The Doctor's Billion-Dollar Bride, page 5
‘Choice?’ he managed, struggling to get the word out.
‘His original will was firm,’ the senior lawyer told him, looking grave. ‘But after your great-uncle had that incident on Kirra Island he decided to add a second option.’ He shot Seb a nervous glance. ‘We have no idea who this Dr Tavish is, but she must have made an impression on him. Given the gravity of the situation, and it is in a sense a bequest to her, we decided to inform her at once. A registered letter should be with her now.’
‘But this is ludicrous.’
‘We did query the legality as soon as we were made aware of it,’ the junior of the trio told him, sounding apologetic. ‘Your uncle was elderly, and he’d had major health issues. With such a clause we initially thought that the current board of Cantrell Holdings might be able to argue mental impairment. But your uncle made sure this was watertight. It seems he arranged a consultation with one of Brisbane’s top neurologists, and there’s now an attached specialist opinion stating he was in sound mind. We don’t believe it can be fought.’
‘Ludicrous,’ he said. Seb had picked up the document and was staring at it as if it might explode.
‘Nevertheless, it’s what your uncle decreed. You might need time to think about it—maybe consult your own lawyer or lawyers? The current directors of Cantrell certainly will.’ The man’s severe face twisted into the trace of a bemused smile. ‘Is this... Jodie Tavish...someone you might like to marry?’
‘You have to be kidding!’ For heaven’s sake... The thought of marriage, to a woman he’d met once...this was indeed ridiculous. Even marriage itself... There’d never been time in his world and maybe there never would be time. Plus, he hardly remembered her.
But...he did remember her. He fought for images now and found them—Dr Jodie Tavish, battle-worn after a dreadful day and night, injured, weary, but strong. A formidable woman.
But...marriage?
‘Is she someone you’d object to marrying?’ the lawyer was asking. ‘The inducements seem...favourable.’
‘Favourable? That’s surely a joke.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not a joke.’ The senior lawyer was already starting to put papers back in his briefcase. ‘As my colleague said, you might like to consult your own lawyers, but the choice seems stark. It’s up to you—and this Dr Tavish—to decide.’
* * *
It was eleven in the morning and she was off-duty. Misty was doing clinic. Angus was on duty for house calls or emergencies. Jodie had just had a truly excellent surf, she was now free for the rest of the day, and the day was glorious. She came home, showered and then wandered along the beach path into town for coffee—and maybe a croissant?
Or two croissants, she conceded. Surfing made a woman hungry. She collected her mail, swapped island gossip with the postmistress—Dot—then headed to the baker’s. There she bought coffee, a croissant and a raspberry Danish, and then settled on the trunk of a palm that had crashed during the storm. Most of the debris had been cleared, but this tree trunk had been left as a lovely place for a seat overlooking the bay. Perfect.
Or almost perfect. There was one thing now marring her contentment—the registered letter Dot had just handed her.
For years, every such official envelope had her thinking: was this Hali trying to reach her? Was it information about her daughter? But she’d had enough let-downs over the years to realise no such information would be forthcoming. Whatever she’d signed, or her parents had signed on her behalf, all those years ago, the stipulation of no contact was pretty much binding.
So now... This’d be something to do with her apartment, she told herself, putting the letter aside until she’d coped with her messy pastry. She still owned her small apartment in Melbourne, and occasionally there were things to deal with on it.
So she finished her first pastry, licked her fingers, turned her attention to her coffee and finally opened the letter.
What the...?
Her coffee splashed over the top of the letter. She stood up, shaking coffee off the thick parchment, ignoring the coffee on her shorts, trying to see the words under the coffee stains.
It wasn’t about Hali. Or her apartment. This was absurd.
It was a legal notice from a firm called Noah, Bartram and...and coffee splodge? The paper was thick and creamy, expensive. Even under coffee, it looked very, very formal.
Dear Dr Tavish.
