Convenient Brides (19 page)

Emily didn’t want to speculate. She didn’t want to rely on innuendo or gossip. She wanted to write the truth about a woman the public had loved and still missed. She didn’t want a repeat of
Tyson’s Trial
. She didn’t want to fail this time. She
couldn’t
fail this time.

Danny called her at lunchtime. Emily had her arms full of washing and had to balance the phone against her chin to speak to him.

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he said. ‘How did the cocktail party go?’

‘Fine.’ She grimaced as her pink g-string fell to the floor. ‘I won an award for
Going For Vote
. Your brother was very…’

‘Damien?’ Danny blurted. ‘Was he there?’

Emily frowned as a hand-towel joined her g-string at her feet.

‘Didn’t you ask him to fill in for you?’

‘The last thing my brother would do is help me,’ Danny said bitterly. ‘I wonder what he’s up to?’

‘Yes, well, that’s exactly the same question I was wanting to ask you,’ Emily said.

‘I was going to tell you—’ Danny began.

‘Before or after we had sex?’

‘You must think I’m an absolute cad.’

‘Suffice it to say I had noticed the family likeness.’

‘So, you’ve had dealings with Damien, then?’ His tone was dry.

‘You could call it that.’

‘I hope he wasn’t too hard on you. He can be a little protective of Rose.’

‘A little protective?’ Emily gave a snort of derisive laughter which sent two more articles of clothing to the floor. ‘Anyone would think he was her son, the way he carries on—’

There was silence at the end of the line.

Emily stared at the pile of clean washing on the floor in front of her, their tumbled disarray not unlike the thoughts in her head.

‘Danny? Is that possible? Could Damien be Rose’s own son?’ she asked, clutching the telephone with both hands.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Emily—you know Rose never married.’

‘That’s not what I asked. Could Damien be her son? A child from a relationship in her past?’

‘Damien’s my older brother. He’s four years older than me, and even though he doesn’t necessarily look like me he’s very much like my father.’

‘But you don’t get on, do you?’

‘Lots of brothers don’t get along. It doesn’t mean they’re not related.’

‘But haven’t you ever wondered? I mean, Damien being so different from you. You told me several times that he and your parents were often at loggerheads.’

‘You told me the same thing yourself—that’s just Damien. He’s got a chip on his shoulder, that’s all. If I were you I’d give him a wide berth. He doesn’t always play by the rules and I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt.’

‘I’m touched by your concern for my feelings,’ she said with heavy irony.

‘Emily, I really am sorry about last night, but Louise and I go back a long way.’

‘All the same, you could’ve told me yourself. It wasn’t very pleasant having your brother there to gloat over my dismissal.’

‘You’re not dismissed. Can’t we still be friends?’

‘That depends a little on your brother.’

‘What do you mean?’

A vision of Damien’s threatening expression crowded her mind.

‘Never mind. I’ll talk to you later. I’ve got things to do.’

Emily gathered up the fallen clothes and dumped them on the nearest sofa. She went to her research file to look for the collection of Margate family photographs Danny had given her to copy. Laying them around her on the floor, she inspected each of them once more.

There were numerous ones of the infant Danny, his platinum hair standing on end as he frolicked in the shallows of the surf, or chased after a shaggy-looking dog with a ball. However, the photographs containing Damien seemed
to be an afterthought. He always seemed to be to one side of the camera focus. Was it a coincidence? Or was it a deliberate attempt to shut the dark and brooding boy out of the family centre?

There was a larger photograph of the boys’ father, Donald Margate, tall and austere-looking as he gazed out over the top of his shining car. Emily could see Damien’s likeness in the breadth of shoulders and sooty hair. Their mother, Cora, had a flowered scarf tied around her ashblonde hair, her pretty face wistful. As Emily searched back through each of the photographs she came to realise with an uneasy feeling that the only time Cora Margate smiled was when she was looking at her younger son, Danny. Why hadn’t she seen all this before?

Emily put the photos to one side and considered her next move. She had a week before she signed the preliminary contract with her publisher. A week before Damien Margate’s threats could be activated. A week to find out the truth.

Clarice phoned her half an hour later with four engage-ments for her in as many hours.

‘You’re being interviewed first thing Monday for the breakfast show,’ she said gleefully. ‘After that it’s straight to the radio studio at NMDA. Then there’s a morning tea meeting with the editor of
Writers’ Review
and after that an interview with Nadine Brereton and Damien Margate.’

‘What?’
Emily gasped.

‘Nadine Brereton—you know, from that current affairs programme on pay TV. She wants to—’

‘I know who Nadine is,’ Emily said agitatedly. ‘But why Damien Margate?’

‘I thought you’d be thrilled. What a coup this is! The nephew of Rose has finally agreed to an interview.’

