“He was sucking up to me,” her father cut in angrily. “I hate people sucking up to me. Damn it, Charlotte! Couldn’t you see that for yourself?” He threw up his hands in disgust. “When are you going to come to your senses? Damien Wynter is the kind of man you should be marrying and you don’t even give him two cents of your time.”
Resentment burned through her. Damien Wynter had used the two cents, coming onto her so fast she was still disturbed by it. “I’m marrying Mark, Dad,” she grated out through her teeth. “And I don’t want you snubbing him tonight.”
“Then keep him out of my way,” her father snapped, scything the air with his hand in dismissive contempt.
Her chin lifted in defiant challenge. “You want me out of your way, too, Dad? Is that the way it’s going to be?”
His face went red with furious frustration. His hand lifted, stabbing a finger at her. “I’ve told you before and I’ll tell again. Get Freedman to sign a prenuptial agreement. If you do that, I promise I’ll tolerate the man for your sake, Charlotte. That’s the best I can do. Don’t try my patience with you any further.”
He swung on his heel and marched out of the library, slamming the door behind him.
Charlotte found herself trembling from the force of his anger. She had believed her father would come around to being reasonably pleasant to Mark. It was only a matter of time, once she’d proved how happy she was in the relationship. But now she was frightened that wasn’t going to happen. Not ever.
Even if she pushed Mark to sign a prenup—which she didn’t want to do—would it make any real difference to her father’s attitude towards him?
She hated this. Hated it. And she hated Damien Wynter for coming here and setting up a comparison for her father to throw at her. Of course he won automatic approval. He was one of them—born to wealth and his whole life driven by accumulating more of it. She didn’t want to be the dutiful social wife to a man like that, which was why she’d chosen Mark.
But she didn’t feel happy as she left the Palm Beach mansion.
She felt torn by a multitude of needs, which couldn’t all be answered.
CHAPTER TWO
DAMIEN WYNTER…
Charlotte shot mental bolts of rejection at the man emerging from the limousine, straightening up beside her brother, actually topping Peter’s formidable height by an inch or two. He looked even more striking in a formal black dinner suit and she had no doubt that every woman at this party would be eyeing him over tonight. Which was fine, as long as he focussed on them and not on her.
From her position on the top deck of her father’s yacht she watched the two men stride down the dock, chatting amiably with one another. It was a further irritation that Peter liked him so much and hadn’t made any effort to become friendly with Mark. Was she going to lose both her father and her brother by going ahead with this marriage?
But I have my own life to live, came the sharp, anguished cry in her mind. Being a daughter, a sister, wasn’t enough. She wanted a partner who was happy to share his life with her and until she’d met Mark, she’d despaired of ever finding one. It wasn’t easy for her. Only Mark had made it easy.
Except she didn’t feel at ease about anything now.
“Ah! The last arrivals!” Mark commented with satisfaction, noting where her attention had strayed.
Charlotte turned her gaze back to her fiancé. They’d been on board for a while, watching other guests coming onto the yacht, which would very shortly cruise to the centre of Sydney Harbour and take up a prime position for viewing the New Year’s Eve fireworks. This was the first time Mark had been invited to join the Ramsey family on the Sea Lion, and he was obviously eager to enjoy the experience.
“They’re not late,” she said, glancing at the new Cartier watch her parents had given her for Christmas. “Right on time, in fact. Eight o’clock. Peter knows Dad won’t wait a minute longer.”
“Fearsome man, your father,” Mark wryly remarked.
She forced a smile, wanting to lessen any anxiety he might be nursing over her father’s attitude towards him. “Don’t worry about Dad. We’re going to have a brilliant night and I love having you here to share it with me.”
He smiled back, his face lighting up with the warm, impish charm that had first drawn her to him. Mark was not in the mould of traditional macho male, though he was certainly masculine enough when it came to making love, and he did match her well above average height, making them a perfect physical fit.
His thick, wavy brown hair invited touch, unlike the short back and sides style her father favoured. His twinkling hazel eyes invited fun, rather than pinning her to the spot in forceful challenge. His arched eyebrows were used to waggle with wicked mischief. She’d never seen them lowered in a disapproving or impatient frown. His nose was sharply ridged and his chin was narrow and chiselled, but his mouth was soft, his smile was soft, and usually its warmth made her feel safe with him.
Safe in a nice, cosy sense.
She would never feel safe with Damien Wynter.
“I’m the luckiest man here,” Mark murmured. “I’ve got the most beautiful woman with me.”
She laughed, happy that he thought so. The compliment made all the hours of effort worthwhile; having blonde and copper streaks put through her long, brown hair, finding and buying a stunning dress, taking the utmost care with her make-up. She wasn’t beautiful. She simply worked hard at putting herself together as best she could, using all the tricks the modelling school had taught her, highlighting her good points and minimising the not so good.
“I’m surprised your brother doesn’t have a woman in tow tonight,” Mark said, raising one eyebrow quizzically. “No romance in the air for him on New Year’s Eve?”
“More likely he didn’t want to give the time to it,” she said with dry irony. “Dad will have his usual poker game running in the bottom saloon in between the fireworks displays. No doubt Peter will be introducing his new friend from London to it. Nothing beats the adrenaline rush of a high-rolling game.”
“You’ve played?” Mark asked curiously.
She shrugged. “Since I was a kid, but only at home. It was the one game our father played with us. He enjoyed teaching us the percentages.”
Mark shook his head in bemusement. “Strange childhood you had, Charlotte.”
“I want to make it different for our children, Mark,” she said earnestly.
“And so we will, my love.” He curved his arm around her shoulders, giving her a comforting hug of assurance as he softly blew the same words in her ear. “So we will.”
She leaned into him, wanting her inner turmoil soothed by the loving way he treated her, the easy physical closeness he invited so naturally. The Ramseys were not openly demonstrative in their affection though the family had always been a tightly knit unit, made so from being set apart from the ordinary stream of people by great wealth.
Charlotte had tried to reach out across that barrier many times, only to be rebuffed by hurtful comments like, “It’s all right for you. You’re a Ramsey”—meaning she could have anything she wanted or get away with doing whatever she pleased. Which wasn’t true, but it was how she was perceived by others and nothing she said had ever changed their minds.
Mark was the only man who had looked beyond the face value of her family and cared about the person she was inside, the needs she’d secretly nursed that all the money in the world could not fulfil. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t of her world and was curious about it, interested into probing more deeply than the surface. Whatever the reason, so much personal interest had made him very attractive, excitingly different to the many smugly arrogant heirs to fortunes who usually peopled her social circle.