Billionaire's Pursuit of Love: Destiny Romance (16 page)

Daniel worked quietly on completing the edge of the puzzle. She knew he was still processing the paternity bombshell she’d landed on him a few hours earlier. Whatever happened, Daniel deserved to know who his father was and she could no longer keep it secret.

Something big smashed into the side of the cabin and the building shuddered. Sarah’s muscles coiled tighter. The headache that had built since Jemma’s call throbbed more painfully through her skull.

The door banged open, bringing wind, rain and debris swirling into the room. The candles sputtered out. Sarah jumped from her seat and rushed into the darkness to secure the door. Someone stepped into the room, torchlight silhouetting his shape.

‘Tino?’ But the person was too tall for Tino. ‘Blake!’ Her heart leapt in her chest. She stopped suddenly, as if she’d smacked into a solid wall. ‘What . . .?’

Blake shut the door, stepped in close, placed his hands on either side of her face and kissed her. Kissed her like a man starved. He kissed her cheeks, her forehead and claimed her mouth once more. Joy and confusion fought to dominate her mind. But relief and love dashed any rational thought from becoming coherent. He pulled back, leaving her breathless.

‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I love you and if living at the Sanctuary is what I have to do to be with you and Daniel, then I’ll never leave.’ He kissed her again, saying ‘forever’ with every touch.

He enclosed his arms about her and pulled her to his chest. She clung to him. Unable to think, only able to feel. Feel the man she’d loved so desperately for so long. ‘But . . .’

He placed a finger on her lips. ‘No buts. No secrets. No excuses,’ he said. ‘Nothing is more important to me than you and Daniel.’

‘Dad?’

Blake’s heart ran a marathon in less than a second. Daniel stepped into the light of the torch.

‘Dad,’ Daniel said again, so quietly Blake hardly heard his son against the sound of the storm. That short little word, so sweet. It rang through his ears and raced straight to his soul.

‘You told him?’ Blake whispered to Sarah. He held his breath. He needed confirmation. To make sure he could give his heart to her, to Daniel. That this wouldn’t suddenly be snatched away.

She met his searching gaze. ‘Everything. Especially the part about me being an idiot.’

Blake reached for his son and drew him to his chest. Elation washed through him like a warm summer breeze.

‘I understand about the report . . . your investigation.’ Sarah’s voice held a begging quality. ‘I’m so sorry. If the situation had been reversed, I’d have done anything —’

‘Stop.’ He silenced her with another kiss. ‘That’s all over now.’ He tugged Sarah into a three-way family embrace. ‘I’ll never let anything come between us again. Never. We’re a family.’

A family. The word filled his body with a joy he’d never known. This was a real life. Not just a work life. Not just a half-life. A full life. A real life. This was a moment he knew he’d want to relive again and again and again. The moment that marked the time when his life truly had begun. Life with his wonderful, remarkable family.

Six months later

The doorbell rang. Sarah threw chopped chives on top of the potato salad and wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I’ll get it,’ she called. She walked down the hall of their new house and opened the door. Robert shot past her.

‘Come in,’ Sarah said to Jemma and the rest of her family. ‘The others are already here.’

Jemma lingered in the entry hall. ‘It’s fantastic,’ she said, turning round to survey the newly painted interior of the Georgian mansion.

Sarah had loved searching for a suitable house. In the end Daniel had dictated the most critical selection criteria: it had to be near Robert’s house. Her own preference had been simple. All she wanted was an office with a view. Her spacious office overlooked Richmond Park and Daniel had an acre of land to explore and make his own. All this within walking distance of Robert’s house.

‘Wait till you see the yard. Blake mowed a cricket pitch this morning.’

Jemma stared at her wide-eyed. ‘Blake mowed?’

‘And we planted a vegetable garden last weekend.’

Jemma threw Sarah a look that said,
okay, now you’re just messing with me
.

‘No, really,’ Sarah said, laughing.

‘What have you done to my brother?’

