Marriage On Command

Lee bit her lip, now not only exasperated but all mixed up.

She took his advice and five minutes later she’d been returned to her car and he was about to drive off.

‘I’ll be in touch!’ were his last words before he drove off, leaving her prey to a cauldron of emotions.

He was as good as his word.

Over the next few weeks he rang her several times, and invited her to have breakfast with him at his apartment once, to update her on the progress he was making. Then he took her to lunch to explain that it was going to be a long process, because whoever had masqueraded as Cyril Delaney had covered their tracks most efficiently.

During these meetings Lee was able to hide the ambivalence of her feelings towards him. She even felt she’d managed to revert to the snippy redhead who shot from the hip rather than the confused unhappy girl of the day of Cyril’s interview. The girl who had, in the same breath, been both entirely exasperated by his high-handedness and then suffered a vision of how heavenly it would be to have Damien Moore looking after her…

A month later she read that Cyril Delaney had died after a long illness. She felt touched by sadness. But three days afterwards, when Damien rang her to tell that they featured jointly in Cyril’s will, her emotions defied description as he explained the extraordinary bequest that was to change her life for ever.

CHAPTER TWO

DAMIEN MOORE looked at his watch, then glanced around the colourful pavement café impatiently. He had another appointment at two o’clock, now only fifty minutes away, and Lee Westwood was late.

He reached for the menu. She might eat like a rabbit but he didn’t, and he had no intention of bolting down his lunch. So he signalled the waitress and ordered a steak for himself, a Caesar salad for his guest, and a pot of coffee.

‘She’ll be here shortly, I assume,’ he told the waitress, ‘and she always orders rabbit food so I can’t go wrong with a salad.’ He smiled at the girl but felt his teeth set on edge at being on the receiving end of a coy, simpering smile in return. Which prompted the thought that Lee Westwood might be highly exasperating at times, but at least she never simpered over him or batted her eyelashes at him.

Then he saw her approaching from way down the block. Her long auburn hair was flying, and so was the green scarf she had round her neck, as she loped along the pavement with her trademark stride in a pair of short leather boots worn with faded jeans, a large cyclamen T-shirt and a bulging string bag hanging from her shoulder.

Sartorially a disaster, Damien Moore mused, as so often—although he supposed he should count himself fortunate she wasn’t wearing the black crocheted hat she often favoured, crammed onto her head.

OK, it was a pavement café, he told himself, but it was an extremely chic one, with its striped awnings and potted trees—which she would have known. And so was the clientele chic. Most of the women here looked as if they’d stepped straight out of Vogue. But when had that worried this girl, he thought amusedly, who could turn herself into the height of glamour on a whim? And, more to the point, what was it she possessed that still made her turn heads as she got closer?

Wonderful hair? Yes, he conceded. Long-lashed sparkling green eyes? Definitely a plus. Otherwise? That hint of freckles? He thought he knew enough about women to know they’d rather not be freckled—so a minus on the part of the beholden as well as the beholder, although he himself didn’t mind Lee’s freckles for some strange reason. A thin figure? Another minus, surely? Mind you, very long shapely legs…

But it wasn’t any of the above plusses or minuses, he decided in the last moments before she arrived at the table. It was her sheer vitality and the aura that she didn’t give a damn about what anyone thought of her. It was, after all, that force within her that had persuaded him to take on her legal battles when he’d known—and told her—she was barking up the wrong tree, and when he’d strenuously doubted that she could afford his fees.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said breathlessly as she looped the string bag over the back of the chair and plonked down onto it. ‘The traffic was unbelievable!’

‘Has it never occurred to you, Lee, that a bit of forward planning might relieve you of the tiresome business of having to apologise for being late?’

‘Oh, dear!’ She looped her hair behind her ears and glinted a laughing look at him out of those green eyes. At the same time she took in his severely tailored navy suit, pale blue shirt and discreet tie. ‘Have I seriously offended you?’

He shrugged. ‘Being late can make things difficult for other people. For instance, I now have only forty-five minutes to brief you.’

She gestured. ‘That’s only fifteen minutes less than you would have had if I’d been on time, not exactly an eon. I’m sure you can pack a powerful lot of briefing into three quarters of an hour, Damien, although I can’t imagine what you need to brief me about anyway—oh!’ She looked up as a huge Caesar salad was placed in front of her. ‘You ordered for me!’

