Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?. Nicola Marsh
placed her hand in his, her callused fingers skirting along his palm and creating a frisson of electricity that disturbed him as much as the urge to hold on longer.
‘And call me Gemma. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other before this project is through.’
He opened his mouth to correct her, to reiterate it was two days only, but as she shook his hand and smiled at him as if he’d announced she’d won the lottery he couldn’t help but think seeing more of her might not be such a bad thing after all.
CHAPTER FOUR
AS THE elevator doors slid open on the ground floor, and Gemma stepped into the elaborate glass-and-chrome foyer of Devlin Corp, she wrinkled her nose. The place was lit up like a Christmas tree, despite the gorgeous sun outside, and she’d hazard a guess those lights weren’t dimmed at night. What a waste of electricity.
Not to mention the fancy flyers lying in discreet piles on strategically placed tables—way to go with conserving trees—and enough water coolers to irrigate an entire African village.
Maybe once she’d finished with the Portsea project good old Rory would let her overhaul his business.
Considering his perpetually bemused expression whenever she was around, she doubted it.
Exiting the glass monstrosity, she skipped down the marble stairs onto bustling Collins Street.
She’d hustled her way into that interview using bold tactics, and she intended on continuing to bombard Mr Conservative from left field.
He’d read up on her, from that folder sitting in front of him that he’d tried to slide under a pile of documents when she’d entered.
She’d expected nothing less from a go-get-’em businessman in his position, but he’d surprised her with his intuition. He’d picked up on why the land was important to her and laid out a little blackmail of his own.
He’d left her no choice but to come clean about her reasons for wanting to be involved, but rather than criticism she’d seen understanding in those perceptive blue eyes.
He’d understood. Surprising. It made her like him a tad. Enough to wonder why a rich, successful, good-looking guy in his early thirties—her research had been thorough too—wasn’t engaged or married or in a relationship.
She’d seen only a few internet hits of him in the glossies or newspapers. A guy like him should have had loads printed in the gossip columns, but there’d been surprisingly little bar a few pictures of the requisite arm-candy blondes/brunettes/redheads—stick-thin women in haute couture accompanying him to various corporate events.
For the CEO of Australia’s biggest luxury property developer, she’d expected more enlightening hits. Interesting.
As she threaded her way through the corporate suits rushing down Collins Street, with everyone in a great hurry to get where they needed to be, she took the time to look around. It had been years since she’d strolled through her home city. Her flying visits usually consisted of work and a quick obligatory visit with her mum.
As much as she loved Melbourne’s beautiful gardens and trams and café culture, she’d never really felt at ease here. Attending a private girls’ high school had exacerbated her alien feelings. She’d had few friends once the girls had discovered she enjoyed windsurfing and rock-climbing and camping more than sleepovers and manicures and make-up.
Throw in her love of physics and chemistry over art and literature, of participating in soccer games rather than tittering on the sidelines watching the local boys’ school, and her classmates’ shunning had been ensured.
She’d pretended she didn’t care—had blissfully retreated to Portsea on the weekends, where she could truly be herself in a non-judgemental environment that nourished rather than criticized. But after her dad died and her relationship with her mum went pear-shaped, the insecurities her mother fed at home had festered at school, leaving her emotionally segregated from everyone.
She’d learned to shelter her emotions and present a blasé front to the world. A front that thankfully had held up in Rory Devlin’s intimidating presence and gained her an opportunity to pitch. She had complete confidence in her abilities and knew once he’d heard her presentation he’d hire her.
Besides, she thought he had a soft spot. She’d seen the shift from cool businessman to reluctantly interested when she’d mentioned her family had owned the Portsea land. Who would’ve thought the guy had a heart? It humanised him and she didn’t like that. Didn’t like how it added to his appeal. He was a means to an end, nothing more.
The fact she hadn’t been on a date in months had to be the reason she’d noticed how his eyes reminded her of a Santorini sky, how his lips would tempt a nun to fantasise.
When they’d shaken hands her fingers had tingled with the residual zap, making her wonder what he’d do with those strong, masterful hands in the throes of passion.
Not good to be thinking along those lines. Not good at all.
She loved her job, threw herself into it one hundred percent, but moving from place to place had consequences: she didn’t have time to form attachments to any guy.
If she were completely honest, she didn’t have the inclination either. She socialised—dinner, drinks, the occasional movie—but no one had captured her attention for longer than a few dates. Leading a transient life suited her. Moving on to the next job site gave her the perfect excuse to not get emotionally involved.
Garett, her regular date for functions in London, had accused her of being deliberately detached, of putting up barriers against a deeper relationship. Probably true. She’d switched to a new date for the next business dinner.
She’d mulled over her reluctance to pursue a long-term relationship at length, and while it suited her to blame her work, she knew deep down she wanted what her mum had had: the complete love of a man who adored and one hundred percent accepted you.
Her dad had been patient, kind, generous with his time and affection, and completely non-judgemental. He had been the one person who truly understood her, and once he’d died her mum’s rejection had only served to increase her feelings of being an outcast.
The emotional walls she’d erected had been deliberate, a coping mechanism at the time, but they’d become such an ingrained part of her she didn’t know how to lower them. Or didn’t want to.
Letting a guy get too close, opening herself up to possible rejection again? Uh-uh. She might be many things, but a masochist wasn’t one of them. Better to push them away before they shut her out. She’d learned that the hard way.
She had a brilliant job she adored, a freedom envied by her married colleagues, and the ocean—a place she could immerse and lose herself anywhere in the world. Why risk all that? No guy was worth it, not in her experience.
That buzz she’d experienced when Rory had shaken her hand? Nothing more than static from the posh rug in his office.
She bumped into a businessman, who shot her a filthy glare, and she apologised, sidestepped and picked up the pace, obliterating thoughts of a handsome millionaire—the least likely guy she’d be attracted to.
Rory stood on the crest and surveyed the endless indigo ocean stretching to the horizon.
Gemma’s place.
That was how he’d started thinking of this stretch of beach, and he shook his head. He didn’t have room for sentimentality in his life, and certainly not in his business, but there was something about her never-say-die attitude in regards to this land that plucked at his heartstrings.
She’d gone to extreme lengths to gain his attention, and while he didn’t approve of her methods he couldn’t fault her enthusiasm. This place meant a lot to her. He’d granted her request to provide him with assessment findings to humour her, but he had to admit he was curious. Curious about her