Wife in Public (2 page)

J
ORDAN
Powell sat at the breakfast table, perusing the property sales reported in the morning newspaper as he waited for Margaret to serve him the perfect crispy bacon with the perfect eggs hollandaise that not even the best restaurants had ever equalled. Not to his taste, anyway. Margaret Partridge was a jewel—a meticulous housekeeper and a great cook. He enjoyed her blunt honesty, too. It was a rarity in his life and he wasn’t about to lose it. All in all, Margaret was far more worth keeping than Corinne Alder.

The delicious scent of freshly cooked bacon had him looking up and smiling at Margaret as she entered the sunroom where he always ate breakfast and lunch when he was home. There was no smile back. The expression on her face disdained any pleasantries between them this morning. Jordan quickly folded his newspaper and set it aside, aware that Margaret’s feathers were seriously ruffled.

She dumped the plate of bacon and eggs in front of him, planted her hands on her hips and brusquely warned, ‘If you invite that Corinne Alder back to this house, Jordan, I’m out of here. I will not be talked down to by a good-for-nothing chit like that, thinking she’s
got it over me just because she was born with enough good looks for you to want her in your bed.’

Jordan raised an open palm for peace. ‘The deed is done, Margaret. I finished with Corinne this morning. And I apologise profusely for her behaviour towards you. I can only say in my defence she was as sweet as pie to me and…’

‘Well, she would be, wouldn’t she?’ Margaret cut in with a sniff of disgust at his obvious gullibility. ‘I don’t mind you having a string of affairs. At least that’s more honest than marrying and cheating. You can parade as many women as you like through this house, but I won’t be treated with disrespect.’

‘I shall make that very clear to anyone I invite in future,’ Jordan solemnly promised. ‘I’m sorry my judgement of character was somewhat blurred in this in stance.’

Margaret sniffed again. ‘You could try practising looking beyond the surface.’

‘I shall attempt to plumb the depths next time.’

‘Out of bed as well as in it,’ she whipped back at him.

He heaved a sigh. ‘Now is that nice, Margaret? Am I ever anything but nice to you? Haven’t I just shown how much I care about your feelings by breaking it off with Corinne?’

‘Good riddance!’ she declared with satisfaction. ‘And it’s on account of the fact that you’re always nice to me that I didn’t burn your breakfast.’ A smile was finally bestowed on him. ‘Enjoy it!’

On her way out of the sunroom a triumphant mutter floated back to him. ‘She had a big bum anyhow.’

Clearly a flaw to true physical beauty in Margaret’s mind. It left Jordan’s mouth twitching with amusement.
Margaret was virtually bumless, a short, skinny woman in her fifties, totally disinterested in enhancing her femininity. She never wore make-up, was hardly ever out of the white shirtmaker dresses which she considered a suitable uniform for her position, along with flat white lace-up shoes. Her unashamedly grey hair was invariably screwed up into a neat bun on top of her head. However, she did exude quite extraordinary energy and there was a lot of sharp intelligence in her bright, brown eyes, along with the sharp wit that occasionally flew off her tongue.

Jordan had liked her immediately.

When he had interviewed her for the job she had told him she was divorced, didn’t intend ever to marry again, and if she had to keep a house and cook for a man, she’d rather be paid for it. Her two children were doing fine for themselves and she liked the idea of doing fine for herself, being employed by a billionaire in a house full of luxuries. If he would give her a month’s trial, she would prove he’d be lucky to find anyone better.

Jordan considered himself very lucky to have found Margaret. He especially appreciated how fortunate he was as he tucked into his superbly cooked breakfast. There were always beautiful women vying for his attention and he enjoyed having a taste of them, but none of them stayed as constantly delectable as Margaret’s meals.

Corinne could be easily replaced. As for looking for more than a bed partner…no, he wasn’t going down that road again, having almost been drawn into proposing marriage by the extremely artful Biancha who had presented herself as the perfect wife for him, so perfectly obliging to his every need and desire it had struck a slightly uneasy chord in him, though not enough
to pull him back from the brink until the deception unravelled.

She’d known all along that her father’s supposed wealth was a house of cards about to fall…totally dishonest about her family situation…and when the collapse could no longer be held off, it had become sickeningly obvious that she had targeted him to be her rescue package. No way would she have put herself out so much for the man…without the billions to keep her life sweet.

