The Billionaire’s Scandalous Marriage

Emma Darcy

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 ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

HER wedding was only two weeks away.

Just two more weeks.

Charlotte Ramsey knew she should be happy about it.

But she wasn’t.

All this past week spent trying to stay positive about marrying Mark…it hadn’t worked. No matter how determinedly she argued against letting her father ruin how she should be feeling, he was ruining it. So the problem had to be dealt with.

Right now.

Before tonight.

Her stomach was knotted with nerves, her mind churning miserably over her dilemma as she set out on the hour-long drive from the inner city of Sydney to the family mansion at Palm Beach.

It was impossible to have a happy wedding if her father persisted in his unacceptable attitude towards the man she was marrying. The way he had treated Mark on Christmas day…and if he did the same tonight…her heart clenched at the thought. It hurt. It really hurt. She had to talk to him, make him understand.

Okay, he didn’t approve of Mark as a husband for her. It was no use hoping he ever would. Mark was not his kind of man. But he was right for her—as right as she was going to get—and surely she could persuade her father to respect that, if only for her sake.

The wedding was so close now.

He had to listen to her this time.

Her cheeks burned as she remembered the flaming row they’d had over her engagement when she had openly defied his disapproval, throwing down the threat of possible estrangement.

“Whether you like it or not, Dad, I’m going to marry him.”

Which had caused an eruption of frustration over her decision.

“You’re too damned headstrong for your own good, Charlotte. Marriage to Mark Freedman…what on earth do you see in the man? He’s a playboy, not a…”

“Not a bull in the financial world,” she’d sliced in, cutting off his point of view to push her own. “Which is precisely what I love about Mark. He’s there for me, Dad, not constantly flying off to do another deal in another country.” As her billionaire father had done all her life. “He wants my company. He enjoys my company. We have fun together.”

“Fun!” her father had thundered. “You’ve got my blood in your veins, girl. Freedman’s kind of fun will pall after a while. By all means have him as a novelty. Not too bad a toy for you to play with as long as he gives you pleasure. But marriage is serious business.”

“It’s not about business to me,” she had fiercely retorted, incensed by his contemptuous colouring of her relationship with Mark. “It’s about feeling loved. And I’m very, very serious about having that in my life.”

“It won’t last,” her father had growled.

But Charlotte was determined it would. She was thirty years old. She wanted to have children. Mark did, too. They were happy together, happy about the future they were planning. He wasn’t a playboy. He was an events organiser and very successful at it, too. She was looking forward to helping him with his business after they were married.

But she didn’t want to be completely estranged from her father.

For the past few months he seemed to have accepted Mark into the family’s social circle—albeit grudgingly—but on Christmas day…she had to get this sorted out before the wedding. Before tonight’s New Year’s Eve party on the yacht. If her father snubbed Mark again…

Charlotte took a deep breath to relieve the tightness in her chest. A glance at the clock on the dashboard told her it was past lunchtime, almost two o’clock. With any luck she should be able to get her father to herself for a private chat, just say hello to her mother in passing.

She’d told Mark she’d be spending the day at the beauty salon, getting ready for tonight. Best he didn’t know about this meeting. It would have to be a quick one, though. He would expect her to be back at the apartment they shared at Double Bay by late afternoon.

For the remainder of the drive along Sydney’s northern beaches Charlotte mentally rehearsed what she wanted to say, hoping to reach a workable understanding with her father. By the time she emerged from her Mercedes at the family mansion, her mind was all fired up to win what she needed to win. She charged into the foyer and was unpleasantly surprised to see the butler wheeling a traymobile of coffee things towards the main lounge room.

“Have my parents got visitors, Charles?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Charlotte,” he rolled out, reminding her that good manners should not be overlooked. He was a tall, imposing man in his fifties, the absolute authority when it came to running this huge household and a stickler for appropriate behaviour at all times.

She grimaced an apology. “Sorry. I’m in a hurry. I need to talk to Dad.”

He gestured to the lounge room doors. “Mr Ramsey is enjoying the company of your brother and his friend from London, Mr Damien Wynter. Mrs Ramsey is out, keeping an appointment with her hair stylist.”

Charlotte frowned. It was good that her mother was out of the way, bad that she’d have to meet Peter’s friend and have a bit of social chat before requesting a private talk with her father, who wouldn’t want to leave this new connection with the son and heir of another billionaire. The big business networking would definitely be in action.

But she was here.

She had to try.

“Will you be joining the gentlemen for coffee, Miss Charlotte?” Charles prompted while she was still chewing over his information.

“No. Thank you. I’m not staying that long, Charles.” She waved to the doors. “I’ll just say hello to Peter and his friend.”

Charles left the traymobile to usher her into the lounge room, announcing, “Miss Charlotte,” as she sailed in, trying to put on a polite face and hide her anxiety over the situation.

The three men rose from their seats at her entrance, Peter and his friend from armchairs with their backs to her, her father from the sofa facing them. Her gaze automatically zeroed in on him as he smiled a surprised but pleased welcome.

“Charlotte…” He held out his arms for a greeting hug.

“My sister,” she heard Peter mutter to his friend, but she didn’t glance their way.

She walked straight up to her father to give him his hug, relieved that his disapproval of Mark did not impinge on his love for her. Despite all his shortcomings as a parent, she loved him, too. He was her father. And she hoped—fiercely hoped—she could win his understanding this afternoon.

Miss Charlotte…Peter’s sister…Damien Wynter’s interest was instantly aroused. She was a spectacular woman, not at all like Peter who obviously took after his father—blue eyes, sandy hair, fair-skinned with a sprinkle of freckles on their strongly boned faces, big physiques.

Her hair was the colour of caramel with streaks of butter, a long mane of it, shining and bouncy. Her skin was light honey, smooth, gleaming, and she had brown eyes like her mother, though not quite as dark, more Boston cream sherry. They glowed with bright intelligence, bringing a natural vibrancy to a face that had a very individual attraction—certainly not a plastic mould of beautiful, but strong with character, mixed with a sensual appeal in the soft curve of her jawline and the rather wide, full-lipped mouth.

Her figure was wonderfully female, the almost voluptuous curves accentuated by the bold dress she wore. Not that it was blatantly sexy. In fact it was quite modest—a sleeveless bodice, square neckline, not low enough to show cleavage, and the skirt skimmed her hips and flared slightly to knee-length. The design was simple but the colour combination was stunning.

