A Millionaire For Molly

At first he’d been delighted. He hadn’t been able to believe his luck. Hannah Copeland had telephoned this morning and her call had stunned him.

‘I’ve heard Jackson Baird is thinking of buying a property on the coast. There aren’t many people I’d consider selling Birraginbil to, but Jackson may be one of them. My father used to deal with your grandfather, I believe-so you may contact Mr Baird on my behalf and if he’s interested then I’ll sell. That is, if you want the commission?’

If he wanted the commission? Birraginbil… Such a sale would set him up for life, Trevor had thought, dazed, and he’d made a phone call to Jackson’s lawyer at once. He still hardly believed it, but now here was Jackson Baird in person, dressed for business in an Italian suit that screamed expensive, his eagle eyes cool and calculating, and waiting with polite patience for details.

The only trouble was, Trevor didn’t yet have details.

So he did the best he could with what he had and tried to buy time. ‘The property is on the coast, two hundred miles south of Sydney,’ he told Jackson and his lawyer. ‘It’s Friday today. I’m otherwise engaged at the weekend, but would it be convenient if we drove down together on Monday?’

‘I would have thought you’d at least have photographs.’ Jackson’s lawyer seemed deeply displeased. Like Trevor, Roger Francis had been caught on the hop, and the lawyer had reason to be unhappy. He’d had a property in the Blue Mountains lined up for Jackson’s inspection, one where he’d pocket the sizeable commission himself and a bit more on the side. Unfortunately his secretary had taken the call about the Copeland place when he was out and the girl had taken it on herself to ring Jackson. Stupid woman! Now the lawyer was in a foul temper and Trevor’s delaying tactics didn’t help.

‘Phone us when you have the details,’ the lawyer snapped. ‘If I’d known you had so little information we would never have come this far. You’re wasting Mr Baird’s valuable time.’

And then he paused. He stared down at the plush carpet in time to see a small green object. It jumped.

It was a small green tree frog-nature personified-and the lawyer knew exactly what to do with nature trying to edge its way into civilisation.

He lifted his foot.

‘Do you think he could have jumped into Trevor’s office when they opened the door?’ Molly was staring in despair at the frogless back of the filing cabinet. ‘Where else could he be?’

‘I suppose he might have,’ Angela said doubtfully, sitting back on her heels. ‘I mean…everyone was staring at Jackson.’

Of course. Idiots. ‘I’ll look.’ Molly rose.

‘Trevor will kill you if you interrupt, Molly. He has Jackson Baird in his office.’

‘I don’t care if he has the Queen of Sheba in there. I’m going to look.’ Molly put her nose against the glass pane in Trevor’s door. And what she saw made her move faster than she’d ever moved in her life.

And Jackson?

One minute he was sitting between an irate lawyer and a confused realtor, trying to get some sense out of the pair of them. The next there was a flash of green against the beige carpet, his lawyer’s polished brogue raised to strike-and a mop-headed, mini-skirted young woman launched herself through the door and down at the carpet in what he could only describe as a rugby tackle.

His lawyer’s foot fell, but there was no longer a frog underneath-instead there was a pair of hands, grasping and cradling and protecting one small green frog as Roger’s foot stamped down.

‘Ow!’

‘Molly!’

‘What the-?’

‘Did you get him?’

‘He stomped on him. He stomped on Sam’s frog. Oh, you brute!’ Sophia Cincotta, breathing fire, was first into the room after Molly, and she took one look at what was happening and raised her handbag. She swiped at Roger Francis. ‘Murderer!’

Angela came next, gazing down in horror. Molly was lying full-length on the carpet, clutching Lionel as if her life depended on it. ‘Molly-your hand. Your hand’s bleeding.’

‘He’s broken her fingers!’ Sophia’s handbag swiped again, and the lawyer retreated fast to the other side of Trevor’s desk.

‘Is Lionel okay?’ Angela demanded.

‘He’s squashed,’ Sophia retorted, bearing down on the hapless lawyer. ‘Of course he’s not okay. Didn’t you see this brute step on him?’

‘I thought those things were protected,’ one of the cleaners volunteered.

‘It’ll be a toad, stupid,’ someone else retorted. ‘You’re supposed to kill them.’

‘Not on my carpet.’ Trevor’s voice rose in bewilderment. ‘Is this a frog? A frog? Molly, is this your doing?’

‘Of course it’s my doing,’ Molly managed, peering between her bleeding fingers. ‘And it’s not a cane toad. Oh, heck, his leg looks… His leg looks broken.’

‘Your fingers look broken,’ Angela retorted, kneeling beside her and casting a murderous glance up at Roger Francis. ‘It’s him who’s the toad.’

‘Of all the unprofessional…’ Roger was practically spluttering as he backed away from the handbag-wielding Sophia. ‘Mr Baird, I suggest we look for a property elsewhere.’

Trevor collected himself at that, and moved between Molly and Jackson. He could see thousands of dollars worth of commission going up in smoke here. ‘Mr Baird, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. This is normally the most efficient of offices.’ He glared down at Molly. ‘My father persuaded me to employ my cousin because he felt sorry for her. But if she’s going to offend major clients…’ He tried for bluster, a weak man attempting importance. ‘Molly, get up. You can collect your severance pay and leave.’

But Molly wasn’t listening. She was still staring between her fingers. Lionel’s leg was indeed hanging at an odd angle. It must be broken. She thought of the impossibility of mending broken legs on frogs.

What on earth was she going to tell Sam?

‘Molly, get out.’ This time Trevor’s desperation broke through.

‘You mean my frog’s going to die and now I’ve been given the sack?’ she managed, her voice a distressed whisper. Oh, great. How would they manage now?

‘If you’re going to upset Mr Baird-’

‘She deserves to be sacked,’ the lawyer hissed from the other side of the desk, and Sophia’s handbag was raised again.

‘Just a moment.’ Jackson Baird rose and raised one hand. His voice was a soft and lazy drawl, but it had the capacity to halt everyone in their tracks. It was a voice of one born to command. He rose from where he’d been sitting and knelt by Molly, gently moving Angela out of the way. Immaculately dressed in his superbly fitted business suit, his night-black hair just casual enough for effect, his presence took over the room.

‘What is he-a tree frog?’ he asked Molly gently, and Molly wiped angry tears away with the back of her free hand. She sniffed and nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘And Mr Francis, here-my lawyer-has injured it?’

‘I don’t like insects,’ Roger muttered.

‘He’s not an insect-’ Molly started, but Jackson was still in control. Once again his voice cut through. ‘It does seem hard that Miss Farr should injure her hand, see her pet hurt and lose her job all on the one day.’

Carefully he opened Molly’s hand and took the frog into his own. Then he stood, solidly big, immaculately groomed-with a tiny green tree frog cradled in his palm.

A swipe of black hair flicked over his eyes and he brushed it back. The man needed a haircut-or maybe he didn’t. There weren’t many women who’d complain about how Jackson Baird looked.

And he looked amazing now. The tiny green frog, gazing upward with frog-like incomprehension, accentuated the sheer size and raw strength of the man. And yet he was all gentleness as his fingers carefully examined the tiny creature.

Trevor stared down at the frog in disgust, his expression squeamish. Wildlife had never been his strong point.