Arranged To Love

Chapter 1

SEVEN YEARS AGO

Madhuri Singh slammed her purse down on her desk and looked around. Spying the top of a golden-haired head by the windows, she marched over. The newspaper she clutched in her hand crinkled and fluttered.

When she arrived at the desk the occupant looked up at her and smiled and despite her anger, Maddie had to take a deep breath to calm her reaction to him.

Jack Faulkner was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen—blonde hair, blue eyes, tanned skin, the quintessential Australian male. She’d tried to convince herself that she shouldn’t be attracted to him—she was Indian, she should be thinking of dark skin and deep brown eyes—but she’d given up.

From time to time, the gods created an object of such beauty that regardless of your cultural background, you gazed upon it with wonder. Such a one was Jack.

She shook the thought from her mind. Jack was her mentor in her internship, her first job at a big city newspaper. She had to focus on her career.

Hey, Maddie. He nodded at the paper in her hand. Is that today’s?

It is. She leant her hip against his desk. Would you like to guess what I found in here?

The smile died. They didn’t misattribute the story again?

In reply, Maddie opened the paper and laid it on his desk, smoothing out the folds and creases. Then she stabbed a finger at a line that was already smudged and fading because she’d repeated the action so many times today. By Cynthia Hart.

Jack shook his head. Shit, Maddie. I’m sorry. Listen, I’ll speak to the subs and make sure they don’t get it wrong again.

Can you explain how they got it wrong this time? The second time? Once, I can understand. But how did they twice miss that the file was downloaded from my folder, not Cynthia’s? And I even wrote By Madhuri Singh at the top of the story this time. They had to delete that, Jack. How is this a mistake?

I’ll find out. He reached forward and put his hand on hers. Maddie, this really, really sucks.

She stilled, allowing herself the moment of enjoying the heat, the weight of his hand on hers. Then she pulled her hand away.

That’s twice I should have had my maiden by-line and it’s been taken from me. She could feel the tears building in her eyes and she blinked, forcing them back. She wasn’t going to be known as someone who cried the moment things went wrong. She wasn’t.

I know. Jack’s smile was soft sympathy. I’ll tell the boss, see what we can do about correcting it in tomorrow’s paper. And in the meantime, we’ll make sure the next Madhuri Singh story gets properly attributed.

Maddie went back to her desk, sat down and fired up the computer. She had a couple of stories she was working on, and if she fought she might get one ready for today’s deadline and tomorrow she’d get the long sort-after by-line.

The first time you saw your name in a newspaper was a big deal in a journalist’s career. That it should happen in a major like the Sydney Star and while she was only 19, still at university, would say a great deal about Maddie’s future in the industry.

Maddie closed her eyes and took a deep breath to settle her nerves. She was about to open the first file when the phone rang.

"Madhuri Singh, Sydney Star. How can I help you?"

Madhuri. Her father’s deep, happy voice pulled on the tears again. You were supposed to call us this morning and tell us about your first story.

Sorry, Papa. Was her voice starting to shake? Krishna, she hoped not. There was a problem. Tomorrow, I’ll be able to tell you.

Is something wrong, Madhuri? Is the journalism not working out for you?

Maddie shook her head and sternly told her hurt feelings to quieten down. No, everything’s fine, Papa. Journalism is wonderful, everything I’ve ever wanted.

And it was. From the moment she’d done some work experience with the local paper in Queanbeyan as a 15-year-old, she’d wanted to be a journalist. She’d been so adamant, she’d managed to convince her parents to use her dowry to pay for university.

That was another reason she wanted to be a success—so she could pay her parents back and they’d be able to arrange a good marriage for her. She might be a career woman, but she was also Indian and believed in the power and beauty of her culture.

Are you sure? I would hate after all your sacrifice for you to decide you want to get married, Mandurat Singh said. Because we can’t do that quickly, you know. There’s paperwork. Matchmakers to find. I think you should stick it out and see how it goes.

Maddie frowned at the blank wall of her cubicle. It didn’t make sense that her father would suddenly call and be so insistent she remain in journalism. Neither of her parents had shown any concern when she chose a career over marriage, for now. They’d thought it a good idea, to ensure she had independence so she could make a more equal match. Neither had tried to talk her into or out of any way of thinking. Why was her father doing so now?

I can assure you, Papa, that I’m loving journalism and while there’s been a couple of hiccups lately, I’m still committed to having a career.

I’m so pleased to hear that. Her father’s voice rang with relief. I just want you to be happy, Madhuri.

Now, I have to go. I’ve got work to do. Love to you and Mama. Bye, Papa.

