The Australian's Marriage Demand Read online

  “I have a solution to our little problem,” Connor said.

  “What sort of solution?” Jasmine wondered.

  Again he let the silence continue unbearably. “The sort of solution that will dispel all the rumours and restore family faith in the two miscreants.”

  “A miracle?” she asked, with a rueful edge to her voice. She heard him chuckle again.

  “Not quite a miracle, but an amazing occurrence for all that.”

  “What?”

  “Marriage.”

  “Marriage?” She almost choked on the word. “Whose marriage?”

  There was an infinitesimal pause.

  “Our marriage…”

  Legally wed,

  But he’s never said…

  “I love you.”

  They’re

  The series where marriages are made in haste…and love comes later….

  Watch for more books in the popular WEDLOCKED! miniseries Coming next month:

  His Bride for One Night

  by Miranda Lee

  #2451

  Coming in April:

  The Billion-Dollar Bride

  by Kay Thorpe

  #2462

  Available only from Harlequin Presents®

  Melanie Milburne

  THE AUSTRALIAN’S MARRIAGE DEMAND

  To Phil,

  my second-born son, who constantly astounds me with his intellect and wit and inbuilt talent for cynicism. This one’s for you, Phil!

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT WAS not quite light when Jasmine woke in the hotel bed.

  She opened one sleepy eye and wondered what had wakened her. Perhaps it had been one of the wedding guests coming in late after a full night of partying, she thought, as she stretched out one cramped leg.

  It had been a nice enough wedding as far as weddings went.

  Her sister Sam had looked beautiful and happy, and Finn, Sam’s new husband, had been glowing with pride, his handsome face wreathed in smiles all day and most of the night.

  Her father had beamed down at everyone proudly from the pulpit of the Sydney suburban cathedral where he was the local bishop. He was pleased that he’d yet again been privileged with the honour of marrying another of his four daughters; her mother had dabbed at her eyes repeatedly and played the role of mother of the bride with thrice-practised aplomb.

  It was a pity Finn’s older stepbrother, Connor Harrowsmith, had to be the best man, but he’d more or less behaved himself, which was unusual, Jasmine reflected. He’d fulfilled his duties, producing the rings at the right moment, without mishap, even complimenting the three bridesmaids with no sign of his usual mocking humour until his dark brown gaze had singled her out. She’d smiled back sweetly, determined not to let anything or anyone spoil her sister’s day, but inwardly she’d seethed.

  She hated him and he knew it.

  She could tell from the hard glitter that came into his eyes every time he looked at her, which was rather too often throughout the service and reception. It had been as if he were silently teasing her, the words filling the air between them even though he hadn’t said a word: three times a bridesmaid never a bride. She had heard it in her head each time his dark eyes had sought hers and she resented him for it.

  Jasmine stretched her other leg and froze.

  There was someone in the bed with her!

  She held her breath, wondering if she should turn on the lamp but too frightened to do so in case it woke whoever was beside her. She edged herself away as carefully as she could, but even when she was practically hanging over the edge of the mattress she could still feel the warmth of the stranger’s body as if it was reaching out to draw her back into the cocoon of the bed.

  The room was cloaked in darkness, a darkness that was suddenly menacing.

  She could hear the sound of rhythmic breathing, the slight rustle of the bedclothes as the stranger moved, stretching, reaching out hands to find her…

  She leapt for the light switch and snapped it on, her eyes shrinking painfully as the bright glare filled the hotel room.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she gasped. ’You!’

  She stared in horror when she saw Connor Harrowsmith, his long, muscled body clearly outlined by the bedclothes straining against the hard male form lying beneath.

  ‘Hello, Jasmine,’ he drawled. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  She drew in a furious breath as she grabbed the hotel bathrobe to cover her near nakedness. Her matching bra and panties had cost a fortune but there was no way he was going to get a free peep show!

  ‘Get out of my room!’

  He arched one dark sardonic brow as he rolled on to his side to face her, the sheet falling away from his naked chest revealing a rock hard stomach, the ridges of muscle clearly visible.

  ‘Your room?’

  ‘Of course it’s my room; now get out before I call Security.’ Her eyes flew to where her suitcase should be but, to her shock, it wasn’t there.

  ‘Where are my things?’ She glared at him.

  ‘In your room.’ He stretched again, which pulled the sheets even tighter across his pelvis.

  Jasmine tore her eyes away and stormed towards the bathroom. She wrenched open the door but there was no sign of the neat little row of cosmetics she had left the afternoon before; instead there was an electric shaver, a bottle of expensive-looking aftershave, a male hairbrush and, to add insult to injury, a wet towel on the floor.

  She stomped back out to the bedroom, her anger increasing at the sight of him propped up lazily against the pillows, his taunting gaze slowly moving over her.

  ‘You’ve taken my things!’ she accused, moving towards the bed to reach for the phone. ‘I’m going to call Reception and have someone sent up to—’

  A large male hand appeared over her wrist, the long fingers encircling the slender bones in a gentle but undeniably firm hold.

