Damien watched her for a long, intent moment.

“There is one way to hold on to Plover Park.”

“What’s that?” Lee asked without too much hope.

“We could get married.”

I’ve died and gone to heaven. Lee’s lips parted incredulously as the thought shot across her mind. Then sanity prevailed.

“Not a real marriage, I take it?”

“Would you like it to be?”

Marriage on Command
Lindsay Armstrong

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

DAMIEN MOORE was tall, dark and unimpressed, Lee Westwood decided as he raised an enigmatic eyebrow after scanning her thoroughly.

True, she acknowledged inwardly as she sat in the chair he had waved a negligent hand towards, she was not as formally dressed as those who worked in the hushed and hallowed legal offices of Moore & Moore. But her newest pair of jeans, although not that new, were sharply pressed, her short brown boots were shining and her green blouse had been carefully chosen to match her eyes. In fact she couldn’t remember taking as much care to co-ordinate her appearance for quite some time. Her shoulder-length auburn hair shone, as it always did, and was tied back neatly.

The one slightly jarring note was her old string bag, which she looped over the arm of the chair—she’d forgotten to change it for something more chic and, as usual, it bulged.

True, too, she reflected, that she had expected the senior partner of Moore & Moore to be older. This man was in his middle thirties at the most, she judged. Nor had it entered her expectations that he would be quite as devastatingly attractive, with lean lines, broad shoulders, clever dark eyes set in an intelligent face and a definite air of command. Well, perhaps that was to be expected, she amended her thoughts as he sat down behind a hugely impressive desk.

However, she wasn’t going to allow this extremely good-looking but superior lawyer to intimidate her for any reason. And she said coolly, ‘I need some legal advice, Mr Moore.’

He sat back in his exquisitely tailored charcoal suit and made a steeple of his fingers. ‘So you informed my secretary on many an occasion, I gather,’ he replied dryly.

‘It’s not easy to get an appointment with you,’ Lee shot back. ‘It’s obvious you value yourself very highly, Mr Moore,’ she added tartly.

A stray glint of amusement lit his fine dark eyes for a moment. ‘My fees certainly don’t come cheap,’ he said, ‘but if that’s a problem for you I’m not sure why you persevered to the extent of driving my secretary up the wall, Miss…uh—’ he consulted the file in front of him ‘—Westwood?’

‘Well, I’ll tell you, Mr—uh—Moore,’ Lee parodied, ‘I did some research and it seems to me that you are the best in the business. It’s that simple.’ She shrugged her slim shoulders, as if to say it was incomprehensible to her at the moment, but she would go along with it anyway, and added, ‘I’ve got the strong feeling that’s what I need, you see. On the subject of your fees, incidentally, I have a nest egg that should take care of them.’

Damien Moore resisted the urge to smile as he studied the snippy redhead seated opposite him. She had driven his secretary mad—no mean feat—and he got the strange feeling his wisest course would be to pack her off before she drove him mad. But really, he mused, how could a thin, young—twenty-three?—redhead, who appeared to have all her possessions packed into a bulging string bag, do that?

He sat up abruptly. ‘All right, Miss Westwood, tell me what kind of trouble you’ve got yourself into.’

Lee looked pained. ‘I haven’t got myself into any trouble at all—I’m extremely law abiding!’

‘So why are you here?’ he asked impatiently.

‘My grandparents…’ She paused to collect her thoughts. ‘They were persuaded to invest their life savings into a dubious investment scheme. Not only did they get no return for their money, but the principal has disappeared into thin air—the scheme was a scam right from the start,’ she said intensely.

Damien Moore twirled a silver pen in his fingers and looked sceptical. ‘Firstly, why am I not dealing with your grandparents?’

‘They…’ Lee hesitated. ‘They’re the salt of the earth—they brought me up when my parents died in a car accident when I was six—but…well, they’re rather unworldly. I guess,’ she said awkwardly, ‘that’s why they fell for it in the first place.’ Her expression hardened. ‘But I intend to get back every penny they lost!’

‘I see. That’s where I come in, I presume?’

‘To be honest—’ Lee looked wry for a moment ‘—I was hoping to be able to achieve it on my own. I didn’t succeed.’

‘I hesitate to ask this, but what means have you already undertaken to get back your grandparents’ life savings?’ he enquired.

Lee threaded her fingers together and took her time about replying. ‘I went to the police, but they seemed to think if there was any problem it was a civil matter. The contract contained the fine print to safeguard the proposer of the scheme, so I…’ she grimaced ‘…I camped out on his doorstep with a placard a couple of times.’

Don’t laugh, Damien Moore warned himself. ‘On the doorstep of the man who allegedly conned your grandparents?’

Lee nodded.

‘What did the placard say?’

Lee looked away. ‘Basically, it was very uncomplimentary towards his integrity.’

‘What did he do?’

Lee looked back at Damien Moore, contriving, he reflected, to be embarrassed but a picture of youthful dignity at the same time. ‘He—that is to say, a member of his staff—threatened me with a restraining order.’

This time he had to laugh. ‘I’m not surprised! I thought you were so law abiding, Miss Westwood—don’t you know you can’t go about impeaching people’s integrity at will?’

‘I happen to know,’ Lee said stiffly, ‘that he’s a con man and a thief! How would you feel if your grandparents were in the same position?’ she asked burningly.

‘All right.’ Damien sobered and made a few notes on the pad in front of him. ‘Who is this man?’

‘Cyril Delaney.’

The silver pen dropped from his fingers and he blinked at her. ‘You’re joking!’

‘No, I’m not,’ Lee denied.

‘Miss Westwood, Cyril Delaney is a respected property developer with a long-standing and impressive record. It is highly unlikely that he would be going around pulling scams on defenceless old age pensioners.’

‘I have a document signed by a C. Delaney, I have my grandparents’ word that the man they dealt with gave his name as Cyril Delaney, and I have their explanation that it was Cyril Delaney’s “impressive record”, Lee said with irony, ‘that got them in. What do you make of that, Mr Moore?’

‘That it was very likely someone masquerading as Cyril Delaney,’ he replied promptly.

‘Then he has a double,’ Lee retorted.

A frown grew in Damien Moore’s eyes. ‘Are you serious—really serious, Miss Westwood?’

Lee looked heavenwards briefly. ‘Do you honestly think I’d have gone to the amount of trouble I have on a deluded whim, Mr Moore? I’ve spent a fortune on phone calls alone, trying to get this appointment with you. You’re only lucky,’ she said, ‘that your secretary gave in—otherwise I might have camped out on this doorstep!’

‘Heaven forbid.’ He looked at her coolly.

Lee grimaced. ‘I can be determined and stubborn,’ she conceded.

He studied her in silence for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘I believe you. So you never got to meet Cyril?’

‘No. I was fobbed off all the time. And then—well, I’ve told you that bit.’

‘Have you put your claims down in writing to him?’

‘That too, but I’ve received no reply. But he wouldn’t reply, would he, if he was guilty?’

Damien Moore tapped his pen thoughtfully on his desk. ‘It may have been interpreted as a crank claim.’ He seemed to come to a decision. ‘All right—show me your document.’

Lee delved eagerly into her string bag and produced it. ‘What do you think?’ she asked anxiously when he’d read it.

‘That ninety-nine per cent of the population always fail to read the fine print,’ he said witheringly. ‘However, it would appear to me that some scam has been perpetrated, so I will write to Cyril Delaney and apprise of him of this document’s existence—as well as the failure of the scheme.’

‘And?’

He looked amused. ‘That’s all I can do at the moment.’

‘What if he ignores you the way he ignored me?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I doubt that will happen, Miss Westwood.’

Lee failed to look reassured. ‘I really want to face him and have this out with him,’ she said passionately.

‘Yes, well, Miss Fire-eater, I don’t know why that doesn’t surprise me, but you’ll have to practise some patience. We’ll do this one step at a time—unless you’d like to find yourself another lawyer. May I have some details—where we can get in touch with you, et cetera?’

Lee subsided—until it became obvious that he required virtually her life history. ‘I am not going to skip town without paying your fees,’ she said proudly.

‘Perish the thought,’ he murmured, and threw her a keen, dark look. ‘So you’re a horticulturist? In what way?’

