Taken By The Maverick Millionaire

From her desk at the Sydney Clarion’s newsroom, Cate Summerfield could see the Russell yacht, its flags at half-mast, embarked on a graceful honour lap of Sydney Harbour.

‘Just look at that,’ Cate glowered, narrowing her green eyes. ‘It’s probably worth enough to feed Africa for a decade.’

The schooner bowed to the swell, its white sails billowing against the glittering blue. It had been reported that Tom Russell had outfitted the luxury vessel into a floating hospital, so the waves could lull his dying father to sleep on the days he could find no rest.

It was a far cry from the care Cate could afford for her darling gran. The frail souls at the Autumn Leaves Nursing Home counted themselves lucky even to have beds to rest their aching old bones in. The nurses didn’t even have time to feed the helpless ones. Patients like Gran, who was on the waiting list for heart surgery, had to rely on their relatives to come in and help them eat their evening meals. It was probably that cold reality that had spurred Cate to be unusually terse in the obituary she’d written for the media mogul.

She’d done thorough research, digging through the archives of all the rival news chains—Russell’s own, even the powerful Wests. Conscientious in her attempts to achieve balance, she hadn’t shrunk from quoting some of his harshest critics, including a choice selection of the epithets his enemies had used to flay him. The piece was her best so far, in her modest opinion. Honest, she’d judged it, though Marge on the neighbouring desk had called it ‘biting.’

She’d held her breath after she’d filed it, but it had made it past the legal hawks and gone to press. Afterwards people in the newsroom seemed to look at her differently. Steve Wilson, the Clarion’s star reporter and resident heartbreaker, had stopped referring to her as Blondie for at least a day, and Harry, their Chief of Staff, whom she’d never seen show any emotion in two years, had raised his eyebrows and whistled.

Still, even a work of art wouldn’t win her a spot on the front page. That would go to the journalist lucky enough to cover the memorial service.

Cate turned her gaze to the newsroom. Though early, already above the ceaseless background buzz of the television monitors the room was alive with the tapping of keyboards, and the constant ringing of the phones.

‘The sharks are circling.’ Marge winked towards a little cluster of glory chasers gathered around the news desk.

The news journalists were lounging about, swapping languid yarns, but everyone knew what they were after. They were waiting for Harry to announce whom he’d chosen to represent the Clarion at the memorial, salivating for the chance to corner Tom Russell.

Cate’s money was on Steve, who boasted more contacts than Telstra. Even though she’d been engaged to him for a stressful forty-seven days, and knew how clever he was, to her mind Barbara, whose lovely face and sleek hair accompanied a razor-sharp brain, or tough, experienced Toni, who chewed politicians for breakfast, were equally deserving. They all had a special sort of gloss that had nothing to do with conditioning treatments.

She sighed and pushed a long, wavy strand of her pale hair back behind one ear.

If—when—she joined that elite group, she’d write stories that mattered. She’d build up a readership, renegotiate her salary. Make it big with a few stories, earn some respect…

Cate grimaced. Dream on, girl. The Clarion was renowned for its fearless battle against corruption in high places. It had taken down many a politician or dishonest businessman, but she couldn’t take personal credit for any of them. In her two years there, she’d worked on everything except the columns that counted.

On the night their engagement had crashed, among other vicious remarks Steve Wilson had made about what he called her obsessive concern for Gran, he’d sneered that she was too soft to make a top news reporter. Even Marge said she tried too hard to think the best of people.

They couldn’t be more wrong. Underneath Cate’s annoying curls, pale skin and the soft curves bequeathed to her by some Scandinavian ancestor, she was tougher than she looked. Long before Gran’s heart emergency, she’d been dying to rip open the fat underbelly of the privileged rich and expose them with her brave, incisive words.

All she needed was a chance to report on someone living. Dead people, even dead media legends, didn’t generate scoops. Scoops went with live players. And if she was ever to get off Obituaries, a scoop was what she had to have.

She leafed back through her photo file to a rare shot she’d unearthed of Tom Russell. Now, he was alive. At thirty-four, his harsh, sardonic face with his glinting grey eyes, arrogant cheekbones and firm, masculine chin, was stirring in its vitality.

‘Did you manage to dig any dirt on him?’ Marge said, peering over at the image, her lively brown eyes alight with interest.

Cate hesitated. She’d dug up heaps on old Marcus. It had been easy.

As a young woman, Gran had worked for one of his big dailies, before he’d sacked her and some of her colleagues in order to turn his respected newspaper into a trashy tabloid. Everything he’d done since had only reinforced Gran’s anger with him.

Gran had never missed an opportunity to point out the evils of his ways. Even in Cate’s eyes he’d done nothing of value with his wealth, except to indulge his own extravagant tastes and flamboyant lifestyle.

