Taken By The Maverick Millionaire. Anna Cleary

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СКАЧАТЬ is being discussed. You’ve deliberately concealed your press pass—’

      She gave a deep sigh. ‘I explained that.’ Resigning herself, she capitulated, feeling in her bag for the pass, then lifting up the edge of her jacket while she clamped it on. ‘See? Ruins it.’

      His eyes were fastened to her waist. He must have only seen the merest fragment of bare skin over her ribs before she dropped the hem back, but his pupils dilated and she saw his heavy black lashes give an almost imperceptible flicker. He raised his darkened gaze to hers.

      Somehow she couldn’t look away. The air tautened and she felt her mouth dry. She pulled the pass off and patted down the hem several unneccessary times, conscious of her heart’s sudden mad racketing.

      A priest’s dark figure loomed in the doorway, and they both started. A gang of small, fresh-faced boys crowding in behind him told her that the choir had arrived. She became fully conscious then of something she’d had at the edge of her awareness for some time, but had been too intensely absorbed in Tom Russell to notice.

      The organ was playing, and there was a growing swell of voices.

      The church was filling up.

      ‘I’d—I’d better go,’ she said, making an abrupt move towards the door, looking for a way through the milling boys. ‘I don’t want to miss my spot in the church.’

      ‘No, you don’t.’ Tom Russell sprang to his feet and caught her elbow. ‘I’m not letting you out of my sight.’

      Visions of Mike, outside, fuming, assailed her. ‘But—I have to do my job—’

      His hand closed around her wrist in a deceptively light grip. ‘Until I decide what to do with you, sweetheart,’ he said softly,

      ‘you’re with me.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      IT FELT surreal, walking into the main chapel with Tom Russell. All over the church heads swivelled their way, and there was an added buzz to the murmurs of the congregation. Everywhere she looked, she met the interested stares of celebrities and socialites, business high-fliers and politicians, plenty of whom had tasted dust, courtesy of the Sydney Clarion.

      She had the unnerving sensation that she was in the maw of the enemy. A small crowd surged to greet Tom, but she couldn’t help noticing that, despite their sombre murmurs of sympathy, their curious glances kept shifting sideways to scrutinise her.

      Perhaps their interest mightn’t have been as avid if he hadn’t been keeping such a firm hold on her arm. A stylish older woman, who looked vaguely familiar, rushed up to engulf him in an emotional embrace and he was forced to relax his grip. Cate saw her opportunity, and tried to slip away, only to feel a ruthless hand grasp hers and draw her back. Despite her sudden shock, or because of it, his hard palm in sudden connection with hers sent her blood coursing in giddy confusion.

      The woman appeared to be one of Marcus Russell’s exwives. ‘Who’s your friend, Thomas?’ she demanded, leaning forward to peer closely at Cate once her effusions had run out. ‘Introduce me.’

      Tom Russell’s caustic gaze clashed with Cate’s. ‘No one you want to know.’

      The woman looked taken aback, then, when his attention was diverted by the next well-wisher, whispered to Cate, ‘Don’t take any notice of him, dear. This is a difficult day for him.’

      Of course. It must be, Cate thought with some remorse. How could she have taken such pleasure in taunting him?

      The service was surprisingly simple and austere. Though the chapel was packed to the rafters with celebrities, there was none of the razzmatazz Sydney had come to associate with Marcus Russell. Someone had chosen the most exquisite, spiritually moving music in the repertoire. If music could waft Marcus’s poor old soul to heaven, Cate reflected, then J. S. Bach and Mozart’s ‘Requiem’ should do it.

      She gave up trying to escape to Mike, and allowed herself to be jammed into the front pew beside Tom Russell and a gaggle of expensively dressed stepsisters and their mothers, who all stared at her with surprise and curiosity. Some of the glances at her suit made her wonder if she’d left the price tag showing. She crossed her ankles under the seat, hoping to spare her shoes from their merciless scrutiny. She prayed when the others prayed, and sang the Twenty-third Psalm along with everyone else.

      A stream of dignitaries, including the Prime Minister, stood up to honour the memory of Marcus Russell, but after a tedious while she tuned down to listen with half an ear, and started to plan her story for tomorrow’s issue. Her absent, wandering gaze drifted down to the burnished leather shoe resting next to hers, and she surfaced from her reverie with a small start of surprise. Why hadn’t she noticed before?

      Between Tom Russell’s trouser hem and his expensive loafer was an expanse of bare, tanned skin.

      He’d forgotten his socks.

      A strange sensation flooded her, of sympathy and amusement mingled with some poignant, melty feeling. How unexpectedly human it made him. She was overwhelmed with a need to turn and look at him, to touch one of the beautiful lean hands resting on his Armani-clad knee. Possible words of comfort welled up on her tongue, but she forced herself to keep gazing straight ahead, and had to be satisfied with drinking in the magnetism of his masculine aura, and luxuriating in the warm contact of his arm and shoulder.

      When he rose to take the lectern, the coughs and shuffles of the congregation ceased, and the church fell silent. The air pulsed with anticipation. She held her breath for him, wondering how nervous he was.

      If he was it didn’t show. Like a man born to rule, he rose to the occasion and spoke with dignity and authority, taking only an occasional glance at his notes. His voice resonated through the church like the darker tones of a cello.

      It gave her a perfect opportunity to study the classic bone structure of his lean, harsh face. He was so tall and masterful, so sincere and grief-stricken and restrained, she felt moved. How he must have loved that dreadful old man.

      It came as a shock. Affection for his only child was the one thing she’d never heard Marcus Russell accused of. She knew a stab of discomfort to wonder how much the unshrinking honesty of her obituary had added to Tom’s pain.

      ‘My father may not have been universally admired,’ he said, controlling the emotion in his voice, ‘but he was a generous benefactor to many charities. Those who knew him well knew that he was not “a mere leech, fat on the profits of greed”.’

      The familiar words, read with grim distaste, jolted through Cate. Murmurs of sympathetic outrage rippled around the congregation.

      She sank down in her seat. What if they knew the perpetrator of those words was here in their very midst?

      From his commanding position at the lectern, Tom spoke to the sea of familiar faces before him without seeing a single one. Conscious this had to be the performance of his life, he measured his comments with care, searingly conscious of their irony. If people only guessed how generous his father had been to charity.

      The question that had tortured fourteen sleepless nights tormented him afresh. Why had Marcus done it? How could a man of his experience have believed a desperate financial shortfall would change his son’s life for the better? Did he really believe a disaster could erase a man’s grief?

      Something СКАЧАТЬ