Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?

Praise for Nicola Marsh

‘Fresh, funny, flirty and feel-good—who can resist one of Nicola Marsh’s delectable category romances? With a fabulously fun heroine, a sexy hero and lashings of witty dialogue, Overtime in the Boss’s Bed is another keeper from the stellar pen of Nicola Marsh!’ —PHS Reviews on Overtime in the Boss’s Bed

‘Nicola Marsh heats up your winter nights with this blazingly sensual tale of lost love, second chances and old secrets! In Marriage: For Business or Pleasure? Nicola Marsh blends hot sensuality with tender romance, witty humour and nail-biting drama, which will keep readers eagerly turning the pages of this spellbinding contemporary romance!’ —PHS Reviews on Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?

‘This lovers-reunited tale is awash in passion, sensuality and plenty of sparks. The terrific characters immediately capture your attention, and from there the pages go flying by.’

—RT Book Reviews on Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?

‘Sterling characters, an exotic setting and crackling sexual tension make for a great read.’

—RT Book Reviews on

A Trip with the Tycoon

About the Author

About Nicola Marsh

NICOLA MARSH has always had a passion for writing and reading. As a youngster she devoured books when she should have been sleeping, and later kept a diary whose content could be an epic in itself! These days, when she’s not enjoying life with her husband and son in her home city of Melbourne, she’s at her computer, creating the romances she loves in her dream job.

Visit Nicola’s website at www.nicolamarsh.com for the latest news of her books.

Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?

Nicola Marsh

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Also by Nicola Marsh

Girl in a Vintage Dress

Deserted Island, Dreamy Ex!

Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss

Overtime in the Boss’s Bed

Three Times a Bridesmaid …

Marriage: For Business or Pleasure?

A Trip With the Tycoon

Two Weeks in the Magnate’s Bed

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one’s for my writing buddies,

Fiona Lowe and Joan Kilby.

Thanks for the camping tips.

If you convinced my hero to give it a go,

there’s hope for me yet!

CHAPTER ONE

‘WE HAVE a problem.’

Four words Rory Devlin did not want to hear—especially at his first Devlin Corp Shareholders’ Ball.

He glanced around the Palladium ballroom, ensuring everyone was engaged in drinking, dining or dancing, with no visible crisis in sight, before acknowledging the waiter hovering at his elbow.

‘What kind of problem?’

The kid, barely out of school, took a backward step and he belatedly remembered to temper his tone. It wasn’t the waiter’s fault he’d been dealing with non-stop hold-ups on the Portsea project all day.

Attending this shindig was the last thing he wanted to do but it had been six months since he’d stepped into the CEO role, six months since he’d tried to rebuild what had once been Australia’s premier property developer, six months of repairing the damage his dad had inflicted.

The waiter glanced over his shoulder and tugged nervously at his bow tie. ‘You better see for yourself.’

Annoyed at the intrusion, he signalled to his deputy, who saluted at his ‘stepping out’ sign, and followed the waiter to a small annexe off the main foyer, where the official launch of the Portsea project would take place in fifteen minutes.

‘She’s in there.’

She?

He took one look inside the annexe and balked.

‘I’ll take it from here,’ he said, and the waiter scuttled away before he’d finished speaking.

Squaring his shoulders, he tugged at the ends of his dinner jacket and strode into the room, eyeballing the problem.

Who eyeballed him back with a defiant tilt of her head, sending loose shoulder-length blond waves tumbling around her heart-shaped face.

She wore a smug smile along with a flimsy blue cocktail dress that matched her eyes.

He hoped the links around her wrists and ankles were the latest eccentric fashion accessory and not what he thought they were: chains anchoring her to the display he had to unveil shortly.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’m counting on it.’

Her pink-glossed lips compressed as she sized him up, starting at his Italian handmade shoes and sweeping upwards in an all-encompassing stare that made him edgy.

‘Shall we go somewhere and discuss—?’

‘Not possible.’

She rattled the chains at her wrist and the display gave an ominous wobble.

‘As you can see, I’m a bit tied up at the moment.’

He winced at her pitiful pun and she laughed.

‘Not my best, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do to get results.’

He pointed at the steel links binding her to his prized display.

‘And you think chaining yourself to my company’s latest project is going to achieve your objective?’

‘You’re here, aren’t you?’

What was this? Some kind of revenge?

He frowned, searching his memory banks. Was she someone he’d dated? A business associate? Someone he’d slighted in some way?

If she’d gone this far to get his attention, she wanted something. Something he’d never give, considering the way she’d gone about this.