His son, though, was a more elusive target. Tom Russell had spent a number of years in England, running the Russell media enterprises there. Gran had never had much to say about him.

‘I only found what everyone knows,’ she said, handing Marge the photo. ‘You know, about how he came back here to take over a few years ago when the old man first took ill.

The ruthless strategic war he’s waging against Olivia West’s chain—’

‘Not to mention the ruthless strategic war he’s waging against us.’

Cate shrugged. ‘Well, he is a businessman. It’s strange, though. I couldn’t find a thing about his private life, except the tragedy, of course. Nothing at all about girlfriends.’

The truth was that, since the death of Tom Russell’s wife in a car accident in England a couple of years ago, very little of a personal nature was ever reported about him. He was never seen at the big society bashes or charity dos.

‘His wife was somebody famous, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she a scientist?’

Marge nodded. ‘Medical research. Some genetic studies, I think.’

‘Well, she doesn’t sound like the usual trophy wife men like him seem to go for. Are you sure there would be dirt?’ Cate met Marge’s cheerful, cynical gaze. ‘Maybe Tom isn’t over her death.’

‘Oh,’ Marge scoffed, ‘give me a break. She died two years ago, but I’m sure I heard they were separated long before that. Anyway, a man like him knows how to move on. You can’t be that rich without being a villain, one way or another. He’s a man. And a very attractive one.’ She gave the photo a tap. ‘Think of the world he’s been brought up in. He’d have women by the boatload.’ She frowned at Cate. ‘Now, don’t you start going soft on him. I thought you said you’d given up being sucked in by heartless machos.’

‘I have.’ Cate’s gaze was uncontrollably drawn towards the vicinity of the desk. She was over Steve. She really was. It was hard to believe she’d ever had to creep to the ladies’room to cry when he’d flaunted his girlfriends at the Friday after-work pub session, though, humiliatingly, on the rare occasions she was now able to join them, everyone still looked at her to see how she was taking it.

‘I definitely am,’ she assured Marge. ‘But you still have to give people the benefit of the doubt. Just because Tom looks like that…and has that unfortunate background…’

Unmoved by the counsel for the defence, Marge shook her head. ‘Sorry. It doesn’t look good for him.’

Cate frowned. At twenty-five she was hardly naïve,especially after her brief, soul-destroying plunge into lunacy with Steve, and she had to acknowledge the likelihood of Marge’s words. Tom Russell had been brought up by a father whose endless stream of actresses and models must have caused serious pain for his succession of wives.

She studied the photo. Was he as callous as Gran had so often described his old man? Those cool grey eyes roused an unquiet little buzz in her insides. Her gaze shifted to his mouth. A lot could be deduced from a man’s mouth. His had been chiselled in severe lines and was wide and firm, the upper lip straight, the lower one very slightly fuller. There was no softness there, though more than a suggestion of irony. He didn’t need to spike up his hair to make himself look taller.

She turned the photo sideways. Sexy, from all angles.

‘Cate.’

She started. It took a second for it to filter through to her that Harry had come out of his huddle with the news editor, and seemed to be looking her way.

Her? He wanted her?

She pushed her chair back and rose to stroll the length of the newsroom, vaguely conscious of Steve’s, Toni’s and Barbara’s startled gazes whipping around to stare.

At the desk the others looked up to watch and listen while Harry’s sharp eyes appraised her from beneath his bushy brows.

‘Your Russell obit wasn’t all that bad,’ he stated.

She gazed at Harry through a mystified fog. Were there bells ringing somewhere? Then pleasure, sharp and furious, streamed through her to her toes. ‘Oh. Oh, thank you. Thanks, Chief. Thanks very much,’ she stammered, feeling her ears turn pink.

She continued to babble her thanks, but Harry ignored her.

‘See what you can make of the memorial,’ he instructed with laconic calm. ‘The business people, the politicians who’ve been invited, who’s in and who’s out—the tone of it. Above all, watch Tom Russell. Who he talks to, who his friends are. Take Mike with you. They’re not allowing cameras inside the cathedral, but get there early and see who you can catch on the red carpet. There’s a lunch in some undisclosed location. Press are excluded.’

She nodded. A huge, joyous whoop had risen inside her and threatened to burst out, but Harry wasn’t the sort to encourage a hug, so she squashed it down.

‘Oh, and, Cate—security will be tight. Don’t forget your pass. And don’t even think of trying to get to Russell. He’s a dangerous man to cross.’

She nodded with appropriate newsroom nonchalance, and turned to stroll back to her desk. The little cluster of ace reporters fell back silently to allow her through. She permitted herself one glance at Steve Wilson. He was frowning hard, his ginger spikes quivering, his blue eyes narrowed. Pity itmade him look slightly cross-eyed. She should have noticed that sooner.