The Billionaire's Scandalous Marriage

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

COMING NEXT MONTH

CHAPTER ONE

HER wedding was only two weeks away.

Just two more weeks.

Charlotte Ramsey knew she should be happy about it.

But she wasn’t.

All this past week spent trying to stay positive about marrying Mark…it hadn’t worked. No matter how determinedly she argued against letting her father ruin how she should be feeling, he was ruining it. So the problem had to be dealt with.

Right now.

Before tonight.

Her stomach was knotted with nerves, her mind churning miserably over her dilemma as she set out on the hour-long drive from the inner city of Sydney to the family mansion at Palm Beach.

It was impossible to have a happy wedding if her father persisted in his unacceptable attitude towards the man she was marrying. The way he had treated Mark on Christmas day…and if he did the same tonight…her heart clenched at the thought. It hurt. It really hurt. She had to talk to him, make him understand.

Okay, he didn’t approve of Mark as a husband for her. It was no use hoping he ever would. Mark was not his kind of man. But he was right for her—as right as she was going to get—and surely she could persuade her father to respect that, if only for her sake.

The wedding was so close now.

He had to listen to her this time.

Her cheeks burned as she remembered the flaming row they’d had over her engagement when she had openly defied his disapproval, throwing down the threat of possible estrangement.

“Whether you like it or not, Dad, I’m going to marry him.”

Which had caused an eruption of frustration over her decision.

“You’re too damned headstrong for your own good, Charlotte. Marriage to Mark Freedman…what on earth do you see in the man? He’s a playboy, not a…”

“Not a bull in the financial world,” she’d sliced in, cutting off his point of view to push her own. “Which is precisely what I love about Mark. He’s there for me, Dad, not constantly flying off to do another deal in another country.” As her billionaire father had done all her life. “He wants my company. He enjoys my company. We have fun together.”

“Fun!” her father had thundered. “You’ve got my blood in your veins, girl. Freedman’s kind of fun will pall after a while. By all means have him as a novelty. Not too bad a toy for you to play with as long as he gives you pleasure. But marriage is serious business.”

“It’s not about business to me,” she had fiercely retorted, incensed by his contemptuous colouring of her relationship with Mark. “It’s about feeling loved. And I’m very, very serious about having that in my life.”

“It won’t last,” her father had growled.

But Charlotte was determined it would. She was thirty years old. She wanted to have children. Mark did, too. They were happy together, happy about the future they were planning. He wasn’t a playboy. He was an events organiser and very successful at it, too. She was looking forward to helping him with his business after they were married.

But she didn’t want to be completely estranged from her father.

For the past few months he seemed to have accepted Mark into the family’s social circle—albeit grudgingly—but on Christmas day…she had to get this sorted out before the wedding. Before tonight’s New Year’s Eve party on the yacht. If her father snubbed Mark again…

Charlotte took a deep breath to relieve the tightness in her chest. A glance at the clock on the dashboard told her it was past lunchtime, almost two o’clock. With any luck she should be able to get her father to herself for a private chat, just say hello to her mother in passing.

She’d told Mark she’d be spending the day at the beauty salon, getting ready for tonight. Best he didn’t know about this meeting. It would have to be a quick one, though. He would expect her to be back at the apartment they shared at Double Bay by late afternoon.

For the remainder of the drive along Sydney’s northern beaches Charlotte mentally rehearsed what she wanted to say, hoping to reach a workable understanding with her father. By the time she emerged from her Mercedes at the family mansion, her mind was all fired up to win what she needed to win. She charged into the foyer and was unpleasantly surprised to see the butler wheeling a traymobile of coffee things towards the main lounge room.

“Have my parents got visitors, Charles?”

“Good afternoon, Miss Charlotte,” he rolled out, reminding her that good manners should not be overlooked. He was a tall, imposing man in his fifties, the absolute authority when it came to running this huge household and a stickler for appropriate behaviour at all times.

She grimaced an apology. “Sorry. I’m in a hurry. I need to talk to Dad.”

