Nicola Marsh - Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?

An interview she had every intention of nailing.

The project to build luxury mansions out at Portsea would go ahead, she had no illusions about that, but the moment she’d heard about it she’d headed back to Melbourne with the sole intention of ensuring Devlin Corp didn’t botch the beachside land she’d always loved.

Crazy, when she had no room for sentiment in her life these days, but that land had been special, the only place she’d ever felt truly comfortable in her topsy-turvy teenage world.

It was her dad’s lasting legacy. A legacy her mum had upped and sold without consulting her.

Her neck muscles spasmed when she thought of her immaculately coiffed mother, who valued grooming and designer clothes and social standing, a mother who had barely acknowledged her after her dad died.

Though she’d never doubted Coral’s love for her dad, she’d often wondered why the society princess had married a cabinet-maker. While her folks had seemed devoted enough, Gemma hadn’t been able to see the attraction. Her dad had spent his days holed up in his workshop while Mum attended charity events or garden parties.

No surprise how Coral had viewed her passion for mud-pies, slugs and rats as pets. Though she had to give her mum credit: she’d never stopped her from being a tomboy, from trailing after her dad like an apprentice. They hadn’t had a lot in common but they’d been a close family; it hadn’t been till later, when she’d turned fourteen and her dad had died, that a yawning chasm had developed, a distance they hadn’t breached since.

People started filtering from the ballroom into the annexe and she bit back a grin. She’d bet Mr Conservative was hovering over his precious display, ensuring she hadn’t scratched it with her chains.

Laughter bubbled up from within and she slapped a hand across her mouth to prevent a giggle escaping. The look on Rory Devlin’s face when he’d caught sight of her chained to his display … priceless didn’t come close.

She’d hazard a guess no one ever stood up to the guy. He had an air of command; when he snapped his fingers people would hop to it.

She’d been counting on the element of surprise, had wanted to railroad her way into an interview to show him exactly who he was dealing with.

Her toes cramped and she slipped out of the three-inch heels she hadn’t worn in two years: the last time she’d been home and her mother had insisted she attend a charity ball for sick kids.

She couldn’t fault the cause, but having to swap her denim for chiffon and work boots for stilettos had been unbearable. Though she’d been thankful she’d kept the outfit, for no way would she have gained access to the Devlin Corp shindig unless she’d looked the part.

She’d timed her entrance to perfection, waiting until a large group bearing invitations had gathered at the door before inveigling her way in by tagging along.

No one had questioned her. Why would they, when her mum would have forked out a small fortune for her blue designer dress and matching shoes?

The rest had been easy, and with her objective achieved she almost skipped down to the car park where she’d left the battered car she’d picked up from the airport earlier today.

She had no idea how long she’d be in town for, no idea how long it would take to ensure her dad’s land wasn’t pillaged by the corporate giant.

For now, the ancient VW would have to do. As for lodgings, she had one destination in mind.

Come first thing in the morning she’d confront Coral, demanding answers—like what had possessed her mum to sell the one place in the world she valued most?

Gemma awoke to the pale pink fingers of a Melbourne dawn caressing her face and a scuttling in the vicinity of her feet.

She yawned, stretched, and unkinked her neck stiff from sleeping on her balled-up jacket, squinting around her dad’s workshop for the culprit tap-dancing near her toes.

Noise was good. Noise meant scrabbling mice or a curious possum. It was the silent scuttlers—like spiders—she wasn’t too keen on. She might be a tomboy but arachnids she could do without.

A flash of white darted under the workbench and she smiled. How many times had her pet mice got loose in here? Too many times to count, considering she’d left the door open to let them have a little freedom.

Her dad had never complained. He’d spent eons searching for them, affectionately chastising her while promising to buy new ones if Larry, Curly and Mo couldn’t be found.

Her dad had been the best, and she missed him every second of every day. He’d died too young, his heart giving out before she’d graduated high school, before she’d obtained her environmental science degree, before she’d scored her first job with a huge fishing corporation in Western Australia.

Her dad had been her champion, had encouraged her tomboy ways, had shown her how to fish and catch bugs and varnish a handmade table.

He’d fostered her love of the ocean, had taught her about currents and erosion and natural coastal processes. He’d taken her snorkelling and swimming every weekend during summer, introducing her to seals and dolphins and a plethora of underwater wildlife she hadn’t known existed.

They’d gone to the footy and the cricket together, had cycled around Victoria and, her favourite, camped out under the stars on his beachside land at Portsea.

The land her mum had sold to Rory Devlin and Co.

Tears of anger burned the backs of her eyes but she blinked them away. Crying wouldn’t achieve a thing. Tears were futile when the only place she’d ever felt safe, content and truly at home had been ripped away. The only place where she could be herself, no questions asked, away from scrutinising stares and being found lacking because she wasn’t like other girls her age.

She’d dealt with her grief at losing her dad, and now she’d have to mourn the loss of their special place too. Not fair.

As she glanced around the workshop, at her dad’s dust-covered tools, the unfinished garden bench he’d been working on when he died, his tool-belt folded and stored in its usual spot by the disused garden pots, her resolve hardened.

Now the land was gone, memories were all she had left. They’d been a team. He’d loved her for who she was. She owed him.

Unzipping her sleeping bag, she wriggled out of it and glanced at her watch. 6:00 a.m. Good. Time for her mum to get a wake-up call in more ways than one.

To her surprise, Coral answered the door on the first ring.

‘Gemma? What a lovely surprise.’

Coral opened the door wider and ushered her in, but not before her sweeping glance took in Gemma’s crushed leisure suit that had doubled as pyjamas, her steel-capped boots and her mussed hair dragged into a ponytail.

As for last night’s make-up, which she’d caked on as part of her ruse, she could only imagine the panda eyes she’d be sporting.

A little rattled her mum hadn’t commented on her appearance, or the early hour, she clomped inside and headed for the kitchen, about the only place in their immaculate South Yarra home she felt comfortable in.

‘You’re up early.’

Coral stiffened, before busying herself with firing up the espresso machine. ‘I don’t sleep much these days.’

‘Insomnia?’

‘Something like that.’

A flicker of guilt shot through her. She remembered her mum pacing in the middle of the night after her dad had died, but she’d been too wrapped up in her own grief to worry.

That was when the first chink in their relationship had appeared.

Coral had always been self-sufficient and capable and in control, and she had handled Karl’s death with her usual aplomb. While she’d cried herself to sleep each night for the first few months, her mum would stride around the house at all hours, dusting and tidying and ensuring her home was a showpiece.