The Magnate's Marriage Demand (1 of 2 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
The Magnate's Marriage Demand by Robyn Grady. Copyright 2007 by Robyn Whitehead.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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THE MAGNATE'S MARRIAGE DEMAND

Robyn Grady

Thanks to Melissa Jeglinski for believing in my book and her continued encouragement and guidance.

Karen Solem, my "super agent."

Tessa Radley, a friend indeed.

Rachel Robinson, Melissa James and Gail Fuller, my incredible CPs.


ONE

Tamara Kendle couldn't seem to keep her eyes off the darkly attractive man who sat alone in the chapel's front pew--he was like a rock, unmoving, staring dead ahead.

Guilt pricked each time her attention wavered from the minister at the lectern. She was here to say goodbye to someone special. A person she missed so much, her heart physically ached. She felt clobbered, stuck somewhere between reality and hell.

And yet, to the left of the rosewood casket and waterfalls of perfumed lilies, broad-jacketed shoulders continued to intrigue. Though they hadn't met in person, Tamara knew the man by more than reputation.

Armand De Luca, Australia's multimillionaire steel magnate, the last of his bloodline.

Or so he thought.

Tamara had already been seated when De Luca had entered the funeral home chapel. Throughout the service the classic lines of his profile had exuded the confidence men admire and women fall immediately in love with. Square-cut jaw, well-proportioned nose and lips, those eyes . . . high noon blue, heavy-lidded, yet all-knowing.

"Thank you all for attending." Tamara's attention slid back to the minister; a solemn smile alleviated his long thin face. "There will be a wake in the adjoining building for those who wish to come together and remember Marc Earle."

Tamara crossed herself, recited a private prayer, then eased out a defeated sigh. Marc had been her dearest friend. They'd laughed together, confided in each other. And a few months ago, when a string of unfortunate events had threatened to pull her under . . .

Tears prickled and stung her eyes.

God knew she was a fighter. Growing up, she had to be. But that night she'd needed someone and, as always, Marc had been there.

As Tamara pushed to her feet, an icy shiver trickled down her spine. While others shuffled into the aisle, up ahead Armand De Luca was crossing the maroon carpet, headed for the casket. His face a stony mask, he gazed down then reached out to touch the gleaming wood.

A wave of nausea surged in Tamara's belly. Sweeping aside her long dark hair, she closed her eyes, gently pressing a hand below her waist. She breathed all the way in, then slowly out. When the morning sickness faded, she looked over again. De Luca was gone.

Suddenly chilled, she hugged herself then followed the majority's lead, drifting through ethereal shafts of light that crisscrossed down from parallel arched windows. Outside, she slid on dark glasses to shield her gritty eyes from a screen of mostly nameless faces that milled around like ghosts slow-waltzing to receding organ music.

Two of Marc's friends gravitated over. Identical in every way but their hair, twins Kristin and Melanie had often called upon their kind-hearted neighbor to help with handyman chores or settle sibling squabbles. Now the pair looked lost.

Kristin slowly shook her cropped blond head. "I'm still in shock." Her brows flew together. "I told him not to get that stupid motorbike."

Melanie's rust-colored locks quivered when she blew her nose. "This should never have happened to someone as good as Marc." She sighed then blinked at Tamara. "Can't imagine how you're coping. With your business going under, then the fire, now this."

While Tamara struggled to form words, Kristin snapped at her sister. "Great going, Mel. She doesn't need reminders."

"I only meant that three knocks in a row . . . " Melanie looked sheepish. "Well, it must be tough."

Three knocks?

Tamara swayed.

Make that four.

Others joined the trio. Half-listening, Tamara stared off at the distant cityscape sprawled below the funeral home's high vantage point. The glass-and-metal structures, poised like sentinels around Sydney Harbor's stretched-silk waters, normally charged her with energy and excitement. None of that registered today.

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