The Billionaire Bridegroom

Nic looked at her with burning eyes as he continued, “Can I take it you’ll be staying the night? You’re not going to make some excuse about having to go home to your sister and niece?”

“They’re away for the night.”

“Aha! So you came here planning to seduce me.” He grinned, triumph dancing in his eyes. “Got you!”

“Is that what it’s all about to you, Nic? Winning? Am I just another notch on your bedpost?”

“Another notch?” he repeated incredulously. “There’s never been a notch like you in my entire life. You can take that as gospel!”

in

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The Billionaire Bridegroom

Emma Darcy

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

WOW! Definitely a million-dollar property! Real class, Serena Fleming decided appreciatively, driving the van past perfectly manicured lawns to the architect designed house owned by one of her sister’s clients, Angelina Gifford. Michelle’s Pet Grooming Salon drew quite a few wealthy people who used the mobile service provided, but Serena was more impressed with this place than any other she had visited in the course of picking up pampered dogs and cats.

Michelle had told her the land in this area had only been released for development four years ago. The Giffords had certainly bought a prime piece of real estate—three acres sited on top of a hill overlooking Terrigal Beach and a vast stretch of ocean. There were no formal gardens, just a few artistically placed palm trees—big fat pineapple-shaped palms with a mass of fronds growing out of the top. Must have cost a fortune to transport and plant them, all fully grown, but then quite clearly the whole place had to have cost a fortune.

The fabulous view was cut off as the van drew level with the house which seemed to have walled courtyards on this western side. All the windows would face north and east, Serena thought. Still, even the wall arrangement was interesting, painted in dark blue with a rich cream trim, suggesting sea and sand.

She brought the van to a halt adjacent to the front door, cut the engine and hopped out, curious to meet the man who had designed all this. Nic Moretti was his name, a highly successful architect, also the brother of Angelina Gifford, whose husband had whisked her off for a trip overseas. The talented Nic had been left in charge of the house and Angelina’s adored dog, Cleo, who was due for a clip and shampoo this morning.

No doubt it was convenient for him to stay here. According to the local newspaper, his design had just won the contract to build a people’s park with various pavilions on crown land overlooking Brisbane Water. Easy for him to supervise the work from such a close vantage point, a mere half hour drive to the location of the proposed park.

Serena rang the doorbell and waited. And waited. She glanced at her watch. It was now ten minutes past the nine o’clock appointment. She rang the doorbell again, with considerably more vigour.

In her other life as a hair stylist in a very fashionable Sydney salon, it was always rich people who disregarded time, expecting to be fitted in whenever they arrived. Here she was on the Central Coast, a good hour and a half north of Sydney, but it was obviously no different, she thought on a disgruntled sigh. The wealthy expected others to wait on them. In fact, they expected the whole world to revolve around them.

Like her ex-fiancé…

Serena was scowling over the memory of what Lyall Duncan had expected of her when the door she faced was abruptly flung open.

‘Yes?’ a big brute of a man snapped.

Serena’s jaw dropped. His thick black hair was rumpled. His unshaven jaw bristled with aggression. His muscular and very male physique was barely clothed by a pair of exotic—or was it erotic?—silk boxer shorts. And if she wasn’t mistaken—no, don’t look there! She wrenched her gaze up from the distracting bulge near his groin, took a deep breath and glared straight back at glowering dark eyes framed by ridiculously long thick eyelashes that were totally wasted on a man.

Italian heritage, of course. What else could it be with names like Nic and Angelina Moretti?

‘I’m Serena from Michelle’s Pet Grooming Salon,’ she announced.

He frowned at her, the dark eyes sharper now as he scrutinised her face; blue eyes, pert nose, full-lipped mouth, slight cleft in her chin, wisps of blond hair escaping from the fat plait that gathered in the rest of it. His gaze dropped to the midriff top that outlined her somewhat perky breasts and the denim shorts that left her long shapely legs on full display, making Serena suddenly self-conscious of being almost as naked as he was, though definitely more decently dressed.