The dress was mostly a vibrant purple. Dominating the lower left hand side of the skirt was a big white flower with a bright red centre and red splashed around the edge of the petals. A similar but much smaller flower featured over her right breast. A wide black belt circled an enticingly small waist, and very stylish black-and-white strappy sandals added a lot of sexy class to her bare feet.

Only a very confident woman would choose such a dress—a woman who knew what she liked and was not afraid to express her own individuality. And she obviously didn’t bother about being model-thin, either. Bold, confident and very sexy, Damien decided, feeling a highly stimulated interest.

Peter Ramsey’s sister…

The thought flashed into Damien’s mind that the partner in life he’d been looking for could be right here. She shared the same background of immense wealth, so wouldn’t have her eye on how much he was worth. He could trust a relationship with her. Though whether she was ready to settle down and have the family he wanted was another issue. For all he knew she could be a spoilt brat, like many of the other heiresses he’d met.

But right now, there was a buzz of excited anticipation running through his veins. If Charlotte Ramsey was anything like Peter in character, this visit to Sydney could be the start of building the kind of life he’d craved since he was a boy—something real ad solid and lasting on a personal level.

Charlotte leaned up to whisper in her father’s ear. “I need to talk to you privately. It’s important, Dad,” she pleaded.

He frowned down at her as she drew back, her eyes eloquently begging him to fall in with her request. “Come and meet Peter’s friend first,” he commanded, a chiding tone in his voice.

“Of course,” she quickly agreed, swinging around to face their visitor, totally unprepared for the flesh and blood reality of Damien Wynter.

He didn’t look English. He didn’t look like anyone she’d ever met. The man was stunningly handsome—movie star handsome—like a smoothly dangerous Latin lover, an aristocratic Spaniard with his dark olive skin, black hair and eyes so dark, they looked black, too—black and brilliant with sparkling speculation as they bored straight into hers, giving her heart an almighty jolt.

Her toes started to curl. The man was sexual dynamite. He was as tall as Peter but there was more of a lean grace to his perfectly proportioned physique, which was casually displayed in a collarless white shirt and tailored black jeans. There was a supple, animal quality about his body that gave Charlotte the feeling he was all primed to pounce and right at this moment, she was his target.

Her spine tingled with a weird little frisson of excitement. Shock at her response to his sexual magnetism kicked her mind into savage common sense. Damien Wynter was the kind of man who would make any woman feel like this. It wasn’t special to her. But for one treacherous moment, she wished Mark had the same power.

Her father’s large hand on the pit of her back, pushing her forward to greet their guest, snapped her out of her stunned bunny state. She plastered a smile on her face, hoping it covered her embarrassment at being caught up in his initial physical impact. Looks weren’t everything, not by a long shot.

“Damien, it’s my very great pleasure to introduce you to my daughter, Charlotte,” her father said with far more warmth than he’d ever shown to Mark.

Which raised her hackles.

“It’s a very great pleasure to meet you, Charlotte,” the man responded in kind, stepping forward and offering his hand.

She took it out of automatic politeness and was shocked anew by the electric contact of his strong fingers encasing hers. It rattled her into gushing speech. “Peter has spoken of you. I’m sure he’ll see you enjoy your visit to Australia.”

The dark eyes engaged hers with very personal intensity. Heart-squeezing intensity. “I’m glad I came.”

For you.

He didn’t say those words but she felt them. And the pressure of his hand reinforced the totally unwelcome connection he was pushing.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay and chat but I’m really short of time and I’ve got some urgent business with Dad,” she rushed out, forcibly releasing her hand as she turned to her father. “Could we go to the library?”

Her father waved to Charles who had brought in the traymobile. “Can’t it wait until we’ve had coffee?”

“Please, Dad. I’ve come all the way out here and I’ve got to get back…”

“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “I’ll be back,” he threw at Peter and Damien.

“Please excuse us,” Charlotte added with a swift, apologetic glance at both men, not quite meeting the dark gaze, which she felt boring into her back as she made her escape.

Damien Wynter was undoubtedly a well-practised womaniser, she fiercely told herself.

Not worth a second thought.

Damien watched her go, his mind buzzing with exciting possibilities.

“She’s taken,” Peter said dryly.

It snapped Damien’s attention back to him. “What do you mean…taken?”

“Getting married. The wedding is only two weeks away.”

Shock was chased by a sense of disbelief. He hadn’t imagined it. Charlotte Ramsey had connected with him. She shouldn’t be taken by some other man. He shot a probing look at Peter. “Do you like her fiancé?”

The roll of eyes expressed contempt. “He’s a smarmy fortune-hunter, but no one can make Charlotte see it.”

Aggression pumped through Damien. One way or another he’d make her see it. “Will they be at the party on the yacht tonight?” he asked.

Peter gave him a speculative look, then shook his head. “They’ll be there but you don’t know Charlotte, Damien. She’s got her mind set on marrying Mark Freedman and believe me, my sister is very, very strong-minded. Rocking the boat is not on, my friend.”

Rock it he would if he could, was Damien’s instant reaction, but he shrugged and turned the conversation to another topic, choosing not to pursue his interest in Peter’s sister too openly at this point.

Tonight he intended to know much more of Charlotte Ramsey and if he liked what he learnt, nothing was going to stop him from acting on his interest.

“So what’s this urgent business?” her father growled as he shut the library door behind them. “You were downright rude to Damien Wynter, giving him short shrift like that.”

The criticism stung, especially when the approval he’d denied Mark had been so quickly given to Peter’s friend. Her carefully rehearsed words flew out of her mind. She turned on him, hot accusation leaping off her tongue. “Not as rude as you were to Mark on Christmas day, snubbing him when he was only trying to…”

“He was sucking up to me,” her father cut in angrily. “I hate people sucking up to me. Damn it, Charlotte! Couldn’t you see that for yourself?” He threw up his hands in disgust. “When are you going to come to your senses? Damien Wynter is the kind of man you should be marrying and you don’t even give him two cents of your time.”

Resentment burned through her. Damien Wynter had used the two cents, coming onto her so fast she was still disturbed by it. “I’m marrying Mark, Dad,” she grated out through her teeth. “And I don’t want you snubbing him tonight.”