Maddie hung up the phone and pulled a face at it. Her father was an emotional man and could easily get himself into a twist over things that just didn’t warrant it. She hoped that whatever had caused that little moment would be quickly dealt with.

Then she got to work.

After Maddie returned to her desk, Jack stared at the paper for a couple of minutes. What she said was true—this second time couldn’t be a mistake. That brought up a terrible, yet believable, possibility in his mind.

As any good journalist knew, you didn’t make accusations unless you had proof and Jack Faulkner was a damn good journalist. In the five years since graduating from university, he’d worked his way through the Sydney newspaper scene to now be one of the top journalists at its most prestigious daily. He was the man the premier had on speed dial, the one the shock jocks talked to.

He turned to his computer and called up the program that the subs used to lay out the paper—he wasn’t supposed to have access to it, none of the journalists were, but most did. He checked and saw who had subbed the story that should have been Maddie’s.

Jack sauntered over to the subs area. Most wouldn’t be in—the subeditors didn’t come in for a few hours, and most would stay well past the journalists, ensuring the paper was accurate and well-written before it hit the presses.

But the one he wanted was. Alan Curcer was sitting at his computer, going over the stories left over from the day before, correcting and headlining them in case the editor decided to use them today.

Morning, Alan. Jack stopped right next to the other man’s chair, knowing it would seem like he was looming over Curcer. Jack was prepared to use every weapon he had available and being over 6ft tall and well built from daily work outs was one of them.

Alan looked up at him. Alan was a weedy, pale little thing who was losing his hair. Morning, Faulkner.

The sneer that pulled at Curcer’s lips silently added the appellation ‘little rich boy‘. As much as he loved his family, was proud of his father, there were times when Jack wished he wasn’t a Faulkner. Then there were the other times, when it worked as a weapon. Like it could now.

Want to explain to me how Madhuri Singh’s by-line was replaced by Cynthia’s again today?

Alan pushed his glasses higher up on his nose. Mistakes happen.

Twice? And Madhuri wrote her name on the file, so it wouldn’t be mistaken for Cynthia’s and that was deleted.

Can’t have, Alan said. If she had, it would have been correctly attributed.

Not if Cynthia asked you to attribute it to her, Jack said.

Alan pushed back his chair and stood. He still had to look up to meet Jack’s eyes. What are you insinuating?

Twice this week, you’ve misattributed stories from another journalist to Cynthia. I wonder what your boss will think about that.

Alan scowled. I did not.

CyberPage says differently.

You’re not supposed to have that program. What will your boss think of that?

He’ll give me a slap over the wrist, tell me I’ve been a naughty boy, make IT wipe it from my system and I’ll go on with my life. What will your boss do to you?

Alan paled and Jack smiled. So, what did Cynthia pay you?

I can’t be bought.

Can’t you? Jack leant close. Tell me what Cynthia promised, and I won’t report this to your boss. But you will not misattribute a story to Cynthia again, got it?

Fuck, Alan said, then told.

Disgusted, Jack went back to his desk. Cynthia had arrived and was sitting at her computer on the other side of the cubicle wall, her dark hair glimmering in the fluorescent lighting. Jack walked around, pulled an empty chair up to her desk and leant close.

If you want your name in the paper tomorrow, you’re going to have to write the story yourself.

Cynthia frowned. And good morning to you too, Jack. What do you mean?

I mean you can’t keep stealing Maddie’s stories.

What on Earth are you talking about? She made a show of opening the paper that was lying folded on her desk. Her eyes moved over the page and she gasped. Oh no, they did it again? Oh, poor Maddie. She must be devastated.

It won’t happen again, Jack said. I’ve spoken to Alan.

Spoken to Alan about what? Cynthia refolded the newspaper with casual deliberation.

Doesn’t matter how many blow jobs you give him, he won’t be putting your name on someone else’s story any more.

Cynthia put the paper down and turned to him, very slowly. Her eyes were dark and narrowed. Be careful what you say, Jack. Even the famous Faulkner name won’t save you from being sued for defamation.

Jack looked around. No audience. It’s you versus me. Good luck proving it.

Just because you have it easy, coasting on Daddy’s coattails, don’t think you can be the moral arbiter of the rest of us. We have to fight for what we’ achieve. You’re going to walk into owning your newspaper empire.

Jack clenched his fists. He wasn’t going to just walk into the empire—he had to prove himself worthy, and better than his brother and sister, and that assumed Faulkner Publications didn’t go belly-up before his father was ready to hand over the reins.

And he’d had to work harder than most to get where he was—prove to editors and publishers, who were determined not to give a media mogul’s son an easy ride, that Jack Faulkner deserved to be a successful, respected journalist. Not once had he done so by stealing someone else’s stories.

