Robyn Grady - The Magnate's Marriage Demand

“If you marry me you’ll share my bed—and no one else’s.”

Tamara straightened. “You make that sound like a command.”

But the sparks firing over her skin weren’t entirely from indignation. True, part of her shrank from the idea of sleeping with a man she barely knew. Yet another, more secret part…

As if reading her mind, he nudged closer. “The idea of consummating our marriage…worries you?”

Suddenly an image of his mouth claiming hers came to mind. A drugging heat seeped through her, and her eyes drifted closed.

This was too intense. Too soon .

She turned a tight circle to face him—or rather the wall of his chest. Steeling herself, she shouldered past him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr De Luca …”

Robyn Gradyleft a fifteen-year career in television production, knowing that the time was right to pursue her dream of writing romance. She adores cats, clever movies, and spending time with her wonderful husband and their three precious daughters. Living on Australia’s glorious Sunshine Coast, her perfect day includes a beach, a book, and no laundry when she gets home.

Robyn loves to hear from readers. You can contact her at www.robyngrady.com

BY

ROBYN GRADY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Melissa Jeglinski, for believing in my book and her continued encouragement and guidance.

Karen Solem, my ‘super agent.’

Tessa Radley, a friend indeed.

Rachel Robinson, Melissa James and Gail Fuller, my incredible CPs.

CHAPTER ONE

TAMARA KENDLE couldn’t seem to keep her eyes off the darkly attractive man who sat alone in the chapel’s front pew—he was like a rock, unmoving, staring dead ahead.

Guilt pricked each time her attention wavered from the minister at the lectern. She was here to say goodbye to someone special. A person she missed so much, her heart physically ached. She felt clobbered, stuck somewhere between reality and hell.

And yet, to the left of the rosewood casket and waterfalls of perfumed lilies, broad-jacketed shoulders continued to intrigue. Though they hadn’t met in person, Tamara knew the man by more than reputation.

Armand De Luca, Australia’s multimillionaire steel magnate, the last of his bloodline.

Or so he thought.

Tamara had already been seated when De Luca had entered the funeral home chapel. Throughout the service the classic lines of his profile had exuded the confidence men admire and women fall immediately in love with. Square-cut jaw, well-proportioned nose and lips, those eyes…high noon blue, heavy-lidded, yet all-knowing.

“Thank you all for attending.” Tamara’s attention slid back to the minister; a solemn smile alleviated his long thin face. “There will be a wake in the adjoining building for those who wish to come together and remember Marc Earle.”

Tamara crossed herself, recited a private prayer, then eased out a defeated sigh. Marc had been her dearest friend. They’d laughed together, confided in each other. And a few months ago, when a string of unfortunate events had threatened to pull her under…

Tears prickled and stung her eyes.

God knew she was a fighter. Growing up, she had to be. But that night she’d needed someone and, as always, Marc had been there.

As Tamara pushed to her feet, an icy shiver trickled down her spine. While others shuffled into the aisle, up ahead Armand De Luca was crossing the maroon carpet, headed for the casket. His face a stony mask, he gazed down then reached out to touch the gleaming wood.

A wave of nausea surged in Tamara’s belly. Sweeping aside her long dark hair, she closed her eyes, gently pressing a hand below her waist. She breathed all the way in, then slowly out. When the morning sickness faded, she looked over again. De Luca was gone.

Suddenly chilled, she hugged herself then followed the majority’s lead, drifting through ethereal shafts of light that crisscrossed down from parallel arched windows. Outside, she slid on dark glasses to shield her gritty eyes from a screen of mostly nameless faces that milled around like ghosts slow-waltzing to receding organ music.

Two of Marc’s friends gravitated over. Identical in every way but their hair, twins Kristin and Melanie had often called upon their kind-hearted neighbor to help with handyman chores or settle sibling squabbles. Now the pair looked lost.

Kristin slowly shook her cropped blond head. “I’m still in shock.” Her brows flew together. “I told him not to get that stupid motorbike.”

Melanie’s rust-colored locks quivered when she blew her nose. “This should never have happened to someone as good as Marc.” She sighed then blinked at Tamara. “Can’t imagine how you’re coping. With your business going under, then the fire, now this.”

While Tamara struggled to form words, Kristin snapped at her sister. “Great going, Mel. She doesn’t need reminders.”

“I only meant that three knocks in a row…” Melanie looked sheepish. “Well, it must be tough.”

Three knocks?

Tamara swayed.

Make that four.

Others joined the trio. Half-listening, Tamara stared off at the distant cityscape sprawled below the funeral home’s high vantage point. The glass-and-metal structures, poised like sentinels around Sydney Harbor’s stretched-silk waters, normally charged her with energy and excitement. None of that registered today.

When her queasiness grew and mourners meandered off toward a room where triangular sandwiches, hot tea and more anguish awaited, she slipped away to the nearest bathroom. Moments later, she clutched the comfortless rim of a porcelain sink.

Oh, Lord, she was going to be sick. But at least she was alone in the private room available for anyone who needed time to gather their thoughts or composure. Bowed over, brow embedded on a forearm, she submitted to rolls of discomfort and the image that spun an endless cycle through her brain—Marc’s face the night he’d learned he would soon be a father. He’d said that he loved her. Wanted to get married. How could she confess she loved him too—just not that way.

The scent of pine antiseptic and freshly cut gladioli hauled her back. A heartbeat later, her ears pricked and she straightened. Had she heard something—a knock?

She slumped again. No, just ragged nerves and imagination. Groaning, she cupped shaking hands under the running faucet. Another splash on her clammy face could only help.

“Excuse me, Ms. Kendle?”

At the sound of that rich, honey-over-gravel voice, Tamara’s heart jumped to her throat. Hair lashing her cheeks, she wheeled around to face the room’s only exit and the masculine silhouette filling it. Palm pushed to the pounding beneath the bodice of her black dress, she swallowed and recovered her power of speech. “Good Lord, you scared me half to death!”

One dark brow flexed as an indolent grin kicked up a corner of her guest’s mouth. “My apologies. When you slid in here, and stayed so long, I worried that I’d missed you.” Beneath the impeccably tailored jacket, his sizeable chest inflated. “I’m Armand De Luca. Marco’s brother.”

Long-lost brother, she silently amended, though it was apparent they had nothing in common, not manner or build. And while Marc’s eyes were blue, too, his gaze had been trusting, whereas this man’s appeared, well, almost predatory. Perhaps not so surprising given what she knew of his upbringing. A strict childhood, dominated by an overly ambitious father, no mother on the scene. She might feel sorry for him, but De Luca was not a man in need of pity. Ruthless intelligence and celebrated charm, which radiated off him now in tangible waves, was proof enough of that.