‘Do I know you?’ he barked.

He’d probably been a Doberman pinscher in another life, Serena was thinking, just before the shock of recognition kicked her heart.

‘No!’ she answered with panicky speed, not wanting him to make the link that had suddenly shot through her mind.

It had been a month ago. A whole rotten month of working fiercely at putting the still very raw experience in the irretrievable past; breaking off her engagement to Lyall, leaving her job, leaving Sydney, taking wound-licking refuge with her sister. To be suddenly faced with the architect of those decisions…

She could feel her forehead going clammy, the blood draining from her face as her mind screamed at the unfairness of it all. Her hands clenched, fighting the urge to lash out at him. A persistent thread of common sense argued it wasn’t Nic Moretti’s fault. He’d simply been the instrument who’d drawn out the true picture of her future if she went ahead with her fairy-tale marriage—Cinderella winning the Prince!

He was the man Lyall had been talking to that night, the man who’d expressed surprise at the high-flying property dealer, Lyall Duncan, for choosing to marry down, taking a lowly hairdresser as his wife. And Serena had overheard Lyall’s reply—the reply that had ripped the rose-coloured spectacles off her face and shattered all her illusions. This man had heard it, too, and the humiliation of it forced her into a defensive pretence.

‘Since I don’t know you…’ she half lied in desperate defence.

‘Nic Moretti,’ he rumbled at her.

‘…I don’t see how you can know me,’ she concluded emphatically.

He’d seen her at Lyall’s party but they hadn’t been introduced, and she’d been all glammed up for the occasion, not in her au naturel state as she was this morning. Surely he wouldn’t make the connection. The environment was completely different. Yet despite her denial of any previous encounter with him, he was still frowning, trying to place her.

‘I’m here to collect Cleo,’ she stated briskly, hating this nasty coincidence and wanting to get away as fast as possible.

‘Cleo,’ he repeated in a disconnected fashion.

‘The dog,’ she grated out.

The expression on his rugged handsome face underwent a quick and violent change, the brooding search for her identity clicking straight into totally fed up frustration. ‘You mean the monster,’ he flashed at her derisively.

The blood that had drained from her face, surged to her head again, making Serena see red. It was impossible to resist giving this snobby man a dose of the condescension he ladled out himself.

‘I would hardly characterise a sweet little Australian silky terrier as a monster,’ she said loftily.

‘Sweet!’ He thrust out a brawny forearm marked with long and rather deep scratches. ‘Look what she did to me!’

‘Mmm…’ Serena felt no sympathy, silently applauding the terrier for doing the clawing this man very likely deserved. ‘Raises the question…what did you do to her?’

‘Nothing. I was simply trying to rescue the wretched creature,’ he declared in exasperation.

‘From what?’

He grimaced, not caring for this cross-examination. ‘A friend of mine put her on the slippery dip out at the swimming pool. She skidded down it into the water, looking very panicky. I swam over to lift her out and…’

‘Dogs can swim, you know.’

‘I know,’ he growled. ‘It was a reflex action on my part.’

‘And clawing you would be a reflex action on her part. Not being able to get any purchase on the slippery dip would have terrified her.’

Another grimace at being put on the spot. ‘It was only meant as a bit of fun.’

Serena raised her eyebrows, not letting him off the hook. ‘Some people have strange ideas of what is fun with animals.’

‘I tried to save her, remember?’ He glared at the implication of cruelty. ‘And let me tell you she wasn’t the one left bleeding everywhere.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Though I think you should rearrange your thoughts on just who is the monster here. Take a good long look at whom you choose to mix with and how they treat what they consider lesser beings.’

The advice tripped off her tongue, pure bile on her part. He didn’t like it, either, but Serena didn’t care. It was about time someone got under his silver-spoonfed, beautifully tanned, privileged skin. She was still burning over the way Lyall had discussed her with this man, telling him the kind of wife he wanted, the kind of wife he expected to get by taking on a non-competitive little hairdresser who’d be so grateful to be married to him, she’d be a perfectly compliant home-maker and never question anything he did. Definitely placing her as a lesser being.

