Cinderella And The Billionaire

From different worlds...

...to the perfect family?

Entrusted to take his late colleague’s young son to his grandmother, Manhattan financier Matt McLellan hires down-on-her-luck skipper Meg O’Hara to take them across Australia’s Bass Strait. He might be a billionaire, but aboard Meg’s boat she’s the boss! The flame-haired beauty gets under the committed bachelor’s skin and by the time they reach their destination, Matt’s wondering if he’s finally found the family he never knew he needed...

MARION LENNOX has written more than one hundred romances, and is published in over a hundred countries and thirty languages. Her multiple awards include the prestigious RITA® Award—twice—and the RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award for ‘a body of work which makes us laugh and teaches us about love’. Marion adores her family, her kayak, her dog—and lying on the beach with a book someone else has written. Heaven!

Also by Marion Lennox

Christmas Where They Belong

The Earl’s Convenient Wife

His Cinderella Heiress

Stepping into the Prince’s World

Stranded with the Secret Billionaire

Reunited with Her Surgeon Prince

The Billionaire’s Christmas Baby

Finding His Wife, Finding a Son

English Lord on Her Doorstep

The Baby They Longed For

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Cinderella and the Billionaire

Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09125-1

CINDERELLA AND THE BILLIONAIRE

© 2019 Marion Lennox

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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Version: 2020-03-02

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To our friends, Neil and Dale,

and to all the intrepid islanders who make their homes

and/or their livings on the islands of Bass Strait.

It’s a harsh and unforgiving place to love,

but it gives back in spades.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

PROLOGUE

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

Extract

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

THE LACEWORK ON McLellan Place’s gatehouse looked almost perfect. From the helicopter, Matt and Henry saw the last piece being fitted into place. Once they landed they admired the result, agreeing with the foreman that it had been a major storm. The damage wasn’t the fault of workmanship.

If Matt had come by himself he might have headed straight back to Manhattan, but he was entertaining a seven-year-old. He and Henry therefore walked across the vast sweep of lawn to the main house beyond.

‘It’s big,’ Henry whispered as Matt led him into the massive kitchen and through to the butler’s pantry to find juice and cookies. The place was always stocked, even though Matt was lucky to arrive once a month.

The house was big, Matt conceded. With eight bathrooms and ten bedrooms, it was far too large for one semireclusive bachelor. But the East Hampton home, two hours’ drive or a short chopper ride from Manhattan, had been in his family for generations. Its upkeep kept a team of locals employed, its seclusion gave wildlife a precious refuge and it was as much a home as he’d ever known. It had been his refuge as a child from being dragged from one international hotel to another by his jet-setting parents.

Henry should have somewhere like this, he thought. McLellan Place was a far cry from the Manhattan legal offices where Henry seemed to spend half his life.

The seven-year-old was now sitting at the vast stretch of granite that formed the kitchen bench, seriously concentrating on his juice. He was nothing to do with Matt, but there was a part of Matt that connected with him.

Henry’s mother, Amanda, was one of Matt’s employees, a lawyer and a good one. Nothing got in the way of her work, including her son. When he wasn’t at school she left him in her office and often, somehow, he ended up in Matt’s office, reading or playing computer games.

The call today, to tell Matt of the storm damage, had come through when he’d had an unexpected break in appointments. Matt hadn’t been near McLellan Place for weeks. His chopper was available. It was time he checked on the place.

He’d looked at the silent kid and made a decision. A call to Amanda had given slightly stunned permission—she couldn’t believe her boss had time for the boy.

Thus Henry was here with him, quiet and serious.

‘It has beautiful furniture,’ the little boy ventured.

It did. His mother’s interior designer would be pleased.

‘Those stairs are really long.’

‘When I was your age I used to slide down the bannisters.’ The bannisters were an ode to craftsmanship, the oak curving gracefully at the end to stop a small boy coming to grief. ‘Would you like me to show you how?’

‘No, thank you.’

Probably just as well. He hadn’t slid down for maybe twenty years.

‘We have time for a swim,’ he suggested. The horizon pool by the house was kept warm all year round.

‘I didn’t bring my swimmers.’

‘We could swim in our jocks.’

‘No, thank you,’ Henry said again, politely, and Matt felt like banging his head. This kid had been schooled to be seen and not heard, to fade into the background.

‘Then let’s go for a walk on the beach,’ he told Henry.

And then his personal phone rang. Uh-oh.