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you,’ he cautioned, his dark eyes meeting hers.

  ‘Let me go.’ She tested his hold but it remained firm.

  ‘You’d look really silly complaining to management when actually it’s you in the wrong room,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not in the wrong room,’ she insisted. ‘I used my key in the lock last night.’

  ‘I didn’t lock the door,’ he said. ‘I left the reception to dash up here to get something I’d promised Finn and forgot to lock it on the way out.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  He shrugged indifferently and let her hand drop. She rubbed at it furiously, not because he’d hurt her but more to take away the sensation of his warm fingers.

  ‘Go and see for yourself,’ he challenged her. ‘Open the door and check the room number.’

  Jasmine swung away and padded over to the door with a confidence that was visibly cracking. What if he was right? What if she was in the wrong room? How would she live that down?

  She opened the door and her heart sank when she saw the number. She was in the wrong room! And not just any wrong room—Connor Harrowsmith’s room!

  ‘All right.’ She walked back in, her colour high. ‘So I made a mistake, but that still doesn’t explain why you got into this bed without telling me of my error.’

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you,’ he said, his tone guileless.

  ‘Oh, for Go
d’s sake!’ she fumed. ‘You had no right to take advantage of the situation!’

  He propped his hands behind his head, his biceps bulging, as did Jasmine’s eyes at the sheer size of their gym-toned strength.

  ‘How do you know I took advantage of the situation?’ he asked with a long leisurely slide of his dark eyes all over her outraged form.

  She felt flustered and over-hot, as if he’d flicked a switch on her body while she’d slept, turning her usual cool control to a completely different setting.

  She didn’t know what to think.

  How was she supposed to know what had happened during the night? He might have touched her for all she knew and she’d be none the wiser. Perhaps he’d even kissed her, stroked her breasts or…

  ‘You snore, you know,’ he said, interrupting her torturous thoughts.

  ‘I do not!’

  His eyes twinkled as he surveyed her outraged features. Her curly chestnut hair was looking very ‘just out of bed’ and her grey-blue eyes were flashing fire. Notwithstanding the delightfully clingy ice-blue bridesmaid’s dress she’d worn the day before, he couldn’t think of a time when she’d looked more beautiful.

  ‘Come on, Jasmine,’ he teased. ‘Loosen up. You’re safe with me.’

  ‘No one with a pulse is safe with you,’ she tossed back irritably.

  He laughed and threw the bedcovers aside.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she shrieked.

  ‘Getting out of bed.’ He stood up.

  She turned the other way so she didn’t have to look at his naked maleness. Her breathing was hurried and shallow, her face aflame, her nerves stretching like tight wires underneath her pulsing flesh.

  ‘For God’s sake put something on!’ she croaked.

  ‘You’re wearing my bathrobe,’ he pointed out dryly.

  She seriously considered giving it back to him. Anything was better than having to face such a blatant show of male flesh in its prime.

  ‘I haven’t anything to wear.’ Her voice was hoarse.

  She felt his smile as he drawled, ‘The eternal female lament.’

  She heard a rustle of fabric. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her bridesmaid’s dress sail through the air towards her.

  ‘Here, put this back on,’ he said. ‘I’ll turn my back.’

  She knew he was still looking at her as she let the bathrobe slip. She didn’t trust a word that came out of that sensual mouth but she wasn’t brave enough to turn and check. She struggled into the blue dress and, once she was decently covered, tossed the bathrobe in his direction without turning around.

  ‘You can turn around now,’ he said.

  She turned around cautiously and his eyes met hers. She was relieved to see the bathrobe covered him but it gave her a funny feeling to think that minutes before the soft white folds had been lying against her own skin and now they were lying intimately against his.

  ‘I have to go.’ She headed for the door, almost tripping over her own feet.

  ‘Hey,’ he called as she fumbled with the door knob. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

  ‘What?’ She gave him a glance over her left shoulder.

  He held up one long finger where her pair of strappy sandals dangled.

  ‘Oh.’ She let the door go and approached him. ‘Thank you.’ She went to snatch them out of his hold but his hand caught hers.

  His dark eyes burned down into hers.

  ‘I enjoyed sleeping with you.’ His thumb began stroking along the underside of her wrist in slow, sensuous strokes that made her stomach give a sudden unexpected lurch.

  She found it hard to hold his gaze.

  ‘I hope I didn’t disturb you too much,’ she said, making an effort at lightness.

  ‘Oh, you disturbed me a great deal,’ he said, giving her wrist a little tug. ‘A great deal indeed.’

  She was up against him, her body pressed to his, her softness on his hardness. She felt the outline of his growing erection against her belly and her eyes widened in alarm.

  ‘Please—’ her plea was breathy and ragged ‘—let me go.’

  ‘You didn’t say that last night.’

