The Magnate's Marriage Demand. Robyn Grady
had admired and called uncle growing up. A person he trusted and whom he believed would pass on the balance anyway. But he’d rather comply with his father’s wishes, and, in doing so, avoid placing Matthew, an ethical man, in a not-so-ethical position. Convincing Tamara to marry him would eliminate those glitches and lead to a win-win situation for everyone, including the child.
She looked skeptical. “This doesn’t add up. A man like you would have zero problems finding a more than willing bride. Why leave it ’til now?”
He refused to feel. Refused to remember. Instead he twirled the heavy ruby ring on his right hand. “Let’s just say, true love has eluded me.”
“You want to find true love?”
The visible tension in her jaw eased before she slowly straightened and gave in to her first real smile. The expression was like a candle flickering to life on the inside, making her glow like an angel. He almost smiled back.
“Then you’d understand why this can’t possibly work,” she said. “Why you’ll have to find another way. I want to find that right one, too, just like you.”
He studied her. She was far more attractive than he’d first thought, with creamy skin, long regal neck and a small gold cross shining from the hollow of her throat. And for a cock-eyed moment, he wanted to steal some of her starry-eyed enthusiasm. But he’d tossed believing a long time ago.
Prying his gaze from the curve of her cheek, he focused again on the sea. “You misunderstand. I don’t believe in fairy tales.”
She fell back against the fence, emitting a soft gasp. “You mean you don’t believe in love?”
He bit down, suddenly irritated, but nevertheless well-versed for the argument. Not that this discussion need include an analysis of his personal regrets; he took as his right the discretion of one mistake. He would stick to broader statistics.
“I have a friend who’s a divorce lawyer, but it’s no secret. Half the people who marry for love separate. That’s compared to four percent of arranged marriages. In some parts of the world, such betrothals are considered a privilege.”
She blinked twice. “Good Lord, you’re serious.”
“What I propose is a partnership built on honesty and respect.”
“What you propose is out of the question!”
He held up a hand. “I understand it’s not the best time.”
“Darn right it’s not. Your brother was buried today.” She backed up, disgust dragging on her mouth. “And, whatever you might believe, I’m not a piece of property you can buy to better your business standing, and neither is my baby. Yes, I want honesty and respect from the man I marry. But I also want a history and commitment and passion.”
Her green eyes were all sparks and fire now, all conviction and courage. No interest in material gain…only ideals. “Passion?” he asked, all the more curious.
Her eyes widened as if she’d read his thoughts and wasn’t sure how to take them. “Every woman wants that.”
His gaze roamed her face. “Most men, too.”
He didn’t make choices lightly. He’d lain awake last night and had sat in that chapel today analyzing the pros and cons of marrying a woman he’d yet to meet in order to fulfill the terms of the will and give her child—his blood—the De Luca name. Yet, not once had Armand anticipated this pull, the impulse to frame her face and test her warmth.
The tug in his chest, the heat down below…
Hell. He wanted to kiss her.
She broke their gaze. Combing back hair that waved like a pennant across her face, she looked down at her feet, then over to the busy road. She still avoided his eyes when she said, “You have a plane waiting and I need to go home and get over this day.”
He snatched a glance at his watch. Damn. Where had that hour gone? But he still had time. He’d make time. “I’ll give you a lift.”
He reached for her elbow, but she weaved away. “I’ll take the bus. I mean it,” she insisted when he began to protest. While he reluctantly stepped back, she seemed to gather her thoughts. “I also meant what I said about not excluding you from our lives.” After a hesitant moment, she fished around in her purse. “I suppose you already have my phone number.”
The tension, which had locked his shoulder blades these past few days, eased slightly. He did have her number, but he wouldn’t object if she gave it to him. She was giving him an inch. For now, that was all he needed.
After she’d retrieved a notepad and pen, his gaze settled on the motion of her writing…left-handed, skin smooth, fingers long and slender, made for jewelry. Diamonds, emeralds, maybe even rubies.
She handed him the paper, shot out a quick goodbye and was gone, swift as a frightened hare. Watching her move through the shade of bobbing palm fronds toward a bus stop, he shifted his weight to one leg and scratched his temple. Fourteen days and nights in China suddenly seemed like a very long time.
Walking to his car, Armand opened her note. He stopped in his tracks to read the message three times.
Give me some space!
His grin was slow. He’d give her two weeks. After that, he couldn’t promise anything.
CHAPTER TWO
TAMARA trudged in through her apartment’s paint-flaked doorway, holding her wrist, fighting tears of pain and frustration.
For six days she had rushed around at the salon, most of the time on her feet. She’d battled constant morning sickness and had graciously accepted the pitiful wage. But a collision with a fellow employee, which had left her wrist swollen and sore, was the final straw. After writing her resignation and a twenty-minute walk home, she was done in—too exhausted to think, too tired to care. An earthquake could shake the continent and she just might sleep through it.
Her purse dropped with a thud near the bedroom door. After kicking off her flats, she dug a bag of green peas from the ancient freezer and ripped the tea towel from its kitchen rack. With both wrapped around her throbbing wrist, she sank horizontally into the worn velour couch.
She was drifting when the phone buzzed.
Throwing her good hand over her eyes, she groaned. “Not interested. Go away.”
But it could be the employment agency. She might want to crash for a month, but that was a luxury she couldn’t afford.
Pushing up, she brushed the stack of overdue bills aside and rescued the side table handset.
Melanie’s voice chirped on the line. “Me and Kristen wondered how you were doing. It’s been over a week. Guess it’s finally sinking in, huh?”
Tamara wedged back into the lumpy cushions and stared at the ceiling. One benefit to being busy and exhausted— she hadn’t been able to mire herself in the depths of grief. Marc was gone; yes, it was sinking in, and she would miss him more than anyone could know. As head of her own company, she’d projected an outgoing personality, but at heart she was shy.
At twenty-six her natural bent was still to do it alone. But she’d felt so comfortable, so herself whenever she’d been with Marc. That was one of the reasons he’d been so special to her and why the baby would mean even more.
She patted the white cotton shirt where she imagined her secret bump had begun to grow. “Thanks for calling, Mel. I’m doing okay.” Her gaze slid to her university textbooks, stacked in a neat pile on the gray Formica table. She coiled one leg around the other, bare foot tucked behind the opposite jean-clad knee, and turned her back. She wasn’t ready to face that challenge just now.
“What about you guys?” she asked. “Keeping out of trouble?”
While Melanie summarized their week—a weepie movie, two new hairstyles—Tamara