His Brand of Beautiful Read online

  His Brand of Beautiful

  Lily Malone

  His Brand of Beautiful

  Lily Malone

  Christina Clay only wants the best when it comes to her family’s iconic Australian wine company, and Tate Newell has the best marketing brain in the business. But there are some people in the world Tate doesn’t want to work for and Clay Wines’ eccentric chief executive is high on his list. Christina collects causes like some women collect shoes, and every time she opens her mouth, he’s reminded of the one person he wants to forget.

  Sometimes, to get a woman out of your head, you have to let her in.

  Before Christina can say Crocodile Dundee, she’s in a two-seater plane flying into the heart of central Australia to visit Tate’s childhood roots: the remote cattle station his family still own and run. It’s a ‘research project’ he says, to see just how ‘wild’ she wants her new wine brand to be.

  Battling the demons of a previous miscarriage, Christina soon has a project of her own in mind when it comes to Tate, and less than a day into her outback research trip, her ovaries are ticking . She wants a baby and a brand. And in Tate, she’s found the one man who can give her both.

  About the author

  Lily Malone is a journalist and freelance writer who discovered, after years of writing facts for a living, that writing romance is much more fun.

  She wrote His Brand of Beautiful after the birth of her second son, taking inspiration from the once-in‐a-century‐floods that filled Lake Eyre in outback South Australia in the summer of 2010-11.

  Lily juggles writing with the needs of a young family, and when she isn’t writing, she likes gardening, walking, wine, and walking in gardens (sometimes with wine).

  You can visit Lily at www.lilymalone.wordpress.com

  Lily Malone

  Acknowledgements

  With thanks to friends and family who believed in me, my critique partners, the supportive members of Romance Writers Australia and the writers of so many wonderful blogs on writing craft who helped me on the way.

  To Kate Cuthbert and Escape Publishing, thank you for the opportunity, and to my editor Abigail Nathan, I am forever grateful for your help in making this book the best it could be.

  Chapter 1

  Christina Clay cracked her front door wider and craned her neck for a better view of the tank parked in her street. If she used every inch of the three-inch heels, plus a little extra bounce, she’d discovered a hole through the camellia leaves that let her see the driver’s side window and the dark head inside it.

  She rechecked her watch. What was Nate-the‐Stripper waiting for? A drum roll?

  Sunshine?

  An oncoming car passed, headlights glistening over blacker-than‐black road. The splash of its tyres drowned out her Chili Peppers CD and the champagne giggles coming from her kitchen.

  She’d watched the vehicle slow in front of 225 Three Oaks Lane, reverse back against traffic and slot into a park that looked too small for a shopping trolley. Got it first time, too.

  Now the dark green beast sat beneath an epileptic streetlight, shucked-in between Marlene’s silver Renault and the tomato-red mini-van with Mr Loh’s Grocer painted on the side.

  Why a part-time stripper needed a vehicle like that to get his drums around a city like Adelaide was anyone’s guess.

  The interior light flashed on in the tank and a face grimaced skyward.

  Chili Peppers hushed. In the silence, laughter butterflied up the corridor. She’d left the girls playing pass-the‐parcel and from the sound of things the game was heating up. She had her fingers crossed Lacy’s mother won. She could just imagine Eileen Graham’s face if it was she who opened the last layer of wrapping-paper and discovered the set of fluffy pink handcuffs and the leopard-print whip.

  The music kicked in.

  A pair of pointed black shoes planted on wet road. Long, suit-clad legs followed and the rest of his body unfurled from the driver’s door, a thick wedge of briefcase last to exit.

  Christina wondered if he’d remembered an umbrella. Then again, maybe he was like her —

  didn’t own one and just took the chance.

  The tank’s tail-lights flashed orange and she heard a blip-blip. Christina cracked the door wider. Wind whipped the smell of wet bitumen into her face, fluttered the silver fringe on the Spanish shawl pinned to the wall.

  A burst of rain slapped the iron roof over her head, making her jump.

  Please weather, don’t be an omen.

