The Magnate's Marriage Demand (2 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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ONE (CONT'D)

When her queasiness grew and mourners meandered off toward a room where triangular sandwiches, hot tea and more anguish awaited, she slipped away to the nearest bathroom. Moments later, she clutched the comfortless rim of a porcelain sink.

Oh, Lord, she was going to be sick. But at least she was alone in the private room available for anyone who needed time to gather their thoughts or composure. Bowed over, brow embedded on a forearm, she submitted to rolls of discomfort and the image that spun an endless cycle through her brain--Marc's face the night he'd learned he would soon be a father. He'd said that he loved her. Wanted to get married. How could she confess she loved him too--just not that way.

The scent of pine antiseptic and freshly cut gladioli hauled her back. A heartbeat later, her ears pricked and she straightened. Had she heard something--a knock?

She slumped again. No, just ragged nerves and imagination. Groaning, she cupped shaking hands under the running faucet. Another splash on her clammy face could only help.

"Excuse me, Ms. Kendle?"

At the sound of that rich, honey-over-gravel voice, Tamara's heart jumped to her throat. Hair lashing her cheeks, she wheeled around to face the room's only exit and the masculine silhouette filling it. Palm pushed to the pounding beneath the bodice of her black dress, she swallowed and recovered her power of speech. "Good Lord, you scared me half to death!"

One dark brow flexed as an indolent grin kicked up a corner of her guest's mouth. "My apologies. When you slid in here, and stayed so long, I worried that I'd missed you." Beneath the impeccably tailored jacket, his sizeable chest inflated. "I'm Armand De Luca. Marco's brother."

Long-lost brother, she silently amended, though it was apparent they had nothing in common, not manner or build. And while Marc's eyes were blue, too, his gaze had been trusting, whereas this man's appeared, well, almost predatory. Perhaps not so surprising given what she knew of his upbringing. A strict childhood, dominated by an overly ambitious father, no mother on the scene. She might feel sorry for him, but De Luca was not a man in need of pity. Ruthless intelligence and celebrated charm, which radiated off him now in tangible waves, was proof enough of that.

Tamara sucked down a cleansing breath and, cutting off the faucet's flow, found a polite smile. "Marc spoke of you."

He smiled. "I'm glad. I'd hoped you and I could talk now."

He held her eyes, his expression amicable yet potent, and some unknown impulsive part of her felt compelled to nod and agree. But a lengthy conversation was out of the question. Not today, in any case. Not when she felt ready to collapse. When her world had all but collapsed around her.

She tore paper from the chrome-plated dispenser to blot her hands. "It's been an exhausting day, but I'm sure others would love the chance to talk with you about Marc."

"I don't have a lot of time, Ms. Kendle. I wish only to speak with you."

She tossed the paper wad into a nearby bin, her smile strained and curious now. "That sounds rather ominous."

"Marco said you were bright."

Her heartbeat stuttered, not only at his words, but also his gaze, probing, analyzing, as if he were hunting out her most precious secret. As if he somehow suspected the news she wasn't quite yet ready to share.

Expression cool, she collected her purse from the vanity and slung its strap over a shoulder. Truth told, he intimidated her, but damned if she'd let him know.

She met his gaze square on. "You don't look the type to play games. So tell me, what's this all about?"

He regarded her for a long moment then stepped from the slanted shadows of the doorway into the room's harsh artificial light. A subtle widow's peak complemented his high brow. Above a strong, stubborn jaw, unyielding brackets framed a masculine yet sensually sculptured mouth. Armand De Luca wasn't merely attractive. He possessed raw animal magnetism barely contained beneath a highly polished air. The overall effect went beyond arresting. It was downright dangerous.

A pulse jumped in his jaw. "You're pregnant," he stated, "with Marco's child."

His announcement winded her like a blow to the stomach. Her knees threatened to buckle as questions pummeled her brain. Morning sickness had taken a firm hold, but she wasn't showing yet. Did De Luca own a crystal ball?

She narrowed her eyes. "How can you know? I only told Marc an hour before the accident."

His impassive expression didn't change. "He rang to share the news. Since our reunion, my younger brother occasionally kept in touch."

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