Nicola Marsh - Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?

Increasingly frustrated that she saw him as some dollar-grabbing corporate raider, he had to cut this short.

‘Contrary to your belief, Devlin Corp doesn’t dump anything. When we take on a project of this magnitude we do extensive environmental studies—’

‘Done by consultants. So you’ve said.’

She waved away his explanation, leaving him gobsmacked for the second time in twenty-four hours.

‘I’m not besmirching your company’s reputation. All I’m asking for is forty-eight hours to head out to the site, collate my findings and present them to you.’

‘That’s all?’

She ignored his sarcasm, beaming as if he’d agreed to share CEO duties with her.

‘I promise you won’t regret it.’

‘I already do,’ he muttered, thinking he must be mad to contemplate giving in to her demands.

But something she’d said rang true: he’d hired consultants previously used by his dad, and while he couldn’t fault their findings he had to admit environmental outcomes weren’t his area of expertise.

The consultants presented their findings, he went ahead with the project regardless, and while no red flags had jumped out at him, how well had the consultants studied how the land lay, so to speak?

He had an expert in the field sitting in front of him, offering her services for two days. Businesswise, he’d be a fool to pass up expertise of that magnitude. Personally, he wanted to boot her out before she coerced him into anything else.

‘What do you say?’ She held up two fingers. ‘Two days is all I’m asking for.’

‘If I agree to this—’ her grin widened and he held up a hand to rein her in ‘—and it’s a big if at this stage, how much are you charging?’

She leaned forward as if to impart some great secret.

‘For you? Free.’

He reared back. He’d learned from a young age that if something looked too good to be true it usually was.

‘What’s the catch?’

She shrugged. ‘No catch.’

He glimpsed a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the pinch around her mouth, the fiddle with her earring.

‘Here’s the deal. If you tell me the truth about why this is so important to you, I’ll give you two days.’

She paled and he almost felt guilty for holding her over a barrel. Almost. For all the grief she’d put him through he should rejoice he’d finally gained the upper hand. No one got the better of him, but in twenty-four hours this woman had come close.

Indecision warred with yearning, before she finally sagged into her chair, the fight drained out of her.

‘My family owned that land.’

There she went again, flooring him without trying.

‘We bought it from the Karl Trust.’

She gnawed on her bottom lip. Her vulnerability was softening the hard shell he’d erected around his heart. Not from any grand passion gone wrong but for the simple reason he didn’t have the time or inclination for a relationship.

He dated extensively, squiring women to corporate events and charity balls and the theatre. But dating and getting involved in a relationship were worlds apart and he liked to keep it that way. He had one love in his life—Devlin Corp—and it suited him fine.

‘Karl Shultz was my dad. The land had been in his family for a few generations, in trust. It meant a lot to us—him.’

Her slip-up told him all he needed to know. This land had personal value to her, which made him wonder why she’d let it be sold in the first place. Financial liability, most likely, but it wasn’t his place to question her personal status.

‘I get it. This land meant something to you and you want to ensure it’s treated right.’

She clasped her hands so tight her knuckles stood out. Her reluctance to discuss anything deeper than superficialities was obvious.

‘Something like that.’

She clamped her lips shut to stop herself from saying more but he’d heard enough.

‘I’m a stand-up guy, Miss Shultz, and I value honesty. Especially in business.’

He held out his hand for her to shake. ‘You’ve got yourself forty-eight hours to do your worst.’

Her answering smile made something unfamiliar twang in his chest.

‘Thanks, you won’t regret it.’

She 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.

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.