‘I work as a landscape gardener, but my dream is to have my own business one day. I’ve always been passionate about gardens.’ She looked wry. ‘I’ve even dreamt about becoming as well known as Capability Brown was.’

It struck Damien Moore then that Lee Westwood’s green eyes were little short of stunning. Long-lashed and a clear jade-green, they were extremely expressive and—captivating. He also noticed for the first time that she was faintly freckled, and that her auburn hair shone with vitality. ‘Uh…’ he said, drawing his mind from her physical attributes. ‘Have you seen any of his landscaping?’

A glint of mischief lit those eyes—a complete give-away—although she said demurely, ‘Yes. I backpacked my way around the UK and Europe a couple of years ago. Have you?’

‘No.’ He didn’t look put in his place, only amused. ‘But my mother is a very keen gardener. She has books on him.’

‘Are you interested in gardening, Mr Moore?’

‘Not in the slightest, Miss Westwood. But…’ He paused, and then surprised himself. ‘If the way you’re pursuing this matter is anything to go by, it seems likely your dreams will come true—I hope they do.’ He stood up. ‘In the meantime, leave this with me and I’ll get back to you as soon as I have a response.’

Lee stood up but did not shake his proffered hand. ‘Is that all?’

He raised a dark eyebrow and his mouth quirked. ‘What more did you have in mind?’

For a moment Lee mistook his meaning. She even opened her mouth to say that surely they had enough evidence to do more than write to Cyril Delaney. Then she realised abruptly that his gaze had flicked up and down her body in a brief but unmistakable way—put plainly, in the way of a man asking an age-old question of a woman. Was she subtly suggesting she was ripe for the taking?

Her mouth fell open as comprehension came to her. Colour flooded into her cheeks and a burning sense of injustice possessed her. How dared this man think her capable of double entendres, or that she had any personal interest in him at all?

‘You’ve got the wrong girl, Mr Moore,’ she said arctically, ‘if you mean what I think you mean.’

He looked faintly amused. ‘It has been known to happen, Miss Westwood. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lunch date.’ He pressed a button on his desk and right on cue his secretary opened the door and came forward to usher Lee out.

Lee’s bedsitter was small but comfortable. Her couch doubled as her bed, and her compact kitchen resembled a ship’s galley. But it was furnished brightly and attractively to match a glorious reproduction of Van Gogh’s Irises that dominated one wall.

Normally her home soothed her, but that evening she was still unsettled by her encounter with Damien Moore as she ate her dinner: salad and an omelette. Not, she mused as she ate, that it was entirely surprising to imagine him being subjected to double entendres from women with more than business on their minds. Those dark good looks, the fact that he was obviously a man of considerable substance and his physique all added up to a dangerously attractive man.

What was more, he knew it—and not only that, he was perfectly capable of summing you up. And in her case, she thought a little gloomily, discarding you on a scale of one to ten of female attractiveness—to him anyway.

Then she had to grimace, because she couldn’t believe this nettled her somewhat. Yet she was forced to acknowledge it did.

She offered herself some internal advice. If I were you, I would put Damien Moore as a man right out of your calculations, Lee. And if he doesn’t come up with something soon—well, he’ll hear from you, won’t he?

She pushed her plate away and sighed. The nest egg she’d spoken of was small, and lawyer’s fees would eat it away like a plague of locusts, she had no doubt. But she adored her grandparents, and the prospect of seeing them forced out of the home they’d lived in ever since she could remember was more than she could bear. It was also that home, in a country village three hours south of Brisbane, that had seen her green fingers come to light. Her grandmother was a passionate gardener and Lee had followed in her footsteps.

After leaving school she’d done a course in horticulture at the Southern Cross University in Lismore, not far from home, but then she’d had to move to Brisbane to find work. Her present job was with the city council’s parks department, and she enjoyed it, but there was always at the back of her mind the prospect of owning her own business. As an adjunct to landscape gardening she was also interested in interior decorating; she’d done several night school courses in it. Her grandmother claimed that Lee was artistic, and could turn her hand to anything in that line.

Now, however, she thought a little sadly, until she got her grandparents out of this mess her dreams were receding a bit—unless Damien Moore fulfilled her expectations of being the cleverest lawyer in town. But, she reflected, even if he was, had she succeeded in getting him to take her seriously?

She got up to wash the dishes and decided she would give him a week.

Two weeks later, Damien Moore got out of his metallic blue Porsche at his favourite lunchtime restaurant to find his way barred by a slim girl wearing khaki overalls and with her hair crammed into a black crocheted hat. It was only when she took off the hat and a cloud of auburn hair settled to her shoulders that he recognised Lee Westwood.

He stopped and sighed. ‘What are you? A one-woman SWAT team?’

‘If you’re referring to my clothes,’ Lee said with dignity, ‘they’re my working clothes—I’m a gardener, remember? If you’re referring to my presence here—’ she looked around the Milton precinct, a trendy inner suburb of Brisbane ‘—I cannot get to you on the phone so I decided to do a bit of research. I knew you were coming here today.’

‘How the hell did you know that?’

She smiled. ‘Simple. On the phone I masqueraded as a legal secretary from another firm, desirous of getting in touch with you urgently on behalf of my boss. Your receptionist told me your movements just in case you’d switched off your mobile phone.’

Damien Moore swore. ‘The reason you couldn’t get hold of me was because I have no news for you. As my secretary would have informed you.’

‘It’s been two weeks!’ Lee protested. ‘If he was going to reply he’d have replied by now, surely?’

‘Look—’

‘No, you look, Mr Moore,’ she interrupted, ‘my grandparents had to take out a mortgage on their home to augment their pension and they’re having trouble keeping up the repayments. If I don’t get something done soon they’ll lose their home as well—while you lunch out at expensive restaurants on my fees with not a care in the world!’

‘Hardly,’ he said, with a mixture of impatience and reluctant amusement. He seemed to come to a sudden decision. ‘All right. Come and have lunch with me.’

Lee glanced behind her at the scarlet door beneath a straw-coloured awning flanked by tubs of flowering pelargoniums. It simply shouted luxury and expense. ‘In there?’ she queried cautiously.

‘In there,’ he agreed. ‘I have a booking.’

‘But I don’t think I’m suitably dressed—there’s a fast-food restaurant down the road—’

‘Not on your life, Miss Westwood. Either in there or not at all.’

Lee chewed her lip. This time Damien Moore’s exquisitely tailored suit was pale grey, and he wore a white and blue striped shirt with it, and a navy tie. His black shoes shone—handmade, no doubt—there was a navy linen handkerchief in his breast pocket and his thick dark hair was neat. There was also, she divined, the hint of a challenge in his clever dark eyes…

‘OK.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘On one condition. That I pay for my lunch.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t wish to be beholden to you in any way, Mr Moore.’

He grinned. ‘We’ll see.’

Lee hesitated, but got the strong impression she might be left standing on the pavement if she crossed swords with him any further. So with a muttered, ‘You’re a hard man to deal with!’ she took a deep breath and preceded him through the scarlet door.

Five minutes later she had a glass of wine in front of her and had ordered a slice of quiche Lorraine with salad—the cheapest item she could find on the menu.

‘Are you sure?’ he’d asked. ‘You don’t have to starve—’

‘Quite sure,’ she’d told him firmly. ‘I happen to like quiche, and I adore salad.’

He’d shrugged and ordered the roast pork.

‘This is very nice,’ Lee remarked now, looking round. And I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m with you, but no one seems to have taken exception to my overalls.’

He looked wry. ‘I’m a fairly frequent customer.’

‘So if I’d come in on my own it might have been a different matter.’ She looked amused.

‘As a matter of fact,’ Damien Moore commented, ‘you came in like the Queen of Sheba. It was quite an impressive performance.’

Lee laughed. ‘Not the Queen of Sheba. A movie star.’

‘Really?’ He studied her quizzically. ‘You were imagining yourself like that?’

‘Yes.’ Lee looked rueful. ‘I don’t usually have that problem, but you’ve got to admit I’m at a disadvantage today for this kind of place.’ She glanced down at herself. ‘Can I ask you a question?’ she continued. ‘Do you always lunch in such solitary splendour?’

