Loe raamatut: «Seduction: The Billionaire's Bride of Vengeance»
Three rich, ruthless, eligible but
uncompromising bachelors, who’ll
use any means to bed—and wed— their women!
Seduction
Three dramatic, sexy and utterly
compelling stories from Australian
author Miranda Lee
Passion Lynne Graham June 2011
Pleasure Sandra Marton July 2011
Seduction Miranda Lee August 2011
Fascination Carole Mortimer September 2011
Satisfaction Sharon Kendrick October 2011
Celebration Carol Marinelli November 2011
About the Author
MIRANDA LEE is Australian, living near Sydney. Born and raised in the bush, she was boarding-school educated and briefly pursued a career in classical music, before moving to Sydney and embracing the world of computers. Happily married, with three daughters, she began writing when family commitments kept her at home. She likes to create stories that are believable, modern, fast-paced and sexy. Her interests include meaty sagas, doing word puzzles, gambling and going to the movies.
Look out for Miranda Lee’s exciting novel, Not a Marrying Man, available soon from Mills & Boon® Modern™.
Seduction
The Billionaire’s
Bride of Vengeance
The Billionaire’s
Bride of Convenience
The Billionaire’s
Bride of Innocence
Miranda Lee
The Billionaire’s
Bride of Vengeance
Miranda Lee
PROLOGUE
RUSSELL’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as he arrived at the address he’d been given.
‘Mr Power is out of the office today,’ he’d been told when he burst into Power Mortgages half an hour earlier and demanded to see Alistair Power.
At first the receptionist had refused to tell Russell where Power might be, no doubt sensing trouble in the eyes of the distraught young man standing in front of her desk. But Russell’s ironically truthful statement that he had urgent business with her boss concerning the tragic death of a business associate had finally elicited the information he wanted. Mr Power and his wife were at the construction site of their new home in the exclusive Sydney suburb of Belleview Hill.
Russell had somehow managed a smile and the girl had jotted down the address.
He wasn’t smiling now, a bitter bile filling his mouth as he stared up at what was obviously going to be a grand mansion. Amazing what one could buy with other people’s money!
Russell wrenched the wheel of his rusty old car towards the gravel driveway and drove right up to the front of the three-storeyed building. The shell of the house was finished, the roof was on, the front steps in place. A middle-aged man in a superbly tailored business suit was standing up on the porch, a leggy blonde next to him.
Power’s trophy wife, obviously.
Russell didn’t stop to think, his emotions spilling over at the sight of the man whose greed had driven his father to despair and suicide. Hatred propelled him out of the car, his hands curling into furious fists as he charged up the steps.
‘Alistair Power!’ he called out at the same time.
Cool grey eyes raked over him; Power was not overly perturbed, it seemed, by Russell’s aggressive approach.
‘Yes. Can I help you?’
Russell could not believe the man’s lack of concern. Couldn’t he see his visitor had murder in his heart?
Russell resisted the urge to punch Power then and there. First, he wanted the creep to know who he was and why he’d come.
‘I thought you’d like to know that my father killed himself last week.’
Power’s eyebrows arched. ‘And your father is?’
‘Keith McClain.’
‘That name means nothing to me. I know no Keith McClain.’
My God, he didn’t even recognise his father’s name! Yet Russell knew that his dad—his shy but proud dad—had gone to Power personally and begged him for more time to repay his loan.
‘You knew him well enough to let him take out two mortgages on his farm,’ Russell ground out, ‘when he had no possible means of meeting the repayments. He had no stock, no crops, no income. The ten-year drought had seen to that. But his land was valuable, wasn’t it? So you deliberately let him get into debt and then you just took it!’
‘Young man, I don’t force people to take out mortgages.’
‘You shouldn’t agree to lend money which you know people can’t pay back,’ Russell countered heatedly. ‘I’ve made some enquiries about Power Mortgages and that’s your modus operandi.’
Power didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I haven’t done anything illegal. The mistake was your father’s. He should have sold his property rather than borrow more money.’
‘But the land had been in his family for generations! He knew nothing else but farming.’
‘That’s not my fault.’
‘But it is your fault. You, and men like you. You don’t have any feelings, any compassion. All you care about is making money.’
‘Business has little room for compassion, son.’
‘Don’t you call me son, you greedy bastard,’ Russell snapped, a red haze of grief launching him forwards.
The trophy wife threw herself in front of Power, stopping Russell in his tracks.
‘Don’t!’ she cried, her hands fluttering up to ward off Russell’s fists. ‘It’ll only make things worse. And it won’t bring your father back.’