Margaret might have spotted Biancha’s true colours if she’d been working for him then. Not much got past his shrewd housekeeper. In fact, having such a jewel running his house, he saw no reason whatsoever to take a wife, especially when he was never short of bed partners.

Too few marriages worked for long, especially in his social set, and there was nothing more sour than the financial fallout that came with divorce. He’d witnessed enough of those problems with his sister’s marriages. Three times now Olivia had blindly hooked up with fortune-hunters, not even learning from experience, which annoyed the hell out of him. As the old saying went, once bitten should have made her twice shy. A million times shy in his book!

At least his parents had had the sense to keep their marriage together, although that had been a different generation. His father had been very discreet about his string of mistresses, allowing his mother to maintain her pride in being the wife of one of the most prominent property tycoons in Australia and enjoy the pleasure of the brilliant lifestyle he provided. Besides, she had had her ‘walkers’ whenever his father hadn’t been available to accompany her to the opera or the theatre—gay men
who loved the arts as much as she did, and who were delighted to have the privilege of escorting her, thereby getting free tickets.

His parents had kept the bond going for thirty years, and there’d still been some affection between them at the end, his mother genuinely grieving over his father’s death. It was a lot of shared years, regardless of the ups and downs. Jordan doubted there was a woman alive who could interest him enough to want to share more than even a few months with her. They invariably turned out to be too damned full of themselves.

I want…I need…look at me…talk to me. If I’m not the centre of your universe, I’m going to sulk or throw a tantrum.

He’d just finished breakfast when his mobile rang. He took it out of his shirt pocket, hoping it wasn’t Corinne calling to appeal for some reconsideration. That would be extremely tedious. She’d been nastily dismissive of Margaret’s feelings, and he wasn’t about to accept any excuse for her rudeness to a highly valued employee.

It was a relief to find it was his mother wanting contact with him.

‘Good morning,’ he said cheerfully. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘You can be free this Friday evening to escort me to an art gallery,’ she replied with her usual queenly aplomb. It was amazing how many people bowed to her will when she employed that tone. Of course, the wealth backing it had a big influence. Nonie Powell was known to be enormously charitable, and she was not above using that as a power tool.

Jordan, however, did not have to be a courtier. ‘What’s wrong with Murray?’ he demanded, wondering if the
‘walker’ she most relied upon had somehow lost her favour.

‘The poor boy slipped on wet tiles and broke his ankle.’

The poor boy was a very dapper sixty year old.

‘I’m sorry to hear that. What’s on at what gallery?’

‘It’s dear Henry’s gallery at Paddington. He’s showing Sacha Thornton’s latest work. You bought two of her paintings at her last exhibition so you should be interested in seeing what she’s done more recently.’

He remembered. Lots of vivid colour. A field of poppies in Italy and a vase of marigolds. The paintings had brightened up the walls at the sales office for one of his retirement villages. He also remembered the vivid red-gold hair of Sacha Thornton’s daughter. She’d worn jeans. Margaret would have approved of
her
bum. Very neat. But it was the hair that had drawn him into asking for an introduction.

Wrong time, wrong place, with Melanie Tindell hanging on his arm, but Jordan felt a strong spark of interest in meeting the artist’s daughter again. Wonderful pale skin—amazingly without freckles—and eyes so green he wouldn’t mind plumbing
their
depths. She could have looked spectacular with a bit of effort. He’d wondered why she hadn’t bothered. Most women would have played up such natural assets.

The name came back to him…Ivy.

Poison Ivy?

There’d definitely been some tension between her and her mother.

All very curious.

‘The doors open at six o’clock,’ his own mother informed him. ‘Henry will serve us decent champagne and there’ll be the usual hors d’oeuvres. If you’ll be at
home at five-thirty I’ll direct my chauffeur to pick you up along the way.’

His current domain at Balmoral was only a slight diversion on his mother’s route from Palm Beach. ‘Fine!’ he replied, deciding he could improvise with alternative transport should Ivy prove interesting enough to pursue.

‘Thank you, Jordan.’

‘My pleasure.’

He smiled as he closed his mobile and tucked it back in his pocket.

He didn’t mind pleasing his mother, especially when there was the possibility of pleasure for himself.

