The Billionaire’s Bride Of Vengeance Page 2

  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 kind of education he’d never received himself. Although Russell had won a scholarship to a top Sydney boarding school, of course there’d been more expenses involved than just the fees. Then, after Russell had passed his high-school certificate, his father had insisted he go on to uni, paying for him to share a flat with his much wealthier school friends, even buying him an old car to get around in.

  He should have known his dad couldn’t afford any of it. He should have seen the truth behind the white lies. The evidence had been there every time he went home.

  Russell had been close to suicide himself the day he’d buried his father.

  Only the thought of revenge had sustained him, giving him something to live for. After his run-in with Power he’d immediately dropped out of his law degree and taken a job as a real-estate salesman, luckily finding a position in a premier agency in Sydney’s exclusive eastern suburbs. Over the next few years, he’d spent a lot less time with his friends—and even less with girls— channelling all his energies into becoming rich enough to have the weapons to ruin Alistair Power.

  At the age of thirty-six, he was Sydney’s most successful real-estate agent, owning several businesses in the best Sydney suburbs, plus a personal portfolio of property to rival the wealthiest in Australia, a portfolio which now included one of Sydney’s most photographed homes.

  Russell realised, as he turned and strode under the covered portico, that the media were sure to get hold of the news that he’d bought this place. Such purchases were news. For a split-second, he considered doing what he’d never done before: give an interview to a journalist in the vain hope that Power might read it and finally connect the Russell McClain of McClain Real Estate with that long-haired youth who’d threatened vengeance all those years ago.

  Waste of time, Russell decided as he slotted the key into the brass lock of the double front doors. Because Power wouldn’t make the connection. They’d already met again—over a property deal—and there’d not been a hint of recognition in Power’s face. It seemed men without consciences didn’t remember their victims for long. Possibly because there were too many of them.

  What a cold-blooded bastard!

  As Russell pushed open the heavy front doors and stepped into the cavernous foyer of the house, a surprising sound met his ears.

  Singing.

  Startled, he stood stock-still and listened.

  Yes. Someone was singing somewhere upstairs—a woman.

  Russell frowned. Could it be a radio, perhaps left playing by the cleaning service which the bank said had serviced the place yesterday?

  No, it wasn’t a radio, he quickly deduced, the voice having no instrumental backing.

  Someone was in his house, someone who shouldn’t be there. And they were upstairs, singing.

  Russell knew exactly who it was.

  A squatter.

  It was a scenario not unfamiliar to him.

  People would be amazed at how often empty homes were squatted in, even ones as lavish as this. It didn’t matter how much security you had, how high the walls were or how many locks you had—these street-smart scroungers found a way in.

  Russell planned his course of action as he made his way quietly up the curving staircase to the first floor.

  Often there was a whole group of them, usually junkies. Sometimes, however, it was just some runaway looking for a place to sleep. Or to shower.

  He suspected this might be the latter.

  When Russell reached the first landing, he could hear the faint hiss of water running as well as the singing. It sounded as if she was in the shower. He moved across the wide, carpeted landing to the door straight in front of him. Very carefully, he turned the knob and popped his head in.

  No, not in here, Russell quickly deduced.

  He shook his head as he glanced around what had to be the master bedroom. Power certainly hadn’t stinted on the decor. Even if the French-style furniture was reproduction, it must still have cost a packet. So had the movie-size television screen built into the wall opposite the foot of
the bed.

  Russell’s eyebrows lifted. Maybe twenty million was a bargain price for this place. The contents alone were worth a small fortune. It must have hurt Power to leave it all behind.

  He sure as hell hoped so.

  It pained him that Power would probably never know who had bought his house. It pained him even more that he would never be able to have a more personal revenge on the man.

  Maybe he would gain some more satisfaction when he actually moved in, which he fully intended to do tomorrow.

  But, first, he had to turf out his unwelcome guest.

  Shutting the door, he moved along the corridor to his left where he popped his head in the next door.

