Convenient Brides (18 page)

‘I find people’s lives interesting.’ She turned to face him again. ‘Even those who aren’t famous in any way. It has nothing to do with me personally. Besides—’ she gave him a provocative look ‘—it’s about making money—lots of money.’

‘You callous little bitch,’ he snarled, tossing his wallet on to the coffee table. ‘This isn’t about money at all. This is about power, isn’t it? Danny’s unfaithfulness has given you even more reason to hurt the Margate name now, hasn’t it?’

Emily tried to outstare him but his eyes were burning with a hatred that frightened her. She drained her brandy and put the empty glass down with a betraying little clatter on to the coffee table next to his abandoned wallet.

‘You have a very poor notion of a biographer’s life if you think I would spend months of my life researching a book at great personal cost to simply abandon the task just because one of the relatives couldn’t keep his fly zipped.’

Damien’s eyes narrowed as he stood before her.

‘Danny and Louise Morse have been on and off together for months. If you’re such a hot-shot investigative journalist you should’ve picked that up from the outset.’

Emily’s face suffused with colour but she maintained her poise. Damien Margate was a formidable opponent but he had a lot to lose. Danny had been a pleasant and entertaining distraction for her—useful too, in providing her with access to family albums and journals. But she hadn’t been in love with Danny by any means. She’d been toying with
the idea of sleeping with him, however, and that did make her feel very foolish. She didn’t usually make those sorts of errors of judgement.

‘Perhaps I’m like you,’ she taunted him rashly. ‘I don’t mind sharing.’

He moved quickly, and the sofa behind her blocked her exit so effectively that she suddenly found herself jammed up against his chest, his long strong legs tangling with her shaky ones.

‘I seem to remember warning you about making careless statements about my private life.’ He glowered down at her. ‘But you don’t listen to warnings, do you?’

Her voice, when it came out, seemed to be squeezed out of her chest. ‘I…I’m not frightened of you.’

‘Yes, you are.’ One of his fingers lifted her chin to make her meet his diamond-sharp eyes. ‘You’ve got everything resting on this new book, haven’t you? And I’ve got every reason to stop you from writing it.’

‘You can’t stop me.’

‘Oh, can’t I?’ The light of challenge in his eyes made her stomach free-fall in panic.

‘I’ll fight you.’

‘Go on, then.’ He gave a half-grunt of mocking laughter. ‘Fight me.’

She ached to scratch his face. Every nerve in her body wanted to claw at him, bring him to his knees, turn the tables on him so it was him begging, not her.

She met his eyes, her breath catching in her throat at his nearness. His face was so close, his eyes burning into hers. Her legs threatened to dissolve beneath her and yet she didn’t have either the strength to pull away or the inclination. Part of her wanted to find out just how far he would go. That same part of her wanted to see if she could push him that little bit further…

His mouth found hers, shocking her with its heat and purpose. This wasn’t a kiss of experimentation; this was a kiss of premeditated punishment. His firm lips opened over
her startled mouth and he entered it with a single thrust of his tongue that sent her rocking backwards, but his strong arms around her gave her no choice but to stay imprinted along the length of his probing and insistent frame.

She should have been fighting him, but instead of her hands pushing him away they grasped at his shirt sleeves, her fingernails embedding in the silky fabric, pulling him even closer to her fevered body.

His tongue duelled with hers moistly. Heat flicked along her veins, ran up her legs and pooled between her thighs where his very male body was imprinting a message older than time.

One of his hands left the back of her head and slipped under the tiny shoestring strap of her cocktail dress. The flimsy ribbon-like strap fell away and the crest of one creamy breast was before his hungry eyes. She could feel the heat of his gaze as his eyes travelled over the smooth, proud mound, the dusky redness of her nipple clearly visible as the strap slipped a little further.

His mouth found the sensitive skin of her neck, his tongue grazing the underside of her jaw, trailing a relentless path back to her waiting mouth.

‘No!’

Somehow she found the strength of will to push him from her. She stood in disarray before him—her mouth swollen with his kisses, her breasts burgeoning from his touch, her legs shaking from the heat of his maleness pressing against her so intimately.

‘No?’ His dark eyes were sardonic, his mouth a thin line of derision.

She had to look away. His satirical gaze made her feel cheap and colour flooded her face.

‘I won’t tell Danny,’ he said insultingly. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

Emily felt sick. The nausea rose like a tide in her stom-ach. How had she got herself into this situation? Her big night of fame had turned into a farce of mammoth proportions.
He’d swiftly manoeuvred the situation so that it was she who was cast in the role of the fool. He was in control, had been from the first, and was now just waiting for an opportunity to dispense with her for good.