I
VY
was late. The Friday-evening peak-hour traffic had been horrific, and finding a parking place had been equally frustrating. She had to walk three blocks virtually on her toes in the trendy shoes, silently cursing the designers who dictated foot fashion. They deserved a seat in hell. No, not a seat. They should have to walk forever in their own torturous creations.

As she turned the last corner to the street where the gallery was situated, she saw a chauffeur popping back into a Rolls-Royce which was double-parked outside her destination.
Easy for some,
she thought, her mind instantly zinging to Jordan Powell. Everything would be easy for a billionaire, especially women. Certainly in his case. A fact she was unlikely to forget.

In Heather’s lingo, she was a red-hot tamale tonight.

If Jordan Powell was here by himself…if he bit…what should she do?

Have a taste of him or run?

Wait and see,
she told himself. There was no point in crossing bridges until she came to them.

She switched her thoughts to her mother. It was a big night for her. At least this outfit should not take any of the shine off it. It was sequin city all the way.

Henry Boyce, the gallery owner, was obsequiously chatting up one of his super-wealthy clients when Ivy walked in, but his eagle eye was open for newcomers. When he caught sight of her, his jaw dropped. The gorgeously gowned woman with the perfectly styled blond hair who had lost his attention turned to see who was the distraction, a miffed look on her arrogant face. The man who stood on the other side of her shifted enough to view the intrusive object.

It was Jordan Powell.

And
his
face broke into a delighted grin.

Ivy’s heart instantly leapt into a jig that would have rivalled the fastest dance performers in Ireland.

‘Good heavens! Ivy?’ Henry uttered incredulously, his usual aplomb momentarily deserting him.

‘Who?’ the woman demanded.

She was considerably older than Jordan, Ivy realised, though beautifully preserved and very full of her own importance.

‘Forgive me, Nonie,’ Henry rattled out. ‘I wasn’t expecting…it’s Sacha’s daughter, Ivy Thornton. Come on in, Ivy. Your mother will be so pleased to see you.’

Not looking like a farm girl this time.

He didn’t say it but he was thinking it.

He’d wanted to turn her away from the last exhibition until she’d identified herself.

Ivy recovered enough from the thumping impact of Jordan Powell’s presence to smile. ‘I’ll go through and find her.’

‘A pleasure to see you here again, Ivy,’ the rose Valentino said, stunning her anew that he actually remembered meeting her before. ‘I don’t think you met my mother last time,’ he continued, stepping around the woman and holding out a beckoning hand to invite
Ivy into the little group. ‘Let me introduce you. Nonie Powell.’

His mother. Who looked her up and down as though measuring whether she was worth knowing. She had blue eyes, too, but they had a touch of frost in them, probably caused by the sheer number of women who streamed through her playboy son’s life, none of whom stayed long enough to merit her attention.

Ivy’s smile tilted ironically as she stepped forward and offered her hand. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Powell.’

‘Are you an artist, too, my dear?’ she asked, deigning to acknowledge Ivy with a brief limp touch.

‘No. I don’t have my mother’s talent.’

‘Oh? What do you do?’

Ivy couldn’t stop a grin from breaking out. She might look like a high-fashion model tonight, but… ‘I work on a farm.’

Which, of course, meant she was of no account whatsoever, so she gave a nod of dismissal before she received one. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ve arrived a little late and my mother might be feeling anxious about it.’

‘A farm?’ Nonie Powell repeated incredulously.

‘Let me help you find her,’ Jordan said, moving swiftly and smoothly to hook his arm around Ivy’s, pouring charm into a wicked smile. ‘I’m very good at cutting a swathe through crowds.’

Ivy gaped at him in amazement while her heart started another wild jig. Did he pick up women as fast as that?

‘Take care of my mother, will you, Henry?’ he tossed at the gallery owner and they were off, Ivy’s feet blindly moving in step with his as she tried to regather her wits.

‘Kind of you,’ she muttered, her senses bombarded
by the spicy cologne he was wearing, the hard muscular arm claiming her company, the confident purr of his sexy voice, the mischievous dance in his bedroom-blue eyes.

‘Pure self-interest. We didn’t get to talk much last time, and I’m bursting with curiosity about you.’

