Merger By Matrimony

Wasn't this what she'd wanted to hear? Some talk of commitment? Of permanence? What else could he mean? They'd spent a wonderful night together and at least as far as she was concerned, it was much more than that.

“What, not even to eat or have a bath?” she asked lightly, while her heart pounded like a steam engine inside her.

“I'm being serious.” He lay flat on his back with his hands folded behind his head. “We could get married,” he said. “I mean it makes sense, don't you think? We're compatible in bed, more than compatible, and it could sort out every niggling area of all this bargaining over the business that we've been trying to do over the past few weeks. I can't personally think of a better arrangement than marriage.”

Getting down to business
in the boardroom…and the bedroom!

A secret romance, a forbidden affair,
a thrilling attraction…

What happens when two people work together
and simply can't help falling in love—
no matter how hard they try to resist?

Find out in our new series of stories
set against working backgrounds.

This month in

Merger by Matrimony
by
Cathy Williams

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

T
HE
grey-haired man was looking lost and bewildered. From her vantage point in the classroom, and looking over the heads of the fifteen pupils who had shown up for school, Destiny Felt could see him staring around him, then peering at the piece of paper in his hand, as if searching for inspiration which had been lost somewhere along the way. Rivulets of perspiration poured down his face, which was scrunched up in frowning, perplexed concentration, and his shirt bore two spreading damp patches under the arms.

He was ridiculously attired for the belting heat, she thought. Long trousers, a long-sleeved shirt which had been ineffectively rolled to the elbows. The only sensible thing about his clothing was the broad-brimmed hat which produced at least some shade for his face, even though he looked ridiculous in it.

What on earth was he doing in this part of the world? Visitors were virtually non-existent—unless they were photo-happy tourists, which this man didn't appear to be—and as far as she was aware they were not expecting any new medics or teachers to the compound.

She continued viewing his antics for a few minutes longer, watching as he shoved the paper into the briefcase which he'd temporarily stood on the scorching ground at his side before tentatively making his way to the first open door he saw.

Her father would not welcome the intrusion, she thought, continuing to eye the stranger as he knocked
hesitantly on the door before pushing through. She fought down the temptation to abandon her class and hotfoot it to her father's research quarters, and instead she reverted her attention to the motley assortment of children.

All would be explained, and sooner rather than later. In a compound comprised of a mere fifteen working adults, nothing was a secret, least of all the appearance of a foreigner obviously on a mission of some sort.

The overhead fan, which appeared to be on the point of total collapse from old age, provided a certain amount of desultory, sulky relief from the heat, but she could still feel the humid air puffing its way through the open windows. No wonder the poor man had looked as though he'd been about to faint from heat exhaustion.

By the time she was ready to dismiss her class, she too was feeling in desperate need of a shower, not to mention a change of clothes.

In fact, she was heading in the direction of her quarters when she heard the clatter of footsteps along the wooden corridor of the school house.

‘Destiny!' Her father's voice sounded urgent.

‘Just coming!' Damn. She hoped she wasn't about to be palmed off with the hapless man. This was her father's famous ploy. To offload perfect strangers, when they showed up for whatever reason, on her, and whenever she complained about it he would cheerfully brush aside her objections with a casual wave of the hand and a gleeful remark along the lines of how blessed he was to have an obliging daughter such as her.

The three of them very nearly catapulted into one another round the bend in the corridor.

‘Destiny…'

She glanced at the man, then turned her full attention
to her father, who favoured her with an anxious smile. ‘Just about to go and have a shower, Dad.'

‘Someone here to see you.'

Destiny slowly turned to face the man whose hand had shot out towards her. She was at least six inches taller than him. Not an unusual occurrence. She was nearly six feet, and in fact there were only four people on the compound taller than her, including her father, who looked positively towering next to the stranger.

‘Derek Wilson. Pleased to meet you.'

‘Don't you speak Spanish?' Destiny asked politely, in Spanish.

‘Now, don't start that, darling.' Her father remonstrated with her absent-mindedly, and removed his spectacles to give them a quick clean with the corner of his faded, loose shirt.

