Loe raamatut: «The Billionaire's Bride of Convenience»
‘You can’t be serious, Hugh.
‘Naturally I’m not proposing a normal marriage, or a public one. It would be a secret union in name only, to be discreetly dissolved at a later date. But you’d get the piece of paper you need to secure your friend’s house. That is what you want, isn’t it? What you value most in the world?’
‘What do you get out of this extraordinary and rather sacrificial gesture?’
Hugh smiled. ‘Come now, Kathryn, you of all people know I’m selfish to the core. I get you, of course…staying on as my personal assistant,’ he added, taking rueful note of the moment of shock which had flashed through her eyes.
He’d been right. She wouldn’t have let him blackmail her into his bed. This way was much better all round. She would still be in his debt. She might even begin to like him a little…
THE
BILLIONAIRE’S
BRIDE OF
CONVENIENCE
BY
MIRANDA LEE
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
SEVERAL heads turned as the three men made their way into the main bar of the clubhouse. Other men as well as women glanced their way, their gazes carrying a mixture of envy and admiration.
It wasn’t just because these three were rich. Most members of the Sydney Royal Golf Club were wealthy. The attention they instantly drew, especially from women, was more basic than that. Cavewomen had invariably been attracted to cavemen who could best protect and provide for them; physically blessed alpha males whose prepotent genes ensured strong offspring.
A modern woman might imagine she chose her mates differently; that she was attracted to other attributes such as kindness and a good sense of humour. Recent research, however, showed that was false thinking. Apparently, the most attractive quality a man could possess was tallness.
The male trio striding through the bar-room were all tall. If that wasn’t enough to give them an advantage over most members of their sex, they were also handsome and dark-haired and, yes, very rich indeed.
The man who headed straight for the bar and who was obviously going to buy the first round of drinks was Hugh Parkinson, only son and heir to the Parkinson Media fortune. Thirty-six years old, Hugh was Sydney’s most eligible bachelor, a well-known man-about-town with a plethora of past girlfriends, none of whom—amazingly—had a bad word to say about him. A natural charmer, he devoted his life to the pursuit of pleasure, to remaining single and doing only as much work as strictly necessary.
His two golfing buddies were not cut from the same ilk. Both bordered on being workaholics, were married and had been moulded by past experiences into much tougher men.
Russell McClain owned McClain Real Estate, Sydney’s most prestigious and successful property company.
James Logan owned Images, Sydney’s most dynamic advertising and management agency.
The three men had been best friends since their school days. They knew each other very well, including their strengths and their weaknesses. Their affection for each other was genuine and unconditional.
Their Thursday-morning golf game, however, was a no-holds-barred affair. They always played for money, and they always played to win.
‘What on earth’s wrong with Hugh today?’ James said as he and Russell settled at a table on the verandah overlooking the eighteenth green. ‘Never seen him play such pathetic golf.’
‘I have. When you were away, a few weeks ago, just before your wedding. I beat him hollow.’
‘That’s strange.’
‘Thanks,’ Russell said drily.
‘You know what I mean. You’re a pretty good golfer, but Hugh’s better.’
‘He should be. He practically lives on the golf course.’
‘True.’ James had used to play quite a bit himself, but not so much since his marriage late last year. Or over the recent Christmas break, when his social calendar had been very full. ‘Come to think of it, Hugh wasn’t up to scratch last week, either. Only just managed to beat us. What do you think’s responsible for his loss of form?’
‘Not sure about lately,’ Russell said. ‘But back in November he was having some kind of woman trouble.’
James was truly taken aback. Hugh never had woman trouble. They threw themselves at his feet with regular monotony. He could have his pick.
‘What kind of woman trouble?’ James asked.
‘I gather he fancied some piece who wouldn’t come across.’
‘Now, that’d be a first. Do you know who she was?’
‘He didn’t say. And I didn’t ask.’
‘Mmm.’ James frowned as he watched Hugh weave his way towards the verandah with three beers cupped in his hands.
What could possibly be the reason for Hugh’s uncharacteristic failure to bed a female of his choice? His womanising reputation, perhaps?
Nah. His being a bad boy with the opposite sex never seemed to put the girls off him. If anything, his being known as a rake only added to his appeal.
