He would still bed her tonight.

But having Nicole Power mindless with desire for him would be an added bonus. How brilliantly satisfying that would be!

His hand moved and his fingers found their goal.

Her nipple was hard, like a river pebble.

‘No, don’t,’ she whimpered.

He ignored her protest and bent his head to put his mouth where his fingertip had been.

There was absolutely no pretence in her responses. She was his, to do with as he pleased. His to explore and exploit. His to win and maybe even to wed.

Did he want to go that far? Did he want to see her walk down the aisle in white? Did he want to see blind adoration as well as the mindless desire he’d just glimpsed in her beautiful green eyes?

There was only one answer to those questions.

An unequivocal yes.

THREE RICH MEN

When a wealthy man takes a wife, it’s not always for love…

Meet Russell, Hugh and James, three wealthy Sydney businessmen who’ve been the best of friends for ages. They know each other very well—including the reasons why none of them believes in marrying for love.

While Russell and Hugh have so far remained single, James is about to embark on his second marriage.

But all this is set to change as not just James but Russell and Hugh too are driven to the altar. Have any of them changed their mind about love—or are they ruthlessly making marriages of convenience?

THE BILLIONAIRE’S BRIDE OF VENGEANCE

BY

MIRANDA LEE

www.millsandboon.co.uk

PROLOGUE

RUSSELL’S hands tightened on the steering wheel as he arrived at the address he’d been given.

‘Mr Power is out of the office today,’ he’d been told when he burst into Power Mortgages half an hour earlier and demanded to see Alistair Power.

At first the receptionist had refused to tell Russell where Power might be, no doubt sensing trouble in the eyes of the distraught young man standing in front of her desk. But Russell’s ironically truthful statement that he had urgent business with her boss concerning the tragic death of a business associate had finally elicited the information he wanted. Mr Power and his wife were at the construction site of their new home in the exclusive Sydney suburb of Belleview Hill.

Russell had somehow managed a smile and the girl had jotted down the address.

He wasn’t smiling now, a bitter bile filling his mouth as he stared up at what was obviously going to be a grand mansion. Amazing what one could buy with other people’s money!

Russell wrenched the wheel of his rusty old car towards the gravel driveway and drove right up to the front of the three-storeyed building. The shell of the house was finished, the roof was on, the front steps in place. A middle-aged man in a superbly tailored business suit was standing up on the porch, a leggy blonde next to him.

Power’s trophy wife, obviously.

Russell didn’t stop to think, his emotions spilling over at the sight of the man whose greed had driven his father to despair and suicide. Hatred propelled him out of the car, his hands curling into furious fists as he charged up the steps.

‘Alistair Power!’ he called out at the same time.

Cool grey eyes raked over him; Power was not overly perturbed, it seemed, by Russell’s aggressive approach.

‘Yes. Can I help you?’

Russell could not believe the man’s lack of concern. Couldn’t he see his visitor had murder in his heart?

Russell resisted the urge to punch Power then and there. First, he wanted the creep to know who he was and why he’d come.

‘I thought you’d like to know that my father killed himself last week.’

Power’s eyebrows arched. ‘And your father is?’

‘Keith McClain.’

‘That name means nothing to me. I know no Keith McClain.’

My God, he didn’t even recognise his father’s name! Yet Russell knew that his dad—his shy but proud dad—had gone to Power personally and begged him for more time to repay his loan.

‘You knew him well enough to let him take out two mortgages on his farm,’ Russell ground out, ‘when he had no possible means of meeting the repayments. He had no stock, no crops, no income. The ten-year drought had seen to that. But his land was valuable, wasn’t it? So you deliberately let him get into debt and then you just took it!’

‘Young man, I don’t force people to take out mortgages.’

‘You shouldn’t agree to lend money which you know people can’t pay back,’ Russell countered heatedly. ‘I’ve made some enquiries about Power Mortgages and that’s your modus operandi.’

Power didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I haven’t done anything illegal. The mistake was your father’s. He should have sold his property rather than borrow more money.’

‘But the land had been in his family for generations! He knew nothing else but farming.’

‘That’s not my fault.’

‘But it is your fault. You, and men like you. You don’t have any feelings, any compassion. All you care about is making money.’