He didn’t take kindly to threats or blackmail—or whatever this was.

Having some bold blonde wearing a dress that accentuated rather than hid her assets, her long legs bare and her toenails painted the same silver as her chains, bail him up like this … no way in hell would he cave to her demands.

She wanted to sell him prime land? Put in a tender for a job? Supply and interior decorate the luxury mansions on the Portsea project?

Stiff. She’d have to make an appointment like everyone else. This kind of stunt didn’t impress him. Not one bit.

She chose that moment to shift her weight from one leg to the other, rattling the chains binding her slim ankles, drawing his attention to those long bare legs again …

His perfectly male response annoyed him as much as the time he was wasting standing here.

‘You wanted to see me specifically?’

‘If you’re Rory Devlin, CEO of the company about to ruin the marine environment out near Portsea, then, yep, you’re the man.’

His heart sank. Since he’d taken over the reins at Devlin Corp six months ago he’d borne the brunt of every hippy lobbyist and environmentalist in town. None that looked quite as ravishing as the woman before him, but all of them demonstrating the same headstrong fanaticism.

Eco-nuts like her had almost derailed the company. Thankfully, he had a stronger backbone than his father, who’d dilly-dallied rather than making firm decisions on the Port Douglas project last year.

Devlin Corp had ensured the rainforest in far North Queensland would be protected, but that hadn’t stopped zealot protestors stalling construction, costing millions and almost bankrupting the company in the process.

If he hadn’t stepped in and played hardball he shuddered to think what would have happened to his family legacy.

‘You’ve been misinformed. My company takes great pains to ensure its developments blend with the environment, not ruin it.’

‘Please.’ She rolled her eyes before focussing them on him with a piercing clarity that would have intimidated a lesser man. ‘I’ve researched the land you develop—those flashy houses you dump in the middle of nowhere and sell for a small fortune.’

She strained against her chains as if she’d like to jab him in the chest, and his gaze momentarily strayed to hers before her exasperated snort drew his attention upwards.

‘Your developments slash trees and defile land and don’t give a rat’s about energy conservation—’

‘Stop right there.’

He crossed the room to stand a foot in front of her, feeling vindicated when she had to tilt her head back to look up at him, and annoyed when a tantalising fragrance of sunshine and fresh grass and spring mornings wrapped around him.

‘You’re misinformed as well as trespassing. Unlock yourself. Now.’

Tiny sapphire flecks sparked in her eyes before her lips curved upwards in an infuriatingly smug smile.

‘Can’t do that.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you haven’t agreed to my terms yet.’

He shook his head, pressing the pads of his fingers against his eyes. Unfortunately, when he opened them, she was still there.

‘We do this the easy way or the hard way. Easy way: you unlock yourself. Hard way: I call Security and they use bolt cutters to humiliate you further.’

Her eyes narrowed, not dimming in brilliance one iota.

‘Go ahead. Call them.’

Damn, she knew he was bluffing. No way would he draw attention to her and risk the shareholders getting curious.

‘Give me the key.’

He took a step closer, deriving some satisfaction from the way she inhaled sharply and wriggled backwards before he realised his mistake.

He’d wanted to intimidate her; he’d ended up being an inch away from her.

‘Make me.’

Her tongue darted out to moisten her bottom lip and he stared at it, shaken to the core by the insane urge to taste those lips for himself.

Hell.

He never backed down—ever. He’d taken on every challenge thrust upon him: changing schools in his mid-teens so he could be groomed to take over Devlin Corp one day, ousting his layabout father from the CEO role, stepping up when it counted and dragging an ailing company out of the red and into the black.

She wanted him to capitulate to her demands?

As if.

‘I’m not playing this game with you.’

He used his frostiest, most commanding tone. The one he reserved for recalcitrant contractors who never failed to delay projects. Predictably, it did little for the pest threatening to derail his evening.

She merely smiled wider.

‘Why? Games can be fun.’

Exasperated beyond belief, his fingers tingled with the urge to throttle her.

Dragging in deep, calming breaths, he stared at the model of Portsea Point, the largest project he’d undertaken since assuming CEO duties.

He needed this project to fly. Needed it to be his biggest, boldest success to push the company back to its rightful place: at the top of Australia’s luxury property developers.

If he could nail this business would flood in, and Devlin Corp would shrug off the taint his father had besmirched the company with in his short stint as CEO.

Failure was not an option.

He glanced at his watch and grimaced. The unveiling would take place in less than ten minutes and he needed to get rid of this woman pronto.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets and out of strangling distance, he squared his shoulders and edged back to tower over her.