‘If you think you can manipulate me by such means, think again,’ she spat at him. ‘I’m well used to the groping hands of desperate men, and I know how to deal with them.’

One dark eyebrow rose expressively. ‘I would hardly describe myself as desperate, but please enlighten me all the same.’

‘You’re just like all the rest.’ Her eyes flashed with hatred. ‘You think you can snap your fingers and women will come running, but I’ve got news for you. I know the only women you’ve had have been other men’s cast-offs, and I’m not going to add myself to the list.’

Emily knew she’d gone way too far. The glitter of venom in his dark eyes impaled her to the spot. He was just a breath away, and she flinched as one of his hands circled her wrist and tugged her back into the wall of his chest.

‘Not only are the words you write dangerous,’ he rasped. ‘So are the ones that come out of that delectable mouth of yours. But I’m going to make you regret every one of them.’

‘I told you—you don’t frighten me,’ she gasped as his rock-hard pelvis collided with hers.

‘You have one week to come to a decision,’ he contin-ued, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘If at the end of that week you have failed to withdraw your proposal to write this book, any further dealings we have will be via my lawyers.’

‘You can’t do that!’

His eyes glinted challengingly. ‘Watch me.’

Panic beat a tattoo in her chest. If her publisher got wind of a threatened suit they’d pull the plug immediately, with-out sparing her a single thought.

She pushed herself away from him and, snatching up her purse and wrap, headed for the door.

‘I’ll take you home,’ he said, reaching for his keys.

She swung around to glare at him.

‘I’d rather crawl on my knees than accept a lift from you.’ She wrenched open the front door of his house and flung back at him, ‘I’ll see you in court.’

E
MILY
hailed the first cab she could and sat shivering in the back seat, her heart thumping with adrenalin as she recalled Damien Margate’s threats. The familiar lights of the city blurred in front of her agitated eyes as she contem-plated her next move.

She didn’t have the means to fight someone like Damien. Her literary career was already hanging by a thread—her agent, Clarice, had warned her only a few days ago of the importance of the success of this next book.

Emily paid her fare and stood looking up at her tiny apartment as the taxi drove away. She’d worked so hard to have a place to call her own. The success of her first biography about a prominent politician had paid the deposit and furnished it. The failure of her second book had rattled her security somewhat, but she’d clung on with fervent promises to her bank manager as well as a part-time job at a local restaurant.

She dreamed of the day when she could write full-time, but so far that possibility had eluded her. So she scratched at bits of notepaper and tapped at her old lap-top whenever she could, working frantically to deadlines, trying hard to please editors and pandering to Clarice, who claimed to believe in her but often acted as if she couldn’t wait to weasel her way out of her contract.

Emily sighed as she waited for the lift. She wouldn’t give in without a fight, even if it took every ounce of courage she had. Damien Margate probably thought he could scare her with a few idle threats but she’d show him. She had all weekend to plan her counter-attack.

She slept fitfully, too wound up to relax enough to drop
off. As soon as eight o’clock came around she called Clarice, who answered the phone groggily. ‘Yes?’

‘Clarice, it’s me, Emily. I want to go on tour to promote
Rose’s Cupboard.
’

Emily heard the sound of Clarice’s bedsprings protesting.

‘But you haven’t written it yet.’

‘So what? I won that award. People will go out and buy my previous titles. I want you to ring around and organise as many book signings as you can for
Going For Vote
. And not just bookshops—I’ll do shopping centres, radio shows and breakfast television.’

‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this,’ Clarice said. ‘You told me after
Tyson’s Trial
you were never going to self-promote again.’

‘I know, I know—but this is different.’

‘Does the boy know about this?’ Clarice asked.

‘This has absolutely nothing to do with Danny,’ Emily said firmly.

‘What about that brother of his? I don’t suppose this was his idea?’

‘Damien Margate is a stuck-up prig who probably hasn’t read anything but the
Financial Times
since high school. I want to promote myself, and nothing and no one is going to stop me.’

‘Attagirl!’ Clarice cheered. ‘Give me a couple of hours—I’ll see what I can organise at short notice.’

‘Thanks, Clarice,’ she said. ‘You won’t be sorry. I know this one’s going to be a hit.’

‘Yes, well, it’d better be, my love. We can’t afford another disaster like
Tyson’s Trial
. That sort of bad publicity is best left for movie stars, not authors and agents.’

Emily hated being reminded of her book about a young offender. When Tyson had committed suicide behind bars it seemed everyone had blamed her, including his distraught family. It had taken her months to even think of writing
again, and then only because of a chance encounter with Danny.