He sipped his wine and she took the first sip of hers and found it delicious. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘Often it’s a sandwich at my desk. I do work extremely hard, contrary to your thoughts on the subject, but I was supposed to meet someone today who had to cancel at the last minute. I decided to come anyway for a bit of peace and quiet. And the roast pork. Does that redeem me in your eyes at all?’

Lee looked momentarily guilty. ‘Yes. Sorry about that! Who…? No,’ she mumbled going faintly pink, unable to believe she’d been about to ask him who his lunch date was. ‘None of my business.’

His lips twitched. ‘It wasn’t a woman.’

Lee could find absolutely nothing to say to this, and could only thank heaven that her lunch arrived at that point. Further deliverance came to her in the form of Damien Moore who proved himself to be, suddenly, a charming companion. As they ate, he drew her out skilfully on the subject so close to her heart: horticulture. And he told her about the little gem of a botanic garden he’d come upon in Cooktown, Far North Queensland, of all places.

How had he come to be in Cooktown? she asked.

On his way to Lizard Island, he told her, for some R & R. Did she know anything about the pink orchid that was the emblem of that small, remote but famous Queensland town?

It so happened she did but she was fascinated to hear about the botanic gardens, with their links straight back to Captain Cook and Joseph Banks, as well as the Chinese gardeners who had planted fruit, vegetables and flowers among the native trees and shrubs named by Banks during the boom times of Cooktown in the last century.

It was his mobile phone beeping discreetly that interrupted this discussion. He looked annoyed, but took the call. When he’d finished he looked at her enigmatically and said, ‘It’s your lucky day today, Miss Westwood.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve been in court all morning so I’ve had no opportunity to see my mail. But Cyril Delaney has agreed to a meeting.’

The effect on Lee was electric. She sat up, her eyes sparkled with excitement and she said, ‘Now we’re getting somewhere! When? Where?’

Before he responded Damien Moore found himself once again intrigued by those green eyes. In fact, he conceded, there was a lot more to this thin redhead than he had first imagined. Stubborn and persistent, yes, but a plain nuisance was not exactly how he would describe her now, he thought, and narrowed his eyes. No, there was too much vitality. There was a hint of humour, and at times a rather touching dignity. Not that it meant anything to him other than in a lawyer-client context, he reflected. Or did it? No…

‘In two days’ time, at his home. He is not well, apparently, hence his delay in replying. He has also…’ Damien paused and looked at the last of his roast pork thoughtfully ‘…requested your presence at this meeting.’

Lee pushed her plate away. ‘Why do you sound disapproving?’ she enquired with a frown.

His dark eyes were amused as they met hers. ‘You do have a history of…inflammatory behaviour towards Cyril Delaney, so if I’m expressing any reservations it’s to do with how you will handle yourself at this meeting, Miss Westwood.’

‘Mr Moore,’ Lee said, ‘that will depend on how Cyril Delaney conducts himself.’

‘That’s what I was afraid of,’ he said humorously. ‘But histrionics only serve to put you in a more…vulnerable position.’

‘You mean,’ she said with a wicked little grin, ‘they make people think you’re all hot air and no substance? I would agree,’ she added judiciously, ‘most of the time. But there comes a stage when plain speaking is called for. So, while I won’t set out to be discourteous I will certainly be honest.’

‘I can hardly wait,’ Damien murmured, and finished his lunch.

Their plates were removed, coffee was poured and a platter of exquisite petits fours was presented. Lee took a miniature chocolate eclair and ate it with relish. Then she patted her stomach and sighed with pleasure. ‘Definitely an improvement on the kind of lunch I had in mind, but sadly I have to leave you now, Mr Moore.’ She consulted her watch. ‘My lunchtime is just about to run out. Could you ask for separate bills?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘But didn’t we agree—?’

‘We agreed to nothing,’ he said.

‘Look, I would really like to pay for my lunch!’

‘You might want to,’ he said, ‘but consider my reputation for a moment.’

Lee blinked at him. ‘I don’t understand. What has that got to do with it?’

‘I’m not in the habit of allowing my guests to pay for themselves. Particularly not women.’ His expression was grave but his eyes were another matter. They were full of secret amusement.

Lee gave it some thought before replying. ‘Firstly, I don’t think I fall into the category of a “guest”.’

‘I did invite you.’

She waved a hand. ‘I didn’t give you much choice.’

‘Now that’s an admission I didn’t expect you to make.’

‘Let me finish,’ she ordered. ‘Secondly, I’m not—’

‘Not a woman?’ he suggested, looking at her lazily.

Lee ground her teeth. ‘Of course—but I’m not a date—and even dates can go Dutch anyway. But…look,’ she said disjointedly, ‘I resent being patronised like this!’

‘On the contrary,’ Damien Moore drawled, ‘I’ve enjoyed my lunch today much more than I expected to—thanks to you, Miss Westwood. So I feel the least I can do is pay for yours.’

Lee stared at him wordlessly with confusion etched clearly in her green eyes. ‘You have?’ she said at length.

‘I give you my word.’

‘Why?’ Lee asked.

He shrugged. ‘You’re full of surprises.’

‘Like a circus act?’ she suggested with some bitterness.

He laughed. ‘No. Like a snippy redhead who shoots from the hip. It’s rather refreshing.’ His expression changed for a moment, as if he was viewing a phenomenon new to him. Then he said lightly, ‘So let’s have no more argument on the subject of who pays for this lunch.’ He stood up.

But it took Lee a moment or two to follow suit, because something struck her as she stared up at the tall figure of Damien Moore—something rather stunning and almost enough to take her breath away. Could you fall in love with a man over lunch?

At two o’clock the next morning Lee gave up trying to sleep on her convertible couch and made herself a cup of tea.

She was still stunned and uncomprehending at the thought that had crossed her mind just before she’d left the restaurant with her lawyer. Where had it come from? What had prompted it? How could something like that leap into her mind on only the second occasion she’d met a man?

But even if she were able to answer those questions what difference would it make? she wondered. Nothing could change the fact that her articulacy had deserted her as they’d walked out into the sunlight and he’d asked where she was parked. She’d pointed to her car and he’d escorted her to it.

She’d thanked him awkwardly for lunch and agreed to meet him in two days’ time, but it had been as if all the spontaneity and fluidity had drained from her—to be replaced by a keen awareness of the man beside her. The fact that his height caused a flutter along her nerve-ends, for example. The fact that she had enjoyed her lunch and his company much more than she’d expected to because he’d gone out of his way to make it enjoyable.

The fact, she thought hollowly, that he’d escorted her to her car as if he were escorting a movie star to her limousine rather than Lee Westwood in her work overalls to her second-hand yellow Toyota with its several dents.

But, she cautioned herself, with a sense of déjà vu, was it so surprising that at least a little flutter of attraction should cross her nerve-ends? How many other girls wouldn’t have felt the same beneath the spell of a tall, good-looking man at his charming best?

And there lies the rub, she thought ruefully. She was only one of a long line, she had no doubt. She heaved a sigh and decided the last thing she should ever do was give Damien Moore any indication that he’d been right about her that first day in his office. And she made a mental note that this was the second time she’d issued a warning of this nature to herself.

They met outside Cyril Delaney’s Balmain home on the appointed day.

Lee had taken the afternoon off work and wore neat beige linen trousers with a white shirt and a russet waistcoat. Her hair was loose but her trademark string bag remained the same. She showed no tendency to want to linger on the pavement, which Damien Moore noted, and he concluded from her severe expression that it held embarrassing memories for her.

He was tempted to ask her if that was so, but restrained himself. He had no real expectations of this interview solving anything for Lee Westwood’s grandparents, and it had caused him a few minutes’ internal interrogation to establish why that should concern him—minutely, but none the less it concerned him. The answer he came up with was that this feisty girl intrigued him. Not a good footing for lawyer-client relations, however, he reminded himself. Don’t get personally involved, in other words…

A housekeeper showed them into a sun room at the rear of the large, luxurious house, and introduced them to a frail-looking old man in a wheelchair—Cyril Delaney. They all shook hands and Lee and Damien seated themselves side by side on a cane settee.