‘On second thoughts, I’ve probably got it all wrong,’ Russell said. ‘He probably just had a late night last night, romancing his latest conquest. Maybe even the mystery girl herself. You and I both know that there isn’t a girl alive who can resist those blue eyes once he turns on the charm. Except my Nicole and your Megan, of course.’
‘Come now, he’s not that irresistible.’ But even as he said the words, James conceded that their friend was a veritable babe magnet.
‘Hope you remembered to make mine a light,’ Russell said when Hugh placed the three glasses of beer on the table. ‘I have to work this afternoon.’
‘Me too,’ James said.
Hugh pulled a face as he sat down. ‘That makes three of us.’
‘You’re joking!’ James exclaimed. ‘You! Work? What’s happened? Someone die?’
‘Not quite. But close.’ Hugh picked up his glass and downed a long, cool swallow of beer before continuing. ‘Dad’s off second-honeymooning with wife number five and I’m in charge of the ship.’
‘Should we sell our shares in Parkinson Media?’ James quipped.
Hugh shrugged. ‘I shouldn’t think so. No one could make worse business decisions than dear old Dad when he’s consumed by unbridled lust. Who knows? By the time he comes back down to earth and wants to take the helm again, I might have recouped a few of the billions he’s frittered away in the name of love. You might have forgotten, Jimmy boy, but I was dux of our school. I also graduated from uni with honours degrees in economics and corporate law. I’m not just a pretty face, you know.’
‘Now we know why your mind wasn’t on your golf today,’ said an enlightened Russell. ‘So when did all this happen?’
‘Last weekend.’
‘No wonder you’re looking a bit frazzled. I’ll bet it’s a long time since you’ve done a full day’s work.’
‘It’s been a while,’ Hugh admitted, not willing to confess that there’d been a few weeks leading up to Christmas last year when he’d gone into the office almost every day and worked his silver tail off.
The reason for this episode of uncharacteristic diligence had been extremely perverse: his PA.
Hugh hadn’t realised when he’d hired Kathryn Hart several months earlier that he might one day find her so damned sexy.
She wasn’t conventionally beautiful, certainly not pretty. Her facial features were too large, her cheekbones too high and her mouth too wide. He also hadn’t noticed her voluptuous figure at the time of her one and only interview. He’d been concentrating solely on what was contained in her excellent résumé.
Of course, he’d been in a bit of a rush at the time, his father’s decision to place him in charge of the publishing arm of Parkinson’s having come right out of the blue. Hugh hadn’t anticipated taking over anything till his father expired. Whilst Richard—Dickie—Parkinson had made sure over the years that his son and heir had had a sprinkling of experience in every facet of his very diverse company, he was not the kind of man to give over power easily.
Surprisingly, Hugh had not been pleased at this unexpected responsibility.
Not willing to totally give up the easy-going lifestyle he’d become accustomed to, Hugh had immediately sought an assistant with superb skills in the publishing field, someone competent and decisive who could cover for him when he wasn’t in the office. Kathryn Hart had seemed perfect, a cool customer who wasn’t in any way flirtatious with him, as some of the other candidates had been.
He hadn’t anticipated that Miss Capability would practically bully him into doing the job entrusted to him, or that he would become increasingly consumed with unwanted desire for her.
That was the perverse part. Because there wasn’t anything he could do about his feelings for her.
Why? Because by the time he realised he fancied her, she was engaged. Shortly to be married, in fact.
Although Hugh was considered a conscienceless rake by all and sundry, the truth was he was quite sensitive to other people’s feelings and would never pursue another man’s woman. Sex, for him, was high on his list of life’s little necessities. But only when it came without complications or consequences.
If Kathryn had been free, Hugh would simply have seduced her, making his daily trips to the office events to be anticipated with pleasure, not dread. As it was, he was forced to endure his growing desire for his PA with a level of physical frustration previously unknown to him. He’d even lost interest in other females, suddenly finding them boring in the extreme. There was only one woman he wanted right now.
And for the first time in his life, he couldn’t have her.
‘Have you moved into your dad’s penthouse as well?’ James asked.
Hugh shook his head. ‘He offered. But I declined. I prefer my own place at Bondi.’