‘Business has little room for compassion, son.’

‘Don’t you call me son, you greedy bastard,’ Russell snapped, a red haze of grief launching him forwards.

The trophy wife threw herself in front of Power, stopping Russell in his tracks.

‘Don’t!’ she cried, her hands fluttering up to ward off Russell’s fists. ‘It’ll only make things worse. And it won’t bring your father back.’

He stared into her striking green eyes and saw she didn’t really have any compassion, either. She was just protecting her lifestyle.

The seeds of a different vengeance were sown in Russell at that point; a vengeance which would be far more satisfying than murder.

Pulling away from her, Russell whirled and walked back down the steps. At the bottom, he turned and glared back up at Power.

‘One day,’ he threatened, his eyes as hard as his heart, ‘one day, I’m going to destroy you. I vow on my father’s grave that I won’t rest till I take everything you hold dear, the way you took everything from him!’

CHAPTER ONE

Sixteen years later…

BANGKOK WAS HOT, VERY hot. And humid.

By the time Nicole had walked the kilometre from her cheap hotel to the orphanage, her singlet top was clinging to her back.

The Nicole of a few months ago would have complained incessantly about her limp-rag hair and sweaty clothes. If she’d been staying in Bangkok back then, she 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 her jewellery, she would have the funds to make some much needed improvements to this orphanage. It would be silly to throw such an opportunity away for the sake of pride.

‘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 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.

With a sigh, Nicole slipped her bare feet into a pair of black mules and made her way reluctantly to the door.

She heard him before she saw him, marching back and forth across the marble-floored foyer, his heavy footsteps echoing through the house. As Nicole crossed the carpeted landing which led to the curving staircase, she began picturing an overweight fellow in his fifties with a power complex. So the sight of a tall, dark-haired, well-built man in his mid-to-late thirties came as a surprise, as did the clothes he was wearing.

Nicole might have reached the stage when an expensive wardrobe had lost its appeal for her, but she still recognised top-quality clothes when she saw them. This man’s navy-blue suit was definitely not off-the-peg. Aside from the faint sheen on the material, which shouted a mohair blend, the single-breasted jacket was superbly tailored, with not a wrinkle where the sleeves met the presumably padded shoulders.

For surely they couldn’t be his real shoulders, Nicole thought a touch cynically as she started walking down the stairs. Men who wore suits like that were rarely renowned for their physical fitness.

David had looked extremely well built in all of his business suits. But he’d not been quite so impressive once he’d undressed.

Nicole grimaced. She was always doing that nowadays, finding things to criticise about her ex-fiancé. Yet once she’d thought him fantastic. More fool her!

Suddenly, the man downstairs stopped that infernal pacing and glanced up.

For the first time during the last four months, Nicole was grateful for something her stepfather had once given her—a modelling and deportment course which had also concentrated on self-control and discipline.

She’d never needed both of those things more than at the moment when this man’s eyes met hers.

Blue, they were. Not a bright or a brilliant blue, but an icy blue, about the same colour as his shirt.

It wasn’t the colour of his eyes which rattled her, however, but the intense dislike she glimpsed in their chilly depths.

For a split second her step faltered, but then she continued on down the stairs, smiling at him and pretending he wasn’t looking at her as if she was his worst enemy.

All the while she was wondering why he was so antagonistic towards her, as well as who he might be.

She’d presumed, when she’d first seen his expensive business suit, that he’d been sent from the bank that had repossessed the house. Now that she could see him better, however, she changed her mind on that score.

He didn’t look like a banker. His thick, wavy black hair was worn too long for that career, just reaching his collar at the back. There was also something decidedly unconservative about his roughly hewn features. If she wasn’t mistaken his nose had been broken at some stage. And there was the hint of a five-o’clock shadow around his strongly squared jaw line.

Put him in less elegant clothes, and one would have thought he did something physical for a living. Physical and dangerous.

A prize fighter, maybe. Or a pirate.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ she apologised politely as she reached the bottom step.

Russell almost laughed. She wasn’t sorry about anything.

Females like her thought the world was their oyster. Of course, being rich and beautiful was a powerful combination. Though possibly, now that her doting father’s financial situation had changed, she would have to rely more on her beauty.

