In the Australian Billionaire's Arms

“Yes, yes, I know.” Paula resumed rubbing his back in a conciliatory and, it had to be said, irritatingly proprietary fashion. He couldn’t embarrass her in public by shrugging her off. He had to stand there and take it. They weren’t an Item. He had been up front about it all. No commitment, but try as he did he couldn’t stop Paula and her mother thinking there was or there would very soon be.

His mood turned pensive. “Marcus has been a very sad man for a long time. It’s good to see him out and about.” Only the last thing the Wainwright clan would want for Marcus was to make a dreadful and inevitably painful mistake. The girl was too young. Too beautiful. Too everything. She mightn’t have Susan Hampstead’s cobralike attack, but in real terms she could prove far more dangerous.

“Marcus obviously footed the bill for her dress.” Paula glanced down at her own stunning designer gown, which suddenly appeared to her less stunning. “I can imagine just how much that evening dress cost. No florist could possibly afford it. It’s couture. Vintage Chanel, I’d say. The jewellery too. Surely I’ve seen the pendant before?”

Mummy certainly would have, he thought, but he didn’t enlighten Paula. The pendant necklace, an exquisite Colombian emerald surrounded by a sunburst of diamonds, that hung around the girl’s white swan neck had belonged to Lucy. So too had the chandelier-style diamond earrings. The set had been Marcus’s wedding gift to his beautiful green-eyed wife. They hadn’t been seen for the best part of six years, which was roughly the time lovely little Lucy had taken to die of bone cancer.

“Ah, well, mistresses never go out of date.” His own surge of resentment towards the newcomer shocked him. Lucy’s emeralds, God! Would Lucy mind? Would she turn over in her grave? No, Lucy had been a beautiful person. Shouldn’t he at least give this young woman a chance? But his male intuition had gone into overdrive. She was one of those life altering women. Needless to say she would be very clever. Manipulative, as a matter of course. He noted she had matched her gown, not only to the jewel, but to her beautiful emerald eyes. They were set at a fascinating slant. Her eyes rivalled the precious gemstone. It dipped into the perfectly arched upper swells of her breasts. Her skin was flawless, lily white. One rarely saw such porcelain skin outside Europe. Her beautiful, thick, white-blonde hair, which he was prepared to bet a million dollars was natural with that white skin, was arranged in an elegant chignon interwoven with silver and gold threads that stood out like a glittering sunburst. It was incredibly effective. They could have had a young goddess on the scene.

Rowena as usual was spot on. A young woman who owned and worked in a florist shop looked like Old World aristocracy, so regal was her demeanour. She didn’t appear in the least overawed by her lavish surroundings, the fashionable crowd, the seriously rich, the celebrities and socialites, or troubled by the full-on battery of stares. She moved with confidence showing no sign she was aware of the effect she was having on the room full of guests. Royalty couldn’t have pulled it off better.

“And she’s got inches on Marcus,” Paula pointed out, as though it were absolutely verboten for a woman to be taller than her escort.

“Very likely her high heels.” She was certainly above average height for a woman. As a couple, they were a study in contrasts. Marcus, medium height, worryingly thin, dark, grey-flecked hair, grey eyes, an austere scholarly face, and a knife sharp brain. He looked more like a university don than a captain of industry. His companion was ultra slender, but not in that borderline anorexic way Holt so disliked. She was willowy. She moved beautifully with the grace of a trained dancer. Lovely arms, neck and small high breasts. Her legs, hidden by the full-length silk gown, would no doubt be just as spectacular.

That as may be, she couldn’t be the defunct European aristocrat she appeared. More likely a hard-nosed gold-digger lurking beneath the surface. A woman as beautiful as that could have any man she wanted. Obviously topping her list of requirements for potential suitors was considerable wealth. That would decimate the numbers. Though Marcus was by no means the richest member of the Wainwright family—that was the family patriarch, Julius—Marcus had at least a hundred and forty million dollars. A fortune that size assured any man up to ninety years of age blue-chip eligibility. A hundred and forty million dollars should just about cover any girl-on-the-make’s lifetime expenses.

Paula got another steely grip on his arm.

“Hey, Paula, those sessions at the gym are really paying off.”

“Sorry.” She relaxed the pressure. “You’re not usually so testy. But I guess you’re upset for poor Marcus. She’s obviously an adventuress.”

“A lot of women have that streak.”

Paula gave a nervous laugh. At least she was an heiress. That let her off the hook. “Look out,” she warned, clearly perturbed. “They’re coming our way,”

He gave her a sardonic glance. “Why not? Marcus is my uncle, after all.”

She recognised him from his photographs. David Holt Wainwright. They didn’t do him justice. In the flesh he was the embodiment of vibrant masculinity. Oddly enough a lot of handsome men were lacking in that department. He had it in spades. A kind of devilish dazzle, she thought. Handsome was too tame a word. She took in the height, the splendid physique, that look of high intelligence he shared with his uncle, the infinite self confidence only the super-rich had, plus an intrinsic sexiness that from all accounts drew women in droves. His thick crow-black hair, worn a little longer than usual, was cut into deep crisp waves that clung to his well-shaped skull. His brilliant dark eyes, so dark a brown they appeared black, dominated his dynamic face. He photographed well. A flashing white smile that lit a dark face to radiance was a big asset for anyone in the public eye. But the glossy images were as nothing to the man.

And he had already arrived at the conclusion she was an adventuress looking for a rich husband. It was there in that brilliant assessing gaze. What greater legitimacy could there be for a working girl than to marry a millionaire?

“David’s friend is Paula Rowlands,” Marcus was murmuring quietly in her ear. “Her father owns a good many shopping malls. Don’t let her rattle you.”