“Then keep him out of my way,” her father snapped, scything the air with his hand in dismissive contempt.

Her chin lifted in defiant challenge. “You want me out of your way, too, Dad? Is that the way it’s going to be?”

His face went red with furious frustration. His hand lifted, stabbing a finger at her. “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell again. Get Freedman to sign a prenuptial agreement. If you do that, I promise I’ll tolerate the man for your sake, Charlotte. That’s the best I can do. Don’t try my patience with you any further.”

He swung on his heel and marched out of the library, slamming the door behind him.

Charlotte found herself trembling from the force of his anger. She had believed her father would come around to being reasonably pleasant to Mark. It was only a matter of time, once she’d proved how happy she was in the relationship. But now she was frightened that wasn’t going to happen. Not ever.

Even if she pushed Mark to sign a prenup—which she didn’t want to do—would it make any real difference to her father’s attitude towards him?

She hated this. Hated it. And she hated Damien Wynter for coming here and setting up a comparison for her father to throw at her. Of course he won automatic approval. He was one of them—born to wealth and his whole life driven by accumulating more of it. She didn’t want to be the dutiful social wife to a man like that, which was why she’d chosen Mark.

But she didn’t feel happy as she left the Palm Beach mansion.

She felt torn by a multitude of needs, which couldn’t all be answered.

CHAPTER TWO

DAMIEN WYNTER…

Charlotte shot mental bolts of rejection at the man emerging from the limousine, straightening up beside her brother, actually topping Peter’s formidable height by an inch or two. He looked even more striking in a formal black dinner suit and she had no doubt that every woman at this party would be eyeing him over tonight. Which was fine, as long as he focussed on them and not on her.

From her position on the top deck of her father’s yacht she watched the two men stride down the dock, chatting amiably with one another. It was a further irritation that Peter liked him so much and hadn’t made any effort to become friendly with Mark. Was she going to lose both her father and her brother by going ahead with this marriage?

But I have my own life to live, came the sharp, anguished cry in her mind. Being a daughter, a sister, wasn’t enough. She wanted a partner who was happy to share his life with her and until she’d met Mark, she’d despaired of ever finding one. It wasn’t easy for her. Only Mark had made it easy.

Except she didn’t feel at ease about anything now.

“Ah! The last arrivals!” Mark commented with satisfaction, noting where her attention had strayed.

Charlotte turned her gaze back to her fiancé. They’d been on board for a while, watching other guests coming onto the yacht, which would very shortly cruise to the centre of Sydney Harbour and take up a prime position for viewing the New Year’s Eve fireworks. This was the first time Mark had been invited to join the Ramsey family on the Sea Lion, and he was obviously eager to enjoy the experience.

“They’re not late,” she said, glancing at the new Cartier watch her parents had given her for Christmas. “Right on time, in fact. Eight o’clock. Peter knows Dad won’t wait a minute longer.”

“Fearsome man, your father,” Mark wryly remarked.

She forced a smile, wanting to lessen any anxiety he might be nursing over her father’s attitude towards him. “Don’t worry about Dad. We’re going to have a brilliant night and I love having you here to share it with me.”

He smiled back, his face lighting up with the warm, impish charm that had first drawn her to him. Mark was not in the mould of traditional macho male, though he was certainly masculine enough when it came to making love, and he did match her well above average height, making them a perfect physical fit.

His thick, wavy brown hair invited touch, unlike the short back and sides style her father favoured. His twinkling hazel eyes invited fun, rather than pinning her to the spot in forceful challenge. His arched eyebrows were used to waggle with wicked mischief. She’d never seen them lowered in a disapproving or impatient frown. His nose was sharply ridged and his chin was narrow and chiselled, but his mouth was soft, his smile was soft, and usually its warmth made her feel safe with him.

Safe in a nice, cosy sense.

She would never feel safe with Damien Wynter.

“I’m the luckiest man here,” Mark murmured. “I’ve got the most beautiful woman with me.”

She laughed, happy that he thought so. The compliment made all the hours of effort worthwhile; having blonde and copper streaks put through her long, brown hair, finding and buying a stunning dress, taking the utmost care with her make-up. She wasn’t beautiful. She simply worked hard at putting herself together as best she could, using all the tricks the modelling school had taught her, highlighting her good points and minimising the not so good.

“I’m surprised your brother doesn’t have a woman in tow tonight,” Mark said, raising one eyebrow quizzically. “No romance in the air for him on New Year’s Eve?”

“More likely he didn’t want to give the time to it,” she said with dry irony. “Dad will have his usual poker game running in the bottom saloon in between the fireworks displays. No doubt Peter will be introducing his new friend from London to it. Nothing beats the adrenaline rush of a high-rolling game.”

“You’ve played?” Mark asked curiously.

She shrugged. “Since I was a kid, but only at home. It was the one game our father played with us. He enjoyed teaching us the percentages.”

Mark shook his head in bemusement. “Strange childhood you had, Charlotte.”

“I want to make it different for our children, Mark,” she said earnestly.

“And so we will, my love.” He curved his arm around her shoulders, giving her a comforting hug of assurance as he softly blew the same words in her ear. “So we will.”

She leaned into him, wanting her inner turmoil soothed by the loving way he treated her, the easy physical closeness he invited so naturally. The Ramseys were not openly demonstrative in their affection though the family had always been a tightly knit unit, made so from being set apart from the ordinary stream of people by great wealth.

Charlotte had tried to reach out across that barrier many times, only to be rebuffed by hurtful comments like, “It’s all right for you. You’re a Ramsey”—meaning she could have anything she wanted or get away with doing whatever she pleased. Which wasn’t true, but it was how she was perceived by others and nothing she said had ever changed their minds.

Mark was the only man who had looked beyond the face value of her family and cared about the person she was inside, the needs she’d secretly nursed that all the money in the world could not fulfil. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t of her world and was curious about it, interested into probing more deeply than the surface. Whatever the reason, so much personal interest had made him very attractive, excitingly different to the many smugly arrogant heirs to fortunes who usually peopled her social circle.

But to her intense discomfort, she found herself wishing he excited her more sexually. Until this afternoon she hadn’t realised a man could affect her as Damien Wynter had. But that was probably an initial impact thing. She shouldn’t let it worry her. Mark was a very caring lover who was always concerned about giving her pleasure.