It irked Russell that he found her just as attractive with her clothes on, though that image of her in the nude wasn’t far from his mind. It also irked him that she looked fantastic without any of the artifices that were rich bitches’ stock-in-trade.

Not a single scrap of make-up adorned her lovely face, not to mention her even more lovely green eyes.

Hadn’t he known they’d be beautiful?

Of course, they were her mother’s eyes.

He stared hard at her and tried to see what she’d inherited from her father, beside her natural air of self-containment.

‘And you are?’ she asked coolly as she stretched out her right hand towards him.

‘McClain,’ he ground out, steeling himself as he shook her hand. Touching her in any way, shape or form could be hazardous, so he kept any contact as brief as possible. ‘Russell McClain.’

‘That name rings a bell,’ she said, a delicate frown creasing her forehead. ‘Have we met before?’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think so,’ she mused aloud. ‘But…’ The frown abruptly disappeared, replaced by a smile which twisted Russell’s gut into a terrible knot. ‘I know who you are now,’ she said with a flash of recognition. ‘You’re the McClain on all those For Sale signs around Sydney. You’re McClain Real Estate.’

‘That’s me,’ he admitted.

‘So you’ve been hired to sell the house.’

‘No.’

She looked taken aback. ‘I don’t understand. If you’re not here as a real-estate agent, then why are you here?’

‘I’m here, Ms Power,’ he said, his mouth curving in anticipation of his moment of triumph, ‘not to sell this house, but to take possession of it. As of an hour ago, it’s mine, along with all its contents.’

Once again, he was denied satisfaction. Because she didn’t look devastated. Just surprised.

‘Goodness! That was quick. Did you get a bargain?’

‘I paid the market price,’ he said somewhat stiffly. Why wasn’t she more upset?

The answer was obvious: because she already knew about the bank’s repossession and probable fire-sale. Why? Because she was still in touch with her doting father.

‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘I would have thought the bank might have auctioned it. But no matter. My only concern is removing my personal things.’

‘Why didn’t you remove them before this?’ he asked abruptly.

‘I would have if I’d known the situation. But I didn’t. I’ve been overseas for the last few months. Although once Mum contacted me and told me what had happened, I flew back straight away. My plane got in first thing this morning. I honestly didn’t think it would cause any trouble if I came here to collect my things. I didn’t mean to stay long, but I was so wrecked after the flight that I couldn’t resist a sleep.’

‘I see,’ he bit out. Now he knew why she hadn’t been in the news lately. She’d been overseas. Probably staying in various playgrounds of the rich and famous: St Moritz, the French Riviera, maybe the Greek islands? Her skin had that warm, honey colour which indicated a life of leisure in the sun.

‘Look, it won’t take me too long to pack what I want,’ she went on hurriedly. ‘I promise I won’t take anything I shouldn’t. The household silver is safe, I can assure you,’ she finished with another of those gut-twisting smiles.

Damn it all, what was it about this creature which entranced him so?

He wanted to hate her, but he was finding it darned difficult.

Russell vowed to try harder.

‘You obviously still have a set of house keys,’ he pointed out sharply.

‘I promise to leave them behind. We could arrange a hiding place.’

‘I don’t think so, Ms Power. I’ll stay till you go. That way you can hand them to me personally.’

Her shrug showed the first trace of irritation. ‘If you insist.’

‘I insist.’

‘It could take me quite a while,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to contact a girlfriend and get her to bring over her car. I have a lot of clothes and only a couple of suitcases.’

‘That’s all right. I’ll wait.’

Her very pretty mouth tightened. ‘You’re being ridiculous, do you know that?’

‘I’m being careful.’

‘I only want what is rightfully mine.’

‘So do I. I’ve paid twenty million dollars for the privilege.’

‘Twenty million! Wow! And there I was thinking you were a greedy opportunist.’

Russell drew himself up to his full six feet three inches.

‘I don’t take advantage of other people’s misfortunes,’ he said, stung by her remark.

‘In that case you should appreciate my situation more,’ she said. ‘And be a little more accommodating. I mean, you’re not moving in here right this second, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Then what’s your problem?’ she threw at him, green eyes flashing. ‘Surely you don’t think I’m going to strip the place bare.’