“Does it matter what she thinks of me?” she asked calmly, grateful she had mastered the art of hiding her true feelings to a considerable degree. It had been a struggle concealing her vulnerabilities, but she had learned to her cost to be very wary of trusting people, let alone sharing her innermost thoughts. Marcus, a lovely man, was the outstanding exception.

“No, it doesn’t.” Marcus laughed.

“Well, then.” She hugged his arm. Being here tonight had everything to do with her respect and affection for Marcus Wainwright. She knew in accepting his invitation she was making a big shift out of obscurity into the limelight. It didn’t sit comfortably with her but Marcus had insisted her appearance would be remarked on and bring in a whole lot of new customers. For some time now she had started to number the rich among her regulars. Most had lovely manners, others were unbelievably pretentious. Marcus’s aunt Rowena, Lady Palmerston, widow of the distinguished British diplomat of the late seventies early eighties, Sir Roland Palmerston, was among the former. She frequently called into the shop, saying delightedly she found Sonya’s arrangements “inspiring".

“But she’ll try, my dear,” Marcus warned. “The Rowlands women are frightful snobs. Money is their aristocracy.”

“Your nephew must see something in her? She’s very attractive and she has a real flair for wearing clothes.”

Marcus gave a dry laugh that turned into a cough. “My nephew wants and needs a great deal more than that in a woman. It’s Paula and her mother who hang in there.”

“Well, he is seriously eligible,” she put forward with a smile.

“David got the best of all of us,” he said with very real pride.

The cautionary voice always at work inside Sonya’s head was issuing warnings. Not of the smug-faced Paula Rowlands, heiress, but David Holt Wainwright, Marcus’s dearly loved nephew. He was the one who was going to cause her grief. She had learned to rely on her intuition. David Wainwright was a very important figure in Marcus’s life. He was already querying the exact nature of her friendship with Marcus. And friendship was all it was. She had her suspicions Marcus wanted more of her. He could offer her a great deal, not the least of it blessed safety, but at this point she was allowing the friendship plenty of time to go where it would.

Afterwards it seemed to Holt that Sonya Erickson had entered his life in a kind of blaze. Very few people did that. It wasn’t just her beauty, ravishing though it was, it was the inbred self-confidence. Beauty alone didn’t guarantee that kind of self-assurance. Paula didn’t have it for all her privileged background. This young woman was the very picture of patrician ease. There had to be a whole file on her somewhere with many secrets lodged therein. Paula was still whispering in his ear, for all she was worth, even though Marcus and his beautiful companion were almost upon them.

“Do me a favour, Paula, okay?” He put a staying hand on her arm.

“Of course, darling. Whatever you say!”

“Then kindly shut up. It’s damned rude.”

Holt made the move forward, his hand extended, a natural smile of great charm on his face. “Uncle Marcus.”

“David.” A matching expression of deepest affection lit the older man’s face.

The two shook hands, then moved into their usual hug. Marcus and Lucille Wainwright had not been blessed with children, though they had longed for them. Holt had been very close to both from childhood as a result. They loved him. He loved them. In a way he had been the son they never had.

Marcus began the introductions the moment they broke apart. “Sonya Erickson.” No further explanation. Just Sonya Erickson. No more was offered. But it was painfully obvious Sonya Erickson had become extremely important to him. If not, why the emeralds?

Remember Lucy’s emeralds.

“Sonya, please,” the young woman invited as she gave Holt her hand. It was done so gracefully—hang on, so regally—he was a beat away from raising her elegant hand just short of his lips. That caused a moment of black amusement. Yet there wasn’t the merest hint of seduction in her beautiful green eyes when so many women tried it on. There wouldn’t be a woman in the country who didn’t know he had a few bob. But Ms Erickson’s glorious green eyes revealed nothing beyond an aristocratic interest and a cool speculation to match his.

Up close she was even more beautiful. Paula, brightly chatting now to Marcus—Step Two in Paula’s plan was to charm all his relatives—must be hating her. Beautiful women were a major stumbling block to their less fortunate sisters. Another man might have been overwhelmed. Not he. He had his head well and truly screwed on. But admittedly he was a man who recognised the fact a woman’s beauty was immensely powerful. The beautiful Sonya had gained Marcus’s attention. No mean feat. Marcus wasn’t the kind of man who’d had passing affairs after Lucy’s death. Rather Marcus had turned into something of a recluse.

Now this! Ms Erickson had mesmerized him. If Holt stood looking into her green eyes much longer, it might well happen to him, such was her spectacular allure.

“Marcus speaks of you often,” she was saying, snapping him back to attention.

“If I need someone to speak well of me I go to Marcus,” he said.

“I wondered if perhaps I should have curtsied?” Sonya smiled at him with aloof charm.

“Maybe I would have returned a bow. Here’s to beauty!”

“No wonder Marcus loves you,” she murmured.

He couldn’t resist. “And he obviously finds you special.”

That self-confidence, the patrician air, just had to be inbred. He began to wonder about her background. Might be an idea to check it out. Who was she? She had a lovely speaking voice to add to her assets. A faint accent. He couldn’t pick it up. Surely indicated a gracious background? Or an intensive course in elocution. Did they still call it that? Elocution, art of speech?

His hand, he found to his mild self-disgust, was still feeling the effect of its contact with her skin. It was like a brief but searing encounter with electricity. It sent sparkles racing up his arm and a stir through his body. He had to take note. The lady was dangerous. She rated attention.

“Marcus is very dear to me,” he said, taking just enough care that it didn’t sound like a warning.

“Then you are both blessed.”

She turned away from him to Marcus, a hint of sadness in her face.