“If you marry me you’ll share my bed—and no one else’s.”

Tamara straightened. “You make that sound like a command.”

But the sparks firing over her skin weren’t entirely from indignation. True, part of her shrank from the idea of sleeping with a man she barely knew. Yet another, more secret part…

As if reading her mind, he nudged closer. “The idea of consummating our marriage…worries you?”

Suddenly an image of his mouth claiming hers came to mind. A drugging heat seeped through her, 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. Steeling herself, she shouldered past him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr De Luca…”

Robyn Grady left a fifteen-year career in television production, knowing that the time was right to pursue her dream of writing romance. She adores cats, clever movies, and spending time with her wonderful husband and their three precious daughters. Living on Australia’s glorious Sunshine Coast, her perfect day includes a beach, a book, and no laundry when she gets home.

Robyn loves to hear from readers. You can contact her at www.robyngrady.com

THE MAGNATE’S
MARRIAGE
DEMAND

BY

ROBYN GRADY

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

CHAPTER 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.

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.”

Tamara didn’t know much about their history, other than their parents had separated when the boys were quite young. Marc never said why his mother had taken him but not Armand when she’d left, or why as adults the brothers hadn’t been in touch until after their father’s death over a year ago. Marc never wallowed in the past, another reason she’d respected him. Emotional baggage, skeletons in the closet…it dragged a person down and dredged up doubts, if revisited too often.

Yet today Marc’s past had caught up with the present while Tamara’s future grew safe and treasured inside of her.

Maternal pride lifted her chin. “Yes, I’m pregnant. But there’s no need to track me down like this. I’m not leaving the country.”

“I am. My jet departs for Beijing in a few hours. I’ll be gone two weeks.”

She forced a cordial smile. “Then we’ll talk in two weeks.”

As she finished the sentence, an idea struck. She had nothing keeping her in Sydney. Perhaps he was worried she’d disappear, not caring if he saw the baby, his little niece or nephew. The last thing she wanted was to cut him from her child’s life as he had once been cut from Marc’s. She knew how destructive those kinds of divisions could be.

Her greatest wish was to give her child a happy, balanced home. That meant one day marrying the man who loved them both and whom she loved in return, not merely as a friend, but as a wife should love her husband. More immediately, however, her baby’s interests would be best served by including extended family.

Her expression softened. “Look, if you’re concerned about visits, please don’t be. I want my child to know his uncle. Family is important.” She hesitated, then confessed, “More important than anything.”

The line between his brows eased even while he appeared otherwise unaffected. “Please, share five minutes with me, Ms. Kendle, away from here.”

The dark edge to his voice, that shiver racing through her blood…

She hadn’t been certain before, but these last few seconds she felt it as surely as the hair rising on the back of her neck. Something was very wrong.

Her heartbeat slowed then thudded low in her chest. Was there a hereditary disease she needed to know about? Epilepsy, allergies, heart conditions…some problem that might need immediate attention?

Her throat closed around a lump as her head prickled hot and cold. “Whatever this is about, if it concerns the child I’m carrying, I want to know.” She swallowed hard. “And I want to know now.”

One large tanned hand flexed by his side before he drew up tall and gradually closed the distance separating them,’ til her senses swam with his hot, woodsy scent and she couldn’t escape the resolve hardening in his eyes.

“It does concern the child, Ms. Kendle, as well as both of us.” De Luca’s broad shoulders squared. “I want to marry you.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Armand sat with one arm slung over the back of a shaded park bench, Tamara Kendle in a daze at his side. Despite the salty breeze lifting the hair off her cheek, her face looked whiter than the styrene cup her delicate hand clutched. Jaw slack, she stared at an endless procession of waves, which crashed and ebbed on the foam-scalloped shore a few meters away.

Clearly she was still in shock. When he’d let loose his bombshell proposal at the funeral home earlier, her legs had given way. He’d swooped to catch her and in the instant her warm body had slumped against his, damned if his blood hadn’t sparked and caught light. Then had come a blinding flash of guilt.

That guilt burned low in his gut now, but he clenched his jaw and pushed it aside. He’d seen Marco exactly eight times in the last fourteen months, including the reintroduction at their father’s funeral. Now the brother he’d barely known was dead.