We regret to inform you of the death of our client, Mr Arthur George Cantrell.
Her eyes were blurring—or was that coffee? This wasn’t making sense.
...the bequest is as follows. The sum of one million dollars to Dr Jodie Catherine Tavish, on absolute condition that she marry my great-nephew, Dr Sebastian Michael Cantrell.
This marriage must take place within one calendar year of my death, and the marriage must be seen to be genuine, using the rulings for visa requirements for entry of foreign nationals as potential Australian citizens as minimum requirement.
Dr Tavish is also required to sign an agreement setting up a trust fund for any future offspring of this marriage, facilitating the Cantrell name continuing and giving such offspring a controlling interest in the corporation known collectively as Cantrell Holdings...
Ouch! The spilled coffee had scalded her knee and she hadn’t even noticed. She noticed now and left letter, remaining coffee and remaining croissant on the bench while she headed for a nearby tap. When she got back the seagulls had pinched her pastry and knocked over her remaining coffee. She watched the croissant being held aloft by no less than three warring seagulls. It was dropped, swooped on by others before it hit the ground and then carried triumphantly out to sea.
‘Ridiculous,’ she said out loud, staring at the disappearing croissant—and then she looked again at the coffee-stained letter and she even grinned.
She’d had proposals before—of course she had. Almost every young—or youngish—health professional she’d ever met had learned to cope with patients who saw professional caring as something more. Even on the island, one of the old fishermen she’d cared for after a stroke had tried to set her up with his bachelor son. The fact that his son was well over sixty, had a major drinking problem and smelled of fish was irrelevant. ‘He’s got a great boat,’ his dad had told Jodie. ‘And so what if he’s older than you? That means you have every chance of eventually inheriting his boat.’
This was the same thing, she thought. She’d treated Arthur for what, less than twenty-four hours, and she’d met his great-nephew once. And she didn’t even know if his great-nephew normally smelled of fish.
She had looked him up though. She’d had an impressive professional letter from him after he’d followed up with Ruby. She’d been impressed with his skills, and had thought maybe she could continue referring patients to him.
As if. It seemed he was a part-time doctor. A phone call to the Brisbane hospital where he worked had told her he was only there three days a week. He did weekend call work but only for inpatients, and he was booked out months ahead. ‘He only takes patients referred within the hospital system,’ his receptionist had told her apologetically. ‘He has other interests.’
Like surfing?
That’d have to mean he probably didn’t smell like fish, she conceded, and a million dollars was probably a better inducement than an ancient fishing boat. But...
‘Ridiculous,’ she said aloud, and headed back into the post office to buy a postcard and borrow a pen. She might as well get this out of the way fast.
She made her reply formal.
I am in receipt of your letter informing me of the conditional bequest from the estate of Mr Arthur Cantrell. Please take this letter as my definite refusal of such a bequest. Could you also please inform Dr Sebastian Cantrell that my acceptance of this offer is out of the question.
Enough? The letter she’d received appeared to be a valid legal document, so she signed her reply with care, printed her name underneath and asked Dot to co-sign. Then she paid extra for registered post, handed it over to Dot and went to buy another coffee. And, feeling firm, another croissant.
CHAPTER FIVE
HE ARRIVED TWO weeks later. Jodie had just finished work—she was on clinic duty this week but by three she was done. Time for a surf? She walked along the beach track home, rounded the last bend and Dr Seb Cantrell was standing on her front porch.
He looked out of place on her saggy little veranda, with the sea a backdrop that defined her cottage as more of a beach shack. He was dressed casually in chinos and an open-neck shirt, but he didn’t look like any of the tourists who frequented the island. Even in casual gear he looked...professional. Like he was here to work?
‘Dr Tavish?’
He was wary?
Her wariness went off the charts.
‘Dr Cantrell,’ she said and waited for more, but he said nothing. What was he doing here?
