Unlocking The Millionaire's Heart

She achieved her aim and then some.

His eyes narrowed, drawing his thick dark brows obliquely down, and his mouth quirked as he spoke in a mild tone. ‘We’ll save that war until later. For that quip, I’ll select.’

His flippant remark left her breathless, lips parted and with tingles scooting up and down her spine. She drained her water glass, incapable of forming a retort. He was smart—a fast thinker. A man not to be toyed with.

Her mind inexplicably recalled the adage Make love not war, and a hot flush spread up from her neck. Lucky for her, a young waiter arrived for their orders, and she ducked her head to read from the menu.

I’ll start with the smoked salmon with capers,’ she told him, ‘and have the barramundi with a fresh garden salad for my main.’

Nate chose oysters with chilli, coconut and lime as an entrée, followed by grilled salmon and steamed vegetables.

The wine he ordered was unknown to Jemma, and the hours she’d spent stacking refrigerators and racks had given her an extensive knowledge of labels. She’d also filled and emptied many a dishwasher, so figured she’d earned any offer to dine out for years to come.

‘You obviously enjoy seafood.’

Nate’s upper body leant forward over his crossed arms on the table, his intent to follow their agent’s suggestion of becoming acquainted evident in his posture. Pity there was little affability in his tone, and a suspicion there was more to his manner than giving her access to his writing began to form.

‘Barramundi is my mother’s specialty. I like to compare other offerings with hers.’

‘She’s a good cook, huh?’

Jemma laughed. ‘Don’t ever call her that if she has a knife in her hand—which, by the way, will always be sharp. Both she and Dad are qualified chefs, and live for their profession.’

A speculative gleam appeared in his smoky eyes, holding her spellbound, feeling as if he were seeking her innermost thoughts. His features remained impassive, his voice with its intriguing hint of roughness calm. The only sign of emotion was the steady tapping of two left-hand fingers on his right elbow, an action he seemed unaware of.

‘I’m guessing that didn’t leave much time for child-rearing.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

The waiter appeared with their wine, sending the next words back into her throat. She’d have to set him straight—hadn’t meant to give that impression. Yet as Nate sampled the small amount of wine poured into his glass she couldn’t deny the facts. There had been little time for any of the usual parent/child activities, though they’d encouraged and financed Vanessa’s modelling courses. They’d gained publicity, of course, when she’d won an international contract.

On Nate’s approval, her glass was filled. As she savoured the crisp, dry flavour he raised his glass to her without speaking, drank, then set it down.

‘This is good. I approve of your choice, Nate.’ She took another sip and let it linger on her tongue, waiting for him to continue the conversation about family. He didn’t.

I presume you don’t write full-time? Do you have another career?’

‘I paint pictures of Australian flora and fauna, mostly on small tiles, and work part-time in the gift shop where they’re displayed. I also sell them at local markets.’

‘Let me guess—koalas and wombats top the list?’

Hearing the hint of condescension in his voice, she clenched her teeth and felt her spine stiffen. She tightened her grip on the stem of her glass and held back the retort his words deserved.

‘They’re up there. Mother animals with babies are my bestsellers, along with bright native flowers.’

‘And where’s home?’

Firing questions seemed to be his idea of becoming acquainted. She obliged, giving him only the information she wished to reveal.

‘The Adelaide Hills.’

‘South Australian bushfire territory? I was there in 2015. The risks don’t worry you?’

* * *

Nate saw the flicker of pain in her eyes and the slight convulsion in her throat—heard the hitch in her voice when, after gazing out of the window for a moment, she answered.

‘That year was my first summer as a resident there. A close friend lost property, some sheep and their pets—a cat and two dogs. Meg and her family were devastated, yet they stayed, rebuilt and adopted from the animal shelter. They taught me how to minimise risks, and although the worry is there every year, it’s balanced by living with fresh air in a friendly, small-town atmosphere. Big cities are for holidays and shopping sprees. How about you?’