Marrying the woman Marco had loved might sound insensitive, perhaps even shameless to some. Armand understood the sentiment but he wouldn’t let that color his decision. He played by his own rules, no one else’s. To wish things were somehow different was useless. Nothing changed the past, there was only the future, and a union would benefit them all—Tamara, the baby, as well as himself.

Easing out a breath, Armand leaned forward. Forearms resting on thighs, he dropped his threaded hands between his knees. “Would you like more water or are you okay to talk?”

The timing was worse than bad. If that issue in China weren’t calling him out of the country, he’d have approached this differently and merely introduced himself today, following it up with visits over the next few days until she felt more comfortable. Although their meeting was awkward, perhaps it was better this way. Much needed to be organized—and quickly— particularly the effects of a betrothal upon his business and late father’s legal trust.

With great care, Tamara set the cup on a slat between them and looped stray hair behind an ear. “If you want to talk about weddings, there’s nothing to say.”

As the information filtered through, he saw suspicion pool in her eyes and renewed tension ratchet back her shoulders.

“My…situation?”

His tone was nonconfrontational, yet firm. “You’ve been out of work two months, since your business failed to trade out of cash flow problems.”

“Thanks to a big company that refused to pay an invoice.” Uncertainty furrowed her brows. “How did you know? Marc wouldn’t have told you. It had nothing to do with you.”

“Now it does.” He met her glistening gaze, green eyes filled with shifting light.

He rubbed his bristled jaw, laid his arm along the back of the bench again and set his thoughts on track. “You don’t have private insurance.”

She blinked as if the idea hadn’t occurred to her. “No, I don’t.”

“But you’d obviously want the best doctor to care for you and the baby.” She sank back, her pallor even more pasty. “What about the delivery? If you need a caesarean, don’t you want to know who’s holding the knife?”

“We have a good public system in this country.”

“You know where and who you’d want to care for the baby, and it’s not waiting hours in a medical clinic, seeing a different, overworked doctor every time.” He passed on a jaded look. “In today’s triage world, if you want to be certain of having the best, you need to pay for it.”

Her pointed gaze skewered his. “I’ll ask again. How do you know all this?”

He shrugged. “A few phone calls.” The best medical care wasn’t the only thing money could buy. By comparison, information was cheap.

Her cheeks flamed red as a volcano built inside of her—again, not unexpected.

“You had me investigated?”

“I looked in to my late brother’s affairs.”

“You mean his love affair.”

He tipped closer and willed her to understand. This wasn’t pleasant for him, either. “You have no income and no family to speak of. I want to help.”

“By proposing marriage. Isn’t that a bit extreme? What about something simple, like writing a check?” She crossed her arms and tucked in that cute cleft chin. “Not that I want your money.”

“That’s noble, but in your predicament, perhaps impractical.”

Although by no means wealthy, Marco had been in more of a position to reject the De Luca legacy, even laugh off the suggestion that the brothers might finally unite and build together. Tamara’s situation was somewhat different.

Mottled pink consumed her neck. “I’m more than capable of holding down a job.”

“Like being a receptionist at your local budget hairdressers.” Her jaw dropped. “You’ll be up and down, sweeping floors, helping out, on your feet eight to ten hours a day. From what I saw of you bent over that sink, early pregnancy doesn’t agree with you. How will you cope?”

Pride pinned back her shoulders. Despite her stubbornness, he had to admire her. An educated guess said if anyone could make it through this difficult situation on her own and do it well, she could. But he’d keep that to himself.

“I’m grateful for the job, even if it is a stopgap,” she told him. “I plan to finish a business degree then relaunch my special events company.” She tilted her head and conceded, “Or, if need be, I’ll take a position with another firm and work my way up.” She sent him an almost impish look. “But you might already know that, too.”

His mouth twitched. Minx. Quite a change from the gushing society princesses he’d dated—women of a mold who flattered, simpered and left him tepid, as far as sweethearts or long-term relationships were concerned.

Ah, who was he kidding? He didn’t believe in romantic love and hadn’t for some time, though clearly others did.