Which he’d bought several years earlier with money he’d accumulated on the stock market, with no help from his father, financial or otherwise. He’d used the cash he’d earned fruit-picking during several summers in his university years when his friends had thought he was overseas, skiing in Europe. Instead, he’d been working his way around Australia, proving to himself that he didn’t need his father’s money to survive and that he was capable of working just as hard as anyone else.
It had been a male-pride thing.
His recently refurbished and now extremely valuable apartment overlooked Bondi Beach, and was within a hundred metres of the rock pool in which he swam most mornings, come rain, hail or shine. It was the perfect bachelor pad, not too large, but with everything a single man could desire.
The thought of living in his father’s oversized, over-luxurious and rather soulless penthouse held no appeal whatsoever, despite it being in the same city skyscraper as the offices of Parkinson Media.
‘But it’d save you a drive into the CBD every day,’ James said. ‘You’d never be late. That should please that slave-driver of a PA of yours. The one who’s always calling you. What’s her name, now?’
‘Kathryn,’ Hugh said, suppressing a shudder at the thought of never being late. Being late was the only power he had over that witch.
Punctuality was a real issue with Kathryn. He knew it got under her skin whenever he was late.
Which reminded him…
Hugh glanced at his watch. It was almost noon. There was a meeting of the board this afternoon. He really couldn’t be late for that. The other directors would think him not only rude but also not fit to be CEO, even temporarily. It would be foolish of him not to try to make a good impression.
Thankfully, he’d had the forethought to move some clothes into his father’s penthouse, so that he could shower and change there when necessary. He wouldn’t make a good impression wearing casual trousers and a short-sleeved golf shirt.
‘Sorry, chaps,’ he said, downing the rest of his beer in one swallow. ‘Can’t stay. Important meeting this afternoon.’
Hugh had to smile at the expressions on his friends’ faces. But his smile faded once he reached his car, his mouth twisting into a grimace as he climbed in behind the wheel and started the powerful engine.
In fifteen minutes he would be in Sydney’s CBD—the central business district. In less than twenty, he would be back in the lion’s den.
Hugh slammed the Ferrari into gear and accelerated away, torn by the feelings which swamped him. One part of him— his masochistic side, obviously—wanted to be with Kathryn. His more sensible side knew he could not go on like this. One day, something was going to give and he would make a big fool of himself. And possibly find himself on the end of a sexual harassment charge.
The only logical solution was to get rid of the woman.
But how?
Hugh had racked his brain to find an excuse to get Kathryn out of his life—and out of his sight—once and for all. But she was capable and conscientious and didn’t make mistakes, never arriving late or leaving early. She was the epitome of PA perfection.
His being elevated to temporary CEO of Parkinson Media had not fazed her. Kathryn had slid into the role of top secretary in the company without turning a hair, his father’s hard-working PA having been given much deserved leave whilst her boss was off, gallivanting around the world.
One of Hugh’s remaining hopes was Kathryn’s marriage in five weeks’ time.
Not that she was having a long honeymoon. She was not going to be that kind to him. Miss Must-Not-Waste-Money Hart was tying the knot on a Friday evening in a small, celebrant-officiated ceremony, then spending a whole two days honeymooning in a hotel in downtown Sydney before returning to work first thing on the Monday morning!
Hugh’s other hope rested on Kathryn’s becoming a mother. He knew she was turning thirty next birthday, that age when a woman became very aware of her biological clock. No doubt she would start trying for a baby straight away. She’d expressed the wish over coffee not long back that she wanted two children, a boy first, then a girl.
Lord knew how she was going to manage that! But if anyone could, it would be Kathryn. Her whole life seemed to be planned out with set time schedules and goals. Hugh was already praying for the day when she’d come into the office and announce that she was pregnant.
Though a pregnancy would not be the immediate end of his problems, of that he was sure. He had no doubt that Kathryn would work right up to the baby’s birth. She was that kind of girl.
The kind of girl, too, who would look even sexier pregnant. Her already impressive bosom would become even more lush, her wide, child-bearing hips accommodating a baby easily with only the most minimal bump.
He could see her now, positively glowing with health and hormones. And he could see himself wanting her all the more.