Matt’s secretary knew what he was doing and when he’d be back. She’d only contact him if it was urgent.

‘Helen?’

‘Matt?’ And by the tone of her voice he knew something was wrong. Seriously wrong.

What the...? ‘Tell me.’

‘Matt, it’s Amanda. You know...she went out to lunch. Matt, they say she was texting and she walked... Matt, she walked straight into traffic. Matt, she’s dead. That poor little boy. Oh, Matt, how are you going to tell him?’

CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU EMPLOYED ME to act as a fishing guide. Now you want me to act as a glorified taxi driver? And in Bertha? Four hours out and four hours back, with overnight stays? Is she even safe?’

‘She’s safe as houses.’ Charlie’s voice was smooth as silk as he patted the reservation book with satisfaction. ‘This is a last-minute booking, Bertha’s the only boat available and Jeff’s rung in sick. Have you any idea how much this guy’s prepared to pay? Never mind,’ he added hastily, no doubt figuring Meg would up her wage demands if she knew. ‘But it’s enough to give you a decent bonus.’

‘Charlie, I’ve been out since dawn on a fishing charter. I’m filthy. I’m off for the next three days. I have five acres of grass to slash and it’s almost fire season. If I don’t get it done now the council will be down on me like a ton of bricks.’

‘Sell that place and move into town,’ Charlie said easily. ‘I know it was your grandpa’s, but sentimentality gets you nowhere. Look,’ he said placatingly. ‘You do this job, and I’ll send Graham out to slash the place for you.’

Charlie’s son. Not in a million years.

‘You’re kidding. Knowing Graham, he’d slash the house before he touched the grass. Charlie, I’m not about to drop everything and spend the next three days ferrying some cashed-up tourist with more money than sense. Why does he want to go to Garnett Island anyway? No one goes there.’

‘I do.’

The voice made her jump.

She’d been leaning over the counter of Rowan Bay’s only charter boat company, focusing on Charlie. Not that Charlie was anything to focus on. He was flabby, florid, and he smelled of fish.

The guy who’d walked in was hitting six feet, maybe even more, lean, ripped, tanned. Sleek? The word seemed to fit. In the circles Meg O’Hara moved in, this guy was...well, a fish out of water.

Or a shark? His smart chinos, his butter-soft leather jacket, his brogues all screamed money. His hair looked as if it had been cut yesterday, conservative and classy, every jet-black wave knowing its place.

And his eyes...

Dark as deep water, they were watching her and asking questions. She found herself getting flustered just looking into those eyes.

‘I’m Matt McLellan,’ he said softly, but there was a growl underneath, an inherent threat. Was it...don’t mess with me? ‘You’re booked to take me to Garnett Island. Is there a problem?’

Charlie stood up so fast his chair fell over behind him. He grabbed a grubby notepad from beside the phone, wrote a figure on it and shoved it across the desk at Meg.

She glanced down at it and turned bug-eyed.

‘That’d be my cut?’ she asked incredulously. What had this guy offered Charlie?

‘Yes,’ he said hurriedly and surged around the desk to take the stranger’s hand. ‘There’s no problem, Mr. McLellan. This is Meg O’Hara, your skipper. She’ll take you out, anchor until you have the little one settled and then bring you back.’

‘Little one?’ Meg asked.

‘He’s taking a boy out to his grandmother,’ Charlie said, talking too fast. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, sir?’

‘That’s right.’ The man dropped Charlie’s hand and glanced at his own. She saw an almost-instinctive urge to wipe it.

She didn’t blame him. Charlie’s hands... Ugh.

Though she glanced down at herself and thought... I’m almost as bad.

‘But you have reservations?’ he said. He’d obviously overheard. ‘The boat?’

‘We had the boat in dry dock just last week,’ Charlie said. ‘I checked her personally. And Meg here is one of our most experienced skippers. Ten years of commercial fishing and another two years taking fishing charters. There’s nothing about the sea she doesn’t know.’

‘She doesn’t look old enough to have done any of those things.’

‘Is that a compliment or what?’ It was time she was part of this conversation, Meg decided. She knew she looked young, and her jeans, baggy windcheater, short copper curls and no make-up wouldn’t be helping. ‘I’m twenty-eight. I started fishing with my grandfather when I was sixteen. He got sick when I was twenty-five so we sold the boat and I took a part-time job helping Charlie with fishing charters. My granddad died six months ago, so I can now take longer charters.’ She glanced at the note Charlie had given her. This amount... She could even get the leak over the washhouse fixed. ‘The boy... Is he your son?’