He studied a patch of sandy ground, searching for the right words. “I know you and Marco were in love. He said you were going to marry and have more children. Obviously it will take time to recover from your loss—”

“Whoa! Hold on.” Tamara waved her hands. “Marc might have been in love with me, but I hadn’t agreed to marry him. I thought of him only as a friend. A very dear friend.”

Armand froze. Every muscle, every thought locked in black ice. Finally he raked a hand through his hair. He wasn’t a saint, but this idea refused to compute. “Do you often sleep with friends, Ms. Kendle?”

She jerked back as if slapped. Grabbing her bag, she shot to her feet. “I’ve heard enough.”

As she spun on her heel, he snared her arm. They weren’t finished yet.

He hauled her back. The skin-to-skin contact jolted a physical response that pumped through his arteries, scorching his flesh, just as it had an hour ago when he’d proposed and she’d buckled against him. Completely aware, he slowly stood and tried to absorb this sensation’s deeper meaning. From her startled gaze, she felt it, too—that current, popping and pulsing like a live wire between them.

His gaze skimmed a hot line over her lips as a dormant beast yawned and stretched inside him. “You weren’t sexually attracted to Marco?”

Yet an unmistakable attraction simmered between the two of them. For obvious reasons, he hadn’t expected this. Didn’t quite know what to do with it—a first for him, in many ways.

Regaining control, she shrugged out of his grasp. “Marc was kind and thoughtful and put everything on hold if a friend needed him. It happened once.” Her bruised heart sat like a shadow in her eyes. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

His chest burned, but he pushed ahead. He had no time to dwell on who the better man had been.

“You’ve had a bad run.” He knew about her house and the fire, too. “But today you have an opportunity to turn things around.”

A hapless smile twisted her mouth. “A marriage of convenience?” The open vulnerability, the innocence of her face, worked to find a way under his ribs and he nodded once. She seemed to digest the sincerity of his offer before fresh wariness dawned in her eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

He didn’t hesitate. “This child will have two parents.”

She waited. “And?”

“You need another reason?”

Tamara Kendle came from a broken home, one far less privileged than his own had been. An absent father and uneducated mother. Tamara’s childhood made his gripes look like too little cake at a Sunday picnic. Surely the security in providing this child a decent family life should be persuasion enough.

A clutch of grounded seagulls scattered as she left him to wander toward the beach fence. The breeze, stronger here, combed her hair, turning it to dark ribbons that danced down her back.

She rotated to face him, her expression perceptive now. “You said I was bright, Mr. De Luca. Please don’t dodge my question.”

After a moment, he exhaled and joined her. Resting both palms on the chest-high railing, he perused the rolling sea. “Yes, there is another reason.” She’d need to know anyway.

She propped one elbow on the railing and cupped her cheek. “I’m listening.”

He clenched the wood. “I need to obtain the controlling interest in my late father’s company. His will left the balance in trust.”

“And I fit in how…?”

“A stipulation must be met before the interest can revert to me. I must produce offspring—a child—by my thirty-third birthday. In other words, I need a legitimate heir seven months from now.”

“My baby?” A disbelieving laugh escaped. “Can people actually do that in their wills? It sounds medieval.”

“Dante, my father, was very much old guard. I’d known for years he wanted to ensure that his legacy continued through me into the next generation.” His jaw shifted as he rationalized. “It’s understandable.”

“And if you don’t produce an heir by the deadline?”

“The controlling interest will remain with my father’s closest friend, the company’s legal advisor.”

A man with no children of his own. Someone Armand had admired and called uncle growing up. A person he trusted and whom he believed would pass on the balance anyway. But he’d rather comply with his father’s wishes, and, in doing so, avoid placing Matthew, an ethical man, in a not-so-ethical position. Convincing Tamara to marry him would eliminate those glitches and lead to a win-win situation for everyone, including the child.

She looked skeptical. “This doesn’t add up. A man like you would have zero problems finding a more than willing bride. Why leave it ’til now?”

He refused to feel. Refused to remember. Instead he twirled the heavy ruby ring on his right hand. “Let’s just say, true love has eluded me.”

“You want to find true love?”

