The Heir From Nowhere (11 page)

‘It’s okay,’ she said numbly. ‘Best to know where everyone stands from the start.’ She nodded then and he was suddenly transfixed by the movement in her hair.
That was what was so different. There were layers of it, he realised, and as she moved her head they shifted, independently and yet together, like a field of wheat rippling in the breeze, with feathery ends flicking playfully in the light.

And then he focused again and she was watching him, wary and unsure. ‘I might actually skip dessert and get an early night,’ she said. ‘Maybe if I could just sign those documents now?’

‘It’s too much!’ she protested ten minutes later in his office. ‘Nobody needs twenty thousand dollars a month for living expenses.’

‘How do you know?’ he argued back, wishing she’d just sign it if she was in such a goddamn hurry to get back to her suite and trying to ignore the way the layers of her hair bobbed around her head as she moved and the scent of raspberries and oranges that seemed to be taking over his office. ‘You’ll need new clothes as the baby grows. Let’s face it, you could do with some new clothes now.’

Her cheeks flamed with heat. ‘But twenty thousand dollars? You clearly don’t know where I shop.’

‘So shop somewhere else. Or save the money! Book a cruise. Give it to charity. I don’t care what you do with it—just sign the agreement.’

If she could tell he sounded tense he didn’t care. He wanted her out of his office. She was too close, that damned scent of fruit wrapping around him, the soft layers of her hair dancing an invitation with even the slightest tilt of her head. And what it did to her eyes! She had the most amazing eyes. Not just blue. On a paint chart they’d probably call it ‘cerulean dreaming’.

He backed away, ostensibly to give her more room
at the desk but in reality to give himself a chance to get his head together.

What was happening to him? His office had seemed a good choice a few minutes ago. Businesslike and masculine, he’d reasoned, how he liked his office to be. But somehow right now with this woman looking over a document on his desk, he was having trouble remembering what businesslike felt like. He had no such trouble when it came to remembering masculine.

His hormones were clearly dusty if he was feeling attracted to this woman.

‘All right,’ she conceded tightly. ‘It’s your money, after all,’ and he blew out a long breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding as finally she signed her name first on one copy and then the other. ‘Where else did you say to initial?’ she asked, and he was forced to move closer again, flicking a page in the document she was looking at and pointing to where she needed to put her mark. But it was her hair his eyes were drawn to as he leaned over her, and how the ends danced and flirted with his every breath, as if they were alive and oh, so responsive.

She turned her head then, her face perilously close to his, her blue eyes wide with surprise, her lips parted on a question, and right at that moment he thought that whatever her question was, he was the answer.

‘Mr Pirelli?’ she breathed, and he drank her in.

‘Dominic,’ he corrected, his eyes not leaving lips that looked surprisingly like an invitation. Why had he not noticed that before?

‘Dominic …’

He loved the way his name looked on her lips; he liked the neat white line of teeth below and the hint of pink tongue.

And then his mobile phone rang in his pocket and the
spell was broken. He wheeled away, appalled, wondering what the hell he’d been thinking.

Angie scrawled her initials on the papers, hopefully somewhere near the place he’d indicated, and made for the door. She needed to get outside and breathe, for there was no air left in the room, no life-sustaining oxygen to be had. Somehow it had all burnt up in one smouldering look from his dark eyes. But they hadn’t just been dark tonight. They’d been black.

She stumbled from the room, her heart racing as she headed for the kitchen, nearly bumping into Rosa on her way out. ‘Oh. I was just coming to see if you both wanted dessert now, or at least a warm drink.’

‘Nothing for me,’ Angie managed, knowing her cheeks were aflame with colour. ‘I think I’ll go straight to bed. Goodnight.’

‘I just think you should have got her an apartment somewhere,’ Simone protested down the line. ‘Are you sure it was such a good idea to move her into your place?’

‘I couldn’t let her stay out there where she was!’

‘Well, no. But to have her move in with you? Look, Dom, you should be careful with someone like her. Next thing you know, she’ll get used to luxury living and you’ll never get rid of her.’

