The One That Got Away. Kelly Hunter

      He didn’t look like a fifty-million-dollar man. Tall, rangy frame, brown eyes and hair, casual dresser, hard worker. Excellent architect. ‘Why do you even need to work?’

      ‘I like to work. I want this project, Evie,’ he said with understated intensity. ‘I don’t want to wait ten years for us to build the resources to take on a project this size. This is the one.’

      ‘Maybe,’ she said cautiously. ‘But we started this business as equal partners. What happens when you drop ten million dollars into kitty and I put in none?’

      ‘We treat it as a loan. The money goes in at the beginning of the job, buffers us against the unexpected and comes out again at the end. And we’d need a pre-nup.’

      ‘Oh, the romance of it all,’ she murmured dryly.

      ‘So you’ll think about it?’

      ‘The money or the marriage?’

      ‘I’ve found that it helps a great deal to think about them together,’ said Max. ‘What are you doing Friday?’

      ‘I am not marrying you on Friday,’ said Evie.

      ‘Of course not,’ said Max. ‘We have to wait for the paperwork. I was thinking I could take my fiancée home to Melbourne to meet my mother on Friday. We stay a couple of nights, put on a happy show, return Sunday and get married some time next week. It’s a good solution, Evie. I’ve thought about it a lot.’

      ‘Yeah, well, I haven’t thought about it at all.’

      ‘Take all day,’ said Max. ‘Take two.’

      Evie just looked at him.

      ‘Okay, three.’

      It took them a week to work through all the ramifications, but eventually Evie said yes. There were provisos, of course. They only went through with the wedding if MEP’s tender for the civic centre was looking good. The marriage would end when Max turned thirty. They’d have to share a house but there would be no sharing of beds. And no sex with anyone else either.

      Max had balked at that last stipulation.

      Discretion regarding others had been his counter offer. Two years was a long time, he’d argued. She didn’t want him all tense and surly for the next two years, did she?

      Evie did not, but the role of betrayed wife held little appeal.

      Eventually they had settled on extreme discretion regarding others, with a two-hundred-thousand-dollar penalty clause for the innocent party every time an extramarital affair became public.

      ‘If I were a cunning woman, I’d employ a handful of women to throw themselves at you to the point where you couldn’t resist,’ said Evie as they headed down to Circular Quay for lunch.

      ‘If you were that cunning I wouldn’t be marrying you,’ said Max as they stepped from the shadow of a Sydney skyscraper into a sunny summer’s day. ‘What do you want for lunch? Seafood?’

      ‘Yep. You don’t look like a man who’s about to inherit fifty million dollars, by the way.’

      ‘How about now?’ Max stopped, lifted his chin, narrowed his eyes and stared at the nearest skyscraper as if he were considering taking ownership of it.

      ‘It’d help if your work boots weren’t a hundred years old,’ she said gravely.

      ‘They’re comfortable.’

      ‘And your watch didn’t come from the two-dollar shop.’

      ‘It still tells the time. You know, you and my mother are going to get on just fine,’ said Max. ‘That’s a useful quality in a wife.’

      ‘If you say so.’

      ‘Dear,’ said Max. ‘If you say so, dear.’

      ‘Oh, you poor, deluded man.’

      Max grinned and stopped mid pavement. He drew Evie to his side, held his phone out at arm’s length and took a picture.

      ‘Tell me about your family, again,’ she said.

      ‘Mother. Older brother. Assorted relatives. You’ll be meeting them soon enough.’

      She’d be meeting his mother this weekend; it was all arranged. Max showed her the photo he’d just taken. ‘What do you reckon? Tell her now?’

      ‘Yes.’ They’d had this discussion before. ‘Now would be good.’

      Max returned his attention to the phone, texting some kind of message to go with the photo. ‘Done,’ he muttered. ‘Now I feel woozy.’

      ‘Probably hunger,’ said Evie.

      ‘Don’t you feel woozy?’

      ‘Not yet. For that to happen there would need to be champagne.’

      So when they got to the restaurant and ordered the seafood platter for lunch, Max also ordered champagne, and they toasted the business, the civic centre project and finally themselves.

      ‘How come it doesn’t bother you?’ asked Max, when the food was gone and the first bottle of champagne had been replaced by another. ‘Marrying for mercenary reasons?’

      ‘With my family history?’ she said. ‘It’s perfectly normal.’ Her father was on his fifth wife in as many decades; her mother was on her third husband. She could count the love matches on one finger.

      ‘Haven’t you ever been in love?’ he asked.

      ‘Have you?’ Evie countered.

      ‘Not yet,’ said Max as he signed for the meal, and his answer fitted him well enough. Max went through girlfriends aplenty. Most of them were lovely. None of them lasted longer than a couple of months.

      ‘I was in love once,’ said Evie as she stood and came to the rapid realisation that she wasn’t wholly sober any more. ‘Best week of my life.’

      ‘What was he like?’

      ‘Tall, dark and perfect. He ruined me for all other men.’

      ‘Bastard.’

      ‘That too,’ said Evie with a wistful sigh. ‘I was very young. He was very experienced. Worst week of my life.’

      ‘You said best.’

      ‘It was both,’ she said with solemn gravity, and then went and spoiled it with a sloppy sucker’s grin. ‘Let’s just call it memorable. Did I mention that he ruined me for all other men?’

      ‘Yes.’ Max put his hand to her elbow to steady her and steered her towards the stairs and guided her down them, one by one, until they stood on the pavement outside. ‘You’re tipsy.’

      ‘You’re right.’

      ‘How about we find a taxi and get you home? I promise to see you inside, pour you a glass of water, find your aspirin and then find my way home. Don’t say I’m not a good fiancé.’

      ‘Vitamin B,’ said Evie. ‘Find that too.’

      Max’s phone beeped and he looked at it and grinned. ‘Logan wants to know if you’re pregnant.’

      ‘Who’s Logan?’ Even the name was enough to cut through her foggy senses and give her pause. The devil’s name had been Logan too. Logan Black.

      ‘Logan’s my brother. He’s got a very weird sense of humour.’

      ‘I hate him already.’

      ‘I’ll tell him no,’ said Max cheerfully.

      Minutes later, Max’s phone beeped again. ‘He says congratulations.’

      It couldn’t be her. Logan looked at the image on his phone again, at the photo Max had just sent through. Max