The visible tension in her jaw eased before she slowly straightened and gave in to her first real smile. The expression was like a candle flickering to life on the inside, making her glow like an angel. He almost smiled back.

“Then you’d understand why this can’t possibly work,” she said. “Why you’ll have to find another way. I want to find that right one, too, just like you.”

He studied her. She was far more attractive than he’d first thought, with creamy skin, long regal neck and a small gold cross shining from the hollow of her throat. And for a cock-eyed moment, he wanted to steal some of her starry-eyed enthusiasm. But he’d tossed believing a long time ago.

Prying his gaze from the curve of her cheek, he focused again on the sea. “You misunderstand. I don’t believe in fairy tales.”

She fell back against the fence, emitting a soft gasp. “You mean you don’t believe in love?”

He bit down, suddenly irritated, but nevertheless well-versed for the argument. Not that this discussion need include an analysis of his personal regrets; he took as his right the discretion of one mistake. He would stick to broader statistics.

“I have a friend who’s a divorce lawyer, but it’s no secret. Half the people who marry for love separate. That’s compared to four percent of arranged marriages. In some parts of the world, such betrothals are considered a privilege.”

She blinked twice. “Good Lord, you’re serious.”

“What I propose is a partnership built on honesty and respect.”

“What you propose is out of the question!”

He held up a hand. “I understand it’s not the best time.”

“Darn right it’s not. Your brother was buried today.” She backed up, disgust dragging on her mouth. “And, whatever you might believe, I’m not a piece of property you can buy to better your business standing, and neither is my baby. Yes, I want honesty and respect from the man I marry. But I also want a history and commitment and passion.”

Her green eyes were all sparks and fire now, all conviction and courage. No interest in material gain…only ideals. “Passion?” he asked, all the more curious.

Her eyes widened as if she’d read his thoughts and wasn’t sure how to take them. “Every woman wants that.”

His gaze roamed her face. “Most men, too.”

He didn’t make choices lightly. He’d lain awake last night and had sat in that chapel today analyzing the pros and cons of marrying a woman he’d yet to meet in order to fulfill the terms of the will and give her child—his blood—the De Luca name. Yet, not once had Armand anticipated this pull, the impulse to frame her face and test her warmth.

The tug in his chest, the heat down below…

Hell. He wanted to kiss her.

She broke their gaze. Combing back hair that waved like a pennant across her face, she looked down at her feet, then over to the busy road. She still avoided his eyes when she said, “You have a plane waiting and I need to go home and get over this day.”

He snatched a glance at his watch. Damn. Where had that hour gone? But he still had time. He’d make time. “I’ll give you a lift.”

He reached for her elbow, but she weaved away. “I’ll take the bus. I mean it,” she insisted when he began to protest. While he reluctantly stepped back, she seemed to gather her thoughts. “I also meant what I said about not excluding you from our lives.” After a hesitant moment, she fished around in her purse. “I suppose you already have my phone number.”

The tension, which had locked his shoulder blades these past few days, eased slightly. He did have her number, but he wouldn’t object if she gave it to him. She was giving him an inch. For now, that was all he needed.

After she’d retrieved a notepad and pen, his gaze settled on the motion of her writing…left-handed, skin smooth, fingers long and slender, made for jewelry. Diamonds, emeralds, maybe even rubies.

She handed him the paper, shot out a quick goodbye and was gone, swift as a frightened hare. Watching her move through the shade of bobbing palm fronds toward a bus stop, he shifted his weight to one leg and scratched his temple. Fourteen days and nights in China suddenly seemed like a very long time.

Walking to his car, Armand opened her note. He stopped in his tracks to read the message three times.

Give me some space!

His grin was slow. He’d give her two weeks. After that, he couldn’t promise anything.

CHAPTER TWO

TAMARA trudged in through her apartment’s paint-flaked doorway, holding her wrist, fighting tears of pain and frustration.

For six days she had rushed around at the salon, most of the time on her feet. She’d battled constant morning sickness and had graciously accepted the pitiful wage. But a collision with a fellow employee, which had left her wrist swollen and sore, was the final straw. After writing her resignation and a twenty-minute walk home, she was done in—too exhausted to think, too tired to care. An earthquake could shake the continent and she just might sleep through it.

