My Beautiful Public Wife

the perfect eggs hollandaise that not even the best restaurants had ever equalled. Not to his taste, anyway. Margaret Partridge was a jewel—a meticulous housekeeper and a

s ate breakfast and lunch when he was home. There was no smile back. The expression on her face disdained any pleasantries betwe

that Corinne Alder back to this house, Jordan, I’m out of here. I will not be talked down to by a good-for-nothing chit l

ed with Corinne this morning. And I apologise profusely for her behaviour t

. ‘I don’t mind you having a string of affairs. At least that’s more honest than marrying and cheating

ture,’ Jordan solemnly promised. ‘I’m sorry my judgeme

ou could try practising lo

to plumb the de

l as in it,’ she w

anything but nice to you? Haven’t I just shown how much I

ount of the fact that you’re always nice to me that I didn’t burn

triumphant mutter floated back t

nity. She never wore make-up, was hardly ever out of the white shirtmaker dresses which she considered a suitable uniform for her position, along with flat white lace-up shoes. Her unashamedly grey hair was invariably screw

liked her i

ook for a man, she’d rather be paid for it. Her two children were doing fine for themselves and she liked the idea of doing fine for herself, bein

as he tucked into his superbly cooked breakfast. There were always beautiful women vying for his attention

into proposing marriage by the extremely artful Biancha who had presented herself as the perfect wife for him, so perfectly obliging to his ever

situation…and when the collapse could no longer be held off, it had become sickeningly obvious that she had targeted him to

much got past his shrewd housekeeper. In fact, having such a jewel running his house, he

d witnessed enough of those problems with his sister’s marriages. Three times now Olivia had blindly hooked up with fortune-hunters, not even learning

aintain her pride in being the wife of one of the most prominent property tycoons in Australia and enjoy the pleasure of the brilliant lifestyle he provided. Besides, she had had her ‘walkers’ whenever his fat

ieving over his father’s death. It was a lot of shared years, regardless of the ups and downs. Jordan doubted there was a woman alive who co

f I’m not the centre of your universe,

ne calling to appeal for some reconsideration. That would be extremely tedious. She’d been nastily dismissive

d it was his mother wa

aid cheerfully. ‘Wha

was amazing how many people bowed to her will when she employed that tone. Of course, the wealth backing it had a

s wrong with Murray?’ he demanded, wondering if the ‘w

ped on wet tiles a

s a very dapper

r that. What’s on

’s latest work. You bought two of her paintings at her last exhibitio

the sales office for one of his retirement villages. He also remembered the vivid red-gold hair of Sacha Thornton’s daughter. She’d w

daughter again. Wonderful pale skin—amazingly without freckles—and eyes so green he wouldn’t mind plumbing their depths. She could ha

ame back t

son

en some tension betwe

ery c

ve us decent champagne and there’ll be the usual hors d’oeuvres. If you’ll be

s route from Palm Beach. ‘Fine!’ he replied, deciding he could improvise

you,

plea

his mobile and tucked

, especially when there was the po