‘Well…people come here expecting us all to speak their tongue…'

‘He's from England. Of course he's going to come here speaking English.' There was a lazy, affectionate familiarity to their debate, as though they'd been down this road a thousand times before but were nevertheless more than happy to tread along it once again, through sheer habit if nothing else. ‘Apologies for this child of mine,' her father said in impeccable English. ‘She can be very well behaved when she puts her mind to it.'

Derek Wilson was staring at her with a mixture of alarm and fascination. It was a reaction to which she'd grown accustomed over time. Nearly every outsider who set foot on the compound regarded her in the same manner, as if, however bowled over they were by her looks, they still suspected that she might target the next blow-dart in their direction.

‘What do you want?'

‘Social niceties, darling? Remember?'

‘It's taken me for ever to track you down.'

The man glanced between the two of them, and her father obligingly capitulated, ‘Perhaps we should discuss this somewhere more comfortable. Get some refreshment for you…you must be done in after your trek to get here.'

‘That would be super.'

Destiny could feel his eyes on her as the three of them strode through the school house, attracting curious looks from the pupils in disarray as they gathered their scant books and bags together to go home. The noise was a babble of tribal Spanish, a beautiful, musical sound that seemed very appropriate to the beautiful, coffee-complexioned children with their straight black hair and expressive black eyes.

It was why she'd always stood out, of course. Not just her height, but her colouring. Fair-skinned, choppy sun-streaked fair hair, green eyes. And of course, in the depths of Panama, a white face was always a novelty.

‘In case you hadn't guessed, this is our local school,' her father was saying, much to her astonishment. Playing the tour guide had never been one of his chosen pastimes. He'd always left that to her mother, whose death five years previously was still enough to make her feel choked up. ‘We have a fairly static number of pupils. Of course, as you might expect, some are more reliable than others, and a great deal depends on the weather. You would be surprised how the weather can wreak havoc with day-today life over here.'

Derek Wilson's head was swivelling left to right in an attempt to absorb everything around him.

‘Just to the right of the school house we have some medical facilities. All very basic, you understand, but
we've always lacked the finance to really do what should be done.'

This was her father's pet topic. Money, or rather the lack of it, to fund the medical facilities. He was a researcher and a gifted doctor and had a complete blind eye to anyone who couldn't see that money should be no object when it came to questions of health.

They'd reached the little outer room that served as an office for her father, and he settled the man in a chair then bustled to the stunted and rusting fridge in the corner of the room so that he could extract a jug of juice. A small breeze fluttered through the two large, open windows which were opposite one another so as to maximise air draft, and Derek Wilson attempted to ventilate himself by flapping his shirt at the collar.

Poor man, Destiny thought with a twinge of sympathy. For whatever reason, he'd probably left behind a family in England and all mod cons so that he could tramp halfway across the world to Panama, still a mysterious and unfathomable land virtually behind God's back, and deliver a message to her.

What message?

She felt a little stirring of unease.

Her father handed her a glass of highly sweetened fruit juice, and she attempted to catch his eye for a non-verbal explanation of what was going on, but he was in a strange mood. Nervous, she thought, but trying hard not to show it.

Why?

Another flutter of apprehension trickled along her spine, defying her attempts to laugh it off. ‘Well.' Derek cleared his throat and looked in her direction. ‘Very nice place you have here…'

‘We think so.' She narrowed her eyes on him.

‘Brave of you to live here, if you don't mind me saying…'

She shot a look at her father, who was staring abstractedly through the window and providing absolutely no help whatsoever.

‘Nothing brave about it, Mr Wilson. Panama is one of the most beautiful countries in the world. Every day there's something new and wonderful to see and the people are very gentle and charming. So you needn't be scared of being captured and tortured or chopped up into little loin steaks and eaten.'

‘I never imagined that for a moment…' he protested, and this time when he looked at her his eyes were shrewd and speculative.

‘What did you come here for?' she asked bluntly, at which her father tore his attention away from the scenery of grass and dirt and beyond the compound the dense forest that housed the people who seemed as familiar to them as the Westerners who lived and worked alongside them in the compound.

‘I've brought something for you.' He rifled through his briefcase and extracted a thick wedge of cream, heavy-duty paper, covered with small type, which he handed to her. ‘Have you ever heard of Abraham Felt?'