Her purse dropped with a thud near the bedroom door. After kicking off her flats, she dug a bag of green peas from the ancient freezer and ripped the tea towel from its kitchen rack. With both wrapped around her throbbing wrist, she sank horizontally into the worn velour couch.

She was drifting when the phone buzzed.

Throwing her good hand over her eyes, she groaned. “Not interested. Go away.”

But it could be the employment agency. She might want to crash for a month, but that was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Pushing up, she brushed the stack of overdue bills aside and rescued the side table handset.

Melanie’s voice chirped on the line. “Me and Kristen wondered how you were doing. It’s been over a week. Guess it’s finally sinking in, huh?”

Tamara wedged back into the lumpy cushions and stared at the ceiling. One benefit to being busy and exhausted— she hadn’t been able to mire herself in the depths of grief. Marc was gone; yes, it was sinking in, and she would miss him more than anyone could know. As head of her own company, she’d projected an outgoing personality, but at heart she was shy.

At twenty-six her natural bent was still to do it alone. But she’d felt so comfortable, so herself whenever she’d been with Marc. That was one of the reasons he’d been so special to her and why the baby would mean even more.

She patted the white cotton shirt where she imagined her secret bump had begun to grow. “Thanks for calling, Mel. I’m doing okay.” Her gaze slid to her university textbooks, stacked in a neat pile on the gray Formica table. She coiled one leg around the other, bare foot tucked behind the opposite jean-clad knee, and turned her back. She wasn’t ready to face that challenge just now.

“What about you guys?” she asked. “Keeping out of trouble?”

While Melanie summarized their week—a weepie movie, two new hairstyles—Tamara forced herself to thumb through the bills: a reminder utility notice threatening disconnection and a warning in ugly red letters announcing rent was two weeks late. She wondered how they evicted people these days. Would she be marched out by the scruff of her neck?

A booming rap on the door echoed through the room. Her breath caught and the bill crunched in her hand.

Melanie paused. “Something wrong?”

Stomach sinking, Tamara eased to her feet. “Just the door. I’ll call back.”

If this was the landlord ready to toss her out, no use delaying it. There were always the options of government benefits, or cheaper accommodation. She looked around the matchbox room. Was there anything cheaper than this?

The bell rang next, long and shrill. Ironing back frazzled wisps that escaped from her waist-length ponytail, Tamara moved one foot in front of the other. After touching the cross at her throat, she yanked on the handle and her heart exploded through her chest.

First thing she noticed was dark trousers sheathing long masculine legs like a work of art. Next, an open-necked business shirt, cuffs folded back on hard, bronzed forearms. Higher, stubble smudged a movie-star square jaw, while a lick of black hair hung over a widow’s peak. The gaze was blue, lazy and hypnotic.

Armand De Luca.

Partway recovered, she exhaled in a whoosh. “I thought you said two weeks.”

He hinted at a smile. “Turned into one.”

Still off balance, she rested a cheek against her fingers, which were curled around the door rim, and surrendered to the obvious. “Don’t tell me. You’ve already heard.”

His expression sharpened. “Let me guess. You’ve tossed in your salon receptionist towel.” His attention zeroed in on the wrapped bag of peas pinioned against her lower ribs and he frowned. “I can also see why.” Without invitation, he crossed the threshold and gingerly collected her injured hand.

Her first impulse was to twist away, tell him to keep his distance. She wasn’t at all certain she welcomed what his touch did to her—like being sucked in by the tow of a tidal wave. But she was so tired; avoiding his hands-on concern only seemed childish. Besides, his big tanned hand supporting her much smaller one wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

“I’d invite you in—” she watched him untangle the towel, then gently roll her wrist back and forth “—but you already are.”

His focus was on the swollen joint. “This looks bad.”

The hot pad of his index finger nudged the purple mark, which was turning greenish-yellow, and a searing pain lifted the hair on her scalp. Water flooding her eyes, she broke free of his hold and moved toward the couch, cradling her wrist like a baby.

Rubbing a set of knuckles over his sandpaper jaw, he followed. “That needs to be looked at.”

“It just needs rest.”

