Marion Lennox - Cinderella And The Billionaire

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Note to Readers

Dedication To our friends, Neil and Dale, and to all the intrepid islanders who make their homes and/or their livings on the islands of Bass Strait. It’s a harsh and unforgiving place to love, but it gives back in spades.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Extract

About the Publisher

THE LACEWORK ON McLellan Place’s gatehouse looked almost perfect. From the helicopter, Matt and Henry saw the last piece being fitted into place. Once they landed they admired the result, agreeing with the foreman that it had been a major storm. The damage wasn’t the fault of workmanship.

If Matt had come by himself he might have headed straight back to Manhattan, but he was entertaining a seven-year-old. He and Henry therefore walked across the vast sweep of lawn to the main house beyond.

‘It’s big,’ Henry whispered as Matt led him into the massive kitchen and through to the butler’s pantry to find juice and cookies. The place was always stocked, even though Matt was lucky to arrive once a month.

The house was big, Matt conceded. With eight bathrooms and ten bedrooms, it was far too large for one semireclusive bachelor. But the East Hampton home, two hours’ drive or a short chopper ride from Manhattan, had been in his family for generations. Its upkeep kept a team of locals employed, its seclusion gave wildlife a precious refuge and it was as much a home as he’d ever known. It had been his refuge as a child from being dragged from one international hotel to another by his jet-setting parents.

Henry should have somewhere like this, he thought. McLellan Place was a far cry from the Manhattan legal offices where Henry seemed to spend half his life.

The seven-year-old was now sitting at the vast stretch of granite that formed the kitchen bench, seriously concentrating on his juice. He was nothing to do with Matt, but there was a part of Matt that connected with him.

Henry’s mother, Amanda, was one of Matt’s employees, a lawyer and a good one. Nothing got in the way of her work, including her son. When he wasn’t at school she left him in her office and often, somehow, he ended up in Matt’s office, reading or playing computer games.

The call today, to tell Matt of the storm damage, had come through when he’d had an unexpected break in appointments. Matt hadn’t been near McLellan Place for weeks. His chopper was available. It was time he checked on the place.

He’d looked at the silent kid and made a decision. A call to Amanda had given slightly stunned permission—she couldn’t believe her boss had time for the boy.

Thus Henry was here with him, quiet and serious.

‘It has beautiful furniture,’ the little boy ventured.

It did. His mother’s interior designer would be pleased.

‘Those stairs are really long.’

‘When I was your age I used to slide down the bannisters.’ The bannisters were an ode to craftsmanship, the oak curving gracefully at the end to stop a small boy coming to grief. ‘Would you like me to show you how?’

‘No, thank you.’

Probably just as well. He hadn’t slid down for maybe twenty years.

‘We have time for a swim,’ he suggested. The horizon pool by the house was kept warm all year round.

‘I didn’t bring my swimmers.’

‘We could swim in our jocks.’

‘No, thank you,’ Henry said again, politely, and Matt felt like banging his head. This kid had been schooled to be seen and not heard, to fade into the background.

‘Then let’s go for a walk on the beach,’ he told Henry.

And then his personal phone rang. Uh-oh.

Matt’s secretary knew what he was doing and when he’d be back. She’d only contact him if it was urgent.

‘Helen?’

‘Matt?’ And by the tone of her voice he knew something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

What the...? ‘Tell me.’

‘Matt, it’s Amanda. You know...she went out to lunch. Matt, they say she was texting and she walked... Matt, she walked straight into traffic. Matt, she’s dead. That poor little boy. Oh, Matt, how are you going to tell him?’

‘YOU EMPLOYED ME to act as a fishing guide. Now you want me to act as a glorified taxi driver? And in Bertha ? Four hours out and four hours back, with overnight stays? Is she even safe?’

‘She’s safe as houses.’ Charlie’s voice was smooth as silk as he patted the reservation book with satisfaction. ‘This is a last-minute booking, Bertha ’s the only boat available and Jeff’s rung in sick. Have you any idea how much this guy’s prepared to pay? Never mind,’ he added hastily, no doubt figuring Meg would up her wage demands if she knew. ‘But it’s enough to give you a decent bonus.’

‘Charlie, I’ve been out since dawn on a fishing charter. I’m filthy. I’m off for the next three days. I have five acres of grass to slash and it’s almost fire season. If I don’t get it done now the council will be down on me like a ton of bricks.’

‘Sell that place and move into town,’ Charlie said easily. ‘I know it was your grandpa’s, but sentimentality gets you nowhere. Look,’ he said placatingly. ‘You do this job, and I’ll send Graham out to slash the place for you.’

Charlie’s son. Not in a million years.

‘You’re kidding. Knowing Graham, he’d slash the house before he touched the grass. Charlie, I’m not about to drop everything and spend the next three days ferrying some cashed-up tourist with more money than sense. Why does he want to go to Garnett Island anyway? No one goes there.’

‘I do.’

The voice made her jump.

She’d been leaning over the counter of Rowan Bay’s only charter boat company, focusing on Charlie. Not that Charlie was anything to focus on. He was flabby, florid, and he smelled of fish.

The guy who’d walked in was hitting six feet, maybe even more, lean, ripped, tanned. Sleek? The word seemed to fit. In the circles Meg O’Hara moved in, this guy was...well, a fish out of water.

Or a shark? His smart chinos, his butter-soft leather jacket, his brogues all screamed money. His hair looked as if it had been cut yesterday, conservative and classy, every jet-black wave knowing its place.

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