The Magnate's Marriage Demand

A hot flush washed through her. She couldn’t say the words.

“Would the marriage include conjugal rights?”

As his question soaked in, cool dots of perspiration broke along her hairline. From the corner of her eye she saw his long blunt fingers splayed over the shoulder of her white cotton shirt, the glint of his dress ring’s ruby catching the last of the day’s old-gold light. Suddenly she couldn’t get enough air. Couldn’t stop the mad thudding in her chest.

Shoulder dipping, she edged away. His hand withdrew. Good. Some space. She couldn’t think straight otherwise.

She filled her lungs with oxygen and courage. Conjugal rights. She cringed. “That’s such an old-fashioned term.”

“Marriage is an old-fashioned and serious institution.” Though he didn’t touch her again, she felt the vacuum of his natural heat to her core, the somber conviction of his words. “Creating, and maintaining, physical bonds are an important part of a relationship.”

“Physical.” A typical male response. “What about emotional bonds?”

“Can you think of a better way to feel close to someone than sexual intimacy? If you agree to marry me, Tamara, you agree to share my bed, and no one else’s.”

“You make it sound like a command.”

But the sparks firing over her skin weren’t entirely from indignation. Part of her shrank from the idea of sleeping with a man she barely knew. Another more secret part wondered at the idea of sampling his kisses, coming to know the rasp of his end-of-day beard as he held her, exploring, coaxing. If it was wrong to think that way, if it was somehow disrespectful to Marc’s memory, God help her, she couldn’t help it. Not with Armand so close, speaking about his bed and marriage and sex.

As if reading her mind, he nudged closer. Her back to him, she felt his hot gaze climb her bare arm, leaving a fog of steam in its wake.

“The idea of consummating our marriage worries you?”

As his deep voice strummed through her blood like a chord of bass music, an image of his mouth claiming hers came to mind, a vision of his strong naked body pinning her own. A drugging heat seeped through her tummy and her eyes drifted closed.

This was too intense. Too soon.

She turned a tight circle to face him—or, rather, the wall of his chest and the subtle tease in his gaze. Steeling herself, she shouldered past him, back toward the table. “You’re dealing with a woman who believes in fairy tales. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. De Luca.”

“Armand, remember?”

A slanted grin enhanced the seductive line of his mouth. Palm pressed against her jumping stomach, she pried her gaze away. They’d talked enough.

She headed for a twelve-foot-high archway that led to a sweeping staircase and, eventually, the privacy of the suite she’d been shown earlier. “I was on the phone when you arrived at my apartment. If I can use the extension in my room, I’d like to call her back.”

“A friend?”

“Melanie Harris. Marc’s friend, too.”

“Does she know about the baby?”

Tamara’s heart contracted and her pace faltered. She’d told no one but Marc. In fact, the only two people in the world who knew were in this room. “No one knows about that night but you,” she said over her shoulder.

“Good.”

She frowned. Maybe she hadn’t heard him right. She stopped and inched around. His eyes looked incredibly dark, as if something lurked beneath. A tremor of unease rippled through her system. “What do you mean, ‘good’?”

Slotting hands in his back jeans pockets, he seemed to choose his words. “The will stipulates a legitimate heir.”

She took a moment to digest his deeper meaning. “You want people to believe this baby is…” She hunted for a clinical phrase. “Biologically yours and mine?”

“The law views any child born after marriage as legitimate… unless paternity is challenged. No one knowing simply makes it more—” he hesitated again “—convenient.”

He spoke as if the issue of paternity held no emotional worth. “You don’t want anyone to know about the true father to make doubly sure the terms of a will are met?”

She could never do that to Marc, and this child certainly deserved to know the name of his father. Tamara only wished she’d been given that courtesy.

Armand’s eyes flashed before his hands withdrew from his pockets and he moved closer. “To the contrary. It’s only respectful to acknowledge your roots, no matter the circumstances. When the child is old enough, everything will be settled and he will know his origins.”

The double knot in her chest released a bit. Breathing again, she nodded and they walked together beneath the arch. For Armand to gain control of his empire, De Luca Senior had stipulated he produce a legitimate heir. The solution seemed obvious.

“Can’t a nephew or niece be a legitimate heir? What about an adopted child?”

“Not under the terms of this will. The clause is specific.” Armand’s concerned gaze skimmed her face. “We’ll talk more tomorrow. You look tired.”

Not tired, she realized anew. Utterly drained. Her legs felt like lead logs. “It would be good to lie down,” she conceded, aware of his hand on the small of her back as he steered her through an adjoining sitting area where a portrait of a stern-looking man presided over a limestone chimneypiece.

“Wrist hurting?”

Hauling her gaze away from the picture’s flint-hard dark eyes, she shucked off a shiver. “It’s fine.”

“I’m not sure I did a good enough job on that bandage. I’ll take you to a doctor tomorrow. And not just for your wrist.”

“The bandage is fine.” He’d taken great care to wind it neither too loose nor too tight. “And if you’re referring to the baby, I’ll see my own doctor.” A general practitioner, not a specialist, whom Tamara felt comfortable with and trusted. An OB would come later.

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow.” His tone indicated his mind was made up.

Surprisingly, curiosity overrode irritation. “Are you always this bossy?”

