Marriage in Name Only?. Anne Oliver

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      ‘I think your daddy has something for you,’ Jordan said, jutting his chin in the direction of the barbecue.

      Tamara followed his gaze. ‘Yum, sausages. Bye.’ She waved a hand, setting a dozen gold bangles jangling along her arm, her frilly party dress shimmering in the sun as she skipped across the lawn to her father.

      ‘She’s a cutie,’ Chloe said, meeting Jordan’s eyes, still unsettled by the boyfriend question but determined not to let him see. ‘And obviously likes to be the centre of attention.’

      ‘Reminds me of someone else last night.’ His eyes twinkled at her.

      Oh, no. Too awkward. She loved attention but singing to an audience in a costume two sizes too small? And worse, kissing the wrong man? She coughed out a laugh. ‘Please, I’d rather forget.’

      ‘Well, I, for one, am not likely to forget any time soon.’ He watched her without speaking a moment. Not that she was looking at him now—she was smiling and giving a finger wave to Tamara, who was holding up her sausage like a trophy—but she could feel the heat of his gaze, bathing her like sunshine and not letting her forget either. ‘You like kids,’ he said.

      ‘You kinda need to if you want to work as a nanny.’

      ‘Guess so. That job kept you busy a good while, then?’

      Eighteen wonderful months of being a nanny to Brad while falling hopelessly in love with his father … Don’t go there. She forced herself to meet Jordan’s eyes. ‘Only until I had enough money to get me to the next port of call.’

      A tiny line furrowed between his brows, as if he was weighing up the truth of what she’d said. ‘So … what else did you do while you were overseas? The usual waitressing to fund the campervan to Europe?’

      ‘I wanted more than that,’ she went on quickly, relieved the nanny topic was over. ‘I picked grapes in France, trekked Nepal, worked on a trail restoration project in the Grand Canyon. Won a wet T-shirt contest in Rome and lost my money in—’ Appalled, she bit her lips together. Please tell me I didn’t just say that. To a man she barely knew. A rich and successful man who’d never have been so careless where money was concerned. She couldn’t even blame her runaway tongue on too much wine.

      This was the however many time in less than twelve hours that she’d said too much to Jordan Blackstone. It was none of his business. She should blame him. It was his fault she wasn’t thinking straight.

      ‘You ran out of funds,’ he finished for her.

      ‘Ye—No.’ She chewed on her lip then plastered a smile on her face. He probably thought she had a gambling problem or something. ‘Family—I told you already. Last night.’

      ‘So you did,’ he said slowly, watching her through eyes that were far too perceptive. ‘I wasn’t sure.’

      Now he probably thought she’d come back to sponge off her parents. If he only knew it was the other way round. She eyeballed him back. ‘Money’s not important to me. Never has been, never will be.’

      He didn’t believe her, she could tell. And okay, money hadn’t been important until now. She looked away from his unsettling assessment and watched the wait staff setting platters of salads and aromatic Eastern dishes on a long glass table.

      When she saw the tray of steaming barbecued delights arrive at the table, Chloe moved fast. ‘Looks like the food’s ready,’ she said over her shoulder as she walked away. ‘I’m starved.’

      Chloe used the buffet meal to mingle with the other guests under the covered pergola. She didn’t speak with Jordan again, but as she chatted she knew where he was at any given time by the way the hairs on the back of her neck tingled as if they were mini antennae seeking a signal.

      So when Tamara asked her to come and look at her new cubby house, Chloe was only too happy to escape.

      The little hideaway stood a metre or so off the ground. It was a perfect replica of a gingerbread house, crammed with child-sized furniture, books and toys. Tamara had just settled on a cushion when she jumped up and scrambled to the door. ‘I forgot my princess crown in my bedroom. Wait, okay?’

      ‘Okay.’

      Chloe watched the child skip off across the manicured lawns in her designer dress and shiny shoes with what had to be a fortune in Dubai gold glittering on her arm and blew out a sigh.

      Obviously this child was loved, indulged, no struggle to be accepted by her doting parents. Was just wanting to be loved and accepted for who she was too much for Chloe to ask? She stared around at the cubby, luxurious enough to live in.

      Okay, money had never been a priority, but right now she could do with a fraction of that wealth. Who knew where her parents might end up without the home they’d lived in for forty years?

      And why should she care? Why should Chloe Montgomery, an accidental offspring who’d never fitted in, never lived up to their expectations and had escaped overseas the moment she was old enough, feel any sort of familial obligation?

      She rubbed a dull ache that had taken up residence in her heart since Donna’s email last night. Because they were family, bonded through blood—however fragile that connection was.

      As fragile as life itself, Chloe thought, remembering how devastatingly final Ellen’s loss had been. Ellen had argued with her family and left without a goodbye and life had been sweet and exciting. But a couple of months ago her parents’ car had been swept away crossing a flooded river in rural Victoria. Chloe would never forget the despair in Ellen’s eyes as they’d said goodbye to each other at Vancouver airport.

      A couple of months later, Chloe had decided maybe it was time to come home, too, and re-establish some sort of connection, but she’d needed just a little more cash …

      Tamara scrambled up the little steps and burst through the doorway with a sparkling crown on her head and a skateboard under one arm. ‘Can you read me a story?’

      Chloe loved telling stories—making up her own adventures where the heroine always won in the end. She’d been doing it since she was Tamara’s age. ‘I can do better than that,’ she told her. ‘I’ll tell you one.’

      ‘How did last night’s conference call go?’ Sadiq asked Jordan as they wandered away from the group.

      ‘I was right—I need to be there in person.’ He tightened his jaw, stared out over the garden. ‘If I can talk to Qasim face to face, I know I can convince him. I’ve made an appointment to meet with him next week.’ He turned to his friend. ‘You understand the way things are done there. What’s it going to take?’

      ‘Stability. Focus. Commitment.’

      ‘You know me—I’m all three.’

      ‘Where business is concerned, I agree one hundred per cent, but in other aspects of your life …?’ Sadiq shook his head. ‘It doesn’t help when you’re frequently in the media spotlight with a different woman superglued to your arm every night of the week.’

      ‘Women have never interfered with my business priorities. They—’

      ‘And СКАЧАТЬ