‘But I’ve had numerous interviews with Danny—’

‘I know, my love, but he’s just a boy compared to Damien Margate. He’s the one with the inside information
on Rose’s whereabouts. He’s the one you should’ve been setting your sights on, not that perfidious little playboy who doesn’t know when to keep either his lips or his zip shut.’

Emily grimaced at the bald truth of Clarice’s observation. Danny Margate
was
shallow and self-absorbed. Damien, however, was something else. She wasn’t sure she could handle him. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to try. What if he told the interviewer of his plans to sue? What if her editor heard the interview? How could she stop him from destroying her publicly?

‘Tell me the times—I’ll be there,’ she said to Clarice, rummaging for a pen and paper. She jotted down the en-gagements and rang off, assuring her agent-cum-publicist that she’d be there with bells on, even though deep inside her courage was slipping alarmingly.

She dressed with care for the morning programme. Her hair was neatly styled into a slick French chignon and her subtle make-up was perfect. Her slim-fitting suit was hardly designer, but its shell-pink suited her colouring and, with a string of pearls and matching earrings, it would have to do. She faced the male interviewer with feigned confidence as he asked her about her research for
Rose’s Cupboard
, even announcing the various outlets where she’d be present signing her other two books. But once the bright lights of the cameras moved off her face she couldn’t wait to escape.

‘Well done.’ Clarice beamed. ‘I liked the way you hes-itated over the question about Damien Margate, and the delicate blush was perfect.’

‘I wasn’t blushing.’ Emily rounded on her in irritation. ‘Those damn camera lights are hot as hell.’

Clarice smiled, her eyes sparkling.

‘Come on,’ she said, taking Emily’s arm. ‘We’ve got to get to NMDA before nine and the traffic’s horrendous.’

Emily followed in her wake, her legs starting to tremble at the thought that in less than two hours she was going to have to face Damien Margate in person.

A
FTER
Emily finished the radio interview, which barely lasted three minutes and was in her opinion a complete waste of time, she joined Clarice in the foyer of the Regent Hotel near the Rocks. Clarice had already ordered her a lime and soda, and pushed it towards her when she sat at the table.

‘Nadine telephoned to say she’ll be a few minutes late. She’s organised to interview you and Damien in one of the hotel suites upstairs.’

Emily felt uncomfortable at the implied intimacy of such an arrangement. A hotel suite? She and Damien Margate?

Clarice checked the diamond-studded watch on her wrist. ‘He’s late.’

‘He’s not late,’ Emily said, picking up her drink. ‘He’s tactical.’

Clarice’s eyebrows rose. ‘You know him intimately, then?’

Emily shook her head. ‘No, but I know how his type works. He’s a power freak. It wouldn’t do for him to be here early, pacing the joint, at everyone else’s mercy. He’ll come at the last minute as if it’s him that’s conducting the interview, not Nadine Brereton.’

Clarice took a deep, reflective sip of her gin and tonic.

‘You really should’ve been a crime writer, darling. You’re so good at reading people.’

‘Not all people.’ Emily pushed her drink to one side. ‘But there’s something about Damien Margate that intrigues me.’

‘He is rather sexy. Tall, dark and brooding,’ Clarice mused.

Emily flicked a fiery glance at her agent. ‘He’s a stuck-up pig. I wouldn’t give him the time of day if I had a choice—’

Clarice suddenly got to her feet and extended a rose-tipped hand to someone just beyond Emily’s left shoulder. ‘Mr Margate! How good of you to join us.’

Emily wished the floor would open and swallow her, but seemingly the architects responsible for the plush interior of the Sydney Regent had not adequately prepared for such contingencies. The floor under her feet remained resolutely stable. However, the hand she reluctantly offered trembled as she extended it towards him.

‘Mr Margate,’ she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes.

‘Miss Sherwood.’ He nodded, his dark gaze raking her mercilessly as his hand swallowed hers.

‘Nadine won’t be a moment,’ Clarice gushed. ‘She’s setting up a suite for you both.’

Damien’s brows rose speculatively as he turned his gaze back to Emily. ‘That sounds promising.’

Emily refused to respond to his satirical look and instead turned to inspect the menu on the table in front of her.

‘I saw you on the breakfast show,’ he said, taking the chair next to hers.

Emily had no choice but to look at him. ‘I’m surprised. I thought you had no time for the media,’ she said, re-inspecting the menu.

‘I like to keep myself informed of the latest developments,’ he commented drily.

Emily shrugged dismissively. ‘I hope you weren’t disappointed.’

‘On the contrary. I was surprised you spoke so magnan-imously of me.’

She met his dark gaze levelly. ‘I could have said a whole lot more, but kind of figured the PG rating of the show would preclude the bit about you forcing yourself on me.’

