Nicola Marsh - Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?

It was a pity Cuthbert Devlin—Bert, to his friends, and there had been many hangers-on—had been more focussed on squandering money than on running the company entrusted to him.

Rory shuddered to think what would have happened if Bert hadn’t abdicated in favour of chasing some model to Europe, though he had a fair idea.

Devlin Corp would have been driven into the ground and his grandfather’s monumental efforts in building the company from scratch would have been for nought. And what he’d been trained to do from his teens would have meant nothing.

He still couldn’t understand why Bishop Devlin had handed the reins to his recalcitrant son—not when he’d been groomed for the job for so long. Until his grandfather had explained he needed to give Bert a chance to prove himself, to see if his son was made of sterner stuff.

Rory loved his dad, faults and all, but he couldn’t understand why anyone would pass up the opportunity of a lifetime to run a major company.

A small part of him had been glad his dad had botched the top job, because he’d known it was only a matter of time till he got his chance. Now he had that chance no way would he let anything derail him—including a smart-mouthed, intelligent environmental scientist with seawater in her blood.

His intercom beeped and he hit the answer button. ‘Yes, Denise?’

‘Gemma Shultz to see you.’

‘Send her in.’

He threw her business card into the dossier and snapped it shut. Armed with more information than last night, he was prepared for a confrontation: on his terms. When the sassy blonde sauntered through his door he’d be ready.

Until the moment his door opened, she stepped into his office and his preparation of the last few minutes evaporated.

His gut inexplicably tightened at the sight of her in a staid black trouser suit and a basic white business shirt. Nothing basic about the way she wore it, though. The top two buttons were undone to reveal a hint of cleavage, and her fitted trousers accentuated her legs. Legs that ended with her feet stuck into work boots.

And what were those God-awful dangly things hanging from her ears? Dolphins? Whales? Burnished copper fashioned into cheap earrings that did nothing for her plain outfit.

His mouth twisted in amusement. Gemma Shultz was nothing if not original. She wore an off-the-rack outfit, no make-up, ugly shoes and horrid earrings. Yet she intrigued him.

He couldn’t fathom it.

She’d blackmailed her way into this interview and that had had his back up from the start. He didn’t like having his authority questioned, didn’t like some upstart environmentalist bulldozing her way in with unethical tactics, but what made it infinitely worse was he couldn’t for the life of him fathom why he’d agreed to this meeting.

What was it about this woman that had him so tetchy?

‘We meet again.’

Rather than offering her hand for him to shake, she surprised him again by shrugging out of her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, making herself completely at home. And making his hands clench with the effort not to yank it off the chair and insist she put it back on again, so he wouldn’t have to notice the faint outline of a lace bra beneath the semi-transparent white cotton of her blouse.

Weren’t environmentalists supposed to wear hessian sacks and hemp bracelets and dreadlocks?

Annoyed at his reaction, he mentally slashed her interview allotment by five minutes. The sooner he got rid of her, the sooner he could get back to what he did best. Building the best luxury homes Melbourne had ever seen.

‘Considering your tactics last night, you left me no choice.’

A smug smile curved her lips, and in that moment he knew that whatever came of this meeting Gemma Shultz could become the bane of his existence if he let her.

‘I half expected you not to follow through on your promise of an interview.’

‘I always keep my promises.’

He crossed his arms, recognised his defensiveness, and immediately uncrossed them. Only to find his hands itching to reach across the desk and see if her hair felt as silky-soft as it looked.

Damn, what was wrong with him?

She was nothing like the perfectly polished women he dated, with their trendy fashions and manicures and cleverly highlighted hair. Women who wouldn’t be caught dead in a cheap suit and work boots. Women who wore diamonds for earrings, not copper marine life. Why the irrational buzz of attraction?

‘Your fifteen minutes has been cut to ten. Start talking.’

Unfazed by his curtness, she pointed to his computer. ‘By now I’m sure you’ve researched me and found a virtual plethora of information. So how about we skip the formalities and cut to the chase?’

Intrigued by her forwardness, he nodded. ‘Which is?’

‘I want you to hire me for the Portsea project.’

‘And I want to buy the island next to Richard Branson’s—but, hey, we don’t always get what we want.’

Her eyes narrowed at his levity.

‘I’m the best in the business. Give me a month on the project and I’ll ensure every home you build is energy-efficient while maintaining viability in the surrounding environment and ensuring the beach is protected.’

‘I’ve already had consultants look over the project—’

‘Hacks.’

She leaned forward and planted her palms on his desk, her chest temptingly at eye level.

‘You’re a smart man. You know in the construction business it’s the bottom dollar that counts. That beach? Last on the priority list. Which is why you need me. I incorporate scientific knowledge with environmental nous.’ She straightened, shrugged. ‘I’m a specialist in the marine field. You’d be a fool not to hire me.’

After the public debacle his father had made of the Port Douglas project, the company and himself, if there was one thing guaranteed to push his buttons it was being seen as stupid.

He stood so fast his chair slammed into the filing cabinet behind him, and he leaned across his desk—within strangling reach.

‘I can assure you, Miss Shultz, I’m no fool. You’ve had your say. Please leave.’

She didn’t recoil or flinch or bat an eyelid and his admiration notched further.

‘Not till you’ve interviewed me.’

She sat, crossed her legs and rested her clasped hands on one knee.

‘You promised me an interview so start asking questions.’

Stunned by her audacity, he shook his head. ‘I can call Security.’

‘You won’t.’

Her blue eyes grew stony as she met his stonewalling gaze head-on. ‘I’ve done my research too. You’re new to this job. You want the best for Devlin Corp. Let’s cut the small talk and use my remaining minutes here wisely.’

He fell into his seat and rubbed his forehead, where the beginnings of a headache were stirring.

Fine, he’d play this her way. He’d go through her little game for the next five minutes, then he’d personally escort her out and slam the door on headstrong, pushy women once and for all.

‘Why don’t you go ahead and tell me why a successful, headhunted, environmental scientist who has worked around the world wants to work on a Devlin Corp project?’

For the first time since she’d strutted in he glimpsed uncertainty as she tugged on an earring, before she quickly masked it with a toss of her hair.

‘I like to diversify. The size of a project isn’t important to me. It’s the probable impact on the surrounding environment. And the Portsea project captured my attention for that reason.’

Her eyes glittered with unexpected fervour as she sat forward, her hands waving around to punctuate her words. ‘Portsea’s a gorgeous spot. Beaches along the Mornington Peninsula are special. You can’t just dump a fancy-schmancy housing development in the middle of it and hope for the best.’