‘What do you want?’

‘Thought you’d never ask.’

His gaze strayed to her glossed lips again and he mentally kicked himself.

‘I want a little one-on-one time with you.’

‘There are easier ways to get a date.’

Confusion creased her brow for a second, before her eyes widened in horror.

‘I don’t want a date with you.’

She made it sound as if he’d offered her some one-on-one time with a nest of vipers.

‘Sure? I come highly recommended.’

‘I bet,’ she muttered, glancing away, but not before he’d seen the flare of interest in her eyes.

‘In fact, I can give you the numbers of half the Melbourne female population who could verify exactly how great a date I am and—’

‘Half of Melbourne?’ She snorted. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

Leaning into her personal space, he savoured her momentary flare of panic as she eased away.

‘You’re the one who wanted one-on-one time with me.’

‘For an interview, you dolt.’

Ah … so that was what this stunt was about. An out-of-work environmentalist after a job.

He had two words for her: hell, no. But against his better judgement he admired her sass. Most jobseekers would apply through an agency or harass his PA for an appointment. Not many would go through this much trouble.

He crooked his finger and she warily eased forward. ‘Here’s a tip. You want an interview? Don’t go calling your prospective boss nasty names.’

‘Dolt isn’t nasty. If I wanted nasty I would’ve gone with bast—’

‘Unbelievable.’

His jaw ached with the effort not to laugh. If his employees had half the chutzpah this woman did Devlin Corp would be number one again in next to no time.

‘What do you say? Give me fifteen minutes of your time and I’ll ensure you won’t regret it.’

She punctuated her plea with a toss of her shoulder-length blond hair and once again the tempting fragrance of spring outdoors washed over him.

He opened his mouth to refuse, to tell her exactly what he thought of her underhand tricks.

‘I don’t want to disrupt your Portsea project. I want to help you.’

She eyeballed him, her determination and boldness as attractive as the rest of her.

‘In the marine environmental field, I’m the best there is.’

Worn down by her admirable persistence, he found himself nodding.

‘Fifteen minutes.’

‘Deal.’

Her triumphant grin turned sly. ‘Now, if you don’t mind fishing the key out of its hiding spot, I’ll get out of your way.’

‘Hiding spot?’

Her gaze dropped to her cleavage.

Jeez, could this evening get any crazier?

‘Uh … okay.’

He’d reached a tentative hand towards her chest when she let out a howl of laughter that had him leaping backwards.

‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it.’

With a few deft flicks of her wrists she’d slipped out of her chains and kicked the ones around her ankles free.

‘You set me up.’

He should have been angry, should have cancelled her interview on the spot. Instead he found himself watching her as she deftly wound the chains and stuffed them into a sparkly hold-all she’d hidden under the table, wondering what she’d come up with next to surprise him.

‘I didn’t set you up so much as have a little fun at your expense.’

She patted his chest. ‘I snuck a peek at you earlier in the ballroom and it looked like you could do with a little lightening up.’

Speechless, he wondered why he was putting up with her pushiness. He didn’t take that from anyone—ever.

She pressed a business card into his hand and the simple touch of her palm against his fired a jolt of awareness he hadn’t expected or wanted.

‘My details are all there. I’ll call to set up that interview.’

She slung her bag over her shoulder, the rattle of chains a reminder of the outlandishness of this evening.

‘Nice to meet you, Rory Devlin.’

With a crisp salute she sauntered out through the door, leaving him gobsmacked.

CHAPTER TWO

GEMMA SHULTZ strode from the ballroom, head held high, success making her want to do a little shimmy.

With Rory Devlin boring holes in her back with his potent stare, she waited until she’d rounded a corner before doing a triumphant jig.

She’d done it. Scored an interview with the high-and-mighty CEO of the company threatening to tear her family’s land apart.

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.

It had been a coping mechanism, and when the pacing had eventually stopped she’d thought Coral had finally adjusted to sleeping alone, but considering the early hour and the fact her mum was fully dressed, maybe her sleep patterns had been permanently shot?

‘Coffee?’

Gemma nodded. ‘Please.’

‘Have you come straight from a work site?’

There it was: the first foray into critical territory, a territory Gemma knew too well. How many times had she borne her mum’s barbs after her dad died?

Have you washed your hair?

Can’t you wear a dress for once?

No boy’s going to ask a tomboy to the graduation ball.