‘So,’ Cyril said, ‘you’re the young lady my staff had to threaten with a restraining order while I was in hospital?’

Lee moistened her lips but took her time. In his prime, Cyril would have been tall and angular, she decided, whereas now he was stooped. His features were narrow and his teeth prominent. A few strands of silver hair were carefully combed over his head. But his eyes were bright blue and shrewd.

‘I am,’ she said quietly, ‘but I didn’t realise you were in hospital.’

‘Does that mean you would have picketed the hospital?’ he enquired.

Lee coloured faintly. ‘No. But I just couldn’t find any other way to bring this to your attention, Mr Delaney, and I feel I am quite within my rights to at least get a hearing.’

‘Hmm. So you’ve hired yourself a hotshot lawyer now?’ He turned those shrewd eyes on Damien. ‘Knew your father and I’ve always been an admirer of your mother, Damien Moore.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Damien replied, and let a few moments elapse. ‘Concerning Miss Westwood’s claims on behalf of her grandparents—’

‘Let the girl speak for herself,’ Cyril Delaney broke in.

Damien turned to Lee with a clear warning in his eyes—no hot air!

Lee swallowed. Then she began to outline her grandparents’ plight, coolly and simply. She concluded by saying, ‘It was your reputation that got them in, Mr Delaney.’

Cyril Delaney lay back in his wheelchair. ‘Piffle,’ he remarked.

‘Now look here—’ Lee began, but Damien put his hand over hers.

Cyril noted this, as well as noting how Lee Westwood looked up at Damien Moore with a stubborn light in her green eyes, and how, when she transferred that stubborn green gaze back to himself, and repeated herself, Damien Moore’s expression became tinged with a sort of wry affection rather than exasperation. All of which caused him to make a mental note concerning Evelyn Moore’s good-looking son who as yet, he believed, had not been snared and taken to the altar.

Then he closed his eyes and overrode what Lee was saying so hotly.

‘Young lady, tell me a bit about yourself.’

Lee stopped, open-mouthed. ‘Why?’ she got out at last.

‘You interest me, that’s all. And since I’ve been confined to this accursed wheelchair a lot of interest has gone out of life for me, I can assure you.’

This time Lee responded to Damien’s pressure on her hand. ‘Well…’ she said a little confusedly, but didn’t seem to know how to go on.

‘Miss Westwood was brought up by her grandparents after her parents were killed,’ Damien put in.

‘Where?’

Lee told him, and received a suddenly acute look from the old man. ‘Is that a fact?’ he said slowly. ‘And what do you do with yourself?’

Lee told him.

‘You could be looking at the next Capability Brown,’ Damien put in at the end of Lee’s recital. ‘Her tenacity is little short of amazing.’

‘Don’t tell me she camped out on your doorstep too?’ Cyril hazarded.

‘I did not,’ Lee intervened, and pulled her hand out from Damien’s. ‘I would also appreciate it if you two would stop talking over me as if I didn’t exist.’

Damien shrugged and looked down at her with a faint smile. ‘There’s little likelihood of that.’

‘Hear, hear,’ Cyril contributed, but in a curiously meaningful way that caused Damien to suddenly eye him curiously.

But Cyril seemed to tire abruptly. ‘When’s this damn document dated?’ he asked testily.

Damien told him.

‘I was in hospital. Someone was using my name and forging my signature. It’s the only explanation, Miss Westwood. I’m sorry, but…’ He paused, and frowned, then said almost to himself, ‘No. Uh, I can certainly prove I was in hospital at the time, but you’re welcome to inspect my bank accounts, Damien Moore.’

‘That won’t be necessary, sir,’ Damien said.

‘Just a minute,’ Lee said desperately. ‘I’m sorry, sir—I can see you don’t feel well—but the man they described to me looked a lot like you!’

There was a sudden silence. And for a moment Cyril’s gaze was electric blue on Lee. Then it became hooded and he said to Damien, ‘Take her away, my boy, and look after her. And call the nurse on the way out.’

‘Feeling better?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Lee put away her handkerchief. They were in a hotel bar not far from Cyril’s house, and she had taken several sips of a strong brandy and soda. She hadn’t quite dissolved into helpless tears on Cyril’s doorstep, but there was no doubt she’d had tears in her eyes and been inwardly distraught. To such an extent that Damien had put her in his car and found this dim and quiet lounge bar.

‘Sorry,’ she said, taking another sip. ‘It’s the disappointment—and on top of that I feel guilty. He seemed so old and frail—I don’t think it could have been him but there I was accusing him…’ She ran out of breath and could only shake her head helplessly.

‘I quite understand,’ Damien murmured, ‘but you’re right, Lee. It couldn’t have been him, although you weren’t to know that.’

‘So who was it?’ She raised her eyes to his. ‘And why did I get the feeling at the last moment that…I don’t know…something I said made him stop and think?’

Damien studied his own drink with a frown. ‘I got that impression too, but…’ He shrugged. ‘We may never know what it was.’

‘So what now?’ she asked.

‘Lee, there’s only one thing we can do now—hand it over to the police.’

‘I tried that,’ she said barely audibly. ‘I told you.’

‘Yes, but we’ve now established that even if the contract was watertight someone was masquerading under a false name, which could nullify it.’

Her shoulders slumped.

‘I’ll do it for you,’ he said.

She looked at him and smiled painfully as a beam of late-afternoon sunlight came through a high window and formed an aureole of light around her auburn head. She was still pale, he noted, which caused her freckles to be more noticeable. Then she straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘Thank you. But the truth is I can’t afford you any longer, Mr Moore, so I’ll do it myself.’

‘Damien,’ he responded. ‘And I won’t charge you.’

‘I couldn’t accept charity,’ Lee said with another painful little smile, ‘but thank you for the offer.’

‘There’s nothing you can do to stop me.’

Her eyes widened on him, seated across the small round table from her. At three in the afternoon the bar was empty except for themselves. So apart from the barman, who was energetically polishing glasses, there was no one to witness her reaction to the high-handed statement Damien Moore had just made.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked carefully.

He twirled a cardboard coaster between his long fingers. ‘Every citizen has a duty to report a felony. That’s what I’ll do.’ He shrugged, as if to say ‘simple’, but there was something in his eyes that indicated he wouldn’t take no for an answer anyway. ‘So there’s no need to feel beholden to me in any way, Lee.’

She opened her mouth to argue this, but he grinned suddenly with so much humour that she literally felt herself going weak all over beneath the sheer attractiveness of it—and couldn’t think of a thing to say.

‘Well, that’s sorted, then.’ He looked at his watch. ‘If you’re feeling better now, I’ll take you back to your car.’ He paused and studied her intently for a moment. ‘All is not lost yet, Lee. Hold on to that.’

She found her voice at last. ‘Are you doing this because Cyril told you to take care of me? And why would he say that anyway?’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Who knows? I’d say he admired your pluck and felt for your grandparents’ plight.’ He hesitated, then, ‘That’s all.’

He stood up and Lee followed suit, looking dazed.

It was as he took her arm to usher her out of the bar that Damien Moore examined his slight hesitation and realised he was not at all sure that what he’d said was the whole truth. True, most people would admire this girl’s pluck, even a sick old man. But he’d sensed something more behind Cyril’s parting remarks; he’d almost sensed a judgement being made, on himself and on Lee, but what the hell it could have been he had no idea.

Unless… He posed a question to himself. Unless Cyril had divined that a slightly protective feeling had wormed its way into his relations with this client?

Out on the pavement, he stopped briefly and studied his client in the bright sunlight. She was obviously more composed now, although still pale, but he wondered how long she would remain so unnaturally quiet. He didn’t have long to wait.

‘Thank you very much for all you’ve done, Mr Moore,’ Lee started to say. ‘I really—’

‘It’s Damien, Lee.’

A fleeting tinge of exasperation clouded her gaze. ‘I really appreciate your help and everything,’ she continued stubbornly, ‘but—’

‘Just hop in, Lee,’ he advised, and opened the door of the Porsche for her. ‘I’m running late.’

‘But I need to—’

‘You don’t need to say a thing. Go back to your gardens and leave this to me.’ He patted the top of her head.

