Seduction: The Billionaire's Bride of Vengeance. Miranda Lee
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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same afternoon, she’d answered an ad in a newspaper to go on a backpacking holiday with another girl whose friend had withdrawn from the trip at the last minute.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