An Australian Surrender: Girl on a Diamond Pedestal / Untouched by His Diamonds / A Question Of Marriage

An Australian Surrender

Girl on a Diamond Pedestal

Maisey Yates

Untouched by His Diamonds

Lucy Ellis

A Question of Marriage

Lindsay Armstrong

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Girl on a Diamond Pedestal

About the Author

Dedication

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

EPILOGUE

Untouched by His Diamonds

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Question of Marriage

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

Girl on a Diamond Pedestal

Maisey Yates

MAISEY YATES was an avid Mills & Boon Modern Romance reader before she began to write them. She still can’t quite believe she’s lucky enough to get to create her very own sexy alpha heroes and feisty heroines. Seeing her name on one of those lovely covers is a dream come true.

Maisey lives with her handsome, wonderful, nappy-changing husband and three small children across the street from her extremely supportive parents and the home she grew up in, in the wilds of Southern Oregon, USA. She enjoys the contrast of living in a place where you might wake up to find a bear on your back porch and then heading into the home office to write stories that take place in exotic urban locales.

To my mom, Peggy,

for always encouraging me to simply be me.

And many thanks to Robyn, Gabby, Nicola,

for giving me coaching on my Australian phrases.

BIRCH Manor was the last constant left. The only thing remaining in her life that had always been there. Everyone else, her mother, her piano teacher, her fans … they were gone. The house was all she had.

Until the bank took it, at least.

Noelle sighed and looked out the window, her stomach tightening as the glossy black Town Car drove through the open wrought-iron gates and around the circular drive, stopping in front of the door to the manor.

She moved away from the window and hoped her guest didn’t notice the twitching curtains. It was too sad really, that she’d been reduced to this. Waiting for her home to be taken, watching for the financier coming to appraise the property. Waiting to be evicted. She had no idea where she would go.

The check she’d gotten last week had come with a handwritten note informing her that this would likely be the last royalty check for the foreseeable future. The company wasn’t selling her old albums anymore, and several of her digital albums had been taken down from the big websites. No one wanted her music.

Not that the royalties had been amazing over the past year. Hardly anything really, enough to buy a latté on the odd occasion. Now she wouldn’t even have that any more.

Suddenly she wanted the hot, frothy drink so badly she thought she might cry.

She was a sad case. Poor Noelle. She’d throw a pity party if she thought anyone would come. Well, the bank might if there was something to repossess. She laughed into the vast, empty entryway, then straightened her skirt and took her place in front of the door, not really sure why she was bothering to play hostess, only that it was reflexive. Her mother would have expected it of her. Demanded it.

Of course, her mother wasn’t here.

Noelle sucked in a sharp breath and reached for the doorknob. Her fingers tightened around it, waiting for the knock, and as soon as it pierced the silence, she tugged the door open. Her heart skipped, spinning a downward spiral into her stomach as she took in the man standing before her.

Tall and broad, in a suit that was definitely not of the standard-issue, bank-employee variety, but quality, custom made and tailored to flatter his amazing, masculine physique.

His lips curved into a smile, not a warm one, but one that she felt down to her toes. His eyes were dark, deep like chocolate, but without any of the sweetness. Her stomach tightened, a strong, sharp craving overwhelming her.

For coffee. Still coffee.

“Ms. Birch?” He had a nice voice too, rich and luxuriant, just like the suit. Why couldn’t it have been obnoxious? Nasal or high or something. But no, it was low and husky, smooth with a drop-dead-sexy Australian accent adding flavor to his words.

“Yes. Are you …” She changed tactics mid sentence, decided to go for something more forceful. “You’re from the bank.”

He stepped past her and into the house, his eyes sweeping the room, and her, in a dismissive manner. “Not exactly.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I came in lieu of the assessor. I’m interesting in making an offer on the property.”

“It’s in foreclosure.”

“I know. And I’m considering purchasing it before it goes to auction. I need to take a look and let the bank know what I intend to pay for it.”

“Really? Why didn’t I think of that? I would have given them … well, I think I might have five dollars in my bag over there.” She gestured to the red purse hanging on its hook by the door. “Think they’d go for it?”

“Not likely.” His answer was clipped, annoyed. Why was he annoyed? She hadn’t barged into his home early on a Saturday morning. She was the one who got to be annoyed. It was her right.

“Too bad,” she said, fighting to keep her tone light, flippant. Unaffected.

“From what I’ve seen of your loan information, you’ve been delinquent for months.”

Delinquent. She hated that term. Like she was a criminal or something because she didn’t have any money. Like she wouldn’t have paid the mortgage if her bank balance ever managed to exceed double digits.