Sarah simply smiled. What had they done to each other? They’d both lived blinkered half-lives. Half-lives with good intentions, but half-lives all the same. Blake had returned her to the world. Now she knew she couldn’t shut herself away and hope for the best. She needed others to continue the Sanctuary’s vital work; the media, environmentally curious children, even those rich and powerful people in their high-rise towers. They say it takes a village to raise a child, but it takes a whole world to save a species.

As for Blake, she’d shown him a way back from his work obsession. She hadn’t quite put him through a twelve-step program, but together they’d placed boundaries around their family time. He’d yet to break them. Sometimes he took days off just for the hell of it.

Jemma walked past the dining room, where the table was set for a crowd. ‘Well, well, haven’t things changed,’ she commented with raised eyebrows.

Sarah grinned. She didn’t need to hide from Blake’s family any more. It had taken her a little while to adjust, but now she revelled in her extended family, enjoying the love that had been heaped upon her and Daniel.

‘When are you off to Madagascar?’ Jemma asked.

‘Two weeks.’

Jemma gave her a quick hug. ‘That’s so brilliant.’

Brilliant and completely nerve-racking. After the launch of
Orangutan Food Fight
, a number of environmental and wildlife magazines had been in touch. With Blake’s encouragement she’d pitched some story ideas.
Global Wildlife
magazine had commissioned a photo story on the silky sifaka, an endangered primate found only on the island of Madagascar. She’d never completed a journalistic commission before. But as Blake had said, she’d never launched a computer game before, or hosted an international media trip into the jungle – and look how those things had turned out.

‘I’ve got the barbecue going,’ Blake said, wandering into the room.

Jemma’s mouth fell open in exaggerated mock surprise.

‘As I live and breathe, I never thought I’d see this day. It’s Saturday. You’re home with your family and you’re lighting barbecues.’

Blake put his arm about Sarah’s waist and kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Aren’t I wonderful?’

His phone rang. Blake pulled it from his pocket. Without looking at the display, he turned it off and placed it on a side table.

‘Oh, I forgot to tell you,’ Blake said. ‘Tino rang and said the visitors’ centre’s launch is now 17 August.’

‘Excellent. We should book our flight soon then.’ The huge injection of capital from
Food Fight
meant so much had been achieved. Blake had convened a Sanctuary Advisory Board and invited some of Britain’s top businesspeople to join. The visitors’ centre had been one of the amazing ideas developed, in part funded by that group.

Daniel rushed into the room. ‘Dad! Dad! Come on. It’s your bowl.’

Blake grabbed Sarah’s hand. ‘I think it’s about time we taught Mum the game.’

‘Yeah!’ Daniel said.

Sarah allowed her husband and son to lead her into the English sunshine. Blake’s sisters and their families lounged around the garden or stood chatting near the freshly mown cricket pitch. Daniel raced off to retrieve the ball.

She squeezed Blake’s hand.

‘What?’ he asked, turning his beautiful eyes to hers.

She stood on tippy toes and kissed him lightly on his gorgeous mouth.

‘Nothing,’ Sarah said. ‘Everything’s perfect.’

Once again a big thank you to the wonderful team at Destiny Romance, Carol George, Sarah Fairhall and Alexandra Nahlous. Working with you is such a joy.

Thanks to Beverley, David, Emma and Lee, who read each draft and get such a kick out of my hilarious typos. My heroine, Sarah nearly ate a chocolate mouse in this novel.

I’m deeply grateful to so many members of Romance Writers of Australia for their encouragement and advice. I’d like to thank a couple of authors who have been particularly supportive since the beginning of this writing adventure. So, sending my heartfelt thanks to Rachel Bailey, Amy Andrews, Bronwyn Jameson, Melanie Milburne, Louise Reynolds and Nikki Logan.

And as always, to Rose, you are and always will be my writing inspiration.

Jennifer is the author of contemporary romance novels often set in exotic destinations. She grew up in the suburbs of Brisbane surrounded by bush. When she was 11, her family moved to South America, an adventure that gave Jennifer a lifetime love of travel and exotic international locations.