  In the next breath she chided herself for being so cynical. Mikey and Lace were brilliant together. Just because she’d signed off marriage for life didn’t mean her two favourite people in the world — her brother and her best friend — wouldn’t find happily-ever‐after wedded bliss.

  The stripper prowled across the road to her front gate, where purple and gold balloons spun and jostled. He threw it open and didn’t wait for it to clang shut and she lost him then as he ducked beneath the high tangle of camellia branches she never bothered to prune.

  The security sensor clicked beside her ear, plunging her yard into stark white and bruised shadow and Christina was on tiptoes again, straining forward, eager now to see his face.

  Lily Malone

  His hand shot up to shield his eyes and she groped for the sensor switch. Softer yellow porch light spilled from the verandah.

  Her dancing heels faltered.

  Nate-the‐Stripper had a face that looked like it had forgotten how to smile. Dark fish-hooks and dagger points curled in his fringe and at his temple, a fat raindrop quivered like it didn’t dare slide. When he stamped on her doormat she was reminded of the bulls she’d once campaigned to save one long-ago summer holiday in Spain.

  She pasted on a smile, sucked in her stomach and held out her hand. “Hi Nate, I’m Christina.”

  His palm was smooth and warm in the millisecond before he dropped it. His gaze travelled to her cherry-painted toes and bounced up again. “I think I’m under-dressed.”

  She waved him inside. “No. No. You look great. I love the suit. Italians do it best, don’t they?” The gush in her voice made her cringe but if gushing cheered him up, gush she would. Lacy’s Hen’s Night had to be perfect. She’d promised her brother.

  The Chili Peppers cut out again. Feminine cheers filled the void and someone shouted, very clearly: “Way to go, Eileen.”

  Nate took a half-step back, blocking the door Christina was trying to shut behind him. A champagne cork exploded and his head snapped up faster than a fox.

  “Did you bring your own music?” She asked, TV-host smile in place.

  “My own music?”

  She nodded. Maybe I should speak slower. Strippers aren’t known for brains.

  “No. I didn’t bring music. I didn’t realise music was one of your requirements.”

  Her smile slipped, just a bit. Whatever this guy’s problem was he’d better snap out of it, and soon, because right now he demonstrated all the chutzpah of a Buckingham Palace Guard.

  “The music’s no problem. I’ve got lots of tunes to choose from. It’s up to you, you’re the expert. You can’t miss Lacy, she’s the one with the cap and the red dress. Legs up to here,” Christina indicated her waist. “Now, if you want to leave your briefcase—”

  She froze, one of the perfect cherry-painted fingernails she’d spent an hour assembling, pointing at her closed bedroom door.

  Nate’s face was like thunder.

  Christina swallowed. “Are you okay, Nate? Can I get you a drink? I can bring something right back. What’s your—”

  Did he just snort?

  “Miss Clay, there’s been a mistake.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She smoked him with her best g
lare. No way was he wriggling out of this now, she’d paid her deposit.

  “Do I really look like a stripper to you?”

  “Actually, yes. We ordered the Billionaire Businessman.” She crossed her arms over her chest and a caterpillar-row of bracelets clanked on her wrist.

  He held her gaze for a long moment, slipped a hand in his shirt pocket — a beautiful blue Italian silk a shade brighter than his eyes — and extracted his business card. “Christina, I’m Tate Newell. Outback Brands. Tate, not Nate, I thought I misheard you earlier. We have an appointment.”

  Something rolled in the pit of her stomach. “Yes we do. Next Friday.”

  He fished in his suit pocket, found his mobile and scrolled. “Here. Christina Clay.

  5.30pm, May 24. Initial consultation re: Clay Wines’ brand.” He held up the screen. “I thought those balloons on the gate were your idea of a joke.”

  “A joke?”

  The corner of his lip curved. “I thought you were celebrating that you’d finally got me out here, Christina. That the five hundred phone calls worked.”

  Two thoughts flashed through her mind: Dear God. This party’s going to hell in a handbasket and Dear God. My new brand. What she said was: “It wasn’t five hundred.”

