Seduction: The Billionaire's Bride of Vengeance

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.