Married with two children, Jennifer has a graduate business degree and completed an MBA where she was presented with the Rupert Murdoch Fellowship.  

Jennifer spent the first 20 years of her career in corporate marketing and management consulting roles, but began writing romance when she moved with her family to Byron Bay in Northern NSW, seven years ago.

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First published by Penguin Books Australia 2014

Copyright © Jennifer St George, 2014

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ISBN: 978-1-74348-497-5

Am I naked?

Each drop of blood in Felicity Carter’s body felt as if it had crystallised into painful, icy shards. She slid her shaky hands down her body. No cosy cotton. No singlet top. No drawstring trousers. Just skin.

She opened her eyes but her brain didn’t cooperate. Nothing came into focus. Her surroundings looked as though they’d been drawn by a child on her first day at school: blurry, colour bleeding outside the lines. As she sat up, the Battle of Waterloo exploded in her head, infantry stabbing her temples, cavalry riding down the back of her neck, heavy weapons stationed in her forehead, firing round after round after round.

It felt as if the filth of battle had landed in her eyes. All the mud, the dust, the grit. Pinching her eyes with her thumb and forefinger, she massaged her eyelids. Blinked hard.

The harsh Australian sunlight penetrated the cracks in the shutters. In the half-light, she could see a huge, luxurious bedroom. Her bedroom wall didn’t feature original art; nor did her furniture come from an opulent antiques store. Her room didn’t warrant a spread in
Vogue Living
magazine. She yanked the sheet up to her chin. Her bed didn’t boast Egyptian cotton sheets with a thread count of one thousand.

Her heart joined her head, thudding like a shotgun. Her stomach twisted as each blast hammered straight into her abdomen. Where was she?

A shimmer hooked her attention. There on the back of the door hung her clothes. Her knickers and bra dangled from a hook, out of place and ominous. Her mouth dried horribly. She couldn’t swallow.

She closed her eyes to block the sight. She knew she hadn’t hung her Saturday-night outfit on the back of some strange door. Horrible red images danced across her lids, monstrous and grotesque, playing out a nightmare in her mind’s eye.

Fragmented memories of the previous night filtered through the fog.

University graduation – brilliant.

Dinner with girlfriends – fun.

Nightclub – horrible.

Wine – her stomach performed an agonising flip. Sour acid scorched her throat.

Then – nothing. No more images emerged.

Strains of theatrical music lilted from somewhere beyond the room. She jumped out of bed. Her head screamed. Grabbing her clothes, she dressed quickly, scrabbling and fumbling. The garments reeked. Musty: a combination of smoke and perfume, stale but still pungent. Nausea gripped her stomach. She gripped the doorjamb. Fear gripped her heart.

Why had she woken up naked, in a strange bedroom, with no recollection of the previous night?

The mirror on the chest of drawers showed her more horror. Her make-up had caked into a mask like the Joker from
Batman
. Her long blond hair was a tangled mess, resembling a mop ready for the bin. Her green eyes were dull and weary.

Her gaze drifted back to the bed. Lying discarded was a pair of men’s pyjama bottoms. The other pillow was dented, the sheets in disarray. She jammed her fist over her mouth.

I slept with someone?

A terrible shiver shot up her spine. Multiple scenarios sliced through her mind. None of them included her receiving a medal for morality and decency.

Time to leave, fast.

She grabbed her shoes and opened the door. She could see a vast, descending staircase at the far end of a long hall. She stole towards it. Every few steps she paused to listen for anything distinct above the increasing volume of a Brandenburg concerto.

The clatter of plates and the smell of bacon hit her simultaneously. The delicious aroma usually made her mouth water; today the smell invaded her nostrils, making her stomach churn.

Carrying her designer heels, she inched down the stairs. Two cherubic children smiled at her from a photograph in a large baroque frame on the wall. As she inched past, the innocent little faces judged her every move.

As she continued down the stairs, her eyes followed a progression of photographs. Snapshots of children growing up. In the last one she guessed the children were about four and six.

Her foot struck something hard. A toy train rolled step by dreadful step down the carpeted stairs towards the hard mottled-marble floor of an expansive entrance hall.