He didn’t even flinch. ‘I didn’t realise you had such scruples,’
he said with a wry twist to his mouth. ‘Perhaps I should’ve gone for broke.’

She glared at him, sparks of vitriol brightening her blue eyes. ‘In your dreams, Mr Margate,’ she drawled insolently.

He laughed as he shifted his chair to make way for the approaching Nadine, her film crew trailing her like devoted slaves.

‘That remains to be seen,’ he said cryptically and, standing, turned to greet the crew.

They were led to one of the deluxe suites where the lighting men were already setting up. Cameras were being positioned and make-up assistants buzzed about with palettes of foundation to counteract the harsh lighting on Nadine Brereton’s face.

‘Now, if Miss Sherwood would sit here—’ Nadine directed her with a perfectly manicured hand ‘—and if Mr Margate sits here, next to me, we can get things rolling. Ready Joe?’

The head cameraman nodded as he focused in on his subjects.

‘Hello, and welcome to
Afternoon Muse
. This is Nadine Brereton reporting live from the Regent Hotel, and with me are two intriguing guests. Firstly, I have beside me a biographer who is proposing to write about the illustrious, and may I say somewhat mysterious life of one of Australia’s most noted stage actresses, Rose Margate. I also have with me the nephew of Ms Margate, Mr Damien Margate, who has kindly agreed to an interview. Firstly, Miss Sherwood, is it true that you are currently facing intense family opposition in order to document Ms Margate’s life?’

Emily faced the camera squarely, her expression determined. One whiff, she reminded herself, and her contract would be shredded along with her career.

‘No, not exactly. One family member has been incredibly
generous with his time and attention. His input has been crucial to my research.’

Damien’s derisive snort was audible to Emily, but she hoped it would be edited out in the short delay to transmission.

‘That would be Rose’s other nephew, Danny Margate?’ Nadine clarified.

Emily nodded. ‘Danny Margate is extremely fond of his aunt and wanted an authentic and accurate account of her life for the public to enjoy.’

‘Is it true that you haven’t actually interviewed Ms Margate personally?’

‘That’s correct.’

Nadine Brereton tilted her head in an imitation of puzzlement. ‘But how can one document someone’s life accurately without having directly interviewed the person?’ she asked.

‘Biographies don’t usually give word-for-word accounts of people’s lives. Very often biographies of famous people are written long after they have passed away. Writers use various sources of information, such as journals, photographic records, interviews with close friends and family,’ Emily explained.

‘But the Margate family—apart from Danny Margate, that is—have been most uncooperative, isn’t that correct?’

Emily glanced at Damien, who was still sitting to one side of her, his expression inscrutable.

‘I’m sure they have their reasons,’ she said diplomatically.

‘Mr Margate.’ Nadine turned to Damien. ‘What is your major objection to Miss Sherwood’s account of your aunt’s life?’

Damien’s eyes slid from Emily’s to face the camera.

‘I have no objection to biographies
per se
. I do, however, have an objection to biographies that are written against the express wishes of family members.’

‘So you’ve been against this from the outset? Is that correct?’ Nadine probed.

Emily’s hands tightened in her lap and her breath stalled in her chest as she waited for his reply to Nadine’s question.

‘My aunt Rose chose to leave public life fifteen years ago. She gave more than thirty-five years of her life to her fans, oftentimes leaving little time for herself. She has not in any way authorised this account of her life and therefore neither do I.’

‘Is it true that you intend to take legal action if this book,
Rose’s Cupboard
, is released as planned?’

Damien’s expression became shuttered. ‘I am hoping to avoid legal action,’ he said, flicking a glance Emily’s way.

Emily crossed her fingers and prayed her editors were so busy with their huge slush pile they wouldn’t be watching.

‘Miss Sherwood—’ the camera swung back to Emily ‘—are you prepared to fight for your right to write
Rose’s Cupboard
, no matter what it takes?’

Emily met the dark challenging stare of Damien’s eyes before turning back to Nadine.

‘Months of work have gone into researching this book. Rose Margate has thousands of fans who long to hear about her life, especially since she disappeared from the theatre. This book will be a collection of photo memorabilia as well as an account of her earlier years, which I’m sure will be of great interest to many.’

‘Mr Margate—’ Nadine addressed Damien once more ‘—there will be many who no doubt agree with Miss Sherwood. What harm can it do to have a collector’s item such as
Rose’s Cupboard
to celebrate the magnificent achievements of one of Australia’s most loved actresses?’

‘If
Rose’s Cupboard
was going to be written with the express wish of highlighting the many outstanding achievements of my aunt I would have no objection. However, Miss Sherwood already has a reputation for exploiting those she chooses to write about, sometimes with tragic consequences. I have nothing against Miss Sherwood trying
to make a living, but I am determined she will do it with someone other than a member of my immediate family as her subject.’