The prospect horrified him.
Hugh’s teeth clenched hard in his jaw. Could he endure at least another year of this?
He would have to, he supposed. What else could he do?
There was one thing he could do. Eventually. Offer her a very generous maternity leave. Six months with full pay. Twelve months, if necessary.
No, that would be extremely difficult to explain. Six months was all he could get away with. Hopefully, by then, she would be so enamoured by her son—it would be a boy, of course—that she wouldn’t want to return to work.
Oh joy, oh joy!
Meanwhile, he had to find other ways to handle the situation, and minimise the effect Kathryn had on him.
The most obvious solution was to get himself a new girlfriend, some hot little number. There was no shortage of candidates. Maybe, if he chose a busty brunette, he could pretend she was Kathryn and cure some of his frustration that way.
Sydney’s CBD came into view and Hugh’s stomach automatically tightened. He hoped she wasn’t wearing that infernal black suit today, the one with the jacket which nipped in at her tiny waist and the skirt which hugged her curvaceous rear just a little too tightly; the one he’d been wanting to rip off her from the first day when she’d walked into the office wearing the wretched thing!
No such luck, he realised within seconds of striding into the suite of rooms which he’d nicknamed the lion’s den many years earlier. At the time he’d been referring to his father as the lion, always roaring at everyone. Now the lion was a different sex.
Kathryn didn’t roar, but she could be just as intimidating.
Hugh tried not to bristle when she glared pointedly at her watch, then at his clothes.
‘Surely you’re not going to the board meeting this afternoon dressed like that,’ she said coolly.
Hugh covered his annoyance by shooting her what he hoped passed for a drily amused smile. ‘Kathryn, even I wouldn’t have the gall to do that. I’m just going to pop up to Dad’s penthouse where I intend to change. I brought some clothes over last Sunday with this kind of thing in mind,’ he added before she asked him what into.
‘Up there for thinking,’ he said, tapping his temple and thoroughly enjoying the flash of surprise which had zoomed into her normally unflappable grey eyes. ‘Meanwhile, order me a club sandwich, would you? You know what I like. And some coffee. Ask them to deliver it in…’ he glanced at his Rolex ‘…twenty minutes,’ he finished brusquely before striding into the inner sanctum, grateful for the private lift which would enable him to go up to his father’s penthouse without having to walk past his PA one more time.
CHAPTER TWO
KATHRYN counted to ten under her breath before phoning through the lunch order, all the while endeavouring to calm her rapid pulse-rate and bring her inner self into line with her more composed outer façade.
But honestly, if ever there was a man designed to irritate her to death it was Hugh Parkinson!
She’d initially been reluctant to apply for the job as his PA. She didn’t think much of men born with silver spoons in their mouths. Didn’t think much of working for them, either. One of her earlier bosses had been born rich and had been presented with running one of his doting grandfather’s newspapers when he’d been all of twenty-four. Talk about bone idle!
Still, she’d learned a lot from having to practically do his job for him. Learned, too, that rich young men often had wandering hands. After leaving that job, she’d chosen her employers more carefully, steering well clear of smarmy but usually good-looking creeps with more money than morals. It was only natural, then, that she’d be wary of working for the richest, possibly best-looking creep in all of Sydney!
The thought of that wonderful salary he’d been offering, however, had seduced her into putting in an application.
To give Hugh Parkinson some credit, he’d conducted her interview in a very businesslike manner. She’d been quietly impressed, to be honest. And very flattered when, after a most intense twenty minutes of questioning, he’d told her that she was just what he was looking for and hired her on the spot. She’d congratulated herself at the time on reading the situation well and dressing down a little for the interview. Not too much make-up, hair pulled back into a French roll, jewellery very basic. And a navy pinstriped trouser suit which had become a little looser since she’d started going to the gym.
She’d imagined—probably rightly so—that a lot of girls might have presented themselves more glamorously, hoping to use sex appeal to get the job. Hugh Parkinson did, after all, have a reputation as a ladies’ man.
There’d been not a hint of flirtation in his manner, however, and she’d been prepared to concede that perhaps the tabloid Press had it all wrong. He wasn’t a playboy, she’d decided that day. He was a serious businessman whose bachelor status and movie-star good looks made him an easy target for salacious stories about his love life.