He’d come into the restaurant where she worked and as she’d served him he’d chatted to her in a flirting and easy-going manner. When he’d signed his credit card she’d noticed the Margate name. She’d made some comment about the famous stage actress Rose Margate, who had taken the theatre world by storm, only to mysteriously disappear from public view without so much as a departing interview.

‘She’s my aunt,’ he’d said, pocketing his credit card, his light-blue eyes glinting at hers.

Emily had taken up his offer of a late-night drink somewhere. That somewhere had been his plush Northbridge apartment, and that evening had restarted her writing career with a bang.

Clarice Connor had been beside herself once Emily’s synopsis landed on her desk. ‘An unauthorised biography of Rose Margate? Wonderful, darling! But do you have to sleep with this Boy Wonder to get all the inside info?’

‘Not yet—’ Emily had laughed ‘—but it’s tempting.’

She hadn’t known about Danny’s older brother until Damien had come to the restaurant one evening with an elegantly dressed woman on his arm. She’d seen his name in the reservations book and was too much of a journalist not to notice the gold wedding band almost embedded into the flesh of his date’s left ring finger. Danny had told her of his brother’s affair with a prominent businessman’s wife but he’d insisted on her not mentioning anything to do with his brother in her book. Emily had been intrigued, of course, but after a while had taken it to mean that Danny was just being protective.

Rose’s Cupboard
had proved to be much harder to research than she’d expected. Danny had been generous, handing her various letters and photo albums and two dogeared childhood journals. The library had provided numerous paper clippings, and several theatres had shown her through their archives, where Rose’s beautiful face adorned
many a promotional poster. But, while Emily had been able to piece together Rose’s early years and much of her per-forming years, there were still yawning gaps that made the task of documenting her life extremely difficult.

She’d probed Danny for relatives and friends to interview, but it seemed the Margate family didn’t have many close friends and what relatives there were, such as Damien, were very tight-lipped.

At last she had decided to approach Damien Margate one more time. He was, after all, Rose’s power of attorney. Perhaps he might come to agree with her that Rose’s adoring fans genuinely deserved to know what had become of her.

Emily had made an appointment at his office and sat fidgeting in his plush waiting room for over an hour. Somehow she’d known the delay was deliberate.

When he’d finally summoned her into his office she had had to fight to keep her temper under control. Irritated with having to wait, annoyed at being treated like a persistent fly, she had plastered a determined smile on her face and taken the seat he’d offered on the other side of his desk.

‘What can I do for you, Miss Sherwood?’ he drawled, ignoring his own chair to remain standing behind the expanse of his desk. ‘Are you after some financial advice?’

Emily worked even harder on her smile, resenting him even more for not sitting down and giving her craning neck a rest.

‘I was hoping we could have a talk about your aunt—’

‘No.’ His single word was delivered both adamantly and sharply.

Emily took a calming breath and tried again. ‘But what if you were the main collaborator on the biography?’ she asked. ‘I’d only write what you wanted me to write. You’d have total control.’

Damien’s hawk-like eyes pierced her blue gaze.

‘I told you before, I have no intention of revealing information
about my aunt to anyone, and most particularly not to you.’

Emily clenched her hands in her lap, desperately fighting the desire to slam them down on his desk in frustration. She was certain he could tell she was losing her cool and it made her all the more determined not to do so. All the same, her nails had imprinted themselves in her palms by the time she trusted herself to speak once more.

‘But wouldn’t it be better for someone like me to work closely with the family, to present the public with the truth, rather than allow the constant speculation to continue?’ She forced herself to meet and hold his hard gaze. ‘The various rumours that have circulated about her disappearance after her last performance haven’t been all that flattering.’

There was a lengthy pause before he came from behind his desk in two easy strides and stood before her. Emily shifted in her seat, her throat threatening to close over as she had to crane her neck even further to hold his gaze.

‘Just how closely are you prepared to work with my family?’ he asked in a voice as smooth as velvet.

Emily swallowed. ‘I…really want to do this book. I’m prepared to do whatever it takes.’

One of his brows rose speculatively. ‘How very intriguing. I don’t think I’ve met anyone quite so passionate about their work before.’ His dark gaze followed the path of her nervous tongue, snaking out to moisten her dry lips. ‘It makes me wonder if all that passion could have some other, more pleasurable outlet.’