But perhaps she’d gone too far on the critical front. Nic Moretti did, after all, represent one of her sister’s regular clients who didn’t care what it cost to keep her dog beautifully groomed—a client Michelle wouldn’t like to lose. Never mind that the super-duper architect made Serena bristle from head to toe. Business was business. She stretched her mouth into an appeasing smile.

‘Mrs. Gifford made a booking for Cleo at the salon this morning. If you’ll fetch her for me…’

‘The salon,’ he repeated grimly. ‘Do you cut claws there or do I have to take her to the vet?’

‘We do trim pets’ nails.’

‘Then please do it while you’ve got her in your custody,’ he growled. ‘Have you got a leash for her?’

Serena raised her eyebrows. ‘Doesn’t Cleo have her own?’

‘I’m not going near that dog until its claws are clipped.’

‘Fine! I’ll get one from the van.’

Unbelievable that a man of his size should be cowed by a miniature dog! Serena shook her head over the absurdity as she collected a leash and a bag of crispy bacon from the van. The latter was always a useful bribe if a dog baulked at doing what she wanted it to do. The need to show some superiority over Nic Moretti, even if it was only with a small silky terrier, burned through Serena’s heart.

He waited for her by the front door, still scowling over their exchange. Or maybe he had a hangover. Clearly the ringing of the doorbell had got him out of bed and he wasn’t ready to face the rest of the day yet. Serena gave him a sunny smile designed to reproach his ill humour.

‘Do you want to lead me to Cleo or shall I wait here until you shoo her out of the house?’

His eyes glinted savagely at the latter suggestion, conscious of retaining some semblance of dignity, even in his boxer shorts. ‘You can have the fun of catching her,’ he said, waving Serena into the house.

‘No problem,’ she tossed at him, taking secret satisfaction in the tightening of his jaw.

Though her pulse did skip a little as she passed him by. Nic Moretti had the kind of aggressive masculinity that would threaten any woman’s peace of mind. Serena tried telling herself he was probably gay. Many artistic men were. In fact, he had the mean, moody and magnificent look projected by the pin-up models in the gay calendars her former employer had lusted over in his hairdressing salon.

Mentally she could hear Ty raving on, ‘Great pecs, washboard stomach, thighs to die for…’

The old patter dried up as the view in front of her claimed her interest. The foyer was like the apron of a stage, polished boards underfoot, fabulous urns dressing its wings. Two steps led down to a huge open living area where practically every piece of furniture was an ultra-modern objet d’art. Mind-boggling stuff.

Beyond it all was a wall of glass which led her gaze outside to a vast patio shaded by sails, and a luxurious spa from which a water slide—the infamous slippery dip—led to a glorious swimming pool on a lower level. She didn’t see a kennel anywhere, nor the dog she’d come to collect.

She threw an inquiring glance back over her shoulder to the man in charge, only to find his gaze fastened on her derrière. Her heart skipped several beats. Nic Moretti couldn’t be gay. Only heterosexual men were fascinated by the jutting contours of the well-rounded backside that had frequently embarrassed Serena by drawing wolf-whistles.

It wasn’t really voluptuous. Her muscle tone was good, no dimple of cellulite anywhere. She simply had a bottom that stuck out more than most, or was more emphasised by the pit in her back. Of course, wearing shorts probably did draw more attention to it, but she saw no reason to hide the shape of her body anyway. At least the denim didn’t invite the pinching she had sometimes been subjected to in the streets of Sydney while waiting for a pedestrian traffic light to change to green.

It was just her bad luck that Lyall Duncan was a bottom man, finding that particular piece of female equipment sexier than big breasts or long legs or whatever else men fancied in a woman. More to the point, he’d told Nic Moretti so, the memory of which instantly turned up Serena’s heat level. Was he recognising this feature of her?

‘Where might I find Cleo?’ she rapped out, snapping his attention back to the business in hand.