  With that, her brain started working again, only it couldn’t decide whether the best thing she should do was say shit or sorry and it was still trying to work that out when a voice hollered from the kitchen: “Don’t start without us, CC.”

  “Just a minute,” Christina yelled back down the hall and her hand shot to her temple.

  “Shit.”

  Tate chuckled.

  Her gaze snapped to the suit-clad body making her hall feel small.

  Male.

  On the premises.

  It was a short list.

  “Blind Freddie could see what you’re thinking. N.O.” He shoved his briefcase into his opposite hand and leaned his weight toward the door.

  “Wait! Tate? Please? I’m trying to think outside the square here. Could you help a girl out?”

  “You’re not thinking outside the square. You’re outside the damn hemisphere.”

  “You don’t have to get your clothes off. It’s just a paint party. It’s my stepmother’s idea—she lent me all the stuff. There’s just an itty-bitty room full of easels and amateur painters, very low key. You’re a graphic art guru. I bet you’re a dab hand with a paint brush.”

  The words tumbled from her lips.

  “CC! While we’re young, hey?” Marlene’s voice foghorned up the hall and Christina knew she wouldn’t sip champagne and wait. Marlene would come and investigate.

  There was an echo of cheers. The girls getting restless.

  “Please? It’s my best friend’s Hen’s Night. It’s the only one she’ll ever get.” She ignored the small voice in her head that wanted to add: I hope.

  Tate exhaled. “I can’t believe you’re playing the guilt card.”

  “You should feel guilty. I’ve been trying to meet with you since February. Every time I called, your receptionist fobbed me off. I don’t think you want my business at all.” She stabbed her finger at his chest. It felt good to be on the offensive. “If you hadn’t been avoiding me, we would have had this appointment weeks ago—months ago—and no way could it have got mixed up with tonight.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “You can’t keep a diary straight and that’s my fault?”

  She stomped hard on her temper. Tonight, as everybody kept saying, wasn’t about her, and if Tate Newell walked out she was up the creek, sans paddle, in more ways than one. She could kiss Lacy’s party and her new wine brand goodbye, because right now the odds of a follow-up appointment with Tate were slim.

  “Ready or not, CC, I’m counting to ten…” Marlene’s voice boomed up the corridor.

  It was time for plan B. Or was it C? Twirling a finger in her hair, careful not to snag the nail, Christina let her body melt back, left heel planted square against the wall. Silver Lily Malone

  links on the chain around her ankle draped beneath the hem of tailored black pants. Her favourite lime-green skirt—one she’d sewn from a set of recycled cushion covers—made a layered sash around her hips. Her silent inventory told her she should look okay, as long as he didn’t go for waifs.

  But his tour of her body was disappointingly brief. It just didn’t take a man long to get his eyes up and down when you only stood five-foot‐four in bare feet. The heels helped.

  A set of pins like Lacy’s would have helped far more.

  “That’s the oldest trick in the book. It won’t fly with me.” But there was husk in his voice that belied the words.

  “My brother will never forgive me if I stuff this night up for Lacy. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “You’re not crying are you? It’s just a party.”

  “It’s not just a party. It’s a Hen’s Night. It’s like a… female rite of passage.” She glanced out from beneath her lashes. “Please?”

  He cursed into his collar, ran a hand through his hair and for a few seconds the briefcase danced with the green swing coat hanging on her coat rack. Then he let out a sigh that sounded like the whoosh of an old-fashioned bellows. “Okay, fine. I’ll play party host.

  But you’ll owe me.”

  “Absolutely. Anything. You’ve saved my bacon.” She bounced from the wall, stretched on tiptoes and pulled his head down to peck his cheek.

  “You did say anything, Christina?”

  The muscles of her stomach clenched. She wasn’t certain he moved toward her, but it was as if she felt his weight lean forward. Felt it through every cell.

  “Sure. How about a bottle of our best Shiraz? It’s my father’s last vintage.”

  “It’s not medal-winning wine I want.”