‘I have no idea what you might do, Ms Power. I don’t know you.’

Her hands found her hips. ‘Then why do you dislike me so much?’

‘I don’t,’ he lied.

‘Huh! I can always tell when someone doesn’t like me, and you don’t like me, Mr McClain.’

‘You’re imagining things,’ he said.

‘If I am, then goodness knows how you got to be such a success at your job. I always thought real-estate salesmen were experts in charm. You seem to have left yours at the front door.’

Russell’s smile was wry. ‘Aah, but I’m not trying to sell you anything, Ms Power.’

‘Oh for pity’s sake, call me Nicole.’

‘If you insist.’

‘I insist.’ Her hands fell from her hips as an exasperated sigh escaped her lips. ‘Look, I appreciate you must have had a shock, finding someone in your new house, especially not knowing who I was. After all, you didn’t know it was me, did you?’

‘No,’ he replied, his mind once again going back to the sight of her in that shower. His body began recalling that sight, too.

Russell cleared his throat and did up his suit jacket. ‘I thought you were a squatter,’ he admitted.

‘And once you found out I wasn’t?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You still weren’t happy. When I came downstairs you glared at me like I was some kind of vermin.’

That’s because I wanted you, naked again, and under me. For hours on end.

I still do.

The discomfort of his ongoing arousal made Russell brutally aware that to stay in her provocative company any longer than necessary was masochistic in the extreme. He had to get out of here, and soon.

‘Now you really are imagining things,’ he said. ‘But you’re right,’ he added with one of those warm, winning smiles he reserved for his female clients. ‘I am being rather ridiculous about this. So please…take your time packing your things, and stay another night, if you need to. You can drop the keys in at the Bondi branch of McClain Real Estate any time tomorrow.’

She seemed stunned by his sudden turnaround.

Russell took her speechless moment as his cue to depart.

‘Goodbye, Ms Power,’ he said with a small nod of his head. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you.’

CHAPTER FIVE

‘I STILL don’t know what it was that I said or did which changed his mind,’ Nicole told Kara as they carried yet another load of clothes down to Kara’s car.

It was eleven o’clock the next morning, Nicole having taken up Russell McClain’s offer to stay another night.

‘He went from being hostile to helpful in one second flat,’ she went on. ‘And then he called meeting me a pleasure! I tell you, I’ve never been so bamboozled in all my life.’

Kara gave her a knowing look. ‘You fancied him, didn’t you?’

‘You have to be joking! He was the rudest man I’ve ever met.’

‘Yep,’ Kara said, totally unruffled by her best friend’s denial. ‘You fancied him.’

Nicole sighed. ‘I shouldn’t have.’ But Kara was right. Underneath the natural antagonism she felt at the way he’d treated her, she had fancied him.

Maybe she had a secret yen for the dark and dangerous type. Or for men with cold eyes and a personality to match.

But now Nicole realised that she hadn’t been fooled by his switch from chilly to charming, just confused.

‘Was he very good-looking?’ Kara asked as they trudged upstairs again for the umpteenth time.

‘You wouldn’t have thought so,’ she told her petite and slightly plump friend, who always went for the pretty-boy type. ‘Too tall and too macho for you.’

‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Russell McClain. Of McClain Real Estate fame.’

‘Never heard of him. But you know me—I have absolutely no interest in business.’

An understatement. Kara’s family were old money and high society. Kara didn’t have to work, so she didn’t. Nicole could now see that her best friend’s charity-luncheon, party-going lifestyle was extremely shallow, as hers had once been. But she still loved Kara, who had a kind heart and would never deliberately hurt anyone.

Unlike other people with money…

‘This McClain guy has obviously done very well for himself,’ Kara said. ‘You did say he paid twenty million for this place, didn’t you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You should have been nicer to him.’

‘I was nice to him,’ Nicole protested. ‘Till he made it perfectly clear that he didn’t like me for whatever weird and wonderful reason. Oh, what am I doing, taking all these clothes with me?’ she said once they reached the walk-in wardrobe again. ‘I know I said I wasn’t going to leave a single thing behind for that man to throw away, but this is insane. It’s not as though I would wear most of them any more. Especially these,’ she said as she scooped up an armful of evening gowns.