‘Why?’ she demanded, frowning over how directly he was coming on to her, even after she’d said straight-out she was a farm girl. Did that make her a novelty?

‘The transformation for a start,’ he answered teasingly.

She shrugged. ‘My mother was not pleased with my appearance at that showing so I’m trying not to be a blot on her limelight again.’

‘You could never be a blot with your shade of hair,’ he declared. ‘It’s a beacon of glorious colour.’

He rolled the words out so glibly, Ivy couldn’t really feel complimented. The playboy was playing and some deep-down sense of self-worth resented his game. She should be feeling happily flattered that Jordan Powell was attracted to her, delighted that her dress-up effort had paid off. Yet, despite the charismatic sexiness of the man, she was inwardly bridling against the ease with which he thought he could claim her company. Everything was too easy for him and she didn’t like the idea of him finding her easy, too.

She halted in the midst of the gallery crowd, unhooked her arm and turned to face him, her eyes focussed on burning a hole through his to the facile mind behind them. ‘Are you chatting me up?’

He looked surprised at the direct confrontation. Then amused. ‘Yes and no,’ he replied with a grin. ‘I speak the absolute truth about your fabulous hair but I am…’

‘I’m more than red hair,’ she cut in, refusing to
respond to the heart-kicking grin. ‘And since I’ve had it all my life, it’s quite meaningless to me.’

Which should have dampened his ardour but didn’t.

He laughed, and the lovely deep chuckle caressed all of Ivy’s female hormones into vibrant life. Her thighs tensed, her stomach fluttered, her breasts tingled, and while her eyes still warred with the seductive twinkle in his, she was acutely aware of wanting to experience this man, regardless of knowing how short-term it would be. Nevertheless, resentment at his superficiality still simmered.

‘Would you like me to rave on about your hair or how handsome you are?’ she asked with lofty contempt. ‘Is that the measure of you as a man?’

His mouth did its sensual little quirk. ‘I stand corrected on how to chat you up. May I begin again?’

‘Begin what?’

‘Acquainting myself with the person you are.’

That was good. Really good. It hit the spot of prickling discontent. Nevertheless, Ivy couldn’t bring herself to surrender to his charm without a further stand.

‘Don’t be deceived by this trendy get-up. It’s for my mother. And Henry, who’s a snob of the first order, not welcoming the common herd into his gallery. I’m simply not your type.’

He raised a wickedly arched eyebrow. ‘Care to expound on what my type is?’

Careful, Ivy.

It was best for business not to reveal how she knew what she knew about him.

She cocked her head to the side consideringly and said, ‘From what I observed last time we met, I’d say you specialise in beautiful trophy women.’

His brow creased thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps they’re the ones who throw themselves at me. Wealth is a drawcard so it’s difficult to know if anyone actually likes you. It’s more about what you can give them. I tend to sift through what’s offered and…’

‘May I point out it was
you
who grabbed me.
I
didn’t throw myself at you.’

He smiled. ‘Wonderfully refreshing, Ivy. Please allow me to learn more about you.’

It was impossible to muster up any more defences against that smile. Ivy sighed and gave in to the desire to have him at her side, at least for a little while. ‘Well, my mother will be impressed if I have you in tow,’ she muttered and curled her arm around his again. ‘Lead on. Can you see her anywhere?’

He glanced around from his greater height, not that Ivy was short in these high-heeled platform shoes, but the top of her head was only level with his nose.

‘To our right,’ he directed. ‘She’s talking to a couple who appear interested in one of her paintings.’

‘Then we mustn’t interrupt, just hover nearby until she finishes with them and is free to notice me.’

‘I think she’ll notice you whether she’s free or not,’ Jordan said dryly.

Ivy didn’t see anyone else in sequins. ‘I hope I’m not too over the top in this outfit,’ she said worriedly. ‘The aim was to pleasantly surprise her with an up-to-date city version of me.’

‘She didn’t like the country version?’

Ivy rolled her eyes at him. ‘When someone makes an art form of glamour, anything less offends their sensibilities, so no, she didn’t care for my lack of care.’

‘No problem tonight. You look as though you stepped right off the page of a fashion magazine.’

‘I did.’

‘Pardon?’

Ivy couldn’t help laughing, her eyes twinkling at him as she explained. ‘Saw a photo of these clothes, bought them, and hey presto! Even you’re impressed!’