The powerful engines of the yacht thrummed with purpose. “Now that everyone’s on board, let’s stroll around to the front deck,” she suggested. “Set ourselves up for the best view of the fireworks.”

They met and greeted other guests along the way, stopped to chat, had their glasses refilled with champagne, sampled some of the gourmet finger food being circulated by the waiters hired for the night. The party atmosphere lightened Charlotte’s private angst. She enjoyed Mark’s quick wit and easy manner. He was good company, always had been for her, always would be, she thought.

It shouldn’t matter—didn’t matter—that her father and brother would always prefer the company of men like Damien Wynter. She didn’t want her life to be like her mother’s, filling in her time with charity functions while her husband wheeled and dealed in his own arena. She felt sorry for the woman Peter married, whomever she might be, doomed to always stand in second place to his business life.

Mark wanted her to be his professional assistant, helping to organise the events he arranged. They would share everything. This coming new year should be marvellous, she thought, the best ever.

Even the fireworks tonight had been advertised as something extra special. The harbour foreshores were crowded with people, waiting to see them. The Sea Lion was surrounded by all sorts of pleasure crafts, loaded with New Year’s Eve revellers. As nine o’clock approached—the time for the first fireworks display for families—Mark shepherded her through the melee of guests to the railing, intent on ensuring a clear view of the spectacular show.

“There you are!”

Her brother’s voice claimed her attention. She turned to find herself confronted by both Peter and the man whose company she definitely didn’t want. His dark eyes instantly engaged hers with a riveting intensity that stirred a determined rebellion. No way would she be sucked in by his alpha animal attraction a second time, not for a minute. He was one of them, so arrogantly confident in his natural domination, undoubtedly expecting a woman to be his possession, not a real partner.

“Damien, you’ve met my sister, Charlotte, in passing, so to speak. This is her fiancé, Mark Freedman.”

The introduction was completed by the man himself. “Damien Wynter.” He barely flicked a glance of acknowledgement to Mark, concentrating his sexy charisma on her as he offered his hand again. “I hope we can further our acquaintance tonight, Charlotte,” he rolled out, pouring on the charm, flashing a smile designed to dazzle.

It raised her hackles to such a bristling height, it took every skerrick of her will-power to keep them sheathed and present a civil demeanour. She forced out her hand to take the one he’d offered, constructed a coolly polite smile, and said, “Well, Sydney is about to put on its best face for you, but I doubt you’ll get much out of me, Damien.”

“I beg your pardon?” He frowned over the rebuff as though he’d never had the experience of being knocked back by a woman.

She raised her eyebrows. “Isn’t that your aim in making a connection? How much you can get out of the person? Peter did tell me…”

Her brother laughed. “Charlotte is referring to how you replied to that stupid toast Tom Benedict made to me at the London club last year, declaring I was amongst friends, when in fact, most of them were strangers to me, and the only common ground we had was wealthy fathers.”

Damien shook his head over the reminder. “Tom Benedict doesn’t have a brain in his head.”

“Perhaps he only meant to be kind,” Charlotte suggested. “And being kind does not necessarily rule out a brain.” She paused a moment to punctuate her point. “Quite possibly it’s simply one that works differently to yours.”

As Mark’s did.

Which was one of the reasons why she preferred him to Damien Wynter, despite the obvious assets of the man who thought he could just muscle in and capture her interest.

Damien’s mind instantly registered a hit. His gaze narrowed on the brown eyes that remained flat, denying him any entry into what she was thinking. Why was he suddenly getting this flow of antagonism from Charlotte Ramsey? There’d been no trace of it in their brief meeting this afternoon. But that had been a surprise encounter. She’d had time to think about him since then—possibly as a threat she was intent on dispelling?

“Did Peter paint me as cruel?” he asked, cutting straight to the point she seemed to be making.

“Not at all.” She gave a tinkling laugh to remove any offence he might have taken. “He liked your honesty.”

“But you don’t?” he queried, putting her on the spot.

She didn’t miss a beat. “On the contrary, it’s always infinitely preferable to know what one is dealing with.”

“And what do you imagine you’re dealing with, Charlotte?”

Her eyebrows lifted in mock chiding. “I don’t imagine anything, Damien. As it was quoted to me, in reply to Tom Benedict’s toast, you said Peter was not your friend because you’d never met him before, and you were only interested in meeting him because of who he was, what he had and how much you might be able to get out of him.”

Damien smiled at the recollection. “In short, I cut through Tom’s hypocritical bullshit.”

“Winning my trust and my friendship,” Peter tossed in.

“Which is happily mutual,” Damien good-humouredly affirmed.

“Like minds finding each other is always good,” Charlotte said with a suspiciously silky thread of approval. “I know how lucky I am to have met Mark.”

She hooked her arm around her fiancé’s, subtly but emphatically placing herself at his side, having cleverly established that Damien and Peter formed a completely separate unit on a different planet to the one she wanted to inhabit with Mark Freedman.

Damien obligingly turned his attention to the man Peter had described as a smarmy fortune-hunter who had his sister sand-bagged from seeing any sense at all. But she was no fool. Far from it. She had a mind as sharp as knives. So Damien concentrated on taking his own measure of Charlotte Ramsey’s choice of partner.

“I’m sorry, Mark.” He smiled apologetically as he offered his hand. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

“No problem,” came the easy assurance. “I was interested in hearing the background to your friendship with Peter.”

His handshake had a touch of deference, aiming to please, not make it a contest of male egos. His eyes sparkled with appreciative interest, wanting to engage, wanting to be part of the world Charlotte seemed intent on turning her back on, Damien thought.

“In fact, it made me reflect on whether all our close associations with people are linked to how much we get out of them,” Mark commented whimsically. “We don’t tend to hang around those who give us nothing, do we?”

It was a disarming little speech, opening up what could have been used as an attack on his integrity where his relationship with an heiress was concerned, then turning the picture around by making the principle a general one.

“We avoid boring people,” he went on, “and naturally gravitate to those who make our lives more interesting and pleasurable.”

He smiled at Charlotte, giving her the sense that she was at the centre of these last sentiments, and Damien felt a surprisingly strong urge to kick him. The man was a master of manipulation, a first-rate charmer, and the smile now lighting up the face that had refused him any positive personal response twisted something in Damien’s gut.