He gestured to the lounge room doors. “Mr Ramsey is enjoying the company of your brother and his friend from London, Mr Damien Wynter. Mrs Ramsey is out, keeping an appointment with her hair stylist.”

Charlotte frowned. It was good that her mother was out of the way, bad that she’d have to meet Peter’s friend and have a bit of social chat before requesting a private talk with her father, who wouldn’t want to leave this new connection with the son and heir of another billionaire. The big business networking would definitely be in action.

But she was here.

She had to try.

“Will you be joining the gentlemen for coffee, Miss Charlotte?” Charles prompted while she was still chewing over his information.

“No. Thank you. I’m not staying that long, Charles.” She waved to the doors. “I’ll just say hello to Peter and his friend.”

Charles left the traymobile to usher her into the lounge room, announcing, “Miss Charlotte,” as she sailed in, trying to put on a polite face and hide her anxiety over the situation.

The three men rose from their seats at her entrance, Peter and his friend from armchairs with their backs to her, her father from the sofa facing them. Her gaze automatically zeroed in on him as he smiled a surprised but pleased welcome.

“Charlotte…” He held out his arms for a greeting hug.

“My sister,” she heard Peter mutter to his friend, but she didn’t glance their way.

She walked straight up to her father to give him his hug, relieved that his disapproval of Mark did not impinge on his love for her. Despite all his shortcomings as a parent, she loved him, too. He was her father. And she hoped—fiercely hoped—she could win his understanding this afternoon.

Miss Charlotte…Peter’s sister…Damien Wynter’s interest was instantly aroused. She was a spectacular woman, not at all like Peter who obviously took after his father—blue eyes, sandy hair, fair-skinned with a sprinkle of freckles on their strongly boned faces, big physiques.

Her hair was the colour of caramel with streaks of butter, a long mane of it, shining and bouncy. Her skin was light honey, smooth, gleaming, and she had brown eyes like her mother, though not quite as dark, more Boston cream sherry. They glowed with bright intelligence, bringing a natural vibrancy to a face that had a very individual attraction—certainly not a plastic mould of beautiful, but strong with character, mixed with a sensual appeal in the soft curve of her jawline and the rather wide, full-lipped mouth.

Her figure was wonderfully female, the almost voluptuous curves accentuated by the bold dress she wore. Not that it was blatantly sexy. In fact it was quite modest—a sleeveless bodice, square neckline, not low enough to show cleavage, and the skirt skimmed her hips and flared slightly to knee-length. The design was simple but the colour combination was stunning.

The dress was mostly a vibrant purple. Dominating the lower left hand side of the skirt was a big white flower with a bright red centre and red splashed around the edge of the petals. A similar but much smaller flower featured over her right breast. A wide black belt circled an enticingly small waist, and very stylish black-and-white strappy sandals added a lot of sexy class to her bare feet.

Only a very confident woman would choose such a dress—a woman who knew what she liked and was not afraid to express her own individuality. And she obviously didn’t bother about being model-thin, either. Bold, confident and very sexy, Damien decided, feeling a highly stimulated interest.

Peter Ramsey’s sister…

The thought flashed into Damien’s mind that the partner in life he’d been looking for could be right here. She shared the same background of immense wealth, so wouldn’t have her eye on how much he was worth. He could trust a relationship with her. Though whether she was ready to settle down and have the family he wanted was another issue. For all he knew she could be a spoilt brat, like many of the other heiresses he’d met.

But right now, there was a buzz of excited anticipation running through his veins. If Charlotte Ramsey was anything like Peter in character, this visit to Sydney could be the start of building the kind of life he’d craved since he was a boy—something real ad solid and lasting on a personal level.

Charlotte leaned up to whisper in her father’s ear. “I need to talk to you privately. It’s important, Dad,” she pleaded.

He frowned down at her as she drew back, her eyes eloquently begging him to fall in with her request. “Come and meet Peter’s friend first,” he commanded, a chiding tone in his voice.