“I’m aware of why you’re here—or, at least, I’m aware of what I did to make the bank take my house back.” The words stuck in her throat. “I don’t need a rundown from you.”

“Good. Because I’m not here to give it.”

“No. You’re here to find out if you want to move into my home before the bank has even thrown me out onto the streets,” she bit out. She never would have spoken to anyone that way a year ago. She would have been gracious, smiled, been faultless in every way. But that veneer had started eroding over the past year. She just felt angry now. Battered. Like she was dying slowly inside as life chipped away at her very last foothold.

She’d been trained never to show strain or fatigue, never, ever to give the tabloid media a reason to gossip about her. But the past year had been like hell on earth. A constant barrage of blows that never seemed to end. Every time she tried to stand up and dust herself off, something else would hit. And this seemed like the knock-out punch. Because what would she do without this last piece of security? Without this last link to everything she used to be?

Everything she would never be again.

“That’s where you’re wrong, Noelle,” he said, his dark eyes locked with hers. She felt like he could see her—not just that he was looking at her, but that he truly saw into her, beneath her polished veneer to the cluttered mess beyond.

She wanted to hide. Not just from him, but from everything.

Isn’t that what you’ve been doing for more than a year now?

Yes. Head down, trying to survive. Trying not to draw media attention. Too defeated to try and track her mother down. Because, as the lawyer she hadn’t been able to afford had pointed out, the money had all been in her mother’s name, so the battle would be long and expensive. It would devour the fortune that she was trying to win back. And if she didn’t win … it would mean the kind of debt she could never crawl out of. It all seemed impossibly hopeless.

“Then do enlighten me, Mr …?”

“Grey.” He extended his hand and she accepted the offer, his strong, masculine fingers curling around her slender, pale hand, engulfing it. Making her feel warm, too warm. “Ethan Grey.”

Ethan felt a flash of attraction, of pure, raw need, race through him when his hand touched Noelle’s soft skin. He ran through a litany of his very favorite swear words in his head. It had been too long since he’d gotten laid if a handshake had the power to get him hot.

Especially a handshake from this particular woman.

Maybe it’s genetic?

He bit back a sound of disgust at that thought. He would never use that as an excuse. He was in control of his own actions. If he sinned, it was because he’d chosen it. And at least he was man enough to admit it. Unlike his father. Damien Grey hadn’t been much of a role model in that respect.

Yes, she was beautiful, but mostly just fragile-looking with her delicate frame and pale skin. As if she didn’t get outside enough. Everything about her was pale. White-blond hair, large, robin’s-egg-blue eyes with long, thick lashes, darkened with the aid of makeup. She was like a porcelain doll, one that might break if handled too roughly.

The deep-red lipstick she was wearing was likely intended to give her more color, but all it did was show just how washed out the rest of her was. Pale and drawn, shadows beneath luminous blue eyes.

Even so, she was arresting. Her beauty was almost other-worldly.

She reminded him so much of her mother. That cold, self-possessed allure that made a man ache to see what was beneath all that control. The kind of woman who led men around on leashes, had them begging simply to be in her presence.

She had all of that, plus an air of vulnerability her mother hadn’t had. It only added to her appeal. It made a man want to do more than simply possess. It made him want to protect.

“Nice to meet you,” she mumbled, pulling her hand away.

He was relieved by the break in contact. “I don’t think you really mean that.”

She smiled, an expression that didn’t reflect in her eyes. “No. You’re right, but I’m too polite to say otherwise.”

“I’m glad for your manners then,” he said dryly.

“How is it I’ve misunderstood your motives, Mr. Grey?”

“I’m not planning on moving into your house.”

She arched an eyebrow. “No?”

“No. I plan on expanding the house and making it a hotel property.”

“What?”

She was small, maybe a foot shorter than his own height of six foot three. But there was nothing small about her presence. Even in her pale, diminished state she exuded a kind of force that demanded all eyes rest on her. Another similarity to her mother. At least from what he remembered of the woman. He’d been young the times he’d seen her, lingering near the gates to his childhood home, his father sneaking out to be with her like an adolescent boy. Leaving his wife and son behind so he could indulge in his forbidden passion.

Ethan clenched his hands into fists and forced his mind back to the present. He’d been over the past. Over and over it. Now was the time for action and he couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not when the key to his plan was standing right in front of him.

“How can you do that?” she asked, not waiting for him to answer. “This house is two hundred years old. It’s … it’s a marvel of architecture and … and … it’s my home.” Her voice cracked on the last word.

