Bought: One Bride
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Of course, after her dad had died, all gloves had been off. Connie had begun showing her true colours and Katie…well, Katie had gone from bad to worse.
Holly knew she should have moved out of their lives altogether right then and there, but she just couldn’t bear to part company with her dad’s flower shop. She still felt close to him there. So she’d moved into the flat above the shop and set about getting A Flower A Day back on track.
Business had fallen right off after her father’s stroke, Holly having been so upset that she’d had to close the shop for a while. It had taken over a year to get all his old clients back and to start making a profit. Not that A Flower A Day would ever be a great money-making concern. Strip shopping wasn’t very successful these days. The malls had taken over.
The shop and the flat, however, were still worth good money, despite being ancient and not in the best of condition. Probably over a million. More if someone bought it as a business, along with the goodwill.
Holly glowered at the FOR SALE sign one more time. She’d been crazy to work so hard for so little when she’d known, deep down, that the only ones who would reap the rewards were Connie and the obnoxious Katie. Unfortunately, her father had left his wife everything in his will, made soon after they’d been married when Holly had only been sixteen. He’d relied on Connie to look after his daughter. But the merry widow had had other plans.
So had her rotten daughter…
But Holly didn’t want to think about that. She’d thought about what had happened over Christmas far too much already.
If Dave had really loved her, Katie would not have been able to steal him. But she had. She was even going to marry him. That should have been the final straw for Holly but, strangely enough, it hadn’t been.
The final straw was that FOR SALE sign.
Holly decided then and there that she’d played Cinderella long enough. The time had come for some major changes and major decisions. She knew she’d be very sad to walk away from her dad’s pride and joy, but it had to be done. Because it wasn’t going to be her pride and joy for much longer. It would soon belong to someone else.
“I’m just ducking down to the station, Sara,” she said crisply. “I need this morning’s Herald.”
Sara glanced up from where she was finishing an exquisite table setting of pink carnations. It was for a local lady who was a pink addict.
“Looking for a new job?” Sara said.
“Absolutely.”
“About time,” Sara muttered.
A very attractive redhead in her midthirties, Sara had seen plenty of living and did not suffer fools gladly. She’d long expressed the opinion that Holly should strike out on her own.
“You’re right,” Holly agreed. “I’ll be looking for a new place to live as well.”
Sydney’s Saturday morning Herald was always chock-full of job and flat-share advertisements. Holly had actually looked before; a few weeks ago, after Dave had left her for Katie. She just hadn’t had the courage at that stage to totally change her life, and to leave everything that was so familiar to her.
But she’d found the courage now.
Sara smiled her approval. “Atta girl. And don’t you go worrying about me. As soon as you’re out of here, so am I. I wouldn’t work for that cow Connie if this was the last flower shop in Sydney.”
“She is a cow, isn’t she?”
“Of the highest order. And so’s the daughter. For what it’s worth, Katie deserves Dave. I was pleased as Punch the day you got rid of him.”
“Er…he dumped me, Sara.”
“Only good thing he ever did for you. Now you can find yourself a really nice bloke, someone who’ll appreciate your qualities.”
“Thanks for the compliment, Sara, but really nice blokes are hard to find. They certainly haven’t been thick on the ground in my life. Dave’s not the first loser boyfriend I’ve had. I seem to attract the fickle, faithless type.”
“Go get yourself a job in the city, love. Where the suits are.”
“Suits?”
“You know. Men in suits. Executive types. I used to work at a flower stall in Market Place. There was an endless parade of male eye candy walking by there, I can tell you. Talk about yummy.”
“Yes, but does wearing a suit to work equate with being a nice bloke?”
“Nope. But it often equates with money. Might as well fall for a rich guy as a poor guy.”
“You didn’t.” Sara was married to a man who worked on the railways.
“Yes, well, I’m a romantic fool.”
“I’m a romantic fool as well.”
Sara pulled a face. “Yeah. Most of us girls are. Oh well, you’d better go get that Herald before they’re all gone.”