He took her in, from her muzzy ponytail to her naked toes, and sent a disapproving look that made her feel ten years old. “You need rest.”

Bingo! “You’re right. So if you don’t mind…” She made to crowd him back out the door, but she had more chance of moving Ayres Rock. For now, she was beaten.

She pasted on a plastic smile, not intending to hide her frustration. “So, what can I do for you today, Mr. De Luca?”

His voice deepened, part velvet, part growl. “It’s Armand. And you can come home with me.”

His statement pushed her back with the force of a shove. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words, and presence, affected her.

Her grin was haughty. “Persistence must be your middle name. ‘Come home with me,’ just like that.” She fell back into the couch. Her wrist screamed and she yelped at the pain.

His athletic frame folded down beside her. The ledge of his broad shoulders swung over and the room seemed to shrink. “Not just like that. Not only are you injured, you’re forgetting our conversation last week.”

Too aware of his animal magnetism and intoxicating woodsy scent, she slid farther away. “I haven’t forgotten anything.” Including the fact he’d approached her with that ludicrous offer of marriage at Marc’s funeral.

He looked past her and frowned. Oh, great. He’d spotted the bills. When he swept them up—an obstinate man with a mission—more than instinct said it was a waste of time to protest. She assumed an unconcerned air while her heartbeat clattered wildly.

Finally he set the bills down. “Do you have anywhere to go?”

She forced a laugh. The sound came out more strangled than amused. “It’s not as bad as all that.”

His bland expression let her know he didn’t agree.

As tense seconds ticked by, the walls pressed in, and as much as it pained her, Tamara was forced to face the hard, cold truth. Aside from Marc, she didn’t have anyone close. Melanie and Kristin, and a couple of university buddies, but she didn’t have any let-me-crash-on-your-living-room-floor-type friends.

Her mother lived in Melbourne, but they rarely communicated, which both saddened and appeased her. How strange to love someone in whose company you felt, more times than not, invisible. Once she would’ve performed somersaults to get her mother’s attention. Later it seemed wiser to save her energy. Elaine Kendle had been stuck in a deep dark “if only” hole—probably was still stuck—and there was little Tamara could do about it.

Slapping his muscular thighs, Armand pushed to his feet. “I won’t argue. If you want to stay ’til they come to evict you, which must be any day now, that’s your choice.”

He headed off and her mind froze. The walls that only a moment ago suffocated her, had receded until all she saw was Armand reaching for the tarnished knob. Opening the door. Walking away.

Her throat closed over.

“Wait!”

He pivoted back and their gazes fused. But she couldn’t speak or move. Dammit, she wasn’t used to accepting help.

From across the room, the light in his eyes changed from calculated disinterest to anticipation. In a measured gait, he returned and carefully reached out. She hesitated, then blew out a defeated breath and placed her hand in his.

As his fingers curled and swallowed hers, his warmth suffused her skin and swam up her arm, making every nerve ending skip and tingle. A smile lifted one side of the mouth. A masculine, sexy, wonder-how-it-feels mouth.

“Tell me what you need to take,” he said, helping her up.

She nodded and together they collected a few things—some clothes, her books, and Einstein, her plant. But their movements, her situation, this handsome, insistent man…it all seemed surreal.

When the door clicked shut fifteen minutes later, she was still in a daze. Once more, her life had taken an acute, unexpected turn. She studied Armand, strong arms full of her “stuff” as he negotiated the stairwell, and wondered which of her barriers he’d attempt to break down next.

A big, baggy, chocolate-brown gaze, and breath that would bring water to a garlic clove’s eye greeted Tamara.

Kneeling in Armand De Luca’s enormous kitchen, she mentally blocked her nose and ruffled the sleepy bloodhound’s ears with her good hand. “How long have you had Master? Since the last ice age?”

One hip propped against the island bench, shoulders set at an angle, Armand concentrated as he shuffled through mail he’d swept off the black granite counter. His gaze flicked up and he grinned a lopsided smile that made her stomach muscles flutter.

“Don’t know about ice age,” he said, attention returning to the mail. “Maybe around the time I started wearing long trousers.”