‘We have an agreement. She signed it tonight. She leaves as soon as the baby is delivered.’

‘And you really believe she’ll go back to where she came from, after seeing how the other half lives?’

‘Why, Simone,’ he said, half joking, ‘anyone would think you cared.’

A moment’s hesitation. ‘I just don’t want anyone taking advantage of you, that’s all.’

He remembered the almost kiss in the study—tried
to work out if it was Angie who’d precipitated what had almost happened or him—and gave up trying. In the end nothing had happened and that was how it would stay. ‘Forget it, Simone. You know me. You really think that after so many years of business I’d let someone like her take advantage of me?’

There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line. ‘She’s a woman, Dominic. And, if you haven’t noticed, she’s carrying your child, and now we learn her husband’s dumped her. Of course she’s going to play on your heart strings every chance she gets. Arrangement or not, what has she got to lose by trying?’

‘Thanks for the warning,’ he said. ‘Not that I think there’s too much chance of me falling for someone like her, do you?’

At the end of the phone line Simone laughed, exactly the reaction he’d intended, but as he terminated the call a few moments later he told himself that he’d only spoken the truth. There was no chance in the world he’d be taken in by someone like Angie Cameron. Sure, maybe he thought her new haircut suited her, but he hadn’t actually kissed her, had he? Nothing had happened. Nothing would happen. He’d make sure of it. He’d stay out of her way. Take dinner in his office as if nothing had changed.

Because nothing really had changed. It wasn’t as if she was an invited guest. They had a contract, one that said nothing about him having to entertain her for the duration. Once she fulfilled the terms, she’d leave.

After all, surely he hadn’t come this far to start slumming it now.

T
ONIGHT
sleep eluded her, despite the smooth white sheets and fluffy comforter and the crash of waves on the rocks below.

What had she been thinking in his office? He’d seemed tense. Nervy even, as if she was cramping his style. And so she’d decided to sign the damn contract so she could get out of there, except she’d sensed something fanning her hair and turned suddenly, and he’d been right there behind her—
right there
! And the way he’d looked at her, with those dark eyes heated and intense, she’d felt that tug, that insane longing once again.

She should have turned right back around. She should have stood up and told him she’d need to read the agreement over again in her suite, but she’d stayed there for a moment too long, and then he’d leaned towards her and she’d waited. Waited for what?

For him to kiss her?

She rolled over and dragged a pillow over her head. Oh, God she was crazy! Pregnancy hormones were making her crazy. And just why would billionaire Dominic Pirelli try to kiss her? He, no doubt, had the pick of Sydney society to entertain if he so wished.

He was nothing to her. Nothing but the biological father of the baby she happened to be carrying in her womb.

And she was nothing to him.

Less than nothing; he’d made that patently clear. So what was she thinking, that she even imagined he’d wanted to kiss her?

Crazy!

But there would be no more chance of crazy moments like that. Her suite was self-contained. She would plead tiredness and take her evening meals alone. And save them all some embarrassment and angst in the process.

The waves crashed in against the shore, water whooshing up the sandy cove before silence reigned for a few seconds and there was another crash, another whoosh.

She loved the sounds here, loved the sound of the sea so close. She heard a bird cry in the darkness, a seabird settling down, embracing the night.

Sounds so different from what she was used to. A difference she was determined not to grow accustomed to.

Not if she could help it.

The garage lights came on with a sudden snap and settled into a low hum. Usually his office was his retreat. Normally he could bury himself there for hours. But not tonight, not with the hint of fruit still on the air and the memories of a girl with brilliant blue eyes and lips he’d come too close to kissing. Tonight his office was no sanctuary at all.

Dominic cast his eyes around the long room, more like a car park than any mere garage. His half dozen favourite vehicles sat gleaming under the lights, ready for action, and as he looked around the room, his gaze lingered wistfully over the red Ferrari. It had been some
time since he’d taken that baby out for a run and right now he could do with it more than ever.