“Of course,” she quickly agreed, swinging around to face their visitor, totally unprepared for the flesh and blood reality of Damien Wynter.

He didn’t look English. He didn’t look like anyone she’d ever met. The man was stunningly handsome—movie star handsome—like a smoothly dangerous Latin lover, an aristocratic Spaniard with his dark olive skin, black hair and eyes so dark, they looked black, too—black and brilliant with sparkling speculation as they bored straight into hers, giving her heart an almighty jolt.

Her toes started to curl. The man was sexual dynamite. He was as tall as Peter but there was more of a lean grace to his perfectly proportioned physique, which was casually displayed in a collarless white shirt and tailored black jeans. There was a supple, animal quality about his body that gave Charlotte the feeling he was all primed to pounce and right at this moment, she was his target.

Her spine tingled with a weird little frisson of excitement. Shock at her response to his sexual magnetism kicked her mind into savage common sense. Damien Wynter was the kind of man who would make any woman feel like this. It wasn’t special to her. But for one treacherous moment, she wished Mark had the same power.

Her father’s large hand on the pit of her back, pushing her forward to greet their guest, snapped her out of her stunned bunny state. She plastered a smile on her face, hoping it covered her embarrassment at being caught up in his initial physical impact. Looks weren’t everything, not by a long shot.

“Damien, it’s my very great pleasure to introduce you to my daughter, Charlotte,” her father said with far more warmth than he’d ever shown to Mark.

Which raised her hackles.

“It’s a very great pleasure to meet you, Charlotte,” the man responded in kind, stepping forward and offering his hand.

She took it out of automatic politeness and was shocked anew by the electric contact of his strong fingers encasing hers. It rattled her into gushing speech. “Peter has spoken of you. I’m sure he’ll see you enjoy your visit to Australia.”

The dark eyes engaged hers with very personal intensity. Heart-squeezing intensity. “I’m glad I came.”

For you.

He didn’t say those words but she felt them. And the pressure of his hand reinforced the totally unwelcome connection he was pushing.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay and chat but I’m really short of time and I’ve got some urgent business with Dad,” she rushed out, forcibly releasing her hand as she turned to her father. “Could we go to the library?”

Her father waved to Charles who had brought in the traymobile. “Can’t it wait until we’ve had coffee?”

“Please, Dad. I’ve come all the way out here and I’ve got to get back…”

“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “I’ll be back,” he threw at Peter and Damien.

“Please excuse us,” Charlotte added with a swift, apologetic glance at both men, not quite meeting the dark gaze, which she felt boring into her back as she made her escape.

Damien Wynter was undoubtedly a well-practised womaniser, she fiercely told herself.

Not worth a second thought.

Damien watched her go, his mind buzzing with exciting possibilities.

“She’s taken,” Peter said dryly.

It snapped Damien’s attention back to him. “What do you mean…taken?”

“Getting married. The wedding is only two weeks away.”

Shock was chased by a sense of disbelief. He hadn’t imagined it. Charlotte Ramsey had connected with him. She shouldn’t be taken by some other man. He shot a probing look at Peter. “Do you like her fiancé?”

The roll of eyes expressed contempt. “He’s a smarmy fortune-hunter, but no one can make Charlotte see it.”

Aggression pumped through Damien. One way or another he’d make her see it. “Will they be at the party on the yacht tonight?” he asked.

Peter gave him a speculative look, then shook his head. “They’ll be there but you don’t know Charlotte, Damien. She’s got her mind set on marrying Mark Freedman and believe me, my sister is very, very strong-minded. Rocking the boat is not on, my friend.”

Rock it he would if he could, was Damien’s instant reaction, but he shrugged and turned the conversation to another topic, choosing not to pursue his interest in Peter’s sister too openly at this point.

Tonight he intended to know much more of Charlotte Ramsey and if he liked what he learnt, nothing was going to stop him from acting on his interest.

“So what’s this urgent business?” her father growled as he shut the library door behind them. “You were downright rude to Damien Wynter, giving him short shrift like that.”