His gaze lifted but the dark frown returned, as though he was pulling his wandering mind back from a place he found particularly vexatious. ‘I don’t know,’ he said testily. ‘I’ve only just rolled out of bed…’

‘What do we have here?’ another voice inquired, a female voice lifted in a supercilious upper class drawl.

Serena’s hackles rose again. Her head whipped around. The newcomer on the scene was drifting into the open living area from what had to be a bedroom wing. She was wearing a slinky thigh-length silk and lace negligee in an oyster shade, one arm up, lazily ruffling long tawny hair. An amused little smile sat on a face that could have graced the cover of a fashion magazine, as could the rest of her, the tall slender figure being of model proportions.

‘Ah…Justine…’ Nic Moretti said in deep relief.

Perfect name for her, Serena thought caustically.

‘…have you seen Cleo? This…uh…lady…has come to collect her for some grooming.’

He’d forgotten her name. Typical! Not important enough on his social scale to remember. Which was just as well, given other memories he might be nursing.

‘Grooming!’ Justine rolled her eyes. Green eyes. ‘Pity she hasn’t come to put the monster down. You should have let the wretched little beast drown yesterday, Nic.’

‘Angelina would never forgive me if I let any harm come to her pet, Justine,’ he reproved in a tight tone.

‘It’s obviously spoiled rotten,’ came the sneering response.

‘Nevertheless…’

‘You’ll find it shut up in the laundry,’ she informed with towering distaste. ‘I don’t know how you could have slept through all its yap-yap-yapping outside the bedroom door last night. It was driving me mad. And the little bitch was so rabid, I had to pick it up by its collar and carry it away from me.’

Half choking it to death, Serena thought venomously.

‘You should have woken me. Let me deal with it,’ Nic grated out, undoubtedly aware of the cruelty to animals tag which was fast gathering more momentum.

Great company he kept! Hot body, cold mean heart. Serena viewed Justine from a mountain of contempt as she carried on like a spoiled rich bitch who expected to always be the centre of attention.

‘Leaving me alone while you nurse-maided a dog? No thanks.’ Her eyelids lowered in flirtatious play. ‘Much better to have no distractions, wasn’t it, darling?’

A clearing of throat behind Serena suggested some embarrassment. ‘The laundry,’ Nic Moretti growled, stepping up to her side and gesturing her to follow him. ‘It’s this way.’

‘Watch the mess!’ Justine warned. ‘There’s bound to be some. I threw in a leftover chicken leg to stop the yapping.’

‘A chicken leg!’ Serena stopped and glared at the self-serving woman. ‘Cooked chicken bones splinter. They could stick in the dog’s throat.’

‘Let’s go!’ Nic muttered urgently.

He was right. This was no time to be instructing anyone. Besides which, Justine would probably rejoice if Cleo was dead. At least Nic Moretti had an anxious air about him as he led the way through a space age stainless steel kitchen.

‘Cleo!’ he called commandingly, striding across a mud room area containing boot racks and rows of hooks for hats, coats and umbrellas. Any thought of his own injury from Cleo’s claws was apparently obliterated by the fear of injury to his sister’s pet.

A shrill barking instantly started up, relieving his obvious body tension before he reached the door behind which the dog was imprisoned. He flung it open and the little silky terrier charged out between his legs, flying past Serena before she could react, shooting through the kitchen like a missile, clearly intent on escaping from any form of captivity.

‘Bloody hell!’ Nic breathed, glancing inside the laundry.

A determined dog was capable of creating a lot of damage. Serena didn’t feel the need to comment on this. It was her job to catch Cleo who was now in the living room, barking hysterically, probably at the sight of the woman who had so callously mistreated her.

‘Oh, you horrible little monster!’ Justine shrieked.

Serena pelted through the kitchen just in time to see a vicious kick aimed at the silky terrier who was darting away from it. ‘Cleo,’ she called in a singsong tone, dropping to her knees to give herself less threatening height and tossing a piece of crispy bacon onto the floor between her and the dog.