  Her eyes widened even further.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  His eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘You were quite the little temptress.’

  She felt sick with shame. Had she really? Had she? Oh, dear God, had she thrown herself at him? But, deep down, she was fairly sure she hadn’t.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Oh ye of little faith,’ he goaded.

  ‘You’re making it up to poke fun at me,’ she said.

  ‘Now why would I do that?’

  ‘Because you’re an arrogant jerk who thinks every woman will automatically fall into your arms, that’s why.’

  ‘That’s an interesting analysis of my character, but not exactly true.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Her look was cynical.

  ‘You’ve been reading too many gossipy magazines,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know they make it up to fuel their reader-ship?’

  ‘Everything you do is news,’ she pointed out. ‘You deliberately court scandalous gossip just to annoy your stepfather.’

  His eyes hardened and his hold on her arm tightened a fraction.

  ‘Just because your sister managed to get her hooks into my stepbrother doesn’t mean you get the right to comment on the affairs of my family.’

  ‘I can say what I like,’ she tossed back defiantly.

  ‘Not without paying a price.’

  ‘What price?’ A tiny shiver of apprehension shimmied its way up her spine.

  ‘This price,’ he said and, bending his head, captured her mouth with his.

  She should have fought him.

  She knew she should, but her body wasn’t listening to the frantic plea of her brain. It was as if her body was acting totally independently of all rational thought and reason, going on its own wilful way, relishing the feel of a very male mouth commandeering hers.

  His tongue pushed her trembling lips apart and sank into her mouth, searching for her own tongue. He found it and played with it tantalisingly, drawing it into the heat of his own mouth. Jasmine could feel the liquefying impact on her legs and spine as she leant against him for support, certain that without it she’d slip to the floor in a pool at his feet. His arms were like bands of iron, drawing her even closer, making her irrevocably aware of his aroused body against the trembling weakness of hers.

  The kiss went on and on. She was lost to the feel of his lips exploring the soft contours of hers, lost to the sensation of hot desire flooding her internally as if all her life she’d been waiting for this moment.

  He lifted his head and she blinked open her eyes.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ she said.

  ‘Nor should you.’ His eyes glinted with some indefinable emotion.

  ‘I didn’t do anything!’

  ‘Yes, you did.’ He grinned at her wolfishly. ‘You kissed me back.’

  ‘I…I…’ There wasn’t much she could say in her own defence. ‘You caught me off guard. I was unprepared.’

  ‘I’ll have to remember that,’ he said. ‘It might be useful.’

  She wrenched herself from his arms and flung herself towards the door, unconcerned that her shoes were still in his possession. She opened the door of his room and had only taken one step out into the corridor when a camera flash blinded her.

  ‘What the—?’ She held up her hands to her face but the camera flashed three more times.

  She elbowed her way past the persistent photographer and quickly dashed to her room, opening it with trembling fingers and slamming the door behind her as if it were the devil himself she was trying to lock out.

  She took several deep breaths as she leant her back against the door, trying to calm her over-stretched nerves.

  Damn him! How dared he mock her? Connor had probably organised the press to be waiting outside the door to ge
t the scoop of the week. She inwardly cringed when she thought about her father reading the news of his daughter’s latest misdemeanour. Her mother would no doubt retreat to her room with a cold face-cloth over her face, mortified that yet again she’d have to face the other women at Tuesday morning’s Bible group with her wayward daughter’s exploits as the main focus of study.

  Her three sisters would frown and shake their heads, each of them looking towards their successful husbands for emotional support as they faced yet another of their sister’s scandals.

  She pushed herself away from the door and began packing her things. She didn’t bother to fold anything; she just shoved everything in viciously as if each and every item was a piece of Connor Harrowsmith’s anatomy she wanted to injure.

  She hated the way he mocked her. Every time she’d met him during the course of her sister’s friendship and subsequent courtship with Finn she’d had to bear the brunt of his ridicule. She knew she was an easy target given her tarnished reputation but she resented him for latching on to it so assiduously. Her name had been dragged through the mud on more occasions than she cared to recall, each time damaging the high moral ground of her family’s home.

  She thrust her cosmetics haphazardly into a plastic bag.

  OK, so she wasn’t technically a virgin. So what? She bet her sisters hadn’t exactly made it to the altar intact but she didn’t hear anyone complaining, least of all her parents.

  She’d never been able to please them.

  No matter what she did, it upset their strict idea of what was good and proper. Of course her work at the drug centre in Sydney didn’t help but she wasn’t giving that up for anyone.

  She slammed her suitcase shut and scowled at her reflection in the mirror above the dressing table.

  No matter how hard she’d tried to fit in she’d never quite managed to cope with the stultifying existence of being the eldest of Bishop Byrne’s daughters, all dressed up in their Sunday best, sitting in the church pew, their undivided attention on the erudite wisdom spouting forth from their father’s mouth, droning on like a blowfly stuck in a milk bottle.