Holly bought the last paper in the newsagent’s and hurried back to study the classifieds between customers, but the news was disappointing. There weren’t very many jobs for florists advertised that weekend. And only two in the city. As for sharing a flat…
The reality of moving in with strangers after living on her own for two years made Holly shudder. Yet she couldn’t afford to rent somewhere decent by herself, not unless her salary was pretty good. She certainly couldn’t afford to buy a place. She had some savings but not much. A couple of thousand. Having Dave as a boyfriend had not been cheap. She’d ended up paying for most things, his excuse being he was saving up for their future together.
Like, how gullible could a girl get?
Facing her shortcomings was not a pleasant experience. But by the time Sara left to go home at four o’clock and Holly began closing up the shop, she’d come to terms with her own pathetic performance as a supposedly adult woman. She had no one to blame but herself if her life was a shambles. She’d taken the line of least resistance and allowed people to walk all over her.
But no more. Come Monday morning she would get in contact with one of the many services who did professional résumés. She’d never had to apply for a job before but she knew you had to present yourself well. Then she would apply for those two jobs in the city. Sara was right. The city was the way to go.
But she wasn’t going to fall into the trap of accepting any job that paid poorly. She would need a good salary if she wanted to keep living by herself.
She didn’t have to rush. Businesses like A Flower A Day did not sell overnight. She probably had a couple of months at least to make her plans and execute them.
Meanwhile, she wasn’t going to breathe a word to Connie. And she would stash away every cent she could.
The sight of a huge bunch of red roses sitting in a bucket in the corner brought Holly up with a jolt. It was a phone order she had taken yesterday afternoon. Not one of her usual clients. A man, who’d promised to pick them up by noon today.
With a sigh, she checked her records, found his name and number, and rang.
An answering machine. Botheration. She hated answering machines.
After leaving a message saying she’d cancelled the order, Holly hung up with a sigh.
What a waste. Such lovely red roses. Expensive, too. He hadn’t wanted buds, but open flowers. They wouldn’t last more than a few days. Impossible to sell them to anyone else.
And then an idea came to her.
Mrs Crawford. She absolutely loved roses, and she wasn’t due to leave on her overseas jaunt till the end of next week. Holly could call them a going-away gift. Plus a thank you for all the times she’d dropped into the shop for a chat and a cuppa.
Nice woman, Mrs Crawford.
If Holly’s thoughts drifted momentarily to Richard Crawford, she didn’t allow them to linger. Yet there was a time when she’d thought about Mrs Crawford’s precious only son quite a bit. She’d even woven wild fantasies around him, about their meeting one day and his being bowled over by her.
Sara was right. Most women were romantic fools!
Flicking her address book over to the Cs, she checked Mrs Crawford’s number and rang to make sure she’d be there.
Engaged.
Oh, well, at least she was home.
Holly bent to scoop the roses out of the bucket, wrapped them in some silver paper and tied them with a red bow the same colour as the blooms. She would walk up to Mrs Crawford’s house and give them to her personally. It wasn’t far and the day was still pleasantly warm. The sun didn’t set till late and it was only four-fifteen.
When Holly set out, it never occurred to her that Richard Crawford might be at his mother’s house, even if it was the weekend. Mrs Crawford had told her just the other day that she rarely saw her son any more. Apparently, he’d been promoted to CEO at his bank—the youngest ever!—and was more of a workaholic than ever.
Holly took her time, strolling rather than striding out, enjoying the fresh air and mentally running through her list of things to do in the coming weeks.
Number one. Find a job, preferably in the city.
Number two. Find a flat, preferably near the city.
Number three. Find herself a nice bloke. Preferably one who wore a suit and worked in the city.
Holly pulled a face, then struck number three off her list. That could definitely wait a while.
Regardless of how much of a two-timing rat Dave had turned out to be, he’d still been her boyfriend for over a year and she’d thought she loved him. Had thought he loved her as well. He’d said he did often enough.
Dave’s dumping her for Katie had really hurt. Holly’s self-esteem was still seriously bruised and she simply wasn’t ready to launch herself back into the dating scene.
No, she would concentrate on the two things she could manage. A new job and a new place to live.
