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And he had been thinking. A lot. He did want marriage and children. One day. But, hell, he was only thirty-one. On top of that, he wanted to feel more for his future wife than he currently felt for Amber. He wanted to fall deeply in love, and vice versa, the kind of love you had no doubts over. The kind which would last. Divorce was not on his agenda. Ben knew first-hand how damaging divorce was to children, even when the parents were civilised about it, as his own parents had been. His workaholic father had sensibly and generously given Ben’s mother full custody of Ben, allowing her to bring him back to Australia, with the proviso that Ben spent some of his school holidays with him in America.
Ben had still been devastated to find out that his parents no longer loved each other. He’d only been eleven at the time, and totally ignorant of the circumstances which had led to the divorce. It was testament to his parents’ mutual love of their son that they’d never criticised each other in front of him, never blamed each other for the break-up of the marriage. They’d both just said that sometimes people fell out of love and it was better that they live apart.
Ben had hated coming to Australia at first, but he eventually grew to love this wonderful laid-back country and his life out here. He’d loved the school he’d been sent to and the many friends he’d made here. He’d especially loved his years at Sydney University, studying law and flat-sharing with Andy, his very best friend. It wasn’t till he’d graduated that his father had finally told him the ugly truth: that his mother had trapped him into marriage by getting pregnant. She’d never loved him. She’d just wanted a wealthy husband. Yes, he’d also admitted to having been unfaithful to her, but only after she’d confessed the truth to him one night.
His father had claimed he hated hurting Ben with these revelations but believed it was in his best interests.
‘You are going to inherit great wealth, son,’ Morgan De Silva had said at the time. ‘You need to understand the corrupting power of money. You must always keep your wits about you, especially when it comes to women.’
When a distressed Ben had confronted his mother, she’d been furious with his father, but hadn’t denied she’d married the billionaire for his money, though she’d done her best to explain why. Born dirt-poor but beautiful, she’d had a tough childhood but had finally made it as a model in Australia and then overseas, having been taken on by a prestigious New York agency. For several years she’d made very good money but just before she’d turned thirty she’d discovered that her manager hadn’t invested her money wisely, as she’d believed, instead having wasted it all on gambling.
Suddenly, she’d been close to broke again and, whilst she’d still been very beautiful, her career hadn’t been what it once was. So, when the super-wealthy Morgan De Silva had come on the scene, obviously infatuated with the lovely Australian blonde, she’d allowed herself to be seduced in more ways than one. She’d been attracted to him, she’d insisted, but had admitted to Ben that she didn’t love his father, saying she doubted he’d loved her either. It had just been a case of lust.
‘The only thing your father loves,’ she’d told Ben with some bitterness, ‘is money.’
Ben had argued back that this wasn’t true. His father loved him. Which belief had prompted his move to America shortly after his graduation from university.
Not that he’d cut his mother out of his life altogether. She’d been a wonderful mother to him and he still loved her, despite her faults and flaws. They talked every week or so on the phone, but he didn’t visit all that often, mostly because he rarely had the time.
Life since going to the States had been full-on. An economics post-graduate degree at Harvard had been followed by an intense apprenticeship in the investment business. There’d been a few snide remarks when he’d made his way quickly up the ladder at De Silva & Associates, but Ben believed he’d earned his promotion to an executive position in his father’s company, along with the seven-figure salary, the sizeable bonuses, the flash car and the equally flash New York apartment. Along the way, he’d also earned the reputation for being a bit of a playboy, perhaps because his girlfriends didn’t last all that long. Invariably, after a few weeks he would grow bored with them and move on. Never once had he fallen in love, making him wonder if he ever would.
It was a surprise to Ben that his relationship with Amber had lasted as long as it had—eight months—possibly because he didn’t see all that much of her. He was working very long hours. He’d never thought himself in love with her. She was, however, attractive, amusing and very easy to be with, never fussing when he was late for a date or when he had to opt out at the last minute. Never acting in that clinging, possessive way which he hated.
She’d also never once said she loved him in all those months, so her recent declaration had come out of the blue.