Sprung. He’d kept his questions basic, complying with the intent of Brian’s words if not the spirit. He hadn’t expected to hear a familiar story—one he’d heard a few times since he’d moved to the mountains. Given her parents’ profession, he’d pictured her living in Adelaide or one of its suburbs.

Bracing himself for her reaction, he answered.

‘The Blue Mountains.’

He was treated to a sharp intake of breath between parted lips, a delightful indignant expression and flashing eyes. Against his will, his gut tightened in response.

‘That’s the New South Wales equivalent. You have flare-ups every year.’

Stalled by the arrival of their entrées, Nate waited until they were alone before replying, surprising himself with an admission he didn’t normally disclose to strangers.

‘I know. I help fight them.’

She tilted her head as she scrutinised him, as if memorising every feature and nuance. He’d already achieved that in the office. He might not have her reputed eloquent descriptive powers, but her face was indelibly imprinted on his mind. Again, not intentionally.

‘You’re a volunteer firefighter?’

Her apparent admiration was gratifying, if not truly merited. He shrugged it off. Living in the country meant embracing its culture and values.

‘You live in the area—you should do your bit. The training keeps me fit, along with exercising at home.’

He scooped up an oyster and let it slide down his throat, savouring the spice and tang as he watched Jemma arrange salmon and capers on a cracker, and take a delicate bite. Her glossed lips fascinated him, conjuring up thoughts better left unsaid, and his sudden surge of desire was totally unexpected.

He knew the myth that oysters were an aphrodisiac, so maybe they’d been the wrong choice.

Risky selection or not, he ate another before asking, ‘How much writing have you done?’

It came out more curt than he’d intended—caused by his inability to curb her effect on his mind and body. If he was attracted to a woman his rules were not negotiable. Keep it simple, keep it unemotional and don’t get too involved. Strictly adhering to those rules since his short disastrous affair—never discussed with anyone, not even family—ensured mutually satisfying relationships with women of similar views.

Jemma wrote romance. She’d be a sentimental believer in happy-ever-after who deserved flowers—hell, she even painted them—and love tokens. She’d want commitment, and would no doubt one day be a devoted wife and mother.

He might fantasise about her, might desire her, but the pitfalls of sexual entanglement had taught him to maintain control. Whatever feelings she aroused now, they would pass once they’d parted company.

She sipped her wine and made a lingering survey of the room, before facing him with enigmatic features. Not one to open up willingly to someone she didn’t know. He waited patiently. As things stood now, his literary career wouldn’t be taking off any time soon.

‘Poems and short stories since childhood—most of the earlier ones consigned to the recycling bin. A computer file of thirty thousand-word partial manuscripts with varying degrees of potential, plus this finished one.’

‘Which Brian deems in need of drastic revision?’

‘Ditto, Mr Thornton. Is this your first effort, or are there others waiting for your help too?’

She gave a sudden stunning smile that tripped his pulse, shaking his composure.

She rattled it even more when she added, with unerring accuracy, ‘No, you’d see any project through to the bitter end before starting another.’ Leaving him speechless.

He scooped out the last oyster, trying to fathom why a woman so dissimilar from those who usually attracted him was pressing his buttons with such ease. Down to earth rather than sophisticated, she had that indefinable something he couldn’t identify.

Shelving it to the back of his mind, he pushed the tray of empty shells aside. ‘Point conceded. And the name’s Nate. Unless you’re trying to maintain a barrier between us?’

The soft flush of colour over her cheeks proved he was right. His own rush of guilt proved that his conscience knew his curtness was partly to blame.

He drained his wine glass, set it down, and thanked the waitress who cleared away the dishes. A new topic seemed appropriate.

‘How well do you know Brian?’

* * *

Jemma blinked as he switched topic again. This was almost like speed-dating—which she’d never tried, but she knew women who’d described it. Except she and Nate weren’t changing partners, and she definitely wasn’t in the market for one.

‘Mostly by email, but I trust him. He read my novel, then when I came to Sydney in December we met in his office. Not my happiest encounter ever, as he gave me an honest, concise appraisal of my writing proficiency. Unlike you, my inept storyline passages way outnumber the good scenes. You?’