Lee bit her lip, now not only exasperated but all mixed up.

She took his advice and five minutes later she’d been returned to her car and he was about to drive off.

‘I’ll be in touch!’ were his last words before he drove off, leaving her prey to a cauldron of emotions.

He was as good as his word.

Over the next few weeks he rang her several times, and invited her to have breakfast with him at his apartment once, to update her on the progress he was making. Then he took her to lunch to explain that it was going to be a long process, because whoever had masqueraded as Cyril Delaney had covered their tracks most efficiently.

During these meetings Lee was able to hide the ambivalence of her feelings towards him. She even felt she’d managed to revert to the snippy redhead who shot from the hip rather than the confused unhappy girl of the day of Cyril’s interview. The girl who had, in the same breath, been both entirely exasperated by his high-handedness and then suffered a vision of how heavenly it would be to have Damien Moore looking after her…

A month later she read that Cyril Delaney had died after a long illness. She felt touched by sadness. But three days afterwards, when Damien rang her to tell that they featured jointly in Cyril’s will, her emotions defied description as he explained the extraordinary bequest that was to change her life for ever.

CHAPTER TWO

DAMIEN MOORE looked at his watch, then glanced around the colourful pavement café impatiently. He had another appointment at two o’clock, now only fifty minutes away, and Lee Westwood was late.

He reached for the menu. She might eat like a rabbit but he didn’t, and he had no intention of bolting down his lunch. So he signalled the waitress and ordered a steak for himself, a Caesar salad for his guest, and a pot of coffee.

‘She’ll be here shortly, I assume,’ he told the waitress, ‘and she always orders rabbit food so I can’t go wrong with a salad.’ He smiled at the girl but felt his teeth set on edge at being on the receiving end of a coy, simpering smile in return. Which prompted the thought that Lee Westwood might be highly exasperating at times, but at least she never simpered over him or batted her eyelashes at him.

Then he saw her approaching from way down the block. Her long auburn hair was flying, and so was the green scarf she had round her neck, as she loped along the pavement with her trademark stride in a pair of short leather boots worn with faded jeans, a large cyclamen T-shirt and a bulging string bag hanging from her shoulder.

Sartorially a disaster, Damien Moore mused, as so often—although he supposed he should count himself fortunate she wasn’t wearing the black crocheted hat she often favoured, crammed onto her head.

OK, it was a pavement café, he told himself, but it was an extremely chic one, with its striped awnings and potted trees—which she would have known. And so was the clientele chic. Most of the women here looked as if they’d stepped straight out of Vogue. But when had that worried this girl, he thought amusedly, who could turn herself into the height of glamour on a whim? And, more to the point, what was it she possessed that still made her turn heads as she got closer?

Wonderful hair? Yes, he conceded. Long-lashed sparkling green eyes? Definitely a plus. Otherwise? That hint of freckles? He thought he knew enough about women to know they’d rather not be freckled—so a minus on the part of the beholden as well as the beholder, although he himself didn’t mind Lee’s freckles for some strange reason. A thin figure? Another minus, surely? Mind you, very long shapely legs…

But it wasn’t any of the above plusses or minuses, he decided in the last moments before she arrived at the table. It was her sheer vitality and the aura that she didn’t give a damn about what anyone thought of her. It was, after all, that force within her that had persuaded him to take on her legal battles when he’d known—and told her—she was barking up the wrong tree, and when he’d strenuously doubted that she could afford his fees.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said breathlessly as she looped the string bag over the back of the chair and plonked down onto it. ‘The traffic was unbelievable!’

‘Has it never occurred to you, Lee, that a bit of forward planning might relieve you of the tiresome business of having to apologise for being late?’

‘Oh, dear!’ She looped her hair behind her ears and glinted a laughing look at him out of those green eyes. At the same time she took in his severely tailored navy suit, pale blue shirt and discreet tie. ‘Have I seriously offended you?’

He shrugged. ‘Being late can make things difficult for other people. For instance, I now have only forty-five minutes to brief you.’

She gestured. ‘That’s only fifteen minutes less than you would have had if I’d been on time, not exactly an eon. I’m sure you can pack a powerful lot of briefing into three quarters of an hour, Damien, although I can’t imagine what you need to brief me about anyway—oh!’ She looked up as a huge Caesar salad was placed in front of her. ‘You ordered for me!’

Damien studied the steak he was presented with, observed from the pink juices running from it that it was rare, as he’d requested, and picked up his knife and fork. ‘If you’d been on time you could have ordered for yourself. Isn’t that the kind of meal you generally go for?’

‘Well, yes,’ Lee conceded, but not in a conciliated manner. ‘I would have asked for a much smaller one than this, though. I would have requested no anchovies, which I hate, and—’

‘Don’t eat the anchovies and leave half of it,’ he recommended dryly.

‘You don’t understand,’ she murmured, favouring him with irony in her eyes. ‘The sheer size of a meal, however delicious, can be off-putting and take away your appetite.’

He swore. ‘It’s only a salad, for crying out loud! I’m not trying to force feed you a gargantuan serving of…of roast beef and baked potatoes. It wouldn’t hurt you to eat a bit more either.’

‘Is that designed to make me feel uncomfortable about my figure? If so, may I enquire what it has to do with my lawyer?’ She looked at him haughtily.

Damien Moore breathed deeply—and counted to ten for good measure. Neither of these devices helped, however. For a twenty-four-year-old girl she often packed quite a punch, and was capable of needling him with the best. ‘Nothing on earth,’ he said coolly—and pointedly.

Lee grimaced. ‘Then perhaps you’d like to tell me why you’re in such a bad mood? Incidentally, I didn’t just drive across town for lunch. I came up the Pacific Highway, which is undergoing considerable roadworks, hence the build-up of traffic and the delays.’

Something even more irritated flickered in his dark eyes, but almost immediately gave way to a form of self-directed irony. He eased his shoulders and said ruefully, ‘Sorry. How’s it going “down on the farm”?’

Lee’s eyes lit up. That little phrase ‘down on the farm’ encapsulated the miracle that Cyril Delaney’s will had brought to her life. For the most bizarre reason he had left a property—Plover Park, its twenty-five acres and registered wholesale nursery—to her and Damien jointly, on the condition that they didn’t attempt to dispose of it within twelve months. At one stroke it had not only brought her life’s dream within her grasp but also, because of the income the nursery generated, it had solved her grandparents’ immediate cash-flow problems.

The other part of the miracle was that Plover Park was ten minutes’ drive from her grandparents’ home—it was in the area where Lee had grown up and gone to university. It had been like going home for her. And her still active grandfather was more than happy to work the nursery with her.

‘It’s…fantastic,’ she said glowingly. ‘Sometimes I have to pinch myself! We’re almost into full production now.’

He looked impressed.

‘So what did you want to see me about so urgently?’ Lee asked blithely as she inspected her salad and removed the anchovies.

Damien paused and wondered if there was any kind way of breaking the news to this glowing girl. ‘There’s been a complication,’ he said slowly, and decided it was best to get it over fast. ‘The will is to be contested.’

Lee gasped and paled. ‘You’re joking!’

He shook his head.

‘On what…on what grounds?’

‘On the grounds that we may have exerted undue pressure on Cyril to force him to make the bequest.’

‘But we didn’t! We had no idea it was going to happen,’ she protested.

‘You know that and I know that, Lee. Unfortunately Cyril is no longer with us to corroborate it.’

‘And you…you set aside an hour of your precious time to break this news to me!’ Lee stammered.

He shrugged. ‘I’m extremely busy at the moment. And so, you gave me to understand, are you.’

‘But this is terrible! It could be catastrophic!’

‘It could indeed,’ he agreed. ‘For you.’

Lee stared at the Caesar salad she now definitely didn’t want and swallowed. ‘So what’s your considered opinion? As a lawyer? Have they got a leg to stand on?’

Damien ate in silence for a while, then pushed his empty plate away and reached for the coffee pot. ‘In general terms you’re allowed to make bequests in your will as you see fit, provided your legal heirs are taken care of. One of Cyril’s legal heirs,’ he said significantly, ‘has decided that he wasn’t sufficiently taken care of and that Plover Park is rightly his.’

