The Magnate's Marriage Demand. Robyn Grady

Would she be marched out by the scruff of her neck?

      A booming rap on the door echoed through the room. Her breath caught and the bill crunched in her hand.

      Melanie paused. “Something wrong?”

      Stomach sinking, Tamara eased to her feet. “Just the door. I’ll call back.”

      If this was the landlord ready to toss her out, no use delaying it. There were always the options of government benefits, or cheaper accommodation. She looked around the matchbox room. Was there anything cheaper than this?

      The bell rang next, long and shrill. Ironing back frazzled wisps that escaped from her waist-length ponytail, Tamara moved one foot in front of the other. After touching the cross at her throat, she yanked on the handle and her heart exploded through her chest.

      First thing she noticed was dark trousers sheathing long masculine legs like a work of art. Next, an open-necked business shirt, cuffs folded back on hard, bronzed forearms. Higher, stubble smudged a movie-star square jaw, while a lick of black hair hung over a widow’s peak. The gaze was blue, lazy and hypnotic.

      Armand De Luca.

      Partway recovered, she exhaled in a whoosh. “I thought you said two weeks.”

      He hinted at a smile. “Turned into one.”

      Still off balance, she rested a cheek against her fingers, which were curled around the door rim, and surrendered to the obvious. “Don’t tell me. You’ve already heard.”

      His expression sharpened. “Let me guess. You’ve tossed in your salon receptionist towel.” His attention zeroed in on the wrapped bag of peas pinioned against her lower ribs and he frowned. “I can also see why.” Without invitation, he crossed the threshold and gingerly collected her injured hand.

      Her first impulse was to twist away, tell him to keep his distance. She wasn’t at all certain she welcomed what his touch did to her—like being sucked in by the tow of a tidal wave. But she was so tired; avoiding his hands-on concern only seemed childish. Besides, his big tanned hand supporting her much smaller one wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

      “I’d invite you in—” she watched him untangle the towel, then gently roll her wrist back and forth “—but you already are.”

      His focus was on the swollen joint. “This looks bad.”

      The hot pad of his index finger nudged the purple mark, which was turning greenish-yellow, and a searing pain lifted the hair on her scalp. Water flooding her eyes, she broke free of his hold and moved toward the couch, cradling her wrist like a baby.

      Rubbing a set of knuckles over his sandpaper jaw, he followed. “That needs to be looked at.”

      “It just needs rest.”

      He took her in, from her muzzy ponytail to her naked toes, and sent a disapproving look that made her feel ten years old. “You need rest.”

      Bingo! “You’re right. So if you don’t mind…” She made to crowd him back out the door, but she had more chance of moving Ayres Rock. For now, she was beaten.

      She pasted on a plastic smile, not intending to hide her frustration. “So, what can I do for you today, Mr. De Luca?”

      His voice deepened, part velvet, part growl. “It’s Armand. And you can come home with me.”

      His statement pushed her back with the force of a shove. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his words, and presence, affected her.

      Her grin was haughty. “Persistence must be your middle name. ‘Come home with me,’ just like that.” She fell back into the couch. Her wrist screamed and she yelped at the pain.

      His athletic frame folded down beside her. The ledge of his broad shoulders swung over and the room seemed to shrink. “Not just like that. Not only are you injured, you’re forgetting our conversation last week.”

      Too aware of his animal magnetism and intoxicating woodsy scent, she slid farther away. “I haven’t forgotten anything.” Including the fact he’d approached her with that ludicrous offer of marriage at Marc’s funeral.

      He looked past her and frowned. Oh, great. He’d spotted the bills. When he swept them up—an obstinate man with a mission—more than instinct said it was a waste of time to protest. She assumed an unconcerned air while her heartbeat clattered wildly.

      Finally he set the bills down. “Do you have anywhere to go?”

      She forced a laugh. The sound came out more strangled than amused. “It’s not as bad as all that.”

      His bland expression let her know he didn’t agree.

      As tense seconds ticked by, the walls pressed in, and as much as it pained her, Tamara was forced to face the hard, cold truth. Aside from Marc, she didn’t have anyone close. Melanie and Kristin, and a couple of university buddies, but she didn’t have any let-me-crash-on-your-living-room-floor-type friends.

      Her mother lived in Melbourne, but they rarely communicated, which both saddened and appeased her. How strange to love someone in whose company you felt, more times than not, invisible. Once she would’ve performed somersaults to get her mother’s attention. Later it seemed wiser to save her energy. Elaine Kendle had been stuck in a deep dark “if only” hole—probably was still stuck—and there was little Tamara could do about it.

      Slapping his muscular thighs, Armand pushed to his feet. “I won’t argue. If you want to stay ’til they come to evict you, which must be any day now, that’s your choice.”

      He headed off and her mind froze. The walls that only a moment ago suffocated her, had receded until all she saw was Armand reaching for the tarnished knob. Opening the door. Walking away.

      Her throat closed over.

      “Wait!”

      He pivoted back and their gazes fused. But she couldn’t speak or move. Dammit, she wasn’t used to accepting help.

      From across the room, the light in his eyes changed from calculated disinterest to anticipation. In a measured gait, he returned and carefully reached out. She hesitated, then blew out a defeated breath and placed her hand in his.

      As his fingers curled and swallowed hers, his warmth suffused her skin and swam up her arm, making every nerve ending skip and tingle. A smile lifted one side of the mouth. A masculine, sexy, wonder-how-it-feels mouth.

      “Tell me what you need to take,” he said, helping her up.

      She nodded and together they collected a few things—some clothes, her books, and Einstein, her plant. But their movements, her situation, this handsome, insistent man…it all seemed surreal.

      When the door clicked shut fifteen minutes later, she was still in a daze. Once more, her life had taken an acute, unexpected turn. She studied Armand, strong arms full of her “stuff” as he negotiated the stairwell, and wondered which of her barriers he’d attempt to break down next.

      A big, baggy, chocolate-brown gaze, and breath that would bring water to a garlic clove’s eye greeted Tamara.

      Kneeling in Armand De Luca’s enormous kitchen, she mentally blocked her nose and ruffled the sleepy bloodhound’s ears with her good hand. “How long have you had Master? Since the last ice age?”

      One hip propped against the island bench, shoulders set at an angle, Armand concentrated as he shuffled through mail he’d swept off the black granite counter. His gaze flicked up and he grinned a lopsided smile that made her stomach muscles flutter.

      “Don’t know about ice age,” he said, attention returning to the mail. “Maybe around the time I started wearing long trousers.”

      Tamara’s eye line slid down. “Long” by no means covered it. Nice in trousers, but delicious in the low-riding indigo-rinse jeans he’d changed into soon after they’d arrived