‘I can’t understand why not,’ Kara said, taking the last few dresses down from the racks. ‘They’re all utterly gorgeous. I think you’ve gone a bit far with this new social conscience of yours, Nickie darling. You don’t have to dress like a tramp to do good in this world. And you don’t have to sell all your lovely jewellery, which arrived first thing this morning, by the way. You must know you won’t get even half what it’s worth. What you need,’ she went on as the girls made their way downstairs again, ‘is a seriously rich husband who’ll give you an unlimited credit card, then leave you alone to do whatever you like with his money.’

‘While he does whatever he likes,’ Nicole pointed out archly. ‘The last man on earth I would ever marry is a seriously rich man.’

‘Megan is.’

Nicole stopped just inside the front door to throw her friend a puzzled glance. ‘Megan who?’

‘Megan Donnelly. Surely you remember her. She was in the class below ours at school.’

Kara and Nicole had attended a private girls’ boarding-school which only the very well-heeled could afford.

‘I can’t put a face to the name,’ Nicole said, frowning.

‘She was a pretty brunette with big brown eyes. But terribly shy.’

‘Oh, yes, I remember her now. She was a good artist, wasn’t she? Used to do all the school posters.’

‘That’s the one.’

‘Who’s she marrying?’

‘James Logan.’

Nicole’s eyebrows arched in surprise. James Logan was the high-profile owner of Images, Sydney’s biggest advertising and management agency. She’d met him socially a few times, and, whilst he was extremely good-looking with a highly polished persona, there was something about him which she didn’t like.

‘He’s been married before, hasn’t he?’ she said on their way down to the front steps. ‘To that model, Jackie something-or-other. Golly, I’m bad with names.’

‘Jackie Foster. Yes, they were divorced a couple of years back. He must have given her a huge settlement because she doesn’t work as a model any more. Rumour has it she bought a house in Acapulco and is living there with her new partner. Women like her are never alone for long,’ Kara finished up with a flash of uncharacteristic cynicism.

‘Or men like him,’ Nicole replied just as drily.

‘True.’

‘I wonder what he sees in Megan,’ Nicole said as she laid the evening gowns on top of the huge pile on the back seat.

‘Who knows?’ Kara replied with an airy shrug. ‘But he isn’t called the makeover man for nothing. I imagine it will be a very different Megan who swans down the aisle on Saturday afternoon. I can’t wait to see what she looks like. That’s everything, isn’t it?’ she said, and slammed the hatchback door shut.

‘I should hope so. How come you got an invitation to Megan’s wedding, by the way?’ Nicole asked. ‘I mean, it’s not as though you and she were close friends.’

‘Her mum and my mum play bridge together. Would you like to come? I know for a fact that there have been a couple of last minute drop-outs, which annoyed the bride’s mother no end. I could easily get you an invite. It’s black-tie, but that won’t be a problem for you, not with your wardrobe.’

‘I don’t think so, Kara.’

‘Don’t be silly. My whole family’s going. You’ll still be staying at our place on Saturday, won’t you?’

Nicole didn’t want to impose on Kara’s parents, or stay in Sydney any longer than necessary. But it would take time to sell her jewellery, if she wanted a fair price.

Thinking of selling her jewellery gave her another idea. Why not sell off most of her totally useless wardrobe as well? There was an up-market second-hand shop in Double Bay that bought designer clothes and accessories, especially items which hadn’t been worn, or worn hardly at all. Nicole’s mother had been a regular customer over the years, having developed the snobbish and almost obscene habit of not wearing any outfit more than twice.

‘Well?’ Kara piped up. ‘Does that face mean a yes or a no?’

‘It’s a yes,’ Nicole said. ‘If you’re sure your mum doesn’t mind.’ When she’d rung Kara this morning, it had worried her that Kara’s family might not want to have anything further to do with her, now that she was the daughter of a runaway bankrupt who’d clearly left a lot of angry people behind.

‘Will you stop being so silly? Of course Mum won’t mind. She thinks you’re terrific. That settles it, then. You’re coming with us to Megan’s wedding. If nothing else, you’ll get a good feed, which you look like you need. And who knows? You might meet some gorgeous guy who’ll sweep you off your feet and keep you in Sydney for a while. I’ve really missed you, you know, sweetie. Life hasn’t been the same without your joie de vivre.’