  It was another bedroom, very pretty and very feminine.

  The queen-sized bed had obviously been slept in, the gold satin quilt thrown back, the pillows crumpled.

  The sound of water running was definitely louder in there, though the singing had suddenly stopped. Slipping inside, Russell made his way silently across the room, noting the bundle of cheap-looking clothes thrown carelessly on the floor next to the bed.

  He shook his head at the sight. The hide of this woman!

  When he reached what he presumed was the bathroom door he considered knocking first, but decided against giving this bold interloper any warning.

  Too bad if she was stark naked, he decided angrily as he reached for the door knob. Squatters didn’t deserve any consideration or respect.

  Without thinking of the possible consequences of his actions, Russell turned the knob and pushed open the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHE was naked, with the kind of body which took a man’s breath away: tall and slender, with long legs, perfect breasts and a pert but curvy little bottom.

  She didn’t notice him standing there, her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she vigorously shampooed her long, fair hair.

  Russell made no move to make his presence known to her. He was way too busy admiring the view. Yet he’d never been the kind of man to openly ogle women, or to salivate over centrefolds.

  But he was on the verge of salivating now, not to mention succumbing to an increasingly forbidden fantasy.

  Perhaps he’d been too long without a woman…

  On the whole, Russell didn’t find his mainly celibate lifestyle too much of a hardship. Working twenty-four-seven absorbed his energies to a large degree. But at least once a month his male hormones would rebel.

  Despite not being traditionally handsome, Russell never had any trouble attracting women, especially when he put himself in an environment conducive to seduction. Sydney nightclubs always had a plethora of beautiful young things who were only too willing and eager to accommodate him, first on the dance floor and then in his bed.

  Possibly, some of these girls had hoped things would progress beyond the kind of brief, strictly sexual liaisons Russell indulged in, despite his always having made it clear right from the start that it wouldn’t.

  And it never did. Relationships were definitely not on Russell’s agenda. Never had been, never would be. Something had happened to his heart after his father’s death: it had lost the capacity to love and to trust. His heart had become hard, he knew.

  However, another part of Russell’s body was hard at this precise moment.

  Frustration raged as he continued to look at the naked nymph in the shower. Frustration, plus the wickedest of temptations.

  When her hands lifted to smooth her soapy hair back from her forehead, she tipped her face up into the spray, turning it this way and that.

  Russell’s fascinated gaze fastened on her face. She was beautiful, with delicate features and clear skin. Of course, he couldn’t see her eyes, which remained tightly shut. But it seemed impossible that Mother Nature could have fashioned a creature so lovely, then given her ugly eyes.

  No, they would be beautiful, like the rest of her.

  Once she opened them, however, and saw him standing there, staring at her, all hell would break loose. She would probably scream the place down.

  I should have called the police and not burst in here, Russell realised with hindsight.

  Experience had taught him that squatters and runaways were extremely wily. If he called the police now, he wouldn’t put it past this girl to concoct some story that he’d invited her here. She might even cry rape. And they just might believe her, given her looks.

  Russell did the only thing he could, under the circumstances. He backed out of the room, shutting the door very quietly behind him. There he waited till the shower was turned off and sufficient time had passed for her to have dried and dressed herself.

  Then he did the right thing.

  He knocked.

  ‘Who is it?’ the girl called out.

  ‘More to the point, who are you?’ he challenged.

  ‘Nicole Power,’ she called back.

  ‘Who?’ Had he heard right? Had she really said she was Nicole Power? Surely not!

  ‘Nicole Power,’ she repeated.

  Shock rendered Russell speechless.

  Nicole Power! Of all people! Of all women!

  He hadn’t recognised her. Not without her clothes on, and not without her eyes open.

  Even worse was the fact that he’d fancied her. No, that was an understatement. He’d lusted after her, with a force that was as blind as it was almost overpowering.

  For a moment back there in that bathroom, when he’d believed she was a penniless runaway, he’d imagined making her an offer that was as wrong as it was wickedly exciting.

