The Magnate's Marriage Demand. Robyn Grady

wedding invitations.”

      A chorus of alarm bells blared in her head. She hadn’t agreed to anything yet! She pitched him a distressed glance.

      Those devilish blue eyes were grinning. “I like to be prepared.”

      CHAPTER THREE

      IN De Luca Enterprises’ inner-city penthouse office, Armand eased up from his high-backed chair, a smile spread clean across his face. Knee deep in figures from his trip to Beijing last week, his secretary knew he shouldn’t be disturbed. However, there were always exceptions to the rule.

      Rounding the massive desk, he extended his hand in welcome as one side of the double oak doors fanned back and a man Armand had known all his life strode in. “Matthew, I wondered if you’d decided against returning from vacation altogether.”

      Tall and lean, Matthew could have been ten years younger than his sixty-five. He chuckled. “You know how I love this company, but these past six weeks made me realize three years is too long to wait for a break. You haven’t lived ’til you enjoy old-style Hawaii and Hamoa Beach. Total relaxation.”

      He looked tanned and healthy. But the difference went beyond that. When Armand released Matthew’s right hand, he found the answer shining on his left. A gold band. Disbelief fell through him, then a startled laugh coughed out. “My God, you’re married!”

      Looking like the old tomcat who’d eaten the last of the cream, Matthew moved toward the maroon chesterfield. “We met at a legal colleague’s retirement party three months ago.” A far-off, contented gleam softened ice-blue eyes as he folded into the settee and flicked open his jacket buttons. “I thought I was well over such foolishness. Evie changed all that.”

      Shock didn’t begin to describe the emotion, but if Matthew was happy, Armand was happy for him. Clapping his hands and rubbing, he set off for the wet bar. “This calls for a toast.”

      When Armand returned with two glasses, they saluted and drank. “Vintage Macallan?”

      “A special malt for a special occasion.”

      Matthew focused on the younger man then slowly shook his head. “Never once did I dream I’d beat you to the altar.”

      “You were a confirmed bachelor. She must be special.”

      Swirling his glass, Matthew raised his brows and sighed. “She is at that.” He studied the liquor’s oak-tint color for a long moment. “No new love interest on your horizon, I suppose.”

      Regularly since his father’s death, Matthew had tentatively asked about prospective fiancées, after which he would mention the will then, just as predictably, assure Armand not to worry. The balance of the trust was in good hands…his hands. He was an experienced lawyer, loyal board member and devoted family friend. No matter if the heir came a little late, Matthew would ensure Armand got what he deserved. If all went according to plan, today would be the final time Matthew need ask.

      Confident, Armand replied, “Actually, I intend to announce my own wedding date very soon.” Despite his friend’s assurance about the trust, he wanted to get the matrimonial legalities cleared up.

      Matthew’s expression sagged in astonishment and his face blanched. A hand funneled through his high silver-gray hairline as he released a laugh. “Well, do I know the lucky girl?”

      Armand swallowed his scotch and grunted in the negative. “She’s not society.”

      “From humble beginnings then?”

      Armand nodded.

      “Like your mother.”

      Fingers of tension circled Armand’s throat. He swallowed past the sensation and turned to his desk. He didn’t need the comparison. Six years ago he’d asked for the hand of a woman who hailed from an impeccable family line, and look how that turned out. Christine Sawyer had tried to hock the ring—a family heirloom, for Pete’s sake. So much for blue-blood pedigree. So much for true love.

      Matthew’s apologetic voice followed him. “Forgive me. That was unnecessary. I’m sure she’ll fit in beautifully. What’s her name?”

      Armand set down his glass and drew in his chair. “Tamara Kendle.”

      Matthew nodded, sipped, smiled. “Eager to start a family, no doubt.”

      “You could say that.”

      Throughout the week, Tamara’s bouts of morning sickness had left her wan, but by evening her face glowed. Not that she would admit her favorable adjustment anytime soon. She was, indeed, a minx, constantly challenging him with her jibes and bold green eyes. But last night she hadn’t mentioned leaving once. Progress. Tonight he planned to push that advantage as far as it would go.

      Armand’s attention landed on the file he’d been working on and his mind clicked over. He caught the time on his watch. After five. Matthew would want to return to his bride, but a quick nod here first would be appreciated.

      Armand rapped the file. “Do you have a minute?”

      Matthew unraveled his legs. “China?” His expression filled with interest, as he moved to stand beside Armand’s chair.

      Armand opened the file and flipped through. “The consultant had it right. At least two areas would fit our needs exactly.” He indicated a map, pointing out Shanghai and Hang Zhou. “Of course we’d still keep our plants in Australia, but increase output by expanding and make a decent profit, even factoring in shipping. The businessmen I spoke with over there are keen.”

      Armand leaned back, hands laced behind his head. Innovative growth strategies and organizing new trade links not only kept him alert, but such measures were also vital. Building upon De Luca Enterprises’ place in today’s competitive manufacturing and corporate world meant breathing a constant stream of fresh air into the business. Without new initiatives, DLE could stagnate, stumble, or worse, risk takeover. He didn’t advocate violence, but he’d sooner fight to the death than hand over his heart and soul to any man.

      Concentrating on the file, Armand tipped forward again. “I still estimate we need to shift between eighteen and twenty percent of primary holdings to fund establishment costs.”