No more, Jack said, rising. It’s done.

He went back to his desk and sat there, staring blankly at the screen while he pushed all his doubts and worries far, far away. Then, with his mind clear, he got to work.

Chapter 2

With a smile, Maddie turned her computer off. She’d got a story up—her best to date—and had sent it off. Hopefully, it would make the cut and she’d finally have her first by-line tomorrow.

We’re going to have a drink. Maddie looked up at Jack. He smiled, and winked at her. You had a shit beginning to the day, I had a shit end, and we both deserve a drink.

Maddie considered for a moment the impropriety of a single woman going out after dark with a man not of her family and dismissed it. This was Australia. She and Jack were colleagues, not lovers. It would be fine.

As long as you’re buying, she said.

Dad’s money should do some good for someone, Jack said.

They went to the pub at the corner and wended their way through a familiar crowd, waving to most of the other staff at the paper before Jack found a small table for just the two of them at the back.

He left Maddie there and returned with two drinks—scotch on the rocks for him, a red wine for her. She didn’t drink much, but it seemed foolish to be at a pub and not order some alcohol. Maddie sipped at the drink and smiled. This really was a nice way to finish the day.

So, I saw you got a new story in, Jack said. The boss was really happy with it. I predict that tomorrow you’ll have that by-line and eventually, you’ll be pleased it was this story and not one of the others. It’s a damned good piece of journalism.

Thanks. When Maddie had been given the story, it was just one person’s complaints about the bicycle lane that was being built in front of their business. What Maddie had submitted was a story detailing the impact on business for a number of retailers, with facts they hadn’t put forward before, and questioning council’s plan to put the lanes all over the city.

So here’s to the public’s discovery of Madhuri Singh, the new shining light of journalism.

They clinked glasses. Assuming that lightning doesn’t strike three times, Maddie said.

It won’t. I had words with the subs, the boss had words, and it will definitely say Madhuri Singh.

Good, because I’ll be after heads if not.

I’ll hold folks in place for you.

And what happened to darken your day?

Jack winced. There are times, Maddie, when having a recognisable name is a pain in the arse.

Jack’s father was Jason Faulkner, the owner of the largest country newspaper chain in Australia. Jason had taken the couple of papers his father had left him and built a company that now owned nearly 200 papers and in terms of staff and turnover was second only to News Limited in the industry.

What happened today?

All I needed was corroboration of one fact. Just one. But apparently the man I needed it from got done by Dad way back in the dawn of time and no way was he going to work with a Faulkner. Tried to get one of the other journos to get the info but he saw through that. So either I find someone else to corroborate tomorrow, or the story is dead in the water. That, or fucking television will pick it up and all my work will be for nothing.

You were the one who wanted to be the hot-shot investigative journalist.

Yeah. Stupid of me. Stupid.

They went onto a second drink and the talk turned from work to their lives outside. Despite the difficulties his name caused him, Maddie was heartened to hear the love in Jack’s voice as he talked about his parents.

Maddie knew she was affected by the alcohol—she could feel the warmth through her body, the tingling in her fingers and toes. Even so, she sat at the table and looked at Jack, sitting in a ridiculously perfect pool of light so his hair glowed and his eyes sparkled and she allowed herself to imagine that she wasn’t Indian, wasn’t committed to her cultural purity and was free to throw herself at him.

Everything about him was appealing—his full lips, the strong jaw, the wide shoulders that pulled at his shirt, the crisp hairs that she could see poking through after he removed his tie. The cotton caressed a chest that was strongly muscled and the belted-trousers pulled the material in to reveal trim hips before spreading over strong thighs.

His intelligence, his humour, his commitment to his work—if only he were Indian, he’d be perfect.

At the end of the second glass of wine, Maddie decided it was time to end the night. If she stayed, and had another glass, she might well get tipsy enough to do something stupid. Stop now, while she still had control of her mind and body.

I’d better head home. She stood, slinging her handbag over her shoulder.

I’ll take you. To her shock, Jack also stood.

I’m down south, Pagewood. That’s a long way out of your way. She knew Jack lived somewhere on the north shore.

You can’t catch the bus this time of the night.

It’s summer. It’s still light outside.

Nope. I’m decided. Come on.

Shaking her head, Maddie followed him. Jack was parked in the basement of the paper and her eyes widened at the sight of the BMW but she didn’t comment on the fact that her car in Queanbeyan was a 10-year-old Daihatsu with rust in the floor.

Being in the car with Jack was both wonderful and terrible. His aftershave wrapped around her—woodsy and musky—and his thighs flexed as he worked the pedals