Finding a new boyfriend was not on her agenda, not for quite some time.
CHAPTER TWO
“I’M GOING now.”
Richard looked up from his laptop, taking a few moments to focus on his mother, who was standing in the study doorway.
“You’re looking very smart,” he said.
“Thank you,” she returned, her hand lifting to lightly touch her exquisitely groomed blonde hair. “Nice of you to notice.”
Richard had noticed more than her new hair. She was a totally different woman today, all due to Melvin’s arrival in her life, no doubt.
“I’m sorry I’m going out, Richard. But you could have warned me you were dropping by. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of you for weeks.”
“I’ve been exceptionally busy,” he said, and let her think he meant at the bank.
In reality, he’d been busy, wining and dining his five final selections from Wives Wanted. So far he’d taken out four of them. The first three, on successive Saturday nights. Number four, however, hadn’t been able to make it tonight, so he’d taken her out last night.
The evening had proved as disappointing as the three previous dinner dates.
Richard had been going to go into work today—he often worked on a Saturday—but he’d decided at the last moment, and in a spirit of total exasperation, to come and tell his mother about his quest for a new wife via Wives Wanted. He hadn’t wanted to discuss his lack of success so far with Reece, and certainly not with Mike, who knew nothing of his wife-finding endeavours. Richard had even brought his laptop with him to show his mother the Wives Wanted database.
But when he’d arrived she’d been so excited about her own date with Melvin that Richard had abandoned that idea.
And now he was glad he had. Because she would never understand why he wanted a marriage of convenience. Not unless he told her the truth about Joanna. And he refused to bare his soul like that.
“I won’t be back till late,” she said. “We’re going to the theatre after dinner. But there’s pizza in the freezer. And a nice bottle of wine in the door of the fridge.”
“Watch it, Mum. You’re in danger of becoming a party girl.”
Her face visibly stiffened. “And what if I am?” she snapped. “I think it’s about time, don’t you?”
Richard was startled by her reaction. Did she think he was criticising her?
Possibly. His father had been a critical bastard. He didn’t know how his mother had stood being married to him. It had been bad enough being his son. Richard had learned to survive by excelling in all his endeavours. Difficult for a father to find fault when his son came first at everything.
After his father had died several years back, Richard had expected his mother to marry again. She’d only been in her late fifties at the time. And she was a good-looking woman. Reginald Crawford wouldn’t have married any other kind.
But she hadn’t married again. She’d lived a very quiet life, playing bowls once a week on ladies day, and bridge on a Tuesday night. Mostly, she stayed at home where she looked after her garden, watched TV and read. Then suddenly, at sixty-five, the travel bug had hit.
Not wanting to explore the world alone, she’d placed an ad on the community bulletin board at the local library for a travelling companion. Melvin had applied a fortnight ago and was found to be very agreeable. A retired surgeon, he was a widower as well. Not a man to let grass grow under his feet, Melvin had already organised their world trip to start this coming Friday.
“I wasn’t being critical, Mum,” Richard said carefully. “I think what you’re doing is fabulous.”
“You mean that, Richard? You don’t think I’m being foolish?”
“Not at all. But I would like to meet Melvin personally before you leave.”
“Check up on him, you mean.”
“You are quite a wealthy widow, Mum,” he pointed out. “And I’m your only son. I have to keep an eye on my future inheritance, you know.”
This was a load of garbage and his mother knew it. Richard had made more money during his relatively short banking career than his father had in forty years of accounting. Reginald Crawford had always been too conservative with his own investments. He gave excellent advice to his clients but couldn’t seem to transfer that to his own portfolio.
Still, by the time he’d dropped dead of a heart attack at the age of seventy, he’d been able to leave his wife their Strathfield home, mortgage-free, along with a superannuation policy that would keep her in comfort till her own death. Which hopefully wouldn’t be for many years to come.
“You don’t have to worry, Richard,” she said airily. “Melvin is wealthy in his own right. Far wealthier than me. You should see his home. It’s magnificent.”
“I’d like to. So how old, exactly, is Melvin, by the way?”