Tamara’s eye line slid down. “Long” by no means covered it. Nice in trousers, but delicious in the low-riding indigo-rinse jeans he’d changed into soon after they’d arrived home. And home, for the time being, was a magnificent Mediterranean-style residence in Sydney’s most exclusive neighborhood.

Visible through an adjacent floor-to-ceiling window, towering pines decorated vast stretches of emerald-green lawn—foreground to a priceless harbor view, complete with colorful yachts and distant opera house shells. Inside, marble floors, stone columns, ornate skylights… the very air proclaimed unsurpassed extravagance and echoing space.

“This place is so big,” she murmured. And quiet. She ruffled the dog’s ears again. “I wonder if Master gets lonely.”

There was no doubt that Armand spent most of his time at the office, and anyone could get lonesome, even a dog.

When Armand dropped the letters and moved toward her, Tamara held her bandaged wrist and reminded herself to breathe. His gait was predatory, but also languid, like a panther who wasn’t the least concerned its kill would get away.

“The groundsman and Master have been friends for years. And he loves my housekeeper. You’ll grow to love Ruth, too.”

She’d met Ruth Sherman earlier and she did seem nice. But Tamara didn’t plan on developing a relationship. She pushed to her feet. “I won’t be here that long.”

He knotted powerful arms over an equally powerful chest. His hanging shirttails taunted her to come close and touch the washboard abs she felt sure lay beneath.

“So, you must have a plan.”

Gaze snapping up, she focused. “Of course.”

Crossing back to the gold-rimmed bench, he retrieved two steaming cups, one raspberry leaf tea (she carried a small supply in her handbag these days), one coffee freshly brewed in a contraption that probably cost more than a decent vacation. “Let me guess. Your plan is to find another job.”

Her chin lifted. “Until recently, I’ve never been out of work.”

“Not since leaving school at junior level.”

His high-born barb pricked, but he’d seen the university textbooks. She was close to finishing a business degree, which, admittedly, had been a challenge, particularly her current unit of study; her second attempt at data analysis wasn’t any easier than the first. Nevertheless she’d concede his point.

She moved to a meals table, which was tucked away in an all-glass bay window decorated with hanging baskets of lush maidenhair fern. “Yes, I did finish school early. And eventually went on to own my own company.”

“Exemplar Events, an events coordination enterprise.” Black glazed cups and saucers in hand, he joined her. “A hairdresser by trade, you found your true calling by accident after offering to organize events for friends and charity.”

Forgetting to be annoyed at his detective work, she remembered back and smiled. “Christmas parties, school fetes, a couple of dinner fund-raisers.” She had been so over mixing dyes and sweeping hair, and those events had been such fun.

“But the step up to corporate events was a steep one,” he continued.

Full-scale pyrotechnics, first-class catering, together with clients’ diverse special needs—each job had been exciting and she’d done well on her own…for a while. Ultimately, however, lack of business savvy had caught up. Figures weren’t exactly her forte—not data analysis and not accounts receivable. When she ran aground, nothing could pull her free.

Armand slid the cups onto the table’s sparkling glass surface. “A dissatisfied customer refused to pay for an extravagant function. The loss was too much on a shaky overdraft. The bank called in the loan. No other institution would bridge. You lost your business.”

She gripped the back of a white wicker chair as regret and anger flooded her. “I lost everything.” Thanks to Barclays Australasia.

Her five-year-old red coupe was the first to go. She’d loved that car. Then came the garage sales, the desperation. The repossession of her modest but dearly loved house would have been next, if the fire hadn’t taken care of it first. Small print in the insurance policy translated into “goodbye, picket fence, hello tiny apartment.” The deposit she’d sweated blood to save, all down the drain.

He pulled out her chair. “Life isn’t always fair.”

Though his words echoed her own thoughts, they sounded trite coming from Armand’s privileged mouth. A millionaire couldn’t possibly know the struggles small-business people faced to keep afloat.

She took her seat. Maybe he didn’t deserve it, maybe he did. Either way, she couldn’t help a dig. “Perhaps we should take another ride in your Bentley and you can tell me about what’s fair.”

His eyes glittered, with mischief or warning? “Retract the claws, Felix. I’m here to help, remember?”

More like help himself.

