Australian Tycoon's Proposal by Margaret Way

Author:Margaret Way
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2004-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

AT THE end of the week Bronte and Gilly drove into town to meet Steven and sign the joint venture agreement drawn up by Gilly’s solicitor Maurice Meiklejohn of Meiklejohn and Meiklejohn who on Bronte’s reckoning, had to be around in the days when the dinosaurs were fighting their fierce battles. Mr. Maurice Meiklejohn didn’t come into the office every day they were informed by a secretary, something Bronte didn’t find at all surprising, but as his father before him had personally acted for the McAllisters, Mr. Maurice wished to keep up the tradition.

Steven met them at the front of the building, an excellent small scale late 19th century commercial building with a very interesting parapet.

“All set?” He took Gilly’s arm.

“Rarin’ to go!” Gilly was in fine form.

“And you, Bronte?” Steven asked. “You look an absolute picture!”

“Oh shut up.”

“Doesn’t she, Gilly?”

Gilly’s black eyes lit up with mischief. “New dress. We’ve had to do some shopping. Poor child had little more than the clothes she stood up in.”

“And very fetching, too!” Steven let his glance slip up and down the quietly simmering Bronte. She wore a dress of the utmost simplicity, short, sleeveless, round necked in a soft, singing shade of red that, to his surprise, suited her almost as well as her favourite deep blue. It skimmed her slender body, not clinging at any point yet he was acutely aware of the very feminine contours beneath that silky slide, the allure that was largely unconscious and doubly potent because of it. Bronte McAllister he had discovered lacked the vanity many beautiful women had. If anything she was touchingly insecure which he supposed had a lot to do with her dysfunctional life.

Inside Meiklejohn and Meiklejohn’s air-conditioned offices they were ushered almost immediately into the senior partner’s inner sanctum. Maurice Meiklejohn rose to his inconsiderable height from behind a huge, Victorian, partners desk that dwarfed him.

“Gillian! Dear Gillian! I’m so happy to see you!” He opened his arms wide to embrace her. He was dressed in a rumpled cream linen suit that looked like he may have taken a nap in it, spotless white shirt, striped tie that he might have owned since he was a schoolboy, askew. The overall impression was one of a sweet and kindly great-grandfather, which in fact he was.

Gilly obliged. Both patted each other many times on the back much as a mother burps her baby.

Bronte had never heard anyone call her great-aunt Gillian in her entire life.

“You remember my little Bronte, of course?”

Dutifully Bronte stepped forward, a smile on her face. Why did Gilly always refer to her as my little Bronte. She was five foot eight in her heels.

“Yes, yes, I know Bronte. You couldn’t prise the youngsters in the family away from the television the nights she was on. I took many a peek myself. Even so beautiful you were a very credible police woman, Bronte. I believe there were floods of tears at your violent demise?”

“I didn’t know I was so popular,” Bronte laughed.

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