Emily rose angrily in her chair, but the cameraman had swung to Nadine, who was wrapping up for a commercial break at the director’s urgent signal.

‘Looks like you, the public, will have to decide for yourselves. Is biographer Emily Sherwood exploiting the Margate name for her own gain? Or is she simply offering the public a treasured documentation of a much loved celebrity’s life? You know the e-mail, you know the phone number, you know the channel,’ she quipped. ‘Let me know what your opinion is. Thank you to my guests, and when we return I’ll be speaking with the head of the new emergency clinic recently opened at St Stephen’s Private Hospital. Back in a moment.’

‘That man is going to need more than an emergency clinic before I’ve finished with him!’ Emily hissed at Clarice as she swept past the camera tripods.

‘Now, now, my pet,’ Clarice soothed. ‘Think of the extra sales after that little exchange. That’s exactly the sort of publicity you need.’

Emily glared across to where Damien was standing talking to Nadine Brereton. He looked back at her, his eyes darkening challengingly as they meshed with hers. She turned on her heel and swept from the room, not caring whether Clarice was ready to leave or not. She had to get out of there, and fast, before she lost control. Never had she felt so angry. Damien Margate had manipulated the interview to cast her in the role of devious money-hungry reporter, stopping at nothing to get a cheap story.

She stomped towards the nearest lift, stabbing at the call button savagely.

‘Miss Sherwood?’

Emily swung round at the sound of his deep voice.

‘Don’t you “Miss Sherwood” me, you—you—bastard!’

His brows rose at her vehemence as the lift opened behind her. She stepped in and tried to block him joining her. The lift doors pinged open against the steel of his out-stretched arm and she moved to the back of the carriage, her back tight against the wall, her eyes blazing with rage.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he said calmly.

‘You just did,’ she spat. ‘In front of about three million people!’

‘In private. No cameras, no interviewers.’

‘Why?’ She regarded him suspiciously. ‘So you can touch me up when you feel like it?’

His jaw clenched and she felt a thin thread of victory at cracking his cool composure.

‘You didn’t offer too many objections at the time,’ he reminded her ungallantly.

She didn’t have the chance to retaliate as just then the lift doors opened and he began shepherding her out towards the hotel exit.

‘What are you doing?’ She tugged at his hold on her arm. ‘I’m not going with you!’

Damien’s hold tightened as he signalled for the concierge to hail a cab.

Emily was speechless. His hand around her slim wrist was biting into her flesh, and even though she dragged her feet as he tugged, her body kept following in his wake as if of its own volition.

He bundled her unceremoniously into a cab and barked out an address that in her distress and anger she didn’t quite catch.

‘This is abduction!’ she railed. ‘Excuse me!’ She tapped on the perspex shield surrounding the cab driver. ‘This man is abducting me—please take me to the nearest police station.’

The cab driver just smiled, muttered something and shook his head uncomprehendingly. Emily glared at the driver’s identification photo on the dashboard and swore. The name printed there was as foreign as his heavy, unintelligible
accent, and she stamped her foot in anger and frustration.

‘I’ll have you charged,’ she flared at Damien.

‘You and whose army?’ he mocked.

She ground her teeth and dug her nails into his arm where it still had hold of her other wrist.

‘Stop it, you little wildcat!’ He swore as he sucked at his arm.

A funny sensation pooled in Emily’s lower belly at his action. Her breath caught in her lungs as she watched as his mouth salved the broken skin of his forearm.

The cab pulled in to the kerb and Emily instantly recognised Damien’s Double Bay house. He reached across to pay the fare and she flinched as his arm brushed against her breast.

‘Get out,’ he said, opening the door for her.

‘Get lost.’

He reached for her wrist with an exasperated sigh and she found herself bundled out on to the pavement with little regard for either the short skirt she was wearing or the expensive silk stockings which hadn’t appreciated the seatbelt buckle on the way past.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ She indicated the long ladder running up under the hem of her skirt.

‘Touché,’
he said, indicating the blood-lined scratch on his arm with a sardonic tilt of his dark head.

She had no choice but to accompany him inside. He practically frogmarched her to the front door, deactivating the alarm on his way through, only letting go of her arm once the heavy door had shut behind him.

She faced him mutinously, her chest still pumping with fury at his mishandling of her. ‘If you so much as lay a finger on me I swear I’ll—’

‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

Emily crossed her arms protectively across her chest. ‘Then why the kidnap routine? Or is this how you usually ask a girl round for coffee?’

He gave a disarming laugh.

Emily felt her own mouth twitching but clamped her teeth down to stop it. He had a nice laugh; she’d give him that. Deep and melodious. And the way his dark brown eyes crinkled at the corners softened his normally harsh features, making him almost handsome.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ he asked, still smiling.

She shook her head.