It wasn’t till afterwards—about a month into the job actually—that she discovered how wrong she’d been. Hugh was just what he’d been depicted as: just like that other boss of hers, he hadn’t wanted an assistant. He’d wanted her to do his damned job for him whilst he was off having five-hour lunches and playing golf and who knew what else with the never-ending number of women who bombarded the office with calls running after him!
Well, she hadn’t been having any of that. Not a second time. So she’d informed him, as tactfully as her indignant fury would allow, that the editors of Parkinson’s many magazines— the ones he was supposedly in charge of—didn’t want to deal with his secretary. They wanted him—their boss—to be there to talk to, and run ideas by, and to make the many decisions which had to be made on a daily basis.
When he still hadn’t shown up at work on a regular basis she’d rung him continually, badgering him over the phone till it had probably been easier for him to spend at least a few hours in the office every day.
Which should have made her happy.
But oddly, it hadn’t.
His increased presence gradually began to grate on her nerves, she wasn’t sure why.
So had Daryl’s never-ending jealousy.
‘No boyfriend wants his girlfriend working for a billionaire,’ Daryl had complained soon after she’d started the job. ‘Certainly not one with Hugh Parkinson’s reputation. What if he makes a move towards you? What if he asks you to go away with him to a conference or something?’
She’d placated Daryl at the time, telling him that he was being silly, that she loved him and only him, and that she would never have her head turned by the likes of Hugh Parkinson.
Daryl had asked her to prove it by agreeing to marry him.
Kathryn had still been reluctant. Although she wanted marriage, underneath she was afraid of it. Afraid of trusting her life to any man. Over the years she’d had a history of falling for guys who’d proved to be less than perfect.
But then two things had happened to change her mind. Firstly, Val had finally succumbed to the cancer she’d been battling for several years. Not an unexpected event, but still very upsetting. Then Kathryn had received a letter from a solicitor shortly after Val’s funeral, saying that Val had willed the beach house to her, provided she marry before she turned thirty. If she was still single on that date—which at that time had been a few months away—the house would be sold and the proceeds given to cancer research.
Kathryn had initially been shocked with her old friend for using emotional blackmail to push her into marriage. In the end, however, she’d been grateful to Val for forcing the issue and making her see common sense.
OK, so Daryl wasn’t perfect. But then neither was she. If she kept waiting for Mr Perfect to come along, she would die a lonely old maid.
Initially, Daryl hadn’t been too thrilled when she accepted his proposal. He’d accused her of not really loving him, of just using him to get her hands on a million-dollar property. Which was what the Pearl Beach weekender was currently worth. She’d soothed him by revealing that she had no intention of ever selling the house; that it was a place of great sentiment to her. He’d soothed her in return by taking her to bed and showing her why she’d fallen in love with him in the first place.
Once Kathryn had decided on marriage to Daryl, she’d embraced the idea one hundred and ten per cent, immediately making detailed plans for their future together. Naturally, she’d chosen the ring—Daryl might have picked something ridiculously expensive—and made all the arrangements, insisting that they have an inexpensive ceremony and reception—only ten guests—followed by an even more inexpensive honeymoon.
When Daryl complained about her miserliness, she’d explained that she wasn’t going to waste any of her hard-earned savings on what was really just a party and an excuse for a holiday, both come and gone in a flash. She needed every cent for a decent deposit on a house here in Sydney.
Sydney was, after all, the most expensive city in Australia to live in. Houses came at a premium. So did interest rates. She wasn’t about to fall into the trap of having too large a mortgage which they wouldn’t be able to pay back, once she left work to have a baby.
Neither she nor Daryl had well-off families to fall back on in times of financial difficulty. In fact, neither of them had any family to fall back on. Both of them had come from troubled, single-parent households. Each had seen what little close family they had finally being snuffed out through drink, drugs and disease.
But where Kathryn’s background had formed her into a careful, highly organised, money-wise character, Daryl was more impulsive and not good with money at all. Still, he was very good at his job, being a top sales representative for a successful office-supplies company. His salary was excellent and he had a company car. Kathryn felt sure she could rein in his tendency to be extravagant, once they were married.