‘I don’t have a son.’

Hmm. If she was going to be forthcoming, so was he.

‘I’m not about to let you take a kid I know nothing about and dump him on Garnett Island.’ She planted her feet square and met him eye to eye. ‘Garnett Island’s four hours off the mainland. As far as I know, Peggy Lakey lives there and no one else.’

‘Peggy’s Henry’s grandmother.’

‘Really?’ Local lore said Peggy had no relatives at all. ‘How old’s Henry?’

‘Seven.’

‘He’s going on a holiday?’

‘To stay.’

‘Is that right? Are you his legal guardian?’

‘It’s none of your business.’

‘If you want my help it’s very much my business.’ Behind her she could see Charlie almost weep. The figure he’d scrawled represented a month’s takings and that was only her cut. But she had to ignore the money. This was a kid. ‘You’re American, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Henry’s American, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you must have had documentation allowing you to bring him out of the country. Giving you authority. Can I see?’

‘Meg!’ Charlie was almost wringing his hands but Charlie wasn’t the one being asked to leave a child on an almost-deserted island.

‘You can see,’ he said and flipped a wad of documents from an inside pocket and laid them on the desk. Then he glanced outside, as if checking. For the child?

‘Where’s Henry now?’ she asked.

‘We just had fish and chips. He’s feeding the leftovers to the seagulls.’

‘Greasy food before heading to sea? Does he get seasick?’

That brought a frown. ‘I didn’t think...’

She was flipping through the documents. ‘These say you’re not even related.’

‘I’m not related,’ he said and then obviously decided the easiest way to get past her belligerence was to be forthcoming.

‘I’m a lawyer and financial analyst in Manhattan,’ he said. ‘Henry’s mother, Amanda, is...was...a lawyer in my company. She was a single mother and no one’s ever been told who Henry’s father is. Henry’s quiet. When he’s not in school he sits in her office or out in the reception area. He reads or watches his notepad. Then two weeks ago, Amanda was killed. She was on her phone, she walked into traffic and suddenly there was no one for Henry.’

‘Oh...’ And her head switched from distrust to distress, just like that. Her own parents... A car crash. She’d been eleven.

Her grandparents had been with her from the moment she’d woken in the hospital. She had a sudden vision of a seven-year-old who sat in a reception area and read.

There was no one for Henry.

But she wasn’t paid to be emotional. She was paid to get the job done.

‘So...your relationship with him?’ She was leafing through the documents, trying to get a grip.

‘I’m no relation.’ His voice was suddenly bleak. ‘Sometimes he sits in my office while I work. It was term break, so he was with me when we heard of his mother’s death. The birth certificate names the father as Steven Walker but gives no details. We haven’t been able to track him down and no one else seems to care. Apart from Peggy.’

And just like that, her bristles turned to fluff.

‘Garnett Island?’ she said, hauling herself—with difficulty—away from the image she was starting to have of a bereft seven-year-old sitting in a lawyer’s office when someone came to tell him his mum was dead.

‘As far as we can find out, Peggy Lakey’s now Henry’s only living relative,’ he told her. ‘Peggy’s his maternal grandmother. Unless we can find his father, she has full say in his upbringing.’

‘So why didn’t she get straight on a plane?’ The solitude of Henry was still all around her.

‘She says she turns into a whimpering heap at the sight of a plane. I’ve talked to her via her radio set-up. She sounds sensible, but flying’s not an option. She made arrangements for an escort service to collect Henry and bring him to her, but, at the last minute, I...’

‘You couldn’t let him travel alone.’

The last of her bristles disintegrated. For some stupid reason she felt her eyes fill. She swiped a hand across her cheek—and felt an oil streak land where the tear had been. Good one, Meg.

‘So is that enough?’ Matt McLellan’s tone turned acerbic, moving on. ‘Can we leave?’

‘After I’ve double-checked Bertha,’ she told him with a sideways glance at Charlie. He’d checked her personally? Yeah, and she was a monkey’s uncle. She could at least give the engine a quick once-over. ‘And when you and Henry have taken seasickness tablets and let them settle. Bass Strait, Mr McLellan, is not for pussies.’

* * *

What was he doing here?

The Cartland case was nearing closure. He had to trust his staff not to mess things up.