He knew that this was the only home in her name. He wasn’t sure what had happened to the penthouse in mid-town Manhattan, or the townhouse in Paris. When the sprawling estate had come up as a home in foreclosure he’d acted immediately. It was opportunistic on his part, more than a carefully planned-out maneuver. But from the moment he’d walked in, he knew he’d made the right move.

Strange how largely she and her mother had factored into his life, while she seemed to have no clue who he was. He hadn’t seen even a hint of recognition in her eyes, either on sight or at the sound of his name.

She was probably too dazzled by the brilliance of her own sparkle to look around and see anyone other than herself.

“I’m not planning on demolishing it, Noelle, merely expanding it. Adding a pool, maybe.”

She flinched when he said that. It bothered her, him talking about changing the house. She was attached to it, that much was obvious. And that would prove useful to him.

“Great, well, I don’t really want to be involved in the blueprint for this, so maybe I should leave and let you poke around for a while?”

“I don’t believe I need to spend any time poking around. My mind is made up. It’s a good investment and from where I’m standing it doesn’t appear that I’ll take a loss on it.”

The expression in her eyes changed again. Anger, pure and real, joined the anguish. So much emotion in her. He couldn’t summon up a single feeling in response. Too many years of shoving them aside. Of strangling the life out of his emotions whenever possible so he could move forward.

“So you can just buy it then? Like that? Without even stopping to consider what it might do to your … to your monthly budget or anything like that?”

He laughed. It was only a sound. It didn’t really express any of the things laughter usually did. “Not my main concern, no.”

He could see the struggle in her, the emotions that made her body tremble even as she kept her face set into a firm, determined expression. She wasn’t exactly what he’d imagined she might be. Pampered, yes. Clear prima donna tendencies, yes. But she was strong too. He was certain that beneath that brittle, fragile exterior was a backbone of steel. That only made her more interesting.

“Why is the house so important?” He was hoping it was important. Everything depended on it.

Because it all depended on her. On getting her to agree to his proposition. Revenge was sweet, but she would give it the bitter edge that he craved. That he needed in order to have satisfaction.

“Why? Why do you think?” she asked, her voice breaking again. “It’s the only home I have. When the bank takes it, I won’t get any money from the sale. I’ll have nothing. Less than nothing. I have nowhere to go.”

“Most single women don’t live by themselves in a mansion that could easily house ten other families,” he said.

Noelle fought to keep her cool, to keep from breaking down. From showing any weakness. She had been trained to look calm on the surface no matter what. If her mother tore into her before a show, telling her she wasn’t beautiful anymore, that it was her fault ticket sales were down, she still had to go on stage. And she would keep every emotion locked in her, letting it escape through her fingertips. In the sound of the piano.

Her emotion didn’t seem able to escape that way anymore. Now when she played it was dry, stilted. There was nothing behind it. Nothing but empty, technical skill.

She took a breath. “It’s not a matter of downsizing, although that would have helped the electric bill.” A bill she had done her very best to scale back. No lights during the day, no heat, the only source of warmth the fireplace in her bedroom so she didn’t freeze at night. “I don’t have anything,” she said, shame creeping over her.

He arched one dark eyebrow, his expression cool, blank of any sort of caring or true interest. “How is that possible?”

The last thing she wanted to do was give him her big bad sob story. She’d found a lot of strength over the past year. Just getting up had been a struggle some days, but she’d done it. And she’d done it with no support. Asking for help now violated that sense of independence and pride. But she was staring homelessness in the face and she wasn’t certain her pride came into it anymore.

“Everything’s gone. Don’t you know what happens to child stars when their parents manage everything? It’s a story that gets repeated on entertainment news channels quite frequently.”

She wasn’t a child now, which was why she’d become so uninteresting to the public. Concert halls were half-empty when before she’d filled them. A nine-year-old girl playing original compositions on a massive grand piano was a spectacle. It was amazing. A woman doing the same thing lacked the wow factor.

Empty halls meant more pressure. More drills. More practice. Something was wrong and it was her fault. And then it had all stopped. The music quit playing in her head. She looked at a beautiful landscape, at people on the sidewalk, and she heard nothing. Once, it had all been enhanced by the soundtrack in her mind. Melodies that came about constantly, endlessly.

It was quiet now. Dead.

“They took everything,” he said.

“My mother did.” The betrayal was still like an open wound inside her, something she couldn’t seem to reconcile or heal.

That got a slight reaction from him, a bit of real shock in his dark eyes. “And she’s gotten away with it?”