He was going to make a good husband and father. In time.
Right now, however, he was being a right pain in the neck, his jealousy not having been helped by her temporary promotion. Already he was complaining about the extra hours she was working. Last night, when she’d arrived home at seven-thirty— the preparations for today’s board meeting had been endless—he’d demanded she hand in her notice.
‘After we’re married,’ she’d hedged.
‘You’re just saying that,’ he’d retorted. ‘I know you. You like working for that rich bastard. You fancy him. I know you do.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she’d snapped, tired of their endless arguments about her job and her boss.
‘I’m not being ridiculous. I’m not blind, you know. He fancies you too. I saw the way he looked at you at the Christmas party.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ she’d exclaimed with considerable exasperation. ‘Now you’re being even more ridiculous! In all the months I’ve worked for Hugh Parkinson, not once has he ever done or said anything remotely out of line. He does not fancy me. Never has, never will.’
Which was probably what was adding to her irritation today, Kathryn accepted with a flash of feminine insight: Hugh’s lack of male interest in her.
No girl liked to be looked straight through all the time the way Hugh did her, as if she was part of the wallpaper.
Not that any of the offices in Parkinson Media had wallpaper, especially this one. It was wall-to-wall wood panelling in here, totally different from the sleekly modern open-planned offices which filled the floors before. The big boss’s suite of rooms was straight out of an élite English men’s club, all the furniture antiques, the carpets richly patterned, heavy silk curtains framing the windows.
Kathryn’s office-cum-reception area was ridiculously large, with a plush sitting space, along with its own powder room and cloakroom as well as a small kitchen where she could prepare coffee or tea. Her desk was a huge leather-topped slice of solid walnut with carved legs and more drawers than she could ever fill. The computer and printer occupied less than a quarter of the available work surface.
In truth, she preferred her other office and her other desk.
But she wasn’t about to complain, not with the additional money she would earn over the next four weeks. She was already planning what she could buy with it: some extra-nice sheets, for starters, Egyptian cotton. She might be frugal by nature but she liked nice things. Quality things, that lasted.
Take her clothes, for instance. She didn’t have a huge wardrobe but she bought good clothes. Not top designer-wear, she couldn’t afford that, but well-made suits and real silk shirts and camis in mix-and-match colours, along with genuine leather shoes and bags. None of that cheap vinyl stuff. Her jewellery was minimal but quality too, not too expensive since she preferred silver to gold.
She was admiring the delicately designed silver watch which she’d treated herself to at Christmas when the phone on her desk rang, the security man downstairs informing her that a delivery guy was on his way up with a food order.
‘Not the same guy as yesterday,’ he added. ‘I had to give this chap instructions on how to get to your office.’
‘Wow!’ the spotty-faced youth exclaimed when he finally arrived. ‘This is some place. The view must be fantastic!’
‘Quite,’ she said coolly. ‘Thank you, Ken.’
‘You know my name!’
She pointed to the name tag on his shirt pocket.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, flushing. ‘I forgot. It’s my first week. Not used to it.’
Mine too, she almost said to make him feel better. But didn’t. She’d found it best, over the years, not to be too familiar with delivery guys. The older, better-looking ones didn’t seem to need much encouragement.
After he left, Katherine carried the food into the kitchenette and arranged the oversized sandwich on a proper plate on a tray, whilst leaving the steaming coffee in its takeaway cup, Hugh liking his coffee very hot and very strong.
He rarely asked her to make him coffee, though she would have, quite happily. She wasn’t one of those silly PAs who thought making coffee beneath her. She’d always understood that her job as a personal assistant was to assist her boss in any way she could. She didn’t object to collecting his dry-cleaning, or buying presents for his mother. She didn’t even mind covering for him, occasionally.
But only up to a point and only if he deserved it.
Hugh deserved no such consideration, she decided as she carried the tray into his father’s super-huge office and placed it on the super-huge desk which sat in front of the super-huge window. The only son and heir to the Parkinson fortune was spoiled and lazy and never on time, she thought irritably as she glanced at her pretty watch and saw that twenty-five minutes had passed since she ordered his lunch.
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