The criticism stung, especially when the approval he’d denied Mark had been so quickly given to Peter’s friend. Her carefully rehearsed words flew out of her mind. She turned on him, hot accusation leaping off her tongue. “Not as rude as you were to Mark on Christmas day, snubbing him when he was only trying to…”

“He was sucking up to me,” her father cut in angrily. “I hate people sucking up to me. Damn it, Charlotte! Couldn’t you see that for yourself?” He threw up his hands in disgust. “When are you going to come to your senses? Damien Wynter is the kind of man you should be marrying and you don’t even give him two cents of your time.”

Resentment burned through her. Damien Wynter had used the two cents, coming onto her so fast she was still disturbed by it. “I’m marrying Mark, Dad,” she grated out through her teeth. “And I don’t want you snubbing him tonight.”

“Then keep him out of my way,” her father snapped, scything the air with his hand in dismissive contempt.

Her chin lifted in defiant challenge. “You want me out of your way, too, Dad? Is that the way it’s going to be?”

His face went red with furious frustration. His hand lifted, stabbing a finger at her. “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell again. Get Freedman to sign a prenuptial agreement. If you do that, I promise I’ll tolerate the man for your sake, Charlotte. That’s the best I can do. Don’t try my patience with you any further.”

He swung on his heel and marched out of the library, slamming the door behind him.

Charlotte found herself trembling from the force of his anger. She had believed her father would come around to being reasonably pleasant to Mark. It was only a matter of time, once she’d proved how happy she was in the relationship. But now she was frightened that wasn’t going to happen. Not ever.

Even if she pushed Mark to sign a prenup—which she didn’t want to do—would it make any real difference to her father’s attitude towards him?

She hated this. Hated it. And she hated Damien Wynter for coming here and setting up a comparison for her father to throw at her. Of course he won automatic approval. He was one of them—born to wealth and his whole life driven by accumulating more of it. She didn’t want to be the dutiful social wife to a man like that, which was why she’d chosen Mark.

But she didn’t feel happy as she left the Palm Beach mansion.

She felt torn by a multitude of needs, which couldn’t all be answered.

CHAPTER TWO

DAMIEN WYNTER…

Charlotte shot mental bolts of rejection at the man emerging from the limousine, straightening up beside her brother, actually topping Peter’s formidable height by an inch or two. He looked even more striking in a formal black dinner suit and she had no doubt that every woman at this party would be eyeing him over tonight. Which was fine, as long as he focussed on them and not on her.

From her position on the top deck of her father’s yacht she watched the two men stride down the dock, chatting amiably with one another. It was a further irritation that Peter liked him so much and hadn’t made any effort to become friendly with Mark. Was she going to lose both her father and her brother by going ahead with this marriage?

But I have my own life to live, came the sharp, anguished cry in her mind. Being a daughter, a sister, wasn’t enough. She wanted a partner who was happy to share his life with her and until she’d met Mark, she’d despaired of ever finding one. It wasn’t easy for her. Only Mark had made it easy.

Except she didn’t feel at ease about anything now.

“Ah! The last arrivals!” Mark commented with satisfaction, noting where her attention had strayed.

Charlotte turned her gaze back to her fiancé. They’d been on board for a while, watching other guests coming onto the yacht, which would very shortly cruise to the centre of Sydney Harbour and take up a prime position for viewing the New Year’s Eve fireworks. This was the first time Mark had been invited to join the Ramsey family on the Sea Lion, and he was obviously eager to enjoy the experience.

“They’re not late,” she said, glancing at the new Cartier watch her parents had given her for Christmas. “Right on time, in fact. Eight o’clock. Peter knows Dad won’t wait a minute longer.”

“Fearsome man, your father,” Mark wryly remarked.

She forced a smile, wanting to lessen any anxiety he might be nursing over her father’s attitude towards him. “Don’t worry about Dad. We’re going to have a brilliant night and I love having you here to share it with me.”