He stared at her—this woman who was stirring feelings in him that demanded action to change the status quo. Was it because she was Peter’s sister and he empathised with his friend’s dislike of her being taken in by a user? Was it because she wouldn’t give him what she was readily giving to her fiancé?

He had met many more beautiful women, yet her smile for Mark Freedman illumined her own unique attraction, making it immeasurably stronger. The graceful turn of her long bare neck struck his eye. Her throat was bare of jewellery and its nakedness somehow evoked a vulnerability that stirred some very primitive instincts. The aggressive hunter and the protector leapt to battle readiness inside him and Damien knew he wouldn’t step back from involving himself with Charlotte Ramsey.

His gaze skated down the dress she had chosen for tonight. It was bright orange—a colour not many women could wear successfully, a colour that reinforced his initial impression that she was confident about herself.

Challengingly confident.

The style was a simple sheath attached to a beaded yoke. Very elegant. Again not overtly sexy yet all the more alluring because it subtly skimmed her curves instead of flaunting them in his face. Damien decided she was a woman who cared more about being seen as a person rather than a sexual object.

Had Mark Freedman played that card to win her?

“Countdown to the fireworks is starting,” Peter said, waving Damien to join him at the deck railing as other guests automatically moved to make space for them.

Millions of voices around the harbour rose in the chant, “Ten, nine, eight…”

Charlotte broke apart from her fiancé to swing around and face the famous coat-hanger bridge that would obviously form the centrepiece of the display. Mark Freedman turned, as well, sliding his arm around her waist to hold her close. Damien stepped up between Peter and Charlotte, determined on making her aware of him whether she liked it or not.

“…three, two, one…”

The great arch of the bridge was brilliantly outlined as white fireworks sprayed up from the entire span.

The start of something big, Damien thought, the excitement of this first explosive burst fuelling anticipation for what was to come. It reflected precisely how he was feeling about Charlotte Ramsey. One way or another he would take her from Mark Freedman, free her of a bad mistake.

Free her for himself.

CHAPTER THREE

THE night sky bloomed with magnificent bursts of colour, erupting over the spectacular white sails that roofed the opera house and above the great sandstone pylons of the bridge. The massive cascades of light were beautiful, awesome, yet the joy Charlotte had expected to feel in them was somehow sucked away by the presence of Damien Wynter.

Which was totally, totally wrong.

And upsetting.

Mark was holding her. Mark was talking to her, sharing his delight in the fantastic display, pointing out the marvellous special effects that particularly impressed him. Mark should have her undivided attention. And she tried to give it, tried to respond as she should be responding quite naturally.

Yet she was still bridling over how Damien Wynter had been looking at her just before the countdown started, taking in every detail of her appearance as though measuring it against some standard in his mind. She told herself he probably did the same to any woman who came into his firing line and it was totally irrelevant how he scored her in his estimation of female attraction. What he thought simply didn’t matter. Which made it all the more intensely irritating that he’d set her nerves so much on edge.

Even his voice distracted her from what Mark was saying, her ears suddenly super-sensitive to the deep timbre of it as he made comments to Peter, comments that told her he was enjoying the show.

And why not?

No other city in the world had a more fabulous setting for such a night as this and the Sea Lion gave them a dress-circle view of everything. She was probably the only spectator wishing for the end of the fireworks. Only then would her brother lead Damien Wynter away and she’d be rid of this horribly acute awareness of him.

A crescendo of rockets built up to the fifteen-minute finale. A golden rain fell from the bridge and just below the centre of the arch, a huge red heart appeared, pulsing with graduations of light.

“The heart of Sydney,” she murmured appreciatively.

“The heart of love,” Mark breathed into her ear.

Which should have made her own heart beat with happiness, but her mind was too busy being sceptical about how much heart Damien Wynter had. No doubt he gave a sizeable slice of his wealth to charities, as a tax deduction, which didn’t actually mean caring. Did he care about anything beyond staking out his territory and increasing it at every opportunity—all he could get?

“That’s it for now,” Peter told him. “There’ll be a bigger show at midnight.”

“Hard to top that,” Damien commented. “Leaving the heart glowing is a nice touch.”

“Yes, it really stands out in the darkness,” Peter replied.

“A reminder to give,” Charlotte couldn’t resist tossing at them.

A mistake.

Damien Wynter’s dark eyes instantly locked onto hers, glittering with speculative interest. He smiled, slowly and sensually, his teeth so white, the old saying, all the better to bite you with, slid straight into Charlotte’s mind.

“Instead of to get?” he asked, provocatively raising her issue with him.

She tried to shrug it off, inwardly cursing herself for opening another conversation with him. “The two should go hand in hand, don’t you think?” she answered blandly.

“Yes, I do.” The quick agreement was instantly followed by a challenge. “Does that surprise you, Charlotte?”

Peter saved her from answering, chiming in with, “Damien gives an enormous amount to self-help development programs for Africa.”

It surprised her enough to ask, “Why Africa?”

“Have you been there?” Damien queried.

“No. I’ve always thought of Africa as a scary, violent place, best avoided.”

“Then let me take you. You’d be safe under my protection and you could see for yourself how I do my giving.”

A part of her actually wanted to. Dangerous curiosity, she told herself, and retreated to safe ground. “Thank you for the invitation but Mark and I are getting married in a couple of weeks…”

“And I understand you’re busy right now, but when it’s convenient…” He smiled at Mark. “Would touring Africa as my guest appeal?”

“Absolutely,” Mark rushed in, without discussing the choice with her.

They didn’t know the man. Why would Mark want to be his guest on a tour through Africa? It wasn’t on. Not with Damien Wynter. It felt wrong. Apart from anything else, no way could she feel comfortable in his company.

“You’d better take Damien down to the saloon if you’re playing poker with Dad, Peter,” she reminded her brother, wanting this encounter ended.

“Are you playing, Mark?” Damien asked, apparently happy to have her fiancé included in the poker party.

Charlotte resented the gambit to separate them as though she didn’t count. Mark wouldn’t desert her for some all male fun. Certainly not on the first New Year’s Eve they were spending together.

“Not my game, I’m afraid,” he said, which wasn’t as positive about remaining with her as she would have liked. In fact, Mark had sounded downright rueful over missing out.