‘I got the lawyer’s letter,’ she said at last. ‘I assume they received my reply. I also assume your great-uncle must have been...’
‘Not of sound mind?’
The wariness was still there, and by now she’d assessed him further. He looked exhausted, and maybe even more lean than he’d looked the last time she’d seen him. There were deep lines around his eyes. Strained to breaking point?
Had he been fond of Arthur?
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said, gently, deciding sympathy was the way to go. ‘Was it sudden?’
‘In his sleep.’ His reply sounded grim. ‘It was the way he’d have chosen, though too soon for his liking. He’d have liked to be pulling the strings for another decade or six.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, and that was followed by more silence.
A flock of lorikeets were arguing with gusto in the eucalypts behind her cottage. Their squawking seemed unreal.
Actually, this whole situation seemed unreal. Why was he here? Had her simple refusal caused complications?
And, finally, he spoke. ‘Dr Tavish, seriously, I think I need to marry you.’
And there was a conversation-stopper. Was he kidding? She fingered the phone in her pocket. Maybe she should put in an urgent call to Misty and Angus. Guys, come fast, bring sedatives and a straitjacket. I suspect hallucinogenic drugs are involved.
‘Well, that’s not going to happen,’ she said, deciding to be brisk. Professionalism was surely the way to go here. ‘I made that clear in my letter. Sorry, Dr Cantrell, but I’m not for sale. Now, if you’ll excuse me...’
‘Not even for a million?’
She had to walk past him to get into her cottage. This was annoying. Maybe she could remember something she needed at the shops? Excuse herself?
Run?
‘Not even for a million,’ she told him. ‘This is ludicrous.’
‘I know, that’s how it seems and I’m sorry.’ He raked his hair, a gesture she found she remembered, and his look of weariness intensified. ‘Maybe I’d better explain.’
There was no way such a proposition could be explained, but the exhaustion on his face had her hesitating. The doctor part of her even had her concerned. Okay, she could give him five minutes.
‘Fine,’ she told him. ‘But I’m not inviting you inside. We stay here on the porch.’ There were a couple of families on the beach below the cottage. If she yelled hard enough, she’d get help.
But he didn’t seem like the kind of guy who needed a straitjacket, she conceded. He looked...
Suddenly, she wasn’t sure how he looked because, weirdly, her body seemed to be remembering that twinge of...something...she’d felt when he’d held her shoulders. What? She didn’t have a clue—and it wasn’t wanted now.
‘Are you okay?’ she managed, forcing the professional side of her to kick in. The tiredness she was hearing in his voice seemed to be almost bone-deep. She’d seen this before in patients who’d lost someone they loved with all their hearts. Surely, he couldn’t have felt this about his uncle. ‘You look like you haven’t slept for weeks.’
‘I’m okay.’ He managed a tired smile. ‘I’m just between a rock and a hard place.’
‘So explain,’ she told him, coming to the decision that she might as well put this on a clinical basis. He was clearly in trouble and she was starting to think...irrationality caused by depression?
Where was a psychiatrist when she needed one? There wasn’t one on this island. Was she all he had?
‘Okay, sit,’ she told him, and she got a look that said, astonishingly, that he got it. A tired smile lit his eyes.
‘You’re going to charge for a consultation?’
‘You can give my receptionist your billing details later,’ she told him. ‘You want me to get you a box of tissues before we start?’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘Your eyes say it is,’ she said gently, continuing in the way she’d decided to play it. ‘So sit down and tell me.’
So he sat on one of her old porch chairs and, despite his refusal, she fetched a tissue box and sat it firmly on the rickety table in front of him. His smile emerged again as he saw it. ‘As if,’ he said.
‘Neglecting to place tissues in reach of adult males would be an omission that’s both sexist and ageist,’ she told him as she sat herself. ‘Deal with it.’
‘I promise there won’t be tears. It’s not that bad. Or, rather, it is but I won’t...’
‘Don’t promise anything. Just tell me.’