“Sixty-six.”
Only one year older than his mother. A good match. Better than with his father, who’d been twelve years older.
“He sounds great. Better not keep him waiting, then. See you in the morning. Have fun,” he called after her as she headed for the front door.
He wasn’t sure if he heard right, but he was pretty sure she’d muttered, “I intend to.”
The front door banged shut, leaving Richard to an empty house, but not an empty mind.
Sixty-six, he mused. Was a man past it at sixty-six?
He doubted it.
One thing he knew for sure. A man wasn’t past it at thirty-eight.
Ignoring his growing sexual frustration was proving difficult. His male hormones, now directed where they normally went, had been giving him hassle. Yet there was no hope for them in sight.
It had been six weeks since Reece had put him in touch with the woman who ran Wives Wanted, a striking-looking but tough lady named Natalie Fairlane. Six weeks, and he wasn’t any closer to finding a woman he wanted to continue dating, with a view to matrimony.
He returned to his laptop and brought up the photo of his fifth selection. Another brunette. She was as beautiful on the screen as the other four had been. But not one of them had had any effect on him in the flesh.
There’d been no chemistry, as Reece would have put it.
They’d all been far too eager to please him as well. He’d seen the lack of sincerity in their eyes. In a couple of them, he’d sensed downright greed. They’d chosen the most expensive food on the menu, and the most expensive wine.
That had been one of his little tests. Letting them choose the wine, of which he never drank much. No way did he want any decision he made influenced by being intoxicated. By the end of dinner, every one of the four had made it obvious they would be only too happy to accompany him home to bed.
Richard didn’t think he was that irresistible to women.
He was a good-looking enough man. Tall and well built with strong, masculine features. His steely grey eyes, however, were on the hard side, he’d been told, and his manner was formidable.
Forbidding was the word one female employee had called him.
He supposed his approachability was not helped by his manner of dress, which could only be described as ultra conservative. The board at the bank preferred their CEO to look dignified, rather than sexy. The mainly pinstriped suits he wore were expensive, but not trendy. His dark brown hair was kept short. He shaved twice a day when necessary, and his after-shave was discreet. His only jewellery was a gold Rolex watch.
Women did not throw themselves at him as they did at Reece, or even at Mike, whose long-haired bad-boy image seemed to attract a certain type of lady. Probably the ones who liked to live dangerously.
No, Richard didn’t think it was his natural sex appeal that had made his dates salivate by the end of each dinner. More likely the unlimited limit on his credit card.
So he’d sent each of them home in a taxi afterwards and returned home alone, where he’d filled in the questionnaire required after each date, ticking the box that said he didn’t want to see the lady again and emailing it to Natalie Fairlane.
That was another of Wives Wanted’s hard and fast rules. If either person didn’t want to see the other again, that was it. Finis. If the female attempted further contact they were struck off the database. If it was the male doing the harassing, he was no longer a client of Wives Wanted.
No doubt this system was much better than going through a normal introduction agency or internet dating service. For one thing, the weirdos were weeded out. Richard knew he’d been put through an extensive background check before being accepted as a client. Ms Fairlane had informed him of this necessary procedure during his personal interview, at the same time assuring him that every girl on the database had been through the same security check, and was exactly what she purported to be.
Physically, at least, that was true. Each girl he’d dated had been as beautiful as they were in their photos.
But more and more Richard was beginning to think Mike was right. Most of these women were gold-diggers. Maybe Reece had just been damned lucky with Alanna.
But, having paid his money, he was determined to see the list through before giving up on the idea. He was planning to contact his fifth choice on the list when the front doorbell rang.
“Who on earth?” he muttered, standing up and making his way across the study and into the main hallway.
The Crawford family home was not a mansion, but it was spacious and solid, with the kind of character associated with houses built in Sydney’s better suburbs in the nineteen thirties. Tall ceilings, decorative cornices, wide verandas, and wonderful stained-glass panels on either side of the front door.
As Richard strode towards the door the sunshine filtered through those panels, making coloured patterns on the polished wooden floor, then on the pale grey trousers he was wearing.