‘Felt…Abraham? Yes, vaguely… Dad…?' she said slowly, scanning the papers without really seeing anything.

‘Abraham Felt was my brother, your uncle,' her father interjected tightly. He took a few deep breaths. ‘Well, perhaps I'd better let the professional do the explaining.'

‘What explaining?'

‘Abraham Felt died six months ago. He left a will. You are the main beneficiary.'

‘Oh. Is that all? Couldn't you have put it in writing?
Post might take a while to get here, but it arrives eventually.'

‘No, Miss Felt, you don't understand.' He gave a small laugh which he extinguished by clearing his throat. ‘His estate is worth millions.'

The silence that followed this statement was broken only by the sound of birds and parrots cawing, the muffled voices of people criss-crossing the compound, and the distant rush of the river which provided the only form of transport into the heart of the forest.

‘You're joking.' She smiled hesitantly at her father, who returned her smile with off-putting gravity. ‘Aren't you?'

‘I'm a lawyer, Miss Felt. My line of business doesn't include jokes.'

‘But what am I supposed to do with all that money?' Her laugh was a bit on the hysterical side. ‘Look around you, Mr Wilson. Do you see anything to spend money on here? We all get a government grant, and some of the locals make things for the tourist trade, but as for spending millions…no shops, no fast cars, no restaurants, no hotels…no need.'

‘It's not quite as easy as that.' He rested his elbows on his knees and contemplated her thoughtfully. He'd removed a handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to give his face a thorough wipe with it. She could see the beginnings of sunburn. In this heat, sunblock was only partially successful. She'd always used it but, even so, at the age of twenty-six, she was as brown as a nut—a smooth, even brown that the average sun-seeker would have killed for.

‘Aside from a multitude of small interests, his country estate and a collection of art work, there's his major holding. Felt Pharmaceuticals. It has offshoots in some six
European countries and employs thousands of people. I have the precise figures here if you want. And it's in trouble. Big trouble. Now there's a takeover in the offing, and who's to say how many jobs will be lost globally? As the main beneficiary, nothing can be done without you.'

‘I don't know a thing about business,' she said stubbornly, willing her father to chip in with some much needed support.

‘Your father says that you were a child prodigy.'

Destiny shifted uncomfortably in her chair and sat on her hands. ‘Dad! How could you?'

‘You were, my darling, and you know it. Even that boarding school didn't know what to do with you…and perhaps the time has come for you to spread your wings a bit. It's all well and good working out here and…'

‘No!'

‘Listen to me, Destiny!' Her father's voice cracked like a whip and startled her. She stared at him open-mouthed. ‘At least go to England and see what this is all about. You'll have to go there anyway to claim this inheritance…'

‘But I don't want any inheritance! I don't want to go
anywhere!
'

The heat in the room began to feel suffocating and she stood up, agitated, lifting her face to the fan so that it whirled her hair back and soothed her hot skin. Her baggy dress seemed to cling to her even though she knew it wasn't. Under it, she could feel perspiration trickle from beneath the heavy folds of her breasts down to the waistband of her sensible cotton underwear.

‘If you hate it, you can always come back here,' her father was telling her in a gentler voice, ‘but don't turn your back on an experience just because you're afraid.
We've always taught you to see the unknown as a challenge and not as a threat.'

‘And besides,' Derek chipped in slyly, ‘think of the benefits to your father's research, should you have your hand on the steering wheel of an important pharmaceutical company. Your father has told me that he's working on a cure for certain tropical diseases using special tree saps and plant derivatives. Funding would cease to be a problem. You could help these indigenous tribes far more than you ever could by staying put.' He crossed his legs and began to fan himself with his hat, exposing a balding head that was at odds with his reasonably unlined face. ‘Come to England, Miss Felt, for your father if nothing else…'

 

And that had been the carrot, as the wretched man had known it would be.

Even so, one week later, and sitting bolt upright on an aeroplane which had taken her two days of long-distance hiking to get to, she still couldn't fathom out whether she was doing the right thing or not.

She looked around her furtively and surprised a young tourist staring at her, at which she assumed an expression of worldly-wise disdain.