His face remained deadpan. “Occupational hazard.” They reached the stairs and ascended in step. “After the doctor, we’ll head in to town and choose wedding invitations.”

A chorus of alarm bells blared in her head. She hadn’t agreed to anything yet! She pitched him a distressed glance.

Those devilish blue eyes were grinning. “I like to be prepared.”

CHAPTER THREE

IN De Luca Enterprises’ inner-city penthouse office, Armand eased up from his high-backed chair, a smile spread clean across his face. Knee deep in figures from his trip to Beijing last week, his secretary knew he shouldn’t be disturbed. However, there were always exceptions to the rule.

Rounding the massive desk, he extended his hand in welcome as one side of the double oak doors fanned back and a man Armand had known all his life strode in. “Matthew, I wondered if you’d decided against returning from vacation altogether.”

Tall and lean, Matthew could have been ten years younger than his sixty-five. He chuckled. “You know how I love this company, but these past six weeks made me realize three years is too long to wait for a break. You haven’t lived ’til you enjoy old-style Hawaii and Hamoa Beach. Total relaxation.”

He looked tanned and healthy. But the difference went beyond that. When Armand released Matthew’s right hand, he found the answer shining on his left. A gold band. Disbelief fell through him, then a startled laugh coughed out. “My God, you’re married!”

Looking like the old tomcat who’d eaten the last of the cream, Matthew moved toward the maroon chesterfield. “We met at a legal colleague’s retirement party three months ago.” A far-off, contented gleam softened ice-blue eyes as he folded into the settee and flicked open his jacket buttons. “I thought I was well over such foolishness. Evie changed all that.”

Shock didn’t begin to describe the emotion, but if Matthew was happy, Armand was happy for him. Clapping his hands and rubbing, he set off for the wet bar. “This calls for a toast.”

When Armand returned with two glasses, they saluted and drank. “Vintage Macallan?”

“A special malt for a special occasion.”

Matthew focused on the younger man then slowly shook his head. “Never once did I dream I’d beat you to the altar.”

“You were a confirmed bachelor. She must be special.”

Swirling his glass, Matthew raised his brows and sighed. “She is at that.” He studied the liquor’s oak-tint color for a long moment. “No new love interest on your horizon, I suppose.”

Regularly since his father’s death, Matthew had tentatively asked about prospective fiancées, after which he would mention the will then, just as predictably, assure Armand not to worry. The balance of the trust was in good hands…his hands. He was an experienced lawyer, loyal board member and devoted family friend. No matter if the heir came a little late, Matthew would ensure Armand got what he deserved. If all went according to plan, today would be the final time Matthew need ask.

Confident, Armand replied, “Actually, I intend to announce my own wedding date very soon.” Despite his friend’s assurance about the trust, he wanted to get the matrimonial legalities cleared up.

Matthew’s expression sagged in astonishment and his face blanched. A hand funneled through his high silver-gray hairline as he released a laugh. “Well, do I know the lucky girl?”

Armand swallowed his scotch and grunted in the negative. “She’s not society.”

“From humble beginnings then?”

Armand nodded.

“Like your mother.”

Fingers of tension circled Armand’s throat. He swallowed past the sensation and turned to his desk. He didn’t need the comparison. Six years ago he’d asked for the hand of a woman who hailed from an impeccable family line, and look how that turned out. Christine Sawyer had tried to hock the ring—a family heirloom, for Pete’s sake. So much for blue-blood pedigree. So much for true love.

Matthew’s apologetic voice followed him. “Forgive me. That was unnecessary. I’m sure she’ll fit in beautifully. What’s her name?”

Armand set down his glass and drew in his chair. “Tamara Kendle.”

Matthew nodded, sipped, smiled. “Eager to start a family, no doubt.”

“You could say that.”

Throughout the week, Tamara’s bouts of morning sickness had left her wan, but by evening her face glowed. Not that she would admit her favorable adjustment anytime soon. She was, indeed, a minx, constantly challenging him with her jibes and bold green eyes. But last night she hadn’t mentioned leaving once. Progress. Tonight he planned to push that advantage as far as it would go.

Armand’s attention landed on the file he’d been working on and his mind clicked over. He caught the time on his watch. After five. Matthew would want to return to his bride, but a quick nod here first would be appreciated.

Armand rapped the file. “Do you have a minute?”

Matthew unraveled his legs. “China?” His expression filled with interest, as he moved to stand beside Armand’s chair.

Armand opened the file and flipped through. “The consultant had it right. At least two areas would fit our needs exactly.” He indicated a map, pointing out Shanghai and Hang Zhou. “Of course we’d still keep our plants in Australia, but increase output by expanding and make a decent profit, even factoring in shipping. The businessmen I spoke with over there are keen.”

Armand leaned back, hands laced behind his head. Innovative growth strategies and organizing new trade links not only kept him alert, but such measures were also vital. Building upon De Luca Enterprises’ place in today’s competitive manufacturing and corporate world meant breathing a constant stream of fresh air into the business. Without new initiatives, DLE could stagnate, stumble, or worse, risk takeover. He didn’t advocate violence, but he’d sooner fight to the death than hand over his heart and soul to any man.

Concentrating on the file, Armand tipped forward again. “I still estimate we need to shift between eighteen and twenty percent of primary holdings to fund establishment costs.”

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