  Heat clawed up her throat, something low in her stomach flipped, and for all of two seconds she let herself consider it. Lord knew it had been a while…

  “Clay Wines don’t do wine shows. Wine shows are for wankers.” It came out a little sharper than she’d intended, considering he’d just saved her bacon.

  His dark eyebrows arched.

  “Sorry,” she said sweetly. “Should I have pardoned my French?”

  “Hell, no. Call a spade a spade.”

  He raised his hand as if he might touch her cheek and she couldn’t hide her flinch.

  Cobalt eyes mocked her. “Don’t take up cards, Christina. It’s too easy to call your bluff.”

  He said it like he thought he knew her and it rankled. She opened her mouth to tell the arrogant son of a—

  “Seven. Eight. Nine.” The chant arrowed from the kitchen and it reminded her this was no time to argue the point.

  “Leave whatever you don’t need in my bedroom. Maybe lose the jacket—” his black look made her stammer “—or not. Hey, I’m only trying to set the mood. Outside the front door, turn right. Don’t trip over the firebox. I’ve got French doors under the patio and they open into my lounge. The easels are in there.” She backed down the corridor. “Remember you’re playing a Billionaire Businessman.”

  “And if the real entertainment shows up?”

  “We won’t complain if there are two of you.” She pivoted and skipped away, an extra sway in her hips. His eyes burned into her back, she could feel them. Like a white-hot brand where her black velvet top plunged.

  Lily Malone

  Chapter 2

  Tate shut Christina’s bedroom door just shy of a slam. At least it stopped the party smells.

  Hairspray. Food. He’d missed lunch. With the door shut, a new scent filled his nostrils, light as rainforest orchids. Her scent. He could still feel the soft shape of her lips on his cheek.

  An up-lamp on the rear wall washed soft light over her bed but left the depths of the room in shadow. From the bed to the floor, discarded outfits avalanched and in a corner an old-fashioned hat-stand lofted hats and scarves from antler-like spikes. There was a dressmaker’s dummy on a table
in a corner and a sewing machine so high-tech, it had a damn touch screen on the front. For a second, that threw him. He hadn’t picked Christina for a seamstress.

  He glared at the rain sheeting beyond curtains she’d only half closed. He’d so much rather be kicking off his weekend by loading his boots and swag in the Jeep and heading North, until bitumen met gravel and gravel met track, and he was deep in the red sand and rock of the Flinders Ranges. He’d bet the sun was shining up there.

  Water dripped down his neck.

  No such luck. He had a keynote speech to finish for Jancis—make that keynote speech to start— and a flight to Sydney Sunday to address the Annual Marketing and Public Relations Association Conference. He hadn’t been to the AMPRA talkfest in years and Jancis Woody was the only person on the planet who could have got him anywhere near the damn thing now.

  “Christ, I need a holiday.” Tate dumped his briefcase on her bed.

  How else did he explain the last five minutes? Any sane man would have walked out at “Hi Nate”. Not him. His sister-in‐law always said the Newell boys were suckers for a damsel in distress and it looked like Bree had him pegged. He couldn’t slink off like a rat in the night. Not now. Not after he’d agreed to help.

  Professional courtesy. Look where it got him. Thanks, Ruth.

  “All Christina wants is a half-hour brand consultation. That is your area of expertise, Tate,” his office manager had said. “You’ve had reception screen her calls for months.

  Christina’s always nice about it but I can tell she’s sick of being given the run-around. You can at least try to look like you want her business. Adelaide is too small to burn your bridges. The Clays have clout.”

  And that settled it. Being nice to the person who answered the phone always earned his clients—even prospective ones he didn’t want—a big, fat, gold star in Ruth Landers’

  book.

  Tate didn’t care how renowned the Clay family was, or how well connected. He didn’t want to work for them. He’d done his research. Christina’s blog was filled with the kind of marketing spin he hated: Chardonnay sales that threw profits to Greenpeace; Grenache that pledged to rebuild habitats for an endangered frog. It wasn’t about true philanthropy. It was about publicity. Selling more wine.