The adrenaline pooled in her extremities. Her hands flew out, silently imploring the runaway train to halt. Her heart struck four beats to every roll of the toy before the engine tumbled to the final carpeted step, tilted, shuddered and stopped.

She drew in a long, slow breath and continued down the stairs, her bare feet silent on the lush, pale carpet. She tiptoed across the cold marble. Reached for the door.

‘Morning.’ One word, delivered without a hint of surprise at discovering a barefoot stranger sneaking through his entry hall. It conveyed the confidence of a man who knew her. Knew a lot about her. Knew he wanted something special from her.

She swung like a weathervane blasted by a ferocious arctic wind. A man stood dominating the massive living room, sporting only a pair of board shorts. Drops of water slipped down his olive skin. She couldn’t help following the path of one glistening drop. His dark hair was damp. His eyes, as black and reflective as hematite crystal, searched her face; a quick flick down her body then back to her eyes.

‘Sorry, just been for a swim,’ he said. He took a sip from his coffee mug.’Refreshing when you haven’t had much sleep. And we both know how that feels, right?’ His all-knowing tone, elevated brow and innuendo-laced words forced her mouth open and her eyes wide.

Her brain screamed
run, run, run
. But she stood, staring. Desperate to leave . . . but she had to know. Why was she here? How did she get here? And where the hell was here?

‘Coffee?’

It sounded more like a challenge than an invitation. A challenge to which she didn’t know the rules. His thoughts certainly weren’t on caffeinated beverages.

‘Ah, no.’ Her voice sounded scratchy, as if she had a particular taste for single malt.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘At least you could stay for coffee. That was quite a performance.’

She knew from his expression he was reliving an experience she’d clearly been part of.

A fuzzy image popped into her brain.

She’d been naked.

He’d been watching.

They’d been in that bedroom.

I must have slept with him.

Her heart beat to the mantra –
shame, shame, shame
. Mortification crawled up her back and settled like an ill-fitting mantle. She’d known herself for twenty-five years and yet today she stood in the skin of some slutty stranger.

He walked to her and reached for her hand. ‘I’m Damon. And you are?’

Out of here.

She stepped back and tripped on another kid’s toy, landing heavily on her butt. Everything crashed in at once – the classical music, the splendour of the house, the powerful man coming towards her, the ball of angst bigger than an inflatable pool toy that twisted her stomach. She scrambled to her feet.

‘Look, I don’t know how I got here. I don’t know who you are and I’m —’ She turned and bolted for the door. The music crescendoed as though encouraging her flight.

‘Wait.’ The mocking tone had vanished. The concern in his voice checked her for a moment. ‘Please. Come and sit down. I don’t usually have strange women sleep over without at least giving me their names.’

She yanked open the door.

‘Stop,’ he said. ‘I haven’t given you any money.’

She turned and stared. Her eyes strained from their sockets. ‘You want to . . . pay me?’ Words fired through her brain –
prostitute, streetwalker, whore
. She stumbled out the door into the blinding sunlight. She fled down the long manicured path to the street. The gravel scratched her bare feet.

‘Wait,’ the mystery man, Damon, called. ‘You haven’t got . . .’

Felicity heard no more. She ran blindly down the street. Away from this bacon-cooking, coffee-making hot guy, in his mansion, offering breakfast and who knew what else.

She checked behind her. He didn’t appear to be following. Panting, she stopped, bent her head and put her hands on her knees. Sweat trickled down her back.

How had this happened? How could she have compromised herself so completely?

Straightening, she tried to find her bearings. The smell of the sea spiced the air. She must be near the bay.

She roamed down the wide, leafy streets. Each block boasted a mansion with expensive European cars in the driveways, a public statement of the household’s extravagant annual income. She came to a familiar boulevard and the sparkling waters of Port Phillip Bay. She realised she was in Brighton, one of Melbourne’s most affluent suburbs. She ran across the street and hailed a cab.

‘Where to?’ the cabby asked.

