www.millsandboon.co.uk

      All about the author…

       Anne Oliver

      When not teaching or writing, ANNE OLIVER loves nothing more than escaping into a book. She keeps a box of tissues handy—her favorite stories are intense, passionate, against-all-odds romances. Eight years ago she began creating her own characters in paranormal and time-travel adventures, before turning to contemporary romance. Other interests include quilting, astronomy, all things Scottish and eating anything she doesn’t have to cook. Sharing her characters’ journeys with readers all over the world is a privilege…and a dream come true. Anne lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and has two adult children. Visit her Web site at www.anne-oliver.com. She loves to hear from readers. E-mail her at [email protected].

      Marriage at the Millionaire’s Command was written during a period of personal upheaval, only to come second in the Romance Writers of New Zealand’s 2004 Clendon Award for a full novel!

      This one’s for you, Mum!

      Also, thanks to my great critique team and to

       editors Kimberley Young and Meg Sleightholme

       for their valuable insight and revision

       suggestions to the original manuscript.

      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

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE scent of her grandmother’s perfume was the first sign. The prickle at her nape was the second. While Gran’s scent was benign and loving and familiar, the second sign sent a shiver down her spine.

      Carissa Grace never ignored signs.

      Anxious, she scanned the stream of cars outside Sydney’s Cove Hotel. Her stepsister Melanie had insisted on picking her up since Carissa’s gig at the piano bar had finished after midnight tonight. That had been twenty minutes ago.

      Hurry up, Mel. Something’s—

      The screech of brakes sheared through the balmy night, an agony of metal on metal over the mellow sound of sax drifting from a nearby nightclub. As the dented Holden mounted the kerb, its headlights loomed like silver lasers before her, terrifyingly stark against the subtle orange glow of the city night.

      For a stunned second Carissa couldn’t move. She was one with the crowd as it held its collective breath, movement halted, time suspended, minds frozen.

      An instant later the car was gone, leaving only the acrid smell of exhaust fumes and hot bitumen.

      ‘Anyone hurt?’ a male voice demanded in a deep timbre that rippled down Carissa’s spine like an arpeggio. In the awed hush that followed, a man emerged from the knot of people huddled against the hotel’s sparkling lobby windows.

      Tall, broad-shouldered. Awesome. He looked as dangerous as the chaos around him, from the heavily shadowed jaw and unkempt brown hair that curled over his neck to the faded black jeans and T-shirt. Not the kind of man she’d have expected to get involved in anything but trouble. Every ‘bad boy’ fantasy Carissa had ever had vibrated into shocking—and inappropriate—awareness.

      ‘Someone call an ambulance.’ His order snapped with authority.

      Then she saw the form sprawled on the concrete. In two strides he was there, crouching over the slumped figure, speaking low. It was an old woman, Carissa realised, the bag lady she’d seen scrounging through the bin only moments ago. Despite the heat, she was covered from neck to ankle in a filthy coat. Her limbs flailed as she struggled up.

      With no hesitation the man scooped a hand beneath her head, holding her against his thigh, murmuring soothing noises against her ear.

      Carissa pulled herself together and hurried to rescue the woman’s over-stuffed garbage bag nearby. Ignoring the crowd, which was curious but unwilling to get involved, Carissa set the bag down and crouched beside them. ‘Here you go.’

      The woman shot her an accusing glare as she grabbed the plastic.

      ‘Is she okay?’ Carissa asked.

      ‘I reckon so,’ he said, taking the woman’s dirt-smudged fingers in his own large hand. ‘But I’ll get her checked out to be sure.’ Preoccupied with his patient, he didn’t look at Carissa.

      Mingled with the odour of unwashed woman, she detected the distinct smell of male. A purely feminine appreciation sharpened her senses. It had been a long time since she’d smelled earthy masculine sweat. Alasdair always smelled of fancy French cologne. Nor could she imagine her fiancé handling this situation with such calm confidence.

      The man sat the woman upright and stroked her back through the coat. His forearm twisted, drawing Carissa’s attention to the gleaming silver of an expensive watch on his wrist. A disconcerting tingle spread through her limbs as she watched the muscles bunch and flex beneath his tanned skin. ‘Do you think you can—?’ A car’s horn drowned the rest of his words to the old woman.

      Carissa glanced at the street. Her ride. She raised a hand to Melanie as she backed away. Clearly he had everything under control and didn’t