He cast her a curious look. ‘You sound like a professional.’
‘That’s because I am, though I would have thought you’d have done a serious background check before proposing.’
‘It’s my great-uncle who’s proposing—’ he winced ‘—or commanding.’
‘And I’m trying hard not to laugh at the proposal and pack you back on the ferry with instructions to the crew to keep you confined,’ she said bluntly.
His smile emerged again—and, stupidly, the smile made her feel less than professional—but her growing conviction that here was a man exhausted to the point of collapse grew.
‘Explain,’ she said again. ‘This is to do with your great-uncle’s will, right?’
‘Of course it is. I assume...’ He raked his hair again. ‘The thought of a million dollars wouldn’t...’
‘Please don’t go there. The idea of buying me as a bride is nonsense. Leave me out of the equation for a moment. Tell me why you haven’t slept.’
Once again, she got a look that said she’d surprised him. He sat for a while longer and she decided to think of the surf forecast, and the fact that her front garden needed weeding, or that she’d forgotten to buy anything for dinner tonight. Anything. Her personal mantra, set in stone fifteen years back, was not to feel emotion. Not to get involved.
But then...why was the look on this man’s face making her feel distress?
‘You know my great-uncle is...was head of Cantrell Holdings,’ he said at last and she hauled her attention away from the possibility of take-away pizza and decided to focus. She’d just told him she was a professional, she told herself. She knew how to keep boundaries in place. Sort of.
‘Yes,’ she said briefly.
‘And you know how big Cantrell is?’
‘Huge,’ she agreed. She had done a little investigation after Arthur had left, and realised she had heard of it. ‘Aren’t there big environmental issues though? Mining on the reef, damage from leaching from mines, that sort of thing?’
‘There are massive issues,’ he agreed. ‘But Cantrell has the resources to ride roughshod over any concerns, and the fact that its controlling interests have been privately owned has meant the government has had trouble touching it, or influencing its direction. Now, though, I have the chance to move to the helm of Cantrell.’
‘Hooray,’ she said, but noncommittally. There was still so much she didn’t understand here. ‘I assume you’re pleased?’
‘I’m appalled.’ He paused and stared down towards the beach for a while. There were kids playing in the shallows while their mums watched, their squeals drifting up on the warm breeze. The scene looked idyllic. Sebastian’s face said this was anything but idyllic.
‘Can I explain background?’ he said at last.
‘You risk taking this from a short to long consultation,’ she told him. ‘That’ll cost you thirty dollars extra.’
‘I’ll risk it,’ he said with another tired smile and then forged on.
‘My whole family is wealthy,’ he told her. ‘But not always. My great-grandfather was born on a farm in outback Queensland but hated farming. He moved away to do engineering. When his father died, he returned—reluctantly—to the farm, and at a time when drought was forcing a lot of farmers off the land, he found high grade coal. He persuaded a couple of friends to help him buy the surrounding land, he quietly bought up mining licenses, then approached small mining companies and offered to share profits. Within a couple of years, he was able to buy his friends out, take control of the mining himself and the rest is history.’
‘And the Cantrells have been mining ever since?’
‘Not my side of the family,’ he said wearily. ‘My great-grandfather had two children, sons, Arthur—my great-uncle—and Frank, my grandfather. Frank died just after my father was born, and Arthur never married, so Arthur’s been pretty much in control of the company ever since.’
‘I’m not seeing...’
‘I’m getting there.’ He flashed her a look of annoyance—she was obviously interrupting a story he wanted to get over with fast. ‘Sorry. I hate this. Anyway, the long and short of it is that when my grandfather died my father ended up owning half the company, but he hated it and sold it to Arthur. Arthur objected—violently—but my father gave him no choice. He did medicine—ophthalmology, like me. He met my mother, another eye specialist, and together they used the funds they’d received from the sale to set up a foundation to provide critical eyecare in Al Delebe.’