‘You wear them well,’ he said, amused by her amusement at her magic trick.

‘Thank you. Then you don’t think I’m over the top?’

‘Not at all.’

She hugged his arm. ‘Good! I’ve got you to protect me if my mother attacks.’

‘I’m glad to be of use.’

He was a charmer. No doubt about that. Ivy was suddenly bubbling over with high spirits, despite knowing his track record with women. It wouldn’t hurt to enjoy his company at the gallery, she decided. Much more fun than being on her own.

Her mother was dressed in a long flowing gown that fell from a beaded yoke in deepening shades of pink. Unlike Ivy, she wore pink beautifully, but then she wasn’t like Ivy at all except for the curly hair. No one would pick them as mother and daughter. Sacha Thornton had grey eyes. Her hair was dark brown—almost black—and cascaded over her shoulders in a wild mane of ringlets, defying the fact she was nearing fifty. Though she didn’t look it. Artful make-up gave her face the colour and vivacity of a much younger woman.

Bangles and rings flashed as her hands talked up the painting she was intent on selling to the couple. The expressive gesticulation halted in midair as Ivy—linked with Jordan Powell—moved into her line of vision. A startled look froze the animation of her face.

Ivy barely clamped down on the hysterical giggle
that threatened to erupt from her throat. She wished Heather was here to see the outcome of her pushing—first Henry, then Jordan Powell and now her mother totally agog. Heather would be dancing around and clapping her hands in wild triumph. And Ivy had to admit that even her tortured feet did not take the gleeful gloss off this moment.

It was ridiculous, of course.

All to do with image.

An image that didn’t reflect who she was at all.

Nevertheless, she would happily wear it tonight for the sheer fun it was bringing her.

Her mother swiftly recovered, flashing an ingratiating smile at the prospective buyers. ‘You must excuse me now.’ She nodded towards Ivy. ‘My daughter has just arrived.’

No hesitation whatsoever in acknowledging their relationship, nor in directing attention to her. The couple looked, their eyes widening at what they obviously saw as a power pair waiting in the wings. Jordan Powell was a splendid ornament on Ivy’s arm.

‘But please speak to Henry about the painting,’ her mother went on. ‘He’s handling all the sales.’

She pressed their hands in a quick parting gesture and swept over to plant extravagant kisses on her daughter’s cheeks in between extravagant cries of approval.

‘Darling! How lovely you look! I’m so thrilled that you’re here for me! And with Jordan!’

She stepped back to eye him coquettishly. ‘I do hope this means you’ve come to buy more of my work.’

‘Ivy and I came to greet you first, Sacha,’ he answered, oozing his charm again. ‘We haven’t had a chance to see what’s on show yet.’

‘Well, if there’s anything that takes your eye…’

They chatted for a few minutes, Ivy wryly reflecting that Jordan Powell was more important to her mother than she was. The man with the money. And the connections. She understood that this was what tonight was about for Sacha Thornton, not catching up with a daughter who didn’t share the same interests anyway. At least she had succeeded in not being a drag on proceedings. The next telephone call from her mother should be quite pleasant.

‘Ivy, dear, make sure Jordan sees everything,’ her mother pleaded prettily when he was about to draw away.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she answered obligingly. ‘Good luck with the show, Sacha.’

‘Sacha?’ Jordan queried, eyeing her curiously as he steered her into the adjoining room which wasn’t so crowded with people. ‘You don’t call her Mum?’

‘No.’ Ivy shrugged. ‘Her choice. And I don’t mind. Sacha never felt like a real mother to me. I was brought up by my father. That was her choice, too.’

‘But you came for her tonight.’

‘She always made the effort to come to events that were important to me.’

‘Like what?’

‘School concerts, graduation. Whenever I wanted both parents there for me.’

‘Will you be staying the weekend with her?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’d rather go home.’

‘Which is where?’

‘About a hundred kilometres from here.’

She wasn’t about to identify her location to him. The
farm’s website gave it away and he might have read it when he decided to use their service for his rose gifts.

‘That’s quite a drive late at night.’

‘It won’t be late. People drift out of here after a couple of hours.’ She gave him an ironic grimace. ‘You whisked me off before I could get a brochure detailing the paintings from Henry. Did he give you one?’