Armand’s housekeeper breezed into the room, breaking their tension. Ruth defied all the rules associated with the term housekeeper: tall, svelte, smart civilian clothes rather than a drab uniform. In her early sixties, perhaps, she was still a striking woman: a salon-cut copper blonde with elegant sapphire starburst ear studs. The only giveaways to her vocation were an apron and brutally short nails. As Ruth laced her hands before her, hazel eyes half-mooning above a kind smile, Tamara wondered if she had grandchildren.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

Armand’s smile was fond. “I’ll take care of everything from here on, thanks.”

Ruth’s comfortable gaze jumped to Tamara. “Good meeting you, Ms. Kendle.”

Earlier the housekeeper had prepared a snack. With pregnancy hormones ambushing her appetite, ham and cheese on whole grain never tasted so good. “Thanks again for the sandwich, Ruth. It really hit the spot.”

Headed for a corner of the kitchen, the older woman brushed the compliment aside. “Wait ’til you taste my beef Wellington.” She hung her apron on the back of the pantry door. “It’s his favorite.”

Sitting alongside Tamara now, Armand scooped a heap of sugar into his cup. “Your choc-mint cheesecake is my favorite.”

Ruth mouthed to Tamara, “Sweet tooth,” then said aloud, “I’ll be in early tomorrow. Master needs to go to the vet—”

“I’ll take care of that,” Armand let her know, stirring. “Have a good weekend.”

Ruth winked at Tamara and headed out the room. “See you Monday.”

Shoulders sagging, Tamara gave in to a sigh. Guess she would at that.

While she gathered her cup close and filled her lungs with the sweet herbal aroma, Armand set their conversation back on track.

“We were discussing the death of your business.”

A nasty shiver ran through her. Did he have to put it like that?

She set her cup down. “I might be in a tight place at the moment, but I’ll get by.” She always had.

His furrowed gaze challenged hers. “Like your mother got by?”

Her throat swelled, cutting off air. Despite the neglect, she loved her mother and wanted to include her in her baby’s life. And if he dared mention her father…!

Some things were best left buried.

“My mother has nothing to do with this.”

He weighed her statement before he cocked a brow and drank. The cup landed back in its saucer with a clatter. “You’re right. This is about you and what opportunities you, as a mother, decide to give or deny your child.”

A knot twisted in her stomach. Money didn’t guarantee happiness. Still, given her less than stellar start in life, Tamara knew full well food and clothes didn’t materialize out of thin air. She leveled him a look. “That’s not fair.”

“I believe we’ve had that discussion.”

So cool. So suave. So blasted infuriating!

She surged up from her chair.

By the window, she dragged a gaze around the outside view to where a bust of what looked like a satyr guarded a garden entrance. Orderly, pristine, clutter-free. Must cost a fortune to maintain.

Her days wouldn’t shorten after the baby was born, particularly once she was ready to rebuild her business. On top of that, having no partner meant not only long hours on the job, but longer childcare hours, too.

The tip of her index finger trailed down the glass, then drew three times over a horizontal figure eight.

A marriage of convenience…to Armand De Luca… no more struggle…no more treading water.

A razor-sharp pang coiled inside of her. Her hand clenched and dropped.

What on earth was she thinking? She wanted to be in love with the man she married, not indebted. Surely that wasn’t expecting too much, even with all the uncertainty clouding her life. Even given the way Armand made her feel…temporarily rescued.

Her stomach jumped when Armand’s heat-infused palm came to rest on her shoulder, but she dared not face him. The flare of his touch was enough to unhinge her. She wouldn’t risk more confusion by looking into those eyes.

His breath warmed her crown as his voice rumbled at her ear. “Weigh your options carefully. Consider the opportunities you’d give your child, now and in the future.”

A future with opportunities, security, a name that opened doors. And all she had to do was marry a stranger.

She chewed her lip and struggled to form the question that had scratched at her mind since this man, more like a phantom, had swept into her life.

“Don’t get the idea I’m saying yes, because I’m not, but…” Her mouth was cracker-dry. She fought to swallow against the choking beat of her heart vibrating up her throat. “If we were to wed, if we were to become man and wife…”

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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