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      “Have you ever been married?”

      He didn’t want to talk about himself, he wanted to talk about her. He wanted to find out everything.

      “No,” Bryce answered. “I’ve never found the right girl.”

      “Really?” Her deep blue eyes widened. “I find that difficult to understand.”

      Did that mean she was interested in him despite her apparent indifference? He felt a sudden hormonal surge. And then berated himself because he knew nothing about her. For all he knew she could be the same as the rest. “It’s not because I’ve been short of choice,” he said. “There’s simply been none whom I’ve wished to marry.”

      “You have very exacting standards, is that it?” she asked, her fine eyebrows delicately arched.

      “I suppose so.”

      “And you’ve never found Miss Perfect?”

      “Not yet.” But maybe today he’d got lucky….

      Born in the industrial heart of England, MARGARET MAYO now lives in a Staffordshire countryside village. She became a writer by accident, after attempting to write a short story when she was almost forty, and now writing is one of the most enjoyable parts of her life. She combines her hobby of photography with her research.

      Her Wealthy Husband

      Margaret Mayo

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      For Sheila and Hank

       With happy memories of a wonderful holiday

      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 ONE

      HE HAD the most compelling eyes Lara had ever seen—an unusual smoky grey, almost blue and yet not quite. They were the best part of his face, lashes long and thick, matching the raven blackness of his hair. His attention had immediately focussed on her and maybe she should have felt flattered, most women would, but instead it gave her an uncomfortable feeling.

      She turned to her aunt, found that she was watching this man watching her, a faint, approving smile on her lips. It was Helen’s Welcome to Australia party. ‘You need to get to know people,’ she’d said, and against Lara’s wishes had invited half the neighbourhood.

      ‘That’s Bryce Kellerman.’ Her aunt turned and looked at her. ‘Come, let me introduce you.’ And before Lara could demur she’d taken hold of her arm.

      The grey eyes never wavered as they approached. The man eased himself away from the veranda rail, straightened his back, and waited. He was casually dressed in beige moleskins and a brown open-necked shirt that hid none of his tightly muscled body. A deep tan suggested he worked outdoors most of the time.

      And he was tall.

      Lara hadn’t realised quite how tall until she stood in front of him. She was five-nine and he towered over her. Six-four she guessed, at least. Six feet four inches of raw, male animal. Not particularly handsome, a slightly hooked nose and a strong square jaw, and a straight mouth that needed to be more generous. It was the eyes that had it. Close up she could see the dark outline that defined them, the unusual mixture of blue and grey, and the almost brazen confidence that he could fell with one swoop any woman he set his sights on.

      And she was in the firing line!

      ‘Lara, I’d like you to meet Bryce Kellerman, long-time friend and jack of all trades. I don’t know what I’d do without him. Bryce, this is my niece, Lara Lennox.’

      ‘Good to meet you, Lara.’ Grey eyes locked into hers as he extended his hand, reading her soul, instantly knowing everything about her. Lara looked away.

      She glanced down at their hands instead. Hers looked pale by comparison. His fingers were square-tipped, nails neatly manicured; he had broad hands, strong hands, more used to manual labour than caressing a woman. The thought horrified her the instant it was born and she snatched away.

      He gave a faint, knowing smile, as if well aware of her thoughts. As if! No man could possibly know what another person was thinking. Nevertheless it was the impression he gave. He was a woman’s man without a doubt.

      But not this woman! He didn’t interest her, no man did. She’d had enough pain to last her a lifetime. Her own fault, admittedly, but it was a mistake she didn’t intend repeating. And if her aunt had it in mind to do some matchmaking she was deeply mistaken.

      ‘I’ll leave you two to get acquainted.’ Helen smiled widely and happily. She was in her early fifties, slim, blonde, looked about forty, had been a widow for ten years, and Lara couldn’t understand why some other man hadn’t snapped her up.

      Lara had been six when Helen emigrated from England seventeen years ago and her aunt hadn’t been home since, not even when her husband died. She had no children but had many friends and loved Sydney so much that she said she’d never move away. But she’d always kept in touch with her sister, phoning almost every week, and when Helen had heard that Lara’s marriage had unhappily ended she’d immediately invited her to stay with her for as long as she liked. She’d even sent money for the plane ticket.

      ‘So, how are you enjoying Australia?’

      Bryce Kellerman’s voice was so deep that it vibrated through Lara’s bones. It was as though her body was the string of a guitar and he’d plucked it. Feeling this man’s dynamic sexuality was something she hadn’t expected and didn’t want. Escape was uppermost in her mind.

      ‘Very much,’ she said with a reluctant smile, ‘although I’ve hardly had time to form a proper opinion.’

      ‘The heat’s not too much for you?’ He was leaning back against the veranda rail now, relaxed and utterly sure of himself, one brown-booted foot crossed over the other, thumbs hooked into a wide leather belt. ‘You’ll need to take care.’

      Lara nodded. ‘I’m doing that.’ Because of her fair skin she ladled on lashings of sun screen whenever she went out and always wore a wide-brimmed hat. It was something her aunt had instilled into her the moment she’d arrived.

      ‘English roses, that’s what your skin reminds me of.’

      ‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ she retorted sharply. Such compliments annoyed her. They were so glib, so practised; Roger

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