‘Which one?’

‘His brother. One of his contentions is that Plover Park belongs in the Delaney family. It was originally owned by their grandfather and has been in the family all that time. Whereas the only use we have for it is to sell it when the twelve months are up and divide the profits.’

‘He…well, he’s right—hard though that’s going to be,’ Lee said unguardedly, ‘but how can he be so sure?’

Damien studied her searchingly for a long moment. ‘Cyril wrote a letter that is on public record explaining this unusual bequest.’

‘Try bizarre,’ Lee suggested. ‘But, whatever, I was completely stunned.’

‘It was the last thing I expected. Nor did either of us, I would imagine—’ he looked at her sardonically ‘—anticipate the explanation he left in the letter: that he had formed the opinion we were well suited and his dearest wish was that owning this property jointly would encourage us to marry and enjoy the benefits of Plover Park together.’

‘You’re not wrong,’ Lee agreed in a heartfelt way. ‘I nearly fell off my chair all over again. But—’

‘Because we have given no indication that we intend to enjoy Plover park together, Lee,’ Damien interrupted deliberately, ‘Cyril’s brother contends that we misled an old man who was virtually on his deathbed into leaving the property outside the family—do you understand?’

Lee blinked several times, then with a heartfelt sigh poured herself a cup of coffee. ‘I had the feeling this was just too good to be true. That must be why I feel like pinching myself so often.’

‘You perceive yourself to be morally wrong in the way you’ve interpreted Cyril’s bequest?’ he enquired with a lift of an eyebrow.

‘I…’ She paused. ‘I will never know why he made the bequest in the first place, for one thing.’

‘You got to him in the end, Lee. He obviously admired you.’ A humorous glint lit his dark eyes. ‘Despite the number of times you camped out on his doorstep waving placards impeaching his integrity.’

‘If that’s so,’ she retorted, ‘why didn’t he bequeath Plover Park directly to me? Why did he have to involve you?’

Damien shrugged. ‘He was dying, he was a bachelor—perhaps he regretted not having children like us to leave his wealth to. Who knows what his thoughts were in those last days? Or…’ He paused and gazed at Lee narrowly. ‘He genuinely did believe you and I were made for each other and we simply required a shove in the right direction.’

‘How could he have formed that opinion?’ she asked, looking baffled. ‘There was nothing remotely lover-like between us.’

Damien put his head on one side and his lips twitched. ‘How right you are. I spent most of my time trying to shut you up.’

Lee bit her lip. ‘I thought—well, you know what I thought, and how much I love my grandparents.’

Something softened in Damien Moore’s eyes for a moment but he said nothing.

‘How do you feel about it all now, Damien?’ she asked at length.

He took his time, then shrugged. ‘The same as you. A sense of mystification. But we both felt that Cyril left something unsaid that day, didn’t we?’

Lee’s mind flew back as she sipped her coffee, and she nodded.

‘Well,’ he went on, ‘Cyril Delaney had quite an impressive record, not only as a property developer but also as a philanthropist. It’s become my considered opinion that he saw the bequest as a means of solving your grandparents’ plight as well as making sure I was on hand to steer you through the pitfalls of it all.’

Lee’s eyes widened. ‘He did say…look after her…didn’t he?’

‘He did,’ Damien agreed—rather dryly, Lee thought. ‘Unfortunately that is only a theory, and not something I could prove in a court of law.’

‘So…’ Lee’s hands trembled around her coffee cup and those marvellously expressive green eyes were bleak and sad. ‘So it was all too good to be true.’

He watched her for a long, intent moment as she blinked urgently to hold back the tears. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said at last. ‘There is one sure way to hold on to Plover Park.’

‘What’s that?’ she asked without much hope.

‘We could get married.’

I’ve died and gone to heaven. Her lips parted incredulously as the thought shot across Lee’s mind. Then sanity prevailed. ‘Not a real marriage, I take it?’

‘Would you like it to be?’

She licked her lips, her eyes huge and stunned. ‘We…we barely know each other,’ she stammered. ‘Uh…there’s no way you’d even suggest this if it weren’t for the circumstances, I’m sure! I think you must have been joking,’ she added, with a mixture of dignity and a tinge of annoyance. ‘Not in very good taste, if you don’t mind me saying so, Mr Moore.’

He looked amused. ‘You haven’t answered the question.’

Lee opened her mouth, closed it, then said, ‘Definitely not, thank you all the same.’

‘In that case, would a marriage of convenience be out of the question?’

She eyed him cautiously.

‘Your convenience,’ he added pointedly.

Lee swallowed some coffee and looked nervous. ‘It could only be supremely inconvenient for you, though,’ she suggested.

He shrugged. ‘If we both know where we stand, I don’t see that it should. In fact, in one aspect it could be quite convenient for me at the moment.’

‘What aspect is that?’ she asked, feeling a lot like Alice when she had just fallen down the rabbit hole.

‘It would suit me to move into Plover Park for a time.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m due for a break, but I also have plans to open a branch office in Byron Bay. I could combine the two and—’ he smiled faintly ‘—keep an eye on my half of the deal at the same time.’

This time Lee knocked over her coffee cup, although fortunately it was empty. Byron Bay was half an hour’s drive from Plover Park.

‘For the almost ten months left until we’re allowed to dispose of Plover Park?’ she asked weakly.

He righted her cup and poured her some more coffee. ‘No, for as long as it takes. Long enough to quash any doubts that we are at least giving Cyril’s dreams for us a go,’ he said with a touch of irony.

‘I…I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then let me point out the alternative, Lee. Legal battles which I would not be able to conduct myself since I would be subject to litigation as well as you. Even if we won—and there’s a grey area here that could be open to interpretation—it would be a long, uncomfortable road.’

This silenced Lee effectively and she tried to sort it all out in her mind. Then she frowned mightily and spoke—unwisely, as it happened. ‘This all seems to dovetail together so well I’m…suspicious!’

Damien lay back in his chair and studied her comprehensively.

Lee fiddled with her scarf and contrived in every way known to her to project unconcern at the scrutiny she was being subjected to. But it was hard going. Because, more than any man she had ever met, Damien Moore was capable of injecting an element of speculation into the way he studied you as a woman, out of those fine dark eyes. Speculation as to what you’d be like in bed, to put it bluntly, she told herself. But it was a curiously disinterested speculation and she hated it!

However, she immediately reminded herself, as she sipped her coffee and tried to look soignée—in spirit if not in grooming—that sadly there was more to the reason she hated it than pure feminine outrage.

There was guilt, for example. Because almost from the moment she’d first met him a certain thought had crossed her mind from time to time—would this dark, clever man, with his wide shoulders, long, strong limbs, his good looks, be dynamite in bed or what?

Guilt also because she was never able to remain unmoved by that speculative study. Even if she managed to hide it, her pulses always started to hammer, mental images of the two of them together plagued her, and it required an almost superhuman effort not to look all hot and bothered.

Then there had been the stage when she’d been sure she’d fallen in love with him, only to have to disabuse herself of the theory—which she had, she assured herself!—because there had never been a glimmer of a similar emotion in him. Sure, he did occasionally look right through her clothes, but only in that speculative way. And how could you go on fancying yourself in love with a man who had proposed a purely platonic marriage?

She grimaced unwittingly. She might try to take a light approach in her thoughts, but underneath there was still a painful little scar to do with Damien Moore. True, the acquisition of Plover Park had helped to take her mind away from him…but now this!

‘Suspicious how?’ he asked at last.

She looked frustrated. ‘I…I don’t know. It’s just too neat and natty.’

‘I am only proposing that we share the same roof, not the same bed, if that’s your concern,’ he drawled.

She shot him a fiery glance and wondered what he’d do if he knew just why that offended her.

Then she flinched visibly as, almost as if he had read her thoughts, he added, ‘Well, not necessarily the same bed—unless you’d like to rethink that bit?’

‘No way, José!’ were the words that sprang to her lips.

He laughed softly, but said, ‘I do admire your pithy turn of phrase, Lee. You never leave anyone in doubt as to your emotions.’

She pinched her lips together, but inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.

‘You are also…’ he paused, then shrugged ‘…very refreshing at times.’ His dark gaze drifted to the waitress who had simpered over him, and became tinged with irony.