Ben had been startled at first, then flattered, then tempted by her proposal, possibly because of his father’s mantras, on marriage.
‘Rich men should always marry rich girls,’ he’d said more than once, along with, ‘Rich men must marry with their heads. Never their hearts.’
Sensible advice. But it was no use. Ben knew, deep down in his heart, that marriage to a girl he didn’t love would be settling for less than he’d always wanted. A lot less.
So his answer had to be no.
Ben considered ringing Amber and telling her so immediately, but there was something cowardly about breaking up over the phone or, God forbid, by text message. She’d already asked him not to call or text her whilst he was away, perhaps hoping that he would miss her more that way.
Frankly, just the opposite had happened. Without phone calls and text messages, the connection between them had been broken. Now that he’d made his final decision, Ben felt not one ounce of regret. Just relief.
When his phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket, Ben hoped like hell it wasn’t Amber. But it wasn’t her, the caller ID revealing it was his father. Ben frowned as he lifted the phone to his ear. It wasn’t like his father to call him unless there was a business problem. Morgan De Silva wasn’t into social chit-chat.
‘Hi, Dad,’ Ben said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Sorry to bother you, son, but I was thinking about you tonight and decided to give you a call.’
Ben could not have been more taken aback.
‘That’s great, Dad, but shouldn’t you be asleep? It must be the middle of the night over there.’
‘It’s not that late. Besides, you know I never sleep much. What time is it where you are?’
‘Mid-afternoon.’
‘What day?’
‘Thursday.’
‘Ah. Right. So you’ll be off to Andy’s wedding in a couple of days.’
‘I’m actually driving up to his place tomorrow.’ For a split second Ben contemplated telling his father about the accident and his fiasco about finding a hire car, but decided not to. Why worry him unnecessarily?
‘Nice boy, Andy.’
His father had met Andy when Ben had brought him to America for a holiday. They’d gone skiing with Morgan and had a great time.
‘So, when do you think you’ll be back in New York?’ his father asked.
‘Probably not till the end of next week. Mum’s away on a cruise and doesn’t get back till next Monday. I’d like to spend a day or two with her before I fly home.’
‘Of course. Why don’t you stay a little longer? Have a decent holiday? You deserve it. You’ve been working way too hard.’
Ben stared out at the beach and the ocean beyond. In truth, it had been a couple of years since he’d had more than a long weekend off, his mother recently having accused him of becoming a workaholic, just like his father.
‘I might do that,’ he said. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘My pleasure. You’re a good boy. Give my regards to your mother,’ his father said abruptly, then hung up.
Ben stared down at his phone, wondering what in the hell that had been all about.
CHAPTER THREE (#u0806079a-4a07-5d02-afbb-911d27f8d79b)
JESS WAS GLAD to get out of the house the following morning before her parents were up and about. Her mother had started going on and on the night before about her taking a risk, driving some stranger all the way out to Mudgee and back.
‘He might be a serial killer for all you know,’ she’d said at one stage.
She hadn’t stopped with the doomsday scenarios till Jess had told her everything she knew about Mr Benjamin De Silva, including his being the son of a super-rich American businessman whose company had taken over several Australian firms, including Fab Fashions.
‘He’s not a serial killer, Mum,’ she’d informed her mother firmly. ‘Just a man with more money than sense.’
To Jess’s surprise, her sometimes pessimistic father had taken her side in the argument.
‘Jess knows how to look after herself, Ruth,’ he’d said. ‘She’ll be fine. Just give us a call when you get there, love, and put your mother’s mind at rest. Okay?’
She’d happily agreed to do so, but hadn’t trusted her mum not to start up again this morning, so she’d packed an overnight bag the night before, then risen early, giving her time to take some extra care getting ready. Under the circumstances, she didn’t want to look like a dag. Or a chauffeur, for that matter—so she’d already dismissed the idea of wearing her usual driving uniform of black trousers with a white shirt which had Murphy’s Hire Car emblazoned on the breast pocket.