Damien’s compelling dark eyes targeted her again. “What about you, Charlotte?”

The impertinence of the question left her momentarily speechless. As if she would when Mark couldn’t!

Peter laughed, clapping his friend on the back. “Believe me, Damien, you don’t want to play with Charlotte.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because she’ll take you. My sister is a killer player.”

His mouth formed a very sexy moue. His eyes, which hadn’t left hers for a second, simmered a sexy challenge. “I think I’d like the experience of being taken by your sister, Peter.”

Charlotte burned.

Damien Wynter wasn’t talking poker. He’d looked her over, decided he found her desirable, liked the spice that she was engaged to another man and supposedly unattainable, and was now laying out his line, dangling the bait of beating him at a game based on taking chances.

The outrageous arrogance of the man was insufferable. Her mind sizzled with ways to puncture his ego. Before she could come up with the perfect putdown, Mark intervened.

“You know, I’d like to watch that,” he said musingly. “Are spectators allowed at this game?”

Annoyance sharpened her tongue. “Mark, I don’t want to play. I want to be with you.”

“Mark can come and watch, Charlotte,” Peter put in, suddenly eager to oblige his friend’s whim. “He can sit right at your shoulder.”

“That’s not the same,” she shot at her brother.

“Truly, I would enjoy it, darling,” Mark pushed, smiling persuasively as he added, “It’s a part of your life that’s still a mystery to me. I’d like the chance to watch and understand what you were talking about…the percentages.”

“I thought we were going to dance,” she protested, hating his unwitting collusion with a man who would take her if the opportunity presented itself.

“We can dance any night,” he soothed.

“Course you can,” Peter said dismissively. “Come on, Charlotte. You know you love to play. It’s in your blood.”

The sense of being railroaded increased the angry tension Damien Wynter had evoked, and Peter sounded so like their father with his blood comment, she almost stamped her foot in exasperation. “It’s just a game, Peter. I can choose to play or not. I don’t need it in my life!”

“Sorry, darling,” Mark back-pedalled in concern. “Of course, it’s your choice.”

“But it would please all of us if you played,” Damien slid in silkily.

Painting her as a selfish spoilt brat if she refused.

Charlotte grimly took stock. Mark could watch a poker match on television if he was so keen to understand percentages. That seemed like a very specious argument to her. More likely, the drawcard for him was being with Peter and Damien Wynter—part of the privileged circle at her father’s poker game.

A nasty suspicion crawled around her mind. Was Mark using her as a stepping stone to where he wanted to be?

She didn’t want to think that. She didn’t want to but…why leap at the chance of being Damien’s guest in Africa?

Damn Damien Wynter! He’d already spoilt her night with Mark.

“All right! I’m in!” she decided, a reckless streak of belligerence prompting her to take on a straight out fight with the man who had stirred so much unwelcome turmoil inside her.

“Splendid!” Damien approved, grinning like a wolf seeing the jugular of his victim bared.

If luck is with me, it’s your blood that will be spilled, Charlotte thought viciously, turning a smile to Mark. “Let me know when you find it boring and I’ll surrender my chips,” she said, deliberately making it known she was indulging her fiancé, no one else.

Mark touched her cheek in a gentle salute of admiration, his eyes beaming warm pleasure at her. “My brave girl,” he murmured. “I suspect you’ll be swimming amongst sharks at this poker table but I’ll rescue you whenever you say the word.”

The tightness in Charlotte’s chest eased a little. Mark did love her. It was stupid to get worked up over a few little things that could be put down to natural curiosity. Damien Wynter somehow emanated a magnetism that was skewing her thoughts.

As she turned to her brother and said, “Lead on, Peter. We’ll follow you down to the saloon,” she caught Damien staring at Mark as though measuring him for deep, dark annihilation.

So much for wanting him as his guest in Africa! He’d probably feed Mark to the lions so he could have her to himself! That was what he was angling for. Was his pride wounded because she hadn’t instantly been smitten by him, worshipping at his feet for who and what he was, not to mention how much he was worth? Men like him always thought they could get any woman.

Not this one, she silently vowed, aiming the message straight at his back as Peter steered him away from the railing, heading for the lower saloon. Moreover, she wouldn’t engage in any contest with him at the poker table. He’d like nothing better than for her to take him on.

Thwarting him should be the plan, not trying to beat him. If he was betting on his cards, she’d withdraw from betting on her own, regardless of how promising they were. No blood spilled…no grounds for any future comeback.

Satisfied that she had worked out a sensible course—one that Damien Wynter wouldn’t like one bit—Charlotte felt calmer and considerably more confident of handling the situation without any heartburn.

Music started in the upper saloon just as they reached the top of the stairs. The DJ had put on a great upbeat track to get the guests into a dancing mood. Charlotte smiled ironically to herself as she recognised Nancy Sinatra’s voice belting out “I’ll Be Your Good-Time Girl”.

She might have lived up to that for Mark tonight, if he’d wanted to dance instead of watching a poker game.

But she was never going to live that role for Damien Wynter!

CHAPTER FOUR

DAMIEN had lost all trace of the jetlag he’d been suffering earlier. His whole body was buzzing with exhilaration. Pitting himself against someone else always gave him an adrenaline rush. That it was a woman this time made it more exciting, especially a woman as hard to get as Charlotte Ramsey.

Peter gave him an arch look as they descended the stairs together, asking in a low voice, “Do I detect a very determined personal interest in my sister?”

“Would you have a problem with my pursuing it?”

Brothers could be sticky about their younger sisters. Damien didn’t want to mess with the Ramsey family in any negative way. Peter was a good friend to have, both personally and professionally, and his father would make a very bad enemy. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to exercise any caution where getting Charlotte for himself was concerned.

A carefree grin answered him. “Won’t affect me in any way whatsoever. But be warned, my friend. Charlotte is one hell of a fighter.”

Damien grinned back. “That fires me up to win, Peter.”

“If you’re intent on winning, take nothing for granted,” came the swift advice. “I helped get her to the poker game for you but don’t think for a minute she’ll be easy pickings. She’d stand up to Dad any day of the week. Very strong-willed, my sister.”

Definitely no pushover. That was already evident to him. Which meant Mark Freedman must have worked hard at discovering the cracks in her armour, sliding through them to reach her heart and turn it his way. No doubt the prize was worth some intense work to a man who was greedy for the good life, and the pay-off wedding was only two weeks away.