Wrenching the door open, the first thing he saw was a huge bunch of red roses. Followed by a face peeping around them.
A female face.
“Oh,” the owner of the face exclaimed, her big brown eyes widening. “I wasn’t expecting… I didn’t realise…” She grimaced, then drew herself up straight, holding the roses at her waist, a bit like a nervous bride. “Sorry. I don’t usually babble. Is Mrs Crawford home?”
“I’m afraid not,” Richard replied, whilst thinking to himself that he already liked this girl much better than any on that damned database.
Yet she wasn’t nearly as beautiful. Or as well groomed.
Her long dark brown hair was somewhat wind-blown. And there wasn’t a scrap of make-up on her oval-shaped face. Her outfit of a wraparound floral skirt and simple blue T-shirt shouted department-store wear, not designer label.
But, for all that, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“My mother’s gone out for the day,” he heard himself say whilst his hormone-sharpened gaze took in her ringless left hand.
Not that that meant much. She could still be living with someone, or be dating some commitment-phobic fool who hadn’t snapped her up off the single shelf. That was one thing each of his Saturday night dates had bewailed over the dinner table. How many men these days didn’t want to become husbands and fathers.
“She won’t be back till very late tonight,” he added. “Can I help you perhaps? I’m her son. Richard.”
“Yes, I know that,” she said, then looked flustered by her admission.
“In that case, you have the advantage on me,” he replied smoothly. “Have we met before?” He knew damned well they hadn’t. He would have remembered.
“No. Not really. I mean, I saw you at your wife’s funeral. I…um…I did the flowers.”
She seemed embarrassed at having to mention the occasion. On his part, Richard was pleased that he could be reminded of that day without too much pain.
Yes, he was definitely ready to move on.
“I see,” he said as he wondered how old she might be. Late twenties perhaps?
“Please forgive me if I say I don’t recall noticing the flowers that day,” he said ruefully. “But I’m sure they were lovely. I presume these are for my mother?” he said, nodding towards the roses she was holding. Probably from crafty old Melvin.
“Yes. It’s a phone order which was never picked up today. I know how much Mrs Crawford likes flowers—roses particularly—and I thought she might like them. I realise she’s going away next Friday but they won’t last that long.”
“You know about Mum’s trip?”
“Yes, she…um…told me about it herself last week. And about her new doctor friend. Melvin, isn’t it? It’s a pity, really. If she’d still been looking for a travelling companion, I might have applied for the job myself.”
Richard was taken aback. “Why on earth would a girl like you want to travel anywhere with a woman old enough to be her grandmother?”
She shrugged. “Just to escape, I guess.”
If she’d said to travel the world on the cheap, Richard might have understood. But to escape screamed something much more emotional. So did the bleakness that had suddenly filled her big brown eyes.
“Escape from what?” he probed gently. “Are you in some kind of trouble? Man trouble perhaps?”
She wasn’t a raving beauty but, the more Richard looked at her, the more attractive he found her. She had lovely eyes, a sexy mouth and a fabulous figure.
He fancied her. Other men would, too.
She shook her head. “No, no, nothing like that. Here. Give these to your mother when she gets home, will you? Tell her they’re from Holly. Just say they’re a little thank-you present for all the times she’s dropped in at the shop for a chat. She’s a really sweet lady, your mum.”
Richard refused to take the flowers. “Why don’t you come inside and arrange them in a vase for her?” he suggested before she could cut and run. Any girl who wanted to get away that badly sounded like a girl who wasn’t very happy with her life at the moment. If she did have a boyfriend, he sure as hell wasn’t doing the right thing by her.
She blinked, then stared at him.
Richard had no idea what she was thinking, which in itself was as intriguing and attractive as she was. He’d been able to read those women he’d taken to dinner like an open book.
“Look,” he said with what he hoped wasn’t a “big bad wolf” smile. “I have absolutely no talent with flower arranging, whereas you’d have to be an expert. So what do you say, Holly? You do the flowers and I’ll make us both some coffee. I’m good at coffee.”