Seduction: The Billionaire's Bride of Vengeance. Miranda Lee
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‘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