“She shouldn’t be with Freedman,” Damien muttered.

“Not my cup of tea, either,” Peter ruefully agreed. “But he sweetens her life, Damien. And you’re not sugar.”

No, he wasn’t. And he wasn’t about to sugar-coat anything, either. There was no time for that. He had to act fast, change the parameters of Charlotte’s thinking, strike at the heart, not seduce his way in. Sweetness could cloy after a while and his instincts were telling him that tart was more to her natural taste.

“I’m banking on pepper and salt,” he said purposefully.

Peter chuckled. “Well, I’m a meat man, myself. Can’t do without pepper and salt. And come to think of it, Charlotte never was a sweet young thing, not even when she was sixteen.”

“How old is she now, Peter?”

“Thirty.” The twinkling blue eyes sobered as he went on in a more serious vein. “Two years younger than me and wanting to start a family of her own. I doubt she’ll swap a marriage she’s set on for a fling with you.”

“That marriage could turn sour very quickly once Freedman shows his true colours. He’s already slipped up twice tonight. Better she doesn’t enter into it, Peter.”

“I’m right with you on that, but…” He shrugged. “Not even Dad could talk her out of it.”

“She has to want out.”

“If you can make her want out, I’ll take my hat off to you, my friend.”

They reached the lower deck and Peter ushered him towards the saloon. Damien was glad they were in agreement over Charlotte’s future with Mark Freedman. Having children with the wrong man was a disaster, in his opinion, as was having children with the wrong woman. His instincts were telling him Charlotte Ramsey could be the right one for him. She wanted to start a family…no problem with that issue.

Marriage had not been on his immediate agenda. It was not something he could program since it depended on meeting a woman he wanted to marry. He was thirty-four years old and so far that feeling had been elusive. The relationships he had entered into had never lasted long, passion burning out when incompatibility made time together more irritating than exciting. He needed someone who could relate to his life…live it with him.

He was not about to turn aside from the possibility that Charlotte Ramsey was the one.

The poker saloon was all set ready for the game to begin; eight chairs spaced out around the large oval table, a spare place for the professional dealer to control the cards, betting chips distributed, her father’s special guests milling around, finishing off finger food and drinks before play started, though there were side tables placed behind the chairs to hold refreshments within easy reach.

As Charlotte entered with Mark, she saw Peter having a word with her father, whose sharp gaze instantly zeroed in on her. She was the only woman in the room and could very well be an unwelcome addition to the poker party. Damien Wynter could not tell her father to let her stay. No one told Lloyd Ramsey what to do. Nevertheless, having come, Charlotte didn’t want to be asked to leave. That would be slighting Mark.

Her arm tightened around Mark’s as her father cocked his head in consideration, listening to Peter who was undoubtedly explaining the situation he and his friend had engineered. Her nervous tension kicked into anger as she saw her father’s mouth twitch in amusement. This challenge by Damien Wynter was no joke. She wanted done with it as soon as possible. She kept her gaze trained on her father and brother, refusing to give the man from London the satisfaction of a glance his way.

“Charlotte, what an unexpected pleasure!” her father rolled out in welcome, his wide mouth breaking into the smile that invariably reminded people of a shark. The top of his head had gone bald some years ago and his high broad forehead, large nose and big white teeth, on top of his formidable physique, contributed to the impression of a fearsome predator. He turned to his aide-de-camp. “Two more chairs at the table.”

“I won’t be playing, sir,” Mark quickly put in.

The deferential “sir” grated on Charlotte. She didn’t want her husband-to-be kowtowing to her father, particularly not tonight in front of Damien Wynter.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to watch Charlotte play,” Mark went on, his ingratiating tone annoying her further. It did sound like sucking up.

“Fine!” her father approved, flashing his shark smile. “Though you might get an unwelcome insight into the woman you’re marrying.”

He was putting in the bite, not snubbing Mark but virtually accusing him of having a superficial view of his fiancée. Which wasn’t true. She was not just a lump of money to Mark. Though it did seem he was attracted to the life-style perks that marriage to her could bring.

“Oh, I think I know her fairly well,” he said with a warm assurance that should have removed her irritation. Except he didn’t know what was going on inside her right now—the absolutely perverse resentment that he wasn’t more like Damien Wynter, just taking everything in his stride as though it was his right to be wherever he wanted and have whatever he wanted.

She savagely reminded herself that Damien had been born into a world of wealth, which cultivated that frame of mind. Mark hadn’t. And she had liked the difference. It was crazy to start doubting her judgement on that. Before realising she was breaking her previous resolution, she turned a proudly defiant face to the man who was unsettling what she had settled on, her eyes mocking any influence he thought he might exert on her.

The sense that he’d been watching for her to look at him, waiting for it, willing it to happen, sizzled along her tense nerves. Satisfaction glinted in the dark eyes. She felt him thinking, You can’t escape me, Charlotte, and her heart instantly skipped into a faster beat. Yes, I can, her own eyes telegraphed back to him.

His gaze flicked to the chairs being placed for her and Mark, then very deliberately he stepped over to claim the chair directly across the table from where she was being accommodated.

“Seats, gentlemen,” her father called, shooting an amused little smile at her. “My daughter is about to test her mettle against yours.”

Good-humoured laughter rippled around the room. It was obvious to Charlotte that these high-powered guests didn’t see her as a threat at the table. They were indulging her because of who she was. Their host had allowed her into the game so any protest was unthinkable.

“I caution you not to underestimate her as a player,” her father tossed at them. “Charlotte has cleaned me out more times than I care to remember.”

“Me, too,” Peter said. “Nerves of steel. She didn’t get to be one of the top guns on the trading floor without ’em.”

“Top gun on the trading floor?” Damien queried, clearly surprised by this information and looking to Peter, who’d taken the chair next to his, for more enlightenment.

“Charlotte worked for an international bank. A star player on their scale for dealers.”

“I didn’t realise…”

Charlotte smiled her own triumphant bit of amusement as Damien Wynter’s gaze turned back to her in swift re-assessment. He’d probably had her pegged as a socialite, with nothing better to do than attend fashionable functions—a woman groomed to hang off his arm and satisfy any social role he wanted her to play.

