The Husband Test. Helen Bianchin

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      Without doubt, Katrina decided grimly, recalling how he’d stood like a dark angel on the fringes, watchful, his touch cool, almost impersonal, as he’d taken her hand in his and had brushed his lips to her cheek.

      He’d uttered a few words in condolence, politely declined to attend the wake held in Kevin Macbride’s home, and had walked to his car, slid in behind the wheel, and driven away.

      ‘And if I choose not to heed my late father’s request?’

      ‘Nicos Kasoulis retains control in the boardroom, and a financial interest in Macbride.’

      She didn’t believe him, couldn’t accept Kevin had gone to such lengths to satisfy a whim to have his daughter reconcile with a man he had considered more than her equal.

      ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Katrina refuted. She was the rightful heir to the Macbride business empire. Dammit, it wasn’t about money…nor bricks and mortar, stocks and bonds.

      It was what they represented. The sweat and toil of a young Irish lad from Tullamore who at the age of fifteen had worked his way to Australia to begin a new life in Sydney as a brickie’s labourer. At twenty-one he’d formed his own company and made his first million. At thirty he’d become a legend, and had been fêted as such. With the pick of Sydney’s society maidens to choose from, he’d acquired a wife, sired a babe, and had developed a roving eye. Something that had got him into trouble and out of marriage a few too many times. A lovable rogue, as Katrina’s mother had referred to Kevin Macbride on a good day.

      To Katrina he’d been a saint. A tall dark-haired man whose laugh had begun in his belly and had rolled out into the air as a full-blooded shout. Someone who’d swept her up into his arms, rubbed his sun-drenched cheek against her own fair one, told stories that would have charmed the fairies, and who’d loved her unconditionally.

      From a young age she’d played pretend Monopoly with his kingdom, sitting on his knee, absorbing every business fact he’d imparted. During school holidays she’d accompanied him to building sites, had had her own hard hat, and had been able to cuss as well as any hardened labourer—mentally. For if Kevin had caught even a whisper of such language falling from her lips he’d never have allowed her on any site again.

      Something that would have hurt far more than a paternal slap, for she’d inherited his love of creating something magnificent from bricks and mortar. Of siting the land, envisaging architectural design, selecting the materials, the glass, seeing it rise from the ground to finish as a masterpiece. Houses, buildings, office towers. In later years Kevin Macbride had delegated, but everything that bore his stamp had received his personal touch. It had been his Irish pride, and her own, to see that it was done.

      To imagine conceding any of it to Nicos Kasoulis was unconscionable. She couldn’t, wouldn’t do it. Macbride belonged to a Macbride.

      ‘You refuse?’

      The lawyer’s smooth tones intruded, and she lifted her chin in a gesture of defiance. ‘Nicos Kasoulis will not gain sole control of Macbride.’

      Her eyes were the green of the fields of her father’s homeland. Brilliant, lush. Emphasised by the pale cream texture of her skin, the deep auburn hair that fell in a river of dark red-gold silky curls down her back.

      For all that Kevin Macbride had been a big man, his only child had inherited her mother’s petite frame and slender curves, the hair and eyes from her paternal grandmother, and a temper to match.

      Too much woman for many a man, the lawyer mused, who’d long been intrigued by the private life of one of the city’s icons whose business interests had commanded large legal fees over the years.

      ‘You will, therefore, adhere to your father’s wishes as set out in his will?’

      Live with Nicos Kasoulis? Share a home, her life, with him for one year? ‘If that’s what it takes,’ Katrina vowed solemnly, and he was willing to swear he caught a hint of tensile steel that boded ill for any man hoping to bend her will.

      Was Nicos Kasoulis that man? He would have thought so, given the look of him. Yet, despite the marriage, they’d separated after a few brief months, and rumour rarely held much basis for fact.

      His business was to ensure Kevin Macbride’s wishes were legally maintained. Not to wonder at the man’s private life, nor that of his only child.

      ‘I shall despatch formal notification of your willingness to comply.’

      Katrina lifted one eyebrow, and her voice was dry and totally lacking in humour. ‘Did my father specify a date for this reconciliation?’

      ‘Within seven days of his passing.’

      Kevin Macbride had never been one to waste time, but a week was over-zealous, surely?

      She looked around the sumptuous furnishings, the expensive prints adorning the walls, the heavy plate-glass and caught the view out over the harbour.

      Suddenly she wanted out of here, away from officialdom and legalities. She needed to feel the fresh air on her face, to put the top down on her Porsche and drive, let the breeze toss her hair and bring colour to her cheeks. To be free to think, before she had to deal with Nicos.

      With determined resolve she rose to her feet. ‘I imagine we’ll be in touch again before long.’ There would be documents to sign, the due process of winding up a deceased’s estate. She extended her hand in a formal gesture that concluded the appointment, murmured a few polite words in parting, then she moved into the corridor leading to Reception.

      The lawyer walked at her side, then stood as she passed through the double glass doors and stepped towards the lift.

      There was no doubt Katrina Kasoulis was a beautiful young woman. Something about the way she held herself, her grace of movement, and that hair…

      He hid a faint sigh, for she burned as a bright flame, and a man could get singed just from looking.

      Katrina rode the lift down to the ground floor, crossed the street to the adjacent car park, located the relevant floor, and slid in behind the wheel of her car.

      It was almost five, the day’s office hours reaching a close, and she eased the Porsche onto street level, then entered the stream of city traffic.

      Katrina drove, negotiating the choked roadways until she’d covered distance and the traffic dissipated. Then she moved into a higher gear, heard the muted response of the finely tuned engine, and revelled in the speed.

      It was almost six when she pulled to a halt on the grassy bank overlooking the beach. There was a tanker on the horizon, easing slowly down towards the inner harbour, and a few children frolicked in the shallows beneath the watchful eye of their parents.

      Gulls crested low over the water, dipped, skidded along the surface and settled, only to move their wings in a graceful arc to skim onto the sand.

      It was a peaceful scene, one she desperately needed to ease the ache of recent loss. There had been so much to organise, family to deal with.

      And now there was Nicos.

      It was over, done with. And she’d healed.

      Liar.

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