Contents

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      CHAPTER FOURTEEN

      CHAPTER FIFTEEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE jumbo jet was twenty minutes late setting down at Mascot Airport, but Antonio was one of the first to alight. The head of Fortune Productions, European Division, didn’t look as if he’d been on a gruelling twenty-two-hour flight from London to Sydney. His superb grey suit was sleek and uncrumpled. His thick jet-black hair was slicked back from a freshly shaven face. His dark eyes were clear and rested.

      The advantage of flying first class.

      Not that Antonio Scarlatti had always travelled first class. He knew what it was like to do it tough. He knew what it was like to travel long hauls cramped in steerage, with wall-to-wall passengers and little chance of sleep, then have people look down their nose at him at the other end, when his suit had been wrinkled and his job far less prestigious than the one he now held.

      Antonio had no intention of ever going back to that existence. He’d made it to the top, and the top was where he was going to stay. The world was for the winners. And the wealthy. At the age of thirty-four, he was finally both.

      The company limousine was waiting in its usual spot, the engine idling at the ready. Antonio opened the back door and slid into its air-conditioned comfort.

      ‘Morning, Jim,’ he addressed the chauffeur.

      ‘Mornin’, Tone.’

      Antonio smiled. He was back in Australia all right. In London, and all over Europe, he was always addressed by his drivers as ‘Mr Scarlatti’. But that wasn’t the way down under, especially after an acquaintance of some time.

      Antonio leant back against the plush leather seat with a deeply relaxing sigh. It was good to be home and off the merry-go-round for a fortnight’s break. His contract stated he could fly home for two weeks rest and recuperation every three months, a necessity since he worked seven days a week when on the job. Being in charge of selling and promoting Fortune Productions’ extensive list of television programmes to the hundreds of stations and cable networks all over Europe was a challenging job.

      ‘Straight home, Jim,’ he said, and closed his eyes. He’d bought himself a luxury serviced apartment overlooking the harbour bridge a couple of years back, and couldn’t wait to immerse himself in its privacy and comfort. The last few days had been a nightmare of negotiations and never-ending meetings. Antonio needed some peace and quiet.

      ‘No can do, Tone,’ the chauffeur returned as he eased the lengthy car past the long line of taxis which had queued up to meet the flight from London. ‘The boss wants you to join him for breakfast.’

      Antonio’s eyes opened on a low groan. He hoped it wasn’t one of those media circus breakfasts Conrad was always getting invited to and which he occasionally attended. Antonio couldn’t stand them at the best of times. ‘Where, for pity’s sake?’ came his irritable query.

      ‘The Taj Mahal.’

      ‘Thank God,’ Antonio muttered.

      The Taj Mahal was Jim’s nickname for Conrad Fortune’s residence at Darling Point. It was an apt term. The place was over the top with its grandeur and opulence, a monolithic mansion sprawled across an acre of some of the most expensive land in Sydney’s exclusive Eastern suburbs.

      What the house lacked in taste, it made up for in sheer size. The fac¸ade had more columns than the Colosseum, the foyer more marble than the British Museum, and Romanesque statues and ornate fountains dominated the front landscaping. The sloping backyard was more low key, terraced to incorporate the solar-heated swimming pool and two rebound ace tennis courts.

      Antonio thought the place ostentatious in the extreme. But it was impressive, no doubt about that. Socialites grovelled to be included on the lists for Conrad’s celebrated parties. Magazines and television programmes clamoured to photograph beyond the high-security walls which enclosed the property.

      Not Conrad’s television programmes, of course. They knew better.

      ‘You wouldn’t have any idea what he wants me for, Jim, would you?’ Antonio probed.

      ‘Nope.’ A man of few words, Jim.

      Antonio decided not to speculate. Time would tell, he supposed.

      Fifteen minutes later, the limousine slid to a smooth halt in front of the grand front steps, and this time Jim did the honours with the door.

      ‘You won’t be needing that,’ he advised when Antonio went to pick up his laptop.

      Antonio shot the chauffeur a sharp look. So he did have some idea of what was up. And clearly it wasn’t a business matter.

      Curiouser and curiouser.

      The housekeeper answered the door. Evelyn was in her late forties, and very homely, as were all of Conrad’s female employees. No fool, was Conrad. He’d been stung once, by an ambitious and beautiful maid, and had no intention of harbouring any females under his roof who might present him with unwise temptations. Although now rising seventy, Conrad was still very interested in the opposite sex, as evidenced by the three mistresses he kept. One here in Sydney, one in Paris and one in the Bahamas.

      Evelyn had been Conrad’s housekeeper now for over a decade. She was efficient and reliable. More importantly, she knew how to keep her mouth shut to the press.

      ‘Conrad’s expecting you,’ she told Antonio straight away. ‘He’s in the morning room.’

      The morning room overlooked the