Peter grinned at her as he topped off his spiel with, “She was called The Ram at the bank, and I don’t think that was entirely related to the family name.”

“Fascinating,” Damien murmured, his dark eyes suddenly burning like hot coals, his interest in her fired, not dampened by this new knowledge.

To Charlotte’s horrified consternation, her stomach contracted as though it had been punched and her breasts tightened, her nipples tingling into hard peaks. She didn’t want to have this physical—a sexual—reaction to Damien Wynter. And why on earth did he like the fact she had a brain that most men shied clear of as too competitive for them?

“I have better things to do with my life now,” she stated quickly, half-turning in her chair to reach out to Mark who was seated just behind her right shoulder. She took his hand and squeezed it in a show of solidarity with him. “I was happy to resign from my job to take on a far more fulfilling career as Mark’s partner in everything.”

So take that on board, Damien Wynter, she thought, furious over the strong response of her body to him and barely noticing Mark’s delight in her little speech.

“Enough talk!” her father commanded tersely, shooting a look of distinct displeasure at Charlotte—a reminder that he had only grudgingly accepted her forthcoming marriage to Mark and he didn’t enjoy a public expression of her devotion to a man he barely tolerated. He gestured to the dealer to get the game under way and was instantly obeyed.

As the cards were distributed around the table, Charlotte brooded over her father’s disapproval. She understood he’d prefer to see her married to a man like Damien Wynter—connecting wealth to wealth—but where marriage was concerned, she had different priorities, and she was not going to be talked out of them or distracted from them by a blast of sexual chemistry.

She picked up the two cards dealt to her and focussed her mind on them, determined to keep to her game-plan, avoiding any direct contest with the man who wanted her to battle with him.

One hour later, Damien knew with certainty that Charlotte Ramsey had chosen the tactic of guerrilla warfare. She hit only when he wasn’t betting on his cards. More times than not, she won the pot, so her foray into the gambling ring was not injudicious. She didn’t always move in when he withdrew, but she always stayed out when he put himself in the running to win, even when the cards she held were highly promising. At least that was definitely the case in one instance, because Damien caught Mark frowning over her decision to throw them in.

The man hadn’t learnt to keep a poker face. Charlotte, on the other hand, revealed no expression whatsoever when she looked at her cards. It was impossible to tell if she was bluffing or not when she placed her bets, though she did bet aggressively, making the other players doubt the worth of what they held. If they hadn’t respected her skill before play started, they very quickly learnt respect as her pile of chips grew while others’ diminished.

Damien was winning, too, but he derived little satisfaction from it. He wanted Charlotte to engage with him, not evade him. Finally frustration drove him to challenge her.

“Are you afraid of losing to me, Charlotte?” he drawled sardonically, aiming to get under her armour-plated skin.

Her eyes mocked his purpose. “Have I deprived you of the pleasure of winning against me, Damien?” she replied as though she hadn’t meant to. “Let’s see what the next hand brings. If I get cards which give me a high percentage chance and you think the same about yours…who’s to know until we see them?”

Her smile got under his skin. It wasn’t a shrug-off smile. It was a smile of secret intent. Her actions did not depend on the luck of the draw. She knew precisely what she was doing and thwarting him was giving her pleasure.

The cards were once more dealt around the table. Damien picked up the ace of hearts and the ace of diamonds—an unbeatable pair at this point. He pushed chips forward, declaring himself in on this hand and waited to see what Charlotte would do, his gaze fastened on her lowered lashes as she pondered her play.

When her turn came she casually pushed chips forward, which instantly drew everyone’s attention. Damien’s direct challenge to her had titillated interest. The other players wanted to see them go head to head—the two biggest winners finally facing off.

Was it simply a ploy to satisfy them that she wasn’t evading him? Would she pull out once the three flop cards were tabled? Damien’s heart pumped into a faster beat as his mind buzzed with possibilities. Never had a woman engaged him so totally.

He glanced at Mark Freedman, hoping for some kind of signal from him as to what Charlotte’s hand was worth. A slight crease between his eyebrows indicated puzzlement. Was she bluffing or didn’t Mark understand the value of what she held?

A couple of other players were up for contesting the hand. The rest folded. The dealer proceeded to lay out the three flop cards; the five of spades, the queen of hearts, the ace of spades. Excitement zinged through Damien. He now held three aces, which made him a very strong contender to win. Even if Charlotte now held three queens or three fives, she could not beat him.

Yet without any hesitation she declared, “I’m all in,” and pushed every pile of chips she had into the pot.

She lifted her gaze to his, shooting him a hot bolt of challenge, deliberately inciting his active participation in her gamble. Excitement coursed through his entire body, stirring more than his blood. He wanted her. He wanted her so badly he was getting an erection right here at the poker table where it was impossible to have any physical engagement with her. But the mind-game was on. Win or lose, he was going with her on this hand.

The amount of chips she was wagering was an intimidating move. The other contenders immediately dropped out of the betting. To stay in, he had to match her bet and risk losing all he’d won and more.

He studied the cards. There were two spades on the table. If she held another two and if the turn card or the river card, both of them still to be played, turned out to be another spade, she could beat him with a five spade flush. But the odds were against that. She could be gambling on getting a straight—ace through to the five if she held two of the intermediate cards and the third was turned up, but that was a low percentage play, too. Four queens or four fives were remote possibilities, as well.

He looked at her.

Her mouth curved into a taunting little smile.

Loser, was the message she was telegraphing.

He didn’t believe her—wouldn’t believe her—not on any count.

“I’ll call,” he said, pushing in his chips, making it by far the biggest pot of the night and generating an air of electric tension around the table, everyone leaning forward to watch the outcome.

Charlotte leaned back as though she didn’t have a care in the world. The smile was still tilting her mouth and her eyes glittered with some deep private satisfaction.

Certainty flashed into Damien’s mind—I’ve made the wrong move, the move she wanted me to make. He was going to lose but it was too late to pull back. The dealer was already laying down the turn card.

It was the eight of diamonds.

No help to his hand.

He couldn’t see how it could be to hers, either.

Finally the river card was revealed—the six of hearts.

Charlotte shrugged and threw down her cards—the two and four of spades. If the river card had been a spade, giving her a flush of five spades, or if it had been a three of any suit, making up a straight, she would have won. As it was, she had nothing.

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