‘Similar scenario. You’re not bothered that agreeing to his proposal means putting your novel on hold while you work on someone else’s?’

‘No, I’m dumbfounded by the offer, terrified of the implications if I fail, and thrilled that he believes I’m worthy of being part of something he seems keen to see published. If you’re as good as he’s implied, adapting those scenes yet keeping them true to your characters and story will be beneficial for my career too.’

‘Hmm.’

He appeared to be considering her declaration as their mains were served, pepper offered and accepted by Nate, and their wine glasses refilled. She waited for him to continue, but instead he began to eat.

The fish was delicious, and her mmm of pleasure slipped out. Glancing up, she found Nate watching her with a sombre expression.

‘How does this chef’s barramundi compare to your mother’s?’

‘As good as—though I’d never tell her. It’s different, and I can’t pick why. I prefer the natural taste of food, so I don’t use many herbs and spices and I can’t always identify their flavour. How’s your salmon?’

She hoped her answer would satisfy him, and save her from having to admit that her limited cooking knowledge came from her aunt and recipe books, because her parents claimed they didn’t have time to teach her.

‘Up to the usual excellent standard. I’ve never had a meal here that wasn’t.’

They ate in silence for a few minutes, with Jemma wishing she had her sister’s gift to attract and charm people of any age. Apart from when she was with close friends Jemma hid behind a façade of friendly courtesy. Though she had her moments when she couldn’t hold back—like when someone irked her as he had a few times. Or when her curiosity was aroused. Like now.

‘How do you make a living while you’re waiting for the book sale royalties to come flooding in?’

Nate’s head jerked up, his face a picture of astonishment. Instead of the comeback she’d assumed he’d give, he chuckled, and the deep sound wrapped around her, making her yearn for a time when trust had come easy.

‘I’ll let you know when they do and we’ll celebrate.’

The memory of a similar pledge slammed through her, taking her breath away and freezing her blood.

I’m expecting good news. When it comes we’ll have a special celebration.

Two days later she’d found out that the man she’d believed loved her and intended to propose was sleeping with a female colleague to gain promotion. He’d even gone to meet her after taking Jemma home that night.

‘Jemma, are you all right?’

She shook her head, dragged in air and looked into concerned grey eyes.

‘You’re white as a ghost.’

‘The ghost of a bad memory. Best forgotten.’ She managed a smile and he relaxed into his seat, keeping watch on her pale face. ‘Truly, I’m fine.’

‘I’m not so sure, but...’

He let out a very masculine grunt and she was totally back in the now, reaching for her wine, sipping it as he gave her a serious answer.

‘I was a reporter. Now I’m an investment advisor.’

‘A good one?’

‘Good enough to pay the bills.’

Jemma pondered on his succinct job description. She could visualise him investigating a story, chasing information to find the truth, but the switch to an office job didn’t gel.

‘Why the career move?’

She watched his chest expand under the tan sweater, hold then contract. He seemed to be deliberately assessing how much to disclose. Preparing to keep secrets and lie like her ex?

‘Things happen and you make choices. My gap year—travelling in Europe with a friend after we graduated from uni—became a rite of passage lasting seven years that made me who I am now.’

She empathised, and was convinced his matter-of-fact tone belied his true feelings. Her parents selling their house—her home—to invest in a restaurant, and her ex’s betrayal were the two events that had forced her to re-evaluate her future, and they had a continuing effect on her viewpoint and life choices.

‘Four years ago, my father had a health scare, prompting him to semi-retire and move with my mother to the south coast. It was my motivation for coming home for good—a decision I’ve never regretted in the slightest.’

She heard honest affection in his voice and envied that relationship. She couldn’t imagine her parents or sister giving up their careers for anyone—hoped she’d be more compassionate.

Sensing he’d divulged more than he’d intended when he’d agreed to lunch with her, she didn’t reply and finished eating her meal.