He stared into her striking green eyes and saw she didn’t really have any compassion, either. She was just protecting her lifestyle.
The seeds of a different vengeance were sown in Russell at that point; a vengeance which would be far more satisfying than murder.
Pulling away from her, Russell whirled and walked back down the steps. At the bottom, he turned and glared back up at Power.
‘One day,’ he threatened, his eyes as hard as his heart, ‘one day, I’m going to destroy you. I vow on my father’s grave that I won’t rest till I take everything you hold dear, the way you took everything from him!’
CHAPTER ONE
Sixteen years later …
BANGKOK WAS HOT, VERY hot. And humid.
By the time Nicole had walked the kilometre from her cheap hotel to the orphanage, her singlet top was clinging to her back.
The Nicole of a few months ago would have complained incessantly about her limp-rag hair and sweaty clothes. If she’d been staying in Bangkok back then, she would not have moved from her five-star, air-conditioned hotel, except to take a dip in the pool, or a ride in a luxury limousine.
But that Nicole no longer existed. On one traumatic day last June, her very spoiled eyes had been opened by the discovery that the three main people in her life were not the good guys she’d believed them to be.
First, she’d walked in on her soon-to-be husband having sex on his office desk with his PA. Neither of them had noticed her presence in the doorway at the time.
Shattered, Nicole had fled home to her mother who’d amazingly tried to convince her that it was impossible for wealthy, successful men to be faithful. If Nicole was sensible, she’d learn to turn a blind eye to her fiancé’s sexual transgressions.
‘I always do whenever Alistair strays,’ her mother had said without turning a hair on her beautifully coiffured blonde head.
The realisation that her stepfather had been sleeping around, and that her mother collaborated with his adultery, had shocked Nicole, possibly even more than David’s infidelity.
It had all been too much. A pampered princess she might have become since her mother married Alistair, but she was not without morals or feelings.
The following day she’d returned her engagement ring, resulting in an argument during which David had said some cutting things to her about her inadequacies in the bedroom. After that she’d had an equally unpleasant confrontation with her stepfather, who’d called her naïve and narrow-minded.
‘The winners in this world don’t always follow the rules,’ he’d stated arrogantly. ‘David is a winner. As his wife, you, my dear Nicole, could have had it all. Now I’ll have to find you another rich husband who can keep you in the manner to which you’ve become accustomed.’
Nicole had been rendered speechless by the inference that David had been procured for her by her stepfather.
But, with hindsight, she realised that had probably been so.
Nicole had immediately quit her totally superficial and no doubt nepotistically acquired position in the PR department of Power Mortgages. That same afternoon, she’d answered an ad in a newspaper to go on a backpacking holiday with another girl whose friend had withdrawn from the trip at the last minute. A week later Nicole had flown out of Mascot Airport with nothing but her severance pay, hopeful of finding some much needed independence, plus some new priorities other than the supposed good things in life.
Now, four months later, she was a different person.
A real person, she liked to think, living in the real world.
‘Nicoe, Nicoe!’ the children at the orphanage chorused when she walked into the dusty compound where they were playing.
Nicole smiled at how they couldn’t pronounce the letter ‘l’. Yet on the whole their English was very good, courtesy of the wonderful woman who ran the orphanage.
After hugs and kisses all round, the children begged her to sing something for them. Music had always been a great love of Nicole’s and she had a good voice.
‘What song would you like?’ she asked, hooking her carry-all over her shoulder and heading for the shade of the only tree that graced the yard.
‘Warzing Matinda!’ a little boy called out.
‘“Waltzing Matilda”, you mean,’ she said, ruffling his thick black hair.
‘Yes, Nicoe. Warzing Matinda.’
She laughed, and they all laughed, too. It always amazed Nicole how happy these children could be. Yet, materially speaking, they had nothing. She’d thought she’d been poor before her mother had met and married Alistair. Compared to these orphans, she’d been rich.
‘All right. Let’s sit down here.’
The kids all settled down in the dirt under the tree, their eager faces turned up towards her.
Nicole opened her mouth and began to sing.
‘“Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong,
Under the shade of a coolabah tree.
And he sang as he watched and waited till his billy boiled.
You’ll come a-waltzing Matilda with me …”’
None of the children moved a muscle till she finished the famous Australian ballad, after which they jumped up and clapped and begged her to sing it again. She would have, if the chime on her cellphone hadn’t interrupted.
‘Excuse me,’ she said as she fished out her phone from her bag. ‘Off you go and play for a while.’
