hattie’s sandals were all I had.’

  ‘You didn’t think of buying something else?’ he asked, and that was a mistake. He’d shoved her down the stairs, he’d hurt her, and she’d reacted with humour. Now, though, he got a blaze of anger that made him take a step back.

  ‘Yeah. Toss a little money at the problem and it’ll go away. Of course. What’s money for? Just like Charles. You leave your mother with Peta until it looks like you’ll inherit; then you haul her over to the other side of the world. Economy class. When she’s dying! Even when you can afford all this! Only you don’t really want her. You dump her in some appalling nursing home to die alone, making sure you get her to change her will first…’ She bit her lip and the wash of pain across her face was dreadful.

  ‘Um… I don’t have a mother,’ he said cautiously and the anger exploded even more.

  ‘Of course you don’t. I wasn’t talking about you. I was just grouping you.’

  ‘Categorising me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ He didn’t. In fact, he didn’t have a clue what was going on. Her anger was palpable and he needed to break through it in order to get some… Well, some order.

  ‘Who’s Peta?’ he asked.

  ‘Me.’ She glowered.

  ‘You’re Peta? Hi. I’m Marcus.’

  She wasn’t about to be distracted.

  ‘I can do without the introductions. I haven’t finished being angry yet.’

  His eyebrows hiked. ‘I’m sorry. But… Peta?’

  ‘My dad wanted a boy,’ she snapped, recovering momentum. ‘And will you be quiet when I’m letting off steam? You and Charles and Attila the Hun in there, you judge. You think just because I’m not wearing an Armani suit-yeah, I can tell it’s Armani, I’m not stupid, no matter how patronising you sound-that I don’t matter. I’ll never get to see Charles. I’ve used the last of my money to care for and bury Hattie, and if I don’t get to see him…’ She gave a deep, raspy breath, the pain and the shock of the last few minutes finally surfacing to the point where they couldn’t be hidden.

  She’d been using her anger as a barrier, Marcus realised, and it wasn’
t working. Whatever was behind was breaking through.

  ‘This is stupid,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t give a toss, and anyway, you’ll have a secretary like Attila in there, and even if I threaten to sue the pants off you, you’ll just turn to your secretary and say fix it. Keep her away from me…’

  ‘I wouldn’t…’

  But of course he would.

  ‘Mr Benson?’ a voice said behind them and it was Ruby. His cool, unflappable assistant to whom he handed life’s problems. Life’s hiccups. The personal stuff. ‘Is there a problem, Mr Benson?’ Ruby said smoothly. ‘How can I help?’

  Ruby was wonderful. She was the answer to Marcus Benson’s prayers.

  Somewhere in her indeterminate post forties, a stout and sensibly dressed Afro-American, Ruby gave off the aura of someone’s mother or someone’s aunt. She was neither.

  Nor did she have any secretarial qualifications. She had been an obscure, unnoticed clerk in Marcus’s vast financial empire when he’d found her almost by accident seven or eight years back. Marcus had been trying to juggle a Japanese delegation, a team of lawyers after his blood, and a posse of journalists and photographers from Celebrity-Plus Magazine. His highly qualified secretary had wilted under pressure.

  In desperation he’d gone to the outer office and called for anyone-anyone!-who could speak even a little Japanese.

  To his astonishment Ruby had risen ponderously to her feet. She’d studied a little Japanese at night school, she’d told him, and he’d expected nothing. But what he’d got… In twenty minutes she’d charmed the Japanese businessmen and organised an on-site lunch, she’d diverted the reporters with vouchers to a nearby exclusive wine bar, and she was calmly taking notes while Marcus coped with the lawyers. And when he appeared flummoxed she even suggested priorities.

  Her priorities were always right. Marcus had never looked for another assistant. Ruby didn’t move fast. She was unflappable, and she was worth diamonds. More than diamonds. Now she assessed the situation at a glance, she figured what Marcus wanted and she proceeded to provide it.