* * *

Nate had no idea why he’d revealed private aspects of his life he usually kept to himself. Or why he found it almost impossible to take his eyes off her enchanting, expressive face. His attraction to a woman had never been so immediate, so compelling. So in conflict with his normal emotionless liaisons.

A growing need for open space was compelling. He had to get away from her—away from her subtle floral perfume that had been tantalising him since he’d stepped near enough to greet her. Native rather than commercially grown city flowers, it was delicate and haunting.

He didn’t fight his urgent compulsion to pace and consider all the implications, including any legal ramifications, of collaboration. He needed to think and plan away from the distractions of other people, away from Jemma and his reactions to her, physical and mental.

Noting her plate was empty, he placed his cutlery neatly on his.

‘Do you want dessert or coffee here? Or we could take some time apart to consider our options and meet up later.’

This time her scrutiny was short. yet no less intense.

With an understanding smile he’d rather not have seen, she nodded. ‘That’s a good idea.’

Muscles he hadn’t realised were tight suddenly loosened.

‘I’ll need your phone number.’

Unease flickered in her eyes before she reached for her shoulder bag on the floor. Had it anything to do with her adverse opinion of him at first sight?

He held his mobile towards her, allowing her to input first.

Their empty plates removed, and anything else politely declined, she leant her elbows on the table and cupped her chin on her linked fingers as they waited for the bill.

‘Do you commute from the mountains every day?’ she asked.

‘Electronic media means I can do a fair amount from home. I come in when necessary, or for socialising.’

He hadn’t yet bowed to the pressure to commit to full-time employment with the family firm, wary of the daily sameness stretching into his future.

‘Like today?’

‘Like today.’

And he’d be staying until his flight overseas on Sunday morning.

He settled the account on the way out, irrationally torn between needing to be alone and reluctance to let her go. After saying goodbye, she headed for the railway station without glancing back. He watched for a moment, then strode towards the Harbour Bridge.

CHAPTER THREE

JEMMA TOOK NO notice of the world around her as the train sped to Central Station, and as she deliberated on which way to go when she alighted. Her brain buzzed at the compliments Brian had given her, coupled with the sensations from Nate’s few touches and her own responses to his looks and his voice.

Could she handle being in frequent contact with him? Even by email? How would she deal with someone who was averse to allowing her to read anything he’d written?

Consider our options.

Like heck. He oozed the authority of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and rarely settled for less. He’d given no indication of his point of view on their two-way deal, focussing only on his novel.

Brian’s appraisal of her work had been honest and unemotional, letting her know the downsides while still giving her hope of a satisfactory solution. Already aware of her weakness when she’d submitted to him, she was open to any suggestion for improvement.

Could Nate remain impartial to the romance genre when he read her work? How did he feel about helping to transform her inept storytelling? He’d been very forthright about his aversion to allowing her access to his manuscript. Her emotions wavered from exhilaration that she might achieve publication to apprehension that Nate’s expectations might be hard to satisfy.

She walked out of the station and turned towards Circular Quay. Window shopping in Pitt Street would pass the time and occupy her mind. If he didn’t call... She banished that thought. He’d phone—even if it was only to dash any foolish hopes she might have allowed to take seed.

A new dress and two fun presents for her friends later, she was watching the ferries dock and depart as she devoured a fruit and nut bar. She wandered over to where groups of excited people were dragging suitcases towards a huge cruise ship. A holiday to inspire a romance novel? Maybe one day she’d take one.

A brochure she’d picked up on the way showed it wasn’t far from here to the historic Rocks area. If she hadn’t heard from Nate by the time she’d explored the old buildings she’d catch the next train to North Ryde.

* * *

Did he like Jemma? Way too much. Nate had kept his emotions under tight restraint since he’d narrowly escaped being duped into a sham marriage, but he’d had trouble curbing them around her. She’d had doubts concerning him on sight, which had him wondering who he reminded her of.

Did he trust her? Not yet. Experience in dealing with the darker side of life had taught him that trust had to be earned rather than given freely.

Did he want her? His body’s response to any thought of her gave him an instant reply. But that didn’t mean he’d follow through.