Nicole already suspected who might be calling. Her mother rang her every week, all the while pretending that her daughter wasn’t disgusted with her. Nicole didn’t have the heart to cut the woman out of her life entirely. She still loved her mother, and knew her mother loved her.
‘Yes?’ she answered.
‘Nicole, it’s your mother.’
Nicole frowned. Something was wrong. Her mother never called herself that. On top of which, her voice sounded very strained.
‘Hello, Mum. What’s up?’
‘I … um …’ Mrs Power broke off, then suddenly blurted out, ‘You have to come home.’
Nicole’s frown deepened. ‘Come home? Why?’ She paused. ‘Mum, where are you?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘What? Why not?’
‘Your father doesn’t want anyone to know where we are.’
‘Alistair Power is not my father,’ Nicole said coldly.
‘He’s more of a father than that married creep who impregnated me,’ her mother snapped. ‘Alistair, no! Let me talk to her.’
Nicole heard the sound of a scuffle in the background.
‘Now you listen to me, you ungrateful little chit!’ Alistair spat out down the line. ‘If it had been up to me, I wouldn’t have bothered with this call. But your mother loves you, though lord knows why. This is the situation. My company has gone belly-up and my creditors are baying for more blood, so we’ve left Australia for good. The bank has repossessed the house in Belleview Hill and no doubt will sell it, lock, stock and barrel, to some greedy opportunist.’
‘But … but all my things are still there!’ Nicole protested.
‘That’s why your mother called. To tell you to get your butt back to Sydney pronto before the locks are changed and all your personal possessions are sent to a charity or the rubbish tip.’
‘They can’t do that!’
‘Who’s to stop them? I certainly can’t.’
Nicole groaned. She didn’t give a damn about her designer clothes. But she did care about all the mementos of her childhood, especially her school days, which had been very happy. There were several photo albums and scrapbooks which were irreplaceable to her. That they might be thrown into some skip filled her with horror.
‘Here’s your mother again,’ Alistair growled.
‘You don’t have to worry about your jewellery, dear,’ her mother said in a sugary-sweet voice. ‘I brought it all with me.’
‘I don’t care about the jewellery, Mum.’
‘But it’s worth a small fortune!’
She was right, Nicole realised. Her stepfather had showered her with beautiful pieces over the years: diamonds, pearls and lots of emeralds.
‘To match your beautiful eyes,’ he’d said more than once, ladling on the false charm which came so easily to him.
It suddenly occurred to Nicole that if she sold her jewellery, she would have the funds to make some much needed improvements to this orphanage. It would be silly to throw such an opportunity away for the sake of pride.
‘Would it be possible for you to send my jewellery to me, Mum?’
‘Of course. But where? Every time I ring you, you’re in a different country. Which one is it now?’
‘The same one as last time. Thailand. On second thoughts, could you courier all my jewellery to Kara’s place? I’ll let her know it’s coming. You remember her address, don’t you?’
‘How could I possibly forget? I drove you there enough times. You are going home, then, to collect your things?’
‘Yes. As soon as I can get a flight to Sydney.’ Thank goodness she already had a pre-paid return ticket, because she was almost broke.
‘That’s good. It really bothered me, having to leave behind all those lovely clothes of yours.’
Nicole sighed. Glad to see you’ve still got your priorities right, Mum.
‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you where we are. But you don’t have to worry,’ her mother whispered down the line. ‘We have plenty of money to live on. Alistair deposited a good chunk into an offshore account last year. If you need anything, you only have to ask.’
Nicole shuddered. Over my dead body. ‘I should go, Mum.’
‘Ring me from Sydney, won’t you?’
‘OK.’
Nicole shook her head as she hung up. There was no hope for her mother, she realised sadly. No hope at all.
CHAPTER TWO
TOTAL revenge, Russell was forced to accept as he drove towards his enemy’s mansion in Bellevue Hill, was very difficult to achieve.
For sixteen years, the thought of vengeance had sustained him as he’d worked tirelessly to create the means to bring down the man who’d been responsible for his father’s death. To make Power pay for what he’d done—not just to Russell’s father, but to thousands of other desperate people.
At last the opportunity had presented itself, courtesy of the meltdown of the prime mortgage market in the USA. Russell had gone in for the kill, ruthlessly selling all the shares in Power Mortgages that he’d secretly acquired over the years. In one short week, he’d succeeded in wiping millions off that amoral bastard’s fortune.
