The Spaniard's Baby Bargain. Helen Bianchin
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divorce proceedings.
All tied up in a legal contract, on which she had signed her name with a speed that had sickened him.
If there was such a thing as divine justice, he reflected, Yvonne had reaped it. A month after Christina’s birth he’d been in New York when he received the news Yvonne had died in a fatal car accident late at night after attending a party. The man with her had shared a similar fate.
He’d taken the next flight home and picked up the pieces, dealt with the media rumours, a departing nanny and employed another.
The second of four in five months, he conceded with grim cynicism. The longest any one of them had stayed was seven weeks.
The small babe in his arms gave a shuddering cry and latched onto her tiny fist.
‘Hungry, pequeña?’ Her needs held importance over his own, and he crossed to the large storage cabinet, opened it, checked the small refrigerator, witnessed several bottles of made-up formula and breathed a sigh of relief.
A minute in the microwave, and the temperature was right.
He sank into the rocking chair and began feeding his daughter…not a moment too soon, given the desperation with which she took the bottle.
‘Need any help?’
Manolo met Santos’ measured gaze, lifted one eyebrow in silent cynicism, and offered with droll humour, ‘What do you suggest?’
They shared a long history and unconditional trust. A friendship, despite the employer-employee relationship, that went back to the days when he’d become streetwise from an early age in a tough New York neighbourhood where self-survival was a priority. It wasn’t a youth he was particularly proud of, but one that had shaped him into the man he was today.
Hard-edged, ruthless, a risk-taker who’d worked in three jobs, studied, and existed on minimum sleep to gain millionaire status in his early twenties. Something he’d multiplied almost a thousand-fold over the past fifteen years.
No one dared toy with him without paying the price. Love wasn’t an emotion he had been familiar with during any part of his life.
Manolo checked his watch and suppressed a grimace. Fifteen minutes to shave, shower and eat wasn’t enough. So he’d be late.
‘I’ll welcome the media duo when they arrive, show them to their rooms, offer them a drink,’ Santos declared smoothly. ‘That’ll allow you a timely entrance.’
Home security was a necessary addition to any rich man’s property, but the high, elaborate wrought-iron gates attached to equally high concrete walls, the mounted surveillance camera…
Overkill, or did Manolo del Guardo have reason for such hi-tech protection?
‘Who is this guy? Croesus?’
‘Not quite.’
‘Done your homework, huh?’ came the nonchalant response as the car drew to a halt in front of the imposing gates.
‘Can you recall a time when I didn’t?’
Ariane knew exactly who Manolo del Guardo was. She’d compiled a file on him. Together with a detailed list of questions…some of which, she conceded, were guaranteed to evoke a strong, even heated response.
However, that was the purpose of her interview. To dig beneath the surface and provide an insightful and, at times, provocative look at the lives of those who had risen to notoriety and fame.
Not necessarily together, but in the case of Manolo del Guardo there was a connection to both.
‘OK,’ Tony initiated as he undid his safety belt. ‘Let’s go do this.’
State-of-the-art security, Ariane corrected as she observed Tony present his ID tag and driver’s licence for verification.
She was aware of a disembodied voice seconds before Tony slid in behind the wheel, then the gates opened with electronic precision.
Summer daylight-saving allowed a view of the curved driveway with its magnificent floral borders, lush, manicured lawn, sculpted shrubs and topiary.
A beautiful foreground to showcase the del Guardo mansion, Ariane conceded, suppressing her surprise. Information she’d gleaned revealed Manolo del Guardo had bought the property for its panoramic view of the Sydney harbour, gutted the existing home, and rebuilt.
A château, designed in the classical French Napoleonic style, she perceived, and not something reflecting his Spanish roots.
She would kill to capture it on film. Except one of the stipulations set down in granting this documentary was no external photographs of the house were to be shot. Internal only, and/or featuring the view, with the proviso each shot required Manolo del Guardo’s approval.
Who did he think he was? God?
‘Where,’ Tony attempted mildly as the SUV slowed to a crawl close to the main entrance, ‘do you suggest I should park?’
At that moment the huge, elaborately carved double wooden doors swung open and a formally attired manservant descended the few steps.
‘Good evening. My name is Santos.’ The voice was clipped and bore a slight accent. ‘If you would drive to the service entry.’ He indicated the direction with a sweep of his arm. ‘You’ll find the door unlocked. I’ll meet you there. You can unload your gear and store it in the storage room.’
Without a further word he retraced his steps and closed the massive front doors behind him.
‘Should we assume we’ve been subtly made aware of our place?’ Tony arched as he eased the SUV round the side of the house.
It took only minutes to transfer their equipment indoors, then, overnight bags in hand, they followed Santos through to the main foyer.
Priceless travertine marble floors, expensive oriental rugs, objets d’art, original oil paintings, luxurious furnishings, high vaulted ceilings, a breathtaking crystal chandelier, and a wide curving double staircase leading to an upper gallery level. The balustrade was a work of art in itself, its black wrought-iron filigree pattern capped by dark mahogany.
No doubt all the rooms reflected similar accoutrements, and Ariane complimented his taste…or should that be his interior decorator?
‘I’ll show you to your rooms,’ Santos informed as he proceeded towards the staircase. ‘Mr del Guardo will meet with you in fifteen minutes.’ He indicated an open doorway to his left. ‘Please assemble in the informal lounge.’
Formal, informal…casual living? It figured in a mansion this size.
Assemble? There were only two of them, for heaven’s sake…hardly a media horde.
The stair-treads were marble, extending onto a tiled foyer and a circular gallery.
Private quarters to the right, guest suites to the left?
The reverse, she determined as she followed Santos to a suite that topped any luxury hotel accommodation.
Muted pastels blended to perfection, exquisite mahogany furniture, sage-green carpet. A large bed, small desk, telephone, television.
Tony’s suite was situated close by, and equalled her own, although the colour scheme employed various shades of coffee and cream.
‘I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable.’
Tony’s soft whistle of appreciation resulted in a wry smile from Manolo del Guardo’s factotum. ‘I’ll leave you to confer and unpack. Refreshments will be served in the informal lounge.’
‘All this,’ Tony said quietly as soon as Santos had disappeared out of earshot, ‘screams serious money.’
‘The early gathering of which is shrouded in mystery,’ Ariane reminded.
‘A fact you intend to uncover?’
‘If