Cleo stopped the frenetic activity, sniffed, came forward cautiously and snaffled the bacon. Serena tossed out another piece closer to herself. Then another and another as the dog responded warily to the trail being laid. Finally she snatched a piece held in Serena’s fingers and paused long enough to submit to a calming scratch behind the ears. The fragile little body under its long hair was trembling—evidence of the trauma it had been through.

Serena stroked and scratched, telling Cleo in a soft indulgent tone how beautiful and clever she was until the dog was happy enough to rise up on its hind legs and lick her face.

‘Oh, yuk!’ Justine remarked in disgust, just as Serena scooped the dog into her arms, holding it securely against her shoulder while she rose from her kneeling position.

‘Shut up, Justine!’ Nic shot at her.

The classically oval jaw dropped in shock.

‘Just let the lady do her job,’ he expounded with no less irritation at his girlfriend’s total lack of any sensitivity to the situation.

Serena almost liked him at that moment. However, she headed straight for the front door without any comment. Nic Moretti followed her right out to the van.

‘What door do you want opened?’ he asked solicitously.

‘The driver’s side. I’ll put her on the passenger seat beside me so I can pat her. There’s a dog harness attached to the safety belt so she won’t be a problem when I’m driving.’

He opened the door and watched as Serena settled Cleo into the harness. ‘She seems to be okay,’ he said half anxiously.

‘Fighting fit,’ Serena answered dryly.

‘I don’t think Justine is used to dogs.’

‘Maybe you should growl at her more often.’ This terse piece of advice took him aback. Serena was past dealing in diplomacy. She reached out and pulled her door shut, then spoke to him through the opened window. ‘Normally I would deliver Cleo back at one o’clock. How does that sit with you?’

‘Fine!’ He was frowning again.

‘Will your girlfriend still be here?’

The dark eyes suddenly took on a rivetting intensity. His mouth thinned into a grim set of determination. ‘No, she won’t,’ he stated categorically.

The decision gave Serena a highly pleasant sense of satisfaction. ‘Then I’ll see you at one o’clock.’

CHAPTER TWO

NIC MORETTI watched the van until it turned onto the public road, chagrined by the way the sassy little piece behind the driver’s wheel had got under his skin, yet unable to dismiss the truths she had flung in his face. A pet groomer…obviously caring more about the canine breed than she did for people. Though he had to concede he hadn’t cut too impressive a figure this morning. Justine even less so.

Which brought him to the sobering conclusion that the scorn in those vivid blue eyes had been justified and maybe it was time he took stock of what he was doing, shrugging off stuff he didn’t like for the sake of cruising along in the social swim, doing his balancing act with people on the grounds that no one was perfect and if they were good for something, what did it matter if they fell short in other areas?

Judgment day…

He shook his head over the irony of that being delivered to him by a pet groomer who’d descended on him out of nowhere. Damned if he could even remember the name she had given! Michelle had been printed on the van she drove but he was sure it wasn’t that.

And it still niggled him that he had seen her before somewhere. Though it seemed highly unlikely, given her job and location on the Central Coast. Sydney was his usual stamping ground. Besides, how could he forget that pert mouth and even perter bottom? Both of them were challenges he rather fancied coming to grips with.

He smiled self-mockingly at this last thought.

The hangover from last night’s party was obviously affecting his brain. What could he possibly have in common with a pet groomer, except the welfare of Cleo for the duration of Angelina’s overseas trip? Better get his mind geared to deal with Justine who was turning into a royal pain over his sister’s beloved Cleo. Worse than that, in fact. There was a cruel streak in her treatment of the dog and Nic didn’t like it. He wouldn’t invite her here again.

He frowned over the memory of her laughing as she’d tossed her hapless victim onto the slippery dip yesterday. ‘Here’s company for you, Nic!’ A great joke, laughing at the dog’s frantic attempts to fight its way back up to the spa level against the inevitable skid into the pool. Unkind laughter.