Nicole pulled a face. ‘I lost my joie de vivre back in June.’

‘Then it’s high time you found it again. At Megan’s wedding.’

‘I’m not sure I’m in the mood for a wedding. But I’ll go, provided you do me one favour.’

‘What’s that?’

‘After we lock up here, I want you drive to the Bondi branch of McClain Real Estate.’

‘What for?’

‘I’ve been ordered to drop off my set of house keys there. But I don’t want to go in myself. Would you do it for me? I don’t want to run the risk of seeing that man ever again!’

‘Coward,’ Kara said with a cheeky grin…

‘You needn’t have worried,’ Kara told her half an hour later. ‘He wasn’t there. He’s out playing golf. But the receptionist said she’d been instructed to text him as soon as the keys arrived.’

‘And did she?’

‘Oh, yes. Straight away.’

‘I can imagine. The man’s a natural bully. Was there any message back?’

‘I didn’t wait to find out.’

‘Oh…’

‘For a girl who didn’t want to see him again, you seem very interested in his movements.’

‘I just don’t want him getting back to me about anything.’

‘How can he, when he doesn’t have a clue where you’re staying in Sydney? You didn’t give him my name or address, did you?’

‘No.’

‘Then you don’t have to worry. The odds of your running into Mr Bully McClain again in a city of over four million people are next to zero!’

Russell read the text message without any visible reaction. But he had to make a conscious effort to relax his stomach muscles as he and Hugh walked to the next tee.

He’d been enjoying their golf game so far, finding it a pleasant distraction from thinking about the day before and his frustrating run-in with Nicole Power. He was also one shot in front, which was rare. Although a naturally talented sportsman, Russell didn’t play enough to seriously challenge Hugh, who spent more time on a golf course than he did behind his desk.

Russell wished now that he hadn’t asked Barbara to text him when those wretched keys arrived. All it had done was bring back disturbing memories—and even more disturbing desires.

Still, he’d been wise to get out of that house when he had yesterday. Even so, he’d had a dreadfully restless night, his male hormones giving him hell. Now they were back on high alert again.

Under the circumstances, he might be forced to pick up some starry-eyed female at James’s wedding this weekend. He couldn’t see himself lasting too many more nights without having some extremely satisfying sex.

Meanwhile, he had a golf game to win.

‘You do realise Jimmy-boy doesn’t love Megan,’ Hugh said just as Russell lined up for his drive on the tenth hole. ‘He’s only marrying her because she’s pregnant.’

Russell stopped his backswing in time, shooting Hugh a exasperated glance. ‘Are you trying to put me off? Because if you are, you’ve chosen the wrong tack. I already know all that.’

Russell should have anticipated Hugh’s disapproval. The three of them had been mates since school and knew each other very well. Of the trio, Hugh was by far the softest and most romantic in nature, despite having garnered a well-deserved reputation over the last decade as one of Sydney’s most notorious playboys.

‘He actually admitted it, did he?’ Hugh said, indignation in his voice.

‘No. He didn’t have to. Look, Hugh, we both know James is still hung up on Jackie. He’s marrying Megan to get what she couldn’t give him: a family.’

Russell had no problem with that. Sometimes, a man had to do what a man had to do.

‘He is overseas on business, isn’t he?’ Hugh asked with a scowl on his face. ‘He’s not still seeing that wretched woman, I hope.’

Hugh had not liked Jackie. He’d thought her a gold-digger. Hugh claimed to be able to spot members of that species at first sight, his position as only son and heir to the Parkinson Media fortune making him an expert on the subject.

‘Not that I know of,’ Russell said. But he wouldn’t put it past his friend. Since his divorce, James had developed a ruthless streak which surpassed even his.

James’s courtship of Megan had been a classic example. He’d pursued the girl with a passion which had even fooled Russell for a while. But soon after their engagement had been announced six short weeks ago—the day after Megan told him she was pregnant—James had done a flit overseas, minus his adoring and unsuspecting fiancée. He wasn’t due to return till tomorrow, the day before his wedding.

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