She frowned faintly as she wondered what he was thinking, then shook her head. ‘Assuming I agree to this—but there’s a very good chance I won’t!—when would you want to move in?’

‘In about two weeks.’

‘So we’d have to…do it…before then.’

‘We would have to…“do it”…before then,’ he agreed. ‘It wouldn’t be akin to going to the electric chair, however.’

‘I didn’t say that.’ She gestured helplessly. ‘I just…I need a bit of time to think about it!’

‘Is there such a lot to think about, Lee?’ he asked impatiently. ‘Have I not represented your best interests up until now?’

She stared at him uncertainly, and it crossed her mind to wonder whether he had any idea what her view of her best interests was—not to allow herself to build up dangerous dreams around this man! How much harder would that be if she was married to him, even platonically?

‘I…’ She stopped.

He looked at his watch and swore beneath his breath—but not, as it turned out, on account of her. ‘I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m just so damn busy at the moment. I have to go—but do think about it, Lee.’

‘It’s not as if there isn’t enough room,’ she said, then looked shocked.

He grinned. ‘At Plover Park? True. But never let it be said I rushed you into anything.’ He stood up. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really have to go. Why don’t you order something more to your taste? I’ll leave an imprint of my credit card with them. Please let me know your decision in due course,’ he added formally.

Lee stared up at him. ‘OK. Bye!’

He hesitated for a moment, then, ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, Lee Westwood. Goodbye.’ He turned away.

She watched his retreating back. It would be fair to say, she thought darkly, that he cut a swathe through the female population of the café—and the waitress he had eyed earlier tripped over her feet in her eagerness to be the one to deal with his bill.

It would also be fair to say he had it all: an aura of power and wealth, a hint of arrogance, a touch of damning uninterest in the ripples he was creating in many a womanly heart. But it was, curiously, no consolation, she brooded, to know that she was not alone in finding Damien Moore irresistible.

She reached for her coffee cup, then jumped as a voice beside her said, ‘Having lunch with him now and then is not going to do it, you know.’ And a man slid into the seat Damien had vacated.

‘Who on earth are you and what do you mean?’ she asked haughtily.

‘And good day to you too, Miss Westwood,’ he returned. ‘I happen to be Cyril Delaney’s brother—Cosmo.’

‘What?’ Lee’s eyes nearly popped out on stalks, then she realised there was a definite resemblance, although this man’s blue eyes were unpleasantly shifty and knowing. ‘You’re the one who’s contesting the will?’

‘The same,’ he agreed.

She gasped. ‘Are you having me followed? Is that why you’re here?’

‘Not at all,’ he denied. ‘This is pure coincidence. I recognised Damien Moore and put two and two together. I also thought it might be a timely opportunity to make it known to you that I intend to fight the bequest my brother was conned into making to you and Moore every inch of the way.’ He bared his teeth unpleasantly.

‘Conned! You’re out of your mind!’

‘Am I? He promised me Plover Park, so as I see it, between the two of you, you must have pitched him some kind of a con to get the place out of him. I certainly see no evidence that you two are the loving couple he hoped you would be!’

Lee stood up and said dramatically, ‘Do your best, Cosmo Delaney. Or should I say your worst?’ And she stalked away.

She was halfway to her car when she began to calm down and think more rationally. Then she fumbled for her mobile phone in her string bag and punched in the number of Moore & Moore. But it took a frustrating five minutes of dealing with receptionists and an over-zealous secretary before she got Damien.

He said coolly, ‘This had better be good, Lee.’

She made a frustrated sound in her throat. ‘It is! I need to talk to you!’

‘I can’t talk now, I’m in a conference. If it’s that urgent we’ll have to meet after work. Damn,’ he added immediately, ‘I’ve been invited to a party tonight, and I’m going to have to work late anyway, so—’

‘Excellent!’ Lee broke in. ‘I’ll come to the party with you—if you’re not taking someone else?’

There was dead silence down the line, then, ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said I’ll come with you if—are you taking someone else?’

‘No, but…’

‘Could this party stand an extra guest at short notice?’ she queried.

‘Uh…well it’s not a sit-down dinner, it’s an al fresco buffet with dancing, so—’

‘Even better!’ Lee pronounced. ‘Sounds like my kind of party. The only thing is I need somewhere to park myself in the meantime. Any chance of using your apartment?’

Another silence.

‘Damien?’

‘You want to get into my apartment?’

‘It beats pounding pavements all afternoon. Besides, I need somewhere to get into my party gear.’

‘I—’

‘Damien, if you don’t let me do this I’ll come and picket your office,’ she warned. ‘This is urgent.’

‘All right. I’ll phone the building manager and tell him to let you in. Uh—do you have party gear with you?’

She thought there was a certain amount of caution with which he asked this, and smiled to herself. ‘No. But I have a credit card—and I’ll endeavour not to embarrass you.’

The beautician in the department store beauty salon was talkative as she did Lee’s nails and gave her a mini-facial. She was also drop-dead gorgeous, with inch-long fake eyelashes and a streak of pink through her hair. She went by the name of Sally.

‘Got to be a guy involved?’ she hazarded. ‘Planning on doing a Cinderella?’

Lee grimaced mentally; she was unable to do so physically because of the mask on her face. ‘You could say so,’ she mumbled. ‘I know I look a bit strange to be in a beauty parlour.’

Sally shrugged. ‘I take it he’s quite some guy?’

‘Well, yes,’ Lee confessed. ‘He’s one of those dark, damn you kind of men. I mean, he’s all proper and correct most of the time, but you get the feeling that underneath he could be quite different.’

‘The kind to drive women wild?’ Sally suggested.

‘Exactly. I must be mad,’ Lee added.

‘No. I always say go for it. Give ’em a bit of their own medicine. You only live once, you’re only young once, and you sure have the hair and the eyes to do it.’

‘Thanks, but I thought there was more to it.’

Sally glanced down the length of Lee. ‘They say you can never be too rich or too thin.’

This time Lee had to laugh, and cracked the mask.

‘Never mind, it’s ready to come off. Have you got a dress in mind?’ Sally enquired.

‘That’s next on my agenda.’

‘Go for black, and go mini, so you can dazzle him with your legs—there’s a dress right here in this store that would be divine on you. I’m due for a break when I finish you—like me to show you it? I’d almost set my heart on it myself, but I can tell this is a worthy cause so I’ll pass.’

‘That’s—I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but that’s very noble of you!’

‘Wait until you see yourself in it,’ Sally advised. ‘Might just change your mind about yourself. And it might just get him grovelling.’

An hour later, Lee emerged from a cubicle in the dress department of the store and examined herself in the mirror from all angles.

‘What did I tell you?’ Sally said, at the slightly stunned look in Lee’s eyes.

‘You don’t think it’s too—?’

‘No way! Go to it, honey! But I’d put your hair up.’

A couple of hours later she was being ushered into a luxury high-rise apartment at Kangaroo Point, with sweeping views of the Brisbane River and the city centre on the opposite bank.

She thanked the building manager, and as he left dropped several elegant shopping bags onto a claret-coloured settee.

She’d only been in his apartment once before, when he’d asked her to breakfast, but it was equally as impressive today. Acres of off-white carpet, lovely paintings and objets d’art, with touches of hyacinth-pink and blue to complement the claret in the soft furnishings. There was even a bowl of fresh creamy pink carnations on the coffee table.

She looked at her watch and discovered she still had a few hours to kill. Time enough to relax for a bit, so she wandered into the den, turned the television on and lay down on the broad leather couch to watch a movie. In fact, she fell asleep, and it was dark when she woke, although she still had over an hour to prepare herself for the party.

Then she realised her tummy was rumbling so she raided her lawyer’s kitchen, which proved to be a fairly barren experience, but she did find some cheese and crackers, an apple and some grapes. Damien obviously rarely ate at home, although she did notice several bottles of champagne in the fridge. Then she went to look for the spare bedroom. On the way to it she passed the main bedroom, and it crossed her mind to wonder whether her future husband-in-name-only entertained any lovers in it.

