It Started With One Night: The Magnate's Mistress / His Bride for One Night / Master of Her Virtue. Miranda Lee
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gardens at the front, a huge solar-heated pool out the back and magnificent harbour views from most of the rooms.
It was a home fit for a king. Or a prince.
He’d been brought up here, taking it all for granted. The perfect house. The private schools. Membership of the nearby yacht club.
And then there were the women. The ones who’d targeted him from the moment he’d been old enough to have sex. The ones who’d done anything and everything to get him to fall in love with them.
But he hadn’t loved any of them.
The only woman he’d ever fallen for was Tara.
And she was in danger of slipping away from him, if he wasn’t careful.
With his stomach still in knots, Max climbed out from behind the wheel and went inside. He still had keys. He hadn’t moved out of home till after the episode with Stevie.
His mother was sitting out on the top terrace, reading the newspaper to his father, who was in his wheelchair beside her. Dressed in pale blue trousers and a pretty floral top, she was immaculately groomed as usual. Her streaked blonde hair was cut short in a modern style and she was wearing make-up and pearl earrings.
For as long as Max could remember, she’d looked much younger than her age, but today, in the harsh sunlight, she looked every one of her fifty-nine years. And then some.
Her father’s appearance, however, shocked him more than his mother’s. Before his stroke he’d been a vibrant, handsome man with a fit, powerful body and thick head of dark hair. Now his hair was white, his muscles withered, his skin deeply lined. He looked eighty, yet he was only sixty-two.
For the first time, some sympathy stirred in Max’s soul. Plus a measure of guilt. How come he hadn’t noticed the extent of his father’s deterioration at Christmas? It had only been a couple of months ago.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed because he hadn’t wanted to. It was easier to cling to old resentments rather than see that his father was going downhill at a rate of knots, or that his mother might need some hands-on help. Much easier to hate than to love.
Max realised in that defining moment that he didn’t really hate his parents. He never had. He just didn’t understand them. Tara was right when she’d said people never knew what went on in a marriage.
One thing Max did know, however, as he watched his mother reach out to tenderly touch his father’s arm. She did love the man. And if the way his father looked back was any judge, then that love was returned.
Max’s heart turned over as he hoped that Tara would always look at him like that.
Neither of them had seen him yet, standing there just inside the sliding glass doors which led out onto the terrace. When he slid one back, his mother’s head jerked up and around, her blue eyes widening with surprise, and then pleasure.
‘Max!’ she exclaimed. ‘Ronald, it’s Max.’
‘Max…’ His father’s hands fumbled as they reached to swivel his chair around. His eyes, too, mirrored surprise. But they were tired eyes, Max thought. Dead eyes.
All the life had gone out of him.
‘Max,’ the old man repeated as though he could still not believe his son had come to visit.
‘Hi there, Mum. Dad,’ he said as he came forward and bent to kiss his mother on the cheek. ‘You’re both looking well,’ he added as he pulled up a chair.
His father croaked out a dry laugh. ‘I look terrible and I know it.’
Max smiled a wry smile. The old man wasn’t quite dead yet.
‘You know, Dad, when I was a boy you told me that God helps those who help themselves. You obviously practised what you preached all your life. After all, you worked your way up from a valet-parking attendant to being one of Australia’s most successful hotel owners.’
Max generously refrained from reminding his father that marrying the daughter of an established hotel baron had been a leg-up, especially when Max’s maternal grandfather was already at death’s door. Within weeks of Max’s grandfather dying, Ronald Richmond had sold off the hotels that didn’t live up to his ideals and started up the Royale chain. He hadn’t looked back, till three years ago, when his stroke had forced his premature retirement.
‘I have to say I’m a bit disappointed,’ Max went on, ‘that you seem to have thrown in the towel this time. Frankly, I expected more from you than this.’
Some more fire sparked in the old man’s eyes, which was exactly what Max had intended.
‘What would you know about it, boy? My whole right side is virtually useless.’
‘Something which could be remedied with therapy. You should be thankful that your speech wasn’t affected. Some people can’t talk after a stroke.’
‘My eyes are bad,’ he grumbled. ‘Your mother has to read to me.’
‘But you’re not blind. Look, how about I line up a top physiotherapist to come in every day and work with you? He’ll have you up and out of that wheelchair in no time.’
‘That would be wonderful, Max,’ his mother said. ‘Wouldn’t it, Ronald?’
‘It’s too late,’ his father muttered. ‘I’m done for.’
‘Rubbish!’ Max countered. ‘Never too late. That’s another of your own philosophies, might I remind you? Besides, I need you up and about in time for my wedding.’
‘Your wedding!’ they chorused, their expressions shocked.
‘Yep. I’m getting married.’
After that, Max was regaled with questions. He thought he lied very well, telling them all about Tara and the baby, but nothing about her disappearance. He made it sound like a done deal that he and Tara would walk down the aisle in the near future. He also promised to bring her over to meet them by the end of the weekend. He made some excuse that she was away visiting friends for the next couple of days.
Talk about optimism!
Over lunch he also told his father that he planned to stay in Australia more in future and delegate some of the overseas travelling to his assistant.
‘Good idea,’ his father said, nodding. ‘When a man has a family, he should not be away from home too much. I was away from home too much. Far too much.’
When tears suddenly welled up in his father’s eyes, his mother immediately jumped up. ‘I think it’s time for your afternoon nap, dear,’ she said. ‘He gets tired very easily these days,’ she directed at a shocked Max as she wheeled his father off. ‘I won’t be long. Have another cup of coffee.’
Max did just that, sitting there, sipping some coffee and doing some serious thinking till his mother returned.
She threw Max an odd look as she sat down. ‘I’m so glad you stayed. Usually, you bolt out the door as soon as you can. Your becoming a father yourself has changed you, Max. You’re different today. Softer. And more compassionate. Perhaps the time is right for me to tell you the truth about Stevie.’
Max stiffened. ‘What…what do you mean…the truth?’
His mother heaved a deep sigh, her eyes not quite meeting his. ‘Stevie was not your father’s child.’
Max gaped.
‘I thought you might have guessed,’ she went on when he said nothing. ‘After all, Stevie was very different from you. And from your father. He also had brown eyes. Two blue-eyed parents can’t have a brown-eyed child, you know.’
Max shook his head. ‘I didn’t know that. Did Stevie?’
‘Thankfully, no. At least…he never said he did.’
‘So that’s why Dad didn’t love him.’