She’d learned to tune out, and with every dig she’d hardened her heart, pretending she didn’t care while wishing inside she could be the kind of daughter Coral wanted.

‘I actually got in last night.’

Coral’s hand stilled midway between the sugar bowl and the mug. ‘Why didn’t you stay here?’

‘I did. I bunked down in Dad’s workshop.’

Horror warred with distaste before Coral blinked and assumed her usual stoical mask. ‘You always did feel more comfortable out there.’

‘True.’

Gemma could have sworn her mum’s shoulders slumped before she resumed bustling around the kitchen.

Why did you do it? It buzzed around her head, the question demanding to be asked, but she knew better than to bail Coral up before her first caffeine hit of the day. She’d clam up or storm off in a huff, and that wouldn’t cut it—not today. Today she needed answers.

‘How long are you here for?’

As long as it takes to whip Rory Devlin’s butt into shape.

Devlin’s butt … bad analogy.

An image of dark blue eyes the colour of a Kimberley sky at night flashed into her mind, closely followed by the way he’d filled out his fancy-schmancy suit, his slick haircut, his cut-glass cheekbones.

At six-four he had the height to command attention, but the rest of the package sold it. The guy might be a cold-hearted, infuriating, corporate shark who cared for nothing bar the bottom dollar but, wow, he packed some serious heat.

She hated the fact she’d noticed.

‘I’m here for a job.’

She sighed with pleasure as the first tantalising waft of roasted coffee beans hit her.

Watching her mum carefully for a reaction, she added, ‘Out at Portsea.’

Coral’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with fear. ‘You know?’

‘That you sold out? That you got rid of the one thing that meant everything to Dad?’

To me?

She slid off the bar stool and slammed her palms on the island bench. ‘Of course I know.’

‘I—I was going to tell you—’

‘When? When I returned to Melbourne to build my dream home on that land? The home Dad helped me plan years ago? The home where I’d planned on raising my kids?’

Okay, so the latter might be stretching the truth a tad. She had no intention of getting married, let alone having kids, but the inner devastation she kept hidden enjoyed stabbing the knife of guilt and twisting hard.

Coral’s lips compressed into the thin, unimpressed line she’d seen many times growing up. ‘Sorry you feel that way, but you can’t bowl in here every few years, stay for a day, and expect to know every detail of my life.’

Shock filtered through Gemma’s astonishment. She had every right to know what happened to her dad’s land, but she’d never heard Coral raise her voice above a cultured tsk-tsk if they didn’t agree.

‘I’m not asking for every detail, just the important ones—like why you had to sell something that meant the world to me.’

Fear flickered across Coral’s expertly made-up face before she turned away on the pretext of pouring coffee.

‘I—I needed the money.’

She spoke so softly Gemma strained to hear it.

Coral—who wore the best clothes, used the most expensive cosmetics and lunched out daily—needed money?

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ she muttered, sorrow and regret clogging her lungs, making simple inhalation impossible.

She wanted to explain why this meant so much to her, wanted her mum to understand how she’d travelled the world for years, never feeling as sheltered as she did at Portsea.

She wanted her mum to truly comprehend the vulnerabilities behind her tough-girl exterior, the deep-seated need for approval she’d deliberately hidden beneath layers of practised indifference.

She wanted her mum to realise her anger was about the loss of another childhood security rather than not being consulted.

She opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn’t come. Not after all this time. Not after the consistent lack of understanding her mum had shown when she’d been growing up. Why should now be any different?

When Coral turned around to face her she’d donned her usual frosty mask.

‘I don’t question your financials; I’d expect the same courtesy from you.’ Coral handed her some coffee with a shaky hand, making a mockery of her poise. ‘You’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, no questions asked, because this is your home. But I won’t tolerate being interrogated like a criminal.’

Instinctively Gemma bristled—until she realised something. She valued her independence, lived her own life and answered to no one. Including the mother she rarely visited. How would she feel if Coral landed on her doorstep demanding answers to sticky questions? She’d be royally peed off.

Some of the fight drained out of her and she gave a brisk nod, hiding behind her coffee mug. Besides, the damage was done. The land was sold and nothing could change that. She’d be better off focussing on things she could control, like ensuring Devlin Corp respected the beach while they built their mansion monstrosities.

‘There’s a spare key behind the fruit bowl.’ Coral patted her sleek blond bob, an out-of-place, self-conscious gesture at odds with her air of understated elegance. ‘I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, Gemma, but I’m glad you’re here.’

By the time she’d recovered from her shock and whispered, ‘Thanks …’ Coral had sailed out of the room.