She did wear black trousers. Rather swish, stretchy ones which tapered in at the ankles and made the most of her long legs, combining them with a V-necked white T-shirt topped with a floral jacket which she’d made herself. Jess was an excellent dressmaker, having been taught how to sew by her gran. She dithered a bit over how much make-up to wear, opting in the end to play it conservative, using just a bit of lip gloss and a light brushing of mascara. Her clear olive skin did not really need foundation, anyway. She then scooped her thick, black hair back up into a ponytail, wrapping a red scrunchie around it which matched the red flowers in the jacket. Finally, she pulled on a pair of very comfy black pumps before bolting out of the house by six-thirty, a good twenty minutes before she needed to leave.
The drive from Glenning Valley to Blue Bay would take fifteen minutes at most. Probably less at this time of day. She filled in some time having breakfast at a local burger bar, after which she drove leisurely towards the address she’d been given. Jess knew the area well. Whilst there were still lots of very ordinary weekenders around, any property on the beach front was worth heaps. Most of the older buildings which had once graced the shoreline had been torn down, replaced by million-dollar units and multi-million-dollar homes. Over the last decade, Blue Bay had become one of the places to live on the coast.
It wasn’t till she turned off the Entrance Road into the long street which led down to Blue Bay that Jess felt the first inkling of nerves. Though normally a confident and rather outspoken girl, she suddenly realised it wasn’t going to be easy bringing up the subject of Fab Fashions with the man responsible for taking over the company. If truth be told, he would probably tell her to mind her own business. He also wouldn’t be pleased with the fact that she’d looked him up on the Internet.
Maybe she should forget about the probably futile idea of trying to save Fab Fashions and just do what Mr De Silva had hired her to do—drive him out to Mudgee and back. Alternatively, maybe she would wait and see what kind of man he was; if he was the kind to listen or not. He hadn’t sounded too bad over the phone. Maybe a little frustrated, which was understandable, considering he’d just had a car accident and all his plans had gone awry. And he had asked her to call him Ben, which was rather nice of him. She almost felt guilty now that she hadn’t asked him to call her Jess in return.
Jess wondered how old he was. Probably about forty, she guessed. If he looked anything like his father—there’d been a photo of Morgan De Silva on the Net—then he’d be short, with a receding hairline and a flabby body from a sedentary lifestyle and too many long business lunches.
‘Oh, dear,’ she sighed.
Jess was no longer looking forward to today in any way, shape or form.
After letting out the breath she’d been unconsciously holding, she started scanning the numbers on the post boxes, soon realising that the number she was looking for would be on the left and right down the end of the street. Truly, what else had she expected? The son of a billionaire wouldn’t be staying anywhere but the best.
The sun was just rising as she approached a block of apartments which carried the right number and which, yes, of course, overlooked the beach. A man was already standing on the pavement outside the building. Beside him sat a black travel case on wheels, across which was draped a plastic zip-up suit bag.
Jess tried not to stare as she pulled into the kerb beside him. But it was difficult not to.
He wasn’t short with a receding hairline and flabby body. Hell, no. He was anything but. He was very tall and slim, with broad shoulders and the kind of well-chiselled face you saw on male models in magazines advertising aftershave or expensive watches. High cheekbones, a strong, straight nose and a square jawline. His hair was a light sandy colour, cut short at the sides and slightly longer on top, brushed straight back from that oh, so handsome face. His skin was lightly tanned, his eyes blue and beautiful. His clothes were more what she’d been expecting. Sort of. Dark-grey trousers and a long-sleeved blue business shirt which was open at the neck and which had a pair of sunglasses tucked into the breast pocket.
Jess dragged her eyes away from him, switched off the engine, then climbed out of the car, her thoughts somewhat scattered. Who would have imagined he would be so good-looking? Or so young? He couldn’t be more than early thirties. Maybe even younger.
‘Mr De Silva, I presume?’ she asked as she stepped up onto the pavement less than a metre from him. Up close, he was even more attractive, if that were possible.
‘You can’t possibly be Miss Murphy,’ he returned, the hint of a wry smile teasing one corner of his nicely shaped mouth.