She hesitated at the doorway. Common sense told her that Damien would not live like a monk, and ethics persuaded her she should not snoop, so she bypassed the room resolutely. But that spark of curiosity remained.

The spare bedroom had its own en-suite bathroom, she discovered, and, paradoxically, it held all the answers her spark of curiosity cried out to know. Not only was there a full set of a famous brand of luxury cosmetics set out on the marble vanity stand, but there was a robe and matching nightgown hanging from a hook on the wall. A very sensuous robe and nightgown, at that, being fashioned of sheer coffee silk with fine ecru lace inserts.

She raised her eyebrows and tried to picture the girl who owned these telltale items. Tall, she found as she measured the robe against herself. Taller than her five feet four, and a glance at the size on the label told her that this girl was more generously curved, for it was a size larger than the size she took. So, tall and shapely, she decided. Dark or fair? She picked up the brush on the vanity and discovered a couple of long dark strands of hair in it. Definitely a brunette, then. She picked up a tube of lipstick, a deep berry-red, and found a bottle of nail polish that matched it.

OK, she got the picture, she mused. Tall, dark and dramatically attractive—that went without saying when you thought of Damien’s good looks. Not your shrinking violet kind of girl either. Possibly a career girl? Possibly another lawyer?

Then it occurred to her that there might be clothes in the closet owned by this girl—and indeed there were. Not many, but enough to confirm her impressions that this girl was striking and probably a professional career woman. For despite their lovely colours they were severely tailored and very formal.

She looked down at her jeans and boots with a grimace, but then remembered her shopping bags and ran through to the lounge to retrieve them.

The dress she’d bought was uncrushable, which was fortunate because she’d forgotten to hang it up. And as she carried it through to the spare bedroom, along with the shoes, make-up and underwear she’d purchased, she decided that in this dress there was no reason for her not to give any number of striking, professional women a run for their money—despite her chosen career being that of a landscape gardener.

She paused at the thought of her career and swallowed suddenly as Cosmo Delaney swam into her mind’s eye. The surprise acquisition of Plover Park had provided her with the means not only to help her grandparents but also to make the dream of a lifetime start to come true. She and her grandfather had not only been able to maintain the nursery so that a good income was coming in, but she’d also received two commissions to design gardens. She closed her eyes at the thought of losing it all, and reminded herself that was why she was here in Damien Moore’s apartment.

But that posed a question. Was she really prepared to marry Damien Moore to hang on to Cyril Delaney’s bequest?

She sank down on to the bed with her dress in her arms. And where did this tall, dark, striking woman who stored her clothes in his spare bedroom fit in with his proposal to move to Plover Park?

An hour later, she was ready.

Her hair, on Sally’s advice, was up in an elegant twist. The dress fitted like a glove. Her lips were painted to match her nails, and all in all it was a startling metamorphosis from the girl who had sat down to lunch with Damien Moore earlier in the day. She wondered, with a tinge of acerbity, what he would make of her transformation.

She only had to wait a few minutes before his key turned in the lock…

CHAPTER THREE

‘HOLY…mackerel!’

About half the width of the lamplit lounge separated them when Damien Moore stopped as if shot and made his observation at the same time.

Lee’s lips trembled but she managed to say gravely, ‘On the pithy sayings scale that’s nearly as good as…no way, José! Not what you’d expect of a legal brain, mind, but very expressive. Not that complimentary either—but I gather I’ve surprised you?’

He took in the little black dress she wore and blinked. What there was of it hugged her figure. The bodice was heart-shaped, revealing a tantalising glimpse of her décolleté, and was held up by narrow straps encrusted with rhinestones. The skirt stopped well above her knees. High black patent sandals adorned her narrow feet and her legs were bare.

It was a dress her slender figure and her lightly tanned limbs did justice to. It was a dress that revealed a more tantalising figure than he had suspected, and against the black her green eyes were stunning, her freckles almost unnoticeable. Her very light make-up was perfect as well. In all aspects she could suddenly have stepped out of the pages of Vogue…

He spoke at last. ‘It is a bit different from your everlasting jeans, boots and odd scarves—and, of course, your black hat.’

‘I’m a gardener, remember? It needs to be a very special occasion for me to dress up. Would it be too much to ask if you approve?’

‘Would you care if I didn’t?’ he countered, and strolled forward, then started to circle her slowly.

‘No.’ She said it a shade sharply, because of course she would, but she’d rather die than allow him to see it. Nor did she appreciate being inspected as if she were a prize filly. It made her wonder if he’d pick up her feet and check her teeth. Not only that, it set her nerve-ends tingling and caused her to feel that she might as well not have bothered to clothe herself at all.

‘In the context of your party,’ she rephrased tartly, ‘it’d be nice to know if I come up to scratch.’

He came round to stand in front of her and a fleeting smile touched his mouth. ‘I think you look sensational, Miss Westwood. In any context. There’s also more to you than your clothes have hitherto led me to suspect, and I apologise for my tactless remark at lunch.’

She bit her lip and tried not to colour as his dark gaze roamed over her exposed flesh—and there was quite a lot of it. She realised, too late, that his reference to her figure at lunch must have lingered in her subconscious and been the reason she’d allowed herself to be persuaded into this dress. A subliminal desire to prove a thing or two to him, to be precise. She might be slim but she wasn’t scrawny. Only to have him see right through her…

She said, after a moment’s intense thought, ‘I’m very pleased to hear it, Damien, but I asked that in a particular context—I need to make a statement! I need to stand out from the crowd tonight. I need to be noticed as your…’ She hesitated, then bit the bullet, ‘As your prospective wife.’

‘There’s little doubt you’ll be noticed,’ he said wryly, ‘but why this sudden change of heart?’

She brought him up to date. ‘I know you told me most of this, but coming face to face with Cosmo Delaney and hearing him say that Cyril had promised Plover Park to him really brought it home, I guess,’ she finished.

He pulled off his jacket and tie and slung them over the back of a chair. ‘I see.’

‘He…he gives me the creeps—Cosmo Delaney,’ she added with a shudder.

‘Do you think he overheard our conversation?’

Lee considered. ‘No. If he’d been that close I’m sure I’d have got the vibes.’ She frowned. ‘You don’t seem at all perturbed.’

Damien shrugged. ‘I spend my life dealing with this kind of thing. I’ve also had a long, busy day.’ He touched a cupboard and a door sprang open to reveal the lit interior of a cocktail cabinet. ‘Like a drink?’

‘No, thanks. Of course,’ she said arctically, and looked around the luxury apartment, ‘being wealthy in your own right obviously gives you a different perspective on all this. It doesn’t mean nearly as much to you as it does to me. It probably doesn’t mean anything to you at all!’ Her green eyes were accusing.

He poured himself a Scotch and soda and took it over to the settee. ‘On the contrary, Lee,’ he murmured as he sprawled back, stretched his long legs out and looked up at her lazily. ‘If anyone could prove I conned myself into Cyril’s will under false pretences, I could kiss my career goodbye.’

She stared at him, then sank into an armchair. ‘Why aren’t you more upset, then?’

He studied his glass. ‘Before I go into that perhaps I should make a point. The easiest course for me at this stage, Lee, would be to withdraw any claim on Plover Park.’

Her lips parted and her eyes widened.

‘I don’t need the place,’ he continued wryly. ‘I don’t need the hassle of all this. And, although I don’t intend to do it, perhaps you should bear it in mind.’

She sprang up, then with a frustrated little sound crossed to the cocktail cabinet and mixed herself a brandy and soda—a process Damien watched with amusement. ‘I’m speechless,’ she remarked as she returned to her chair beneath his gaze.

‘Good. Perhaps you’ll hear me out in silence, then. The reason I’m not going to do it is this. For whatever reason…’ He paused and looked into the distance with a tinge of irony in his eyes. ‘I admired your fight for your grandparents. Nor did I in any way pressure Cyril into putting us in his will. He also left Cosmo a significant inheritance in other forms. So I’ll continue the fight.’

‘That’s all?’ she said uncertainly.

‘No.’ He stood up and looked down at her quizzically. ‘While I may continue the fight, the histrionics are your department, not mine.’

Lee bit her lip.

He smiled faintly, then said abruptly, ‘Are you quite sure you want to do this?’

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