‘Port Melbourne.’ She pulled open the door, but she didn’t get in.

‘Something wrong, love?’ the driver asked.

Her handbag. She didn’t have it. She looked around as if it would magically appear. She had no money. She patted her pockets. Nothing.

‘Ah, no. I’ve decided to walk. Sorry.’ She slammed the door.

The cabby shot her an irritated look and disappeared into the traffic.

Stranded.

She raised her eyes to the distant soaring span of the West Gate Bridge, the direction of her home. Great. Nothing like a ten-kilometre walk in the Australian summer heat when you’ve spent the night learning a new trade in prostitution.

Damon stood transfixed in the doorway. The beautiful stranger who’d crashed into his life had vanished from it just as fast. The mass of long, blond hair streamed out behind her as she ran. Small, perfectly formed and hot. Damn hot. A stab of desire shot through his body.

And those eyes – huge and green and beckoning. As soon as he’d seen her, he’d been bewitched. He must have been, to have done such a reckless thing. Bringing home a stranger. What had he been thinking?

He’d had high hopes for this morning after their alluring interlude. He considered sprinting down the street after her but thought better of it. Might cause a scene. His neighbours were notorious ‘curtain twitchers’. He didn’t care what they thought of him, but he didn’t want to cause his mystery girl any more trauma than he obviously had.

He leant on the doorjamb. His unidentified guest had been electrifying and mysterious. An interesting distraction from his usual Saturday night.

He noticed a number of his neighbours had Australian flags hanging from their houses.

Of course. Australia Day.

A family barbecue had been planned for the afternoon.

After scanning the street one last time, he reluctantly closed the door.

He shouldn’t go down that road again, anyway. That road only offered disappointment, disillusionment, and danger.

Early-morning light filled the bathroom. Felicity scrutinised herself in her full-length mirror. Sharp suit and killer heels. Serious hair and professional make-up. Designer briefcase and a steely attitude. Very different from the bedraggled mess of yesterday, when she dug her spare key from the ficus pot plant and stumbled through the front door sweaty and parched.

She nodded to her image. She’d land this job today.

She ran downstairs to the front hall, and the bare sideboard was an instant reminder of the
nox horribilis
. No handbag.

Her stomach muscles spasmed. The slim veneer of calm evaporated. Scurrying around the house, she found enough change for the tram and bolted out the door.

Usually, the journey from her Port Melbourne home to the city only took a pleasant fifteen minutes. Today the tram hummed a funereal tune.
Your efforts will be wasted. Your father will be found guilty. And he will die in jail.

At the top of Collins Street she jumped out at her stop. The Read Holt Fullbright building loomed ahead. She wondered if the partners of the law firm had decided on such a grand edifice to intimidate the opposition.

A few minutes later, she walked from the lift into a vast marble reception on the twenty-seventh floor. A large desk stood in the centre of the room. Immaculately groomed and with a cool air, the receptionist raised her head. Felicity affected a brilliant wouldn’t-I-be-great-for-this-firm smile.

‘Hi, I’m Felicity Carter. I have an interview today.’

‘Hi, Felicity. They’re waiting for you,’ the receptionist said in a professional tone that hinted at years of impeccable training and experience. ‘Follow me.’

They walked through a heavy swing door into the inner sanctum of Read Holt Fullbright and down a long corridor. Felicity could feel the industry of the place. To Australia’s well-heeled defendants, it said
the best money can buy
. To the director of public prosecutions, it sneered
chalk up another loss
.

At the end of the corridor, the receptionist knocked quietly on a door and entered a bright conference room. Looking past her through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Felicity glimpsed the sparkling bay in the distance.

‘Morning,’ the receptionist said. ‘This is Felicity Carter. Felicity, if you would like to take a seat here?’

A massive boardroom table filled the room. Three well-dressed men stood.

Adrenaline smashed into Felicity’s bloodstream like the slash of a whip. Her briefcase slipped from her hand. She blinked hard, begging her eyes to clear.

But there was no mistake. There he stood, at the head of the table.

The Adulterer.

The Cheat.

The Bastard.