“It’s all in her name,” she said. “Most of my money was earned before I turned eighteen and even after that I never bothered to change anything. I mean, why would I? She had always managed my finances and I trusted her. I have no contract saying any of it should have been mine, or that I earned it. So that’s how I ended up with nothing.” She paused for a moment and looked up at the ceiling. “Well, this house is in my name, so yay me.”

The only person who knew about her mother was the lawyer she’d spoken to. She hadn’t been able to bear the thought of telling anyone else. The fact that her own mother would do that to her. Her piano teacher had quit. Friends, people she’d toured with sometimes, were still busy making music. And she was alone.

In an old empty house with bills that she could never hope to pay. She’d been treading water until recently, working on a plan, some sort of solution … but now she was going under. And she knew she would drown before any sort of help came along.

Ethan knew he shouldn’t really be shocked that Noelle’s mother had betrayed her like that. A bitch like her didn’t care who she hurt. She certainly hadn’t cared about the pain she’d caused his mother. Not in the least.

But as much as he hated Noelle’s mother for her part, it was his father Damien who had to pay for the sins of the past. And Noelle was in the perfect position to make that a reality.

He ignored the slight twinge of conscience he began to feel in his chest, spreading to his arms, making his fingertips feel numb. He didn’t have time for a conscience. Noelle would get what she needed, and he would get exactly what he wanted.

Everyone would win.

Except for his father.

“Will you be touring again soon?” he asked.

Noelle had been touring since she was a child. He’d never been to see her, but he’d seen her name in the news frequently. She’d played at Carnegie Hall, she’d played for the Queen of England. She was a household name and had been for at least eleven years. And apparently, all of that touring had left her with nothing.

“I’m not touring anymore,” she said tightly. “My label dropped me because I couldn’t book venues. My publicist dropped me. My agent.” She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “So, yeah, I’m pretty much done with music.”

She looked down, lashes fanning over high cheekbones that seemed a bit more pronounced than they should be. She had that cabbage-soup-diet look about her, like she wasn’t getting quite enough to eat. He couldn’t imagine her turning down his proposition, not when he knew she needed it so badly.

And he was tempted, tempted to come out with it now.

But it was too soon.

He was a master of the business deal, and tomorrow, he would set in motion the most important deal of his life. He wouldn’t allow impatience to ruin that.

“Come to my office tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll send a car for you around noon.”

“Why? So we can discuss where in my hundred-year-old rose garden you’re going to dig your inground pool?”

“Not exactly.”

He had no intention of turning her home into a hotel. He had no intention of purchasing it at all. Sure, a hotel here would bring in money, but that money would be nothing compared to the satisfaction he would gain by executing vengeance against his father.

Noelle, and her home, were the key to that revenge.

CHAPTER TWO

ETHAN’S office building was warm. Noelle let it wash over her as she walked into the open, stately marble foyer and crossed to an elevator that took her to the top floor.

Even the elevator spoke of luxury. She ached for it. For gorgeous hotels with amazing views and thousand-thread-count sheets. For heat, and for lunch that consisted of more than instant noodles with little freeze-dried chunks of vegetables.

For a crowded auditorium and applause meant just for her.

“You really are pathetic,” she said to the empty lift.

Yes, she really was. But knowing that didn’t make the longing go away. Her life had never been easy, she knew that. Sometimes she’d wished for all of the fame, the practice, the shrill voice of her mother and the stern voice of her instructor to go away.

But now that they had, she was faced with some harsh realities she’d never dealt with before.

She sucked in a sharp breath as the elevator stopped. Her stomach turned over, her hands shook as if she was about to go out on stage. The kick of adrenaline was addictive. It was one of the many things she missed about her former life as a concert pianist.

This was different though. The familiar spike of adrenaline was infused with a warm, honeyed sensation that pooled in her stomach and made her body ache in places she’d never given a thought to.

She clenched her teeth and took a breath. Focus.

She walked from the lift to a reception area and gave her name to the man sitting behind the desk. While he searched for it in the computer, she picked one of her favorite pieces—not one of her own, but one of Mozart’s—and began to run through the notes.

Pictured her fingers flying over the keys. Effortlessly, joyfully.

It was something she always did before a performance, to remind her of how prepared she was. That she was ready. That she wouldn’t make a mistake.

“Just through that door there, Ms. Birch,” the receptionist said, smiling brightly.

“Thank you,” she replied, keeping her mind on the music as she walked to the door.

She tried to slow her breathing, keeping it in rhythm with the legato portion of the piece. Slow and steady. Don’t rush. Don’t falter. Smooth.

She opened the door and the notes fluttered from her head like startled birds. She wasn’t prepared for whatever this meeting was, and there was no use pretending otherwise.