Emily could feel the warmth of his body within inches of hers. She’d only have to lift one of her damp hands from under her thighs where she’d trapped them to touch him. Her stomach hollowed at the thought of those hard thighs touching hers, that strong mouth commandeering hers, those masculine hands touching her in places she secretly ached to be touched…

‘I…I think it’s time I left,’ she croaked, getting to her feet with no trace of her usual grace and ease of movement.
On the way up her foot caught the edge of the chair-leg and pitched her forward awkwardly. He caught her easily, steadying her in the strong band of his arms, his warm, minty breath caressing her startled face.

‘What’s the hurry, Miss Sherwood? Or perhaps I should call you Emily, since you’re so keen on getting up close and personal with my family?’

Emily tensed as she felt his hands slide down her arms to grasp both of hers in his. She felt the brush of his thighs against hers and her breathing quickened in spite of her earlier determination to maintain a cool composure in his disturbing presence.

‘Let me go,’ she said, wishing she didn’t sound quite so breathless.

She felt his hands tighten fractionally on hers.

‘But I thought you wanted to get close to us Margates?’ he taunted, pulling her even closer into his body. ‘Really close.’

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ she said, and tried to remove herself from his iron grasp, but his hold, though unbruising, was very firm.

‘I’m disappointed. I thought you had more spirit.’

‘I’ve got more sense than to allow you to—’

‘Allow me to what? Kiss you?’ His eyes caught her defiant ones. ‘Or what if I were to take it one step further?’

‘I’ll scream,’ she warned. ‘And I’ll report you for assault. You have no right to hold me against my will like this, and I—‘

His mouth closed over her tirade and her instant response to his lips on hers betrayed her even further. Her mouth opened under the pressure of his searching tongue as his hard thighs ground against the softness of hers. His tongue explored her mouth at a leisurely pace, and although a part of her knew she should be clawing at his face to stop him her hands had somehow found their way around his neck instead, and embedded themselves into the thick pelt of his dark hair just above his collar.

He let her go abruptly and she almost fell, clutching at the edge of his desk for support.

‘I can see why Danny’s so taken with you,’ he said, putting her from him. ‘But I’m not going to fall for your undoubted charms and spill the beans quite so readily as my brother.’

‘You’re not close, are you?’ she observed.

‘You know what they say—you can choose your friends but not your relatives.’

‘Yes, I do know that.’

He must have sensed something in her tone, for his penetrating gaze captured hers once more.

‘Family loyalty is very important to me. I will do anything to maintain it.’

‘I’m sure that’s very admirable.’

‘You probably have no idea how far I’d go to protect my aunt.’

‘I think I’m getting the picture,’ she answered. ‘You’ve shown absolutely no scruples so far.’

He surveyed her face for a long moment.

‘Is this how you usually go about interviewing people for your books? Apart from those you sleep with first?’ His tone dripped with sarcasm as his dark brown eyes ran over her suggestively.

She lifted her chin defiantly, her eyes flashing.

‘I assume you’re referring to your brother?’

‘I’m sure he won’t be the only one, but, yes, I was referring to him.’

‘Your brother has been a fount of information,’ she lied.

Damien’s mouth twisted.

‘No doubt he has, given the temptation.’ His eyes slid to her breasts and took their time returning to her face. Emily’s spine went rigid with anger and her hands tightened into fists at her sides.

‘Mr Margate—’ she fought her temper back under con-trol ‘—I am researching an accurate biography on your aunt’s life. As I in no way wish to alienate her relatives I
was hoping I could interview members of her family in order to present the public with an authentic account of both her personal and professional life. If you don’t cooperate then I’ll have to resort to other means.’

‘Why bother coming to me? Why not do what you people usually do and make it up as you go?’

‘I don’t work like that,’ she said. ‘I believe in telling it as it is. That’s why I want this to be an authentic account. Your aunt was—I mean is—a special person and—’

‘My aunt is no longer public property,’ he said implacably. ‘You might think bedding my younger brother gives you automatic licence to document everything to do with the Margate name, but I’m afraid you’re sadly mistaken.’

‘When did you last see your aunt?’ she asked.

‘That’s none of your business. Now get out.’

‘But surely—’

‘I said get out, Miss Sherwood, and I meant it.’

Emily drew in a deep breath, her colour high.

‘Mr Margate, I don’t wish to cause trouble, but I—’

‘Get the hell out of here. Do you hear me?’

Emily turned and slammed the door behind her, her legs shaking in reaction. She fumed at her own cowardice all the way down in the lift. She berated herself for not standing up to him, for not calling his bluff, but somehow he’d made her feel so pathetic. She’d felt like a mangy cat scrambling for crumbs at his feet. How was she to write this book without help from Rose’s nearest relatives? Rose had never married, never had children. Damien and Danny were her only living relatives since their father, her brother Donald, had died.