Damien studied the steak he was presented with, observed from the pink juices running from it that it was rare, as he’d requested, and picked up his knife and fork. ‘If you’d been on time you could have ordered for yourself. Isn’t that the kind of meal you generally go for?’

‘Well, yes,’ Lee conceded, but not in a conciliated manner. ‘I would have asked for a much smaller one than this, though. I would have requested no anchovies, which I hate, and—’

‘Don’t eat the anchovies and leave half of it,’ he recommended dryly.

‘You don’t understand,’ she murmured, favouring him with irony in her eyes. ‘The sheer size of a meal, however delicious, can be off-putting and take away your appetite.’

He swore. ‘It’s only a salad, for crying out loud! I’m not trying to force feed you a gargantuan serving of…of roast beef and baked potatoes. It wouldn’t hurt you to eat a bit more either.’

‘Is that designed to make me feel uncomfortable about my figure? If so, may I enquire what it has to do with my lawyer?’ She looked at him haughtily.

Damien Moore breathed deeply—and counted to ten for good measure. Neither of these devices helped, however. For a twenty-four-year-old girl she often packed quite a punch, and was capable of needling him with the best. ‘Nothing on earth,’ he said coolly—and pointedly.

Lee grimaced. ‘Then perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re in such a bad mood? Incidentally, I didn’t just drive across town for lunch. I came up the Pacific Highway, which is undergoing considerable roadworks, hence the build-up of traffic and the delays.’

Something even more irritated flickered in his dark eyes, but almost immediately gave way to a form of self-directed irony. He eased his shoulders and said ruefully, ‘Sorry. How’s it going “down on the farm”?’

Lee’s eyes lit up. That little phrase ‘down on the farm’ encapsulated the miracle that Cyril Delaney’s will had brought to her life. For the most bizarre reason he had left a property—Plover Park, its twenty-five acres and registered wholesale nursery—to her and Damien jointly, on the condition that they didn’t attempt to dispose of it within twelve months. At one stroke it had not only brought her life’s dream within her grasp but also, because of the income the nursery generated, it had solved her grandparents’ immediate cash-flow problems.

The other part of the miracle was that Plover Park was ten minutes’ drive from her grandparents’ home—it was in the area where Lee had grown up and gone to university. It had been like going home for her. And her still active grandfather was more than happy to work the nursery with her.

‘It’s…fantastic,’ she said glowingly. ‘Sometimes I have to pinch myself! We’re almost into full production now.’

He looked impressed.

‘So what did you want to see me about so urgently?’ Lee asked blithely as she inspected her salad and removed the anchovies.

Damien paused and wondered if there was any kind way of breaking the news to this glowing girl. ‘There’s been a complication,’ he said slowly, and decided it was best to get it over fast. ‘The will is to be contested.’

Lee gasped and paled. ‘You’re joking!’

He shook his head.

‘On what…on what grounds?’

‘On the grounds that we may have exerted undue pressure on Cyril to force him to make the bequest.’

‘But we didn’t! We had no idea it was going to happen,’ she protested.

‘You know that and I know that, Lee. Unfortunately Cyril is no longer with us to corroborate it.’

‘And you…you set aside an hour of your precious time to break this news to me!’ Lee stammered.

He shrugged. ‘I’m extremely busy at the moment. And so, you gave me to understand, are you.’

‘But this is terrible! It could be catastrophic!’

‘It could indeed,’ he agreed. ‘For you.’

Lee stared at the Caesar salad she now definitely didn’t want and swallowed. ‘So what’s your considered opinion? As a lawyer? Have they got a leg to stand on?’

Damien ate in silence for a while, then pushed his empty plate away and reached for the coffee pot. ‘In general terms you’re allowed to make bequests in your will as you see fit, provided your legal heirs are taken care of. One of Cyril’s legal heirs,’ he said significantly, ‘has decided that he wasn’t sufficiently taken care of and that Plover Park is rightly his.’

‘Which one?’

‘His brother. One of his contentions is that Plover Park belongs in the Delaney family. It was originally owned by their grandfather and has been in the family all that time. Whereas the only use we have for it is to sell it when the twelve months are up and divide the profits.’