He smiled back, his face lighting up with the warm, impish charm that had first drawn her to him. Mark was not in the mould of traditional macho male, though he was certainly masculine enough when it came to making love, and he did match her well above average height, making them a perfect physical fit.

His thick, wavy brown hair invited touch, unlike the short back and sides style her father favoured. His twinkling hazel eyes invited fun, rather than pinning her to the spot in forceful challenge. His arched eyebrows were used to waggle with wicked mischief. She’d never seen them lowered in a disapproving or impatient frown. His nose was sharply ridged and his chin was narrow and chiselled, but his mouth was soft, his smile was soft, and usually its warmth made her feel safe with him.

Safe in a nice, cosy sense.

She would never feel safe with Damien Wynter.

“I’m the luckiest man here,” Mark murmured. “I’ve got the most beautiful woman with me.”

She laughed, happy that he thought so. The compliment made all the hours of effort worthwhile; having blonde and copper streaks put through her long, brown hair, finding and buying a stunning dress, taking the utmost care with her make-up. She wasn’t beautiful. She simply worked hard at putting herself together as best she could, using all the tricks the modelling school had taught her, highlighting her good points and minimising the not so good.

“I’m surprised your brother doesn’t have a woman in tow tonight,” Mark said, raising one eyebrow quizzically. “No romance in the air for him on New Year’s Eve?”

“More likely he didn’t want to give the time to it,” she said with dry irony. “Dad will have his usual poker game running in the bottom saloon in between the fireworks displays. No doubt Peter will be introducing his new friend from London to it. Nothing beats the adrenaline rush of a high-rolling game.”

“You’ve played?” Mark asked curiously.

She shrugged. “Since I was a kid, but only at home. It was the one game our father played with us. He enjoyed teaching us the percentages.”

Mark shook his head in bemusement. “Strange childhood you had, Charlotte.”

“I want to make it different for our children, Mark,” she said earnestly.

“And so we will, my love.” He curved his arm around her shoulders, giving her a comforting hug of assurance as he softly blew the same words in her ear. “So we will.”

She leaned into him, wanting her inner turmoil soothed by the loving way he treated her, the easy physical closeness he invited so naturally. The Ramseys were not openly demonstrative in their affection though the family had always been a tightly knit unit, made so from being set apart from the ordinary stream of people by great wealth.

Charlotte had tried to reach out across that barrier many times, only to be rebuffed by hurtful comments like, “It’s all right for you. You’re a Ramsey”—meaning she could have anything she wanted or get away with doing whatever she pleased. Which wasn’t true, but it was how she was perceived by others and nothing she said had ever changed their minds.

Mark was the only man who had looked beyond the face value of her family and cared about the person she was inside, the needs she’d secretly nursed that all the money in the world could not fulfil. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t of her world and was curious about it, interested into probing more deeply than the surface. Whatever the reason, so much personal interest had made him very attractive, excitingly different to the many smugly arrogant heirs to fortunes who usually peopled her social circle.

But to her intense discomfort, she found herself wishing he excited her more sexually. Until this afternoon she hadn’t realised a man could affect her as Damien Wynter had. But that was probably an initial impact thing. She shouldn’t let it worry her. Mark was a very caring lover who was always concerned about giving her pleasure.

The powerful engines of the yacht thrummed with purpose. “Now that everyone’s on board, let’s stroll around to the front deck,” she suggested. “Set ourselves up for the best view of the fireworks.”

They met and greeted other guests along the way, stopped to chat, had their glasses refilled with champagne, sampled some of the gourmet finger food being circulated by the waiters hired for the night. The party atmosphere lightened Charlotte’s private angst. She enjoyed Mark’s quick wit and easy manner. He was good company, always had been for her, always would be, she thought.

It shouldn’t matter—didn’t matter—that her father and brother would always prefer the company of men like Damien Wynter. She didn’t want her life to be like her mother’s, filling in her time with charity functions while her husband wheeled and dealed in his own arena. She felt sorry for the woman Peter married, whomever she might be, doomed to always stand in second place to his business life.