He checked his phone and almost groaned. No reception.

‘There’s not a lot of connectivity in the Southern Ocean.’ The skipper—if you could call this slip of a kid a skipper—was being helpful. ‘You can use the radio if it’s urgent.’

He’d heard her on the radio. It was a static-filled jumble. Besides, the boat was lurching. A lot.

The boat he was on was a rusty thirty-foot tub. ‘She’s all that’s available,’ Charlie had told him. ‘You want any better, you’ll have to wait until Monday.’

He needed to be back in New York by Monday, so he was stuck.

At least his instinct to distrust everyone in this tinpot hire company hadn’t gone so far as to refuse the pills Meg had insisted on. For which he was now incredibly grateful. His arm was around Henry, holding him close. Henry was almost deathly silent, completely withdrawn, but at least he wasn’t throwing up.

They were almost an hour out of Rowan Bay. Three hours to go before they reached Garnett Island.

He thought, not for the first time, how much better a helicopter would have been.

There’d been no helicopters. Apparently there were bush fires inland. Any available chopper had been diverted to firefighting or surveillance, and the ones remaining had been booked up well before he’d decided to come.

Beside him, Henry whimpered and huddled closer. There had been no choice. The thought of sending him here with an unknown travel escort had left him cold.

Dumping him on an isolated island left him cold.

He had no choice.

‘Boof!’

He glanced up. Meg had turned to look at Henry, but she was calling her dog?

They’d met Boof as they’d boarded. He was a rangy red-brown springer spaniel, turning grey in the dignified way of elderly dogs. He’d given them a courteous dog greeting as they’d boarded but Henry had cringed. Taking the hint, the dog had headed to the bow and acted like the carvings Matt had seen on ancient boats in the movies. Nose to the wind, ears flying, he looked fantastic.

Now...one word from Meg and he was by her side.

Meg was fishing deep in the pocket of what looked a truly disgusting oilskin jacket. She produced a plastic packet. Then she lashed the wheel and came over and knelt before Henry.

‘Henry,’ she said.

Henry didn’t respond. Matt felt his little body shake, and with that came the familiar surge of anger on the child’s behalf.

In anyone’s books, Amanda had been an appalling mother.

Henry had been lonely when Amanda was alive and he was even more alone now.

Meg had obviously decided to join the list of those who felt sorry for the little boy. Now she knelt with her dog beside her, her bag in her hand, and she waited.

‘Henry?’ she said again.

There was a muffled sniff. There’d been a lot of those lately. Matt’s hold on him tightened and slowly the kid’s face emerged.

They were both wearing sou’westers Meg had given them. Henry’s wan face emerging from a sea of yellow made Matt’s heart lurch. He was helpless with this kid. He had no rights at all and now he was taking him...who knew where?

‘Henry, Boof hasn’t had dinner,’ Meg said and waited.

The lashed wheel was doing its job. They were heading into the wind. The boat’s action had settled a little.

The sea was all around them. They seemed cocooned, an island of humanity and dog in the middle of nowhere.

‘Boof needs to be fed,’ Meg said, as if it didn’t matter too much. ‘He loves being fed one doggy bit at a time, and I have to go back to the wheel. Do you think you could feed Boof for me?’

There was an almost-imperceptible shake of the head.

Unperturbed, Meg opened the packet. ‘I guess I can do the first bit. Boof, sit.’

Boof sat right before her.

‘Ask,’ Meg said.

Boof dropped to the deck, looked imploringly up at Meg, then went back to sitting. He raised a paw. Please?

Matt almost laughed.

That was saying something. There hadn’t been any laughter in the last two weeks.

But Meg’s face was solemn. ‘Great job, Boof,’ she told him and offered one doggy bit. Boof appeared to consider, then delicately accepted.

And Henry was transfixed.

‘Does he do that all the time?’ he whispered.

‘His table manners are perfect,’ Meg said, giving Boof a hug. ‘Boof, would you like another one? Ask.’

The performance was repeated, with the addition of a sweep of wagging tail. This was obviously a performance Boof enjoyed.

There were quite a few doggy bits.

But Meg glanced back at the wheel. ‘Boof, sorry, you’ll have to wait.’ She headed back to the wheel, and Boof dropped to the deck, dejection in every fibre of his being.

‘Can’t you give him the rest?’ Henry ventured, and Matt could have cheered.

‘If I have time later.’ Meg’s attention was back on the ocean.