She bristled at his comment. ‘I don’t see why not.’
He shook his head as he looked her up and down. ‘You’re not what I was expecting.’
‘Oh?’ she returned stiffly. ‘And what were you expecting?’
‘Someone a little older and a little less…er…attractive.’
Jess thanked the Lord she wasn’t a blusher. For if she had been she might have gone bright red under the openly admiring gaze of those beautiful blue eyes.
‘That’s nice of you to say so, Mr De Silva. I think,’ she added, wondering if she’d sounded old and ugly on the phone.
‘I told you to call me Ben,’ he said, and smiled at her, a full hundred-watt smile which showed perfect American teeth and a charm which was just as dazzling.
Oh my, Jess thought, trying not to be too dazzled.
Not without much success, given she just stood there staring at him whilst her heartbeat did the tango and she forgot all about Fab Fashions.
‘Perhaps we should get going,’ he said at last.
Jess gave herself a mental shake. It wasn’t like her to go ga-ga over a man, even one as impressive as this.
‘Yes. Yes, of course,’ she said, still far too breathlessly for her liking. ‘Do you need help with your bags?’ she added, recalling what he’d said about having a banged-up right shoulder.
‘I can manage,’ he returned. ‘Just open up the back for me.’
He managed very well. Managed the passenger door without any help either.
By the time she climbed into the driving seat and belted up, Jess had taken control of her wildly dancing heartbeat, having told herself firmly to get a grip and stop acting like some awestruck schoolgirl. She was twenty-five years old, for pity’s sake!
Taking a deep breath, she reached for her sunglasses and put them on.
‘Would you mind if I called you Jessica instead of Miss Murphy?’ he said before she could even start the engine.
Jess winced. She hated being called Jessica. ‘I’d rather you call me Jess,’ she replied, and found herself throwing a small smile his way.
‘Only if you promise to call me Ben,’ he insisted as he snapped his seat belt into place.
Jess suspected that women—no, people in general—rarely said no to Ben De Silva. His combination of looks and charm were both seductive and quite corrupting. Already she wanted to please him. Yet she wasn’t, by nature, a people pleaser. Jess had always had a mind of her own and a mouth to match. Suddenly, however, all she wanted to do was smile, nod and agree with everything Ben said. Already he was Ben in her head.
‘Okay. Ready, Ben?’ she said as she reached for the ignition and glanced over at him again.
Dear heaven but he was gorgeous! He smelt gorgeous too. She did like men who wore nice aftershave.
‘As soon as I put these on,’ he replied, pulling his own sunglasses out of his pocket.
They were very expensive looking. God, now he looked like a movie star, a very sexy movie star, the kind a girl fantasised over in the privacy of her bedroom.
Jess’s susceptibility to this man was beginning to annoy her. Next thing she’d know, she’d start flirting with him. Which wasn’t like her at all! Gritting her teeth, she checked her rear and side mirrors, executed a perfect three-point turn, then accelerated up the street. Neither of them said anything for a full minute or two, Ben being the first to speak.
‘I must thank you again, Jess, for doing this for me.’
‘You don’t have to thank me. You’re paying for the privilege.’
‘Still, I can see you probably had to put yourself out to do this. I would imagine a girl as attractive as yourself would have better things to do over the weekend than work.’
‘No, not really.’
‘You didn’t have to break any dates?’
‘Not this weekend.’
‘That surprises me. I would have thought you’d have a boyfriend.’
‘I did,’ she bit out. ‘Till recently.’
‘What happened?’
She shrugged. ‘We were going to go on a road trip together around Australia. That’s why I bought this four-wheel drive. Anyway, at the last moment he decided he didn’t want to do that. Instead, he took off backpacking around the world with a mate.’
Jess felt, rather than saw, Ben’s startled look. When driving a client, she rarely took her eyes off the road.
‘He didn’t ask you to go with him?’ he quizzed, his shocked tone soothing Jess’s still lingering hurt over Colin’s defection.
‘No. He did ask me to wait for him, though.’
‘I hope you said no.’