When Sydney’s real estate grapevine—to which Russell was privy—revealed that Power had borrowed extensively to support his lavish lifestyle, and that his banker had repossessed his multi-million dollar mansion, Russell had made an immediate offer for the house which he’d known would not be refused. He hadn’t bothered with an inspection of the building, or with viewing the contents, which were part of the deal. He hadn’t wanted to set foot in the place till it was his.
And now he was on his way there, the contracts safely signed, the keys in his pocket.
He should have been over the moon.
But he wasn’t.
Why?
Because the bastard had escaped, that’s why. Fled the country, flown off to some secret overseas hideaway, where he’d probably funnelled millions into off-shore accounts so that he wouldn’t have to pay back his many creditors in Australia.
The thought of Alistair Power lying back on some beach in the Bahamas irked Russell no end. Men like that had no right to live, let alone live in the lap of luxury.
Still, there was some satisfaction to be gained from knowing that his enemy’s reputation had been ruined. No longer would Power be fêted by presidents and prime ministers. Nor would that smarmy smile of his be continuously flashed across television screens, because of coverage of whatever super-glamorous party he happened to be throwing that weekend.
The venue for those parties came into view. Russell finally saw the finished version of the three-storeyed mansion he’d visited that fateful day sixteen years earlier.
An hour ago, he’d been listening to the man handling the sale at the bank wax lyrical about how the house had been designed to take full advantage of its site on one of the highest points in Bellevue Hill: how each floor had lots of terraces and balconies, all with wonderful views of the city and harbour; how the top level was devoted entirely to living rooms, providing the perfect setting for parties.
But no verbal description could do justice to the visual impact of the building, with its dazzlingly white cement-rendered walls and the rich, royal-blue trim around its many windows and doors.
Russell pulled into the driveway and braked to a halt in front of a pair of security gates.
Sixteen years ago, there’d been no security at all. In fact, there’d been nothing to stop him from doing what he’d gone here to do.
Russell sighed.
Part of him would always regret that he’d settled for vengeful words that day, rather than actions. Still, if he had given in to his violent urgings, he’d be currently looking through prison bars and not the wrought-iron ones in front of him. He certainly wouldn’t be sitting here in a rich man’s car, wearing a rich man’s suit.
Russell pressed the remote he’d been given, waiting with learned patience till the gates swung open, after which he drove slowly around the circular drive that surrounded a magnificent marble Italian-style fountain.
Russell bypassed the six-car garage at the side of the house, parking his racing-green Aston Martin at the base of the flight of stone steps which led up to a now impressively columned front porch. With the house keys in his hand, he climbed out from behind the wheel then walked up the steps, stopping once he reached the top to turn round and take in the view.
The grounds were as magnificent as the fountain, having the grandeur which would have befitted a palace, with extensive lawns edged with perfectly pruned hedges and perfectly placed shade trees. Russell had been assured that the back garden was more impressive than the front, with a large terrace, a solar-heated pool and a synthetic-surface tennis court.
‘The pool has a pool house,’ the man at the bank had rattled on, ‘which has its own kitchen, bathroom, two guest bedrooms and a spacious living area. It’s larger than a lot of Sydney apartments.’
Possibly larger than his own, Russell accepted. He currently lived quite modestly in a two-bedroom unit on McMahon’s Point, having never felt the need for anything bigger, or more opulent. After all, he only went there to eat and sleep. Unlike a lot of successful real-estate agents, he didn’t entertain much. When he did, it was never at home.
Power’s mansion, however, was not the kind of home one only slept in. It was built for showing off … built as a monument to its owner’s material success.
And now it was all his.
Once again, Russell didn’t experience the rush of triumphant pleasure he’d always anticipated such a moment would bring. Was it a case of the journey being better than reaching the destination? Or was it that he had no one to share his vengeance with?
His mother had never succumbed to the anger and bitterness which had consumed Russell after his father’s suicide. She hadn’t blamed Power Mortgages at all, astonishing Russell with the revelation that his father had suffered from depression for some time, which had led to the poor decisions that had resulted in their farm being repossessed. She’d dismissed the fact that Power Mortgages specialised in arranging loans for people who had no hope of repaying them in the first place.
After grieving for her much-loved husband for a couple of years, Frieda McClain had chosen to move on with her life, marrying another farmer.
Russell had never been able to understand his mother’s attitude. Frankly, he’d felt almost betrayed by the briefness of her mourning. He’d been absolutely devastated by his father’s suicide, his sorrow made all the worse by a measure of guilt.