Mental arguments for and against dual authorship had got him nowhere, and he was still uncommitted as he reached the waterside. Swinging left, he took the steps leading up to the bridge walkway. After skirting a group of photo-snapping tourists, he took a deep breath of salty air and began to run.

He maintained a steady pace until he reached the apartment block at North Sydney. His grandfather had bequeathed a twenty-third-storey unit jointly to him, Sam and Alice, and all three of them had lived there, alone or together, at various times. It was always available for family and friends when they came to the city.

A long, refreshing shower cooled his body, but didn’t clear his mind. Dressed in fresh clothes, and with a stubby of cold beer in his hand, he stood on the balcony, staring at the buildings around him. Not far away by foot was the office block housing the family brokerage firm, which had offered him a lucrative job for life.

Far away up in the mountains was the home he’d designed, with an architect’s help, to suit the lifestyle he planned to live. Mostly solitary, with occasional guests, pleasing only himself. Closing his eyes, he pictured the view as he woke in the morning, ate his meals and chilled out in the evenings. And in that instant his decision was made.

Somewhere in the thriving metropolis across the bay was the woman Brian believed could help him realise literary success. All he had to do was have faith and stay in command of his libido.

But before he committed to a trial partnership he needed to reinforce the life oath he’d made years ago, during the lowest point of his life. He took the dog-eared leather notebook he always travelled with, flipped it open to a coded page, and read the vow he’d made never to get involved out loud.

Then he phoned Jemma Harrison.

It took three rings for her to answer, and he heard traffic and the rattle of a train in the background.

‘Hi, Jemma, where are you?’

‘Taking photos from the Harbour Bridge.’

He surprised himself with a spontaneous burst of laughter.

‘What’s so funny?’ There was a spike in her voice, though she didn’t sound offended.

‘I ran over it on the way here. Which end are you nearest?’

‘Um... I guess I’m about a third of the way along from the quay.’

‘Keep coming north. Don’t rush. I’ll meet you at the steps going down to the road. We can sit in the park nearby. Would you like me to bring you a hot or cold drink?’

‘No, thanks. I have a bottle of water.’

‘Okay, see you soon.’

He grimaced at the screen after disconnecting, and then went to put on socks and sneakers. Having his pulse hiking and his mouth drying, even his palms itching, was something he might have to become accustomed to if they were going to be in regular communication.

Anticipation of seeing her had him moving faster than normal. It was not the way he wanted to feel.

* * *

Nate saw Jemma approaching as he reached the top of the steps so he waited, admiring the natural sway of her hips as she came towards him. The extra bag in her hand and the bulge in the one over her shoulder, proved she’d been shopping. Her smile as they met had him steeling his arms at his sides to prevent greeting her with a hug, and the sunglasses hiding the expression in her beautiful blue eyes was a disappointment.

‘Hi—would you like me to carry the bag?’

‘Thanks, I’m fine.’ She waved her arm in a wide sweep. ‘I’d love to sit and view all this on a stormy day—or preferably night.’

‘You like thunder and lightning?’

She laughed, causing an unfamiliar and yet not unpleasant effect over his skin. Causing him to take a quick breath. Causing him to fortify the reason he was meeting her. To get his book published.

‘From a safe vantage point—oh, yes.’

‘They can give you a spectacular display in the mountains—especially when watched from a heated room with a beer or glass of wine at your side.’

Berating himself for conjuring up an image of them sharing wine and nature’s dramatic show, he guided her down to the ground and across to the lawn area at the edge of the water. Partial images of the Opera House and the southern side of the bay were visible through the semicircle of palm trees. A small oasis of green surrounded by acres of concrete and buildings was behind them, and the expanse of deep water in front.

Jemma placed her bags on the ground, sat and curled her legs to the side. He joined her, leaning on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him. For a moment or two there seemed no need for conversation. The serenity of the small area compensated for the traffic noise from the bridge.

Having resolved his mental conflict, and acutely aware of her beside him, he accepted that she’d now be a presence in his life. How prominent depended on how often they had to meet in person.