The Magnate's Marriage Demand. Robyn Grady
brows. “How did you know? Marc wouldn’t have told you. It had nothing to do with you.”
“Now it does.” He met her glistening gaze, green eyes filled with shifting light.
He rubbed his bristled jaw, laid his arm along the back of the bench again and set his thoughts on track. “You don’t have private insurance.”
She blinked as if the idea hadn’t occurred to her. “No, I don’t.”
“But you’d obviously want the best doctor to care for you and the baby.” She sank back, her pallor even more pasty. “What about the delivery? If you need a caesarean, don’t you want to know who’s holding the knife?”
“We have a good public system in this country.”
“You know where and who you’d want to care for the baby, and it’s not waiting hours in a medical clinic, seeing a different, overworked doctor every time.” He passed on a jaded look. “In today’s triage world, if you want to be certain of having the best, you need to pay for it.”
Her pointed gaze skewered his. “I’ll ask again. How do you know all this?”
He shrugged. “A few phone calls.” The best medical care wasn’t the only thing money could buy. By comparison, information was cheap.
Her cheeks flamed red as a volcano built inside of her—again, not unexpected.
“You had me investigated?”
“I looked in to my late brother’s affairs.”
“You mean his love affair.”
He tipped closer and willed her to understand. This wasn’t pleasant for him, either. “You have no income and no family to speak of. I want to help.”
“By proposing marriage. Isn’t that a bit extreme? What about something simple, like writing a check?” She crossed her arms and tucked in that cute cleft chin. “Not that I want your money.”
“That’s noble, but in your predicament, perhaps impractical.”
Although by no means wealthy, Marco had been in more of a position to reject the De Luca legacy, even laugh off the suggestion that the brothers might finally unite and build together. Tamara’s situation was somewhat different.
Mottled pink consumed her neck. “I’m more than capable of holding down a job.”
“Like being a receptionist at your local budget hairdressers.” Her jaw dropped. “You’ll be up and down, sweeping floors, helping out, on your feet eight to ten hours a day. From what I saw of you bent over that sink, early pregnancy doesn’t agree with you. How will you cope?”
Pride pinned back her shoulders. Despite her stubbornness, he had to admire her. An educated guess said if anyone could make it through this difficult situation on her own and do it well, she could. But he’d keep that to himself.
“I’m grateful for the job, even if it is a stopgap,” she told him. “I plan to finish a business degree then relaunch my special events company.” She tilted her head and conceded, “Or, if need be, I’ll take a position with another firm and work my way up.” She sent him an almost impish look. “But you might already know that, too.”
His mouth twitched. Minx. Quite a change from the gushing society princesses he’d dated—women of a mold who flattered, simpered and left him tepid, as far as sweethearts or long-term relationships were concerned.
Ah, who was he kidding? He didn’t believe in romantic love and hadn’t for some time, though clearly others did.
He studied a patch of sandy ground, searching for the right words. “I know you and Marco were in love. He said you were going to marry and have more children. Obviously it will take time to recover from your loss—”
“Whoa! Hold on.” Tamara waved her hands. “Marc might have been in love with me, but I hadn’t agreed to marry him. I thought of him only as a friend. A very dear friend.”
Armand froze. Every muscle, every thought locked in black ice. Finally he raked a hand through his hair. He wasn’t a saint, but this idea refused to compute. “Do you often sleep with friends, Ms. Kendle?”
She jerked back as if slapped. Grabbing her bag, she shot to her feet. “I’ve heard enough.”
As she spun on her heel, he snared her arm. They weren’t finished yet.
He hauled her back. The skin-to-skin contact jolted a physical response that pumped through his arteries, scorching his flesh, just as it had an hour ago when he’d proposed and she’d buckled against him. Completely aware, he slowly stood and tried to absorb this sensation’s deeper meaning. From her startled gaze, she felt it, too—that current, popping and pulsing like a live wire between them.
His gaze skimmed a hot line over her lips as a dormant beast yawned and stretched inside him. “You weren’t sexually attracted to Marco?”
Yet an unmistakable attraction simmered between the two of them. For obvious reasons, he hadn’t expected this. Didn’t quite know what to do with it—a first for him, in many ways.
Regaining control, she shrugged out of his grasp. “Marc was kind and thoughtful and put everything on hold if a friend needed him. It happened once.” Her bruised heart sat like a shadow in her eyes. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
His chest burned, but he pushed ahead. He had no time to dwell on who the better man had been.
“You’ve had a bad run.” He knew about her house and the fire, too. “But today you have an opportunity to turn things around.”
A hapless smile twisted her mouth. “A marriage of convenience?” The open vulnerability, the innocence of her face, worked to find a way under his ribs and he nodded once. She seemed to digest the sincerity of his offer before fresh wariness dawned in her eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
He didn’t hesitate. “This child will have two parents.”
She waited. “And?”
“You need another reason?”
Tamara Kendle came from a broken home, one far less privileged than his own had been. An absent father and uneducated mother. Tamara’s childhood made his gripes look like too little cake at a Sunday picnic. Surely the security in providing this child a decent family life should be persuasion enough.
A clutch of grounded seagulls scattered as she left him to wander toward the beach fence. The breeze, stronger here, combed her hair, turning it to dark ribbons that danced down her back.
She rotated to face him, her expression perceptive now. “You said I was bright, Mr. De Luca. Please don’t dodge my question.”
After a moment, he exhaled and joined her. Resting both palms on the chest-high railing, he perused the rolling sea. “Yes, there is another reason.” She’d need to know anyway.
She propped one elbow on the railing and cupped her cheek. “I’m listening.”
He clenched the wood. “I need to obtain the controlling interest in my late father’s company. His will left the balance in trust.”
“And I fit in how…?”
“A stipulation must be met before the interest can revert to me. I must produce offspring—a child—by my thirty-third birthday. In other words, I need a legitimate heir seven months from now.”
“My baby?” A disbelieving laugh escaped. “Can people actually do that in their wills? It sounds medieval.”
“Dante, my father, was very much old guard. I’d known for years he wanted to ensure that his legacy continued through me into the next generation.” His jaw shifted as he rationalized. “It’s understandable.”
“And if you don’t produce an heir by the deadline?”
“The