Unlocking the Millionaire's Heart Read online

  Lunch? Food and table talk with a woman who’d shown an adverse reaction to him on sight?

  He sucked in air, blew it out and shrugged his shoulders. What did he have to lose? A book contract, for starters.

  He matched the challenge in Jemma’s eyes, nodded and forced a smile.

  ‘Would you care to have lunch with me, Jemma?’

  ‘It will be my pleasure, Nate.’

  Her polite acceptance and return smile alleviated his mood a tad, though the option he’d been given still rankled. He disliked coercion—especially if it meant having a meal with an attractive woman who was somehow breaching the barriers he’d built for mental survival. Another reason for not entering into a working relationship with her.

  He avoided entanglements. One heart-ripping experience had been enough, and was not to be chanced again. It was only his fact-finding skill that had prevented his being conned out of a fortune as well. Any woman he met now had to prove herself worthy of his trust before it was given.

  Brian had been straight and honest with him from the start. And Jemma had shown spirit, so she might be good company. He’d enjoy a good meal, and then...

  Well, for starters he’d be spending a lot of time reading writing manuals until he’d mastered the art of accurately describing a relationship.

  * * *

  It was warming up as Jemma exited the building with Nate. The rain had cleared, leaving the pavements wet and steamy and the air clammy. With a soft touch to her elbow he steered her to the right and they walked in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

  She was mulling over the recent conversation between the two of them and Brian, and assumed he was doing the same. Agreeing to Brian’s proposition would mean being in frequent contact—albeit via electronic media—with a man whose innate self-assurance reminded her of her treacherous ex-boyfriend and her over-polite and social-climbing brother-in-law.

  But unlike those two Nate also had an aura of macho strength and detachment. The latter was a plus for her—especially with her unexpected response when facing him eye to eye and having her hand clasped in his. Throughout the meeting she’d become increasingly aware of his musky aroma with its hint of vanilla and citrus. Alluring and different from anything she’d ever smelt, it had had her imagining a cosy setting in front of a wood fire.

  Other pedestrians flowed around them, eager to reach their destinations. Nate came to a sudden stop, caught her arm and drew her across to a shop window. Dropping his hand, he regarded her for a moment with sombre eyes, his body language telling her he’d rather be anywhere else, with anyone else.

  ‘Any particular restaurant you fancy?’ Reluctance resonated in his voice.

  ‘I haven’t a clue.’ She arched her head to stare beyond him. An impish impulse to razz him for his hostile attitude overrode her normal discretion and she grinned. ‘How about that one?’

  He followed her gaze to the isolated round glass floor on the communications tower soaring above the nearby buildings. His eyebrows arched, the corner of his mouth quirked, and something akin to amusement flashed like lightning in his storm-grey eyes.

  ‘The Sydney Tower? Probably booked out weeks ahead, but we can try.’

  ‘I was joking—it’s obviously a tourist draw. If we’d been a few steps to the right I wouldn’t even have seen it. You decide.’

  ‘You’re not familiar with Sydney, are you?’

  His voice was gentler, as if her living a distance away was acceptable.

  ‘Basic facts from television and limited visits over many years—more since some of my friends moved here.’

  ‘Darling Harbour’s not too far, and there’s a variety of restaurants there. We’ll take a cab.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ She’d have been content to walk—she loved the hustle and bustle of the crowds, the rich accents of different languages and the variety of personal and food aromas wafting through the air. Tantalising mixtures only found in busy cities.

  She followed him to the kerb, trying to memorise every detail while he watched for a ride. Once they were on their way her fingers itched to write it all down in the notepad tucked in the side pocket of her shoulder bag—an essential any time she left home.

  As a writer, he might understand. As a man who’d been coerced into having lunch with her, who knew how he’d react?

  Erring on the side of caution, she clasped her hands together and fixed the images in her mind.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE FORMAL ESTABLISHMENT Nate steered her towards was a pleasant surprise. She’d been expecting something similar to the casual restaurants she’d passed on her way to Brian’s office from the station. White and red linen, crystal glassware and elegant decor gave it a classy atmosphere, and made it look similar to her parents’ current venture in Adelaide. The difference was in the plush red cushioning on the seats and the backs of the mahogany chairs.

  They received a warm welcome, and at Nate’s request were led to a corner table by the window. The view of moored yachts and the cityscape behind them was postcard-picturesque, and would be more so at night with the boats and buildings lit up. She made a mental note to return to the area after dark with Cloe, the friend she was staying with in North Ryde.

  Occasionally taking a sip of the chilled water in her glass, she perused the menu options carefully. Having grown up experiencing different flavours and cuisines, she loved comparing the many ways different chefs varied tastes.

  ‘What would you like to drink, Jemma?’

  Looking up, she encountered a seemingly genuine smile from Nate. Pity it didn’t reach his eyes. But at least he was giving her a choice—something her ex had rarely granted. She placed her menu down, food decision made, and flicked back the hair from her right cheek.

  ‘White wine, please. I’m having fish for both entrée and main courses.’

  ‘Any special kind?’

  That impulsive urge to rattle his staid demeanour rose again: so not her usual behaviour.

  ‘I guess I should pick a local label—though our South Australian ones are superior.’ She raised her chin and curled her lips, daring him to dispute her statement.

  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 n
ovel 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.