But he turned away, his gaze going to the workshop beyond the cavernous showroom, because he wasn’t here to check out his collection of cars. It had been years since he’d last seen what he was looking for, but he’d kept them, he knew, so they had to be down here somewhere.

It took him an hour of searching but eventually he found them, buried deep in the shelving that lined the wall above the workbench. And what had first looked like nothing more than an old bundle of cloth was unrolled to reveal its treasure. His poppa’s woodworking tools—the gouges and chisels his grandfather had used to carve the tiny birds and animals that had adorned their home and the ornate carvings, the crucifixes and benevolent-eyed Madonnas he had sold to make a little extra money.

The wooden handles seemed darker than he remembered, stained with time and neglect, though the steels still looked keen edged and true. Just looking at them took him back to another era, another time. He lifted a gouge, testing it in his palm, never expecting it to feel so right—his poppa’s hands had always seemed so big compared to his—only to find the weight sat perfectly. His fingers curled around the wooden handle, settling into the long ago worn grooves from another’s hand.

He bowed his head, his eyes squeezed shut as the memories surged back. Powerful. Overwhelming. Of sitting on his poppa’s knee at the long workbench in the shed out back while his big hands guided his own, showing him how to work the gouge with the grain to shape the wood, and then to give detail with the different chisels. He’d shown him how to smooth the surface
and then he’d learned how to polish with the slipstones until the surface was slick to the touch.

He’d wrapped the piece in cotton wool and a scrap of used birthday wrapping. Nonna had found a red ribbon to tie around it and he’d given it to his mother for her birthday.

The best present she’d ever had, she’d told him, and his poppa had beamed while his heart had swelled with pride.

When had he forgotten how to make things?

Right about the time he’d learned how important it was to have money.

Right about the time he’d learned that without money you were powerless to save the ones you loved.

But it hadn’t saved Carla.

Angry, he headed for the bin of offcuts the last lot of builders had left behind after they’d finished the gazebo by the pool. He fossicked for a bit before pulling out a piece six inches long. It wasn’t hardwood. His grandfather wouldn’t approve. But it would do.

He sat at the bench surveying the piece of wood, his fingers curling and flexing over the tools all lined up in their now flattened leather roll. He picked up the wood in one hand and a gouge in the other and attacked a corner. The tool skidded away, never gaining purchase, almost taking off a fingertip. He cursed, sharp and sweet, hearing his poppa’s voice in his ear advising him, imagined his old worn hand guiding his own.

He took a deep breath, angled the tool and tried again.

He sat back and took a deep breath. Sweat rolled off him as if he’d just run ten kilometres along the shore. He glanced at his watch, astonished to find two hours
had passed since he’d sat down and started curling wood shavings from the block, totally focused as he searched for the object that lay within. It had felt good to hold the tools. Good to feel their power and their potential.

He’d even imagined he was getting somewhere.

He looked critically down at the piece in his hands now, turning it one way and then the other before he hurled the lump back into the bin where it landed with a clatter.

It was rubbish!

She was bored. Beyond bored. Angie put down her book, even that failing to hold her interest. One month of having nothing to do but eat, sleep or swim laps of the pool and Angie was fast running out of enthusiasm for her six-month holiday. Even the fact she was feeling better, her morning sickness easing, was no consolation. At least throwing up half the day had given her something to do.

Inspired both by Dominic’s insult about her wardrobe and the sad truth of the state of the clothes that had been delivered with her belongings, she’d asked Rosa to see if Antonia would mind coming shopping with her.

It turned out Antonia had been just the person for the job. Angie had drawn the line at the ball gowns—the way her tummy was finally starting to show, they wouldn’t fit her ten minutes after she’d bought them, and where would she wear them anyway, but she’d still managed to come home with an entire wardrobe of clothes and shoes and with a new appreciation for how far twenty thousand dollars didn’t go when you lived on this side of town.

She loved her new clothes. She loved the way the bright sundresses made her feel—feminine and pretty.
She loved the cool linen trousers and soft tops and sandals she’d bought to go with them. She loved the flirty floral skirts that shifted on the breeze as she walked.