The Billionaire's Bride of Convenience

‘You can’t be serious, Hugh.

‘Naturally I’m not proposing a normal marriage, or a public one. It would be a secret union in name only, to be discreetly dissolved at a later date. But you’d get the piece of paper you need to secure your friend’s house. That is what you want, isn’t it? What you value most in the world?’

‘What do you get out of this extraordinary and rather sacrificial gesture?’

Hugh smiled. ‘Come now, Kathryn, you of all people know I’m selfish to the core. I get you, of course…staying on as my personal assistant,’ he added, taking rueful note of the moment of shock which had flashed through her eyes.

He’d been right. She wouldn’t have let him blackmail her into his bed. This way was much better all round. She would still be in his debt. She might even begin to like him a little…

BY

MIRANDA LEE

CHAPTER ONE

SEVERAL heads turned as the three men made their way into the main bar of the clubhouse. Other men as well as women glanced their way, their gazes carrying a mixture of envy and admiration.

It wasn’t just because these three were rich. Most members of the Sydney Royal Golf Club were wealthy. The attention they instantly drew, especially from women, was more basic than that. Cavewomen had invariably been attracted to cavemen who could best protect and provide for them; physically blessed alpha males whose prepotent genes ensured strong offspring.

A modern woman might imagine she chose her mates differently; that she was attracted to other attributes such as kindness and a good sense of humour. Recent research, however, showed that was false thinking. Apparently, the most attractive quality a man could possess was tallness.

The male trio striding through the bar-room were all tall. If that wasn’t enough to give them an advantage over most members of their sex, they were also handsome and dark-haired and, yes, very rich indeed.

The man who headed straight for the bar and who was obviously going to buy the first round of drinks was Hugh Parkinson, only son and heir to the Parkinson Media fortune. Thirty-six years old, Hugh was Sydney’s most eligible bachelor, a well-known man-about-town with a plethora of past girlfriends, none of whom—amazingly—had a bad word to say about him. A natural charmer, he devoted his life to the pursuit of pleasure, to remaining single and doing only as much work as strictly necessary.

His two golfing buddies were not cut from the same ilk. Both bordered on being workaholics, were married and had been moulded by past experiences into much tougher men.

Russell McClain owned McClain Real Estate, Sydney’s most prestigious and successful property company.

James Logan owned Images, Sydney’s most dynamic advertising and management agency.

The three men had been best friends since their school days. They knew each other very well, including their strengths and their weaknesses. Their affection for each other was genuine and unconditional.

Their Thursday-morning golf game, however, was a no-holds-barred affair. They always played for money, and they always played to win.

‘What on earth’s wrong with Hugh today?’ James said as he and Russell settled at a table on the verandah overlooking the eighteenth green. ‘Never seen him play such pathetic golf.’

‘I have. When you were away, a few weeks ago, just before your wedding. I beat him hollow.’

‘That’s strange.’

‘Thanks,’ Russell said drily.

‘You know what I mean. You’re a pretty good golfer, but Hugh’s better.’

‘He should be. He practically lives on the golf course.’

‘True.’ James had used to play quite a bit himself, but not so much since his marriage late last year. Or over the recent Christmas break, when his social calendar had been very full. ‘Come to think of it, Hugh wasn’t up to scratch last week, either. Only just managed to beat us. What do you think’s responsible for his loss of form?’

‘Not sure about lately,’ Russell said. ‘But back in November he was having some kind of woman trouble.’

James was truly taken aback. Hugh never had woman trouble. They threw themselves at his feet with regular monotony. He could have his pick.

‘What kind of woman trouble?’ James asked.

‘I gather he fancied some piece who wouldn’t come across.’

‘Now, that’d be a first. Do you know who she was?’

‘He didn’t say. And I didn’t ask.’

‘Mmm.’ James frowned as he watched Hugh weave his way towards the verandah with three beers cupped in his hands.

What could possibly be the reason for Hugh’s uncharacteristic failure to bed a female of his choice? His womanising reputation, perhaps?

Nah. His being a bad boy with the opposite sex never seemed to put the girls off him. If anything, his being known as a rake only added to his appeal.

‘On second thoughts, I’ve probably got it all wrong,’ Russell said. ‘He probably just had a late night last night, romancing his latest conquest. Maybe even the mystery girl herself. You and I both know that there isn’t a girl alive who can resist those blue eyes once he turns on the charm. Except my Nicole and your Megan, of course.’