Russell hated the thought that one of the reasons his father had borrowed so much had been to give his son the kind of education he’d never received himself. Although Russell had won a scholarship to a top Sydney boarding school, of course there’d been more expenses involved than just the fees. Then, after Russell had passed his high-school certificate, his father had insisted he go on to uni, paying for him to share a flat with his much wealthier school friends, even buying him an old car to get around in.
He should have known his dad couldn’t afford any of it. He should have seen the truth behind the white lies. The evidence had been there every time he went home.
Russell had been close to suicide himself the day he’d buried his father.
Only the thought of revenge had sustained him, giving him something to live for. After his run-in with Power he’d immediately dropped out of his law degree and taken a job as a real-estate salesman, luckily finding a position in a premier agency in Sydney’s exclusive eastern suburbs. Over the next few years, he’d spent a lot less time with his friends—and even less with girls—channelling all his energies into becoming rich enough to have the weapons to ruin Alistair Power.
At the age of thirty-six, he was Sydney’s most successful real-estate agent, owning several businesses in the best Sydney suburbs, plus a personal portfolio of property to rival the wealthiest in Australia, a portfolio which now included one of Sydney’s most photographed homes.
Russell realised, as he turned and strode under the covered portico, that the media were sure to get hold of the news that he’d bought this place. Such purchases were news. For a split-second, he considered doing what he’d never done before: give an interview to a journalist in the vain hope that Power might read it and finally connect the Russell McClain of McClain Real Estate with that long-haired youth who’d threatened vengeance all those years ago.
Waste of time, Russell decided as he slotted the key into the brass lock of the double front doors. Because Power wouldn’t make the connection. They’d already met again—over a property deal—and there’d not been a hint of recognition in Power’s face. It seemed men without consciences didn’t remember their victims for long. Possibly because there were too many of them.
What a cold-blooded bastard!
As Russell pushed open the heavy front doors and stepped into the cavernous foyer of the house, a surprising sound met his ears.
Singing.
Startled, he stood stock-still and listened.
Yes. Someone was singing somewhere upstairs—a woman.
Russell frowned. Could it be a radio, perhaps left playing by the cleaning service which the bank said had serviced the place yesterday?
No, it wasn’t a radio, he quickly deduced, the voice having no instrumental backing.
Someone was in his house, someone who shouldn’t be there. And they were upstairs, singing.
Russell knew exactly who it was.
A squatter.
It was a scenario not unfamiliar to him.
People would be amazed at how often empty homes were squatted in, even ones as lavish as this. It didn’t matter how much security you had, how high the walls were or how many locks you had—these street-smart scroungers found a way in.
Russell planned his course of action as he made his way quietly up the curving staircase to the first floor.
Often there was a whole group of them, usually junkies. Sometimes, however, it was just some runaway looking for a place to sleep. Or to shower.
He suspected this might be the latter.
When Russell reached the first landing, he could hear the faint hiss of water running as well as the singing. It sounded as if she was in the shower. He moved across the wide, carpeted landing to the door straight in front of him. Very carefully, he turned the knob and popped his head in.
No, not in here, Russell quickly deduced.
He shook his head as he glanced around what had to be the master bedroom. Power certainly hadn’t stinted on the decor. Even if the French-style furniture was reproduction, it must still have cost a packet. So had the movie-size television screen built into the wall opposite the foot of the bed.
Russell’s eyebrows lifted. Maybe twenty million was a bargain price for this place. The contents alone were worth a small fortune. It must have hurt Power to leave it all behind.
He sure as hell hoped so.
It pained him that Power would probably never know who had bought his house. It pained him even more that he would never be able to have a more personal revenge on the man.
Maybe he would gain some more satisfaction when he actually moved in, which he fully intended to do tomorrow.
But, first, he had to turf out his unwelcome guest.
Shutting the door, he moved along the corridor to his left where he popped his head in the next door.
It was another bedroom, very pretty and very feminine.
The queen-sized bed had obviously been slept in, the gold satin quilt thrown back, the pillows crumpled.
The sound of water running was definitely louder in there, though the singing had suddenly stopped. Slipping inside, Russell made his way silently across the room, noting the bundle of cheap-looking clothes thrown carelessly on the floor next to the bed.
He shook his head at the sight. The hide of this woman!
When he reached what he presumed was the bathroom door he considered knocking first, but decided against giving this bold interloper any warning.
Too bad if she was stark naked, he decided angrily as he reached for the door knob. Squatters didn’t deserve any consideration or respect.
Without thinking of the possible consequences of his actions, Russell turned the knob and pushed open the door.
