The Magnate's Marriage Demand. Robyn Grady
vast stretches of emerald-green lawn—foreground to a priceless harbor view, complete with colorful yachts and distant opera house shells. Inside, marble floors, stone columns, ornate skylights… the very air proclaimed unsurpassed extravagance and echoing space.
“This place is so big,” she murmured. And quiet. She ruffled the dog’s ears again. “I wonder if Master gets lonely.”
There was no doubt that Armand spent most of his time at the office, and anyone could get lonesome, even a dog.
When Armand dropped the letters and moved toward her, Tamara held her bandaged wrist and reminded herself to breathe. His gait was predatory, but also languid, like a panther who wasn’t the least concerned its kill would get away.
“The groundsman and Master have been friends for years. And he loves my housekeeper. You’ll grow to love Ruth, too.”
She’d met Ruth Sherman earlier and she did seem nice. But Tamara didn’t plan on developing a relationship. She pushed to her feet. “I won’t be here that long.”
He knotted powerful arms over an equally powerful chest. His hanging shirttails taunted her to come close and touch the washboard abs she felt sure lay beneath.
“So, you must have a plan.”
Gaze snapping up, she focused. “Of course.”
Crossing back to the gold-rimmed bench, he retrieved two steaming cups, one raspberry leaf tea (she carried a small supply in her handbag these days), one coffee freshly brewed in a contraption that probably cost more than a decent vacation. “Let me guess. Your plan is to find another job.”
Her chin lifted. “Until recently, I’ve never been out of work.”
“Not since leaving school at junior level.”
His high-born barb pricked, but he’d seen the university textbooks. She was close to finishing a business degree, which, admittedly, had been a challenge, particularly her current unit of study; her second attempt at data analysis wasn’t any easier than the first. Nevertheless she’d concede his point.
She moved to a meals table, which was tucked away in an all-glass bay window decorated with hanging baskets of lush maidenhair fern. “Yes, I did finish school early. And eventually went on to own my own company.”
“Exemplar Events, an events coordination enterprise.” Black glazed cups and saucers in hand, he joined her. “A hairdresser by trade, you found your true calling by accident after offering to organize events for friends and charity.”
Forgetting to be annoyed at his detective work, she remembered back and smiled. “Christmas parties, school fetes, a couple of dinner fund-raisers.” She had been so over mixing dyes and sweeping hair, and those events had been such fun.
“But the step up to corporate events was a steep one,” he continued.
Full-scale pyrotechnics, first-class catering, together with clients’ diverse special needs—each job had been exciting and she’d done well on her own…for a while. Ultimately, however, lack of business savvy had caught up. Figures weren’t exactly her forte—not data analysis and not accounts receivable. When she ran aground, nothing could pull her free.
Armand slid the cups onto the table’s sparkling glass surface. “A dissatisfied customer refused to pay for an extravagant function. The loss was too much on a shaky overdraft. The bank called in the loan. No other institution would bridge. You lost your business.”
She gripped the back of a white wicker chair as regret and anger flooded her. “I lost everything.” Thanks to Barclays Australasia.
Her five-year-old red coupe was the first to go. She’d loved that car. Then came the garage sales, the desperation. The repossession of her modest but dearly loved house would have been next, if the fire hadn’t taken care of it first. Small print in the insurance policy translated into “goodbye, picket fence, hello tiny apartment.” The deposit she’d sweated blood to save, all down the drain.
He pulled out her chair. “Life isn’t always fair.”
Though his words echoed her own thoughts, they sounded trite coming from Armand’s privileged mouth. A millionaire couldn’t possibly know the struggles small-business people faced to keep afloat.
She took her seat. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, maybe he did. Either way, she couldn’t help a dig. “Perhaps we should take another ride in your Bentley and you can tell me about what’s fair.”
His eyes glittered, with mischief or warning? “Retract the claws, Felix. I’m here to help, remember?”
More like help himself.
Armand’s housekeeper breezed into the room, breaking their tension. Ruth defied all the rules associated with the term housekeeper: tall, svelte, smart civilian clothes rather than a drab uniform. In her early sixties, perhaps, she was still a striking woman: a salon-cut copper blonde with elegant sapphire starburst ear studs. The only giveaways to her vocation were an apron and brutally short nails. As Ruth laced her hands before her, hazel eyes half-mooning above a kind smile, Tamara wondered if she had grandchildren.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
Armand’s smile was fond. “I’ll take care of everything from here on, thanks.”
Ruth’s comfortable gaze jumped to Tamara. “Good meeting you, Ms. Kendle.”
Earlier the housekeeper had prepared a snack. With pregnancy hormones ambushing her appetite, ham and cheese on whole grain never tasted so good. “Thanks again for the sandwich, Ruth. It really hit the spot.”
Headed for a corner of the kitchen, the older woman brushed the compliment aside. “Wait ’til you taste my beef Wellington.” She hung her apron on the back of the pantry door. “It’s his favorite.”
Sitting alongside Tamara now, Armand scooped a heap of sugar into his cup. “Your choc-mint cheesecake is my favorite.”
Ruth mouthed to Tamara, “Sweet tooth,” then said aloud, “I’ll be in early tomorrow. Master needs to go to the vet—”
“I’ll take care of that,” Armand let her know, stirring. “Have a good weekend.”
Ruth winked at Tamara and headed out the room. “See you Monday.”
Shoulders sagging, Tamara gave in to a sigh. Guess she would at that.
While she gathered her cup close and filled her lungs with the sweet herbal aroma, Armand set their conversation back on track.
“We were discussing the death of your business.”
A nasty shiver ran through her. Did he have to put it like that?
She set her cup down. “I might be in a tight place at the moment, but I’ll get by.” She always had.
His furrowed gaze challenged hers. “Like your mother got by?”
Her throat swelled, cutting off air. Despite the neglect, she loved her mother and wanted to include her in her baby’s life. And if he dared mention her father…!
Some things were best left buried.
“My mother has nothing to do with this.”
He weighed her statement before he cocked a brow and drank. The cup landed back in its saucer with a clatter. “You’re right. This is about you and what opportunities you, as a mother, decide to give or deny your child.”
A knot twisted in her stomach. Money didn’t guarantee happiness. Still, given her less than stellar start in life, Tamara knew full well food and clothes didn’t materialize out of thin air. She leveled him a look. “That’s not fair.”
“I believe we’ve had that discussion.”
So cool. So suave. So blasted infuriating!
She surged up from her chair.