  ‘You can stay,’ he’d envisaged himself saying, ‘but you’ll have to move into the master bedroom. And you’re never to cover that beautiful body of yours with clothes.’

  A quite irrational fury fuelled his tongue.

  ‘Aren’t you aware that your father no longer owns this house?’ he snapped. ‘You have no right to be here. No right at all.’ And no right to make me want to seduce you!

  ‘Look, I can explain,’ she said in a lilting voice which was as attractive as her singing, ‘but it’s rather difficult talking through the door.’

  ‘Then come out and explain,’ Russell commanded gruffly.

  ‘I can’t. I don’t have any clothes with me. And I’m not coming out wrapped in a towel!’

  Russell grimaced. Little did she know but he’d seen her in a lot less.

  It was no wonder he hadn’t recognised her, he supposed. He’d never seen Power’s daughter in the flesh before, so to speak, only a few times on the TV news, hosting one of her never-ending birthday parties. Her twenty-first a few years ago had been so obscenely expensive that it had received extensive coverage. Admittedly, she hadn’t been on the TV lately. He did recall seeing her on the news about six months ago, going to the première of a movie, sashaying up the red carpet, dressed up to the nines and with not a hair out of place as she’d flashed her pearly whites for photographers.

  He’d always thought her the ultimate rich bitch, groomed within an inch of her life. He’d also cynically believed that nothing about her skin-deep beauty was real, especially her long blonde hair. He’d imagined she was a product of a good plastic surgeon and an expert hairdresser.

  Now he knew that she was a natural beauty and a natural blonde, courtesy of that small triangle of fair curls he’d glimpsed between her legs.

  Damn! He had to stop thinking about things like that.

  ‘What say I meet you downstairs in ten minutes’ time?’ she suggested through the door.

  A sensible suggestion, but it irritated him all the same. This whole scenario irritated him.

  ‘Make it five,’ he countered sharply, before whirling on his heel and heading for the door.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NICOLE gritted her teeth, any embarrassment she’d been suffering from swiftly replaced by annoyance. She might not have any right to be here, but he had no right to be rude, whoever he was. There certainly wasn’t any need to treat her like some criminal, not once he’d discovered who
she was.

  Nicole wished she’d insisted on knowing who he was.

  A security guard perhaps?

  He’d sounded like a security guard. He certainly hadn’t been a gentleman.

  When a peek into her bedroom showed that he’d left, Nicole set about finding something to wear. Not the wrap-around skirt and top she’d worn on the plane. Or any of the crushed clothes in her backpack.

  She would have to select something from the wardrobe she’d left behind.

  There was a lot to choose from in the walk-in wardrobe. Nicole shook her head when she saw that some of the items still had their price tags on them. All of them carried designer labels too, and most of them were on the glamorous side. Not the kind of thing she wore these days.

  Jeans would have to do, she decided. Jeans and a simple black T-shirt.

  Both were designer pieces but at least they didn’t look it!

  The five-minute limit she’d been given was fast approaching by the time she found some clean underwear and got herself dressed. She would have to hurry, since it was imperative she not antagonise the man waiting for her downstairs. The last thing she needed was for him to demand she leave without giving her the opportunity to do what she’d flown back to Sydney to do.

  As Nicole quickly wound her damp hair up into a loose knot on top of her head, she regretted not having packed up everything she wanted the moment she’d arrived this morning. That way, she’d have been long gone by now. Unfortunately, when her flight had touched down at Mascot at six this morning, she’d been totally wrecked. She hadn’t slept a wink all night because of a crying baby in the seat behind her. So when she’d let herself into the deserted house—which didn’t even have a For Sale sign outside of it—sleep had beckoned. She’d stripped off and dived straight into the bed which had been hers since the age of nine. It hadn’t occurred to her that anyone might come and find her here.

  Now she was in the awkward position of having to ask the grump downstairs for a favour. Her name—which had once opened doors to her—was not going to be an asset, either. The name of Power was probably mud around Sydney these days.